by Pedro Urvi
Kayti rolled her eyes at him. “Ugh! You great brainless troll!” With a grimace of desperation she turned to face the two attackers who were coming at her.
Hartz was well aware of the seriousness of the situation, but he could not let the opportunity of teasing the red-headed warrior pass. Carrot-top, he chuckled to himself. Throwing that table against the group of palace defenders had seemed the best way of solving the problem. Infuriating the girl had been an added bonus. Inside him, a whirlwind of emotions began to rage every time she got annoyed with him. He did not clearly understand what was happening to him, why those emotions should trouble his quiet nature like that, but he was beginning to notice that his feelings for her went deeper than he was willing to admit. Seeing Kayti fighting, in danger, risking her life, he had to repress an irresistible urge to go and help her, leaving everything else to one side. If anything should happen to her as she was fighting beside him, he would rue it eternally.
He raised his hands behind him and with a swift move took hold of his precious, bewitched sword. Two guards attacked simultaneously. He blocked the first man’s thrust and aimed a powerful kick at the stomach of the second man, who fell to his knees, breathless. With a flick of his arm like a whiplash he cut the face of the first attacker, who was trying to reach him with his sword held high. The wretched man’s blood spattered Hartz’s chest. With a downward stroke he hit the kneeling man’s head with the pommel of his sword, and with a loud crack he fell to the floor senseless.
At the other end of the room Hartz could see Lotas defending himself skillfully. That sewer-rat was crafty, which did not surprise him: no one lived so long, or still more became king of the port city’s low-life, without knowing his weapons. Not only that, he was an expert in the kind of street fighting where anything is allowed, particularly backstabbing. He would have to keep a watchful eye on Lotas. That crawling worm was dangerous, and his loyalty was solely to himself.
He heard Lindaro trip behind him. Hartz turned his head and saw that he was white as flour. He had come up against a dead body and nearly fallen over it. The color had drained from his face. The poor man of faith was not at his best when it came to battles and bloodshed. Hartz winked at him and smiled, hoping to calm him a little. The priest gave a weak smile in return and signaled with much arm-waving that danger was at hand.
As the guards appeared to be busy downstairs, Komir ran up to find Guzmik and resolve the situation, or else his companions would be caught. He was not going to let anything stop him. The echo of boots on the wooden floor behind him told him help had arrived from the floor below. He was anxious to go and help Hartz and Kayti, to fight with them and make sure no harm came to them, but he was aware that this was his only chance to get right to the brain which had put a price on their heads, and to get some answers.
And answers he was going to get, whatever the cost. Nothing would stop him. Today he would find out who had given the order that led eventually to the murder of his parents. Guzmik had paid Lotas to kill them, and very probably someone else had ordered Guzmik to do it. He had to get that name, the sinister figure who stalked them from the shadows. Not only that, he had to find out the reason why someone had made several attempts to kill him. That reason would lead him, to an understanding of why his parents had died. Once he had his answers, he could concentrate...
My revenge is close…I can almost touch it with the tips of my fingers. Guzmik has the answers I need and he’s going to give them to me, one way or the other, even if I have to get them out of him with a red-hot iron rod. Nothing will stop me. Nothing!
He reached the third floor. A wide corridor awaited him, lit with oil lamps, with eight doors along the sides and one double, embossed, at the end of it. The elegance of the door and its location suggested that this was the room where he would find Guzmik. He set off down the corridor swiftly and vigilantly, ignoring the first two doors, aware of the risk involved. He went on with the utmost caution, his senses on edge and his weapons ready for action. He was concentrated and calm, moving stealthily. He was almost savoring the end of his mission.
I will have my revenge!
With the lethal coldness of some amoral assassin, he went on past the second pair of doors. Nothing happened. He was aware that behind the ornamented double door at the end of the corridor danger awaited, even death, but he did not care. Nothing mattered except finding the answers.
A faint sound behind alarmed him.
He stopped at once in an instinctive reflex, cursing to himself. He turned his head in time to see two guards coming out of two of the rooms he had left behind, lunging at him, weapons in hand.
A trap!
With no time to react, he crossed sword and knife at his back to block the attack. He stopped the first thrust, aimed at his back. The second attacker, coming from the left, penetrated his defense, piercing his coat of mail and cutting through his shoulder. Intense pain filled Komir’s senses, so that he flinched involuntarily. But at the same time he took advantage of the movement to turn the pommel of his sword and launch a backwards thrust at the leg of the nearest assailant.
A cry of pain filled the corridor, and the wounded man stumbled backwards. The stroke had been both sure and deep. The other guard, far from being discouraged, launched a powerful cut towards his head. Komir, propelling his body forward, rolled over his weapons, enabling himself to get out of his adversary’s range and recover his balance. With a whirlwind turn he faced his enemy, who now attempted a knife-stroke together with a sword-thrust to Komir’s belly. The Norriel deflected both attacks with two instinctive blocking moves.
His attacker took a hesitant step back. Fear began to show in his eyes, the fear of someone who realizes his opponent is more skilled than himself. Komir, reading the guard’s hesitation, attacked with two circular strokes: one to the groin, which the guard blocked, and the other to the throat, which he had no time to avoid. A jet of blood spattered the wall of the corridor. The wretched man fell to the floor choking on his own blood, terror in his eyes.
The other guard, wounded in the leg, got to one knee, raised his right arm and clumsily thrust a short dagger at Komir’s chest. The young Norriel deflected it swiftly with his hunting knife. Seeing the failure of his desperate attempt, the guard began to crawl toward the stairs, leaving a trail of blood from his leg wound on the exotic carpet. Komir reached the man in two strides and raised his sword to finish him off. There was a cold thirst for revenge animating him, and anger blinded his judgment.
The man turned over, despair in his eyes. He raised his hand in a protective gesture.
“No, please, don’t kill me!” he sobbed.
Komir hesitated. This man was his enemy, he had to die, he knew that. Both the training he had received and the hate which burned in his soul required it. There is no room for pity among Norriel warriors. Once they unsheathed their swords, the confrontation had to end with the enemy dead. That was the law of combat. That was what he had been taught.
He prepared to finish him off.
The guard closed his eyes, knowing death was coming.
But Komir stopped.
This man did not pose any threat. The wound in his leg was deep, he had crippled him and he was losing a lot of blood. Komir let out his breath and with a wave of his sword motioned the man to leave. A mistake, he knew, but his conscience would not let him kill the man. I’m an idiot, and what’s even worse, a softy, he chided himself bitterly.
He focused his attention once again on the embossed double door. He was about to discover what dangers awaited him behind it.
Hartz looked at the apocalyptic state of the great library. All those books stored on their shelves, all that knowledge, spattered now with red blood. Dead bodies were strewn around the polished grey marble floor. He raised his gaze and saw two more guards running towards him, their swords high, confident on their own terrain. Hartz shook his head. Poor fools, tonight you’ll be sleeping with your ancestors. With an unexpected move, amazingly fast for a
man his size, he stepped forward and launched a two-handed blow at the first attacker without letting go of his weapon. The unfortunate man impaled himself without intending to, unable to break his run in time. The second launched a thrust at Hartz’s right leg, which he could not altogether avoid. A pang of pain told the big man he had been wounded, and he did not like it one bit. In fact it infuriated him. With a savage circular stroke he decapitated the daring assailant, whose surprise lingered on the face which was now rolling on the floor and leaving a trail of blood behind it.
Despite his wound, Hartz was possessed by an unbreakable certainty: nothing could stop him. With that splendid sword in his hands he was totally invincible. Neither pain nor exhaustion existed, only a feeling of absolute command and excitement. Nothing could stop him, he would deal with all his enemies and come out triumphant. There was no trace of doubt about it. Hartz recognized the magic of the sword and accepted it gladly, not looking for more explanations or reasons, or trying to understand mysteries he found unfathomable. He had feared that magic at first; he was a Norriel, and his people did not trust the mystic or arcane. The only companions of magic are suffering and pain. But he had experienced this power in battle, and no matter how scared he might be of it, the results were undeniable and he had come to accept them. The link with the sword was growing, and he no longer resisted its influence. He now embraced it, knowing the advantages it gave him. The more blood it shed the stronger this link became, and Hartz was very much aware of it. More aware with each life he took.
And he did not care.
Once more he heard that sinister voice coming from the sword, whispering in his ear: Glory is ours, young warrior! Let the blood of the enemy quench my thirst, I promise you that victory will be ours today!
Hartz was filled with spirited energy. He watched Kayti dispatch her second attacker with a powerful sword-thrust straight to the heart. In her white armor, with her long fiery hair dancing to the sound of battle, she looked like a being out of mythology, a goddess of war: pure, lethal and filled with passion.
A spear aimed at his chest brought Hartz abruptly back to reality. With a strong whip of his wrist he deflected the blow with his sword, and the sharp point just grazed his right shoulder. With his left hand he grabbed the stem of the spear as the attacker was drawing it back. Hartz tugged hard, bringing the guard forward, and hit him hard with the pommel of the sword in his other hand. The guard dropped to the floor with his nose broken.
He looked around; all the guards were lying on the floor either dead or wounded. He could see three more in the outer courtyard, fleeing as if they were being chased by the hounds of hell.
“Looks as though the entertainment’s over,” Hartz said jokingly to Kayti, and waited for her furious reaction.
The redhead’s irate reply was immediate. “Only you could be uglier and more brainless than a Troll!” she said as she wiped the blood off her armor. “Only a Cave-Troll would call this entertainment!”
The giant laughed heartily in his enormous voice, the echoes sounded all over the ground floor of the building.
Kayti, realizing she had swallowed the bait, calmed down. Suddenly her cheeks went red. She looked at the big man and could not help but laugh herself, releasing all the tension which had built up during the fight.
Lindaro appeared behind Hartz. “I’ll never understand your fascination for fighting,” he said. “I was so afraid… There were moments when I feared the worst. I don’t understand how the two of you can be so cool after this blood-bath. I thank the Light for the protection it’s given us throughout this whole dangerous business.”
Lotas, who was bandaging his wounded arm with a scarf, came up to the group. “Well, I’ve carried out my side of the bargain. I haven’t betrayed you. I’ve fought beside you, and let me remind you that I could’ve change sides very easily, and if I had, the outcome would have been very different. Now I’m asking you to honor your side of the bargain and let me go.”
“What do you think, Lindaro, do we let this sewer-rat leave, or shall I finish him right here?” Hartz asked the man of faith, with the pretended indifference of a consummate assassin.
“If you ask me, we’d better kill him,” Kayti said. “It seems to me if we let him leave, we’ll regret it someday. This kind of vermin has a habit of resurfacing sooner or later, and they’re always bad news.”
Lindaro came to stand between Hartz and Lotas. “No, wait! You can’t kill him in cold blood like that! He’s carried out his side of the bargain, and now we should do the same. Let him leave, don’t harm him.”
The Norriel looked at the smuggler thoughtfully.
Kayti crossed her arms and waited for Hartz’s decision.
“All right, I’ll respect your wishes, Lindaro. You may go, Lotas.” He turned to the bandit and poked his finger at him. “Just make sure our paths don’t cross again. If I ever see your ugly face again I’ll put an end to your filthy life without even needing to stop and think.”
Lotas gave a slight bow, grinned malevolently and ran off.
“I know I’ll regret this decision,” Hartz said, watching him go.
“Very likely,” agreed Kayti.
“You did the right thing, Hartz. Don’t have any doubts. The Light will reward you for it.”
“Now I know why you insisted on coming…” Hartz said, his eyes on the man of faith. “You wanted to make sure we didn’t kill him.”
Lindaro shrugged and went outside without another word.
Komir placed his body sideways against the frame of the double door. With great care he turned the knob and gently pushed the door so that it opened inwards, moving his body away from the opening as he did so.
A treacherous arrow flew out into the corridor.
I was afraid of that, a trap!
Komir gathered momentum and rolled into the room. Another arrow whistled two finger-breadths from his head. On one knee, he unsheathed sword and hunting knife and looked at his attacker.
It was the old servant!
Surprise made him hesitate. What was the old man doing there? Why was he hiding in his lord’s office?
Then he understood.
Gaining time! That’s what he was trying to do.
He went across to the servant, who was hastily nocking a small bow with silver decorations. With a twist of his sword he disarmed the old man, who stared at him with eyes full of anger.
“What are you doing here? Where’s your master?” Komir asked, raising his sword to the old man’s face threateningly.
“I’m not saying anything to you, you filthy Norriel.”
Komir studied the luxurious room: fine silks of different shades decorated a magnificent hall, presided over by a carved oak table at the end. It was the office of the lord of the palace, he had no doubt about that. But if the man was not there, then where was he? He could not waste any more time.
“Get out of here, old man, before I cut your throat!”
“You’ll pay for this effrontery,” the old man said as he left the room hastily.
Komir hurried to the balcony and drew apart its long red velvet curtains. From the oval granite space at that height he could make out the complete structure of the palace. There were three major wings to the spacious rectangular building, together with one central courtyard of polished flagstones in black and white, like a chessboard. Lit by several oil lamps, an impressive round fountain decorated it. More than ten feet high, in the shape of a waterfall, it filled the courtyard with life.
Komir could make out three figures dressed in purple and black leaving the west wing through a side door. He strained his eyes and made out a smaller building to the north, not far from the palace.
The stables.
Guzmik was fleeing!
He was not going to let this happen.
He jumped back into the room and tore down the curtains, of rich foreign material. He tied them together with a double knot, then pulled hard to check that it would hold his weight. It looked as if
it would, although he hesitated for an instant. There was no guarantee, after all. He might jump into the void and crack his skull.
He went back on to the balcony and tied the curtain to the railing, making sure the knot was firm. He looked down.
You’re crazy, you’re going to kill yourself, he thought. It was more than twenty-five feet to the ground. He breathed deeply and saw the three figures approaching the central fountain. He would not let them escape. He needed answers, and he was going to get them. He would cut them off; he had to climb down fast and block their escape to the stables.
He threw the curtain out, but it was too short. He leapt over the rail and prepared to climb down, choosing to ignore the danger completely. His arms were doing all the work while his legs guided him down the vertical wall. He came to the end of the curtain, wondering how far it still was to the ground. Should he leap or not?
The decision was taken out of his hands.
Up on the balcony the old servant cut the knot, laughing evilly as he did so.
Komir fell.
A dull, sullen blow brought the fall to an end.
Pain. Komir felt an intense pang of pain.
He tried to get up, but there was such a stabbing pain in his right side that he was forced to lie still. I’ve broken something, a rib most likely. Just my damned luck! he thought. He looked at the fountain. The three men were looking at him from a few paces away. He had cut them off, he had made it in time. They would not escape. He just needed to stand up. He tried again, slowly, leaning on his other side. He managed to get on one knee and draw his weapon.
“Stop!” he ordered, threatening them with his sword, pointing at the closest of the three.
They wore violet masks over their faces decorated with a silver fringe down the middle. Their purple tunics were covered by black breastplates and black hooded cloaks. The furthest one wore a showy breastplate in silver, trimmed with gold. This had to be Guzmik!