The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched

by T C Southwell

  The Queen’s Blade Prequel II

  God Touched

  T C Southwell

  Published by T C Southwell at Smashwords

  Copyright © 2010 T C Southwell

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  The whore hesitated at the entrance to Pitcairn Alley, its darkness daunting her a little. The Death Moon was only half full, and clouds made the night darker. A breeze stirred the rags and bits of paper that littered the lane, carrying the stench of decay and excrement to her. The alley made her journey home much shorter, however, and she sensed no presence in it. The greatest danger was tripping over something foul, or slipping in the turds that beggars left. Entering the alley, she picked her way through the garbage, avoiding puddles of dubious, dirty liquid that might have been water or piss. No beggars slept here; it was too foul even for them.

  A dark form lying on the cobblestones made her pause, and she peered at it, unable to make out what it was. Stepping closer, she poked it with her toe. Drunkards sometimes did not make it home, and occasionally carried purses with a few coppers in them. The moon edged out from behind the clouds, casting its magical light on a huddled, black-clad man. He lay on his side, one arm bent under him at an unnatural angle, his face pressed to the dirty street. Blood caked on his exposed cheek and spiked his long hair, which straggled from a leather thong to lie against his cheek, glued there with blood.

  Lilu clicked her tongue and shook her head. Doubtless he was the victim of cutthroats, and probably dead. He certainly looked dead. On the off chance that they had missed it, she groped at his belt for his purse. To her surprise, she found one that clinked, and tugged it loose, hefting it. If what was inside was silver, it was a tenday's worth of food and lodgings. Eager to evaluate her windfall, she opened the leather pouch and peered inside, her eyes widening at the glint of gold. Unable to believe her luck, she emptied a few coins into her palm and stared at them. The purse was full of goldens. At least ten, judging by its weight. More than a moon-phase of good food and clean board. She glanced at the man, pitying him. Whoever he was, he had no more use for the money.

  Tucking the purse away, she stepped over the corpse and hurried on down the alley, eager to get home and count her newfound riches. By the time she reached the end of the lane, her steps slowed and she glanced back. What if he was alive? He would die for sure if no one helped him, and no one would, she was certain. Even if his family was rich, and searched for him, they would not find him in time. If she helped him, on the other hand, they might give her a reward. Then again, how could she? He was surely too heavy for her to drag all the way to her lodgings. She could call, though. They might help if he was a wealthy man. She quickened her steps, then slowed again. What was a rich man doing in Pitcairn Alley? That made no sense. The affluent did not come to the poor quarter.

  Lilu paused at the end of the lane and looked back, undecided. Her curiosity was thoroughly aroused, but it had got her into trouble before now. The most sensible course of action was to go home and forget about him. Why could she not just walk away? What was it about this half-dead, if not entirely dead man that made her want to help him so much? Her desire to do so was illogical, and, although she was a soft-hearted person, for the most part, good sense should have warned her to stay away from a potentially dangerous situation. Who knew who he was? He might be a killer.

  A soft pop made her glance around. A tiny dragon, aglow with scintillating light that shimmered over her skin in many-hued, ever-changing patterns, hovered on blurred wings beside her. Symbell drifted closer, her green eyes alight as she gazed past Lilu up the lane. Gold edged her wings and legs and vibrant blue rimmed her nostrils and eyes. Symbell trilled, and her words whispered in Lilu's mind.

  Save him.

  The harlot tilted her head. “Why?”

  You want to.

  “But he might be dangerous.”

  You must.

  “Why?”

  Symbell chirped and burst into song, filling the dingy street with magical notes of the sweetest purity. The moonlight shimmered and brightened, gilding rooftops and cobblestones. Dirty glass panes glowed, bits of filthy paper sparkled and puddles glinted like liquid silver. The gloomy street became a magical wonderland when filled with a radiant dragon's song of revelation. If anyone was abroad tonight, or awake in a nearby house, they would find their drab world transformed into a pearl-hued paradise.

  Lilu glanced at the fallen man and gasped. Radiance drifted around him, drawn to him in a glowing nimbus that swirled and shimmered, shot with pale hues of unimaginable beauty. It radiated from him too, surrounding him in a shining aura so pale and pure it was hard to look at and not cry. Lilu was drawn to him, and fought the powerful urge. She looked at Symbell, who continued to sing, her throat puffed up as she produced her sweet, magical notes. They hung in the air, carrying echoes that owed nothing to the presence of boundaries. Lilu gazed at the comatose man again, certain now that he lived, and her eyes widened as the shimmering aura around him coalesced, becoming sharp-edged and distinct.

  Symbell fell silent, and in an instant the magic vanished as if it had never been, and the gloom, filth and stench closed in once more.

  Lilu whispered, “He's God Touched.”

  Symbell chirped. Yes.

  Lilu smiled and held out her hand, and the radiant landed on it, her wings becoming visible as they ceased to beat. She folded them and craned her sinuous neck, purring when Lilu stroked her silken skin, causing the coloured patterns in it to swirl. Symbell arched her neck and nipped Lilu's finger, then leapt into the air with a buzz of wings and vanished with a faint pop, leaving a glowing spot in the air. Lilu giggled, then her mirth faded as she turned to look at the stranger again. The amazement of Symbell's miraculous revelation stunned her, and she walked back to his side, striving to come to terms with it. Only a very few were God Touched, legend said; perhaps one in seven generations. Perhaps as few as one per age. She stood beside him, a lump blocking her throat.

  Crouching, she tried to brush the hair from his cheek, but the dried blood held it in place. He stank of excrement and decay, his short leather jacket and trousers streaked with it. Someone had beaten him almost to death, and it looked like his arm was broken, perhaps his leg too. Lilu took hold of his wrist and tried to pull him into a sitting position, but he flopped. He did not appear to be a big man, and he was lean, almost thin. Wrinkling her nose at the stench and wishing she had a handkerchief to cover it with, she bent and slid her arms under his knees and shoulders. Her back twinged when she straightened, but he proved to be even lighter than he looked, and once she was upright he did not seem so heavy.

  Lilu staggered down the alley, bowed under his weight, which s
he could barely carry. Her lodgings in a merchant's back room on Tarbriar Way seemed a league away, and she was certain her strength would not last that long. She was quite surprised when she arrived at the sagging door to her room, and, fearing that if she put him down she would not be able to pick him up again, tired as she was, she fumbled the key into the lock with the hand that supported his knees. Mercifully the lock opened easily, and she reeled inside, made it to the bed and dumped him on it, panting. A few moonbeams crept in through the window to silver a patch of grimy floor, and she rubbed her aching back before lighting the lamp beside the bed.

  Eager to get a good look at her find, she lighted all the candles and set them on the bedside table, filling the room with golden radiance. He lay on his side, his back to her, and she sat on the edge of the bed and rolled him onto his back. Lilu's breath caught at the sight of his face, and she gazed at him, her heart pounding. God Touched. It showed in the purity of his features, so lean and clean, with a well-shaped mouth and high cheekbones, a narrow, chiselled nose and fine brows. He looked no more than seventeen years old, a mere youth. Dried blood streaked his cheeks and clogged his nostrils, and he breathed through his mouth. His nose was crooked, so it must be broken, and the sides of his temples were grazed as if he had been kicked there. Someone had tried hard to ruin his face.

  Lilu gazed at him for several minutes, basking in the wonder of her find. Rising to her feet, she brought her water basin to the side of the bed and dipped a ragged grey towel in it, using it to rub away the dried blood on his face. It smeared into a pink mess, and she had to rinse the towel many times. When his face was clean, she gazed at it. Becoming aware of the stench again, she unlaced his jacket and struggled to pull it off, throwing it in the corner. Beneath it, he wore a matching linen shirt, which she removed also, finding a tight leather vest under it. She noticed that her hands were bloody, and a glance down at herself found more on her dress. So, he had been stabbed, too. Her eyes were drawn to the silver-patterned belt that clasped his slim hips, and her breath caught again.

  Two daggers rode in sheaths on his hips, and she glanced at his chest, dreading that she would find what she expected. The black dagger tattoo was stark against his pale skin, almost an affront. He was an assassin. Worse, if what little she knew about assassins and their secretive ways was correct, the belt he wore meant that he was the Master of the Dance. The best, and therefore the deadliest assassin in Jondar. In her room. On her bed. Half dead. Who in their right mind would try to kill the Master of the Dance? Surely he would hunt them down, and if not him, his Guild. Would they? Two more daggers were strapped to his wrists in leather sheaths, and she unbuckled them, then his belt, setting them on the table. Removing the vest, she found, was a chore. It was glued to his chest with half-dry blood, and she was puffing by the time she held the limp garment.

  Adding it to the pile, she removed his boots and tugged off his trousers, under which he wore a pair of baggy flannel shorts that made her smile. Beneath all his menacing leather finery, the shorts seemed ludicrous. He had a wound in his flank and another in his abdomen, as well as the one in his scalp, where someone had hit him hard enough to split the skin. His right arm was clearly broken halfway between elbow and wrist, and his left leg between knee and ankle. Whoever had done this had not intended that he should live, and the beating had been administered with brutal efficiency.

  Lilu wondered if he had been able to fight back at all, but, considering that all his weapons were still in their sheaths, he probably had not. Cowards. Who, indeed, would have the courage to attack the Master of the Dance? Leaning closer, she smelt his breath and found it laden with wine fumes. He had not stood a chance. Yet he was so young. She had heard that the new Dance Master was unusually young, but had not dreamt that he could be quite so youthful. Gossip named him the Invisible Assassin, and spoke of his mastery. She had not paid it much heed, but in Jondar one could not avoid hearing the tales that circulated amongst the fishwives. He was just a boy. She stroked his cheek, surprised to find that he had not yet even sprouted a beard. Amazing.

  Taking out the purse she had stolen earlier, she emptied it onto the table and counted ten goldens. A small fortune, but healers were expensive, and he would need a good one if he was ever to walk without a limp again. Although she was deathly tired, and ached from the abuse of her clients earlier at the brothel, she rose and picked up a shawl. The best doctor she knew of lived on the Queen's Boulevard, a fair distance away. She paused to gaze down at him, noting the pink blotches all over his torso, arms, thighs and the side of his face that would become bruises over time.

  It took her a time-glass to walk to the Queen's Boulevard, and a great deal of pounding on the brass-studded door before a puffy-eyed middle-aged woman wearing a furious scowl and a frilly bedcap opened it. Lilu's demand to see the healer made the woman's frown more thunderous, and it was not until the harlot flashed a golden at her that she went to summon her husband. The tall, balding man with a saturnine face and sunken eyes appeared in a rumpled jacket and trousers, carrying his bag.

  “What's the problem?” he demanded.

  “A man's been beaten almost to death.”

  The healer grunted. “Broken bones?”

  “An arm and a leg, as far as I can tell.”

  The doctor vanished into a side passage and re-emerged with another, bigger bag, then followed her back to her hovel. He looked disgusted when she showed him into its shabby confines, where the Dance Master lay on the bed, bathed in candlelight. He had not moved. Lilu gazed at him while the doctor set down his bags and approached the bed. His brows drew together when he caught sight of the tattoo.

  “He's a damned assassin.”

  “So? He needs your help.”

  “I don't treat bloody assassins.” He picked up his bags and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” Lilu cried. “I can pay you... a lot.”

  The doctor paused, scowling. “It would cost you a lot.”

  “How much?”

  “Five goldens.”

  “All right.”

  He looked disbelieving and chagrined. Clearly he had hoped that she could not afford it. “Where would you get that much money?”

  “I have it. It's his.” She nodded at the youth on the bed. “He's the Dance Master of Jondar.”

  “All the more reason to let him die.”

  “Please!”

  His eyes narrowed, becoming calculating. “Seven goldens.”

  “Six.”

  “No.”

  “All right, seven.”

  The doctor dumped his bag again and approached the bed, sitting beside the assassin to touch the side of his neck. “He's in shock. Did he lose a lot of blood?”

  “He was bleeding from his head, but it was dark in the alley so I couldn't see how much he lost. He's been stabbed, too.”

  The doctor glanced up at her. “Bring me a basin of boiled water and rags.”

  Lilu's heart sank. “I-I can't get that now, it's the middle of the night.”

  “He'll have to take his chances then, but don't blame me if he dies of a fever.”

  Lilu sank down on the rickety chair while the healer examined his patient, grunted, sighed and clicked his tongue. He washed the stab wounds and stitched them, then the deep wound in the youth's scalp. He straightened the assassin's nose with a deft twist and crunch, examined his face but found no crushed bones, then moved down to his chest, where he reported three broken ribs. Lilu dozed while he placed casts on the Dance Master's arm and leg, dressed his wounds and strapped his chest. She snapped awake when he straightened with a groan, rubbing his back.

  “That's the best I can do for him.”

  “Will he walk without a limp?”

  “I have no idea. If he's lucky, maybe.”

  “He must dance again.”

  He snorted. “I doubt that. He's lucky to have survived.”

  The healer packed away his implements and placed two bottles on the bedside table. “That's a
tonic, and the other one's to rub on his wounds. Don't get them mixed up.”

  Lilu nodded, her eyes drooping with fatigue.

  “I'll take my money now.”

  Wearily she counted seven goldens into his palm, and he picked up his bags and left. Lilu sat beside the bed for a while, stroked the assassin's cheek and willed him to get better, then spread a blanket on the floor and fell asleep on it.

  Chapter Two

  When Lilu woke just before noon the next day, she was relieved to find the assassin still alive, although he had not moved. The foul smell still hung about him, and his clothes reeked. She bundled them up and took them to the wash house down the road to scrub them, hanging them up in her room upon her return. Fetching a basin of warm water from the kitchen, she used the grey towel to wipe all those parts of him that were not covered with bandages, dressings or casts.

  In the process, she removed his last vestment and discovered that the reason for his lack of a beard was not extreme youth. His mutilation shocked and saddened her. Who would do such a thing to a man, and why? It seemed a particularly cruel thing to do, especially to one so young. Sacred Knights underwent voluntary castration, but she doubted that the Dance Master had submitted willingly.

  In the afternoon, she bought a bowl of watery soup from the tavern at the end of the street and propped her patient up on the pillows to spoon it into his mouth. He swallowed on reflex, consuming most of it. Satisfied that she had done all she could, she went to the brothel to earn her keep, returning in the early hours, as always. The assassin still had not moved, but his skin remained cool and dry. As she lay down to sleep on the floor, she thought about her children, in the care of the fishwife down the road. She must go and visit them again soon; she missed them.