Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

Another volley of arrows fell. I peered through a hole in the gate to see where the Nonmen archers were. Like fools they had bunched up their archers with the torches and fires of the army behind them, making them an easy target. “We need to kill some of them,” said Cearis into my ear. “If they fight sensibly they will just wear our numbers down. We have to make them angry, then give them a target and let them grind themselves to dust against it.”

  “Will this work?” I called as she climbed the ladder beside me. I crouched behind the parapet and put an arrow to the string of my bow.

  “I hope so. Nywulf worries that the villagers, Ossowin especially, will crack and decide it is better to give in to the Nonmen than to fight. He wants to keep them busy and focused, fighting will do that.” I nodded, stood – aim, shoot – a shriek in the dark – aim, shoot – another cry. The group of archers broke up and retreated.

  “How long before they come again?” I said.

  “Not long,” said Cearis.

  This phase of the battle went on for another hour and I stayed with the archers. Each time the Nonmen met our shieldwall they were repulsed, Aydor screaming at them, “Beaten by farmers! You’re being beaten by farmers.” I don’t know if that demoralised the Nonmen or made them more furious. Whichever, it annoyed me intensely.

  Screaming had been the background noise ever since the battle started, but it was late into the night, in the hours when the knowledge of our mortality haunts us and the dead are usually taken away, that a different type of screaming started. The screaming of the tortured. Out in the darkness among the myriad flickering fires of the Nonmen someone was being hurt. I stared out, while our numbers had steadily dwindled the Nonmen’s had swelled. Aisleth came to stand by me. She was covered in blood but I was glad to see it was not hers. She held a spear in one hand and I quashed the feeling of hopelessness that had been growing within me.

  “What is that noise, Girton?”

  “Sometimes Nonmen brutalise their own, I do not know why.”

  “Nywulf!” The shout came from outside the walls. “Nywulf, I would talk peace. Do you give me safe passage?”

  “Chirol!” Boros strode past me.

  Nywulf followed, grabbing him by the arm.

  “Not now, not here.”

  “I am sworn vengeance,” said Boros. “He is here and I am—”

  “Not now,” said Nywulf. His voice was very calm, a dangerous sign to those that knew him. “When there is another attack, he will lead it. Then is your chance.”

  “Let me speak to him,” said Boros.

  “No.”

  “Nywulf, I—”

  “You will go to the house at the rear of the village and help build that wall back up. It will not stand another attack, but whatever you do will help buy a little time.” Before Boros could say anything Nywulf raised his voice: “Cearis, take Boros and help him shore up the rear wall.” She came forward, walking Boros away. As the young warrior glanced back over his shoulder I could see the hate on his face, even through his scars. Nywulf watched Boros go and then ascended the ladder and stood on the wall.

  “Talk then, Chirol. I will hear the terms for your surrender but do not promise I will accept them.” A laugh came from the darkness, followed by another terrible scream.

  “Later, Nywulf, I will have you at the point of my knife, and what a talk we shall have then.”

  “I look forward to it,” said Nywulf. “Now, speak if you would speak. I do not have time to natter like a laundry man.”

  “Very well. Your beloved Rufra is not coming, Nywulf, I caught your messenger. That is who you hear screaming.”

  “No!”

  Aisleth made to run for the hole where the gate had been but I grabbed her.

  “Wait, Aisleth, wait. He lies.”

  “How do you know?” she said, stricken.

  “Your daughter rode Xus and she wore no armour. No one could ever catch my mount with only an unarmoured child on him.”

  “But what if she fell? What if—” She was interrupted by Nywulf chuckling. “You have our messenger, do you? Then what is her name, Chirol?”

  “Ah. Sadly my men were too keen with their knives and cut out her tongue before we could find out her name.”

  “Cut out her tongue, did they?” Nywulf laughed. “Then bring her forward, Chirol. I am sure her mother will know her.”

  “I doubt that, Nywulf. If what we have done to her was done to me, well, even my own mother would struggle to recognise me.”

  “I hear she does not anyway,” said Nywulf.

  “He does not have her, see?” I whispered to Aisleth. I let go of her arm. “If he did he would bring her forward.”

  “Know this, Nywulf,” shouted Chirol. “What we do to this girl is as nothing to what we shall do to those villagers in there with you, but if they give you up now we will let them live.”

  Aisleth’s husband had appeared beside us with a gaggle of villagers.

  “Aisleth, we should take him up on this. They have our girl and we cannot survive the night. We—”

  She turned and slapped him hard across the face.

  “See him?” She pointed at me. “A mage-bent boy with more mettle in him than you have ever had. This Nonman no more has Dinay than you have balls. You shame me and your village.”

  Then she turned and before I could stop her she was up the ladder and standing by Nywulf. Ossowin put his hand to his slapped cheek and gave me a glare of such vehemence it felt like a blow.

  “I hear you, Chirol, Boarlord of the Nonmen,” she shouted. “It is my daughter who rode out for the king and I do not believe you have her, or that you will let us go free. But know this: if you have laid a finger on my girl, your death will be one so slow and painful it will be told as a tale by mothers to frighten their children for generations! Come near us, and—”

  The arrow came out of the night, a single, well aimed streak that took Aisleth in the heart. The wicked point emerging from her back. For a moment she still stood, and then the life went from her and she fell, ragged clothes billowing around her and she crashed lifeless among the troops of the shieldwall.

  “No!” cried Ossowin.

  The Nonmen charged. I grabbed Ossowin, anger welling up in a dark tide. “You did that, fool.” The roar of the charging Nonmen rose. “Your cowardice put her on that wall. It should have been you up there!”

  “No,” he said quietly, “not I. You did that – you gave her spirit in a hedging’s deal.”

  “Be quiet,” I hissed, “and fight for your village. Fight for your wife and her memory. Give your daughter someone worthy to look up to.” I picked up a shield and a spear and shoved them into his hands, pushing him towards the shieldwall “All of you,” I screamed at the villagers standing around me. “Fight! Fight for Aisleth! Fight for Gwyre!” I pushed a woman forward. “For Aisleth!” I shouted, and they took up the shout, running to put their weight into the shieldwall.

  And then the Nonmen were on us, the presence of their leader spurring them on. I ran for the house at the back of the village where our defence’s weakest point was and hoped we could hold.

  Arrows fell around me. This would be the Nonmen’s biggest attack. Chirol had not stopped the girl or frightened the villagers into surrender, so he had to throw everything at us now and hope to break us before Rufra arrived with more troops. I did not know if we would live to see Rufra come or not, but I would make the Nonmen pay dearly for my life.

  In the house with the broken wall it was worse than I had hoped. The flickering light of the torches showed me two soldiers, Telkir and Halda, with tired faces and spears wet with blood, some of it their own. Broken spears lay on the floor and by them a small pile of broken furniture was all that remained to barricade the hole with. The wood jammed across the gap was scored and scratched and the only good thing about the building, from a defensive point, was that the upper floor had been removed and I could look straight up into the rafters high above, which would make it hard for anyone to come
through the roof and surprise us. Behind me arrows and bolts had peppered the door I had come through.

  “They will bring ropes next time,” said Halda. “They have been using grappling hooks on the wood over the hole and distracting us with arrows when we try and get them off. Then while we deal with the hole they come in through the roof.” She pointed at a pile of bodies in one corner. “None have survived the fall yet, but they will bring ropes.” She sounded resigned to her fate.

  “If we could bring down the entire back wall,” said Telkir, “that would stop them.”

  “Have you tried that?” I said.

  He nodded and kicked the wall. “Solid as Halda’s thighs.” He grinned at the woman across from him. Halda smiled back then wiped hair from her face and grabbed her helmet from the floor. “Listen.” The high whirring of mettle-chanter’s spinners filled the air. “They come again.”

  First came the shadows, figures like bad dreams, flitting past the hole and momentarily eclipsing the light. Telkir and Halda crouched, spears in their hands, and I unsheathed my knives.

  “Don’t waste your time trying to get those running past,” said Halda. “They are only trying to tire us. Save your energy for when the real attack comes. You may be better using that –” she pointed at a bow leaning against the wall behind me “– to keep them from the roof.” I nodded, sheathing my blades and picking up the bow. With a crash something hit the boards across the hole making them shudder against the nails holding them. Halda’s spear darted out and there was a cry from outside. Another crash. Telkir’s spear shot out and there was a scream. A bloodied hand grabbed the spear and a hook was pushed through the gap between two boards. There was a shout of triumph from outside and the hook bit into the boards as the tension was taken up. With a loud creak a board bent and then snapped in half.

  I watched all this open-mouthed, like a child in their first battle.

  “Move!” shouted Halda. She threw herself into me, pushing me to one side and knocking the air from me as crossbow bolts shot in from the darkness. I heard her take the hit for me, heard her pain in the out-take of her breath. It was not a scream and not a shout, more a sound of disappointment – like she had been given a long-hoped-for gift that did not match up to her expectations. I wanted to check her wound, see if I could help her, but there was no time. Slates started to fall from above where Nonmen hammered on the roof. Halda placed her hand on my shoulder and pushed herself up, her bloody touch like a fire against me. My mind lit up with life and a dark tide moved within. She pulled the crossbow bolt from her side with a grunt and picked up her spear, stabbing at Nonmen who screamed curses as they grabbed at the remaining boards. Slashing swords hacked at what remained of the barricade. The rhythm merged with the frantic beating of my heart, it slowed, and changed, everything changed. I saw shades at the holes in the roof and a snake fell, twisting and turning in the air as it struggled to find and bite. I raised an arm, stepping back to avoid poisonous fangs then a rope, it is only a rope. My hand closed around the bow. I existed in a strange and slow, silent world.

  – aim, shoot –

  The world rushing back.

  Fight.

  Move.

  Live.

  My arrow took a Nonman in the throat, and I rolled aside as he hit the floor where I had been a moment ago. Another arrow – aim, shoot – into the rafters. Another Nonman fell. An arrow aimed at a Nonman on the rope – aim, shoot – as my arrow found him another was already climbing down. A second rope fell in a welter of slates and wood. Further along a third hole was hammered in the roof. Too many of them: a million grasping hands at the hole, a thousand hedging-faced monsters staring down. The stink of blood and damp hay. A gasp from behind me. I turned. Telkir fell to his knees, his mouth gasping for air like a landed fish as a Nonman, filthy skin, matted hair, wearing the spine of a man as a belt, scrabbled through the barricade and stabbed him again and again and again – aim, shoot. The arrow punched the Nonman backwards, but it was too late for Telkir. Halda was barely holding her own against a Nonman as he squeezed through a tight gap. A Nonman dropped from a rope, landing behind me and I span, smashing the bow into his face, dropping the weapon and going for my blade as a Nonman sword found Halda’s throat.

  Three Nonmen against me.

  Four coming down ropes.

  One reaching for the closed door into the village. My left stabsword snaked out, hamstringing him before he could open it. I didn’t have time to finish him. Never leave a live enemy behind you.

  An attack came from my right – a Meeting of Hands – forcing me on to the defensive. A hand grabbed my club foot, filthy nails digging hard into twisted flesh. Even through the leather of my boot it was agonising. My concentration fled. Pain flooded in.

  Breathe, Girton. A whisper from very far away. My master’s voice.

  Nonmen coming down the ropes. Nonmen hammering at the remaining boards.

  Breathe out.

  Too many.

  Breathe!

  All is lost.

  Breathe in.

  Too many.

  Breathe.

  No time for fear.

  Too many.

  No time for pain.

  All is lost.

  Breathe out.

  Sell yourself dearly.

  You. Are. The. Weapon.

  Stamping down hard on the hand holding my foot. The Archer’s Crouch. A filthy blade whistling over my head. I counter with a thrust to the gut rewarded with blood and the stink of open bowels. The Twitcher’s Flip, a handspring sending me backwards, and I stand against the back wall. Two down of seven; more coming down the ropes. More coming through the hole.

  If you die. I die.

  My master’s voice. How does she know?

  How does she know?

  Forward. Into the Precise Steps. Shock on filthy faces at my attack. Right blade deflects a spear point, left blade slides in opening a chest.

  Breathe in.

  Place the rose in his mouth. Kick the body into the man behind him, sending them both sprawling backwards over Halda’s bloody corpse. Longsword coming for me.

  No retreat.

  Into the Maiden’s Pass, spinning down the length of the blade. Marry it to Jubal’s Spin, both blades coming up and out as I twist, razor edges finding throats. Axe from the left too heavy to parry. The Boatgirl’s Dip, going under his swing and elbow swinging back to knock him off balance, letting the momentum of the movement bring round my blade to cut a furrow across his back.

  I can do this.

  Yes! I can do this.

  Stabsword from the right. Easy parry, blade into throat. Nonmen flowing like water through the holes. Nonmen dropping like rain down the ropes. I am at the far end of the room. I have cut through them like a scythe.

  I am the weapon.

  Turn.

  I am the weapon.

  The Nonmen are wary now.

  Breathe.

  They are scared of coming within reach of my blades.

  Push.

  “Yes, Master.” Whispered under my breath. And attack.

  Dogs!

  “Dogs?” There are no dogs, but the sudden word, heard clear as day in my mind, brings with it the cold sharpness of an old terror.

  I am six. I am a slave trapped in a cage while dogs tear my friends apart.

  I falter, and in battle that split second is all an enemy needs. Nonmen, coming all at once, blades and spears held out. The spaces that I need to fight in denied me. Death inevitable.

  Let me help you.

  Master?

  No.

  Not her voice. It was never her voice. Her voice is a light across the scars of my skin. This voice is old and dark and insidious.

  I recognise it.

  I hate it.

  I fear it.

  Spear points reach for my flesh.

  There is a pause.

  All is quiet. All is still. The cold night air is golden. Dying men bleed life into the land. They make a well that i
s sweeter and deeper than my needs require. I see every danger. I count the glittering spear points; I count the shining sword blades; I count the rusty axeheads. I see faces twisted in hate, blackened teeth, roaring mouths. I see weak points in the walls that will bring the building down around me. I see my master sweating on a bed as poison blackens her flesh.

  “Help me.”

  I say it.

  I welcome it.

  Because I do not want her to die. Because I am frightened of death.

  The scars on my body twist and pull. They rip me apart and they put me back together. They burn my flesh and they freeze my spirit. I am a single point of light in a dark land that stretches out for ever around me.

  I am single point of fury.

  A black spear point springs from my open mouth. I vomit black birds of hate and death. They twist through the air around me echoing the patterns of the scars on my body. They shoot into the rafters of the house. They are a sparkling darkness shot through with motes of white hate; they are a cold mirror of the night sky. Birds twist and slice, spin and cut, pierce men and sever ropes before forming into a thick, inky snake. It hammers into the house, hitting the wall, passing through the thick stonework in a hail of razoring shards then turns on itself, smashing in the other side through the medium of four men. It fountains from me, neither solid nor liquid, and my mouth is stretched so wide it feels like my jaw will crack and my teeth will shatter. I would scream but I cannot move: every muscle is tensed, every thought excised. More Nonmen enter through the gaps in the barricade and the blackness pierces heads. Ruined bodies block the holes. The black fountain anchors itself into the walls, seeping into the stonework and making huge black plugs. My body is shaking. The black snake pulls and I feel the wall giving, feel the stress running through the building in a web of fine lines like the glowing scars on my skin. The building starts to give, creaks – shifts – relaxes – groans, and it is falling, the walls and the roof coming down in a smoking heap on top of the massed Nonmen outside.

  And then it is quiet.

  It is quiet.

  Outside there is screaming and fighting. I know it but I cannot hear it. My ears sing a high-pitched song and my skin is white with dust. I rub my eyes, making dark pits on my white face.