by Jones, Heath
Movement from the left - I feint a strike that way then slash behind me, taking a guard under his upraised arm. Twisting around sword thrusts, flowing between blade edges and outstretched, gauntleted hands, my knives carve a bloody path through armour and muscle, tendon and bone. The sound of steel on steel rings out amid the cries of pain that follow in the wake of my knives as bodies spasm, fall back, slump to the ground. With every strike I make, the Peace Bringers grow more cautious, holding back, hesitant, so I ignore my flagging arms and continue my blades’ deadly dance.
Suddenly a flash of pain tears along my left side and I turn to see a sword swinging free of my flesh. Swords flash at me again from all sides with renewed vigour. Now I am being forced back, barely managing to parry their attacks. My foot snags on something and I fall. Dropping my shoulder before I hit the ground, I roll under the table and come up into a tight crouch. A thin trail of blood shows where I’ve come from, but I don’t have a chance to see how bad my wound is as swords stab at me beneath the table. They are weak thrusts though and deflecting them is easy. I slash at hands and feet that get too close, smiling grimly as more than a few fingers are separated from their owner’s hands. Quickly rolling backwards I come out on the other side of the table. Before I can rise fully to my feet, a sword cuts down at me from above. Moving to the side, I raise a knife above my head and deflect the blow then slash at the ankles on the table in front of me. A bellow of pain is followed by a thud as the body crashes onto the table.
Whirling around I am confronted by Peace Bringers who have climbed over the table and now approach me, warily waving their swords in front of them. Grimacing from the pain in my side, my breath laboured, I know that to wait now is to die. So I push away from the table and throw myself at them. Thrusting and blocking, deflecting and slashing, cutting and ducking, weaving and jabbing - body after body falls behind my knives. But the sheer weight of their numbers is pushing me back against the table, where others stand above me swinging down at me.
A stinging pain from a cut to my thigh causes me to stumble, and I barely manage to turn away a blade aimed at my belly. Lashing out I take the man’s throat but am immediately struck in the other shoulder from behind. Tears blur my vision and I scream with rage. Not now, I think, beginning to panic. I can’t die now!
There are just too many of them and my strength is failing. Blood flows freely from my wounds, and my legs are struggling to keep me upright. But then I remember - I’ve been like this before. In the forest with Storm, blindfolded and with a knife in my side. I proved myself there and earned Storm’s respect. Drawing strength from all I’ve been through, I calm myself. And fight.
Slashing a wild arc with my knife buys me a moment of respite. Whipping my arm back, I throw a knife at the nearest Peace Bringer on the table then follow behind it. Leaping onto the table I roll across the dying man and pull my knife out of his body, then simultaneously strike out left and right, both arms extended, to impale a charging Peace Bringer on each of my knives.
Standing up I deflect the nearest sword thrust and stab over the top of it, slashing across the man’s face, who reels backwards and falls from the table. Trying to fight in all directions at once, I spin and whirl across the table, stabbing, blocking, dodging. Cups clatter to the ground and plates shatter beneath our feet. I leap over wild sword slashes from the attackers on the ground trying to sever my ankles, then lunge down and deliver a deathly stab of my own.
I turn at the sound of a dull thud behind me to see a Peace Bringer with his sword embedded in the giant silver horse. My last dodge put me in front of the horse, saving me. Smiling grimly at my good fortune, I vault over the horse, one hand resting on its rearing head, and kick the Peace Bringer in the chest with both feet, knocking him off the table.
Spinning around, I’m surprised that there are no other attackers. Six or seven Peace Bringers cower near the wall, but otherwise, the room is still. Armoured and liveried bodies lie scattered all around the hall. Groans escape the lips of those still living. Mercifully I didn’t deliver fatal wounds to them all, but my knives inflicted enough damage to ensure I didn’t need to fight anyone twice. Hamstrings, ankle and knee tendons, elbows and wrists – all have felt the cool edge of my blades.
Climbing down from the table, I feel the burning pain of my own injuries. I’m smeared in blood, and a lot of it, I realise, is mine. Small cuts line my arms, deeper gashes in my thigh and shoulder leak blood, but it is the wound in my side that is draining my strength. Blood still flows freely, though thankfully not quickly. While keeping an eye on the frightened Peace Bringers in the corner, I cut off a piece of cloak from a motionless body at my feet and bunch it up, pushing it tightly against the wound. My grimace causes the Peace Bringers to back away further, bringing the first smile to my face in what seems like weeks. If they’re not going to attack me, I’m willing to leave them be, so I hobble out of the banqueting hall and continue my search for the emperor.
The hallways are deserted. I check room after room in what are obviously the sleeping apartments, but apart from the lavish poster beds and carved wardrobes, they too are empty. The other guards must all be on the lower levels, chasing Aveline and Theolin. I reach the last room at the end of the hallway and only half look inside, ready to move on, when I stop and take a full look into the room. It is unlike any of the others I have seen. While the other bedrooms were lavishly furnished, they were still essentially bare. Here, the stone walls here have been covered with polished oak, a marble fireplace has been built into one wall, with the largest bed I have ever seen on the opposite wall. A thin, translucent purple veil of silk hangs from the posts of the bed, while on the wall behind it hangs a giant, jewel-encrusted sword. My mind cannot even grasp the value such a sword would be worth. It must be an ornament, surely only worn for parades and the like. But then, noticing how it is easily within reach of anyone sleeping on the bed, perhaps it is also for the comfort of an untrusting emperor. For surely this is his bedroom.
On the other side of the room, a large double door is open, revealing a lush garden beyond. Slowly, cautiously, I cross the room and peer outside.
The garden is beautiful, every corner filled with lush and vibrant colours. Around the edges tall, towering trees screen the garden from prying eyes. Exotic plants are interspersed among the trees, while flowers and vines cover the ground, leaving nowhere untouched by colour. The hand that tends this garden does so with an obvious love and skill. It is more than a garden; it is a living sanctuary.
And there, kneeling in the middle of this tranquil garden, facing the pond in front of him, is the man I’ve come to assassinate.
Emperor Tigranik.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Finally.
After all this time, all the hardships, all the deaths, here in front of me is the author of the suffering and despair of nations. My feet stop, rooted to the ground, as I study the back of the kneeling emperor. His dark hair is streaked with grey and tied into a braid that reaches down to his waist. A dark blue robe embroidered with silver eagles fits tightly over his broad shoulders. So far, he doesn’t appear to have noticed me.
Rage boils up within me, tinged with the satisfaction of knowing I am about to end this war. Smiling grimly, I spin the knives between my fingers and stride toward the kneeling figure.
“You must be exceptionally skilled to have made it this far,” the emperor says, his voice quiet yet commanding. His words halt my advance and I glare at his back, barely ten paces away. How is he aware of my presence? My footfalls have been too quiet for even my own ears to hear, and his back has been turned ever since I entered his garden. And his words… is he stalling, waiting for his guards? Will his next utterance be a plea for his life, a simple ruse to delay me until help arrives? “Most would-be assassins never make it into the palace,” he says, his calm voice not betraying even a trace of fear. “Those who do are… halted, in the entrance hall.”
I turn my knife over, ready to throw it. Then I he
sitate - he is defenceless, kneeling, his back turned. Can I strike him from behind and kill him in cold blood, just like I did the young Peace Bringer on the roof?
As though reading my thoughts, Tigranik stands, slowly, then turns to face me. He is taller than I had imagined, nearly a head taller than me. His skin is sun-darkened, with lines creasing his clean-shaven face. He is old, but his face still retains some of the handsomeness it must have held in his youth.
“Well, almost all are halted in the entrance hall,” he corrects himself. “So tell me, why have you come to kill me?” he asks.
“You’ve killed everyone precious to me,” I snarl. “My mother, my brother and sister, my father. My friends. Everyone. You’ve murdered them all with your pitiless, endless war.”
A shadow crosses his face, and he looks… sad. “Ah,” he says softly, “the visible reality of what my policy has wrought. What is your name?”
“Sara Fairgrey,” I reply, stunned that the words came so quickly out of my mouth.
“I am truly sorry for your loss, Sara,” he says, and to my amazement, he sounds genuinely sincere.
His words leave me speechless and I stare at him, uncomprehending. The emperor, likewise, appears at a loss for words. Is this just another of his masterful ploys? An attempt to lull me into believing he regrets the deaths he has caused, and so to put me off balance, to make me hesitate?
I won’t be his fool. Storm said his most dangerous weapons were his words, so it’s time to silence them. Whipping my arm forward I release the knife in my right hand. I watch, a smile slowly spreading across my face as the knife flies towards his throat. At the last moment, he twists to the side, almost serpent-like in the speed and grace of his movement, and the knife hits the tree behind him with an audible, harmless thunk.
He turns his eyes on me, as though pitying me. “Was that wise?” he asks.
Anger and frustration, the strength of which I have never known before, seize me. From the depths of my anguish comes a full-throated, guttural scream as I hurl myself at him, my remaining knife a whirlwind in front of me.
Expecting to cut through his robe and flesh I’m shocked to hear steel on steel. From out of his sleeves the emperor has drawn a knife in each hand. With one he is parrying my attacks while the other darts out dangerously at me. Instead of cutting him down and ending the bloodshed of nations, I’m desperately fending away his blades. Breaking away, I take a moment to regain my breath.
“Not as impressive as I’d thought,” he says, sounding faintly disappointed.
Then the pain begins. I look down at my arms and am shocked to see blood flowing from newly inflicted gashes.
“Did you think I would be defenceless?” he asks. I glare up at him, and he sighs. “I am saddened that Storm had a change of heart. It was Storm who taught you, yes?”
“What does it matter who taught me?” I reply, shocked to hear him mention Storm’s name.
The emperor smiles wryly. “She is the only other person to have reached me here in my private garden. I’d have thought she would have educated you more on what to expect.”
“She told me enough,” I say. “She warned me how dangerous you are and cautioned me not to listen to you. She said your words are your greatest weapons.”
“Isn’t that true of us all?” Tigranik asks.
Ignoring his taunt, I wonder again why Storm didn’t tell us about her attempt to assassinate the emperor. Surely she knew we’d find out from Vahla. Why did she keep that secret from us?
“She never told you, did she?” Tigranik says, his eyes boring into me. “Perhaps she didn’t have a change of heart after all,” he adds quietly, this time sounding strangely… pleased.
“Enough!” I scream, closing on him and launching a renewed flurry of attacks. This time I’m more measured, not allowing my rage to control me. I move with all the skill I possess, my knife becoming an extension of my arm, a part of me. I flow from strike to strike, block to block. Lunging or cutting, slashing or stabbing, deftly turning aside his blades or jamming them mid-strike, I am in control of this fight. Tigranik slashes down on me but I turn it aside then strike out viciously, slicing through his robe and feeling my blade bite his flesh.
The emperor jumps back, glancing down at the slash in his robe and the blood beginning to stain it. His eyes turn back to me and he regards me with a wry smile. “Never judge on appearances, there is always more than you will ever know lurking below the surface,” he says cryptically. “It’s a lesson I should have learned by now.”
He comes at me again, but I can tell he isn’t giving his all. It’s as though he is probing my defences, searching for a weakness. This makes his attacks easy to defend, but his caution makes it harder for me to slip through his defences. He is a skilled fighter, and despite his age, his reflexes are as fast as a snake.
Weaving around plants as wide as my shoulders, the sounds of our clashing blades ring out. Water splashes up as we flow across the knee-deep pond. Something brushes against my leg, startling me. I look down for just an instant to see a red and gold fish swimming past and am immediately set upon by Tigranik as he rains down another flurry of strikes. I back away, barely keeping his blades from my skin, struggling to keep my footing on the slippery, submerged pebbles.
Without warning the emperor breaks off his attack. He is breathing hard, seemingly as grateful for the reprieve as I am.
“Have you ever thought about what killing me will do to you?” he asks, his voice surprisingly unlaboured, despite his heaving chest.
“What?” I say, taken aback.
“When you kill, it leaves a stain on your soul,” he replies. “For some, that stain is unfortunately unnoticeable. For others, it is like an oil smear on a pure white cloth, ruining it forever.”
My stomach recoils again at the image of the dead young Peace Bringer on the rooftop. I know my conscience will pay a steep price for his murder; I’ve accepted that. But… no. This is just another ploy, the emperor fighting with words because he is losing with steel.
“And does the stain not show on your soul?” I ask with contempt.
“All too clearly,” he sighs. “But I’ve accepted the burden.”
A chill runs down my spine - his words unnervingly reflect my own thoughts. I want to answer, to fire back a barbed reply. But I dare not. If I engage in his battle of words, I will lose. Instead, I lower my weight, lean forward on my toes, and raise my blade. And attack.
Anticipating Tigranik’s caution, I fake my attacks. Throwing my shoulder forward but not my body, stepping in quickly but not close enough to strike, I gauge his responses, learning how he will block or evade. Very quickly I know exactly how he will react to my attacks. Springing forward, I fake a slash to his throat then drive my knife straight towards his heart.
At the last moment the emperor twists to the side, knocks my knife hand away then slashes down my arm with his other blade. I scream as I feel the blade bite deeply through my flesh. The emperor watches me, a sly smile on his face. “Feinting a strike in one place while your true target lies elsewhere,” he says. “Commanding a battlefield or in personal combat - that is a stratagem I am well aquatinted with.”
I growl in frustration. The man is wily as a fox. He knew what I was doing and wasn’t showing me his real defensive movements, only the ones he wanted me to see, all the while waiting for me to commit myself. Yet for all his cunning, he only managed to cut my arm. I begin to smile before a dark thought suddenly takes shape. If he knew what I was going to do, why only cut my arm?
We circle each other again, renewing the dance that seems to have been going on forever. He strikes and I deflect, or I attack him, only for my blade to be turned away. The clashing of our blades is more infrequent as we continue to probe for our opportunity.
The strength in my arm is slowly failing, but even so, I can see I’m wearing him down too. His movements are slower, his shoulders hunched, his back no longer straight. A surge of confidence wells up within me as
I realise that I will defeat him. I can already picture my victory, striking Tigranik down and avenging my family, my friends, and ending this useless war.
And yet…
And yet…
A cloud of doubt suddenly enters my mind.
I am not the first assassin the emperor has fought in this garden. Storm has been here. Storm battled this man, yet both lived. Why? Did Storm lose? A defeated assassin doesn’t walk away, they are killed. Similarly, if Storm had prevailed, Tigranik would be dead.
“What happened?” I ask, breaking off my attack. We are in a small grass-covered clearing somewhere in the middle of the garden. “What happened when you fought Storm?”
The emperor takes a wary step back, gulping down lungfuls of air. After frowning down at the slashes in his robe, he turns his eyes back on me. “She saw things,” he replies.
“Saw what?” I demand, confused.
“Things she hadn’t seen before.”
“Don’t play with me, Tigranik,” I say. “Speak plainly.”
“I always do,” he replies. “Are you willing to listen?”
He’s pulling me into a trap, I know it, lulling me into a battle where he holds the advantage. But I need to know.
“Briefly,” I answer.
“Impatient,” he snorts. Drawing a deep breath, he continues. “Very well. Answer me this. What do you seek to achieve by assassinating me?”
“The end of the war,” I snap.
“Which war?” he asks.
Careful, I tell myself. He’s leading me onto slippery rocks. “What does that mean?” I ask, gripping my knife tighter. “I said speak plainly.”
