A Dance of Blades

20

H aern’s elbow still ached like the Abyss, but at least it’d stopped bleeding. He felt naked without his swords, so he kept his head down and shambled along as if he were drunk. Given the horror of the previous night, he knew he was far from the only one that staggered along the road. Many had buried their grief in alcohol. His nerves rose as he hurried down the Crimson, but he reminded himself it was safer in the day than at night. Sure, some of the young cutpurses might try to swipe his coin, but he had nothing to steal.

When he reached the Eschaton’s building he put his hand on the door and closed his eyes. Returning here meant many things, and he wasn’t sure if he was prepared for the implications. Could this place become a home to him? Could he accept the companionship of Senke, even knowing his presence was danger? Deep in his heart, he knew he desired nothing else. It was his head that kept getting in the way. But sometimes you needed to think like that to protect others. To Haern, the self had never mattered more than those he cared for. He’d learned that lesson from watching his teacher, Robert, sacrifice his life to protect him.

He opened the door with his good arm. So lost in his thoughts, so focused on what he might say to them, and they say back, that he was unprepared for the sight before him. Tarlak sat bound and gagged in a chair. Brug lay on the floor, also bound. Senke slumped against the wall, blood covering his clothes. Delysia knelt before him, her hands also covered with blood. And there amid them all was a giant stranger, skin like obsidian, face painted white as a skull. It seemed the stranger was as surprised as he was, and they both froze for a split-second. Haern looked into this man’s eyes and saw death.

“Watcher,” said the painted man. Not a question, just a statement. His deep voice chilled Haern to the bone, telling him it was time to act. This was no game. Their lives hung in the balance.

“Run!” Delysia screamed.

But he couldn’t leave them like this. Damn it, what he’d give to have his swords!

The stranger lunged, drawing two swords as he did. Haern dove further into the house, tumbling to avoid his attack. His eyes searched for a weapon, any weapon. There, on the wall, he saw the shortswords Senke had used when pretending to be Thren. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for them, not even slowing when he slammed into the wall. His good arm snatched one free, and then he rolled aside, the stranger’s sword cutting several inches into the thin wall.

“Who are you?” Haern asked as he held the blade before him and crouched into position.

“I am Ghost,” said the man. His brown eyes shone beneath the paint. Sweat dripped down his neck and arms, every inch seemingly nothing but muscle. His swords lifted and dipped into a stance, perfectly smooth, perfectly calm. Haern felt terror at the sight. For all his reputation, all his killings, this man faced the Watcher unafraid. He even smiled.

Every instinct told Haern to retreat, but he wouldn’t. He thought he’d lost Senke in a fire, and he’d never come back to look. He’d been dragged off by his father while Delysia bled. This time, he’d stay until the end, whatever that might be. Death or victory, he thought. His father would be proud.

“Come then,” Haern said. “Kill me if you can.”

He kicked aside the table, and in the limited space, began spinning in place. His multitude of cloaks dipped and rose, hiding his presence. Ghost watched it, the concentration in his eyes frightening. When he moved to attack, out lashed Haern’s shortsword, nearly slicing off his nose. Again Ghost watched, waited. Haern knew his cloakdance could defeat lesser foes, and give him advantage against several attackers at once, but against someone so skilled, it was a stalling diversion, nothing more.

“Stop dancing and kick his ass!” Brug shouted, unable to do anything but watch from his spot on the floor.

A sword swung in. Haern dipped below it, his spine nearly parallel to the floor. Out went his blade, cutting into Ghost’s knee. It’d be painful, but not debilitating beyond a bad limp. He hadn’t been able to get enough force due to his awkward position. Worse was that the blade caught on the bone instead of slicing free. Ghost stepped in, unafraid of the cloaks and defiant of the weapon lodged in his flesh. He swung downward with both swords. Haern’s momentum had him rising to a stand, so he kicked out his own feet to fall instead. The swords missed, but only barely. Haern landed flat on his back, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His wounded elbow hit hard as well, and the pain of it filled his vision with black dots. Ghost twirled a sword in his right hand, pointing the blade downward, eager for a killing thrust.

But then Delysia was there, her hands raised, palms facing the Ghost. Bright light flared, blinding even to Haern. Ghost roared, and he took a step back as if struck by a blow. Haern swung his legs wide, taking advantage of the distraction. His heel struck the wounded knee, hard enough to dislodge the sword stuck in the joint. Down Ghost went, the knee crumpling. Again Delysia let out a cry, shouting out the name of her deity. Her hand moved in a downward arc. A golden sword materialized in the air before her, mimicking the motion. It sliced into Ghost’s chest. Blood sprayed across her, but she didn’t appear to notice. Another prayer was already on her lips, demanding the strength of Ashhur.

“Be gone!” she cried. Haern saw a faint outline, almost like an enormous hand, shimmer and vanish in the blink of an eye. Ghost flew back several feet, as if hit by a battering ram. When his body met the wall, it was the wall that gave, the cheap plaster breaking. Haern took to his feet, his wounded elbow held against his chest. It had started bleeding again, staining the gray of his clothes red. Ghost took a woozy step forward, then collapsed when he tried to stand on the other leg. Haern reached down and grabbed his sword while the giant man crawled toward the exit.

“Don’t,” Delysia said, grabbing his shirt. Her voice had authority now, and something in him was unwilling to challenge it. “Please, don’t kill him.”

“Are you mad?” Brug asked, still squirming against his ropes. Haern felt inclined to agree.

“He’s beaten, and leaving,” she insisted. “Don’t. He let me save Senke. He deserves as much.”

“He’s also the one who did it in the first place,” Senke said with a sleepy voice. “Just thought I’d point that out.”

“Phggrrmpf,” Tarlak chimed in.

Ghost looked at them as if they were all mad. He used a chair to brace himself as he stood, then limped toward the door, his teeth clenched against the pain.

“You were beaten,” he said as he took a lumbering step outside.

“Sure thing,” Haern said, Delysia still clutching his shirt. The moment the door closed, he slumped backward, sitting atop the edge of the overturned table. Delysia checked his elbow.

“Senke needs my help more than you,” she said. “It can wait. Untie Tarlak and Brug.”

“As you wish.”

Delysia returned to Senke and knelt before him. Haern heard her prayers, and white light shone around her hands. No wonder the wound on his chest had healed so quickly those few days ago.

“Friend of yours?” Tarlak asked once the gag was removed.

“You aren’t funny,” Haern said.

He cut the ropes around his hands and feet, and while the wizard stretched, he did the same for Brug.

“Son of a whore ambushed me coming up the stairs,” Brug said, grabbing his punch daggers. “Otherwise I’d have torn him a new hole.”

“You mean like this one?” Senke asked.

Brug flushed and looked away. Haern tossed his shortsword to the floor. He felt sick, and he still hadn’t recovered from the blow to his head earlier in the day. His elbow throbbed, feeling even worse than when he’d first received the cut. He saw Brug and Tarlak glaring at him, and he felt like he deserved their ire. He tried to stumble for the door, but Tarlak blocked the way, holding it shut with his arm.

“Not yet,” he said. “And not anytime soon. It’s time we talked, Watcher.”

*

M atthew’s relief upon seeing Felwood Castle lasted only as long as it took him to see one of Hadfield’s men standing watch far from the other guards. It was as he’d feared. Less than ten minutes ago he’d had to drag them off the road, and when the horsemen rode on by, his gut told him who it was they served.

“What do we do?” Tristan asked. Matthew had abruptly turned them both around and back north on the road, hoping the soldier hadn’t seen their approach. Given the distance, it seemed probable.

“I don’t know,” he said. He could imagine what would happen if they tried to pass by. The soldier would cut them down before letting them reach lord Gandrem. Whatever explanations or punishment the soldier received would still be preferable so long as no one identified the one-armed boy as the son of Lady Gemcroft. Given his disfigurement, the dirt on his face and the plain clothes he now wore, it seemed doubtful.

“Will we continue on to Veldaren?” Tristan asked.

“Quiet boy, I don’t know!”

He waited until his temper calmed, then resumed.

“And I’m not sure we can. Don’t have the food, and water might end up scarce, too. I need inside to resupply, but that might mean leaving you behind for a while. They won’t know me from shit, but you’re the one they want. That, and I don’t know who Gandrem’s sided with in all this.”

“John was always nice to me,” Tristan said, referring to the lord. “I wish I’d stayed with him. What if…what if I get us inside? Will he keep us safe?”

Matthew shot him a look.

“How could you get us inside?”

“I don’t know. I could run real fast. I’m a fast runner, even Arthur said it!”

Matthew bit his lip. It was just one man, a professional soldier perhaps, but still just one. He touched the old sword at his hip. If he could last for a little while, just a little…

His eyes fell upon the near empty sack that had carried their food.

“I have an idea,” he said. “But you better run like the wind, you hear me? Like it, and faster. My life is depending on those legs of yours.”

*

I ngram mumbled curses as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to generate some heat to counter the cold. After another minute, he pulled a blanket from a saddlebag and wrapped it around his shoulders. Beside him, his horse clomped the ground.

“Blanket ain’t big enough for two of us,” he said. “We’ll get you somewhere warm once we find that brat, though, I promise.”

He and his horse waited a hundred yards beyond the castle’s entrance, near the fork where the main road turned toward him. The woods had been thinned out toward the front, though they were still close enough to make him worry. Nathaniel and the farmer might try to sneak along the walls, using the woods as cover. Doing that was a good way to earn an arrow in your back by a guard, though. They’d come traveling down the road, he felt certain of it. According to his bitch of a wife, he’d left immediately after killing Gert and Ben. Dimwit farmer couldn’t know how many were actually looking, or that they might have beaten him here. Ingram expected him to come riding full gallop, the boy behind him on his horse, thinking he’d finally reached safety. Already Ingram had practiced his excuses for when the castle guards came running.

“Guy looked mad as a dog,” he’d say. “Started hollering for me to hand over my money, then sent the boy to do his dirty work.”

No one would question him for killing two hungry thieves too stupid to know better. Even if they did, what would it matter? Gandrem wouldn’t challenge Arthur, not on something so petty as a dead farmer and his boy.

While he held the rough blanket and looked about, he saw a man approaching. He walked on foot, leading his horse. A large sack lay slung across the saddle. Ingram raised an eyebrow at the sight. No boy, but what could someone be bringing to trade this late in winter?

“Slow down there,” Ingram said, tossing his blanket back toward his horse and putting a hand on his hilt. “Strange time for travel, don’t you think?”

“Pig’s die when they die,” said the man. “Come to see if his lordship would like a fine meal tonight.”

The cogs and wheels in Ingram’s brain were never the most tightly fit, but still they turned the words over, again and again, unable to get rid of a deep feeling of someone pulling something over him.

“Let me see it,” he said. The man continued leading the horse right on by, forcing Ingram to jump in his way. Still the man didn’t slow, and Ingram took several steps backward to prevent from getting knocked over. At last he drew his sword and stood his ground.

“I said let me see,” he said. “I don’t think that’s no pig.”

“If you say so,” said the man. He pulled the sack off the horse with a grunt and plopped it to the ground. “Just a small one, maybe good for John and some of his closest…”

While he talked, his hands messed with a tie at the end. The moment the knot came undone, it flung open, and out ran a boy who even Ingram knew had to be Nathaniel. The boy darted underneath his horse’s legs and then shot straight for the castle.

“Fuck!” Ingram shouted, turning to give chase. This time the farmer, Matthew obviously, got in the way. He wielded an old sword, recently polished but still timeworn and unreliable. Didn’t seem to matter, though, for he wielded it as if it were Ashhur’s blade itself and Ingram the dark-spawn of Karak.

“Outta the way!”

Ingram slashed with his sword, hoping to overpower the unskilled farmer. He blocked, clumsily perhaps, but it still banged his sword away. Instead of pressing the advantage, Matthew retreated, full defensive. Behind him, the little brat hollered like his lungs were on fire.

“He’s gonna kill my pa, he’s gonna kill my pa, he’s gonna kill him!”

Damn right, thought Ingram.

Ingram feinted, smirked at how easily the farmer fell for it, and then cut from the other direction. The edge of his sword slashed into his arm, eliciting a cry of pain. Ingram swung again, lower, hoping to split his belly open. The man put his blade in the way just in time. The metal on metal sound rang out, though there was something funny to it, as if one of their weapons wasn’t flexing like it should. Ingram doubted it was his. Blood spilled down Matthew’s arm, and he saw the elbow below it shaking.

“Should have turned him over,” Ingram said. Their eyes met, and for that brief moment, he could tell Matthew thought the same. Behind him, the guards approached, alerted by the boy. Fear bubbled up Ingram’s throat. Even if he lived, what might Oric do for such a screw up? The least he could do was kill the stupid man who had given them so much trouble. He thrust, the tip nicking ribs before Matthew managed to parry it aside. Stepping closer, Ingram pulled his sword around, smacking it against Matthew’s, which had pulled back to defend, and then he slashed once more at exposed flesh. Matthew fell back, but he was too slow, too unprepared for the maneuver. He was a farmer, not a trained fighter.

The sword cleaved through his shoulder and shattered his collarbone. In the distance, he heard Nathaniel scream. Matthew coughed once, his sword falling from limp fingers. His eyes grew wide. His lips quivered, his skin turning white. Ingram put a boot on his chest and kicked him back, freeing his crimson blade. The body clumped to the ground and lay still.

“Stubborn little shit,” Ingram muttered as he wiped his sword clean on Matthew’s leg.

“Drop your blade!” ordered the two gate guards as they arrived. They had their swords drawn, and Ingram promptly obeyed. He gave Nathaniel a smile, who cowered behind the two guards, tears on his face.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked one as he picked up Ingram’s blade. The other circled around to his back and pressed the tip of his sword against him to ensure he did nothing stupid. A hand reached in, yanking his dagger from his belt and tossing it to the dirt.

“I can explain, though Oric can do it better,” he said. He pointed to the body. “That man there’s a kidnapper. I know it ‘cause we been searching high and low for him. And that boy there, well…”

He turned to Matthew, whose eyes looked like white saucers. He grinned, for he felt his lie building, the slow gears in his head turning.

“That’s Nathaniel Gemcroft, back from the dead, as we always hoped.”

The guards looked to the boy, whose skin had gone pale.

“I wasn’t kidnapped,” he insisted to the guards. “I wasn’t. He was helping me, and you let him kill him. Why didn’t you run? I told you to run!”

He was crying now, snot dripping from his nose. The first guard took him by the hand while the other grabbed Ingram by the arm and led him toward the castle.

“This is something lord Gandrem will settle,” said the guard. “Stay quiet, and answer only when you’ve been asked directly, understand?”

“Sure do, but don’t squeeze so rough. You’ll be treating me like a hero soon enough.”

The four entered through the castle gates, then followed the emerald carpet into the main chamber. Uri and Oric were already there, in mid-conversation with John Gandrem on his throne. He sat up straighter at their arrival, clearly recognizing the boy.

“Nathaniel?” he said, his mouth hanging open.

Ingram saw Oric glaring at him, his eyes ready to bulge out of his head. Not knowing what his captain might have been saying, he knew he should set things in motion, let his captain know what lie he’d created.

“I just saved him from his kidnapper,” he said, loud and boastful. A mailed fist struck the back of his head, and for a moment his vision turned to white stars over a purple sky.

“You weren’t addressed,” said the guard behind him.

“My apologies,” Ingram muttered.

Nathaniel rushed into the lord’s arms, and in their comfort he sobbed uncontrollably. John patted his back and whispered comforting words, but his eyes remained drawn to where his missing arm should have been.

“Milord,” said one of the guards, “we found him attacking another who had traveled with the boy, killing him before we could arrive. We’ve brought both here for you.”

“You told me you were searching for a man,” John said, looking to Oric. “Though you said he was merely a thief.”

“And indeed he was,” Oric said. Ingram beamed as his captain took his lie and ran with it. “We suspected him of taking Nathaniel from one of Lord Hadfield’s caravans. Never could we have hoped we’d find him here, of course. Perhaps he had come to issue ransom?”

Nathaniel had begun shaking his head, and Ingram watched him carefully. A child’s story against that of several men shouldn’t matter, but one never knew. If only he’d keep his mouth shut, keep crying.

“I was told Nathaniel had died,” John said. “Learned too late of the funeral, sadly. I was told they’d been given a body, by you in fact, Oric.”

Oric licked his lips.

“We suspected too late it was another child. He’d been badly burned. When I thought it might be a trick to throw us off the kidnapper’s trail, we went looking. We learned nothing worthwhile, not yet, so we’ve been keeping our reasons a secret. Don’t want harmful rumors flying about, nor to give Alyssa false hope.”

“He’s lying,” Nathaniel said. “Don’t listen to them, he’s lying! He was my friend, he killed my friend. He helped me!”

Oric’s voice dropped lower.

“Men do strange things to boys in their capture. Given time, he might twist their head around, make them friendly. He needs rest. This all’s clearly been too much for the lad.”

“He called the stranger his pa when running to us,” offered one of the guards.

John nodded, as this bit seemed to support what Oric was saying. He kept Nathaniel close, as if afraid he might lose him should he let go.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked.

“They said my arm got sick and had to be cut off.”

“Who is they?”

Ingram’s eyes widened. This might be tougher to explain. Maybe they could spin some blame onto that wife of his…

“She’s just a filthy liar, that’s all,” Ingram said, ignoring Oric’s glare. “Probably cut the arm off to torture him.”

John’s face darkened at this.

“She?” he asked.

Ingram opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Meant he,” he said lamely.

“We discovered a lady who claimed her husband had Nathaniel,” Oric said, trying his best to amend the situation but clearly fighting a losing battle. John’s eyes had narrowed, and he had a look like a snake ready to strike. “That’s how we knew to come here is all.”

John patted the boy on the head and leaned closer to him. He whispered something, too quiet for Ingram to hear. Nathaniel whispered something back. When finished, John sank deeper in his chair.

“Take them into custody,” he said to his guards.

“Wait, you got things wrong!”

Ingram felt men grab his arms and wrench them painfully behind his back. It seemed like the very curtains had spawned armored guards. Oric reached for his sword, but the sheer number made him decide not to. One of the guards smashed his face with his fists, as if insulted he’d even considered it.

“I wasn’t there,” Ingram shouted as he was yanked backwards, but it only seemed to make matters worse. “Oric was, he saw it all, I was just doing what I was told!”

“Bring him to me!” John roared, standing from his throne.

Two guards dragged Ingram across the carpet, then shoved him to his knees. A fist grabbed his hair and forced his head to bow reverently.

“I want you to watch this,” Lord Gandrem said to Nathaniel. “You deserve it. With your arm as it is, you’ll be living a hard road, and this is something you should always remember. This is how we treat the scum who dare strike against us.”

“No,” Ingram moaned as he felt his head pulled back. John held a beautiful sword, and he pressed its edge against his throat.

“Pull back the carpet,” he said to his servants. “I don’t want to stain it.”

Ingram felt hollow fear building and building.

“Please,” he begged. “I didn’t do nothing, I didn’t, I was just…”

They lifted him up, and when they set him back down, his feet touched smooth stone.

“You killed a good man,” John said.

“Says who?”

“Says Nathaniel, and I trust his word over yours.”

The sword moved. He felt pain, but when he gasped to scream, it was as if he’d been dunked underwater. His exhalation was a pitiful garble. His head swam, and he thought to faint, but still the guards held him upright. Until the darkness came, he watched John and Nathaniel watching him die. There was no mercy in either of their eyes.

*

G uardsman Mick trudged up the road away from the castle, having drawn the shortest straw of the lot. One of the men’s horses remained standing on the path. The other had wandered off, and he grumbled and hoped it wouldn’t be far. He’d have to stable them both, work out ownership, probably even send one or both back to whoever originally owned them. Bunch of hassles. Of course, there was also the body, which needed to be stripped of any valuables and then disposed of.

Deciding the horses could wait, Mick knelt beside the body, and he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one was, so he put a hand into the dead man’s pockets, searching for loose coin. Of course, not all valuables needed to be handed over…

When the dead body let out a groan, Mick startled, fell back on his rump, and nearly soiled his armor. He closed his slack-jaw, put a hand on the man’s chest, and leaned close. Both were weak, but he felt the tremors of a heartbeat and heard the soft hiss of breath.

“Goddamn, you’re a stubborn one,” he said, unable to believe it. He took to his feet and ran toward the castle, crying out for a healer to make his way to the gate.