The Dark Defiles

by Richard K. Morgan

  “Now then,” Ringil told the son. “Let’s pretend we’re back at Brillin Hill, shall we?”

  Iscon Kaad came in yelling, sword a looping blur. Ringil didn’t even bother trying to get his shield down off his shoulder. He hacked sideways two-handed with the Ravensfriend, met the blow with everything he had, stopped Kaad dead in his tracks with the force of the block. Spun on the locking point, heaved upward, and stepped sharply back past the straining blades—spooning as close as any lover, back to the other man’s front. It was a thuggish, close quarters reverse, like nothing you’d find in any gentleman’s blade salon manual, and Iscon Kaad had no working defense against it. Ringil stamped savagely backward, boot heel to shin for distraction, right hand dropping from the double grip he had on the Ravensfriend. He hacked up and into Kaad’s sternum with his elbow so the other man convulsed. Let his arm straighten, twist—dropped the dragon-tooth dagger from his sleeve into his waiting palm, stabbed back and down. Buried the jagged blade deep in the low end of Iscon Kaad’s thigh.

  Kaad screamed and staggered. His blade batted ineffectually against Ringil’s upheld left-hand block with the Ravensfriend, tried to scrape free, but the clinch was too close and Gil’s raised left arm was solid as stone, the Kiriath steel unmoving in his fist. Gil twisted the dagger, tore it loose. Spun about, raised a boot, and kicked Iscon Kaad in the knee. The younger man went down floundering and rolling, dropped his sword, clutched at his wounded thigh with both hands. Ringil followed him, let the dagger clatter free on the honeycombed stone floor, swapped the Ravensfriend back into his right hand, and stood over his downed opponent, breathing hard.

  “Any questions?” he hissed.

  A strangled moan, but not from Iscon Kaad’s lips. Ringil glanced sideways, saw Kaad senior still straining to rise from where the spell had him pinned. His eyes were pleading, fixed on his son’s stricken form. The screaming of the broken-limbed skirmish rangers rang in Ringil’s head. He jerked a look at Rakan and the imperials.

  “Attend to the fallen.”

  Rasped syllables in Tethanne, barely his own voice at all. Sounded like something that belonged somewhere down in the dark defiles.

  Then he reversed his grip on the Ravensfriend, took it two-handed and struck a quick slanting blow down into Iscon Kaad’s belly. The Kiriath steel went through the mail as if wasn’t there, slashed a long lateral wound across Kaad’s guts. The downed man shrieked, and across the atrium his father screamed in awful sympathy. Ringil pulled the Ravensfriend free, watched almost absently as the blood welled up where it had been. Iscon Kaad screamed and wept, tried hopelessly to hold himself closed. Ringil shook himself, as if remembering some task that had slipped his mind, made his way across to Murmin Kaad.

  “Hold out your hands,” he said gently.

  The snaking whisper of the ikinri ‘ska under his words—the spell tugged Kaad’s arms instantly outward and held them there, as if suspended from invisible puppet strings. A thin stream of pleading dribbled from his lips; he was shaking his head in endless denial, of what exactly it was hard to tell. Ringil swung the Ravensfriend up, brought the blade slicing down. He severed both arms midway between elbow and wrist. Blood gouted and splattered, the counselor screamed, still holding both stumps out, paralyzed in place. Ringil unlocked the glyph with a gesture, and Kaad collapsed sideways in a twitching heap.

  Rain fell ceaselessly in through the open roof and onto them both. Ringil wiped at his face.

  “Someone get tourniquets on this man. I don’t want him to die just yet.”

  A young marine came hurrying to comply, perhaps glad to be released from the more general task of seeing to the enemy wounded. He tore strips from the mutilated counselor’s cloak with his knife, knotted them savagely tight below Kaad’s elbows. The blood flow from the stumps slowed to a seep. Ringil nodded the imperial back to dispatching the League men. He crouched beside Kaad, grabbed him by one embroidered lapel, and dragged him close.

  “You weren’t sent to stop me,” he said. “Findrich isn’t that stupid. You were just sent to slow me down.”

  Kaad twisted on the floor, tried feebly to get loose. Words leaked and mumbled from him. Ringil had to lean in closer to hear.

  “My … son …”

  Gil looked bleakly across to where Iscon Kaad lay in the center of the atrium, blood leaking thickly from the wound in his belly. The rain falling in from the roof splashed around him, mingling with the blood, thinning it, draining it away through the holes in the honeycombed floor. The younger Kaad was keening, rocking very slightly side to side, hugging himself gingerly across the midriff.

  “Your son is dying, Kaad. I’ve killed him. But it’s going to take awhile. Tell you what—why don’t you crawl over there and try holding him in your arms to comfort him?”

  He patted the counselor on the shoulder and got up. Made as if to turn away, then stopped.

  “Oh, but of course. You can’t now, can you?”

  Then he turned away for real. Ignored the dislocated howl that went up from Murmin Kaad, went to collect and clean his dagger, while around him the imperials finished up the job of slitting throats on the last few crippled skirmish rangers.

  KLITHREN CAME ACROSS TO HIM AS HE STOWED THE DRAGON KNIFE BACK IN his sleeve. Nodded casually out at Murmin Kaad, who was currently trying to crawl like some crippled insect across the rain-splashed atrium to where his son lay bleeding out.

  “Something personal?”

  Ringil rearranged his sleeve, met the mercenary’s eye. “You might say that, yeah. Got a problem?”

  Klithren shook his head. “Fuck, no. Only ever met the guy once before, back when they gave me the command, and even then you could see what kind of arsehole he was. Street as me, but he’s poncing it up like some has-been Parashal family’s favored son. No surprise to me he had something like this coming. No, I just want to know what all that shit about slowing us down means.”

  Ringil bent to pick up the Ravensfriend, retrieved the swatch he’d cut out of Iscon Kaad’s cloak to clean his weapons with.

  “You heard that, huh?”

  The mercenary grinned fiercely. “Guess freebooting for the Empire, you forgot you’re not the only one speaks Naomic around here.”

  “No, I didn’t forget.” Wiping down the Ravensfriend’s blade absently as he spoke.

  “Good, so what’s the deal? Slowing us down for what? If Findrich and the cabal knew you’d walk through a dozen skirmish rangers like they were an open door, what’s their second line going to look like?”

  “You can’t guess?”

  “The Aldrain? They’re here?”

  Ringil nodded at the surrounding architecture, the rills of water streaming off the roof edge over their heads. “Somewhere in the building, yeah. I can fucking taste them.”

  “Taste … ?” Klithren shook his head. “Never mind. Black mage shit, I don’t want to know. But I guess it’s time for that briefing, isn’t it?”

  There was a challenge in his eyes as he said it. Ringil sighed. He lifted his hand, snapped his fingers, and got Noyal Rakan’s attention from across the courtyard space. The Throne Eternal came over, past imperials patting down the men whose throats they’d just slit, stepping wide around Murmin Kaad, where the counselor lay collapsed and weeping in the tracks of his own slow-oozing blood, still not yet halfway to his dying son. Kaad had just caught one of his stumps on the textured stone floor as he crawled, was convulsed with the fresh agony it brought. Ringil saw it happen out of the corner of his eye, heard the feeble shriek, was dimly disappointed for the lack of any sensation it stirred in him.

  Rakan got out of the rain, saluted. Tried not to let his gaze creep back to the mutilated man. He looked faintly queasy, whether from his work dispatching the injured skirmish rangers or from what his lover had just done, it was hard to tell. Probably both. The look in his eyes made Ringil feel shabby and stained and old.

  “My lord?”

  “Get the men formed up over there. There’s a cou
ple of things they need to know before we go on.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Rakan cleared his throat. He touched the mercy blade at his belt, gestured at Kaad’s sobbing and renewed efforts to crawl. “Would you like me to, uhm …”

  Ringil stared at him, let him hang there.

  “No, Captain,” he said coldly. “I would not. Pull your men from their pillaging and get them formed up.”

  Rakan flushed. Saluted and turned smartly away. Klithren watched him go with a sage expression on his face.

  “How that boy ever got to be Throne Eternal beats the fuck out of me.”

  “Shut up,” Ringil told him, with more vehemence than he’d intended to use. “Fucking got the jump on you single-handed, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I treading on some delicate faggot toes here?”

  “Treading on some black mage toes, remember? Back off or I’ll turn you into a fucking frog. Now go and get in line for this briefing you’re so fucking keen for me to give.”

  Klithren shrugged and wandered over to join the assembling imperials. On the way, he passed close to Murmin Kaad’s crippled form, and the counselor said something to him. Klithren crouched to listen. Rainfall off the roof edges obliterated any chance of hearing what was said, but whatever it was, Klithren only shook his head, gestured in Ringil’s direction, and then resumed his ambling stride to where the imperials were gathered.

  Ringil gave the Ravensfriend one more cursory wipe over, balled up the piece of borrowed cloak cloth, and tossed it away. He followed Klithren out into the rain, was surprised to find himself stopping and kneeling beside Murmin Kaad.

  “Something you wanted?”

  “Kill … him,” the counselor panted. “I beg you. You are revenged … upon me. I ask … nothing for myself. But end … his suffering. Please. He has done nothing to you.”

  Ringil rubbed his chin. “Did Jelim Dasnal do something to you?”

  “Please—”

  “And yet you sent him to die on a spike.”

  “That …” A spasm of pain twisted Kaad’s face. “It was the law.”

  “So is this. It’s recent legislation, you may not have heard. Harm those I care for, and those you care for will be harmed. How does it feel?”

  “Please, I’m begging you. I’m …” Tears streaming from Kaad’s undamaged eye. “I’m sorry … ”

  “Yes, I imagine you are. I was, too, when it was too late to do anything about it. I still had to watch someone I loved die. I still had to live with their going away.” His pulse was thunder in his ears, a liquid beat in his vision with the pressure in the small capillaries of his eyes. He dragged down his rage with an effort, got his breathing back under control. “Look on the bright side, though—a wound like that, your boy’s going to be gone in a few hours at most. It won’t take him days, the way it did for Jelim.”

  “Hoiran damn your soul to hell!”

  “I think he’ll have trouble from his wife if he does.” Ringil got up. “Good-bye, Kaad. Save your energy for the rest of that crawl. You’re nearly there. Even without hands, you’ll get closer than I was ever allowed.”

  “All right!” Kaad’s voice cracked across. “All right …”

  Despite himself, Ringil hesitated. “All right what?”

  “I … will … buy my son’s death. I … I know something … something of what awaits you.”

  “So do I. Your dwenda pals and I have already had a couple of dustups. We’re almost old friends.”

  “No, not that. The dwenda have brought something with them.”

  Ringil’s eyes narrowed. “The Talons of the Sun?”

  “My son.” Kaad levered himself up on one elbow, teeth gritted. “You will give my son peace first.”

  “You’re in no position to bargain, Kaad. You tell me what you know, I’ll decide if it merits an act of mercy or not.” He crouched again, grabbed the other man by the ruined forearm and squeezed. Blood welled up in the ragged end of the stump. The counselor shrilled and collapsed. Ringil bent the arm over against the elbow joint, knelt closer, whispered in Kaad’s ear. “Or I’ll just twist it out of you anyway. Believe me, that’d make me a lot happier.”

  Kaad made a broken sobbing sound in his throat. Ringil let go his arm.

  “Come on, counselor. Cough it up.”

  “A sword, they have a sword,” The words came tumbling out, Kaad’s voice high pitched and desperate. “An heirloom of Risgillen’s clan. They say the soul of an ancient warrior king is in it. A champion of the dwenda five thousand years ago.”

  “What?” Ringil shook his head as if to clear it. “A champion? You’re talking about the Illwrack Changeling? Here?”

  “I do not,” Kaad’s voice came faintly, the shock was taking him down. “Know his name. Only … they have the sword, they plan …”

  “Plan what?”

  Nothing. The counselor looked to have passed out from the pain. Ringil straddled him, stooped, and dragged him onto his back. Slapped him methodically back and forth across the face.

  “Come on, Kaad. Come on back. What plan? You want to save your son some pain, this is no way to go about it. What plan? Come on!”

  Kaad twitched and flinched from the blows, semiconscious. His stumps pawed at the air—in his confusion, he was attempting to push Gil away with hands he no longer possessed. Ringil grabbed one of the wagging forearms and squeezed it again, not too hard this time. The pain must have been searing—Murmin Kaad jolted awake, stared up at him, hissing hatred.

  “Fuck you … aristo faggot … scum …”

  “Yeah, yeah. Great way to engage my pity, Dad.” He backhanded the mutilated man savagely across the face. “Pack it in. Talk. What plan?”

  “Plan?”

  “Oh, for Hoiran’s fucking sake …” Ringil grabbed Kaad by the scruff of the neck, hauled him into something resembling a sitting position. He threw out a demonstrative hand to where Kaad junior had rolled in their direction, rain-splashed face a mask of agony and desperation, one hand still trying to hold the wound in his belly closed, the other stretched out mutely toward his father. “You want me to put young Iscon there out of his misery? You tell me about the sword. What are they planning to do with it?”

  “They …” Panting, face suddenly crumpled up in pain. “They … will … force the sword on you. Force it into your grip. There is … a ritual And then … the Dark King will … possess you. Will return to them … in your form.”

  Ringil held on to the mutilated counselor a moment longer, then let him go, let him sag back to the honeycomb floor. He sat back on his boot heels, soaked in sudden thought.

  “That’s the plan, is it?” he murmured.

  Kaad lifted his head a bare couple of inches from the floor. “My … son …”

  “Yeah, your fuckwit son.” Gil frowned, remembering. “Was going to have his bowmen turn me into a pincushion. That would have been embarrassing, wouldn’t it? Handing the dwenda a corpse for their ritual.”

  His eyes snapped back to focus, nailed the counselor with a stare.

  “Or are you lying to me, Murmin Kaad?”

  “No … no … No lie.” The effort was too much. Kaad’s head fell back on the stonework with an audible clunk. He stared up into the rain, mouth working. “Alive or dead … it does not … matter. They told us. The … ritual is unchanged. But the lady Risgillen … will have you alive … if she can. Have you know … what devours you. My son … please, my son …”

  Ringil sighed. Pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead in the rain. “Risgillen, Risgillen, fucking Risgillen. Should have killed that bitch when I had the chance. Should have known she’d never fucking quit. All right.”

  This last snapped out with abrupt force, as he came to his feet, decided. He strode across to where Klithren waited with the imperials, well out of the rain.

  “You came to the Hironish looking for a sword as well as me?” he asked the mercenary with dangerous calm. “Supposed to dig it up and bring it back here, wer
e you?”

  Klithren looked at him blankly. “Sword?”

  “All right, never mind. Look, let’s get this briefing out of the way and just—”

  “Liar!” It was a scream so high and tortured, it might almost have been an eagle’s shriek. Both men glanced around to where Murmin Kaad thrashed about in his rain-soaked bloodied cloak, flailing and rolling round to glare after Gil, face almost upside down, features contorted in fury and grief. “Scum! Faggot liar!”

  “He’s going pull those tourniquets loose if he’s not careful,” Klithren reckoned.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Ringil raised an arm, gestured the imperials to gather around. “All right, listen up. This next—”

  “Liar, fucking liar!” Kaad was weeping now, sobbing out his rage and loss. “You swore. Liar! Liar!”

  “This next—”

  “Fucking aristo scum-fuck liar!”

  Rustle of interest among the men, heads turning to look, muttered commentary. The screaming went on; apparently Kaad had discovered new reserves of strength. Gil closed his eyes. Opened them and looked for Noyal Rakan.

  “Captain.”

  “My lord.” Still a guarded stiffness in the Throne Eternal’s voice.

  “… fucking burn in hell, Hoiran will have your soul, you fuck, you …”

  “Would you be so good as to slit the throats on those two, so I can hear myself think?”

  The stiffness melted out of Rakan’s tone. “Yes, my lord. At once. Uhm … both of them?”

  “… swore, you fucking swore, you lying aristo fucking …”

  Ringil nodded wearily. “Both of them. Oh, and … do the younger one first. Make sure his father sees it done.”

  The Throne Eternal captain drew his knife, hurried eagerly to the task. Ringil saw grimly impressed looks pass among the imperials, approving nods. By the look of it, he’d just cemented another brick in the wall of his reputation as the black-hearted swordsman sorcerer from hell.

  Oh, good.

  His face twitched with an insanely compelling impulse—laugh out loud or weep, he wasn’t very sure which it was.