by RJ Baker
“Girton? Can you hear me?”
“Master?” I had gone so far and deep within that I saw the world as if from the bottom of a pool. Everything was out of focus, objects little more than blobs of colour floating in my vision.
“No, Girton. I am not your master.”
“Rufra?” I said, my thoughts barely in this place. I floated somewhere in the past, on a cold field shrouded in mist. “Rufra always comes.”
“Rufra is not coming.” That voice, so cold. “Can you stand?”
I groaned, rolled onto my front. The fire in my hands and feet had lessened, become a dull ache. I clamped my hands between my biceps and my chest as I sat up, trying to warm them. I squinted as the figure dropped my stabswords on the floor in front of me.
“You need to leave here, Girton.” I knew that voice.
“Neliu?”
“You have to leave.”
“Need my master,” I said.
“No.” She pulled my armour down over my head, forcing me to wriggle into it. “Forget her and forget Rufra. Just leave. Go.”
“Nywulf will never forgive you if—”
“Do not worry about Nywulf,” she said. “He is lost. Just go.”
I stood, still woozy. My armour seemed unbearably heavy. A coldness was seeping through me, but it was not due to the temperature. It was the coldness of horror.
“Why are you doing this, Neliu?”
“Crast made me promise to help you. He thinks you do not deserve what Tomas will do to you.”
“What Tomas will do to me?” More of her words filtered through my subconscious. “Forget Nywulf?” Ice in my veins. “Rufra has lost the battle?”
“Not yet,” she said, “but he will.”
And then I understood. Understood everything. Understood how I had walked past, the traitors every day without ever thinking about it.
“You are the spies,” I said, “you and Crast?”
“Just go, Girton, go.”
“I thought you loved Rufra,” I said.
“I do,” she said, and for the first time that supercilious smile slipped, and I saw someone broken and damaged – but only for a moment. “We both do. Crast and I love everything about him. We understand what he tries for, admire him.”
“Then why?”
“Tomas has our mother,” she said simply. I took a deep breath.
“So you really are brother and sister?” she nodded. “Tell Rufra,” I pleaded. “Just tell him. Even now it is not too late. He will forgive you. He will understand.”
“No,” she said quietly, “he will not understand –” her face was like ice, pale, cold and damp “– and he will not forgive. Not what we were part of. Not ever.”
“What do you mean?” But as my senses returned so did my ability to think. “What could you have done that Rufra would never forgive?” I knew. There was only one thing Rufra would never forgive. “Arnlath? His son? It was you? You poisoned his son.”
“Go, Girton,” she said, but she would not meet my eye. “Crast rides for the battlefield to finish this. Rufra will fall to his blade. Your king’s fate is sealed, but you can live.”
“Where is my master?”
“Unconscious, and you cannot save her. We must keep one of you for Tomas, or he will be angry.“
“Let me past,” I said, standing and stooping to pick up my blades from the floor.
“Only if you promise you will leave,” she said.
“Let me past, Neliu.” My voice was unyielding and unpitying. “And if you run you may avoid Rufra’s justice. But I will not leave my master here and I will not let Crast kill my friend.” I tightened my grip on my blades.
“Rufra would give you to the Landsmen,” she said, almost begging me to see her point.
“Let me past, Neliu, and then run and hope Rufra or I never find you.”
For a moment I thought she would move aside. Then she bit her lip and met my gaze, her eyes as hard and black as the enamel on her armour.
“I am sorry, Girton, but it has gone too far and I cannot do that.”
She unsheathed her blades, longsword and stabsword, and took up the position of readiness.
Chapter 30
She is better than me.
From the moment our blades crossed I knew it.
Straight thrust at her throat. She counters with the third iteration, the Meeting of Hands. She looks lazy, slow, practised. Pushing my blade up and kicking out. The Bow, my midriff pulling away from the kick. A glint of her weapon to my right and have to throw myself to the floor to avoid the blade coming round at throat height. I roll away from her, building momentum and bringing out my knee, pushing hard as my knee hits the floor and rising just in time to ward off a furious attack from her. Left, right, left, left right, right, right, left, blades sparking as they block, edges dulling. We draw back, neither breathing too heavily, not yet. Measures have been taken and we both know the truth.
She is better than me.
“You can still run.” A nod towards the tent door.
“Can I take my master?”
“No.”
“Can I save my king?”
“No.”
“Then I cannot run.”
Leading with the left, making her expect a dummy from the right as it’s my stronger hand. Feint a slash. She twitches but doesn’t go for it and my thrust is blocked. Rather than strike with her blade she pushes forward with the same hand she blocked my strike with, punching me in the shoulder with the blunt guard of her stabsword and sending pain coursing through me, making my hand convulse.
My Conwy blade falling to the floor.
“You’re out of practice. Pick it up.” She is grinning, the thrill of the fight filling her with adrenalin that makes her skin glow. I bend to pick up my blade, all the while keeping my gaze on her.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Back to ready position and—
Eyeblink and she is there, body against mine, blade at my throat, razor edge cutting a stinging line across my skin. A smile on her face.
“The Speed-that-Defies-the-Eye,” I said, barely able to breathe, barely able to think.
“Did you think you were the only one?” Her breath coming in gasps, her chest heaving against mine. “Nywulf was not my only teacher.” I push, hard, against her shoulder while hooking my club foot around the back of her leg, sending her sprawling on the hard floor and following her down, stabswords bared like the fangs of a swordmouth, but I only wound the earth. When I turn she is at the other side of the tent, blades by her side, casually walking towards me.
“Get up.” The air smells of honey and pepper; her feet leave golden trails in the muddy air. Pulling myself up, wiping at my nose – somehow it has become bloodied. The scars on my body dance and stretch like a net full of fish.
“How did Nywulf not notice?” I said.
“He is like everyone.” Into the ready position, one blade raised, one blade low. “He sees what he wants to see.” She waits, wanting me to attack, but I am tired and the world is blurred around the edges. The floor no longer feels solid.
“You are an assassin?”
“Was. My sorrowing is over, my old master lies dead in a ditch.”
“The attack in the wood, the arrows? They were you?”
“We paid for the woman. Crast was the bowman.”
She feints. I bat away her attack and she comes in harder, blades like snakes, trailers of light intersected with dark blocks. Our movements faster than the eye can follow, all instinct until we part again, now on opposite sides of the tent.
“Crast said he was not much use with a bow. He was right.”
Blows exchanged. Blades sparking in the gloom.
“So your mother, that was a lie?”
She shook her head.
“My master fell a long way from here, my training unfinished. I returned to keep my family safe from the war.”
She lunged, a perfect, beautiful move. Her blade stopped a
finger’s width from my chest and she was so quick I never even had the chance to block it. She stretched out her trailing hand, giving her that all-important extra bit of reach and the tip of her blade touched my armour. She smiled, letting me know she was better, emphatically. Letting me know she was toying with me.
“You seem to have finished your training,” I said, my breath coming slowly, readying for the final thrust.
“Yes, I have,” she said. “Run, Girton Club-Foot, and I promise, when my mother is safe I’ll finish Tomas for you – avenge your master.”
“No.”
Her eyes were like chips of grey stone.
“I’ll make his death slow.”
“No.”
A quick movement – stepping forward and to the side, the flat of her blade coming down and slapping my hand, making me drop my left stabsword and leaving my hand numb. I attacked with my Conwy, putting my all into it, dancing a bright streak across the floor. She did nothing but parry, countered with nothing but lazy defences, only ever raising one blade against mine. Her skill was astounding, and I wondered, for a moment, if I could have beaten her had I kept up my training. What would it have been like if we fought here with me fully practised and the magic loose?
Beautiful.
It would have been beautiful.
“Enough!” And she struck. Dropping her weapon and darting through the web woven by my Conwy blade, bringing forward her hand, fingers stiffened, the Final Message; a hard hit to the nerve centre in the neck that causes the entire body to cramp and then go limp. I felt it as a lightning-quick wave of pain through my body, and then I was falling backwards, the air knocked out of me as I hit the floor.
Neliu picked up my Conwy blade.
“I promise you, Girton, that Tomas will die, and he’ll die with this.” She held up my blade and played the light up and down the blade, reflecting it into my eyes. “But first, you have to die.” With all my muscles paralysed and the reflected light in my eyes she was not much more than a blur holding a shining object. I tried to move, to say something, to beg her to let my master loose, but I had nothing. There was a warmth at my crotch where my bladder had let go. The blur of Neliu moved nearer. “It didn’t have to be this way,” she said.
A storm hit her.
Silent and so fast it seemed as if Neliu was simply plucked out of the world, but I heard the grunt as she was hit. Then the metal-on-metal clangour of combat. No talking, only the dance of blades.
The Final Message began to wear off, and I could move my head, focus my eyes, feel shame at having pissed myself, see my master and Neliu blade to blade. I had only ever seen my master fight another assassin once, at Maniyadoc Castle, and that had been less a fight, more a dance, a ritualised piece of theatre to decide who should have the right of the kill. This was entirely different. In the castle my master had been serene, but not now. Now she was a fury, her face twisted into a grimace. She had given up her usual two-bladed style for a dagger in one hand and a shield on the arm she had been forced to cut. She pushed Neliu back. When Neliu struck, my master countered. Their feet moved forward, back, no clever moves, no finesse, the iterations abandoned for speed and anger. There was nothing fancy or artful in what they did. Theirs was a fight of fury, of desperate attack and desperate defence. The shield gave my master an advantage, and she pressed it, pushing Neliu back, using it to disrupt her counters. Neliu tried to find her way around the shield, blades scything out and cracking against the metal, and still my master came forward. Never had I seen her work so recklessly against a skilled opponent. Always she had told me, “Take your time if you must … Wear them down,” but now she applied the opposite strategy – an almost brutal straightforwardness, and it was working well for her.
But the moment I realised why she had adopted such a strategy, so did Neliu.
And then, of course, the fight was all but over.
My master was still recovering. She had been ill and she was weak. Now my sight was better I could see she was also hurt. Fresh blood covered the side of her face and an ugly lump had risen under the hair. Her expression wasn’t simply furious, it was also strained. The shield helped her, but I could see the tightness in her muscles as she fought against the drain it was on her strength.
As my master’s fury started to subside Neliu’s retreat slowed and stopped. When the end came it came quickly, as it always did. The shield slipped and Neliu kicked at the edge of it, sending my master spinning. Neliu dived in with her blade, cutting across the back of my master’s leg and making her cry out. With a kick Neliu sent her sprawling onto her face in front of the tent entrance.
Though it seemed our deaths were now assured, I felt sad that Neliu’s hamstringing of my master had ended her effectiveness as an assassin. Neliu stood in the centre of the tent, breathing hard, her blades held at her sides and a rapturous smile on her face.
“Both Girton Club-Foot and Merela Karn beaten by my blade. It is a pity there will only be Crast, Tomas and Neander to tell about this.” She glanced from me to my master. “I’ll keep her for Tomas, but I promised Crast I would spare you Tomas’s attention, Girton, and I keep my promises.” She took a step towards me and then paused.
A quiet voice spoke one word.
“Stop.”
Neliu turned.
In the door of the tent stood Areth.
“Dead gods,” hissed Neliu, “is there anyone else out there waiting to come in and die? If so bring them all now and save me some time.”
“It was you?” said Areth, and her head tilted to one side. “You killed my son?”
“You heard that?” Neliu looked confused.
“I have done nothing but listen for his name since he died. You wonder I hear it when it is spoken?”
Neliu’s brow furrowed, as if trying to understand what she meant. Maybe she thought Areth had been standing outside the tent all the time, though the queen was panting and her legs were muddy from running.
“It is war, Areth,” said Neliu. “People die.”
“But you swore to protect us.” She sounded confused, unable to understand the betrayal. “I liked you.”
“Tomas has my mother,” she said simply, and again she looked torn, her facade fracturing. “I’m sorry, Areth,” she said, “but I had no choice in what I did, and I have no choice in what I must do now. It is a kindness really, considering what Tomas would do with you …” She took a step towards Areth.
I tried to move. Couldn’t.
“No,” said Areth. She shook her head and Neliu made her first mistake. She thought Areth was powerless, thought her only a pampered queen, but Areth was far more than that. “No,” she said again.
The grass at her feet died.
The air froze, became solid and amber.
The world became quiet and then it became loud. That one whispered word filled my ears and my mind. “No” filled the ears of everyone in the tent, growing and ringing until it was unbearable.
Then Areth ap Vythr threw the black hammer.
She was not powerful, not a sorcerer by any real stretch, not like I was, and nor was she even a weak power like my master, Neliu or my dead lover Drusl. She was little more than a village wise woman really, but all her anger and fury and pain went into her casting. She thrust her hand forward, pushing out an explosion of darkness that hit Neliu. The black hammer threw her backwards onto me, carving half the skin from her face and denting her armour.
Quiet.
Areth staring at her hands, as if shocked by what she had done. My master trying to pull herself up. I can feel everyone’s pain. It courses around the room. It resonates through us all.
Neliu groaned.
She wasn’t dead.
Areth’s casting hadn’t been enough. She’d hurt Neliu but not killed her. My master was sorely wounded, and Areth was lost, caught in the horror of what she was. That left only me.
Neliu moved, breath bubbling wetly from her ruined face, elbows digging into me as she forced herself up to fi
nd her blades.
But while I had lain there I had worked loose my only remaining weapon, the chain garrotte my master had given me as a present and I wore sewn into my clothes. I held it in my hand more for the comfort of having a weapon at the last than through any expectation of using it. I breathed deep, once, twice, and lunged forward, my legs barely worked and collapsed under me. I stretched out my arms. The garrotte slid over Neliu’s blood-soaked head, caught around her throat.
Pull!
She fought, clawing at her throat then stretching back, trying to find my eyes with her gauntleted fingers. I leaned as far back as I could, pushing my knee against her back for leverage. Swaying from side to side as her hands clawed at my face, the air I sawed the little chain backwards and forwards, cutting through the flesh of her neck, rasping through the armour of her windpipe. Being rewarded by an explosion of blood from a severed artery. Even then I kept sawing, kept working the chain back and forth until my master crawled to me, hand over painful hand, dragging her bleeding legs behind her. Then her arm was on mine and she was urging me to stop.
“Enough, Girton. It is over,” she said softly, then repeated it. “It is over, Girton, over.”
“No,” I said. The chain dropped, a bloody necklace around the wreck of Neliu’s neck. Every inch of me ached. “It is not over, Master. Crast rides for the battle and he intends to kill Rufra.”
I could see in my master’s eyes what she was going to say. That we were finished here – exposed – and that nothing good could come from this for us, but it was Areth who spoke first.
“You are the king’s champion, Girton Club-Foot,” she said, and there was all the weight of a queen behind her words. “If the king is in danger, you must ride.”
I looked my master in the eye, my tired, battered, and for the first time I could ever remember, scared, master. But it was not herself she was scared for, it was me. And it was because she knew what I was going to say.
“I must ride, Master,” I whispered. She held my gaze for a moment and then bowed her head before speaking so quietly only I could hear her.