by Travis Kerr
The five men dragged him back to his feet. He didn’t try to fight them, or protest his treatment in any way. They disarmed him quickly, leaving his curved, wicked scimitar on the ground at Loretta’s feet, and guided led him out of the room. Raiste waited for them to leave before speaking.
“Are you alright Loretta?” he asked quietly.
“I will be Raiste. I will be.”
When Raiste entered the main hall, it surprised him how packed it was. Word had spread throughout the guild that a spy had been caught, and that Loretta had ordered him to be taken to the main hall to await her decision on what would be done with him.
Had he known that word had also spread that the spy had murdered Martin, the former guild master, he would not have been nearly so surprised. Every man and woman in the guild was there. Everyone had loved Martin. They would want blood.
Trick sat on Raiste's shoulder, still as a statue. The only part of him that moved was his eyes, which darted this way and that, taking in everyone in the room all at once. He had never been a fan of large crowds, and a crowd of assassins was far from being an exception.
Loretta swept into the room in his wake like a rolling thunderstorm. Every eye turned to her as she came, her presence demanding immediate respect. In her hands she carried a heavy scimitar blade, the very same blade that the five men had taken off of Croakas a short time before.
She stopped in the exact center of the hall, only a few feet from where the sloveckii prisoner waited. Every voice in the room hushed instantly, as if a sudden spell of silence had been cast on them all. They watched intently, not wanting to miss a single syllable of her final verdict.
“Croakas,” she began. She did not yell, yet her every word echoed around the chamber in the deathly silence.
“You have been accused of treason against the guild, of consorting with our enemies against one of its members, and, most heinous of all, the murder of our former master, Martin Grimmwall. How do you plead?”
“I do not plead, nor do I deny the charges. Do what you will with me. My fate, and my life, is yours.”
“Very well. The punishment for these crimes is death. Do you have any final requests before your punishment is carried out?”
“I have but one,” the sloveckii replied at once. “There was once a tradition that members of our guild sentenced to death could choose to die by right of combat. It was a way for a condemned man to regain some small measure of the honor he had once held. I would like to choose this as my method of execution. Let me die as a warrior.”
“Master Loretta, if you grant this, I would like permission to carry out the sentence,” of the the five men guarding him said quickly, before she could reply. “Your father was a great man. I would like the honor of slaying his murderer.”
Loretta didn’t pause before giving her answer, not even for an instant. She already knew exactly what she was going to say.
“Croakas, I will grant you your request. You will die in honorable combat. However, I’m sorry Samson, but I cannot grant you your request. You will not be staining your sword with Croakas' blood.”
She tossed the traitorous assassin's blade to the ground. It skidded across the floor, coming to a halt only inches from Croakas' feet. He didn’t move to touch it, he stood still as a stone, gazing into the eyes of Loretta, master of the guild and the person who solely controlled his fate.
“You killed my father,” Loretta growled, her bright green eyes clouded grey with barely controlled anger. To Raiste it almost appeared as if daggers were streaking out of those orbs, and he knew that it would seem the same to anyone close enough to see her now. In one slow, fluid motion she pulled the sword that she held at her waist. Raiste recognized the blade at once.
“This sword belonged to my father, the master of this house. When you killed him, this blade came down to me. Now I’m going to kill you with it Croakas. Pick up your sword!”
Everyone in the room moved back at once, giving the combatants room to move. Croakas looked down at the sword laying at his feet. He stood for a moment, thoughtful. After a moment he kicked the blade away from him. It stopped several feet away, still a good distance from the crowd of people ringing them.
“I’m sorry, but I will not fight you using that blade,” he said at last. “I’ve already poisoned one master of this house. I will not risk poisoning another. If you die here today, it will be honorably, not by treachery. Will someone lend me the use of their blade? I do not believe that I shall need it for long.”
Raiste understood at once. Croakas must have edged his sword with a deadly poison. It was not uncommon among assassins to do so, he knew. Only a scratch would be needed to kill their opponent. One of the assassins in the crowd stepped forward. Raiste recognized him as the guard, Samson, who had requested the honor of fighting the condemned man.
“If my blade will not be used to kill him, I will let him die with it,” he announced, sliding the long straight blade he wore across the floor.
“Thank you Samson,” Loretta said sincerely. “Let it be known that it is not this murderer you show honor to today, but to me. Let no one here question his decision.”
“I also thank you,” Croakas told him. “I understand that my thanks means nothing to you, nor should it, but I thank you just the same. You have given me the chance to die with honor.”
“I do this for my master, Loretta, and to honor her father. I give nothing to you, dog. Now she can feel free to kill you.”
“Of course,” Croakas agreed, picking up the long sword. “I have little doubt she will do so. Goldstone, should I somehow defeat her, I ask that you act as her claymore. I have shown you as much dishonor as I have her and her family, and I would rather die by your hand than be hacked to pieces by this crowd.”
Raiste nodded, saying nothing. If a condemned man somehow survived honorable combat, it was the responsibility of the claymore to grant him a swift death, he knew. However, Raiste felt certain that he would not be needed here. Loretta was the greatest of her father’s students.
The two combatants circled, eying each other warily. They were both master assassins, as was everyone who stood in this room. No quarter would be expected here, nor would any be given. One mistake, one misstep or one movement too slow, would decide this outcome.
Loretta struck first, her blade dancing lightly through the air like a feather in the wind. The sloveckii assassin countered quickly, blocking low on his sword and dropping to his knees, swinging low at her legs. She sailed over the blade head first, flipping through the air like an acrobat. She landed lightly on her feet, continuing her momentum forward, dodging his second backwards swing, to tuck into a tight roll before spinning to face her opponent once again.
He was already moving toward her, but halted at once, the tip of her whistling blade missing his throat by only a hair’s breath. His own thrusting blade stopped less than an inch from her abdomen, his attack lost in avoiding her’s. A light red streak, barely visible, appeared on the green, reptilian skin of his throat where her sword had passed by.
Croakas smiled. Loretta smiled back.
This was not a fight between novices. This was a battle to the death between two masters. Anger, hatred, fear or despair; these emotions had no place here. Only one emotion remained now for them; the glory and thrill of single combat. Everything else was obliterated under the volcanic heat of battle.
The two jumped and spun, twisted and dodged, too fast for the eye to follow as they danced their dance of death. The repeating sound of their clashing blades as they parried and struck echoed off the walls, becoming one constant, thrumming drum, like the staccato pounding of a hard rain on a tin roof.
Several minutes passed, and yet the battle raged on, neither combatant gaining advantage. Blood splattered the ground from a myriad of unseen shallow cuts that went unheeded by both opponents. Neither could afford to pay attention to such wounds. One break in concentration, one mistake, would mean death.
It ended as quickly as i
t began. With a final surge forward Croakas thrust his blade hard, pushing it deep into Loretta’s shoulder. She didn’t cry out in pain or anger, nor was there any exclamation of joy from the throat of Croakas. As Loretta fell to her knees, Croakas released his grip on his blade, letting it fall with her from his numb fingers.
He stared down in final resignation at the bubbling wound in his chest, where her blade had struck home simultaneously with his. Only a foot of the blade was visible, the hilt of Martin’s sword shivered slightly, as did the man impaled on it. He dropped to the ground beside his former master, coughing blood from his severed lung as he did so.
The scar she received that day she would never forget, he thought with satisfaction. She would bear it until the end of her days, as a grim reminder of the day she avenged her father. He hoped that she would live a long, happy life. It was the least he could wish for her after what he had so foolishly taken away.
“Thank you,” he gasped, with blood dripping from his lips as he spoke. “You have allowed me to regain my honor. I will.... always.... be sorry.... for the death.... of your father. I only hope that.... someday....you can forgive me.”
“I forgive you now in death Croakas,” she replied solemnly. “However, I will not speak for my father. Seek him out in the underworld, and ask for his forgiveness yourself. Perhaps he might even grant it. Go now, Croakas. You could have poisoned me with your blade, but you chose not to. You have regained your honor.”
Croakas looked up as her with admiration. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but whatever words he might have uttered would have to go with him to the next life. With one last sputtering cough his eyes glazed over. Death had come for him.
Several people surged forward at once to help their injured master, but Loretta waved every helping hand away. Croakas was dead, but her battle was not yet over. Assassins followed strength, and she could not show any lack now. With an effort that clearly pained her greatly she pulled herself back to her feet.
She reached down at the body below her, her face showing no emotion. Taking the hilt of her father’s sword, she pulled it from the chest of her fallen foe, silently cleaned the blade off on an unsoiled piece of his tunic, and sheathed it smoothly.
Without a single word or a backwards glance she turned and walked from the room. Every eye in the room watched her leave. Not one sign of weakness did she show. Like the rest, Raiste watched her go. He waited several minutes before following her back to her quarters.
“No, I don’t need any pain killers,” Loretta said to the elderly surgeon for the third time. “Just stitch it up quickly. Don’t bother with the rest.”
Raiste looked on as the surgeon expertly stitched the clean, smooth cut on her skin right below her shoulder. She had uncovered her upper body completely, revealing several small superficial cuts on her arms, as well as one long, thin line along her abdomen where Croakas had nicked her, barely breaking the skin. The thin cuts only added to the dozens of older scars that already dotted her body. Most of her new cuts wouldn’t join those scars, and would instead fade in a short time, but Raiste was certain that at least a few of them would remain.
If the needle pained her, she didn’t show it in the slightest. If anything, she seemed more annoyed by the need to clean and repair the more serious wound going through her shoulder than anything else.
“Suit yourself,” the surgeon said with finality. He had already tried talking her into it, to no avail. He didn’t have any arguments left to give.
“At the very least you’ll need to take the antibiotics I give you. I’m going to have to insist on that. Without them this wound could get infected. I don’t think that anything else here is going to need stitching. With as many wounds as you received, you should count yourself lucky on that score.”
“You know, I still could...,” Raiste began, but she cut him off immediately.
“I already told you no,” she growled. She nodded her head, her eyes darting across the scars that lined her otherwise smooth skin. “Every one of these scars is a memory. Magical healing doesn’t leave the scars behind. I won’t have you taking this memory from me.”
“I understand,” he lied. In truth he really didn’t. He didn’t need scars on his body to remember his past. All of his scars were burned into his mind instead of his flesh.
“I’ll need to look at your legs Master Loretta,” the surgeon told her, looking with dismay at the blood on her loose breeches. “You might have wounds there that need stitching as well.”
She refrained from comment. Instead she quickly loosening her belt, allowing her bloody breeches to fall to the floor in a tattered heap. Modesty was not something she concerned herself with, and it was not anything that the surgeon had not seen before. This was not the first time he had to stitch her up, nor did either of them think it likely to be the last.
The surgeon glanced at the three fresh cuts on her upper legs, one of which still oozed blood freely. He wiped the blood off of the bleeding wound with a damp, clean cloth. Loretta didn’t so much as flinch as he worked, though surely it must have pained her.
“It doesn’t look like any of these are going to need stitching,” he said at last. “Keep an eye on this cut here though. If it doesn’t stop bleeding soon we may need to stitch it after all. For now, I’ll just bandage it like the rest.”
“Do whatever you feel you need to doctor,” Loretta answered. “I trust your judgment.”
“As well you should Master Loretta,” the surgeon replied gently. Raiste got the impression this was something that the two had talked about on several occasions.
“You really should try to be more careful when you’re fighting to the death,” he added, smiling comically. It broke the seriousness of the moment instantly.
“I’ll try,” Loretta answered with a light laugh. Raiste breathed a sigh of relief. It was the first time he had seen her smile since her fight with Croakas. He was beginning to worry that her somber mood would last for days before she returned to normal.
The surgeon quickly bandaged the less serious wounds, completely ignoring her earlier order to ignore them. Raiste suspected that he had never intended to follow it, but stayed silent on the matter.
It would be better not to say anything, he believed.
“There we are,” he said as he finished. “I’ll be back in another hour to check on that wound on your leg. If the bleeding gets worse, have someone sent for me immediately. I don’t think there will be any further complications, but I would rather be cautious than not.”
“You always are,” she said with a smile.
“As often as I’ve been called to your chambers, I don’t see where I have much choice. One of us has to be. As the guild leader, you really shouldn’t be taking on so many of these duties yourself. Your father never did. I think I only had to stitch him up twice in all the time I worked for him.”
“Most of my injuries were during training,” she reminded him.
“And what makes you think that makes it any better?” he asked. “Your father was also wise enough to practice with dull swords. You are the only person I know who insists on having your opponents use sharp ones.”
“The scars I receive remind me of the mistakes I’ve made,” she answered.
“Easy enough to say when your not the one who has to stitch them up every time,” he said dryly. “Anyhow, get some rest for now. Doctors orders. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you. Mr. Goldstone, please help her get some clothing back on. That’s also an order from her doctor. If I don’t order it she’ll insist on doing it herself, and she’ll likely pull her stitches in the attempt. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
That said, the doctor turned and left the room. Raiste watched him go with a smile.
That might be the only man alive who can talk to her like that, he thought. Not even he was that brave.
“You know, there’s no rush. I don’t have to get my clothing on right this instant,” Loretta hinted suggestively. “We cou
ld wait a little while.”
Unexpectedly, the surgeon’s head popped back into the doorway, a fatherly look covering his wizened face.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” he commented. “That sort of activity is almost certain to pull your stitches. I’m certain that you wouldn’t want to call me back sooner than necessary. I’m sure that waiting an extra few days isn’t going to hurt you any. Deciding not to wait almost certainly will.”
Loretta threw him an odd look, which Raiste interpreted as being somewhere between glare and a pout. He wasn’t certain that the aged surgeon ever saw it. As soon as he had finished his statement he disappeared behind the door once again. Loretta sighed in defeat.
“Well, I suppose we could wait a few days,” she said.
“I don’t think we have a few days,” Raiste replied. He wasn’t at all looking forward to this conversation, but knew the necessity of it.
Best to just get it over with.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t stay any longer Loretta,” he answered. “We don’t know when Croakas was supposed to contact Bloodheart's men again, or who he was giving his information to at all for that matter. When he doesn’t show up they’ll realize something is wrong, and it won’t be long after that before they realize that it wasn’t me they killed in that alley. In another day, maybe two, I’ll have to be gone from here. Otherwise I’ll be putting everyone in danger again.”
“As I said before, they wouldn’t dare attack us here,” she reminded him.
“You may be right about that, but I would still have to leave eventually. If I’m not gone by the time they figure out I’m still here, they’ll be watching for me when I try to leave. My best chance is to be long gone by the time the figure it out.”
She took several seconds to digest that information before answering.
“You’re probably right,” she said at last, her face returning to the stoic mask she sometimes wore when she was trying to hide her true emotions. “You have what you came for after all, and you’ve even ferreted out my father’s murderer. It wouldn’t be right for me to try to hold you here any longer.”