by Walter Rhein
Which is exactly what they were doing.
Malik took a count.
One, two, three, four.
Four?
He checked again just to be sure. The count was good.
Four.
Four he could handle, and now he had their positions.
He let them pass.
From behind he had surprise.
From behind he had the advantage.
Malik slid to the ground and began to slither himself.
The first was about thirty yards away with about three hundred yards to the camp. He’d had to give them plenty of space when they went by or they would have noticed him. The first one he could get in a few minutes, but getting all four was going to be close. There was no time to think about that now.
He’d placed his sword on his back, sheathed and hidden. The glint of a blade would give him away. When the time came, the long daggers he had strapped to his forearms would come into play. Quick and silent. They’d be out and in and sheathed again before the heart stopped pumping.
He slithered. The targets slithered as well. Malik’s motion matched the others’. Forward two yards, sideways a yard, diagonal three yards, and then backwards one. Malik went always forward, always gaining.
Forward.
Sideways.
Diagonal.
Soon enough, Malik was crouched offset at the man’s feet. He buried his face beneath his arm and waited, and listened.
A long minute passed. The assassin began to back up. Slowly, silently, the only indications of his motion were the tremors that passed through the earth as stalks of grass bent and twigs and leaves were disturbed from their resting places.
Malik didn’t look up, but he felt the body beside him. He felt the heart beating, he felt the warmth of the flesh. He felt the blood coursing through the veins. Then the motion stopped, and the seconds began to pass agonizingly slow.
One.
Two.
Three.
It was focused on the distant target or it would have noticed him.
When they were this close, they were always “it” to Malik. It helped to dehumanize his prey. It made it less likely that he would see their tortured faces in his nightmares.
Screaming death masks.
So many …
It was focused, but Malik was too close for him not to be noticed. His heart, too, echoed through the soil.
What was that noise? The assassin was baffled, but his training was too rigid. He would not give himself away. He would only slowly, slowly, turn his head.
Turn his head and expose his vulnerable neck.
Malik struck like a serpent, whipping his daggers from his forearms like folded fangs and driving them home. The lean blades went out and in. The body kicked once and then went still. Malik returned the weapons to their sheaths and lay silently.
One down.
Still, he must retain his calm. There must be nothing to give him away. He had to wait before he moved again.
Wait!
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
The seconds were agonizing but he counted them along with the beats of his heart.
When enough time had passed he lifted his head and looked. The other three had continued on their trajectory. Malik paced them. Moving forward ever so slowly, always forward while the others moved forward, sideways, diagonally, and back.
Chapter 14
Ivory’s Crusade
Denz kicked through the ashes of Elmshearst. There was not much left to sift through. He picked up a smoldering carving of a horse, some child’s toy that no doubt had been lovingly crafted by a dedicated father. Now half the head was blackened ash and the body was warm to the touch. He threw the object down and scowled.
Father Ivory sat in a little pavilion he erected over on the greensward. Denz approached him with purpose.
Father Ivory saw him coming but did not look up. He was having one of his servants give him a shave. The servant was a young blond boy Ivory called Kael. He stood mute and shirtless.
“They didn’t put up much of a fight, did they?” Ivory remarked casually, gesturing at the smoking remains, “Surprising for those in league with the Demon.”
Denz said nothing. He merely stood there, quivering.
“Oh, come, come,” Father Ivory said, waving a hand in the air. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about this.”
“I wished to question the garrison here.”
“I was acting on the wishes of the earl …”
“You overstepped your bounds!”
“I did nothing of the sort!” Father Ivory stood violently, causing the young boy’s razor to draw a thin line of blood on his cheek. The priest lifted his hand to the cut and took a long look at the blood that stained his fingers. Kael bowed his head in shame.
Slowly, Father Ivory reached down and lifted the lad’s chin to look into his blue eyes.
The orbs twinkled with the reflected light of the noon sun.
“So pretty,” Ivory said. Then with a sharp grunt, he swung his fist and caught the lad in the face with a violent blow. The boy collapsed in a wad, but made no protest.
Turning back to Denz as if nothing happened, Ivory continued to speak.
“The church is the absolute governing body in this realm, it always has been. You and your ilk handle the day-to-day aspects of life, the nourishment and organization of the body, but we handle the immortal soul. Your dominion is temporary, our jurisdiction is eternal!”
Denz said nothing, he just watched as the priest’s young attendant lifted himself off the ground and dusted himself off. Father Ivory glared at the weapons-master then settled back into his seat.
“I think you’re overlooking the seriousness of this issue,” Ivory said. He touched his cheek tenderly where the boy accidentally cut him. “A woman like this healer can undermine everything. Imagine if the people decided to follow her instead of us? There would be no government, no chain of command, no authority, no continuity! It’d end in more suffering and chaos than you can possibly imagine. She has to be stopped, all memory of her must be erased. The word must spread that every settlement that harbors her will be converted to ash. It’s the way it has to be!”
Father Ivory went silent, but the malicious twinkle remained in his eye.
For an instant, Denz fantasized about Father Ivory sprawled out in a heap at his feet, his nose broken from a violent backhand.
Kael resumed tending the loathsome priest lightly, dabbing his face with a wet rag. Father Ivory stared into space, seemingly unaware or indifferent as to what was going on around him.
Miscony’s master-of-arms turned on his heel and walked away.
“It’s the right thing to do, Denz!” Father Ivory yelled after him. “You’ll see! You had better find your faith, my son! I doubt Elmshearst will be the last village to fall in the name of righteousness!”
Denz clenched his hands but said nothing.
Father Ivory’s words were an echo of the weapons-master’s worst fears.
Chapter 15
Snake in the Grass
There was energy in the air now as Malik slid forward. He could sense his prey knew something was happening, something different than the usual tension they encountered.
These night-fiends were kindred spirits to Malik, and they breathed the same air thick with death and anxiety.
But on this night, the taste was off, though the others didn’t understand it yet. If Malik could get to the next one quickly enough, his chances were good.
Two trained men he could handle in a fight.
Three was difficult.
He slid forward, forward, forward.
They were close enough now that they could hear the fire crackling in the distance.
The tiny fire with Noah and Jasmine.
A body lay before him. A lean, leather-clad form reposing silently in the undergrowth. Malik slid closer. Inch by d
esperate inch. He smelled the danger in the air.
Steady.
Steady.
Steady.
He grew ever nearer, almost to where he could touch the form’s half-tilted boot. Another inch. If only the secret would persist. If only the silence would hold…
He would have him.
Another breath, another inch, another…
The prone form turned sideways and glanced back along the path Malik had come. The body went rigid as it took note of the delay in its companion’s progress.
The corpse of its companion that Malik had left behind.
The game was up.
Malik didn’t hesitate, he leaped forward like a cat. Propelling himself with momentum from all four limbs, and landing firmly on the assassin’s back. In a lightning strike, the daggers were out and in. Instantly, the foe ceased to struggle.
Dead.
But it had been noisy. The others were alerted to him now.
Malik stood, calm. There was no longer any need for urgency or secrecy.
He unsheathed his weapon and regarded his opponents appraisingly.
They did the same.
The two assassins looked exactly as he expected. They were approximately his height and his build, but they were cleaner. Malik was sure they were freshly shaved beneath their masks. He was also confident their hair was neatly cropped beneath their hoods.
Military discipline, designed to maintain order when the only death games you played were for practice.
Malik’s hair was unkempt. His face bristled with an untended beard.
He was a wild thing. He had been playing for keeps for years.
That gave him the advantage.
The two assassins sprang at him as one, swords weaving through the air in a way that was visually spectacular but tactically useless. It might have spooked a man who had never faced death. Malik wasn’t that man.
He sidestepped the motions, not wishing to risk his weapon’s edge to block needless blows.
The two men continued to jump and whirl experimentally and Malik just watched. Their antics were ridiculous, and they were giving away everything about themselves.
Fools.
Amateurs.
The longer the fight went on, the more Malik’s chances to win improved. With every passing second, he learned better how to anticipate them. With every passing second they became more and more his.
All the while he stood still, giving up nothing.
Now they came forward and Malik’s sword rang out against theirs. They struck him with a high-low combination that was predictable and prudent based on their numerical advantage. Malik found himself despising them less as he blocked the attack and spun backwards. That assault, at least, was practical. It was what he would have done in a similar engagement. It was sometimes worth the risk of showing your cards if you could achieve a quick victory.
A flicker of respect kindled in Malik’s breast and he was thankful for it. You should always respect your opponents, then you were much more likely to stay alive.
For a second the combatants faced one another.
The assassins twitched and flinched in unison attempting to get Malik to reveal something. But he knew in advance which spasms were feints and which were the beginnings of actual assaults. They wouldn’t surprise him like that.
What would be next?
Now they came in with a series of alternating attacks. The blows were designed to be impossible to parry. But such an attack had a flaw that Malik saw instantly. Instead of retreating from the blows, he dove forward between the two fighters in an apparently suicidal move as he temporarily exposed his back to them. But because of the way they were positioned, neither of the assassins could carry through with their swings at Malik without striking first their companion.
Combination thwarted.
Malik played two moves ahead.
He rolled to his feet and regarded them. As often as not, two swordsmen got in each other’s way.
Apparently coming to the same conclusion, one of the assassins stepped forward. He strode with purpose to meet Malik and did not hesitate until his sword was swinging from the sky in a series of brutal blows.
Block.
Block.
Block.
Malik did nothing but parry at first, keeping an eye on the waiting assailant. The dance continued, and once Malik learned its steps, he was able to perform without even looking.
The swords clanged in the night.
The fire crackled.
Suddenly, Malik saw it.
In five more exchanges, he would have an opening. Unless his opponent noticed the flaws in his footwork, Malik would have him.
Four more exchanges, so far so good.
Three, one more and there would be no escape for him.
Two, good he was committed now, the assassin was his.
One.
Malik spun his blade downwards and pushed it against his opponent’s weapon. His strange parry caught the assassin’s attack, and drove the blade back against his opponent’s chest. Put off-balance by the unorthodox assault, the assassin stumbled forward in awkward terror; the fullness of his weight and momentum coming down upon his sword as he lashed out with his free hand in a futile attempt to catch himself.
He was in disarray. Malik was about to have him.
But then, something unexpected happened.
The assassin’s sword broke.
The tip went singing off into the undergrowth, while the broken end, propelled by the inertia of the assassin’s tumbling form, drove deep into Malik’s torso.
Malik screamed and wrenched his superior weapon across his assailant’s throat.
Victory, but it had been costly.
The body crumpled beneath him.
Malik’s hot blood poured out over his legs.
The other opponent stepped forward.
There was no time to regroup, no time to even reach a hand down to probe the wound he had received.
The sword had been withdrawn as the assassin had fallen, and the blood cascaded out.
He cursed the dumb luck that had caused his grave wound.
A series of blows fell on Malik, which he perceived only through a terrific, throbbing red light.
The sound of clashing metal rang in his ears.
His blood pumped out onto the dry, autumn leaves.
How long did he have?
How long until his valiant heart spilled all his strength out into the cool, mountain air?
Attack.
Attack.
Malik swooned. His opponent stepped forward. It was the end. Malik’s strength was gone. He lifted his sword feebly only to have it knocked away. The magnificent bone sword seemed to float to the earth like a feather. There was something momentous in its fall, as if it heralded the end of a kingdom, the end of a dynasty.
Predictably, the assassin exalted in his follow-through and allowed it to go on a split second longer than was necessary.
It was his victory lap.
It was his triumph.
It left him open to a counterstrike.
Malik dove forward like a cobra, ripping the two daggers from his forearms and slamming them into his opponent’s neck with such force that the assassin was nearly decapitated.
It fell to the ground, limp and stone dead.
A flicker of a smile crossed Malik’s features.
Then he too collapsed, delirious, but living.
Chapter 16
Withdraw Your Hands!
Jasmine was the first to reach Malik. She crashed beside him in the leaves and extended her arms to hold him, tears running down her face.
She and Noah watched the fight from the ring of the fire, distant and helpless as Malik received his wound and tumbled to the ground.
Now it was her turn. Now she could contribute.
Her hands warmed as she extended them in Malik’s direction.
Surprisingly, he pushed them away.
Confused, Jasmine recoiled
and regarded Malik. She decided he must be out of his wits, he must need her even more than she had thought. She reached forward again.
Again he pushed her away.
“No!” he grumbled, the word hissing with blood and anguish.
Noah was beside her.
“He doesn’t want me to touch him,” she pleaded desperately.
Malik was trying to lift himself but he was too weak. He got up on one elbow before crashing back down into the leaves. The fall elicited a gurgling groan that was terrible to hear.
Jasmine reached forward again, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Malik slapped her hands.
“If my acts continue to trouble you so,” Malik grunted, “you should not heal me.”
“But Malik, Malik …”
He cut her off.
“You will not heal them!” he said, gesturing weakly at the fallen assassins. “So you shouldn’t feel obliged to heal me.”
“Malik,” this time it was Noah speaking, “be reasonable.”
“No, it’s time for you to stand by your choice. You disapprove of my actions? You think I’m a killing monster? Then let me die!” With a surge of strength, Malik lifted himself up and grasped Jasmine’s shoulders. He stared at her earnestly, his features blazing with pain, sweat, and determination. “Honor the belief I see in your eyes! Do not heal me!”
Then he collapsed and fell into a feverish delusion. He began to mumble words in a coarse whisper; unintelligible, rushed words in response to unknown images that were churned up by his tormented mind.
Confused, Jasmine looked to Noah and then back to the warrior who had become their protector.
Every part of her being wanted to call forth the power and heal him, but his words echoed in her mind.
She trembled, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
Withdrawing her hands, she sat quietly beside him.
Chapter 17
Deserter of the Camden Guard
Malik was a child again. Seven years old, alone. Running through the streets of Camden. The buildings of the privileged and wealthy rose up from the streets all around him. Their perfect granite stonework was an insult to the impoverished denizens.