Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  For a time, Dirk just stood at the window. His pulse hammered in his temples, and his lungs tore breath from the air. He forced himself to unclench his jaw, and then to unwind his wounded fingers from his dagger. The steel stayed stuck, buried two fingers' width into the wood. He grabbed the wire-wrap with his left hand, and wrenched the blade free. It came out as smoothly as it had gone in. Dirk fumbled with the shutters, but after a few minutes gave it up as a lost cause. He turned from the window, and sat on the bed. He forced himself to take slow breaths until the howling in his head quieted. When thought returned, he lifted his cousin's sparker, and lit his bedside candle. It took three tries, but once the light grew steady, it told quite a tale.

  The bed sheet was torn to ribbons. The edges of the cloth were scorched, and a few wisps of smoke rose from the straw beneath. The pillow was punctured, its feathers torn out and scattered by a hand intent on murder. Soot was spattered in sweeping arcs, like a blood trail so old it had dried up waiting for the hunter to follow it. The windowsill was black with soot, the wood splintered in deep, charred grooves. His dagger's pommel and crossguard were smeared with blood, and a few drops had leaked onto the blade. Dirk fished his kerchief from his back pocket, and wiped the steel clean. Then he took the pitcher in his good hand, and poured water over the few sparks he could see. They hissed, releasing ghosts of gray smoke. He set the pitcher aside, examining his hurts.

  Dirk's right forearm had four gouges in it, starting at the elbow and dragging all the way to his wrist. His right hand was scratched and cut, as if he'd tried to hold down a wildcat in rut. His shoulders were blistered, and while the skin was tender, it seemed unbroken. His chest was the same, though two of the thing's claws had left shallow wounds. He flexed his fingers, squeezing them into a fist before loosening his grip. It hurt, but more than that, it burned. It was as if some of the thing's embers had gotten into his blood, and refused to be snuffed out.

  Fumbling for his taper, Dirk shuffled into the common room. The space was dark, but when he prodded the ashes in the hearth he found there was still a bit of life left in them. He added two logs, gritting his teeth as he ground them into the coals with his left hand. Sparks rose, and in a few moments small, hungry flames lapped along the kindling. Dirk retrieved the basin from his room, as well as the pitcher, and a clean cloth. He was breathing hard by the time he sat before the fire. Sweat ran in salty tears down his cheeks, and pooled in the hollow of his throat. His eyes ached, and his mouth was dry. Coughing, Dirk dipped the cloth in the cool water, and began cleaning his wounds.

  The water stung as it washed over his skin, but as the blood and ashes slid away, Dirk found none of the cuts were as deep as he'd feared. He looked like he'd wrestled a gorse bush, and the bush had won, but that was all. Despite how shallow the wounds were, though, Dirk's right arm was stiff by the time he finished cleaning it. His hand ached like a bad tooth, and his elbow burned when he tried to bend it. The muscles of his upper arm, and around his shoulder, were knotted as if he'd been beaten with a heavy switch.

  Dirk frowned, and scratched his chest. When his fingers touched the stone hanging round his neck, he flinched. The rock was warm to the touch, and practically humming against his skin. Dirk frowned, and prodded his wounded arm. It was swollen, and hot to the touch, with bruises spreading outward from the cuts. Thick, black blood oozed from the cuts, but Dirk felt no sensation in his wounded hand. When he tried to flex the fingers again, they did not move. Dirk swore, gritted his teeth, and started pushing himself to his feet.

  He rose like an old man, one hand against the wall to keep his balance as his joints ground together. The room swayed, making him stumble. The edges of the world lost their solid lines, and tried to double. Dirk took a breath, and waited for the spell to pass. The stone grew hotter against his chest; a coal slowly waking up after a long, chill night. He took a step toward his room. He took another step. When he took a third, his legs shivered. Dirk lost his footing, and collapsed into Caddell's chair. His right arm struck the wing, but all Dirk felt was a dull ache. He tried to get his feet under him, but they were numb. He whispered the words his grandmother had taught him, forcing the incantation past trembling lips. There were pinpricks around his throat, but before he could touch them, his vision blurred, and went dark.

  Dirk drifted. For a time he wondered if he was dead, then questioned if he could wonder such a thing if he were. He saw nothing, and what sounds he heard were far-off, distorted things that came to him as if he was at the bottom of a well. The fire sounded like whispers, the snapping logs like churlish children fighting over toys. His chest felt tight, and heavy. The stone resting atop it burned feverishly against his skin. It hurt, but the hurt also felt far away and unimportant. Sweat ran down his face and neck, and a chill went up his spine. After a small eternity in the darkness, a cool hand touched his brow. It slid to the side of his neck, pressing against his pulse. Dirk shuddered, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in an instinctive snarl.

  “Is he dead?” someone whispered.

  “Near to,” a harsh voice grunted.

  “Let us hurry him along, then,” the first voice said, coming closer.

  “Be wary,” the other voice said, the words bitten off at the ends. “There is spirit in this one.”

  There was a grunt, a sharp pain, and the darkness swooped away. Dirk opened his eyes. Daerun loomed over him, one hand holding Dirk up by his hair. Gerd stood behind his brother, arms folded. Daerun unsheathed his smile once more, and held his heavy, curved knife up for Dirk to see. He tilted it this way and that, letting the firelight dance over the dark steel.

  “Last words, ba-swamm?” Daerun asked.

  Dirk threw himself forward, and sank his teeth into Daerun's knife hand. Daerun cried out, and tried to jerk away. The blade clattered to the floor. Dirk refused to let go. Flesh tore, and warm blood spurted against Dirk's face. More filled his mouth, gagging him. The coppery stench filled his nostrils as he half-stood, and was half-dragged, from the chair he'd collapsed into. Daerun's fist slammed into the side of Dirk's head, and white light bloomed in the darkness. His fist fell a second time, and a third before Dirk's jaw relaxed, and he fell to his knees, coughing and spitting. Most of the blood running through the tiled city's streets wasn't his. Daerun staggered back, gripping his wrist and hissing curses. Dirk's stomach heaved, and thin, yellow bile dribbled from his lips. His right arm was a block of wood. Veins bulged beneath his flesh, black and angry as they snaked toward his heart. He tried to rise, but his shaking limbs wouldn't obey him. Gerd slid his steel from its sheathe, and stepped forward without a word.

  “No,” Daerun said. He put his good hand on his brother's chest, stopping him. “Give me your blade. Let me finish what I started.”

  Gerd gazed silently at his brother. He glanced down at Dirk, who still hadn't risen from his hands and knees. Gerd reversed his grip, and offered Daerun the hilt of his knife.

  “Be swift,” he said.

  Daerun took the knife, and stepped forward. He wasted no breath this time, raising the blade high over his head. Before he could bring it down, though, Dirk's left hand swiped up. The stroke was wide and clumsy, but the blade Daerun had dropped was sharp, and meant for cutting. A dark stain bloomed on the Hann Dak'ham's filthy jerkin. Daerun stared at his stomach, lowering his arm. He looked confused, tenderly cupping his wound. He said something Dirk didn't understand, but the thick loop of gray guts peeking out between Daerun's fingers needed no translation.

  Gerd didn't hesitate. He caught his brother under the arm, and guided him into a chair. Daerun didn't even cry out; he was focused entirely on keeping his insides on the inside. Despite his best efforts, though, his eyes had a dull, glassy sheen to them. Without a word, or even taking his blade back, Gerd stalked toward Dirk.

  Dirk tried to rise, but the single blow he'd landed had taken most of the strength he'd had left. He shuffled back, awkwardly shoving chairs into Gerd's path. Gerd kicked them aside, splintering one chair to
flinders, and sending another crashing into the bar. Dirk fell against a beam, and tried to keep it between him and the sour-faced assassin. Gerd circled, feinting. Dirk tried to follow, shaking his head as his vision blurred, barely able to hold himself up. Gerd waited until Dirk lunged, then kicked him square in the teeth. Dirk's head snapped back, and he fell in a heap. He tried to rise, but Gerd put a knee on his chest. Dirk tried to breathe, but couldn't. He raised his arm feebly, and Gerd batted the blade out of his hand. There was no rage on Gerd's face. There was no hate, or disgust. His expression was blank as he crouched in the shadows, his back to the fire. He cinched his knees into Dirk's armpits, the movements careful and calculated. He tucked his thumbs beneath Dirk's chin, pushing his head back. Gerd pressed one calloused hand to Dirk's throat, then laid the other over it. He squeezed. Dirk pried at Gerd's steely fingers, but the stocky man's grip didn't so much as shift.

  Dirk wrenched his head to the side, gnashing his teeth. In the darkness, just out of sight of Gerd, Caddell stood in the doorway of his room. He looked half a spirit himself, with his sweat-slick hair, and his wide, wild eyes. His gnarled hands were twisted around the shaft of his walking stick, his knuckles white, and bloodless. His lips curled back, and he took a single, silent step closer.

  Across the room, Daerun gagged. Something wet spattered across the floor. Gerd whipped his head around, his grip on Dirk's throat loosening for a moment. Dirk coughed, wheezing as he gulped for air. Daerun was slack where he sat. His legs were splayed, and his hands sat loose in his lap. His head lolled over the back of the chair, his throat cut. Blood spurted from the rent vessels, pumping in time with his panicked heartbeat. Air whistled in and out of his torn windpipe, each breath slower and shallower than the one before. Standing over him, bloody knife in her hand, was Afra. Blood spattered her cheek and nose like freckles, and the eyes she turned on Gerd were hard, and hot.

  “Bitch!” Gerd snarled. He leaped to his feet, teeth bared in a snarl. Caddell rushed forward in a shambling run, screaming as he swung his stick. Gerd turned, trying to raise his arm, but he wasn't swift enough. The knotted head of Caddell's walking stick crashed into Gerd's temple with the sound of an ax hitting heartwood. Gerd took a step back, blinking. Bloody tears ran from one eye. He touched his face with a shaking hand, then peered at Caddell. Gerd's lips moved, but no words came out. He reached for the innkeep, and crumpled. Gerd lay on the floor no more than a foot from Dirk, twitching. His mouth was still moving, and drool puddled on the floor as he wet himself. He shuddered, then went still. Caddell collapsed against the beam Dirk had been using for protection. He panted, squinting across the common room. He still had his stick raised, and ready to swing again.

  “Afra?” Caddell said, confusion and surprise mingling in the question. “What is this?”

  Afra ignored him. She tossed her soiled blade on the table, and rushed to Dirk's side. She knelt, and cradled his head. She pressed her fingers against his brow, and pushed Dirk's drooping lids up with her thumb so she could stare into first one eye, then the other.

  “The Watcher,” she said. “Where is it? What happened?”

  “I killed it,” Dirk murmured, coughing. Coughing hurt, and blood spattered across his chin when he did it.

  Afra stared at him, as if he'd begun speaking nonsense. She touched his right hand, frowning at the fingers bent into a claw. She gently ran her hands over Dirk's knotted muscles, and bruised flesh. Dirk watched her hand mover over his skin, but couldn't feel it.

  “It touched you,” Afra said. “I... I do not know what to do...”

  “Dagger...” Dirk murmured. “Bleed it out...”

  “What?” Afra asked.

  Dirk's left hand shot up, and caught hold of Afra's jerkin. Afra tried to pull back, but Dirk dragged her down, yanking her toward his face.

  “My dagger,” he growled, forcing the words past his clenched jaw. “With the banded blade. Bleed my wounds with it.”

  Dirk tried to say more, but the words caught in his throat. He coughed, then retched. He let go of Afra's tunic, and fell. He never felt himself hit the floor.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dirk dreamed of burning, and blood.

  He tossed on a storm of confusion. One moment he was staring in blind darkness, and the next blinking in too-bright light. Waves crashed over him, leaving him stinking of sickness and sweat. He smelled thin broth filled with thick beef, but it turned to poison whenever it passed his lips. He cursed the gods he knew, and the gods he didn't. Wraiths flitted back and forth, whispering messages he could scarce hear, and never truly grasp. Soft, chill fingers would stroke his face from time to time, and someone sang to him in a sweet voice. He didn't know the words, but the tune felt familiar in his ears. It calmed him, and let him rest for a time.

  In time, he came back to himself. When Dirk opened his eyes he was in a small, plain room. The walls were old, painted a dingy white, and the ceiling was nothing more than an unbroken line of bare, dusty boards with soot stains above where candles or lamps had sat for too many nights. He was in a bed, between a straw mattress and a rough, woolen blanket. A brazier of hot coals stood near the bed. Wisps of thin smoke rose from the coals, dancing toward the shushing curtains before slipping into the crisp night beyond the shuttered window. His right arm was stiff and sore, swathed in bandages from elbow to fingertips. He felt no pain, even when he tried to move it; just the discomfort of long rest, and hard healing. His dagger sat on a small table along the wall, next to a pitcher and two cups. Two candles sat on the table as well, their wan light struggling against the shadows.

  Afra sat in a chair beside the bed, her face turned toward the window. She had a shawl pulled round her shoulders, and she idly tugged at one of the tassels. Dirk cleared his throat, and her fingers stopped moving. She turned slowly, regarding him without speaking for a time. Her eyes were red around the rims, the lids raw from wiping away tears.

  “Water,” Dirk said, his voice a dry, painful rasp. “Please.”

  Afra rose, and poured Dirk a cup of water. He reached for it with his good hand, and even though he was weak, managed not to spill any. He made himself sip, resisting the urge to drain the cup, and then demand the pitcher as well. Once he'd finished, he handed the cup back.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Two nights and a day,” Afra said. “You burned hot with fever, and your blood ran black from the wounds. I did as you bade, and bled you with your dagger. The poison ran out, thick and heavy.”

  Dirk nodded, and frowned. He touched his throat, and felt the stone his grandmother had left there. It was cold and lifeless in his hand; the omen's power exhausted. Dirk let out a long, slow breath, and released the stone. It had done its task. Afra offered him more water, and he took it. She pulled her chair closer to the bed, and sat. Dirk turned his head slowly, resting his cheek against the pillow.

  “When I asked of the Watcher, you said you killed it,” Afra said. “I saw your room, and your wounds. I know you spoke the truth. Are you a holy man that you can slay the dead?”

  Dirk laughed. It hurt, but the chuckles rolled over his lips without his permission. The laughter faded into coughing, which hurt even more. When both had run their course, Dirk wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Afra was not amused.

  “The Shanasaa are nothing to laugh at,” Afra said. “Only the learned can summon and bind them, and even the ones that serve are like mad dogs that will bite as soon as obey.”

  “Did you speak to Teller?” Dirk asked.

  “That is not-”

  “Did you speak to him?” Dirk repeated, cutting off Afra's objection.

  “We spoke, brief and rare,” she said. “What has that to do with this?”

  “Did he tell you of our home?” Dirk asked.

  “He said he came from the south,” Afra said. “He had traveled far. I remember he said his home was on a mountain.”

  Dirk nodded. “The way my grandmere tells the tale, the old gods came down from the heaven
s to shape the world. They spread seed for the grass, pulled forests up from the earth, shaped the rivers, and filled the oceans. They carved out lakes, ground sand for the beaches, and dragged their heels to make canyons. When the sun dipped low, and the stars shone to call them home, they realized they had no way to return. So they built the mountains, and climbed the stairs back into the skies.

  “Some of the old gods made the journey, but others were wearied from their day of making. So they sat upon the stairs they made, and rested. They slept. As they slept, the world changed, and the mountains embraced them. If you stand on the slope of such a mountain, then you may hear the old ones rumble, and shift beneath you in their sleep. You may dream their dreams, as well, and see things that are yet to come.”

  “How does that answer my question?” Afra asked.

  Dirk pointed at his dagger without lifting his hand from the covers. “Ben Morgh, the mount we call home, is such a place. No one is allowed to take from within the mountain without permission. When my father built a home for he and my mother, there was iron in the rock her removed. So he saved it, and as they had children, he crafted us gifts from the ore. Once they had been forged, he took them to my grandmere, who spoke the old words over them. He made that blade. It is weighted to my hand, and mine alone.”

  Afra's lips parted, but she closed them before she could say anything. She stood, and lifted the dagger from the side table. She held it awkwardly, as if it were a sleeping beast that she was afraid would turn and bite her.

  “It is a fine blade, there is no doubt,” she said. “Do you tell me true that you slew a Shanasaa with it?”

  “If that was the shade that burst into my room, then I speak the truth,” Dirk said.

  Afra touched the flat of the blade with the pad of her finger. She stroked the steel gently, feeling the ripples frozen in the metal. She laid it back on the table, and returned to her seat. Dirk tracked her with his eyes, leaving his head right where it was.