The splintered ceiling gradually came into focus as he blinked the excess liquid from his eyes. He hadn’t a clue what had happened.
‘I’m so sorry William.’
The words bled faintly through his haze and he struggled to tell exactly who was saying them. He swallowed rising bile and forced himself up. Ojo was at the far side of the room, crumpled against a rotten wall, staring at his twitching fingers.
‘I’m sorry… for not coming back,’ he muttered again, making fists of his trembling hands. ‘When I won the prize I was so happy, all our problems were solved. I paid for the expedition and my doctor friend agreed to treat my father indefinitely. I knew I’d be able to take my time with you, rather than rushing you as I had initially.’
Ojo’s eyes trailed down to William’s bleeding leg and the snapped arrow shaft that protruded from each side. ‘Did I shoot you?’
William nodded nervously, spurring Ojo to search his inside pockets until he produced a small roll of bandage and a vial of salve.
‘I’ll fix it.’ Ojo shuffled across the floor to William and knelt, before retrieving a small knife. ‘It’s going to hurt for a little while, but once I’ve done, the salve should see you right. It’s one of the doctor’s concoctions.’
‘He used it on my arm.’ William nodded and rolled his leg onto its side so that the arrow shaft ran parallel to the floor. Ojo took it firmly and started to whittle the splinters from the end as delicately as he could; the pain was palpable.
‘I meant to come back for you. I really did.’ Ojo flicked a curl of wood to the heap of rubble. His lip quivered. ‘After I won the prize I started losing days, getting angry at others and myself, everything just seemed harder than it used to. It wasn’t long after that I realised – grit your teeth.’
Ojo tightened one fist on the arrow shaft and swiftly pulled it free of William’s leg. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. The pain was overwhelming, but at the same time he could feel the coarse wood being drawn through his closing flesh in explicit detail. As soon as the shaft was extracted it was tossed aside. The wound was daubed generously with salve and wrapped in bandage before blood could wash it away.
‘You’ll live, but I expect your chances of winning have ebbed away.’ Ojo smiled softly. ‘Is your sponsor still alive?’
‘I don’t know,’ William hissed through gritted teeth.
‘I think it’s best if you just slip away. I’m winning, I need to, and if I lose myself again, I won’t hesitate.’ Ojo tied a knot in the bandage and ran his hand softly over the tight fibres. ‘Once I have enough money for more medicine, maybe we can travel the road together? Would you like that?’
William’s stomach knotted. There was nothing he would like more than a companion again, even one as cruel as Ojo. He tried to reason that the man’s callousness could have been a side effect of his illness, but couldn’t be sure that was true. He also knew there was no way it could come to pass without resigning Vesta to her fate. He swallowed a lump, too weak to make the decision.
‘Just think about it.’ Ojo stood. ‘But if I were you, I’d take myself to the bleachers with the rest of the eliminated entrants. The last thing I want is to kill you.’
The assassin crossed the room to a flight of shaky stairs that led only halfway to the next floor and reached up to retrieve his quiver of arrows. Silently, he counted how many remained then nodded to himself; he had enough to finish the last few assassins. As he returned across the rubble-laden floor, one of the worm-bitten boards snapped underfoot. His leg fell through the hole, and his knee crunched loudly as it hit the wood.
Ojo’s mouth opened and his eyes screwed up, but only a gurgle sputtered out. His breathing elevated and his arms skittered about to rescue himself from the hole; a second break in the boards would plummet him into the cellars.
William dragged himself towards the assassin to assist, but was too afraid to put any weight onto his leg. He wrapped his arms around Ojo’s torso and pushed with his good leg against an upright length of broken board. Together they heaved and Ojo slid away from the hole, pulling his leg from the gloom below.
He gasped as the extent of his injury was revealed and the pain began to wash up his leg. Blood oozed through fabric and his shin bone protruded through both his flesh and his torn trousers. For a moment, his eyes flitted in jealousy and hatred towards William’s leg and the valuable salve and bandage that had been used there. He sneered at his once apprentice and pushed himself away, his lips quivering words under his breath.
‘I have an elixir.’ William delved his hand into his pocket, feeling the wet and knowing the worst before he produced the cracked bottle. It was empty.
Ojo closed his eyes and swallowed audibly before taking a long, calming breath.
‘It seems my chances of victory are as slim as yours.’ He hissed out a faint chortle then returned to his deep musing. ‘I don’t begrudge you the salve, it would do little for me with a broken bone, I’m sure.’
‘I’ll get help.’ William tried to reassure his mentor. ‘I’ll get you back to the stands, the doctor will be there; he’ll fix it.’
‘I’m beyond that.’ Ojo sneered again, but this time it wasn’t directed at William. ‘When my sponsor died, I carried on in the competition. There’s nothing for me now except victory or death, and one of those is…’
William moved closer to Ojo. He pushed himself on his injured leg, and despite feeling weak, it only ached dully as a result of the powerful salve.
‘At least I’ll be killed in this moment of lucidity. My essence might still pass on.’ Ojo bit his lip, then looked up at William with a sad hope in his eyes. ‘Will you do something for me, one last thing?’
‘Anything.’
‘Don’t leave me to the others.’ Ojo gripped William’s shirt. ‘Finish me now, while I’m still coherent, before I lose myself again. Do it how I like.’
Ojo fixed William with his wide brilliant-blue but somehow pathetic eyes. Tears welled in the corners and he pursed his lips determinedly.
William felt sick, and that oh-so terrible feeling of dread returned to his chest. He wouldn’t make the old man beg. Penitently, he rolled up onto his knees and shuffled to the rear of the crippled assassin, softly slipping one arm around the wrinkled swags of his neck. He gripped his wrist with the other hand.
‘Thank you, William.’ Ojo’s voice broke, and he sniffed his last breath.
William pulled his arm tightly towards him, sealing the assassin’s throat and slowly asphyxiating the life from his body. Ojo didn’t struggle at first, he was resigned to his fate, and knew it was better to go now than at the hands of an unknown assassin. But as the life drained from him and his instinctive mind overpowered the dying embers of his consciousness, his legs began to kick and his hands reached of their own volition to release his throat. Soon after, William felt what Ojo had told him he would: the life force passing from the body, leaving nothing but a dead weight.
He laid his former mentor across the dusty boards that had claimed his life, and took a moment to choke out a few tears. Even when he lost his parents, William had the merchant, and when he lost the merchant he had the broker. After the broker was Ojo, and after that, Marilyn. Then, when the time came, he left her behind to pursue his career as an assassin. There was always something there to keep him from grief, but in losing Ojo again, it felt as though he lost everything he ever had. He was left with nothing and nobody – yet if he could save Vesta that might not be true.
He pushed himself purposely to his feet, wobbling slightly on his stinging half-numb leg, and hobbled across the broken boards. His foot dragged through splinters, then dirt as he moved onto the heap of rubble. As he leant to pick up his pistol he almost fell, barely managing to stay upright, despite a needling pain shooting up his thigh. He reloaded quickly, forced himself up and over the mound of rubble and out to the roadway beyond.
The roar from the VIP bleachers hit him like a wave of furious wind; triumphant, angr
y. Their wordless swell of excitement battered the senses, but William cast them from his mind. There was no time for showmanship now.
Vesta and her brother had emerged from their respective covers and were circling each other in the wide expanse. Red-face’s paralysed arm was coated in blood and he looked to have been clipped by the bullet William fired before Ojo’s interruption. The pair were still too far away from one another to fire with any kind of reliable accuracy, neither dared to be the first to expend their only loaded round, but with each side step they spiralled towards each other.
Red-face was at the far side of the road from William, but glanced at him as soon as he emerged from the houses. Vesta was closer, but her back was towards him. He wanted to let her know he was there, but didn’t want to disturb her until he was able to assist. Slowly, he shuffled closer, knowing that the nearer to Vesta he got, the itchier her brother’s trigger finger would get.
‘It was your fault.’ Red-face sneered. ‘You were the one who cost us everything we ever had. I was trying to reclaim it, but you couldn’t leave well enough alone.’
‘Shut up.’ Vesta spat and flailed her pistol hysterically. William cursed; her brother was inside her head. If he taunted her to fire first she would surely miss at such a range and be as good as dead. ‘You were only trying to help yourself!’
‘Thanks to you, myself is all I have left.’ Red-face jeered, his eyes now solely fixed on the slowly approaching William, just over Vesta’s shoulder. ‘You were the reason the house burned down. You were the reason father turned to drink. And ultimately, it’s your fault that he had to die.’
Vesta shrieked and fired. Blood spattered from her brother’s side; a lucky shot, but not lucky enough. He staggered backwards a few paces and gritted his teeth, hissing breath.
‘Bad luck, sister.’ He lurched forwards and trained his pistol on Vesta. William took his aim and prayed his shot would land before Red-face had the chance to pull the trigger.
The sound of four gunshots clapped in such quick succession that they couldn’t possibly have been from a single gun, but none of the pistols in the standoff had yet been fired. Blood erupted from Vesta’s midriff; four gouts, each thumping powerfully in turn. She stumbled forwards and her pistol tipped from outstretched fingers. A whimper slithered out on a trail of drool and she crumpled to the floor. Her hands grasped at the pocked fabric over her gushing stomach, trying to bunch it together and stem the torrent. As she fell, Red-face’s eyes found William’s and they looked at one another for a moment in abject horror, unsure of whether to move.
‘Vesta!’ Red-face cried out, tossed his gun to the side and dashed for his sister. William kept his pistol trained on the cultist and tried to match his pace, hoping to protect his sponsor. His leg buckled under the strain, agony lancing to his hip and halfway up his back. He collapsed to the floor with a crack to his cheek that split the skin, but his pistol stayed firmly in hand.
‘Not like this.’ Red-face crumpled to his knees and took Vesta in his arms. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’
William looked up from his prostrate position, unsure if he had knocked the sense from himself in the fall. As he trained his pistol on Red-face he could almost swear that he was crying.
‘You’re ok, you’re ok.’ As Red-face stroked the side of his gurgling sister’s face, his tears fell in red droplets to disappear on her already sodden shirt. ‘We’re going to get you help. You’ve been shot, but it’s not bad. You’re going to be ok.’
William couldn’t understand what was happening; it was as if he had awoken from a bad dream and found himself completely out of place in the world.
‘What happened?’ Vesta’s hands fumbled around mindlessly. One reached out to grab her brother by his collar and weakly pull him closer, the other rolled around at her waistline ineffectually. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Somebody shot you, but I’m going to make sure you get better.’ Red-face gagged on his tears. ‘Then we’ll set things straight. I’ll kill you like I was supposed to. A proper sacrifice, how it should be, it’s what you deserve.’
Red-face balked and gasped, suddenly stilled as he held himself over Vesta. From his mouth, a long trail of spittle was caught in a sulphurous breeze. A short shriek burst from him and a dark torrent of blood gushed from his gut; Vesta’s arm fell limp, a knife still safe in her hand. She smiled gently while Red-face puckered for air like a fish out of water, then finally he slumped over her.
William scrambled forwards, somehow believing there might still be something he could do for Vesta; scrape the excess salve from his leg to heal her wounds or drag her to Doctor Barber. There had to be something, some way to save her. Yet he knew he was as useless as the fear-muted child he had once been; small, unseen and ineffectual. The world was dark and unfair, and there was nothing to be done as The Wheels of Fate turned and pulped his last glimmer of hope.
He heaved himself upright, hopping every half step on his bandaged leg. Blood was dribbling from his soaked bandage. He dropped to his knees and tipped the cultist’s limp body from atop his sponsor.
‘Wi…’ Vesta grunted with a weak exhalation.
‘It’s going to be alright,’ he lied.
‘We did it.’ She smiled as wide as she could muster.
Her eyes were closed from exhaustion and her teeth were swirled red with blood, but at least she looked content. Her face held in that expression for what seemed like far too long, then softly returned to neutrality as her last breath faded.
William’s hand shivered down the side of her face, neatening her hair and brushing his own tear from her cheek.
‘We did it.’ He agreed with the faintest veneer of excitement for the chance that she might still be able to hear it.
He felt hollow, sick, like someone had reached into his chest and not only wrenched out his heart but half of his organs too. There was a pit of despair inside him, ragged around the edges, and left wanting. The grief was keen and made sharp by confusion. He longed for this to not be real, that it was all some sour dream, or trick of his dying brain. He half hoped that he was still in Ojo’s iron grip, and this was some hellish hallucination before the end. He still couldn’t understand what had happened. Nobody had fired, but somehow four bullets had drilled through Vesta in quick succession.
‘How does it feel?’ a voice called out over the silence of the roadway. ‘To have your sponsor taken from you like that? Has your heart has been crushed inside your chest? Has the sun been blotted out? I’ve seen the way you look at her; maybe you’ll understand an ounce of what it is to lose a child.’
Genevieve descended a rubble heap as gracefully as it was possible to, her rifle in hand and her face streaked with charcoal lines from her eyes.
‘So what are you going to do Will?’ Genevieve sneered. ‘Are you going to back down like a coward and go to the bleachers with the rest of the spineless herd? Or are you staying in, in your feeble hope for revenge? I would much prefer the latter; because it means I can kill you now, rather than hunting you down after I’ve been awarded the prize.’
She pulled the trigger on her rifle, but all it produced was a pathetic click. Annoyed, she pulled it again five more times, each click ratcheting along the little cage that had once housed up to seven rounds. It slid to the end of its range and fell out of the rifle. She cursed and spat, tucking the gun under her arm as she rummaged for a replacement clip.
‘At least you had the chance to say goodbye; I afforded you that much. Let you see her take her dying breath.’ She plucked out a clip and began to wrestle it into the gun. Tears were pouring from her bloodshot eyes and she struggled to align the cage so precisely with the slot. She tried to knock it into the mechanism with her palm, but all that served to do was twist the cage and send the copper-clad cartridges tinkling to the cobbles. ‘When you killed my son, I hadn’t the luxury you had, so he died alone, in a ball of flame or a heap of bricks. Whichever way it was, I’m certain it wasn’t pleasant. I couldn’t ev
en find his body.’
William shook, white hot, dazzled by an all-consuming fury at the injustices of the world. Both hands, grazed and dirty, clenched his pistol; the silver gleamed red with Vesta’s blood.
‘I’ll ensure your death is as equally uncomfortable. Perhaps even agonising.’ Frustrated, Genevieve tossed her rifle to the floor and pulled a small flintlock from the folds of her pinned up skirts. The hammer cocked. ‘So what’s it going to be? Delay the inevitable, or shall we settle this like assassins, right now?’
William swallowed a clot of phlegm and straightened up to meet the grief-stricken gaze of his assailant. He squared his stance, balancing his weight, though his injuries protested. For a moment, a shaft of light broke the ash-grey sky, glinting on engraved silver flowers.
1676
Cathal spluttered as he pulled the trigger, sending his shot wide of the target. It was the first time William had ever seen the man miss, and hope swelled in him; he might actually stand a chance of winning.
The old Gael grumbled something and slumped back into his chair. It squelched under his weight and creaked as he found a comfortable position. The chair had been an expensive item once, but no sooner than it had been dragged into the dank depths of the under-sewer catacombs, it was ruined.
Heavy breaths whistled through Cathal’s grey-sprouting nostrils, his breath caught in the back of his gullet; he was pale and flushed all at once. He blasphemed under his breath, annoyed at himself, but never towards William. All in all, this had been his worst round yet. His first shot had landed in the outer ring, and though his second had been a bullseye, the third had cost him greatly.
William, on the other hand, had put up his best effort to date and had yet to take his third shot. He had hit the inner circle with both bullets and would have won already if one of those had been a bullseye. All he had to do to win was hit the target, but it was respectful to finish the round trying one’s best, and he was eager to score his first perfect round – a feat Cathal had achieved many times in their competitions.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 34