by Phil Tucker
Some ten men were gathering their clubs from a rack on the wall, their meals still steaming on a central table. Asho came to a stop, closed his eyes, and smiled.
The men hesitated.
"What the hell?"
"Who's that?"
"Can't be. He's dead."
"You, go tell the boss. All right, the rest of you, on him!"
Asho opened his eyes and threw himself forward, up into a dive, spinning as he went, corkscrewing through the air, his blade a wicked scythe that swung around and lopped off arms, a head, cut through a shoulder, and then Asho flipped, back scraping the ceiling, and landed atop the table.
Plates clattered, scattering steaming curry and the smell of cumin seeds. A fork was pinned under his left foot. Men screamed and fell.
A youth swung his club at Asho's legs. Asho cartwheeled over the blow and opened the man's throat as he went. The others were backing away, eyes wide. Asho wanted to laugh, wanted to scream, the demon's power making his eyes burn, making him want to drink their blood. He leaped down lightly from the table and walked toward them. The four remaining men exchanged glances. Two turned to flee; the others charged him. Asho swayed around their blades, cut off their hands, then severed their arms at the elbows and cut off their heads, all before the men could begin screaming.
The bodies collapsed behind him, and Asho followed the other two down a new hall.
"Mikho!" Asho's voice thundered after them. "Mikho! I'm coming for you!"
The complex was not overlarge, and the hall was short. Batou stepped out of a room bare-chested, his hair wet, a towel slung around his neck.
"Shit," said Batou.
Asho bared his teeth and screamed, a blank nullity of sound. He threw his sword aside and leaped upon Batou, his knees crashing into the man's chest, his hands wrapping around Batou's head. He rode him to the ground.
Batou roared in anger and pain and bucked beneath him, seeking to knock him off. Asho stared down into Batou's eyes.
"Kill you," whispered Asho. "Kill you."
He squeezed his palms together, compressing Batou's skull. The man roared in pain. He pummeled at Asho's back, tried to roll. Asho kept him pinned.
Batou's skull flexed and began to flatten. His roar turned into a shriek, and then his skull gave way and collapsed inward in a welter of brains and blood.
"Kill you," whispered Asho, rising slowly to his feet, raising his gaze to where three new soldiers were standing, horrified, clubs in hand.
They dropped their clubs and ran.
They managed five steps before Asho fell upon them.
Rising to his feet again, Asho saw an ornate wooden door. He tested it. Locked. Asho took a deep breath. The demon's power was waning quickly. He felt febrile, almost dazed. Still, he kicked the door open with little effort, and gained admittance to a luxurious bedroom.
Mikho was standing on the far side of an absurdly oversized bed, one arm wrapped around Kanna's throat, the other holding a dagger to her eye.
"You're dead," said Mikho. "I saw your corpse."
Asho was beyond words. He wanted to sob, to claw at his own face as his grief assailed him. His sword was in the hallway. Viscous matter was dripping from his hands. He cast around and saw a small writing desk to his left. The demon's power was streaming from him now, abandoning him in a final rush. Asho picked up a thin rod of gold. It was as long and thick as his middle finger.
"Now, understand, only a desire to protect our people has guided my actions. Asho, listen to me. We both have the same goals. We can –"
Asho flung the bar underhand at Mikho. It flicked through the air and embedded itself in the man's face. Mikho screamed, a gargling cry of horror and surprise. Kanna elbowed him away and sprang across the bed.
Mikho dropped his knife, swayed, explored his ruined face with his fingers, then fell behind the bed out of sight.
"Asho?" Kanna's voice shook, and she was gazing at him with fascination and fear. "Asho?"
He tried to take a step. His whole body was burning up. Screams were filling the hallway behind him.
He thought of his mother. Who would tell her?
The world swam. He tried to reach out for the desk, but it slid away from him. There were voices in the doorway, one of them so deep it was akin to the mountains talking.
Asho crashed down to his knees. He couldn't breathe. Bands of iron were tightening around his chest. His vision blurred. Bile burned the back of his throat.
Father, he thought, and then he collapsed.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
They rode at a measured pace through the night, down the long dark toward the Red Keep, Tiron holding back the eagerness of Ramswold's Order. He sensed their bloodlust and excitement, their thrill and desire for glory. It stirred old memories, but did not cause him to lose his own control. Instead, he felt a melancholic nostalgia for his youth, when every ride into battle was portentous, when every conflict became of such importance it eclipsed both the sun and the moon.
He knew better now, knew that this midnight ride to depose a petty tyrant would have little effect on the world. That few would hear of it, regardless of the outcome; that perhaps only a few hundred lives would be affected. That in the grand sweep of history and the world, this was but another bloody feud, one of hundreds, part of the violent tapestry that was the ever-evolving present of the Empire. Live or die, win or meet with gory defeat, this ride was not worthy of a saga or a song of glory. Perhaps no ride to attack ever was.
They passed the militiamen only ten minutes down from the ambush point. The thirty men were marching four abreast, their spears forming a brittle forest against the night.
"The brigands are gone," Tiron called out, raising a hand as the column split in two to allow them to pass. "Met Clessel on the way down. All's well."
Tiron sensed the Order tense behind him, could imagine hands drifting to sword hilts. Would their disguise convince? Would the militia raise a cry of surprise and anger? Tiron almost laughed. It didn't matter. There would be no pitched battle here beneath the moon. They were riding warhorses. If their ruse was detected, all they had to do was keep riding. The militia would arrive back at the Keep far too late.
As it was, no cry was raised. They rode loudly down the center of the column, ignoring the confused questions called out by the captain, and then picked up their speed again to a canter. The path dropped back down into the forest, and trees sped by on either side, their shadows rich and textured. On they rode, hooves clattering on the crushed rock of the path, until at last they emerged into the clearing before the Red Keep.
It had been less than two hours since he had left, but Tiron wasn't surprised to see that the keep windows were still glowing with torchlight. These were mountain warriors, men made hardy and rough by lives spent on unforgiving slopes. There were so few causes to celebrate that when one came, they celebrated for all they were worth. The faint sound of voices raised in song came from within.
Tiron and the Order rode right up to the gate. The guards had changed, and they approached hesitantly, reaching out to take Tiron's halter as he swung down from the saddle.
"What's happened, ser knight?" the first guard asked the figure wearing Ser Nickl's armor.
The knight jumped lightly to the ground, drew his blade, and raised it to the guard's throat. Ramswold smiled coldly. "It's still happening, my good man. Now, drop your weapons. Both of you. Make one cry and I slit your throat."
The rest of the Order surrounded the guards with raised weapons, and two blades were promptly dropped to the ground.
Tiron glanced up at the keep's roof. "Hurry," he said, though he felt little alarm. "Inside."
He pushed open both of the great doors with a grunt, swinging them inward along with a great draft of cold mountain air that sent the dozens of torches along the walls streaming and caused the roaring flames in the fireplace to rage. Cries of alarm sounded from above, but it was too late. Tiron strode forward, sword held down to his side, eyes locked on
Warmund.
The old lord was leaning back in his high-backed chair, eyes half-lidded, a tankard held in one loose hand. His six remaining knights were rising to their feet, swords in hand. A number of servants had frozen against the walls, holding platters and pitchers. Ulein and his three companions also rose to their feet, weapons drawn, and began to drift toward the back of the hall.
"What is this?" Warmund sat up slowly, like a bear rousing itself from hibernation. "Pesold?" He looked past Tiron at the knights who had followed him in. "Ser Nickl?"
"No," said Ramswold, removing his helm and tossing it aside. "Ser Nickl is dead." He stood beside Tiron, hands on his hips. "Hello, Uncle."
Warmund's jaw tightened, and he rose to his feet. The rest of the Order moved to stand alongside them, forming a wall of drawn blades. Silence reigned in the hall until Warmund let loose a bark of laughter.
"Well done, boy. Cunningly played, I'll give you that." He took up the scabbard hanging from the corner of his chair and drew a broad blade. "Still, not cunning enough. Eleven of us against nine of you. It looks like my celebration is going to end in proper style."
"No, my lord," said Ulein, his voice loud and nervous. "Thirteen of us against seven of you."
Warmund paused, then turned around to fix Ulein with his eye. Tiron saw the young knight flinch but hold his ground. "Traitors," spat Warmund. "So be it. I'll sell my life dearly."
"There's no contest here," said Tiron, moving forward. "You're drunk and old and outmatched two to one. Surrender."
Warmund wheeled about, eyeing his knights. They gripped their blades with determination, but it was impossible not to notice how they swayed and blinked stupidly.
The old lord turned to Ramswold and grinned, showing his yellowed teeth. "Well done, indeed. I didn't think you had it in you, boy. You are your father's son in truth."
Ramswold's face was flushed with emotion as he jerked his chin up. "You're finished, Uncle. Drop your sword."
"You always did prattle on about honor and the old ways," said Warmund. "Let's see how much you truly believe in them. I challenge you, boy. A duel. Let the Ascendant show his favor on the victor. What say you?"
"Don't," said Tiron immediately. Warmund was old and drunk, but Tiron could sense the predatory vitality that still burned in the lord's rangy frame. This was a man raised on battle and soaked in blood. A creature from the older years, fit to join the Black Wolves.
Ramswold stared at his uncle, his jaw clenched tight.
Osterhild moved up alongside him, her arm cradled to her side. "Don't accept, Lenhard." Her voice was a fierce whisper. "We've won. This is over."
"Just as I thought," drawled Warmund with cruel satisfaction. "At heart, you're still the mewling coward you've always been." He paused, his gaze sliding over to Tiron. "Let me guess. Tonight's plan wasn't even yours, was it nephew? You've not earned any of this."
Ramswold hissed through clenched teeth, then jerked forward a step. "I accept! Here! Now! Let us end this!"
"Good!" Warmund stepped heavily onto the trestle table, kicking his tankard aside, and leaped down into the space contained within the arms of the horseshoe. "There's the fire. There's the spirit. Now come at me, boy." Warmund hunched over, blade wielded in his left hand, its tip weaving a mesmerizing pattern from side to side. "Come at me!"
Ramswold was shaking. The rest of his Order stepped back, forming a wall that closed off the fighting space. Tiron gave ground reluctantly, cursing the pride and anguish that had driven Ramswold to this end. Warmund's knights ringed the far side, their eyes gleaming with vicious hope and anticipation.
Ramswold dropped his right foot back, presenting a three-quarter profile to the old lord, his sword held in a conservative middle guard. He was too tense, his knees not bent enough, his breath coming in sharp pants.
Warmund grinned like a wolf, hunched over low, his right arm extended out to the side. "Remember that time you wet yourself, boy? How many hours did that hound trap you up on that window ledge? You cried like a little girl. Stank of piss. Snot running down your upper lip. How old were you? Seventeen?"
"Seven," growled Ramswold, spots of high color appearing on his cheeks. He edged to the right, sword shaking. "I was only seven, you bastard."
"How about that time I caught you watching the stable boy and that maid? Little pervert. Touching yourself. Didn't even know what you were doing or how to do it, did you?"
Warmund's knights laughed raucously. Ramswold's whole body was shaking now, his fingers clenching his blade so hard, his knuckles were bleached white.
"He's goading you, Ramswold!" But Tiron knew it was too late. The boy was lost in a maelstrom of memories. "Stay calm!"
"And how you cried when your poor mama died." Warmund was enjoying himself, his grin a leer. "Oh, how she used to beg me to make you a man. Each time she'd come up for air after downing my shaft she'd beg, even as she died, begged for the impossible –"
Ramswold let out a cry of sheer hatred and threw himself forward, his blade spearing out in a wild thrust. Warmund saw it coming a mile away and batted it aside easily, stepping out so that Ramswold rushed past him. Tiron grimaced, seeing the decapitating blow coming, ready to take the young lord in the back of the neck.
Yet somehow Ramswold sensed the blow coming too and turned his lunge into a dive. He crashed gracelessly into the legs of the table, Warmund's swipe cleaving through empty air. Not stopping, Ramswold scrambled aside, barely avoiding a downward stab, then crawled frantically away to leap up, sword at the ready again.
Warmund laughed, turning on him, blade held out again. "Scared, boy? Going to piss yourself again?"
But something in Ramswold seemed to settle. His heaving chest hitched once, twice, then eased into a deeper breath. He rolled his shoulders and lowered himself back into his combat stance. "I'm going to kill you, Uncle." His voice was flat.
Warmund paused, then laughed uneasily. "Come, then, boy. Come!"
Ramswold bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. "A lord does not approach a swineherd. Your turn to attack."
Warmund spat. He edged forward, then feinted high before lashing out with a kick.
Ramswold raised his sword to block, realized too late he'd been tricked, turned his hip to take the kick on the side, and then they went at it, swords clashing as they hacked and slashed at each other.
It was a desperate battle. Tiron leaned forward, fists clenched, holding his breath as he watched. Warmund was a seasoned veteran, steeped in tricks and with great power still in his aging frame. Ramswold fought with desperate energy and speed, contorting and ducking with the agility of youth, expending his energy in wild sweeps and leaps. Both were fueled by a vicious hatred.
Back and forth they surged, Ramswold gasping, Warmund letting loose curses. Then the old man hooked Ramswold behind the heel and kicked his leg out from under him. Ramswold went down. Warmund went to stab him in the throat, but instead spitted Ramswold through the shoulder when the boy rolled, pinning him to the ground. Ramswold let out a scream and brought his sword around in an arc, burying it in Warmund's side.
The old man grunted, his frame stiffening. Ramswold tore his sword free as the old man staggered back, surged up to one knee and stabbed Warmund in the gut.
Nobody made a sound. Warmund dropped his blade and set his gaze on Ramswold's pale, sweaty face. He reached down and wrapped his hands around the young lord's neck and squeezed.
Ramswold choked and tried to lift his other arm but failed. Instead, he grimaced and leaned forward, pushing his blade deeper into Warmund's stomach. The back of the old man's tunic turned dark with blood, tented, and then Ramswold's blade slid through, streaked with livid gore.
Warmund squeezed, digging his powerful thumbs into Ramswold's throat. His whole body hunched over the youth, every ounce of his terrible will bent to this one final task.
Ramswold released his blade. Tiron knew well the instinct to scrabble at Warmund's hands, to try desperately – futilely – to break t
heir hold. Instead, the young lord drew his dagger from his belt and hacked at Warmund's wrist.
The old man cried out but held on. Again, Ramswold cut, then stabbed. Blood spattered down Ramswold's front, and finally Warmund's grip was broken. The old man, haggard and massive, staggered back.
Ramswold rubbed at his neck, rose to his feet, swayed, then let out a cry and lunged at his uncle, stabbing the blade deep into his left eye.
Warmund let out a hoarse croak and fell back. The point of Ramswold's sword screeched on the stone floor, caught, and flipped Warmund onto his side. The old man kicked, his ruined wrist flopping, then went still.
Silence filled the hall but for the crackle of the fireplace. Ramswold wheezed, hand to his throat, and stared down at his dead uncle. His eyes were large with shock and horror. His shoulders hitched and then he turned aside, falling to his knees to retch on the floor.
The moment had to be seized. "Lord Ramswold is the victor!" Tiron's voice filled the hall, and he leveled his blade at the remaining Red Knights. "Drop your weapons or be slain where you stand!"
Swords were laid on the tabletops and the knights stepped back. Osterhild needed no prompting. Though her face was stricken with shock, she called out to her companions, who rushed to seize the knights and bind their arms behind their backs. Tiron joined her as she moved to Ramswold's side.
"Lenhard?" Her voice was a whisper, part awe, part concern. "Lenhard?"
Ramswold straightened. His pupils were wide, consuming his irises, and his skin was waxen. He blinked down at his uncle.
"He's dead." He spoke with something akin to wonder. "He's actually dead."
"Yes," said Osterhild. She swallowed audibly, then shook her head. "We did it. We've taken the keep." She turned back to him, eyes shining. "You killed him!"
Tiron stepped forward. "Congratulations, Lord Ramswold. You have won the day. Your lands and title are yours once more." He bowed low.