by David Weber
It didn't help.
He had one brief instant for his eyes to begin to widen in shocked disbelief as the newcomer's blade sliced cleanly through his own, and then his head leapt from his shoulders.
* * *
Ahrnahld Falkhan parried frantically as the first sword came chopping in. Steel jarred on steel with an ugly, anvil-like clang, and he twisted aside as a second blade reached for him. He heard more metal clashing on metal, and swore with silent desperation as he realized Cayleb, instead of running while he and Dymytree tried to slow the assassins, had fallen into formation with them.
Only three things kept the crown prince and either of his Marines alive for the next few seconds. One was the two crossbowmen's need to discard one weapon and draw another, which slowed them and dropped them a little behind the other ten attackers. The second was the fact that all of the assassins coming at them had expected those crosswbows to do the job without any need to engage anyone hand-to-hand. They'd been just as surprised by the mysterious stranger's intervention as Falkhan had been by their own attack, and their rush towards the prince and his bodyguards was a scrambling, unorganized thing. They didn't come in together in a tightly organized attack.
And the third thing was that Cayleb had ignored Falkhan's order to run.
The first assassin to reach the crown prince leapt towards him, sword slashing, only to stumble back with a sobbing scream as Cayleb unleashed a short, powerful lunge. King Haarahld had imported a weapons master from Kyznetzov, in South Harchong, and while the Empire might be decadent, might be corrupt, and was definitely insufferably arrogant, it still boasted some of the finest weapons instructors in the world. Master Domnek was at least as arrogant as any Harchong stereotype, but he was also just as good at his craft as he thought he was . . . and a relentless taskmaster.
Most Safeholdian swordsmen were trained in the old school, but Cayleb had been taught by someone who recognized that swords had points for a reason. His savage, economic lunge drove a foot of steel through his opponent's chest, and he'd recovered back into a guard position before his victim hit the ground.
A second assassin came hurtling in on the crown prince, only to collapse—this time with little more than a gurgling moan—as Cayleb's second thrust went home at the base of his throat.
Falkhan was too heavily engaged against two other opponents to allow his attention to stray, but he was agonizingly aware that the assassins were concentrating their efforts against Cayleb. The fact that they were was probably the only reason Falkhan and Dymytree were still alive, yet he didn't expect to stay that way for long against three-to-one odds.
But then something new was added.
* * *
The assassins' second-in-command heard a scream from behind him and grinned nastily at the evidence that his commander had dealt with the interfering busybody who'd spoiled their ambush. But then he heard a second scream, and he backed off a couple of paces from the confusion of blades and bodies around the Charisian prince and his outnumbered bodyguards and turned to look back the way he'd come.
He just had time to take in the crumpled bodies of his two crossbowmen, and then the man who'd killed both of them was upon him in a swirl of steel.
Unlike his late commander, this assassin had no time to register anything peculiar about his opponent's stance. He was too busy dying as the newcomer drove a two-handed thrust straight through his lungs and heart, twisted his wrists, and recovered his blade, all in one graceful movement and without ever breaking stride.
* * *
Ahrnahld Falkhan got through to one of his attackers. The man fell back with a groan, dropping the dirk in his off hand as his left arm went limp, but then the lieutenant grunted in anguish as a sword got through his own guard and gashed the outside of his left thigh. He staggered, staying on his feet somehow, but his sword wavered, and another blade came driving at him.
He managed to beat the attack aside, carrying his attacker's sword to the left, but that left him uncovered on the right, and he sensed another assassin coming in on him.
And then that assassin went down himself, instantly dead, as a gory steel thunderbolt impacted on the nape of his neck like a hammer and severed his spinal cord.
Falkhan wasted no time trying to understand what had just happened. There were still armed men trying to kill his prince, and he used the distraction of the stranger's attack to finish off his wounded adversary. He heard Dymytree groan behind him, even as the dead man fell, and cursed as the Marine went down, uncovering Cayleb's left side. Falkhan knew the prince was exposed, but the wounded lieutenant was still too heavily engaged with his sole remaining opponent to do anything about it.
Cayleb saw Dymytree collapse from the corner of one eye. He knew what that meant, and he tried to wheel to face the man who'd cut down his bodyguard. But the two men already attacking him redoubled their efforts, pinning him in place. The prince's mind was clear and cold, focused as Master Domnek had taught him, yet beyond the shield of that focus was a stab of cold terror as he waited for Dymytree's killer to take him from the flank.
But then, suddenly, someone else was at his side. Someone whose flashing blade cut down two foes in what seemed a single motion.
The three surviving would-be assassins abruptly realized that the odds had somehow mysteriously become even. They fell back, as if by common consent, but if they'd intended to break off the attack, they'd left it too late.
Cayleb stepped forward, lunging in quarte. Another of his attackers folded forward over the bitter thrust of his blade, and the stranger who'd mysteriously materialized at his left side lopped off another head in almost the same instant. It was the first time Cayleb had actually heard of anyone managing that in a single, clean, one-handed blow—outside some stupid heroic ballad, at least—and the sole remaining assassin seemed as impressed by it as the crown prince. He whirled to flee, and Cayleb was in the act of recovering his stance, unable to interfere as the man turned to run. But the stranger's sword licked out with blinding speed, and the assassin shrieked as he was neatly hamstrung.
He collapsed, and the stranger stepped forward. A booted foot slammed down on the back of the wounded man's sword hand, evoking another scream as it crushed the small bones. The assassin twisted, his left hand scrabbling at the hilt of the dagger at his hip, and the stranger's sword licked out again, severing the tendons in his wrist.
It was over in a heartbeat, and then Cayleb found himself facing the stranger who had just saved his life across the sobbing body of the only surviving attacker.
"It occurred to me," the stranger said in an odd, clipped accent, strange sapphire eyes bright, "that you might want to ask this fellow a few questions about who sent him, Your Highness."
II
Harith Foothills Near Rothar,
Kingdom of Charis
Crown Prince Cayleb knew he was staring at his totally unanticipated rescuer, but he couldn't help it. The newcomer looked unlike anyone he'd ever seen before. His complexion was paler even than Father Paityr Wylsynn's, and Cayleb had never seen eyes of such a deep, dark blue. Yet while Father Paityr's complexion and gray eyes went with an unruly shock of bright red hair, this man's hair was as dark as Cayleb's own. And he was taller even than Cayleb by a full two inches.
He was also quite improbably handsome, in spite of the thin, white scar which seamed his right cheek. In some ways, his features were almost effeminate, despite his fiercely waxed mustachios and neat dagger beard, yet that, like the piratical-looking scar, only gave his face a certain exotic cast. All in all, a most impressive character, and one who'd arrived at the proverbial last second.
Which, of course, raised the question of just how he'd managed to do that. Cayleb might not have been the most bookish scholar his tutors had ever encountered, but he'd been well grounded in basic logic, history, and statecraft, and his father had personally undertaken his instruction in the essential suspicion any head of state required. While he was perfectly well aware that coincidences
truly did happen, he was also aware that some "coincidences" were made to happen. Especially when the people responsible for them were engaged in a shadowy struggle for the highest stakes imaginable.
"I hope you'll forgive me for pointing this out," the prince said, without cleaning or sheathing his own blade, "but you appear to have a certain advantage. You know who I am, but I have no idea who you are, sir."
"Which must certainly appear suspicious under the circumstances, Your Highness," the stranger observed with a smile, and bowed ever so slightly. "I'm called Merlin, Prince Cayleb, Merlin Athrawes, and the reason the circumstances appear suspicious is because they are. I scarcely happened along by accident, and explaining exactly how I did come to arrive will require some time. For now, however—" He bent and ripped a handful of fabric from his last, whimpering victim's tunic, used it to wipe his blade, and sheathed the steel smoothly. "—both this fellow here and Lieutenant Falkhan would seem to require a little attention."
Cayleb twitched as he was reminded, and looked quickly at the lieutenant. Falkhan sat on the pine needles, his eyes glassy as he used both hands to stanch the flow of blood from his wounded thigh, and the crown prince took a quick step in his direction. Then he froze, his eyes whipping back to "Merlin," as he realized how thoroughly and effortlessly the stranger had redirected his attention.
But the other man simply stood there, arms folded across his chest, and raised one sardonic eyebrow.
Cayleb flushed. On the other hand, if the stranger had wished him harm, there'd been no reason to interfere in the ambush in the first place. That didn't mean he might not have some deeper, subtly inimical purpose in mind, but it seemed unlikely that burying a dagger in the prince's back was among his immediate plans.
The crown prince dropped to his knees beside Falkhan. Rather than waste time cleaning his own sword and returning it to the scabbard, he laid it on the pine needles, then drew his dagger and began slicing open the leg of the lieutenant's breeches.
The wound was ugly enough, and bleeding freely, but without the heavy, pulsing flow of arterial blood. He unbuttoned the huntsman's pouch on his left hip and quickly extracted the rolled bandage of boiled cotton. He covered the wound with a pad of fleming moss, then wrapped the bandage tightly around Falkhan's thigh, applying pressure to the wound. If pressure and the absorbent, healing moss didn't stop the bleeding, he had a packet of curved needles and boiled thread to close the wound with stitches, but he was scarcely a trained surgeon. He preferred to leave that sort of repair to someone who knew what he was doing.
The lieutenant had slumped back, eyes closed, while the prince worked on him. By the time Cayleb tied the bandage off, though, Falkhan's eyes were open once more.
The Marine turned his head, and his mouth tightened with more than the physical pain of his own wound as he saw Dragoner's and Dymytree's bodies. Then he looked outward, at the sprawled corpses of the assassins, and his eyes narrowed as he saw the mysterious Merlin kneeling beside the one surviving attacker. Merlin's hands had been busy attending to the other man's wounds even as Cayleb saw to Falkhan's, although it was apparent from the assassin's sounds that the stranger wasn't wasting a great deal of gentleness upon him.
Falkhan's head rolled back, his gaze met Cayleb's, and both eyebrows rose in question. Cayleb looked back at him, then shrugged. The lieutenant grimaced, then pushed himself up—with the prince's assistance and a grunt of pain—into a sitting position. Cayleb positioned himself unobtrusively to allow the Marine to lean back against him, and Falkhan cleared his throat.
"Excuse me," he said, looking up at the man who'd saved not only the prince's life, but his own, "but I think we need a few answers, sir."
* * *
The man who'd introduced himself to Cayleb as "Merlin"—and who had decided he really needed to work on never thinking of himself as Nimue Alban—smiled. The expression was rather more confident than he actually felt, but he'd known this moment, or one very like it, was going to come.
Well, not exactly like this one, he amended. It was sheer serendipity that his SNARC had not only stumbled across the plot to assassinate Crown Prince Cayleb but that he'd actually managed to arrive in time to help foil it.
Good thing I did, too. I already knew Cayleb was a good-looking kid, but I hadn't realized quite how much presence he has. Especially for someone who's barely nineteen standard. If I can just get him to trust me, I can do something with him.
Assuming, of course, that I can figure out a way to go on keeping him alive.
"I am known," he told Falkhan, "as I've already informed Prince Cayleb, as Merlin Athrawes. And I'm not at all surprised you have questions, Lieutenant Falkhan. I certainly would, in your place. And while I may be confident I cherish no ill designs upon the Prince, there's no reason you should feel that way. So, if you have questions I can answer, ask them."
Falkhan cocked his head, his expression wary, then bought a little time by easing his wounded leg's position with a wince of pain which was not at all feigned. He was uncomfortably aware that his own light-headedness scarcely made this the ideal time for a probing, insightful interrogation. Unfortunately, this was the only time—and the only wit—he had. Besides, something about Merlin's manner made him suspect he would be outclassed in any battle of wits with him at the best of times.
"Since you've been courteous enough to acknowledge that my duty to my Prince requires me to be suspicious of apparent coincidences," he said, after a moment, "perhaps you might begin by telling me how you happened along at such an extremely . . . opportune moment."
Cayleb stirred slightly behind him, but stilled as Falkhan reached back unobtrusively and squeezed his ankle. He knew the crown prince well enough to be aware that, despite Cayleb's own recognition of the need to be cautious, he retained sufficient of childhood's romantic faith in heroic ballads—and how the characters in them ought to act—to feel uncomfortable at such a direct challenge.
But this Athrawes (and what sort of surname was that, anyway?) seemed more amused then offended. He took time to recheck his rough but efficient repairs to the crippled assassin, then folded down gracefully to sit tailor-fashion on the pine needles.
"To begin at the beginning, Lieutenant," he said then, in that strangely clipped accent, "I come from the Mountains of Light. Although I wasn't born there, I've made my home among their peaks for many years, and after long and careful study, I've been blessed with some, at least, of the powers of a seijin."
Falkhan's eyes narrowed, and Cayleb inhaled audibly behind him. The Mountains of Light contained the second-holiest site of Safehold, the mighty peak of Mount Olympus, where the Archangel Langhorne had first set foot upon the solid earth of Safehold when God established the firmament in the misty dawn of creation. And the seijin were a legend in their own right—warriors, holy men, sometimes prophets and sometimes teachers. Only the archangels themselves could endure surgoi kasai, God's own mystic fire, but the seijin had been touched by anshinritsumei, God's "little fire," and it rendered them men forever set apart from other mortals.
To the lieutenant's knowledge, no authentic seijin had ever visited the Kingdom of Charis, and the mere fact that someone claimed to be one proved nothing. Although, he conceded, it would take more nerve than most people possessed to claim seijin status falsely.
"That's . . . an interesting statement, sir," Falkhan said slowly, after a moment.
"And one difficult to prove," Merlin agreed. "Believe me, Lieutenant, you can't be more aware of that fact than I am." He smiled wryly and leaned back, stroking one waxed mustachio with the fingers of his right hand. "In fact, I must admit that I never anticipated I might find myself called to such a role. Still, I believe the Writ warns us that our tasks in life will seek us out, wherever we may be, and whatever we may plan."
Falkhan nodded. Again, he had the distinct impression that Athrawes was amused by his questions, his suspicion. Still, he sensed no malice in the other man. His own current dizziness made him distrust his inst
incts, yet he found he felt more curious than threatened.
"For quite some time," Merlin continued, his expression more serious, "I've been gifted with the Sight. I sometimes see events which take place thousands of miles away, although I've never seen into the future or the past, as some have claimed to do. That ability to see distant events is what led me to Charis at this time. While I may not be able to see the future, I have seen other visions—visions concerning Charis, Crown Prince Cayleb and his father, and their enemies. Somehow I find it difficult to believe such visions would be given to me if I weren't meant to act upon them."
"Forgive me," Cayleb said, his expression intent, "but if, as you say, you can't see the future, then how did you know about this?"
He took one hand from Falkhan's shoulder and waved at the carnage all about them.
"Your Highness," Merlin said, almost gently, "surely you aren't so . . . naïve as to believe this attack simply materialized out of thin air this morning? You have enemies, Prince. Enemies who, whether they realize it or not, serve darkness, and I've seen many visions of their plans and plots, of correspondence and orders passing between them. I've known for almost half a year that they intended to bring about your death in any way they could. This isn't their first plan, but simply the first which came this close to success. I've been traveling from the Temple Lands to Charis for many five-days now, ever since I became aware that they were preparing to move from mere plans to actual execution, if you'll pardon the choice of words."