by P. S. Power
Stupid jerk, being all tough like that.
Tor figured it out when a blade bit into the side of his neck. Oops. He forced himself into calm and did what little he could, trying to feel the man with his mind. He couldn't focus enough to build, that time had passed. Now he had to hang on and fight, no matter how feeble his efforts. Tor weakly stabbed his shattered left hand into the man’s face, hitting nothing and getting a slash across the forearm for his trouble. But… while killing him the freak wasn't going after anyone else.
The razors edge started to bite his neck again, multiple slashes, over and over. It was done then, he realized. No way to live through that… Except for one thing. This man might still kill someone if he got free. His friends. Innocent people. That wasn't going to happen. Fight, he told himself.
Fight.
Right, Tor thought quickly, shield and cutter, basic things, make it happen, die later, fight now. Stop being so stupid. Just do it already. He didn't have to dive into dark and silence now, that made it easier, cut after cut hit him, then stopped. The man still swung, but when he hit the blade stopped hovering. Now, a weapon… It took time, and he didn't have it, he knew he was failing. Dying. There wasn't anything left.
Tor tackled the man and struck with his broken arms flapping uselessly, weakly, no strength in it at all. If he'd been in a combat rage he'd have the strength. Even he was stronger then, nearly twice as strong. But he wasn't even mad any more, much less raging. As he thought that, the knife caught between the small bones in his forearm. His shield was gone then. The left arm too, functionally, already pretty useless being broken. Pain lanced through him, reminding him of something.
Embrace the knife.
It was a fighter… well, legend was wrong, it was a real enough thing, the ultimate desperation move in combat, when you had no hope of winning or even living anymore, but couldn't let the other person simply triumph for some reason. Let them run you through and strike, killing them with one blow. Or take their weapon from them. Kolb had told him a story like that once, back at school, as Tor had pounded weakly at a pell with a practice blade.
Had the giant combat instructor known even then? Understood that if attacked, weak little Tor might need something that foolish and lethal? Or that he might reach a place where running away wouldn't work, and he had to protect someone else with his own life? Like his roommate, the heir to the realm?
Heh, that made a little bit of sense then, didn't it?
Tor twisted, fighting through the pain of the wound, locking the blade in place. The man let go in shock. Right hand barely working, Tor grasped the blade and freed it, gasping as it burned and seared. Then he stabbed wildly, barely able to find the man with his mind any more. He though he hit something. Maybe. Once, after a few seconds again, then a third time.
Then there was nothing.
That was nice. It was sort of peaceful. Empty, dark and… fuzzy, like being embraced by ephemeral velvet. For a moment Tor recognized it. He'd been here before. The bottom of the universe. Past the end of it. It was…
Everything.
And he was dead. This was what happened at the end? It was different than he'd thought. Bigger. Less shinny. Until it suddenly shrank again, into a brilliant pinpoint of white light.
Pain came, reminding him he was alive. Then after a moment sound too, a baffling mix of cries and shouting, when he opened his eyes, he saw Trice and Sara standing, no, kneeling, over him. He sat up slowly. The healing amulet? Well, it really did hurt when used then, and here he'd kind of thought people were just being whiners. Still, this was way better than being dead. As if nothing had happened at all Tor stood. Naked and still covered with blood. His clothing had gone away when he'd given Trice the amulet for it. He asked for it back, feeling a little sheepish.
“Moron.” Trice said, passing the amulet to him, crying, her voice a sob.
He couldn't respond really, she was right. He'd botched it all hadn't he? If he hadn't been so selfish, worrying about Smythe killing him, and given everyone good shields, the Larval wouldn't have been able to take anyone. If he'd armed them properly they'd have all been safe. But instead he was stupid and paranoid, valuing his own life above everyone else's.
Crap.
“Sorry Trice.” It was filled with emotion and contrition. As an afterthought he remembered to bow. It wasn't a low thing, but then, his failure hadn't wronged her that much at all. Maria Ward had nearly died for it. If he owed a real apology for this, it would be there, wouldn't it?
She pushed into him with a hug and cried loudly, like she did.
“I didn't mean it! God you almost die and you think I'm calling you stupid? How lame headed is that?” She sobbed the words loudly this time, not bothering with restraint any more.
Sara held him on the right, bloody and naked or not. All his blood at least. Most of it. He'd eaten about half of diner, but was starving, hunger actually trying to cramp his belly. At the same time the idea of food was repulsive.
When he looked around and saw what was happening, he heaved anyway, with nothing coming up, his body fighting for it, needing it because of the healing. Sara saw what he looked at and moved to shield his gaze with her body. A wall of white, almost see through, Ward traditional garb filled his view instead. It was a relief but…
Count Ward and Smythe worked in tandem, visiting each of the downed assassins, quickly using a cutter to remove their arms and legs, then healed them. Then they moved to the next. It was insane. Barbaric.
Sensible.
All those things at once. Oh, Tor got it. The Larval were just that tough. Take them prisoner, even not healed, and they'd probably escape in minutes if not sooner. Most likely killing people along the way. Now they couldn't. Not easily at least. Tor rubbed at his neck, feeling weak and expecting pain, but it was just a neck. No wounds, no blood… His hand came away red making him flinch, Tor tried suppress his reaction, but Trice looked at him and shook her head.
“No wounds now. It's done. You're fine and safe.” She hugged him, her own white clothing going red where she touched.
“You're alright. You stopped them. Everyone is alive.”
Thank the universe.
Not that the universe cared about such things, he knew. He'd felt it a few times, a touch of the infinite. The last being only minutes before. It was much too big for any of this to be important or even noticed. That could have been a bitter thought, but why bother? Complaining about what couldn't be changed just ruined your day and didn't fix anything at all.
Getting up he headed to the outdoor shower under the house he'd set up, the one for people to use before they climbed in the tubs, so the water would stay nice longer. It was warm and had temperature control sigils, so he turned the heat up, trying to cook everything away. Sara came over and filled him in on what was happening while Trice helped with the prisoners, who now that they were all healed… laughed. They wouldn't speak, it was just identical, maniacal and annoying. In perfect unison. Who got their arms and legs cut off and chuckled about it? And Trice had called him a moron?
Sara stayed by him, touching him every few seconds.
“Sorlee got everyone she could into the transport and took off. I'm not sure, but I think she's headed for the Capital. We should get in touch with them if we can and give them an update. We… should just stay here for a bit. They have a man coming to take care of the limbs. I don't want to see that really.” Her voice broke on the last line.
He didn't want to see it either really. Gross. Limbs just lying around like that.
Tor washed and had Sara scrub him until they were both sure he wasn't hiding any blood outside his skin and then did it all again. It was too much washing, he knew, but his friend didn't hesitate, even though it had to be boring by that time. They scrubbed and rubbed, lathered and rinsed. He shook the whole time, like a little dog, he was sure.
Tor had been so scared.
Even when he'd crawled into that well and it collapsed on him he hadn't felt fear like
this. Everyone had almost died and it was all his fault. Tears ran down his cheeks and he sobbed. Quietly though. No need to advertise his weakness to the whole world. There were spies watching after all.
Without saying anything he turned, still naked, wet and crying a bit, and walked up the stairs to his room. He hit the sigil on his clothing amulet, which dressed him as he had been, except clean and fresh. Everything was damp, but that didn't matter, not yet. Next to his bed he found the communications device and without thinking hit the sigil for the palace and waited. It could take a while for someone to notice the bright blue glow. It wasn't that late, ten or so, but everyone would be at dinner still. Nothing happened for several minutes, then a young male voice spoke tentatively.
“Hello? This is the palace? Can I help you?”
“This is Tor, I need to talk to… Everyone. Can you get them for me?” He didn't know who this was, but it was important, so anyone should do.
“Um, I don't think so… I'm… just the boy that washes the floors sir. I don't know that anyone will listen to me…”
Fair point.
They should listen, but nobles could be snooty about rank. As if the kid that washed the floor wasn't just as good as anyone else when it came to delivering a message?
“Right. What's your name?” The immediate danger was probably past, no need to alienate this kid if he could help it. After all, in that moment, this boy was as close to being the most important person Tor knew as anyone in the world.
“Um, Kenner sir, Kenner Thorgood.”
“Oh, I know a Thorgood, She's the Countess, very nice lady.”
It turned out that he wasn't close enough a relative of Ursala to know her by name, but it was said, by people that didn't matter much at all, the boy made sure he knew, that they shared a distant ancestor. He was ten. Kenner did know which dining room the family was in that night however. The smallest. Normally he'd have been scrubbing that room first, but not that night, they had only a few guests and they were people close to the family.
“Good. Kenner, can you pick up the plate in front of you? There should be latches at the corners to keep it in place, can you get it free? Just slide the brackets to the side.”
“Yes, sir, but I'm not supposed to touch anything magic. It could e'splode. Or cut me in two. Or get the floor dirty…” The boy was scared, rightfully so even, but with a combination of bribes, and a promise that if there was a punishment Tor would take it himself, even if it was a whipping, Kenner agreed to walk the device in. The money and magic devices he offered, which Tor called bribes flat out, too shook up to think of them anything else, were nice enough.
“Presents,” Sara mouthed at him, looking slightly embarrassed. Well, too late now, bribe it was. They were to be delivered within the week. Though Kenner offered to give him more time if the beating was too bad.
Nice of the boy really, Tor thought. He thanked him for the consideration, and meant it.
It would probably be a double beating when they found out Tor bribed the boy after all.
Two guards tried to get in the boys way, but Tor rather gruffly told them there was an emergency and if they stopped Mr. Thorgood people could die. It probably wasn't true, but who knew what else was happening? What if other attacks were planned or going on at that moment? Tor still shook as Sara watched him closely. Like she was waiting for him to weaken so she could pounce. That's what it felt like. It wasn't fair of him to think that way though.
At the door of the dining room the guard became far more stubborn and wouldn't let them past. Jerk. Doing his job too well and all that… Tor just started yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Attack on Ward, Attack on Ward! Larval assassins. Larval assassins. Prisoners taken. Prisoners taken. Attack on Ward, Attack on Ward!” He kept going until the guard, freaking out a bit, if in a subdued, Royal Guardly fashion, opened the door so the people inside could hear him. Tor felt like a moron, but kept yelling at the top of his lungs anyway. His pride could take the knock of looking stupid.
A male voice, larger, deeper and louder than his own, boomed, “Situation report!”
Tor shorthanded it first, all alive, the Larval assassins, numbering seven, taken prisoner. The Countess Ward possibly incoming to capital with non-hostile… Tor didn't have a word for it. Group? Cohort? Team? It all sounded too military for a bunch of refugees fleeing attack.
“Retinue.” Sara added helpfully.
“Right. That's Sara Debri, one of the spies you set to watch me, oh, this is Tor. I'll let her talk now.” His voice still shook, worse now that he could relax and turn things over to more responsible people.
The blond next to him stared, and couldn't speak for a second, her mouth working, but nothing came out. Tor blinked and then put it together, he'd openly announced her as one of the King’s spies. Didn't she know he knew? Really? He would have laughed, but found he just couldn't. Shock, probably. He felt cold and light everything was buzzing under his skin, just a little.
Then, on command of the King, she told them everything. Tor felt sick again thinking about how they'd cut off the attackers arms and legs, but no sound came from the device when she'd said it. Then, much like Kenner had done, Tor carried his communication plate down so that Smythe and Count Ward could participate. Trice did too, and no one questioned her involvement. She was just one of “those” people when it came down to it. If she ran up to you and yelled situation report, you gave her one without question. If she sat in on a big meeting, people handed her paper and pens and then assumed she belonged. It was like a power of hers.
The legs and arms were gone, and as one the Larval were trying to use their torsos like worms to get away. Bunching up and then pushing out, little bits of ground covered at a time. It was both ridiculous and extremely frightening. If someone cut all his limbs off he'd have been crying like a little child, and probably soiling himself. It had been a close thing with their missing arms and legs almost making him do that.
What kind of maniacs were they? How did you train people to shrug off something like that? Count Ward kept walking over and dragging them back, one by one, to the staging area. He didn't laugh about it, or even smile. Nor was he cruel. No kicks, no blows. He didn't even threaten, he just grimly worked and kept them from making good their escape. Over and over again. It was, frankly, a lot more discipline than Tor had expected to see after they'd threatened to kill his wife. At the time the man had certainly looked ready to rush in and kill all of them that he could to save her.
Of course, if the Count had done that, she'd be dead.
If Tor, wearing his full shield and armed as he'd been had tried, the same thing would have happened. The Larval had secured the position too well and were too fast. Now if everyone had been shielded properly, they could have invited the Larval in for drinks and talked things out peaceably. Tor almost made himself smile, but that would be wrong, wouldn't it? The men trying to crawl away would think he mocked them. They all wore black and deep red clothing in a similar style, but one distinctly Noram. Tunic and pants. Or, well, shorts and vests now. Not that Tor was an expert on Austran styles, but they almost had to be different, didn't they? Their system was based on technology, not magic. It had to influence things. If they were all this one guy, no wonder they were attacking though.
They'd want Noram's women if nothing else.
It was decided that all of them would come to the Capital immediately. Given it would take hours for a transport to come and it was night already they'd just have to hold out till the morning. Not that anyone else would be coming to get them or anything silly like that, but just in case, it was decided they should go to a random location and hide. When the King said it Count Ward bristled a little.
“Why should we hide? They sent their best forces, and lost. To a single, naked, unarmed man. I doubt they'll come back looking for more in the same way soon. I wouldn't. This is… dismal your highness. These men should have been dispatched not… Crippled. It's on me, I know that, I rule he
re and take full responsibility for it, but still, it's not something I want to tell my children about.” The words were heartfelt and correct to the situation, but telling the royal family, including their daughter, pregnant by him that was not the best idea. No one started yelling, but Tor covered the silence.
“Right. I'll handle it. If you see the transport driver send them with a communications device so we known when they're getting in? I have a few that just have a random sigil there, in the cabinet under the main device in the audience room? Use one of those and let me know which one?” That got agreement, which didn't sound too confused, so Tor pointed in a direction and kept doing it.
It turned out to be north-east. Taking nothing but some servants and people from the party, about twenty of them, and his personal trunks. His stuff was ready, since he hadn't unpacked really, knowing that he'd be leaving any day. They walked out of town in groups of five. Most of the estates people had left with Sorlee and Maria, or they'd run away like they were supposed to when the whole thing had happened. Brilliant of them. If he'd lost they'd be alive still. Really, everyone should have fled. Luckily it had all worked out, but what if it hadn't?
Trice would have killed them all.
Right.
That didn't explain the others though. Stupid warrior instincts kicking in probably. Morons. Smythe had stayed and he didn't even have a shield on at all. No weapons and only one hand. Brave? Sure, but foolish.
Oh, Tor got it. It made sense in a way even.
The man, all of the people that had stayed, were planning on spending their own lives to try and stall the Larval like Tor had done, to let the others get away if possible. Again, his own lack of trust in people had made that way more dangerous than it should have been.
Using floating box amulets Tor made carrying units for the Larvals. It probably wasn't all that comfortable for them, not having padding inside, but it wasn't torture either. The ride was smooth and no one dropped, kicked or spit on them. A few of the younger serving men, about Tor's own age, made fun of them, mainly hitting on the fact that they were crippled now, had lost, and to a single man who wasn't even all that big or anything. Tor moved closer to say something about dignity, but the Count got there first, speaking softly.