The long sleeved leather jerkin with its layer of hidden chain belonged to the Sword, the fit was good but the leather breeches although fine on the leg for length, needed held in place with a broad belt, an extra hole having to be punched in the band in order to gather in the waist tightly. The hidden sheaths concealed below the arms of the jerkin held four throwing knives, her own cross belt a further two. The blades were all long and narrow, three sided, the hardened needle point capable of punching through leather, chain, plate and bone.
Before he left she had wished the Sword well, he was a fair man and true, a loyal servant to the king, and a man who would willingly sacrifice himself to save the boy. He had gifted her a deep green gauze scarf and his hooded hunting cloak, the one lined with silk, light in summer and as warm as any blanket in winter. The calf length boots were hers, the rest of her belongings she would leave. Her return to claim them was doubtful, she had no reason to return and to raise false hope would be a sin.
She had lived a lie and worn the mask of a barren, sour faced friendless bitch for a dozen years. Her apparent inability to bear the Sword a child of his own had led to them to 'adopt', Fortune and Cloak, then much latter the precious twins Jewel and Plenty. She had shown little outward interest in the children, leaving them in the care of their nanny and wet nurse whilst she immersed herself in her work as a herbalist, cultivating a successful business and a reputation for the freshest herbs and most potent potions. Her long forays into the wilds to collect fungi and seeds, mineral and moulds had served their purpose, masking her training and her constant honing of her arts and talent. She had pandered to the sword in public, openly argued with him in front of the servants and beat the children. Her crest was clan, lower than his and from a lower sect, another ploy that ensured she did not mix often with the high clan crest wives of the keep. All a sham.
Able to come and go as she pleased, Dolly carefully avoided a sedate life maintaining her fitness and building her endurance. She was an attractive woman but not beautiful and according to the talk of the town, had clearly seduced the with herbs and potions until she had snared him. The Sword had suffered, the man clearly unhappy and belittled because of his bad match. All a sham.
Odium's prowess with a sword was not his only saving grace, his ‘harder than nails’ approach to his tasks and his success in rooting out pirates, smugglers and illegal slavery ensured he was always at the heart of the keep. The tax coin he returned to the coffers of Lord Ghost Wolf Heart ensured that his position was never seriously threatened..............aided on occasion by an unfortunate accident or the untimely death of those who posed a threat to him, fortunate turns of fate that the Sword played no part in........but Dolly did. She cared for him but was not in love with him. She had slept in his bed for fifteen years and had remained a virgin, she was a Royal Child, a family sacrifice, devout and pure. The Sword’s whoring had only reinforced the town folk’s view, that his bitch wife’s thighs were cold and dry and had it not been for his young wards, he would have sought a decree long before now. Mayhap with her departure, his life would become happier.
The small outer court that separated the rear of the tower house from the stable block was not overlooked, the high outer walls hiding it from passing view and the windowless mass of Mallet’s Tower laying shadow on shadow. She had borrowed Widow Slate’s mare for the journey, a heavy set warm-blood called Rusk, an old cavalry mount now put to domestic duties. Although the day and hour of her departure had only recently been revealed to her, she and the Sword had both recognised the Teller for what he was; the catalyst who would change the boy into a man, who would end her sham marriage to the Sword, who would return her life and status to her and who would free the Sword to marry for love and not duty.
---
As the day for her departure with Cloak approached, Odium grew more and more anxious, The Sword concerned by the number of strangers attracted to the town and the unknown threat that they might pose. She had remained calm, reassuring him that when the time came, their combined talents would suffice but much to her regret, her assurances did little to ease the tension. He was a warrior of rank, a man used to being in control, in command, giving orders and being obeyed. He knew that she was his superior, but now that the time had come for her to take charge, the sudden role reversal and her growing need for absolute secrecy left him feeling isolated. She knew that Odium only wanted to help but she also knew that the less she said about the instructions she had received from the king’s messenger, the safer he would be.............as the messenger had said, ‘a secret is only a secret when left unwritten, unspoken and locked fast in a shielded mind.’
Dolly recalled the day; her walk home alone along West Gate Avenue and how she had flinched like a startled child when a disembodied voice addressed her from the ether. At first she had been suspicious of trickery, dismissing the voice with a sharp curse............ but the voice had persisted, calling her by her real name and describing her true purpose as it shadowed her route home. When she challenged the voice, demanded that it provide proof beyond doubt, it did, its foreknowledge of when and how she would make her escape from Delta Crossing, making her gasp aloud and clutch her chest. How could he know? These were secrets only she and she alone knew, unspoken secrets, secrets she had carefully shielded from prying minds..................she needed no further proof, she knew for sure that the voice spoke true.
The tower house now lay empty, the twins both safe in the care of their mother nanny. She had no children of her own and never would. She was a minder, her task to protect the boy until he crested and then take him to safety. As she stepped up into the saddle, silent tears ran down her face, crystal pearls that tasted of the sea. The heart hurt would pass, she had reminded herself of this over and over again but the memories, the memories need never die.
Her precious cargo lay tightly swaddled, strapped to a narrow willow litter, its flexible shafts attached securely to Rusk’s broad leather trace. All was ready. Dolly checked the litter one last time, tightening the straps and adjusting the blanket. As she mounted the warm-blood she prayed for Odium, hoping against hope that he would survive the night. Settled in her saddle Heavenly drew both blades, the hilts warming quickly, the majic of the stones binding the grips to her hands. She did not need to look at the pommel stones to know that they glowed blood red, the feeling of the majic pulsing in time with her nervous heart. With the reins tucked securely into her belt Heavenly made one final moon wish, slashed the rope supporting the counterweight and dug her spurs into the mare’s flanks.
Three masked bodies lay bleeding on the cobbles beyond the gate, fresh kills, not yet cold, the blood still pulsing from their wounds, their weapons still gripped in their lifeless hands. Armour, flesh and bone pierced clean through, the signs of an imbued blade but not the work of the Sword. Heavenly pressed hard with her knees and urged the mare on, the rails of the litter skittering on the bloody cobbles as the horse galloped up the slight incline towards the Barge Master’s Trade House before taking the left fork into the Avenue of the New Moon.
The litter was well sprung, the willow spars flexing as they absorbed the force of the bumps. As she approached the complex of low towers that made up the Infirmary, Heavenly sheathed her swords and eased the mare’s pace, setting Rusk on a course that would take them through the middle of the narrow arch that led from the Avenue of the New Moon into Glassmakers Vennel. The vennel was dark in daylight and seldom used by folk on horseback, the way impeded by several low bracing arches that forced Heavenly to duck low or risk being unseated. The route was a gamble, the vennel was no more than eight feet wide and was not well lit, the patchy lamplight insufficient to penetrate many of the side alleys and the way too narrow to turn in should she need to evade an attack.
Heavenly pressed on, wagering that those who sought to stop her would not risk Cloak’s life. Her precious parcel was also their precious prize and she was counting on this to keep him out of peril. As the end of the vennel grew cl
oser, so too did the noise and scent of combat. Heavenly drew both blades. Ahead, eight warriors all masked and hooded slashed and parried, four fighting four for control over the exit, the clash of steel on steel sending sparks of coloured majic spiralling into the air. As if in anticipation the majic imbued in Heavenly’s blades responded quickly, the weight of the steel dissipating. They had lain too long unused and in darkness, the steel yearning for combat, urging her take the fight to the enemy. Heavenly spurred Rusk on, digging her heels deep into the mare’s flanks, the horse surging forward in response, her heavy iron shoes fighting for purchase on the granite cobbles.
Heavenly Ghost Cloud, Royal Child and guardian of the royal sire fought to steady the mare and prepared for combat. She had not killed for many years but as her hands squeezed down on the grips of her short swords, the heat of the majic flowed through her body. Unable to separate friend from foe, or foe from foe Heavenly prayed for god’s guidance, her path unwavering, her course set true for the middle of the fray. It was a gamble, a gamble that that the old warhorse would not shy or swerve if driven into a clash and a gamble that at least some in the fray fought to secure her escape. The stakes were high and whilst she did not fear for her own life, she needed as much luck as god would grace her..............the gates ahead were still closed.
---
After many years of self sacrifice, the day the king had said would come had arrived. Dolly was relying on him to fulfil his part; get to the gate, open it and ensure it stayed open. She would ride hard for the gate, her chosen route through the old town making it difficult to second guess which of the three northern gates she would finally turn to. She had told him that his part in their escape was no less important than her own but try as he might to persuade himself that this was so, he knew it was not. It still irked him how quickly she had assumed command, gritting his teeth when she ignored his advice, biting his tongue when she declined to share details of her meeting with the king’s messenger and remaining stone faced and silent when she refused to reveal her final plans. As Sword of the Keep he was known as a man who could mask his ire and her final refusal had left him indignant since dawn. The heat in his blood made his crest crackle as never before, his bone carved talent screaming out for fulfilment, his sword arm yearning for the feel of his blade striking home. It was a lust no brothel could assuage, a lust to kill, a lust to strike down without mercy any that stood in his way.
He had long ago learned how to suppress the majic flowing through the bone carved charm on his spine, resisting the temptation to humiliate any who crossed swords with him. He tapped only what was needed, anticipating his opponents every move but never ever exposing his full martial potential………or his addiction to the taking of life. Tonight, he would not resist, tonight he would feed the hunger, turn glutton and satisfy his lust.
Keeping low, Odium made his way towards the tower. The gate room door was closed, locked fast from the inside and likely guarded from within. Odium walked on, ignoring the door to the adjacent store before silently unlocking the next. The lock turned silently as did the door, their silence courtesy of the oil he had liberally placed on the bolt and hinges. Once used as the wardens bunk room, the chamber lay as it had been left, the wooden pallets, desks and washstands all heavy with dust. The room had two levels, the upper bunkroom constructed on top of the original tower, an architectural feature added by his lordships father. The outwardly grand addition had however provided poor accommodation, the room within too cold in winter, too wet in spring and too hot in summer, the bunks long deserted in favour of more comfortable accommodation in the West Tower.
Odium climbed the narrow stone stair, the Sword standing still and silent on the threshold for some seconds as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. At the far end of the room, the outline of a hatch could be seen, faint lines of light leaking up from the gate room below illuminating the fine gaps around the frame. Although the floor was solid and the boards well nailed Odium stepped lightly, each footfall slow and measured. When he reached the hatch the Sword knelt, holding his breath as he pressed an eye to a gap in the planks. Below, two hooded and masked swords flanked the stairwell that spiralled down to the guardhouse below, their posture disciplined, their distance and angle relative to each other perfectly aligned to ensure both had an unfettered arc of sword. They stood in a ready stance as if they awaited him, keen to challenge, hungry to test themselves against a sword as worthy as his own.
Delta Crossing was not truly a fortress town and war had never scarred the delta lands. The outer wall with its massive gates surrounded all but the low town and the harbour. The good folk felt safe within the town walls but in reality the enclosure was more a symbol of the Lord of the Keep’s power and wealth than an unyielding defence. The gates closed at dusk and opened at dawn, each marked by the ritual changing of the tower guard. The gate room below lay empty for most of the day, used more as a bothy, a place to go for a smoke or a brew when the guards of the gate felt in need of a break and their corporal was on his rounds. As long as the perk was not abused, it was tolerated. The corporals knew of its use, knew the view out and across the road or up and along the parapet gave the men plenty of time to drain their cups before returning to their posts. If they were caught in the room then they would be placed on remand, their own fault for their lack of vigil. Half the room was taken up with gears and pulleys, the other half empty bar a handful of small three legged stools and an upturned crate.
With one fluid movement Odium tossed the lid aside and stepped into the void, readying his short sword and parry dagger as he fell. Landing lightly Odium smiled, he was the Sword, his talent fuelled by blood, oath and honour, he would be perfect and merciless and his lust would be sate.
They were light speed, a linked pair, their techniques honed for two on one combat. A challenge yes, but no threat to the Sword. Odium was unnaturally fast and accurate, a talent with sword, shield, foot, knee, forehead, fist or elbow, each on their own a killing weapon. His other talent was however a king’s gift, the scar on his spine testament to his one and only journey to the capital. His ability to anticipate an opponent's every move had over the years become part of him, an ever present talent, an instinct, an infallible sense of what would come next but a feeling too ethereal to put into words.
From the first clash of blades the Sword orchestrated the fight, enjoying a level of challenge far greater than any he would encounter on the practice ground. Learning from each of their synchronised attacks the Sword of the Keep quickly adapted his style. Feigning with weak counter attacks, the Sword drew a furious response, the pair sensing a weakness to prey on. As the pair drove to penetrate his apparently ponderous defence Odium struck, his controlled fury successfully separating the pair and breaking their practiced rhythm. With his parry dagger embedded in the eye of the first warrior the Sword adjusted his stance and attacked. The second sword fought hard, parrying and feinting, driving forward, sidestepping and retreating skilfully on the blood smeared floor. Odium waited and watched. The attacker’s onslaught was fluid and very disciplined, the martial technique that of a high level talent. But whilst the wielded blade moved inhumanly fast it offered Odium little real challenge, the honed edge easy to predict, avoid and parry. Odium knew that his over extension would appear a mistake and would offer an opening that would not be squandered. The lure worked, the Sword stepping into the line of the oncoming blade allowing the edge to graze his arm before stepping forward past the attack and slashing out backwards, his well aimed blow slicing the back of his attacker’s knee, causing it to flex and slowing their turn. The Sword of the Keep struck with lightning speed, his short sword cutting deep, slicing through the concealed chainmail and deep into his attackers exposed back, low to high, liver to lung before dispatching his opponent with a swift sliding blow to the side of the neck cutting down to the spine and across the throat, the gush of hot blood spraying the floor and soaking his boots.
The gate winch mechanism with its massive cogs and
pulley wheels sat on a low platform opposite the main stair. Odium sheathed his blades, stepped lithely round the machine and pulled the locking pin free from its socket. The release lever was well greased, the long handle swinging smoothly across from left to right, releasing the counterbalance and setting the giant weight on its way, the ballast grumbling as it slid down in its casing. The gate was open the way was clear. The Sword released a howl of triumph, his roar drawing cries of anguish from the street below followed by the sound of urgent footsteps racing up the stairs. Odium stood his ground as three more swords swept in, three danced with his sword and three died, the last crumpling to the ground just as Dolly galloped into the darkness.
His blood lust sated, Odium wiped his blades clean on the sleeve of a fallen warrior. Unmasking the first warrior the Sword gasped......a woman, a low royal, the blood from her sightless socket, filling her mouth and staining her teeth. She was young and bore the tattoo of the select guardian cult known as The Last Veil. ‘No, no, no, please no,’ screamed Odium as he quickly unmasked the other warriors................all woman; sisters, daughters and mothers, their crest and sect tattoo mirroring that of the first, all dead, not one word spoken and no one alive to question.
---
At the end of the vennel eight became six as two fell to fatal blows. Two others disengaged from the fray, blocking her way as their hands clawed desperately for the mare’s reins. Heavenly felt Rush falter, the mare twisting under her as her nostrils filled with the sour smell of their majic. With the reins still looped over the pommel of her saddle Heavenly pressed hard with her knees, forcing the mare to straighten her path, her twin blade slashing downwards, the mirror blows flashing bright blue as the honed edge dropped both attackers to the ground. Ahead of her, the north tower beckoned, the Sword roaring in triumph as the great gates parted.
CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk (The Wish trilogy) Page 15