by Ian Whates
If you were going to pick a fight with a Kayjele there was one thing you really had to be aware of. Not necessarily that they were big and so had a long reach, though that was certainly worth bearing in mind, nor the fact they had only one eye and so perhaps suffered from a lack of depth perception. No, what you most had to bear in mind was that they were strong. Really strong, not just because of their size; even when proportions were taken into account a Kayjele packed far more punch than your average man, which was why they made such ideal tenders for the pumping stations dotted around Thaiburley's multiple levels, where from time to time heavy equipment had to be moved and regulated. The Kayjele could perform unaided tasks that would otherwise have required the help of an ox or two. Dewar supposed this disproportionate strength had developed in response to the harshness of their mountain home.
So, if you choose to place the trunk of a small tree in the grasp of hands powered by that sort of muscle, the result is always likely to be impressive. A fact which several of the attackers were now discovering to their cost. The giant was holding off a semi-circle of four armed men, roaring and snarling defiance while brandishing his length of tree as if it were a twig.
The men feinted and darted, making a fine show of looking for an opening while doubtless hoping one of the others would be the first to chance their arm. The crumpled forms of a couple of their colleagues lying around Kohn's feet offered a clue as to why the quartet seemed a tad reluctant to push forward. As the assassin watched, one of the fallen pair moved, slowly, trying to drag himself away. The other one didn't.
No sign of the Thaistess or the boy. Dewar assumed they must have made their escape into the trees. Probably wise; they would only have been in the way judging by what he'd seen earlier of the boy's sword knowledge.
The assassin thought about going back for his kairuken, which should still be close to the tree where he'd dropped it, but decided to make do with what was to hand, or rather foot. Of course he could have employed the sword which hadn't been sheathed as yet, but he was curious. The man was so focussed on the Kayjele and that intimidating bough that he seemed oblivious to Dewar's approach until the assassin's boot landed squarely in the brigand's back, sending him stumbling forward.
What followed lived up to Dewar's expectations in every way. Kohn's hefty club came whistling around in a two handed swing, catching the brigand while he was still trying to recover his balance. The bough struck the unfortunate man's head with a sound like the clap of thunder, lifting him from his feet and sending him flying through the air to land in a heap some distance away. Dewar doubted he'd be moving again in a hurry.
The brigand furthest away then gathered his courage while the other two gawped and, seizing the half opportunity offered by his colleague's demise, chose to move in. However, in mid-stride he seemed to think better of the notion as Kohn's club came whistling back towards him, and tried to retreat without following through on the attack. He wasn't quite quick enough. Tree trunk smashed into hand and, with a yelp, the man dropped his sword.
Dewar had to concentrate after that, as he crossed swords with the man who'd been closest to the fellow Kohn had just attempted to swat into the forest's canopy. Unlike the first two the assassin had fought, who if anything had seemed overconfident, this one didn't seem to have his heart in the contest. Younger than those others, his stance was wholly defensive and he gave ground from the first. Then Kohn roared, a sound chilling enough to give any man pause, let alone a lad already looking for a way out of a scrap. The youth flung his sword at the assassin, and then turned around and ran, hot on the heels of the other surviving attackers.
Dewar sheathed his sword and deftly drew a throwing knife, confident that he couldn't miss at this distance. Yet, as he took aim, a vast shape hove into view; Kohn, chasing after the brigands himself and doubtless ensuring they wouldn't stop running for a while, but robbing the assassin of a clear shot in the process.
"Kohn!" Cursing, Dewar slipped the knife back into its sheath and set off in pursuit. This wasn't some random attack, he felt certain, which raised such interesting questions as who had sent them and why. Questions which the assassin was determined to hear answered.
Only once he was well into the trees and knee deep in bracken did he remember how awkward blundering around in a forest at night could be. Woodcraft was a skill Dewar hadn't needed to call upon in years, and he was quickly discovering that, like all mistresses, she demanded a certain level of dedication. Dare to ignore her and she'd desert you. Despite his best efforts, it sounded to his own ears as if he was moving through the undergrowth with all the elegance and precision of a heavily pregnant goat.
Fortunately, those he followed were making no concessions to stealth at all, so compared to them he seemed an insubstantial spirit on silent feet.
The assassin caught up with the fleeing men as they were scrambling onto their horses, cursing and squabbling the whole while, each with their own opinion as to why the supposed ambush had turned into such a shambles – all of which doubtless laid responsibility firmly at someone else's feet. There were the expected ten or eleven horses, though only three carried riders, still hastily settling into their saddles. Only three? Had they really taken care of so many, or had others simply fled in the wrong direction?
Dewar didn't stop to wonder, but drew the throwing knife from his belt as he ran towards the mounted men, and flung it without missing a stride. His aim was satisfyingly accurate and he watched the knife bury itself between the shoulder blades of his target. The man cried out and slumped forward over his mount's neck, but he didn't lose his seat.
Somebody yelled, "Ride!"
Horses whinnied and reared and pulled at their tethers. Either the fleeing men had released all the steeds, not just the ones they needed, or the mounts hadn't been properly secured in the first place, because suddenly horses were running everywhere and Dewar found himself surrounded by barrelling bodies and threatened by flailing legs and hooves. He did his best to shield his face, smelling warm horse flesh and instinctively closing his ears against the snorts and angry whickering, the sounds of snapping branches and crushed foliage that surrounded him, as he tried to follow the fleeing riders. He saw that one of them had grabbed the reins of their wounded fellow's mount, and the three were quickly away, out of Dewar's reach.
The assassin cursed, as annoyed at losing a good throwing knife as he was about the trio's escape.
The loose horses had bolted, but two remained, either not freed when the others had been or more effectively tethered. They were skittish and alarmed, but he set about soothing them with quietly spoken words. He approached with exaggerated care, using a constant flow of gently voiced imprecations to woo them.
He would love to lead the pair of them back to the others, but knew how difficult that was going to be with two nervous horses, so settled for doing this one at a time, deciding to begin with the one that seemed most amenable – a brindle mare. After making sure the other was firmly tied, he led the mare back the way he'd come.
She wasn't entirely happy about the idea and he was instantly glad he hadn't tried to bring both together. She shied and snorted, but fell short of actually digging her hooves in and refusing.
Dewar used gentle but firm strength to cajole the horse forward, walking beside her head and talking to her all the while. "Come on you mangy excuse for a horse," he said in his sweetest, softest voice. "The glue pot's waiting to welcome these tired old bones of yours if you don't come this brecking way," he cooed. "It's a long while since I've feasted on horse meat. Roasted over an open fire, on a spit. Lovely." And so on until he and his newly acquired mount entered the clearing.
The boy and the Thaistess were huddled together on the ground. At first he thought they were merely hugging each other for reassurance, but then her realised it was more than that.
The boy looked up, distraught. "It's Mildra," he said, "she's hurt."
Dewar could see that much. The clue had come from the wound in her side
and the blood that soaked her top around it. Plus the fact that she had evidently lost consciousness.
Kohn was gesturing frantically, trying to attract the assassin's attention. He looked over to discover that the Kayjele had grasped a partially charred stick from the fire, and, holding it by the burned end, had started to carve an image in the ground. First he drew a crude circle, then he marked a cross within it. Dewar stared at the image, determined to understand what the giant was trying to tell him. Kohn pointed repeatedly at the drawing and then forcefully back in the direction they'd come. As he pointed, he grunted repeatedly, clearly agitated.
A cross within a circle… or perhaps a wheel with only four spokes!
The assassin nodded to show he understood. "Thank you."
He still held the horse's tether, and now prepared to mount the beast for the first time. Almost as an afterthought, he turned to Tom. "Mind the girl. I'll be back before sunrise."
The lad looked up in puzzlement and obvious consternation, but that wasn't Dewar's problem. He climbed onto the horse without another word – never mind that he hadn't ridden in years and this steed and he were complete strangers; they could get acquainted on the road. Before any such concerns could be conveyed to the horse, he set off, riding hard in the direction of Crosston. Babysitting the boy and his friends could go to hell for the moment. That bastard of an innkeeper had some explaining to do.
• • • •
Seth Bryant was cursing himself for being a fool. Years of living the contented life of an innkeeper had turned him soft. As time passed he'd started to think like an innkeeper, to be an innkeeper, steadily growing into the persona adopted only as camouflage. The man who first arrived at the Four Spoke Inn would never have worried about protecting an assumed identity and would have done what was necessary without qualm or hesitation. The boy and his companions would have been, should have been, dead before morning. Instead he had made them breakfast with a smile and watched them walk away, knowing they wouldn't find passage upriver and happy to rely on the hired help to hunt them down and do his dirty work. As Seth hurried through night-time streets towards a prearranged meeting, something in the pit of his stomach told him that this had been a calamitous mistake.
Nor did he see any reason to revise that opinion when he entered the disused warehouse by the waterside – a place brimming with the stink of dampness and riddled with draughts courtesy of the rotted and broken timbers that comprised its walls. Only three figures waited for him. They sat slumped on assorted crates and bore the look of defeated men. One was lying rather than sitting, his body spread over two broken crates and his cheek pressed to one of them. The man was clearly injured, most likely close to death.
"Well?" Seth demanded, without preamble or ceremony.
"They fought like mad men," the nearest mercenary offered, not bothering to get up.
Seth glared at him. What had the fools expected, that their quarry would roll over and accept a knife to the throat without protest? "But did you kill them?" he asked,
already anticipating the answer.
"Course we did," the other still-sound mercenary asserted, springing to his feet, suddenly all cock and swagger. "Got the woman and the boy for certain, and stuck the giant so full o' holes that he must be a goner."
"So only the man escaped?"
"That's right." The man was strutting now, as if to assert who was boss here. "He 'ad some fancy weapon with 'im that fired these razor-sharp discs. Took out Ed and Bart 'fore we even knew he was there."
A kairuken? Somewhere at the back of Seth's mind old memories stirred, and his unease about the man called Dewar grew, but time to consider such things with greater care later. "So the boy is definitely dead."
"Yeah, no question."
He was lying. Seth could see it in the man's eyes as well as in the way his friend looked on anxiously, gaze flickering between them, willing the innkeeper to accept the falsehood and terrified that he might not.
The cocky one had come to stare into Seth's face, as if daring him to challenge the assertion.
"And what proof have you brought me of this triumph?" the man who called himself Seth Bryant asked, in a voice none of the Four Spoke Inn's patrons would have recognised.
"Didn't have time for no proof, did we? Not with that brecker sending his discs whizzing round our ears. Why d'you think there's only the three of us here? But the lad's maggot food for sure; you can count on that."
"I see."
"So… if you'll just pay us what was promised, we'll be on our way."
The man who had once been Seth smiled. Split three ways or perhaps even just the two, payment promised to a dozen would go an awful long way. "My agreement was with your captain." He gazed pointedly at the injured man.
"Yeah, well, the cap'n's in no state to talk right now, so I'm standin' in for 'im."
"What happened to him?"
"Knife in the back from the brecker with the disc weapon as we was leavin'," the mercenary said, looking back towards his injured colleague who continued to pay them no heed and had yet to even open his eyes.
As the man glanced away, Seth moved. He hadn't let every skill go to seed, and even after all these years he'd kept up his knife work. The blade was out of its sheath and in his hand in an instant, moving through a smooth arc to bury itself to the hilt in the mercenary's side before the man had a chance to register what was happening. A good strike, sliding between ribs and ripping open the heart.
Seth allowed the knife to drop to the ground still embedded in the corpse, drawing instead his sword as he stepped over the body and advanced purposefully on the remaining mercenary, who had come to his feet and was fumbling to draw his own blade. Was this really the calibre of man he'd been relying on to accomplish a task he himself had been charged with? At least the lad had his sword out now, but it was hardly a contest. Seth strode forward with a momentum that would not be denied. The terror in his opponent's eyes only spurred him on.
He feinted to strike high, drawing the lad's blade up in a clumsy attempt at defence, but instead switched with a deft turn of wrist and elbow and struck low, easily penetrating the other's ineffectual guard. Easier than taking money from the gullible Wil in a hand of cards. The blade sank into the lad's abdomen. As his thrust ended, Seth yanked the weapon sideways and out. The young mercenary's mouth and eyes gaped wide as realisation of his own death penetrated. Seth swatted the limply-held sword away and, with one scything stroke, decapitated its wielder, relishing the brief resistance of bone and sinew as the blade swept through. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but a great means of venting frustration and a fitting way to welcome back the person he used to be, the person he had always been, somewhere deep inside.
He casually retrieved his own knife from the first body and then crossed to examine the mercenary captain, who hadn't moved or reacted throughout the exchange – presumably either unconscious or already dead.
Seth checked the man's pulse; there wasn't one.
The blade that had killed him was still embedded in the man's back. Presumably his fellows had either been wary of removing it in case they caused further damage or simply couldn't be bothered. Not a problem anymore either way. Seth pulled the knife free and considered it for a moment. Good weapon – well made and perfectly balanced. He wiped it clean on the dead captain's tunic and tucked it into his belt.
In the language of a distant nation, Ulbrax meant "shining strength", with a strong undertone of implied masculinity. It was also a proper name; one cast aside several years ago by the man who subsequently answered to Seth Bryant. Perhaps cast aside was putting it too strongly; rather, that identity had been submerged, folded up and sunk into the furthest recesses of memory against future need. To accomplish this submersion, a process of determined self-delusion had been applied, a means of persuading himself not to remember certain thought patterns, habits, mannerisms and abilities. However, in recent days the barriers had eroded and Seth had found himself thinking less and less like a C
rosston innkeeper and ever more like Ulbrax the subversive, Ulbrax the spy. Ulbrax the killer.
Events in the warehouse had accelerated this reversion, which was now all but complete. The man who strode back towards the Four Spoke Inn was a very different proposition from the one who had entered the deserted warehouse a few moments before. There was little of Seth Bryant remaining, and Ulbrax felt nothing but contempt for the person he had become in recent years and particularly for decisions made in recent days. Now was the time to rectify those mistakes before the situation became irretrievable.
The hour was late; the inn's last customers had made their merry way home long before he'd set out for the clandestine meeting, while those few staying over ought to be fast asleep. He let himself in via the side door, familiarity guiding his feet in the darkness.
The restoration of his true persona proved timely. Seth Bryant would have stepped into his own room without the faintest suspicion that anything might be amiss, but Ulbrax possessed skills Seth had never even dreamed of. A little rusty, perhaps, but they were still there, as he discovered immediately he crossed the threshold of the room's door. Whoever the intruder might be they were good. There was no sign of a forced entry, nothing overt to arouse suspicion, and there was no sound to give the man away, not even the gentle rise and fall of breathing. Yet Ulbrax could sense him, smell him, feel him – this unlooked for, unwanted visitor.