Deathknight

by Andrew J Offutt

  “A paradox,” Querry breathed. “An enigma.”

  “The greatest man in the world!” Chalis said, far more loudly.

  “I do believe,” his father mused, “that he was once a farmer and wishes he had never left the farm.”

  “Not human,” Jinnery said, and flounced back into the house. She did bear the bill of sale with care.

  The omo rode, and rode, and worked out with sword against shadows while Harr took a bit of midday meal. Falc had forbidden himself food until sunset.

  3

  At least the four assassins were not cowards. Cowards would have succeeded in killing him.

  Falc saw them as he returned through the chokebushes and marlet, down the tree-grown knoll to the road. He had just completed his noonday stop the day after his parting with Querry. He was in Zain still, but this quartet was not of the men of the Arlord.

  Though they were not quite uniformed, he recognised their city stripes and House colours: Lango. Faradox. Their purpose and challenge was unmistakable. They sat their mounts across the road between him and Morazain with about a meter separating them, and they gazed at him.

  He realised that they had ridden past while he was up among the trees relieving himself. Now they blocked the road before him, forming a short line, and they gazed at him. He saw purpose in their eyes, but nothing of friendliness. Four men, hard-eyed and apparently well mounted. All placket armoured. Helmets imitated animal skulls with big ears and long, outward sweeping neck-guards. Their colours were green and yellow, with some strong black piping. That provided Falc with information, like it or not:

  They make no attempt to disguise the fact that they’re the men of Holder Faradox of Lango — they’re flaunting it!

  All wore sword and long dagger, with broadened placks of lacquered wood shingling down their left arms, as shields. Two bore those long staffs with hook and spear on the end: dragonels. The man with the long bony face sat his saddle on the far left; the truly ugly one next. Just right of the road’s centre was he of the everted mouth. Not just the lips; the whole mouth was thrust forward, indicating that the fellow possessed teeth far too huge for his mouth. Since that mouth was compressed, Falc could not swear to the fact. He remarked the fourth man. He seemed to be peering at Falc through a chokebush, blighted black. Big, bushy, unkempt beard that wanted to curl.

  Longface, Ugly, Bigteeth and Bushface. Staring at him from either side of their helmets’ pendent nasals.

  “You seem to be blocking the roadway.” Falc’s voice was soft and he kept his hands on the reins.

  “To us, it seems the other way around, Sir Deathknight.”

  Falc nodded equably. He guided Harr well to the side, leaving plenty of room. He gestured for them to pass.

  They sat their mounts. Two of them looked at Ugly. Their leader, Falc thought.

  “Not enough room for us four, Sir Deathknight.”

  Falc met the gaze of the speaker: Ugly. “Call me by name.”

  “Falc of Risskor, killer-monk of the Order Most Old.”

  So. They knew exactly who he was. They were indeed here for the specific purpose of killing him, then. Falc sighed elaborately. Me, specifically. Keeping close watch while seeming negligent, he used his left hand to tug open the white robe. He let them see that his right hand remained on the reins.

  “You little fellows have friends among the peacemen of another Holder’s house?”

  “Turn and ride ahead of us, Falc. You are wanted in Lango.”

  “If someone in Lango wanted me alive, he’d have sent a courier, not four armed men.” Quietly he said, “Harr: sit.” And as the darg’s rearquarters sank and Falc leaned forward to compensate, he went on to his accosters: “I’ll not be turning my back on you four. Four! You must have expected several Falcs?”

  “You do have a reputation, Deathknight.”

  “Might I have names by which to know my murderers?”

  “You will not need them.”

  It must be here then, Falc thought. They have no other purpose. They are here simply to kill me. Four of them. Brave in their numbers, or they would have sent crossbow bolts from ambush — as they should have done. They have all the advantage and full well know it. They will charge and draw whenever Ugly says the word, while 1 can only wait and hope. A few strokes should do it, with them converging. Then they carry this head back to Faradox to prove their great efficiency.

  So. The only possibility for me here is to hope mightily, but not to wait. Ashah and Sath ride with me.

  “Harr,” he muttered, and twitched his left foot, moving the heel forward along the creature’s side. Harr, crouching on his hind legs and glaring at the quartet, hissed and ran out his tongue. He trembled in his eagerness to be among them smelling blood, and tasting it.

  Falc never so much as glanced at the leftward man, Longface on his nervous darg. Falc’s right hand remained on the rein; his left on his left thigh. Neither appeared to have any interest in weapon hilt. Now he stared intently past the leader, over the man’s left shoulder as if looking at something. After a time neither Longface nor Bigteeth could stand it. They glanced at the road behind them and Falc spoke in a low, conversational tone.

  “Harr go.” He added, “For Ashah, honour, and Sij.”

  The crouching Harr used his hind legs to thrust his bulk forward at speed. Only when he was on the move did Falc touch him on the neck with his left hand while his right swept to his sword’s hilt. The derlin’s flutter was bothersome, but that couldn’t be helped. Shouts rose from the four. Two drew while the others wielded their dragonels, preparing to take the entirely unexpected charge of their quarry. Bushface raised his back-hooked spear while Longface started his across his mount’s neck to intercept the charge. Harr plunged directly at him, hissing and glaring.

  Falc’s shrill whistle discomfited every darg while telling Harr it was each for himself in a concentration on warfare. He had already been guided toward Longface, to put Ugly on their immediate right. The leftward darg stared at that glaring inimical face of his own species rushing toward him. He heard Falc’s ridiculous shouting and yowling. Its sole purpose was to disconcert.

  Harr ceased hissing and opened his mouth, wide.

  He was less than a meter from Longface’s darg when that beast broke, as Falc had hoped. He had not expected the trick of looking past them to work. The lack of real experience and attendant incompetence of Langomen continued to amaze. His left hand brought the knife from behind his right shoulder and snapped it at the leader.

  Ashah chose that moment to remind Falc that no man was perfect. The blade banged off the ugly man’s helm. Still, Ugly was badly disconcerted, ducking, with his sword-stroke spoiled. That persuaded Falc to change his plan at the last possible moment.

  He had charged Longface in the hope that the darg would break and Harr would tear open a mount’s neck or human leg as they passed, while Falc slashed the eye of the leader’s darg; anything to reduce the odds in such an uneven rencontre. Now since Ugly responded with near panic to the thrown knife, Falc instead jerked up his sword. Ugly’s darg did not bite at him. The hard jolt on the left brought a loud grunt from the omo at the scraping pain to his leg even as he smashed his sword directly into the leader’s midsection. The armour turned the blade but the strength of the blow, combined with Ugly’s imbalance, conspired to spill the fellow off the far side of his mount.

  Falc caught his balance and yanked his right heel into Harr’s side.

  Twisting with that serpentish sinuousness so dangerous to a darg’s rider in crisis, Harr flung himself rightward in a swerve past the rump of Ugly’s mount. Harr even snapped at it, to no effect other than discommoding his own rider. That was all right; Harr was doing his job. Falc had not had time to see whether Harr’s mouth was bloodied and so did not know how many foes remained dangerous. He did slap the rump of Ugly’s mount with the flat of his sword, hard. The darg bolted. That was Falc’s purpose. Now the Langoman leader must remain afoot.

  S
omewhere a waterclock might have dripped twice since Falc began his charge.

  He gave no time to subtlety now, or to consideration of niceties. Bigteeth, trying to haul his mount around to meet an attack that was suddenly at his right rear, heard a roaring bellow and received a sword blow in the back that struck with all the force of a thrown log. Armour straps snapped. Bigteeth arched violently backward and his sword jumped from his hand as if catapulted.

  Falc had a moment in which to wish he had attacked differently. Now he had two men with long-hafted dragonels to deal with. He did not fancy himself a match for Sath, to slice through such poles against their natural yield under such an impact.

  The accoster farthest to the right had wisely ridden forward to turn. Now he came back at the charge, dragonel long and ready and deadly. Obviously he was a good dargman, confident to ride and guide a trained steed without using the reins. Harr came full around past Bigteeth’s darg and for an instant Falc and the bushy-bearded man were looking into each other’s eyes. Both were moving precipitately forward to collision and there was no pause for that exchange of glares. Both Bushface’s hands were on his dragonel’s long, round haft for a right-to-left slash. They rushed together...

  Again Falc applied pressure with his right heel, and Harr swerved.

  The surprised Langoman saw his enemy swing broadside to him, forming an easier target. He slashed at it while Falc cut horizontally across himself with every bit of his strength. It was not the desperation stroke it appeared. Blade met rushing wooden pole and the outcome surprised him. Because both men were smiting at each other with muscle behind the strokes, their weapons came together with terrific force. Falc’s blade did indeed slice through the dragonel haft, partway; the staff broke and snapped its head straight along its original course. Falc saw dancing lights and reeled as the haftless spear-hook combination slammed into his helmet and fell down his back. It caught in the white robe and dangled for a moment before it fell.

  The jerk of Falc’s left foot was an accident; an involuntary reflex.

  Harr responded with speed. So did his master, though he was only partly aware of what he was doing. He was unable to reverse his arm to launch a truly damaging cut at Bushface, who struck the omo’s arm with his big wooden stick while he drew his sword. Falc kicked out with his left foot. Toe slammed into knee at the same time as Harr chomped.

  Bushface and his mount screamed simultaneously. Falc groaned. He would have a fine big bruise, for the jagged end of the other man’s haft did its best to pierce his mailcoat at the left armpit. Bushface’s mount plunged away in pain. Han-clung, so that Falc had to hang onto the horn of his saddle to avoid being wrenched off Harr’s back.

  Then Bushface’s bitten darg was bolting, while his rider fell. Falc had no time to watch. He had other business. Kneeing Harr, he looked to his right.

  Ugly was on his feet, with his mount twenty meters away. The leader of the hired murderers held his right arm up, hand back over his shoulder. He was moving, and Falc recognised the stance and intent. Hurriedly he braced both feet and leaned back and back. That way the flat, leaf-shaped knife the Langoman threw — Falc’s knife — whizzed over his chest with seven or eight centimetres to spare. Immediately straightening, Falc again whistled the shrill note and bawled out other things, although Harr was already charging the Langoman leader.

  Behind him lay Longface on his back, rolling to and fro and clutching his leg. Harr’s teeth had bitten it more than half through and destroyed his kneecap in the process.

  Falc showed teeth. “Good Harrr!” And he snapped his left heel inward, hard.

  That did not sit well with the beast, despite the welcome “Good” sound that he knew; Harr wanted to charge in and eat Ugly up. The trouble with that was that the Langoman was fully ready. Harr was more likely to lose eye or snout than to taste new blood.

  Falc kicked again, while bawling the darg’s name and dragging the rein leftward. Harr responded with an angry hiss and what Falc knew was a deliberately violent slew to the left. Sinuous as a snake, Harr was, and Falc was a long time aware of the precarious delicacy of his own spine. For a moment he had a vision of Sir Chondaven of Ryar, lying forever on his broken back in the High Temple...

  Falc kept his seat and his spine. Ugly’s swordcut at the darg’s face had already begun. Falc leaned out, cutting upward to intersect the blade, using his own sword to save Harr while Harr veered left. Harr was angry. He would vent his war-lust on this other enemy then, the one on the ground!

  Blades rang together with a loud clang and screech of metal sliding on metal. Falc felt the shock run up his arm, but hung onto his hilt. Meanwhile his right foot shot out. Iron-tipped wooden stirrup drove into Ugly’s face with a disgusting sound. Blood rilled. Suddenly much uglier, the Langoman was catapulted backward, bubbling vocally. He hit the ground with a rattle and clatter of placks like nuts dumped out onto a drying frame.

  Harr was already bent on his new target. His master did not deter him. Poor Longface was after all in real agony with his knees, which would never let him walk normally again or ride without pain. Having already destroyed his career as a man of weapons, Harr now destroyed him utterly, by trampling the long-faced man with some care.

  Falc reined, muttering calming words for both Harr’s benefit and his own. He had time now to see what he and the war-darg had wrought.

  All attackers were down, while the sword of their intended quarry was unblooded. Harr had fully accounted for Longface. There lay the leader, his face a hideous mess and his body still; the kick had blasted him into unconsciousness. Near him lay Bigteeth, horridly still but breathing; his back was broken and no part of him would move except relaxed sphincters. Falc would grant him the death the Sons of Ashah prayed for... in a while.

  And there went Bushface’s mount, bolting... dragging his master by one spur-equipped boot caught in the stirrup. It was one of several reasons why Falc was no friend of spurs, although darg-back combat without them was nearly impossible.

  He gave chase on a darg that was far from winded and still excited. He overtook the other beast after nearly a kilometer’s gallop, and Harr wanted very much to bite and chew. Falc prevented that. Since he who had come to murder was being dragged on the left, the omo forced a reluctant Harr to come up on the other side. Almost from the moment he leaned out and caught the fleeing animal’s halter, it began slowing.

  “Come,” Falc said, with a tug. “Come,” he said again, and tugged, and a third time.

  With his other hand he slowed Harr and guided him into a long turn. They returned to the scene of combat with the would-be assassin still dragging. No matter; he was not conscious and had not long to live anyhow. Falc had already decided what he was going to do. The treacherous Faradox must have a message, with proof. Falc pulled off the derlin and alit, limping a little.

  Three dargoni suffered themselves to be approached, soothed, tethered. The omo wrapped various weapons in a Langoman cloak and tied the package on the back of one of those quieted animals, retaining Bushface’s unused sword, which was all freshly sharpened and shining. Harr and another darg bore four overmatched hired assassins up into the woods. Again Falc exerted himself without strain. Bushface’s sword flashed six times, chopping. A few moments later four corpses rolled down into the ravine Falc had recently used for the purpose of relieving himself.

  One man and two dargs, one bearing two fat knapsacks and Bushface’s smeared, dripping sword, returned to the other three dargoni. Falc collected reins and prepared to assume the role of drover. Ugly’s darg watched, bearing the two swollen knapsacks that were not all that heavy.

  “Go home,” Falc bade it. “Home! Go home, darg! Wahaaah! When you reach Lango, the men at the gate will recognise Faradox’s colours and see that you are returned to him. Go! Every master of murderers has a right to learn how they fare, be they competent or no. Go and bear him my message. WAHAAAHH!”

  He sprang at the darg, waving the derlin. The creature hissed, wheeled, and hu
rried back the way it had come. It bore Falc’s message to Holder Faradox of Lango, in two saddlebome knapsacks.

  His three new animals Falc deprived not of their valuable heads but of nearly all evidence of Lango and Faradox. Knapsacks swelled. Then he and Harr set about conveying the spoils of successful combat to Morazain-by-the-Lake. Falc did not have to clean his sword; he had not blooded it. It was bent a bit.

  4

  The hill just east of Morazain was called Naragane, so that the temple of Ashah there was Ashah-Naraganit-re. It stood with seeming serenity unmarred by haughtiness atop the tall steep knoll coloured deep blue with only the hint of a greenish cast, and made glossy by longbean. A carefully arranged and attended patch of shume formed a purple A for Ashah. The access road was terraced and both narrow and circuitous by design. Having passed up Colax’s inn without even pausing for water, Falc kept his animals to a sedate pace as he mounted the hill. He knew the monks maintained an effective and totally unobtrusive watch system. He made no effort to penetrate it, to seek the watchers with his dark gaze. They proved their presence without his ever seeing a sentry: the pryor met him in the courtyard.

  He was tall and broad, young in his hooded robe of very plain, dark green moss weave and cinctured with plain bell-rope, and he limped.

  From within, Falc heard the low chanting of the monks repeating the Litany of Purpose: “The heart of a Son of Ashah does not bleed. Instead, the mind and body of a son of Ashah are dedicated to justice.

  “The head of a Son of Ashah does not succumb to passion. Instead...”

  The pryor said, “Hail, brother.”

  “Be with Ashah, brother,” Falc said, and dismounted onto cobbles between tall, tall mossed walls grown with ivy. Characteristically he went directly to business: “I have use for two of these captured animals. This darg is the best of the three. Its packs contain various weapons, helmets, and pieces of armour. Do have the colours changed on all of them, and accept them in Ashah’s name.”