by J. M. Martin
The man hit the ground and groaned as his broken face struck the floorboards.
The eager one came for her, bulling his way across the short distance. He had a few scars on his arms and though he was bearded she could see the remnants of an old wound on the side of his face.
As he reached for her, Swech dropped low and drove the dagger in her hand deep into his inner thigh. He yowled and staggered and tried to stand. She dodged to the left and drove her heel into his knee, forcing it to bend in the wrong direction. His screams grew louder as he crashed down, unable to stand on the ruined leg.
Blood flowed like water from the wound in his thigh. He would be dead before he could teach himself to walk again.
The third hired man shook his head and tried to back away, but Swech had a point to make. She reached for him and rammed stiffened fingers into his throat, feeling the cartilage in his neck collapse. In moments he was gagging and his face reddened as he tried to breathe through a ruined windpipe.
The fourth drove a fist into her side and Swech moved with it, feeling his heavy knuckles scrape across her ribs and drive into her stomach with bruising force.
Her arm came up from under and behind his elbow, and captured his forearm. He looked toward her, surprised by the move and then horrified as she bent her body and forced his arm to follow suit. For one moment he almost got away, but she turned her hip and felt his elbow break like a twig.
He could not make a noise. The pain, she knew, was far too large to allow him the luxury of a scream. Down he went, onto his knees, mouth open in a silent shriek of pain. She captured his head with one hand and brought her knee up into the side of his temple. When he fell the rest of the way to the floor his head was the wrong shape.
When Swech looked back at the table the old man stared at her with wide, frightened eyes and his hands clutched at his chest.
“What lesson will your men teach me?”
Arlo very carefully sat back down.
Around them the activity of the tavern had come to a complete halt, save for the moans of the broken and battered around Swech’s area. Every person in the place was looking, and Swech shook her head. She could not understand these people. In the Taalor Valley a fight was not a spectacle very often.
“I—” Lirrin looked at her and shook his head. His eyes remained wide and stuck to her gaze, unable to look anywhere else apparently.
“You killed them!” Arlo shrieked. He looked at the bodies around her with a shaken expression and trembled where he sat.
“No. Some will live.” She stepped away from table letting the two men contemplate both their actions, and the dead and wounded around them.
#
Arlo tried to keep his eyes on the woman but she faded away into the shadows of the tavern.
He also tried to breathe, but found he could not drink in enough air to help him.
Beside him Lirrin was pale and trembling, his eyes doing their very best to look everywhere at once. “Is she gone? Did she go away?” Five decades or more to his life and the bastard whimpered like a child having nightmares.
Arlo took comfort from the other man’s fear. It balanced him and soothed worries.
Around them several of the patrons were staring at the dead and dying surrounding their table. Some looked upset, but less than he would have expected. This was a place where people came to talk and not be seen. The mess at their table was exactly the sort that guaranteed people got seen more than they wanted.
“We have to go, Lirrin.”
“Go?” The calm surface was gone and the man trembled visibly. In all of his years of posturing it seemed the official had never seen bloodshed on that scale. It was possible, likely, even, that he’d thought himself safe from it, insulated by his hired swords.
“Yes, go. The City-Guard will be coming soon. We should not be here when they arrive.”
Lirrin’s thick fingers clutched at his sleeve and the man’s round face wobbled as he shook his head.
“She might be anywhere, Arlo. We can’t leave here. We have to wait for the guard. They’ll protect us.”
When he spoke his voice was cold and much calmer than he actually felt. Someone needed to take control of the situation. “We came here to discuss matters best not heard by the City-Guard or anyone else, Lirrin.” He pulled his sleeve from the fat man’s clutch. “We need to leave here. Now.”
“What if she’s still out there?” Lirrin nearly wailed the words and Arlo stepped away from him, embarrassed for himself and for the man he’d never respected but had at least considered a man.
“Come out of this, Lirrin! You’re behaving like a child!”
That did it. Lirrin’s head rocked back as surely as if he’d been slapped, and the wild fear in his eyes was crushed down.
For one moment Arlo thought he’d pushed the minister of land too far. The heavy jowls still quivered, but with a different expression on the mewling mouth buried in that face. His teeth were bared in anger for a moment before he calmed himself down.
“You’re right. Thank you for that, Arlo.”
“We must leave here. Now.”
“Of course.” Lirrin hauled his considerable bulk up and leaned heavily on his walking staff as he maneuvered around the dead and wounded. “Time to be elsewhere.”
Outside the sounds of approaching figures could be heard past the closed door. They did not hesitate, but instead took their chances in the torrential rains.
If anything the storm was worse. The waters fell in sheets and the winds threw those sheets sideways, slapping open cloaks and making any attempt to stay dry a laughable failure. The City-Guard were stomping up the street, looking for any sign of who might be a danger. The man in the lead was unknown to Arlo, but he had the look of a seasoned veteran and his expression when he eyed the two of them was uninterested at best.
Arlo felt a slow bloom of shame in his chest. Even the City-Guard, who made less coin in a year than he did in a fortnight, looked at him with no real interest. He would have to look into hiring someone to train him in the finer points of using a sword. He had not so much as practiced since he’d done his required service to the Empire. He had just seen an unarmed woman ruin four men in a matter of seconds, and the sword at his side was never even considered as an option. It was an ornament to him, a sign of his status and nothing else.
He had to change a few things about himself, if he ever got the chance. The woman behind the veil, Lirrin said he knew her, that she was the one he wanted to deal with. She said she was one of the Sa’ba Taalor, the unholy terrors he’d heard about before. After watching how quickly she took down four trained men, he was beginning to doubt his earlier assessment of the assault on the Guntha.
The rains continued and Arlo had to shout to be heard over the constant deluge. “Did she seem like that when you permitted the land sales, Lirrin?”
“What?” The man was distracted, looking around at every alley as they moved along the wet cobblestones and sought a place where they could, once again, continue their conversation.
“The woman. Did she seem so damned…competent?”
“She was just a woman. I thought she was attractive enough. What did I care?” He shook his head and then went back to looking at every darkened corner. “As I said, I had no notion of what she was up to until it was too late.”
Lirrin was crumbling again. Arlo could see it. Now that he was no longer among the public the fear was coming back and pressing down on the man. “We have to get inside! We have to find a safe place!”
They had chosen to meet in Old Canhoon, at the heart of the city, because many of the shops were closed at night and the chances of running across people who could identify them were slimmer when they were away from their homes. Now that choice played against them. The rains had come along unexpectedly and driven most of the City-Guard into hiding. The cut-purses were gone as well, but there was no place for them to easily hide, and they would be walking and exposed for longer than Arlo liked before
they reached his home and safety.
He walked faster and then forced himself to slow down when Lirrin whimpered. The old bastard was lame, but he was also important enough that Arlo had to remember him.
Lirrin puffed along, his staff tap-tap-tapping along the cobblestones at a pace that was nearly frantic in comparison to his usual plodding steps.
Arlo bit back a demand that he move faster still, the words fading away as the now familiar sound of hard wood striking stone suddenly stopped.
He was ahead of the minister and he felt a deep and abiding cold creep through his flesh that had nothing at all to do with the rain.
He did not want to turn around. He was terrified by the notion. He did not want to see the older man dead or dying, but he had to see, he had to know, because until he checked he could not be certain if he was safe or in danger.
He turned and cursed under his breath.
Lirrin stood where he had been, his eyes bulging from the folds of fat around them. His face was red and growing redder and his hands reached out imploringly. The staff he’d been holding wobbled as if surprised, and seemed determined to stand on its own. Without the support of the old man’s hand, however, it fell victim to gravity. The sound when it clattered to the street was loud enough to hear past the falling rains and the maddening winds.
Lirrin strained his arms forward but the rest of him did not move.
“Lirrin?” Arlo’s voice was too small to be heard from more than a few inches away. “Lirrin what is it? Are you ill?”
The man dropped forward. He collapsed first to his knees, which gave a much louder crack of sound than his staff had, and he winced at the pain of impact even as his body shuddered.
Suddenly shorter than he had been, it was far easier to see the shape of the veiled woman standing behind him.
Even lost in shadows and rain, Arlo could see that she was a strong woman, her body well muscled, and almost as tall as he was. Arlo knew that he should have been able to take her in a physical challenge.
Should have been able to. His hand was only inches from his sword’s hilt but he did not reach, did not attempt to draw the blade. He was far too scared for that. She had killed five men before his eyes and he had never killed even one in his life.
She was holding what looked like a fine metal thread in her hands. The thread spun into two metal rods, one held in each hand, the color of the metal ran from silver on either end to a deep red in the center.
Lirrin’s neck vomited blood as the man tried to breathe and failed.
“You have walked away from your safety, Arlo.” The woman’s voice was muted by the rain, but not lost to him. “I was told that you should possibly live. That you might have value. What do you think of that notion?”
“Oh, yes!” His vision bobbled as he nodded vigorously, doing his best to keep a solid eye on the woman in front of him as Lirrin fell face first into a puddle among the cobblestones. The water around his head formed a reddening halo. “Yes! I can be very useful to you, I swear it!”
Her hands moved and the reddened metal strand wrapped around one of the rods in her grip. Her eyes never once moved from him.
She did not move closer, but the stance she took, the way she looked at him, carried a level of threat that nearly made Arlo soil himself. “My gods have said you could be useful to me. They have also said the choice is mine as to whether or not you survive. So tell me. How are you useful to me alive?”
“Lirrin was the minister of land! I’m in line to take his position should he die and—” He gestured at Lirrin’s corpse. The halo was dispersing now, washing into a faint pink corona that bled down between the stones. “As you can see, he is very dead.”
“You will take his place as minister?”
“Yes! Yes, of course! I would be his replacement!”
“And how does that help me, Arlo?” She was closer now. He didn’t remember her moving but she was closer, her body in front of the corpse of dear, dead Lirrin. Arlo managed not to scream but it took an effort.
“I can help you buy more land, and keep your secrets! Yes! I can keep your secrets!” His voice had gone shrill again, but he could not stop himself. He could not make his voice be strong and confident when he was so certain he was about to die.
“I have already kept my secrets. You do not know my name and the only man who could have told you is dead.” He listened to each word from her with a growing dread. She was right, of course. Lirrin was dead.
“Everyone needs allies. I can be your ally. Please let me show you how useful I can be to you.”
She did not speak, but instead closed her eyes for a moment.
He raised one foot.
“If you run, I will kill you.”
Arlo set his foot firmly on the ground.
#
The Daxar Taalor were gods. It was exactly that simple. They had been a part of Swech’s life since she first breathed and likely even before that moment.
They were the beginning and the end of everything that mattered in her world. When she was asked to throw herself into the heart of Wrommish, the fiery volcanic pit that pulsed with its own rhythm, she did not question the request, she simply obeyed.
Her body plummeted down into fire and she felt her skin and hair ignite. There was pain, of course, but there is always pain in life. She accepted the pain and was rewarded for her faith when she rose hundreds of leagues away from where she had been in the body she now occupied. Great Wrommish could ask anything of her and it was given. That was the way of the Sa’ba Taalor.
She looked at the pitiful man standing before her. She had warned him not to move and then she had waited with her eyes closed and listened to her gods.
He trembled. He stood before her and shook, his eyes wide and wet in the continuing rain. His hand scant inches from his sword and he never reached for it.
Had she not met members of the Fellein Empire capable of fighting, she would have been even more disgusted.
“Where I am from, you would be dead if you had not attacked me when you had the chance.”
Arlo blinked and shook his head. “But I don’t want to die.” She read his lips as much as she heard him speak. The words were lost in the rains.
“When I come to you again, and I will come to you, you will do as I say. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Oh yes. Whatever you need.” He looked so grateful she almost believed him.
“You say that.” She stepped closer and he shook again. She was close enough she could have kissed him or bitten him and either way he would not have been able to stop her. Swech smelled his breath: it was as sour as the way he made her feel.
“You say that,” she continued,” and I know you think you mean it. You will change your mind later.” Her hands moved quickly and caught his left hand in a strong grip. He flinched.
“No! I swear to you!”
“Do not swear to me. Swear to your gods.”
“I don’t have any gods.”
Her smile was as cold as the rain.
“Listen to this name. Know it. Understand that to recite it means your life to me. Wrommish. Say it.”
He looked at her for a long moment, puzzled. “Wrommish?”
“That is correct. Wrommish. Know the name. Keep it in your breast and keep it closely. If you do not repeat it to me when I see you again, I will kill you. Do you believe me?”
His sickly white face grew paler. “I do.”
“Say the name again.”
“Wrommish?” So weak a voice, so frail.
“Louder.”
“Wrommish.”
“Pray every night. Before you go to sleep, you must pray to Wrommish. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Before you close your eyes tonight, pray to Wrommish.” She moved closer still, until the water that dripped from her veil fell across his lips as she spoke. “Thank him for your life. He is the only reason I have not killed you. Wrommish says you have not lost your usefulness.”
“I will.” He nodded his head slowly, but with very strong conviction. “I will. I swear it.”
Her thumbnail scratched the top of his hand hard enough to scrape flesh and drawl a thin stream of blood. He was wise enough not to pull back.
“Before that heals, we will meet again.” Swech let his hand go.
“I…Your face is covered. How will I know you if I can’t see your face?”
“Look at my eyes. You will know me.”
He nodded.
“You will say the name of your new god. Every night and when we meet. If you have not said your thanks to him every night, I will know. And you will die. Do you believe me?”
“Yes. Of course I do.”
“This is good.”
She stepped back from him, moving easily over the cooling corpse of the former minister of land.
“Now, Arlo. Go to your home.”
He couldn’t have run much faster. He turned from her and pelted his way up the road, panting and puffing after only a dozen strides. He was handsome enough in form, but he was soft and weak. A child of eight years could kill him with ease. At least if that child were of the Sa’ba Taalor.
“I have spared him, Wrommish. As you have asked. But he is so very weak.”
Swech looked around carefully—always be aware of your surroundings—and then moved slowly away into the night. The rains would continue for the next few days, she knew that well enough.
For now she had to get to her home.
There was much that had to be done, and time was short.
Thunder rumbled from where Tyrne had once stood, a beautiful city crushed under the fury of Durhallem.
The gods made their demands and she obeyed without question.
Take You Home
David Dalglish
“Take You Home” takes place in the vast city of Veldaren, the major story hub of my Shadowdance Series. It also features the main protagonist of the series, Haern the Watcher. He’s a self-appointed guardian of the city that keeps an eye on the various thief guilds, ensuring they follow the rules he’s given them to keep the city in a state of delicate peace. He also tends to do some mercenary work on the side, so long as it isn’t too distasteful. For those curious, this story takes place between books three and four of that series.