Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

  “So have I.”

  “War is hard,” I said.

  “You still carry your Conwy?” He lifted the sword I had gifted him from its scabbard so I could see the shining steel of the blade. I nodded and drew the stabsword that was brother to his longer blade from the sheath on my back, so he knew I had not abandoned it, and then let it fall back into its prison. “And yet you use that.” He nodded at the warhammer. I touched the claw that topped its hilt.

  “There was a girl. She died. I took it from the man who killed her.”

  “You once told me a warhammer was a weapon for an animal.”

  I took my hand from its hilt.

  “It is,” I said.

  He nodded but did not speak, not immediately, nor did he press me further.

  “Boros tells me you come with a message but do not tell me it, not yet. Nywulf will come looking for me soon enough, and then I will have to be a king again. Let us only be friends for a while longer.” I nodded, and he climbed onto his mount, offering me his arm and lifting me up behind him.

  As we rode we spoke of inconsequential things, of the weather and our memories of time spent as squires at Maniyadoc.

  An hour later I saw a Rider approaching, leading a second mount. Even from far away I recognised the squat figure of Nywulf, the man who had been squiremaster last time I visited Maniyadoc and now acted as Rufra’s Heartblade, the warrior tasked with keeping him safe from assassins, like me. Rufra brought his mount to a halt and we slid off the animal.

  “We will wait here for Nywulf. I am in no hurry to be told off.”

  “Told off? But Rufra, you are king.”

  “You would not know it from the way Nywulf treats me.” He gave me a lopsided grin and shrugged his shoulders before going to his pack and taking out food for us. We ate in companionable silence while we watched Nywulf wind his way to us through the sparse trees.

  “Maybe a hedging will jump out of a tree and carry Nywulf off,” said Rufra through a mouthful of bread.

  “I do not think it would dare,” I replied. “Even Black Ungar would run from Nywulf.”

  When he finally entered our clearing Nywulf made no attempt to get down from his mount, only looked us over from his vantage point.

  “So it is true,” he said. “Your playmate has returned.” He turned his predator’s gaze on me, “Welcome back, Girton,” and he may have bared his throat in salute but the movement was so small it was difficult to tell. Then he turned back to Rufra.

  “I told you it was safe—” began Rufra.

  “Being right in fact does not mean you were right to slip out of camp without me, Neliu or Crast,” growled Nywulf. “You are a king. You must act like a king. Guard yourself like—”

  “A king. I know.” Rufra stood. “And if I am a king then maybe you should show me the respect due a king and get off your mount before addressing me?”

  “Very well,” said Nywulf and left a long gap before adding, “my king,” and sliding from the saddle. “I brought Girton a mount.” He pointed at the animal behind him.

  “Not Xus?” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.

  “I may owe you a debt, Girton,” said Nywulf, “but I’m not willing to lose my hand just to bring you your beast.” He smiled then, a fleeting and rare thing.

  “Girton brings word from Aydor,” said Rufra, his pique forgotten.

  “He wants to join us?” said Nywulf.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, we knew it was coming. What will you do, Rufra?”

  Rufra rested his hand on the hilt of his blade before speaking.

  “Take him in. I know it will not be popular, but it is right and it will shorten the war; it may even bring Tomas out to battle.”

  Nywulf nodded.

  “He had more to say,” I added.

  Rufra shot me a venomous look. “It can wait, Girton.”

  “He says there are spies?” Nywulf raised an eyebrow, but before I could speak Rufra interrupted.

  “Of course there are spies, there are always spies, Nywulf,” he said, “but my council is loyal. I do not doubt any of them.”

  “You should,” growled Nywulf.

  “Nywulf –” Rufra spoke through gritted teeth “– I am not having this conversation again. The Triangle Council are men and women beloved and trusted by me and—”

  “Even Arnst and the Landsman?”

  A shiver ran through me at the thought of the Landsmen, the men who hunted sorcerers. “The Landsmen have no love for me,” scowled Rufra, “but they are not foolish enough to betray me either, and Karrick is the best of them. There is no spy in my council, Nywulf.”

  “Arnst?”

  “The priest is utterly loyal,” said Rufra through gritted teeth, “as you know.”

  It pained me to speak – I could see how fervently Rufra wanted to believe in those who followed him and I hated the idea of Aydor being right – but Nywulf was no fool and so I spoke before the argument readying its wings took full flight.

  “Aydor said to ask you about Goldenson Copse.”

  My words stopped the flow of conversation dead, and for a moment I thought Rufra would draw his blade on me in seriousness. Instead he turned on his heel and walked away, his steps quick, as if he needed to carry away the anger within him before it burst out. He didn’t stop walking until he was at the edge of the clearing, where he found a shattered tree trunk and kicked it, twice, before sitting down on it with his back to us and his head in his hands. I was about to go after him, to apologise for whatever it was I had said that had made him so furious, when Nywulf’s hand closed around my arm.

  “Leave him. He won’t thank you for approaching him now. He will want to talk later.”

  “What did I say, Nywulf?”

  “Nothing I haven’t. He just doesn’t want to hear it.”

  “What happened at Goldenson Copse?”

  “We nearly lost the war when we should have won. Happened about a year and a half ago now. Rufra had been chasing Tomas down since the start of the war, despite Tomas having the bigger army. We knew Tomas had divided his forces to protect his supply lines and that he marched with a smaller force than usual. We planned a surprise attack at Goldenson Copse near the old bridge over Adallada’s River, but it was us who was surprised. We caught Tomas all right, but he was with his full army. As he had his back to the river we had a tactical advantage so we pressed the attack anyway. We would have won, but Aydor came up on our rear and we didn’t have the troops to fight on two fronts.”

  “I bet Rufra thought about it though.”

  “Oh aye, he did, and he still does. Rufra has a tactics table in his tent, and each night he plays through different strategies for Goldenson Copse. Never seeing he couldn’t have won. The boy saved a lot of lives by withdrawing when he did, even though it pains him.”

  “Then why is he …”

  “So angry? Because he thinks Tomas beat him that day because he was careless. He blames himself for those who died and all those who have died since. I’ve been telling him we have a spy in the council for three years – no one else knew about our plans for Goldenson Copse – but he wouldn’t believe me. Maybe he will now.”

  “And if I do believe you?” said Rufra. He had walked up behind me so quietly I had not heard him. He sounded tired. “What then, Nywulf? Do I set my advisers at each other’s throats when we are so close to bringing Tomas and Neander to the blade again?”

  “Sometimes,” said Nywulf, “even dead gods send gifts.” He pointed at me.

  “Girton?” said Rufra.

  “Death’s Jester,” said Nywulf. “The jester can go anywhere, and no one questions.”

  “No.” Suddenly my throat constricted and there were tears in my eyes. “My master lies in a cart back at camp and Xus stands by her side. She cannot dance.”

  “Oh Girton –” Rufra’s face was full of concern “– I have healers. Whatever can be done for her will be—”

  Nywulf stepped in front
of him.

  “What is to stop you wearing the motley, Girton?” I had dreamed of taking the Death’s Jester motley for a long time, but I had cast away the dream in childish anger the day I picked up the warhammer. “It is just a costume, after all.”

  “No, it is …” I searched for the word “… a calling. It is to say you are a master, that no other can surpass you, and—”

  “Your master lies ill,” said Nywulf, “and we will tell no one, if you are worried about what she may think. Give her back the motley when she is well.”

  “I …” my mouth dried, my brow sweated “… I am not ready.”

  “Girton,” said Nywulf, “Tomas has an army twice the size of ours. We can beat him, but with a spy reporting our strategies back to Neander, or worse, with Rufra dead, we don’t stand a chance.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I suggest you become ready. I suggest you become ready now.”

  Chapter 7

  Rufra left me on a hill overlooking his war camp – a city of brightly coloured tents. It was not quite as big as Festival, the great caravan that orbited the Tired Lands, but was impressive in its own way. It had a sense of purpose that Festival, with all its multicoloured anarchy, lacked.

  In the centre was a pair of the big two-storey carts more commonly used by the Festival Lords, and around them had been built a fence of wooden spikes designed to stop a cavalry charge. Around that was a semicircle of neat rows of military tents, each round tent covered in colourful waxed felt. Smoke from fires gently seeped from the edges of their roofs. The other half of the semicircle around Rufra’s command tents consisted of paddocks for the cavalry mounts, and I could hear their keening wails as they called to one another. The Landsmen had set up a stockade between the paddocks and the centre of the camp; their flag – the white tree – flew above rows of pristine green tents. Further out was the chaotic, muddy village of the camp followers where the night and day markets were situated, and further out still, and protected by a simple thorn fence, was the smith’s’ village, kept well away from the main camp to avoid the risk of fire. I estimated Rufra had a force of about a thousand men, a huge number. Generally an army’s strength was in infantry and about a tenth were cavalry, but from the number of mounts it seemed Rufra had skewed that balance and I wondered whether this was to do with his mount archers. I had never seen warriors like them before and was annoyed with myself for not asking him about them.

  I sat by my loaned mount, a docile enough creature, and watched his camp for hours. I watched the mounts in their paddocks until I picked out one I was sure was Xus, named for the god of death. There was no mistaking him, huge and proud, his massive antlers dominating the other mounts around him. I wondered if he knew I was here – doubtful – or if he had missed me at all – even more doubtful. Then I wondered how he would react if my master died – there was a bond between them that could not be denied. In battle I had seen the huge creature put himself between her and danger or gallop with little thought to his own safety to get us away from pursuers. If she died I was sure his great heart would break and I could not let that happen, could not. Whatever was needed I would do to make sure my master, and her mount, survived.

  Even if it meant taking on the motley of Death’s Jester?

  Could I do that? In my anger at my master I had cast aside my training, forsaken the precise iterations of the assassin’s bladework for the brute power of the warhammer. I had stopped practising the dances and tumbles I once loved, telling my master that the scars she cut into me made it too painful, though it was a lie and one we were both aware of. I did it to punish her. I did it so I could claim some sort of independence, even if it was one where I gave up what I loved the most. I did it because I was a fool, and not the sort that wore a motley.

  “Girton?” I jumped, shocked out of my reverie and turned to see Boros. “Rufra sent me with these.” He threw down a soldier’s tabard in red and black. “Your master has been taken to the healers and your packs moved to Rufra’s tent. If you come in with me dressed as a guard no one will look twice at you. I think Rufra would like to keep your presence quiet for now.” He was clearly waiting for me to change, but I could not do it in front of him as my body was criss-crossed with the scars of the Landsman’s Leash, and though I doubted he would know what they were I did not want him to see them. I did not want anyone to see them. So I sat staring at him. “What? Is there some oath you have taken that means you cannot change clothes in front of another?” I nodded and he shrugged. “Very well, I shall wait further down the track for you.”

  “I am sorry, Boros. I do not mean to appear rude.” It felt strange. Manners were something I had seldom needed in our travels. My weapons had always spoken for me.

  Boros waved my concern away with a hand. “Do not bother yourself, Girton, we all have our hungers to suffer.” He pulled down his visor to cover his scarred face and trotted his mount down the track.

  I waited until Boros was out of sight and pulled off my harlequin armour, feeling the web of scars pull on my skin, the way it subtly changed the shape of my body and the way I moved. To those who can read that scars I am an illustrated man, the story of my shame told in the increasingly deep lines and whorls of the Landsman’s Leash across the wiry muscles of my chest. Unlike normal wounds these scars did not heal into white ridges, but into lines of clear skin that gather the sunlight, radiating it round my body and turning me into something strange and unworldly. I could let no one see me unclothed, and Landsmen, the green-armoured guardians of the land, would know me for what I was immediately, but even those who did not recognise the symbols could not help but see something strange in me. They would cry sorcerer and I would be dragged away to be questioned before ending up in a blood gibbet, my life used to feed the land.

  Years ago my lover Drusl had met me under the eaves of Castle Maniyadoc where there was no light. I had thought this was for modesty but learned later it was to hide similar scars that covered her body, and just like it is for me the scars could not hold in her power. She died by her own hand rather than live to threaten the land. And me? I am not so brave. I keep my secret close, not even able to tell Rufra, the only true friend I have. For all his admirable qualities he still fears sorcerers as much as any other.

  With my guard’s uniform on, Boros led me down the shallow incline of the hill to Rufra’s war camp.

  “When you turned up, Boros, one of Captain Thian’s troops called you mount archers.”

  “Is that all he said?” He lifted his visor to expose his ravaged face.

  “Well, she called you hedge-cursed mount archers.”

  “That’s more like it.” Boros gave me a grin that, on his scarred face, made him look like a strange and fierce hedging spirit of war. “They fear us even more than Cearis’s heavy cavalry.”

  “With those bows?” I pointed at the small weapon, and he laughed then pulled his mount to a halt and slid down from the saddle. He gave me his bow.

  “This bow –” he took my shield from me “– is why we will win against Tomas.” He walked away with the shield and leaned it against the trunk of a tree and then returned. Taking an arrow from his saddle he passed it to me. “Loose an arrow at the shield.”

  “But this is your bow, you should …”

  He shook his head and pointed at his face. “I was not only scarred but blinded in one eye. My troops pretend I still shoot well but it is a lie. Shoot the bow, Girton; do not force me to make a fool of myself.”

  I nocked the arrow. The bow felt strange, lighter than the longbows I was used to, and unlike them it was not made of a single piece of wood but of many pieces layered together. The tips bent back on themselves and when I drew on the string I was surprised to find it had the same pull as a longbow twice its length. Boros smiled at the look on my face but I ignored his hideous grin and aimed my arrow at the shield. The string stung my fingers as I let go, its release far quicker than I was used to and the arrow flew faster too. I had expected such a small bow to be weak, b
ut instead of bouncing off the shield the arrow pierced it with a loud crack. I walked over to see the damage. The arrow had passed straight through the centre of the bloodied eye and buried itself to the length of my thumb in the bole of the tree.

  “It’s as powerful as—” I began.

  “A crossbow, but not as unwieldy. And because they’re smaller we can fire them from mountback.”

  “It’s amazing. Where did it come from?”

  “A hillsman travelling with Festival brought it to Rufra, said he was the last of his people and the last to know the secrets of the hornbow.”

  “Hornbow?”

  “That is what we call it, as it is made from wood and horn. There’s not a draymount in our herd still has its horns now.” I offered him the bow back and he shook his head. “Keep it, a gift to you. I have another.”

  “Thank you, Boros. It is a great gift.”

  “Bowmaster Varn says you know a man by his gifts –” he smiled his awful smile again “– so if anyone asks you can say that I am a great man.”

  We entered the camp and Boros rode away, saying he would only attract attention and telling me to make my own way.

  Nywulf met me at the palisade, ushering me into the central camp in a way that I was sure would appear suspicious to anyone looking – though no one was. The camp was busy, the air ringing with the sound of metal on metal from the smiths and the chatter of men and women as they went about their business. It was washing day, and wherever I looked people were arm deep in water, clothes hanging everywhere, and the air was full of the fresh scent of the herbs used to clean them. There was singing too, and though it sounded tuneless to me because the leash carved into my flesh dulled my senses, still there was no denying the joy in it. This was different to the war camps I had been in as a mercenary, they had all been tense places, full of violent men and women looking for excuses to show their prowess. There was little sign of that here, though I noted that all the soldiers I passed seemed alert, and the blades of their spears and pikes were bright and sharp. But still, there was a cheery atmosphere in Rufra’s war camp.