by Jeff Gunzel
In desperation, one of the men on this roof threw his crossbow. The clumsy attack flew just wide of Azek, who closed the distance in a quick sprint. Another flash of steel left the crossbowman with no arm and a gaping wound across his stomach. The other pulled his sword and charged. With a flick of the wrist, Azek’s dagger zipped into his eye, burying itself up to the hilt. Screaming, gripping the hilt while blood ran down his wrist, he tumbled backward off the roof. After watching his companions die so quickly, so effortlessly, the third simply jumped off the roof. Better to just take his chances with the fall.
The assassin leapt again, soaring through the air and landing on the next rooftop. Two more crossbowmen turned, startled. Azek snapped his wrist, sending a dagger streaking into the first man’s gut. He doubled over, far from dead but posing no immediate threat. The second dropped his crossbow and reached for his sword. His hand grasping the hilt was as far as he got. The assassin zipped up in a blur, burying his blade in the man’s chest.
Arkare’s crossbowmen were falling left and right. The assassin’s intent was to send them all to the afterlife. They were the main threat to the soldiers below, but in close combat their numbers meant nothing. Azek reached down and retrieved his dagger, tearing it free from the first man’s gut. After watching his victim take his last breath, the assassin wiped the blade on his back and added it back to his others. In a blink he was off and running again, bounding from rooftop to rooftop. A silent hunter streaking through the night...killing at will.
* * *
Anna wandered through the street, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. Drenched by the heavy rain, her hair matted and dress clinging heavily to her skin, she walked aimlessly with no clear direction in mind. Surrounded by the sounds of steel clashing, the shrieks of men dying, she didn’t so much as glance in any direction other than where her feet were taking her.
A soldier in bloodstained chainmail crashed down at her feet. His pursuers immediately jumped on top of the fallen man, their blades stabbing in and out feverishly. His screams were short lived. She veered slightly so as not to step directly over them, then carried on as if sleepwalking.
A window shattering to her right gave her pause. She watched as two men tumbled through the frame and rolled across the ground, locked in combat. A distant part of her mind tugged at her, telling her to run. All this should have been terrifying, but it wasn’t. In fact, the surrounding violence barely even kept her attention.
“There’s the whore! This is all your fault,” came a gruff voice from across the street. She turned casually, more as a curious afterthought than from fear for her life. The man came charging at her, sword in hand. She blinked, then again, never putting her hands up in defense. Just...watching.
Arching his back, his face suddenly contorted, twisted with pain as he dropped his sword. Dropping to his knees, he reached back, clawing at something desperately. His eyes rolled up into his head, shoulders slumping, before he fell face down into a puddle, a dagger hilt sticking up from his back.
A second man stood there, looking down in shock as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. With a look of horror in his eyes, he approached her slowly, hands up as if to signify he meant her no harm. “Anna? Anna Drine,” said the small man with a large nose. “Please, it’s not safe here.” He reached out and gently took her hand. “You must come with me now.” She didn’t answer, only stared at him blankly. The little man tapped his own chest. “My name is Yiph, and I need you to trust me.”
* * *
Whistling air through his teeth, Ninal ripped the bolt from his leg. He glared at it, tip dark with his own blood, before throwing it aside. Still gripping his shield, he peeked over the top of it, certain another wave of bolts would come crashing in at any moment, but not a single bolt came. What he did see were bodies falling from the rooftops. One by one they fell, and not as if being pushed. They fell limply, clearly dead before hitting the ground.
Gaining a measure of confidence, he gingerly got back to his feet. His leg was on fire, but he had been hurt far worse than this before. Blocking out pain had become an art form and a way of life. “I don’t know what’s happening up there, but I’m grateful for it,” he said quietly. It was possible one of his own men was up there wreaking havoc, but that seemed unlikely. His soldiers were highly trained, but stealth was not their strong suit. Whoever was streaking across those rooftops was taking down the shooters at an alarming rate. He respected his men’s skill, but was also aware of their limitations. Not a one amongst them could move like that, certainly not wearing chainmail.
He groaned, even while placing minimal weight on his tender leg. This rescue had not gone according to plan. Ideally they would have rode in, demanded the return of Lady Drine, then left without a single casualty on either side. Apparently the wolves’ lair didn’t see it that way, firing crossbows the moment they had come into range. Clearly they didn’t believe in negotiating with soldiers, or any men of authority. Any chance of a peaceful negotiation had gone up in smoke almost immediately. And worse, they still hadn’t found her. This is all my fault. I won’t leave this place until I find her, or die searching.
He started to limp off, determined to find Anna. Blood diluted with rainwater ran down his wounded leg. Each step sent a jolt of pain running all the way up to his hip. Suddenly he stopped, fully aware of a presence behind him, one he never saw or heard.
“So you are the one who brought this trouble to my peaceful town,” said Arkare, in a voice seeming far too soft and soothing to come from this giant.
Ninal slowly drew his sword, a grinding hiss that could be heard above the heavy rainfall. He turned to face the source of that soothing voice, one of the largest men he had ever seen. He wore a glossy black suit with blades running up the arms and back. Holding two impossibly long swords, Arkare smiled, revealing his trademark golden fangs. His ice-blue eyes bore into Ninal, the lifeless stare of a corpse. The general had seen many things, but nothing could ever prepare him for such a sight, though the bladesmaster wasn’t intimidated.
“Peaceful town?” Ninal laughed, gripping his sword with both hands. “Nearly every murder that happens in these lands leads right back to this cesspool. Lucky for you, most of the fallen were murdering thieves themselves. Your competition I’m sure, but I promise you the wolves’ lair will be held accountable this time.” He twirled his blade, cutting the air with a whooshing sound. “The girl you had captured was of considerable rank. There will be no talking your way out of this.”
“I don’t claim to be a man of honor,” Arkare hissed. “My services are awarded to the highest bidder, but I am not a fool! Do you really believe I ordered the whore of Athsmin to be captured and brought here? In truth, I wish I had never laid eyes on the wench, but it’s too late for any of that now.” Ninal’s eyes betrayed his thoughts when his gaze flickered to the rooftops. “Yes,” said Arkare, answering the unasked question. “Your alleged kidnapper is killing my men as we speak. I’ll have his head for what he’s done, but not before...I have yours.”
Angrily, Arkare crashed his blades together, then cautiously stalked in. Despite this man’s serious wound, Arkare knew a general when he saw one. His stance, the way he held his blade, even his confident, unblinking eyes marked him for the bladesmaster he was. A veteran swordsman not to be taken lightly. With slow steps, they circled one another, neither ready to commit. Lightning flashed, illuminating their faces. Ninal was not a young man, and the years showed on his chiseled features, but he moved smoothly with a deadly grace that was unmistakable. Arkare’s graceful steps mirrored the general’s, his blades high and steady.
Like a viper, Arkare slashed high, a probing strike to determine the grizzled general’s skill. It was blocked effortlessly with a streaking high slash. Ninal then reversed his blade with similar speed, a maneuver he’d done thousands of times, crashing his blade into Arkare’s second sword, deflecting it wide. With smooth, deceptive speed, he rolled his sword over the back of his hand,
then exploded into an uppercut slash, missing Arkare’s chin by an inch or two. The giant jumped back, a bit taken aback by the lightning-quick combination. It came closer than he anticipated, but now he had an idea of the old man’s skill. By all rights, the general would have proved a modest challenge...had he not been injured.
He gave Ninal’s stance a hard look, then grinned with satisfaction. The general’s ruse was a good one. To the untrained eye he seemed to be standing solidly on both legs, but Arkare could plainly see his wounded leg couldn’t support any weight. A lesser man wouldn’t even be standing, yet alone fighting. He’s virtually crippled but still dangerous. Best to end this as fast as possible, he thought.
Arkare lunged in, unleashing a lethal barrage of heavy strikes. Swarming the wounded, smaller man with an offensive assault, the hope was to break through his skilled defense. To overwhelm him with all the speed and power, not giving him a chance to mount any offence. Ninal’s sword worked in quick circles, a dazzling defensive display of parries that blasted away each strike in a shower of sparks. His sword was an extension of his own arm, masterfully ripping off stunning combinations. But his wound was becoming more and more obvious, affecting his footwork that was so critical now. Unable to move laterally, or generate any power from his legs, his sword arm and upper body were forced to do all the work.
Their blades crashed like thunder again and again, Arkare in full assault mode, Ninal in full retreat. One of Arkare’s blades finally got through, tearing into the general’s shoulder. Ninal growled, his leg buckling as he turned the wounded shoulder away. He eyed his shield laying a few feet away, but decided against diving for it. It would already have been too much weight to hold and function with his bad leg, but now his left arm was all but useless.
He staggered back, arm hanging limply, but his hard eyes remained focused. He was not afraid to die, but wouldn’t lie down for this man either. He would go down swinging and make this giant of a man earn his victory. He raised his sword with his good arm, sharp eyes blazing with anger and determination. “I’m still standing,” he growled. “Come and finish it.” It was little more than a whisper, but his clear, crisp words seemed to carry on the wind. Blood ran freely down his leg, and now from his wounded shoulder, pooling at his feet.
“With pleasure,” said Arkare, stalking forward. “I’ll honor you with a soldier’s death.”
Thundering hooves pounding the street made Arkare turn his head. “You’ll not touch him!” Ardo shrieked, charging in, riding a massive warhorse. Having no clue how to ride such a beast, he clung to the horse’s neck as it charged, all his energy being used just trying not to fall off. But saving his mentor was the only thing driving the young scout.
“No, stay back! You fool boy,” shouted Ninal, horribly wounded and unable to do anything to help. Helplessly, he watched in horror as the clumsy rider, a loose grip on his short sword, charged against a killer many times his skill level. Arkare smiled, swords high and ready to rip him to shreds. But at the last moment, the boy’s foolish bravery became a fool’s luck. In a fully committed maneuver that surprised the giant, Ardo dove from the horse’s saddle, crashing into the giant and sending both of them tumbling along the street.
Enraged, Arkare got back up quickly. He roared with anger, glaring at the winded youth. Ardo was definitely worse for wear after the collision, holding his arm and rolling on the ground in pain. The giant bore down on him, swords raised high, ready to gut the boy while making sure Ninal saw the whole thing. “I don’t know why you’re with these soldiers, boy, but you should have stayed home this day!” Arkare growled.
Lightning lit up the sky, a jagged blue bolt that seemed to linger with an afterglow. Arkare stopped his pursuit, eyes drifting upward. Instantly he seemed to have forgotten all about the boy, his attention drawn elsewhere. The other two followed his gaze to a tower a few paces away. A second bolt lit the night sky, revealing the hooded figure standing at the tower’s peak. His cloak whipping in the wind, arms crossed over his chest, the dark figure gazed down on them like a giant bird of prey.
There came a series of flashes, enough to make them squint against its light. It was only for an instant, but when they looked back, like a ghost...he was gone.
* * *
“Come now. Hurry, this way,” said Yiph, leading the unresponsive girl by the hand. She trotted along behind, steering whichever way he pulled her. He was at least grateful for that much. There came a shriek to their right as a soldier pushed his blade deep into a man’s gut, the ringing of steel on steel to the left as fighting raged on. Yiph kept moving because standing still meant certain death, but he really had no idea where they were going. Just keep moving, he thought. I must find a way to keep her safe.
He saw two soldiers up ahead, hands on their knees while breathing heavily. The blood splatters across their armor was evidence of just how much action they had already seen. “I’ve found her! She’s with me, unharmed,” yelled Yiph, waving to get their attention. Startled, the first soldier’s hand went to his sword at the glimpse of someone screaming and running toward him. But his weary glare soon became recognition, then excitement.
He reached down the front of his chainmail, and pulled up a whistle on a chain. He let out several shrill blasts before running up to join them. “Where did you find her?” he asked, still breathing hard.
“It doesn’t matter, we have to get her out of here!” Yiph replied urgently.
“Agreed,” said the soldier, looking about as other armored men came running in response to the whistle. Quickly, they formed around her, facing away with their shields locked outward. Within moments she was hidden inside an armored shell. They moved through the street, sidestepping to keep the shell spinning all the time, swords and shields ready. They had done the impossible, and somehow retrieved the target, unharmed. From this point forward, no one would touch a hair on her head.
* * *
Arkare’s eyes darted about, searching. Where did he go? “Come out, you coward!” he yelled, turning about in the rain as water ran from his chin. It came down so hard it blurred his vision. “I should have killed you when I first had the chance.” A loud scraping sound forced him to turn back. He glared in the general direction of the sound, but saw nothing that grabbed his attention. From the other side of the street, a barrel turned over, spilling water in a rush across the walkway and into the road. Swords ready, he spun that way and began stalking in that direction.
Ninal and Ardo were completely forgotten about, which was all right with them. “Get up, sir,” Ardo whispered, pulling the general’s arm. “We have to get you out of here.” He wrapped Ninal’s good arm over his shoulder, then the two of them began limping away.
“Show yourself!” Arkare yelled, kicking the empty barrel and sending it smashing into the side of a building. Suddenly, laughter echoed all around him—a hollow cackle that seemed to cascade from everywhere at once. He spun about angrily, blades readied, having no clear idea from which direction the taunting was coming from.
He spun back at the last moment, his blades intercepting Azek’s with a crash. Where he had come from was anyone’s guess. “So this was your plan all along,” Arkare hissed, applying forward pressure with their blades engaged. “To assassinate me, then return to power as if you had never left. You and that girl should have never come here.”
Azek sneered, pressing back against the larger man. The wild accusation just went to prove how far he had come since leaving the wolves’ lair. It was nearly laughable that he would ever want this life back, and even more ludicrous that someone would fight tooth and nail to retain this savage lifestyle. To think, he too, had once thought this way.
“I pity your wretched existence for any number of reasons,” Azek hissed. “But your believing that I would ever take back this fool’s position of false power might top the list. However, not all your words are so delusional. It’s true; I should never have brought Anna to this cursed place. No doubt I’ll hang for my crimes, and deser
vedly so. And you are correct on another matter as well, although it was never my intention until now,” he looked into the dead man’s eyes, his own burning with loathing, “I am going to kill you.”
Disengaging with a push, Azek nearly proved it with a spinning reverse slash. Arkare blocked it, barely. With that small window of surprise now gone, there was no longer any reason to hold back. The two warriors exploded with motion, their swords spinning and crashing in a violent blur. Even in the rain, blooms of orange and blue sparks fired off with each crash of steel. The speed of their whirling blades was dizzying.
Ninal and Ardo, unable to get very far with the general’s wounds, watched the extraordinary battle from a safe distance. Ninal, who had thought he’d seen it all, gazed at the skilled swordsmen in wonderment. Were they immortal? How many lifetimes would it take to achieve such swordsmanship? “By the gods,” he mumbled to himself. “The legend of the Shadow is real.”
The fight was not a quiet one, and rooftops were quickly filling with mercenaries, some taking bets on the outcome. Not all were pulling for Arkare, who was currently their leader. Some just assumed they’d watch him fall, then the legendary Shadow would surely take his place. Either way, no one planned to interfere.
Soldiers came from alleyways and around corners, many of them carrying bloody shields. They came to stand beside their general. Others just stared, mesmerized by the battle. More cutthroats emerged, standing dangerously close to the men they were just fighting. No one seemed to care about that anymore, as if this single battle would somehow determine the winning side.
Arkare moved like a man half his size, flowing out of harm’s way as the Shadow’s blades flashed high and low. Their movements were all a blur to those who watched on. Swords crashing, whipping in circles, everything was a blur, except Arkare’s dodges. His movements seemed to flow like silk, yet were deceptively fast. He parried another storm of lightning-quick strikes, then flowed out of the way as even more strikes flashed around his melting body. His movements were swift, yet smooth like liquid black, melting forward, then away, as if he were made of water. Hypnotizing, rippling black silk.
