by Mark Robson
Shalidar was fleet of foot, and it was taking every ounce of Reynik’s flagging strength for him to keep his quarry in sight. The shovel was hardly an easy implement to run with. Its length alone made it awkward to carry, but the imbalance of weight due to the metal head made it worse. Reynik tried swapping positions as he ran, but he could not find a way of holding it that allowed him to run freely. Within a couple of minutes, he realised that the assassin was getting away from him.
The streets were largely empty. The road they were running along was one of the major routes into the heart of the city, but it was late and the merchants had stopped trading more than an hour before. Most people were at home preparing their evening meal. There were a few folk abroad, mainly men in small groups on their way to the local taverns for a drink. Those that were abroad observed the chase with interest, some pointing and laughing at the sight of a filthy soldier carrying a spade chasing another who sported a sword and dagger at his side. Not one of them moved to interfere in any way. If he could, Reynik would have solicited help from them, but he did not have the breath left to shout. It was all he could do to keep running.
The aroma in the streets was pungent. An evil brew of rotting waste in the gutters mixed with the open sewerage channels. It was little wonder that the peasants in the poor quarters had a short life expectancy, Reynik thought as he pounded through the filth. Even panting hard as he was through his mouth, it was impossible to ignore the stench totally. It clung to the back of his throat like treacle. However, despite the choking odour he retained his focus, never allowing his attention to shift from the chase.
Shalidar turned left off the main avenue into a side street. He had a good sixty pace lead now. Blundering forward, Reynik ran straight at the corner. It was only in the last few paces that he realised his mistake and swung wide to avoid being too close to the blind spot as he rounded the building. It was well that he did, for his quarry was waiting for him.
Instinct and a slice of good fortune saved Reynik from being butchered in the opening exchange. The assassin leaped, swinging his sword down at him in a deadly overhead stroke. Even as the blade whistled at him, the young Legionnaire twisted and raised the shovel to block it. The blade bit deep into the handle of the shovel about an inch below the metal head and jammed in the wood. The shock of the impact drove the handle down and in towards Reynik’s body, but the resistance that he offered, together with the pivoting effect of the blade sticking in the wood some distance from his hands, carried the tip of the sword clear of his body.
Reynik was quick to respond to the situation. Even as the shovel tip touched the ground he shifted his weight and reversed the pivotal movement of the handle, wrenching the assassin’s sword arm back up and over in an arc. The handle of the sword was twisted from his fingers, but Reynik did not stop the momentum of the shovel and he smashed it down onto the cobblestone street. The deep cut in the handle had weakened it such that the handle splintered on impact, sending the sword and the head of the shovel spinning across the road.
For a moment, Reynik and his assailant faced one another. As he looked into the assassin’s eyes, Reynik realised to his astonishment that it was not Shalidar staring back at him, but a complete stranger. For a split second the two paused, each as surprised as the other. How circumstances had changed in those few action-packed heartbeats! Reynik’s attacker had gone from having the advantages of both surprise and superior weapons to being unarmed and facing a soldier armed with what now looked like something between a staff and a spear.
Shalidar he was not, but if Reynik had been a gambler, he would have put money on the man being a paid killer.
‘You . . . are . . . under . . . arrest . . .’ Reynik started, panting out the words and lifting the lethal-looking wooden handle threateningly.
The man growled. There was no other description that adequately conveyed the sound that issued from his mouth. It was a low-pitched rumble of anger and frustration that erupted from the man’s throat like the ominous grumble of a big cat. Then he took advantage of Reynik’s surprise and fatigue by spinning and running away in one swift movement.
Reynik hesitated to follow. He was tired. The fire of vengeance that had burned in his belly had been doused by the discovery that he was not chasing his sworn enemy. He was in no fit state to follow further. The man still had a soldier’s knife, which if wielded competently could be every bit as deadly as a sword. All Reynik was left with was the remains of the shovel – now more of a pole.
Reynik glanced across at the sword lying in the road, but realised that grabbing it would lose him more time. Duty and fatigue battled for supremacy in his mind. It was a swift conflict. Duty won. He did not know what the man had been doing in tent city, but judging by his actions when pursued, he was unlikely to have been doing anything good.
Gritting his teeth and forcing his body onwards, Reynik took up the pursuit again. The side street was narrow and darkening fast. Dusk was already giving way to night. Reynik’s laboured breathing, together with the echoing footfalls of their running feet, sounded loud in his ears. An alley cat yowled and ran to one side as the assassin approached it. It gave a spitting hiss at Reynik as he passed by a couple of seconds later, clearly annoyed at being disturbed from its evening hunt.
The man turned right into a narrow alley between two rows of tall, overhanging terraced houses. Reynik once again took the wide approach to avoid another surprise attack, but the man had not paused this time. He was progressively stretching his lead. There was nothing Reynik could do, but doggedly press on after him.
It was so dark in the alleyway that Reynik could no longer see the man he was chasing. It was a clattering noise followed by a frustrated curse that told him the man had tripped and fallen. The noise brought a feeling of triumph to Reynik, though it was tempered with caution. He slowed his pace a touch as he approached the area where the assassin had tripped. The step that had caused the man to fall almost caught Reynik as well, but he spotted it at the last second.
There was no sign of the assassin, so Reynik knew that the man must have got up and continued running. The alleyway curved slightly ahead and then opened into another side street. Reynik moved forward cautiously, slowing to a walk as he approached the end of the alley. He could no longer hear the assassin’s footfalls, which meant he had either stretched his lead further, or that he was hiding somewhere.
As he emerged from the end of the alley, his caution proved well placed. The man attacked from the right, lunging towards him with the long soldier’s knife. Reynik’s survival instincts again served him well. He whipped his wooden pole around, connecting hard with the man’s knife wrist and deflecting it. As an extension of the movement, he continued to spin, bringing his left foot up into a high kick, expecting to drive his boot into the side of his assailant’s head.
To Reynik’s surprise, his kick did not land. Instead his attacker blocked the kick with his forearm, throwing him off balance. There was a scrabbling scuffle as both men fought for position. A rapid sequence of attempted blows followed. Each was blocked and counter-attacked by the other.
It quickly became apparent that Reynik’s wooden pole was the superior weapon, particularly as it was wielded with exceptional skill. In desperation, the assassin threw his knife. The throw was rushed and not as accurate as it could have been, but despite twisting to avoid it, the blade sliced Reynik’s left upper arm as it passed. Again off balance and feeling the hot slice of metal tearing through his flesh, Reynik was caught off guard as the assassin grabbed hold of his makeshift staff. There was a brief struggle for possession, as the two men wrestled back and forth for control.
In a pure surge of adrenalin, Reynik yanked his attacker towards him with the staff and smashed his forehead down into the bridge of the man’s nose in a vicious head butt. The assassin’s head snapped back and a plume of blood flew from his nose. He was given no time to recover as Reynik heaved his body backwards, rolling onto the ground and dragging the man forwards –
straight onto Reynik’s waiting feet. With a heave of his legs, Reynik flipped the assassin over his head, sending him crashing down hard onto the stone street.
This was too much for the hired killer. The wind rushed out of his lungs and he writhed on the ground in pain, letting go of the staff in the process. Reynik wasted no time. In a flash, he was back on his feet and before his assailant had time to recover, Reynik dealt him a cracking blow to the temple with the thick end of the pole. The assassin went limp, completely out cold.
Reynik heaved a sigh of relief and staggered over to the wall of the nearest house. He let the wooden shovel handle fall to the ground and then he sat down with his back against the wall to catch his breath. He touched his left upper arm where the assassin’s knife had cut him, wincing as pain lanced up through his shoulder. There was a rapidly growing area of dampness on his shirt where the blood was flowing unchecked.
‘It wouldn’t do to pass out from blood loss,’ he thought dully. ‘I’d better bandage it before it gets too bad.’
His chest was still heaving from his exertions. First the run and then the fight had sapped what little resources of energy he had retained after his first week back in training. It was likely that Sidis would give him a hard time for having ripped his shirt, regardless of the circumstances. Then it occurred to him that the assassin was wearing an identical shirt of a similar size with no such rips.
‘Excellent!’ he muttered. ‘I might not come out of this so badly after all.’
He rested for a minute, applying direct pressure to his sliced arm the whole time, in order to restrict the flow of blood. When he had recovered his breath sufficiently, he grabbed his wooden handle and used it as a prop to help get back onto his feet. His legs felt weak and his knees threatened to give way as he wobbled over to where the unconscious assassin was sprawled on the ground.
Reynik prodded him gently with the pole, looking for any signs that the man was acting. There were none. He was out cold. Having established this, Reynik went and recovered the man’s knife from where it had skittered to rest a little way down the street. He removed his shirt, wincing at the fresh pain as he peeled the blood-soaked sleeve from his arm. Looking at the wound made him feel light-headed. It needed stitching, but he could not do it on his own.
Using the knife, he cut several strips from the back of his ruined shirt. The first he folded into a pad. Then he bound the pad of material over the wound with the second. It was not an easy task. He fumbled for some time trying to get the bandage to take hold. Working one-handed made it all but impossible to get a suitably tight finish, but having managed to tie it off, he concluded that it would do until he could get back to the Legion medics.
The temperature was dropping as the darkness of night deepened, and Reynik shivered as the cold fingers of the evening breeze stroked his back. Again, he was cautious as he approached the man. The last blow he had struck with the wooden pole had been hard and accurate. Looking at the man’s face closely, Reynik began to wonder if he had hit him too hard. Judging by the damage to his left temple, it was possible that he might never regain consciousness. Stripping him would not help his cause, but Reynik was not about to freeze for this man’s comfort.
The task of removing the unconscious man’s shirt was not an easy one. It took several minutes of manoeuvring and tugging awkwardly at the fabric, but Reynik finally held the shirt in his hands. He donned it swiftly, ignoring the pain as he forced his wounded arm into the sleeve. The fit was not quite perfect. It was a little on the loose side, but that was all to the good under the circumstances.
Having regained a degree of comfort, Reynik bent over the man to take a closer look at something curious he had discovered underneath the man’s shirt. It was a sort of pendant. A leather strap around the man’s neck sported a most unusual talisman. As Reynik looked more closely, he realised that it was a silver replica of a wolf spider. He had never seen a live one, but his father had an artist’s impression of one in his study at home, so he identified it immediately. As a boy he had asked his father about it, and he vividly remembered what his father had said.
‘The wolf spider is an amazing predator, son. It is not like other spiders. It doesn’t weave webs with which to trap its prey. It hunts like a wolf, running down its victim and killing it with a venomous bite. Nasty creatures, wolf spiders.’
‘Nasty creatures, wolf spiders.’ The words echoed in his mind like a prophecy. He shivered again, but not from the cold this time.
Thinking to take a closer look, Reynik lifted the leather necklace over the man’s head and walked a short distance down the street towards the nearest oil lamp. As he walked away from the man, the necklace began to tingle in his hand. The sensation was strangely alien, and Reynik’s instinct was to drop it immediately.
As it struck the ground the spider glowed briefly with a sparkling energy that was not natural. Then it dissolved to nothingness, leaving the leather thong as the only evidence of its existence. At the same time, the man laying on the street suddenly convulsed and groaned as if in extreme pain before going limp and deathly pale. Reynik did not have to check his breathing to know that he was dead.
‘What in Shand’s name . . . ?’
Assassins, he could cope with, but this weird magical stuff was a totally different prospect. The supernatural was something he had always left well alone. Had he killed the man by hitting him with the handle of the shovel, or was there something more sinister at work here? The silver wolf spider talisman had clearly been more than just a decoration, but what had its purpose been? It was a mystery that he suspected would not be easily solved.
It took Reynik a long time to drag the man back to the guard post at the end of the South West Avenue. He had not realised they had run so far. When he got there the entire Legion campsite was in uproar. Fortunately, the two guards who had failed to help pursue the assassin were still a part of the group on duty. They were quick to relieve him of the body without too many questions.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘I’m guessing all the activity is due to our friend here, but who was his target?’
A Legionnaire with File Leader rank markings on his sleeve answered the question. ‘Our Legion Commander has been murdered. If this is his killer, then you’ve done well. None of the others have been apprehended.’
‘I’m afraid he won’t be answering any questions, File Leader. He didn’t want to come quietly and I inadvertently rapped him on the head too hard. He’s dead. You mentioned others, File Leader. There were more victims, or more assassins?’
‘Three other Legion Commanders died this evening, aside from our own. I can’t imagine this man was responsible for all four deaths. It would be impossible for one man to travel that far in such a short time. It’s been a disastrous night for the Legions.’
The File Leader’s information brought a bitter flood of bile to Reynik’s throat. ‘My father is a Legion Commander. Do you know the names of the dead?’
The File Leader returned Reynik’s gaze apprehensively. ‘I don’t know all of their names,’ he said warily, ‘but I do know which Legions they commanded. Which Legion does your father command?’
‘The Third Legion.’
‘Then as far as I know, your father still lives.’
Reynik heaved a grateful sigh and sank to the ground as his body flushed warm with relief. For a moment, he had felt sure that he was about to hear the worst possible news. His mind was racing with memories of his uncle’s murder. Assassins were the worst kind of killers, he concluded: cold blooded, and motivated solely by monetary reward. It was good that the Emperor had declared them anaethus drax. Now the assassins had given their response. It appeared that the Emperor had instigated a war of sorts. The assassins had fired the first volley, making sure it was the military that took the casualties. It would be interesting to see how the Emperor would respond.
The File Leader thought it impossible for a single man to kill the four Legion Commanders, but an image of the d
isappearing talisman gave Reynik reason to doubt. This too sounded impossible, but it had happened. He was certain of it. Was there a connection? If there was, then new lines of reasoning could lead them towards any one of a myriad of unlikely possibilities.
‘Are you all right? I can see you’re bleeding. Do you need the medics?’ The File Leader squatted down next to him.
Reynik looked at his arm and saw that blood had seeped through the bandage and stained his sleeve again.
‘I could do with a few stitches. He sliced my arm pretty badly when we fought. I bandaged it with my torn shirt and took his since he didn’t need it any more. I’ll live, but I’d appreciate getting it seen to before it turns bad.’
‘Looks like you could do with a hand getting there. Hey! You and you,’ he called, pointing at two nearby soldiers. ‘Help this young Legionnaire . . .’
‘Reynik.’
‘Help Legionnaire Reynik to the nearest medic’s tent. I’m sure that someone will want to debrief you on how you caught this man. There is bound to be an inquiry. Who is your File Leader?’
‘Sidis.’
‘Sidis, eh?’ A slight sourness in the File Leader’s tone gave Reynik the clue that he was not fond of Sidis either. ‘Well, I’ll speak to File Leader Sidis later. Go and get seen to by the medics, then you’d better get some sleep. I think you’re going to need it.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Lady Alyssa had been back in Shandrim for a few days, and everyone who was anyone knew about it. She had been up to all her usual tricks. Her trademark high-handedness and imperious manner had brought quiet havoc back to the Silver Chalice.