by Simon Hawke
She would have fought Doc for the leadership of the brigands, but he had never challenged her. Indeed, he kept insisting that she was the leader of the brigands, and that he had no interest in that position himself. He never questioned her leadership or her authority. And yet, still, the brigands seemed to give him more obedience and show him more respect than they did her.
She had tried seducing, him and that had proved a dismal failure. That had been a first, as well. Never had a man resisted her successfully. Doc had claimed to be betrothed, to some sorceress from his own land named Pamela, but other men had forgotten wives and sweethearts when confronted with her charms. Shannon thought she must be slipping. Truly, she thought, it had to be magic. What other explanation could there be? And how could she fight magic?
As she rode toward Brigand's Roost, she grew angrier and angrier, her frustration mounting until she felt ready to burst. She needed to talk to Dirty Mary. The older woman was always full of good advice. Yes, she'd talk to Mary. Either that, or kill somebody. She reined in her horse outside the tavern and strode inside, her boot heels loud on the wood-planked floor.
"Well, hel-lo," said a deep, resonant voice. "Look at what the wind blew in."
MacGregor's style and timing were impeccable, most times. However, this was not one of those times. Shannon stopped dead in her tracks and slowly glanced at him over her shoulder.
Mac gave her his best grin. Shannon did not return it.
Had Jack or Dirty Mary been there, they might have warned him, but Mary had gone up to prepare the rooms for Mac and his companions, and Jack was occupied with putting those very companions to bed, as they were quite insensible and needed help. There was no one in the place except some of the old people, and when they saw the look on Shannon's face, they calmly started to pull their benches back against the wall.
"Were you addressing your comment to me!" asked Shannon, with a dangerous edge to her voice.
"To none other, my lovely," Mac replied. "Faith, and you're a fine, strapping figure of a woman. What are you called, my beauty?"
"I am not your beauty, stranger," she replied, her voice a whip crack, "nor am I your lovely. Such talk might turn the heads of brainless serving wenches where you come from, but I have no use for it. Nor for the likes of you."
Mac smiled. "My, my," he said, "what sharp claws we have."
"Sharp enough," snapped Shannon, her eyes flashing as her blade sang free of its scabbard. "Care to try your luck?"
MacGregor laughed. "So, sharp claws and a spirit to go with them! Nay, put away your blade, girl, or do you not perceive the Guild badge on my tunic? I fear you're somewhat overmatched this time. Why not join me for a drink, instead?"
"Your Guild badge does not frighten me, assassin," she replied. "Nor do all those pretty knives you wear so ostentatiously. 'Tis one thing to wear a weapon and 'tis another to know its proper use. Any common footpad can plant a knife in someone's back. It takes more courage to meet your opponent face-to-face."
"And so I have met my share," MacGregor said. " 'Tis no mere, common footpad you behold, my pretty. My advice to you is to put down your blade. Save it for threatening the farm boys hereabouts."
Shannon's eyes were narrow slits. "And my advice to you, assassin, is to draw your sword and prove your worth. Or else I'll run you through right where you sit."
MacGregor sighed and shook his head as he got to his feet. With an air of resignation, he drew his sword and made a wide, sweeping gesture with it and his other arm, as he gave her a curt bow. "Well, then, if you insist upon a lesson in humility, I am at your service."
He gave her a mocking salute with his blade and, with a condescending little smile, he came on guard.
Shannon's blade flashed at him so quickly that it was only his instinct, honed to a razor's edge from years of practicing his craft, that saved him. He brought his blade up in a parry purely by reflex, never dreaming she'd attack so quickly. With equal speed, Shannon flicked her sword around his parry and nicked one of the bandoliers on his tunic. And she kept on coming. Startled, MacGregor found himself retreating before her furious onslaught. And, with equal astonishment, he suddenly realized that she purely meant to kill him.
He recovered from his initial surprise quickly, however, and realized that this was no mere girl who paraded with a blade that he was facing, but a skilled and lethal antagonist. He became immediately serious and shifted into his professional mode. Whoever this young woman was, he realized, she knew what she was about. Someone had taught her, and they had taught her well. Well, thought MacGregor, he was about to teach her better.
He parried and launched his counterattack. His point flicked past Shannon's defense, and she barely caught it on her quillons. Suddenly, she was on the retreat.
"You fight well, my pretty," he said with a grin as he pursued his attack. "But, alas, not well enough. 'Twill be a shame to kill you."
"Talk won't get it done," Shannon replied with a parry and riposte, followed by a feint and a beat against his blade to knock it aside. Her point darted home and would have penetrated his shoulder but for being deflected by one of the knives in his bandolier. As it was, it scraped against his tunic, cutting it and drawing a little blood.
"Damn," said MacGregor. "That was my best tunic, blast you."
"Then 'tis only fitting you be buried in it," Shannon replied as she pressed home her attack.
The clanging of their blades rang out like a steel-drum tattoo as they moved back and forth across the floor, knocking into benches and tables, recovering, and ducking aside from deadly thrusts. Shannon hooked a bench with her foot and sent it crashing against MacGregor's shins. He nearly tripped, recovered, and parried her thrust just in the nick of time. He reached out with his free hand, grabbed a tankard of wine off a table, and dashed its contents into her face. As Shannon recoiled, bringing her arm up to her face, he hooked her blade and sent it flying across the room.
"Now then, my pretty," he said, "since you've been declawed, I think 'tis time I-"
However, he never finished, because Shannon spun around, snatched up a bench, and swung it at him. It struck him in the shoulder and he tumbled to the ground, momentarily stunned, giving her the time to leap up on a table and vault it, running across the room to retrieve her sword. As she picked it up, Mac came on guard with a determined expression on his face. With his free hand, he drew one of his long knives so that he could fight Florentine style, dagger in one hand, sword in the other.
"You're good, my love," he said. "A shameful waste of talent in this backwater. But I grow weary of this dance and 'tis time for it to end."
"You fight well, yourself, assassin," she replied. "You are skilled, and without scruples. 'Tis a pity you grow weary, for I am but beginning to enjoy myself." And she drew her own dagger.
Dirty Mary and One-Eyed Jack had come down, alerted by the noise.
"Shannon," said One-Eyed Jack wryly. "I might have known. I'd better stop it."
"Why?" asked Dirty Mary.
"Well, if she kills him, who'll pay the bill?" asked One-Eyed Jack.
"He seems to be holding his own," Mary observed. "Besides, you're getting old, Jack. I wouldn't be getting between them, if I were you."
"They'll wreck the place," said Jack.
Mary shrugged. "So? It's been wrecked before. At least once a week, and sometimes twice on Saturday."
"Be one hell of a mess," said Jack. "I'm tired of cleaning up after these sorts of things."
"Oh, stop your complaining," Mary said. " 'Tis a fine and proper fight. Settle back and enjoy it."
The old folks at the back of the room made room for them on the benches and eagerly beckoned Jack, and Mary to join them.
Shannon and MacGregor advanced and met in the center of the room. Shannon aimed a feint at MacGregor's chest, then slashed in with a quick cut at his head. He brought up his blade in time to parry it and darted in with his dagger. She blocked the thrust with her own short blade and launched a devastating k
ick at his groin. It was only by twisting aside at the last second that Mac avoided it. He took it on his hip and then pushed hard against her as their blades were locked, sending her stumbling backward. Shannon recovered quickly and as he lunged, she parried, then pivoted sharply around and caught him in the temple with a spinning high kick.
The old folks at the back appreciatively applauded the unorthodox technique.
MacGregor went down and Shannon lunged in for the kill, but he brought his blade up at the last moment and deflected her thrust, so that her point went into the floor, then lashed out hard with his foot and knocked her off her feet.
Shannon retained her grip on her sword, however, and they both came up ready for more, bent over slightly, circling, looking for an opening. Both of them were grinning.
"You're the best I've ever seen," MacGregor said with admiration. "Where the devil did you learn to fight like that?"
"Fending off admiring louts such as yourself," Shannon replied. "But you're not so bad yourself, assassin."
"Not so bad?" MacGregor said with a smirk. "Faith, love, I'm the best there is."
"Then prove it," Shannon said, lunging at him.
Their blades clashed, their daggers darted in, looking for openings, but each countered the other. As Shannon blocked his dagger thrust, MacGregor quickly brought his elbow up and smashed her in the jaw. Blood spurted from her lip as she recoiled from the blow.
"Well struck," she said, recovering more quickly than he had anticipated and aiming a cut at his face. Her blade struck home and opened up a gash along his cheek.
"Blast you!" said MacGregor. "That'll leave a scar!"
"On you, 'twill look quite dashing," she replied as she parried his attack.
He feinted, followed up with another quick feint, and beat her blade aside. She recovered, but not quite quickly enough. Her right arm was left exposed and MacGregor's blade slid past her own and up along her forearm, ripping through her flesh.
"That hurt, you bastard!" she snarled, batting his blade aside with her dagger and launching a kick at his essentials. It struck home and Mac grunted as he doubled over, but still managed to bring his blade up in time to block her thrust.
She moved in quickly, her blade locked against his, and as he stabbed out with his dagger, she caught it with her own and kept right on coming, pushing him down onto the floor. They both fell, Shannon on top of him, and she used her knee to pin his knife hand as she held his sword down with her blade. With a bloody grin, she held her knife blade across his throat.
"Damn, but you're good!" she said, and leaned down and kissed him full on the mouth. It was a hard, passionate kiss, and when she broke it, she looked down at him, his mouth smeared with her blood, his eyes wide with surprise, and she smiled as she pressed her blade against his throat. "Yield, assassin," she demanded.
"Fuck you," he said.
"In due time," she replied, "but first you yield to me, and grant you've met your better." She pressed the blade against his throat.
"Damn you to hell," MacGregor said. "I yield."
The audience at the back broke into spontaneous applause.
"She didn't kill him," One-Eyed Jack said with surprise.
"I think she likes him," Dirty Mary replied.
"What happens now?" asked One-Eyed Jack.
Mary gave him a sidelong glance. "You are getting old," she said.
Shannon let Mac up. She stood and sheathed her blades. Mac sat up slowly, rubbing his throat, still aching from the kick to his privates. He squirmed uncomfortably.
"Damn," he said. "You just about unmanned me."
Shannon smiled. "I hope not," she replied.
MacGregor grinned. "S'trewth, and 'tis the first time in my life I've ever met my match," he said.
"More than your match," said Shannon with a chuckle.
"Very well, then," admitted Mac sourly. "More than my match. Satisfied?"
"Not yet," Shannon-replied with a twinkle in her eye. "But we'll work on it."
"You handle a sword like a demon from Hell. Who the devil are you?" asked MacGregor.
"I am called Black Shannon."
MacGregor stared at her, "You! Faith, and I've heard of you! There's a king's ransom on your head!"
"Were you thinking of trying to collect on it?" she inquired, resting her hand on the pommel of her sword.
Mac held up his hand. "Nay, lass, 'Tis enough damage I've taken for one day." He rubbed his shoulder and, as he brought his hand up, it contacted his Guild badge.
He stared down at it thoughtfully, then unpinned it from his tunic. "You'll be honoring me if you would wear this," he said. "You've beaten the best, and that makes you the best now. And if there be any who doubt it, they'll have to deal with Scan MacGregor."
"MacGregor the Bladesman?" Shannon said. "You're the one they call Mac the Knife?"
"Aye, lass, that's me."
Shannon threw back her head and laughed.
"What's so funny?" Mac asked.
"S'trewth, and 'twas your own father who taught me!" she replied.
MacGregor's eyes grew wide. "Well, I'll be.... Faith, and I could have sworn I'd encountered that style before! How did you come to know my father?"
"You do not remember? He caught me trying to lift his purse and when I tried to stab him, he disarmed me and said that if I wished to be an alleyman, I'd best learn how to do it properly."
MacGregor's jaw dropped. "You! You mean to tell me that you were that scrawny, dirty, little ragamuffin he brought home with him?"
"Aye," she said, "and you were too good to speak with me. And but a few days later, you left home to embark upon your own career. I swore that one day I'd meet up with you again and take you down a peg or two."
"And so you have," MacGregor said. He came up to her and pinned his Guild badge on her tunic. "You've done my father proud. And my much belated apologies for being too full of myself as a young lad and not paying attention to you. Rest assured, it shall not happen again."
She smiled. "I'll wager that it won't," she said, and kissed him.
The old folks watching them smiled and went, "Awww...."
"Jack!" said Shannon. "Drinks all around!"
"Who's paying?" Jack asked.
"Loser pays," said Shannon.
"Are you so sure I've lost?" asked Mac.
"Perhaps not," she replied with a smile. "But we shall see."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I wonder what he's doing with all those people?" Queen Sandy frowned as she mused aloud and brushed her long, flaxen hair.
Bonnie King Billy merely grunted as he sat on the edge of the royal bed in their royal bedchamber, counting the signatures on the latest petition received by his royal self.
"I understand that none of them are ever seen again," Queen Sandy said as the brush glided through her extremely fine blonde hair. She cocked her head to one side as she stared at herself in the mirror. "You don't suppose he kills them, do you?"
"Four thousand, two hundred and twenty-nine," King Billy said, frowning with annoyance. "That's almost a thousand more signatures than the last bloody petition! Eight hundred and seventy-three more signatures, to be exact."
"William, you're not listening to me," Queen Sandy said with an annoyed grimace.
"Eh? What's that, my dearest?"
"I said, you're not listening to me."
"Oh. Sorry, dearest. I was distracted by this latest petition," he replied. "They're getting worse and worse, you know. More signatures each time. 'Tis a conspiracy, if you ask me. Who are all these people, anyway?"
"Your subjects, my love."
"I know that," King Billy replied irritably, "but who are they? I mean, I have absolutely no idea, you know." He held up the petition scroll and shook it. It unrolled across the floor. "All I see here is a bloody list of names, names that mean nothing to me, absolutely nothing. I have no idea who these people are. No idea whatsoever. How do I know they even exist? How do I know someone didn't simply sit down and ma
ke all of these names up?"
"Each of the signatures is different," Queen Sandy pointed out.
"Well... so what?" King Billy replied petulantly. "Anyone can alter their handwriting, can't they?"
"Four thousand, two hundred and twenty-nine different ways?" Queen Sandy asked.
"Well... it could be the work of some gifted forger," said King Billy. "Besides, not all four thousand, two hundred and twenty-nine of these signatures are actual names. There aren't that many people in the kingdom who can read and write. A lot of these are simply X's. Anyone can make a bunch of different X's. How hard can it be?"
"So then you are denying the validity of the petition?" asked Queen Sandy.
"Well, how do I know that all of these signatures represent real people?" King Billy replied. "None of these names are known to me, to say nothing of all these X's."
" Tis because none of your subjects are known to you," Queen Sandy replied, putting down her hairbrush and turning in her seat to face him. "You do not even know the names of our servants here in the palace."
"I do so," King Billy protested.
"Name three."
"There's the royal seneschal, and the royal cook, and-"
"Their names, not their titles."
"I always address them by their titles. 'Tis a measure of my esteem for them." -
" 'Tis a measure of something," Queen Sandy replied sarcastically, "and a rather full measure, at that. The point is, William, you are merely making excuses. You are seeking for a way to deny the validity of the petitions because you are afraid to do anything about them. And you are afraid of doing anything about them because you are afraid of Warrick."
"I am certainly not afraid of Warrick!"
"You are. Tis the truth and you know it. There's no use denying it."
"Well... perhaps I am a little bit afraid," admitted King Billy. "But after all, he is the most powerful wizard in all the twenty-seven kingdoms!"
"He is but the royal wizard," said Queen Sandy. "You are the king. You outrank him."