King of Bryanae

by Jeffrey Getzin

  Two different parties were signaling immediately after the King had fled Four Fingers’s mansion. That was very bad news indeed. They needed to get off the streets immediately.

  “Your Majesty, we need—”

  She turned to see that D’Arbignal had caused his rapier to light up like a torch again. He waved it in the air in a manner similar to the signal torch in the distance.

  She blinked, momentarily astonished. “What are you doing?!”

  D’Arbignal grinned at her, but kept waving the torch.

  “The torch is some kind of signal, right?” he said. “I figured that if I answered them with a signal of my own, it might cause a little confusion.”

  She raised her eyebrows. He had a point. His maneuver probably wouldn’t have any effect, but it couldn’t hurt and it might just add a little confusing noise to the ‘conversation.’ ”

  Not bad, Your Majesty, she thought.

  Regardless, they needed to get moving. She grabbed the King by the hand. “Run, Your Majesty!”

  He extinguished his rapier’s “flames” and ran with her. She led him down alleyways and back streets until they approached the unused district whose sole purpose was to disguise the entrance- and exit-ways of the various passages to and from the Castle. The cold air rasped inside her lungs, and she felt her right calf starting to cramp.

  D’Arbignal bent over for a moment, then straightened his back to gulp in the cool night air. There was a merry sparkle in his eyes.

  “All things considered, that enterprise went better than I planned,” he said.

  “You had a plan,” she said, not convinced.

  He shrugged. “More of a general idea, followed by brilliant improvisation.”

  He gestured for her to take a bow. His shoulders slumped when she did not.

  “When you make plans,” he said, “people can predict your movements and plan counter-actions.”

  Willow thought she heard the sound of a boot scraping along a floorboard. She drew her rapier again.

  D’Arbignal took note of this. “For example, our escape. How many people, do you think, knew we’d be leaving this way?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced around in the still night. The dark buildings surrounding them seemed to have thousands of eyes, all watching them.

  “An ambush?” she suggested.

  “With torches and bells!” He drew his orange rapier. “My favorite kind!”

  This time, they both heard the noise of a stone skidding as though accidentally kicked.

  “It could be a surprise party,” D’Arbignal said, “but I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

  Willow grabbed D’Arbignal and led him at a run toward the building in which was hidden the entrance to the passage. She came up short as a pair of dark figures emerged from one of the buildings.

  As she prepared to engage, three others emerged from another building, and more from others.

  “Discretion being the better part of valor,” D’Arbignal said, “perhaps there is another route?”

  Willow about-faced and started leading him from the district, only to find more figures gathering to block their exit. As the figures got closer, Willow saw that they wore dark, hooded clothing and that they carried curved, blackened swords.

  “The K’Low Clan,” she muttered.

  “Assassins?” D’Arbignal said.

  She nodded.

  They backed away from the encroaching assassins, all avenues of escape blocked. Only the side of a warehouse at their backs kept them from being completely surrounded.

  “Good?” D’Arbignal said.

  “Among the best.”

  He grinned his manic grin again.

  “Excellent!” he said. “I’d hate to waste my time killing a bunch of rank amateurs!”

  The K’Low’s numbers kept swelling. Willow lost count after four dozen. They advanced silently, even though they had obviously been spotted.

  “Professional,” D’Arbignal noted.

  “Very,” Willow agreed.

  “Would I be far amiss if I were to suppose that the Chancellor would have the necessary reach, clout, and finances to hire such individuals?”

  “It’d be very expensive,” she said, “but yes, they could be his.”

  D’Arbignal shook his head. “Ah, Gianelli, you never did like to do your own dirty work.” To Willow, he said, “Well, we’d best get started. It’s going to be a long night as it is.”

  “I concur, Your Majesty,” she said and took a step forward.

  Just then, a chilling howl filled the air. Large, hairy figures stood up on the rooftops surrounding them, interspersed with the K’Low. The K’Low turned to face them, swords at the ready.

  “The Wolves,” remarked Willow, rolling her eyes.

  “They don’t look like wolves to me.”

  “They just act like wolves. They wear the furs to spook their prey. They’re just regular assassins like the K’Low Clan.”

  “More assassins?”

  Willow shrugged. “So it would appear.”

  The Wolves stood hunched in their furs, carrying long, barbed spears. They and the K’Low seemed surprised to see each other, and glared at each other in a faceoff.

  “Did the Chancellor send this group, too?” said D’Arbignal. “Or was it Fyrelord, you think?”

  Willow shrugged again. “His Majesty has many enemies; does it really matter?”

  “Of course, it matters. I want to know whose money we’re about to waste when we kill these miscreants.”

  Willow sighed. The time for words had passed, but D’Arbignal didn’t seem to realize it.

  “For a moment I thought this was going to be dull,” he continued. He withdrew his sword cane from that magical bag of his. “The two of us versus a few dozen assassins hardly seemed fair. This is more to my liking.”

  She nodded curtly. “Very well, then.”

  Willow started to hear shouting coming from the direction from which they had fled.

  “I guess Four Fingers had some men in reserve,” D’Arbignal said with a snort.

  A mob bearing swords and axes emerged onto the street, some of Four Fingers’s orange clad guards among them. One of the men in party attire pointed over at Willow and D’Arbignal.

  “Over there!” he yelled. The rest began to shout and growl in anticipation.

  “This is getting a little ridiculous,” D’Arbignal observed.

  “Yes, sir.” Willow said.

  D’Arbignal whistled to catch the leader’s attention.

  “I feel it only fair to point something out to you gentlemen,” he said.

  “The only thing we want from you is your hides!” the leader called back. The light from one of the torches shone on his face, and Willow recognized him: Magistrate Snyde! Was there no end to his capacity to annoy her?

  “Nevertheless …” D’Arbignal gestured with his rapier, first to the K’Low and then to the Wolves. It took a few moments before one of the mob saw them and pointed them out to the rest. Snyde seemed to diminish before her eyes.

  For a long time, hours it seemed, the night was dead quiet as the three groups of assailants eyed each other and their prizes. Off in the distance, Willow heard the bell sound Three After Midnight.

  “Any ideas, Your Majesty?” she whispered.

  “Just one,” he whispered back.

  He raised his rapier aloft and shouted, “The moment has come! Now, my men: ATTACK!”

  For one frozen moment, nobody moved. Then all three groups converged and chaos ensued.

  Chapter 55

  It was clear to Willow that none of the three groups had expected to see any of the others. Each group seemed to interpret D’Arbignal’s command as being to one of the other two. As such, they turned on each other. The three forces clashed in the street, in the buildings, and on the rooftops. Steel collided against steel, men growled and screamed, and D’Arbignal’s foes began to slay each other.

  Mostly.

  D’Arbignal w
as still gleefully chortling at his cleverness when the first group of six K’Low broke from the main force and headed for him and Willow.

  “Your Majesty!” she exclaimed. “We’re not done!”

  Three headed at her, with two in reserve. Her rapier whistled as she parried thrusts coming from all angles. She desperately blocked their strikes, hoping for an opening to seize. Alas, these were professional killers and not mere amateurs; they did not leave openings.

  D’Arbignal turned to her aid, but she hissed at him, “Guard my back!”

  He turned, and just in time, too, considering the ringing of steel she heard behind her. She sensed more than saw D’Arbignal’s erratic movements as he continued to defend.

  “Attack me from behind, will you?” D’Arbignal said. “What are you: assassins?”

  More K’Low joined those waiting in reserve. They seemed almost giddy in their eagerness to kill the two of them.

  She lunged deeply at one and feigned a stumble on the broken pavement. One of the K’Low was overeager and dashed in for the kill. He caught the tip of her rapier first in his eye, next in his throat. She watched dispassionately as he crumpled to the ground. As he fell, Willow stole a quick glance behind her.

  D’Arbignal was occupied with the Wolves, who snarled and lunged at him with spears. He fought with his orange rapier Flame in his right hand and his sword cane in his left. In a dazzling display of swordsmanship, he whirled, deflecting spears and staging daring counterattacks.

  Willow looked back to her foes in time to see one of the other K’Low trying to flank her. She launched a complex series of feints designed to buy her a few seconds.

  As the K’Low retreated a few steps, she ducked, and fished out a knife from one of her boots with her free hand. She cut at the ties of her bodice, wincing when the blade skipped over the leather and sliced into her skin.

  “This fight is missing something,” D’Arbignal mused. “I wish I had thought to … compose a song … for battle.”

  Willow continued to cut at the leather ties, pretending to be too preoccupied with them to give the K’Low the proper attention. She demonstrated their misapprehension when she abruptly dropped into a very deep lunge and caught one in the groin. He staggered back, howling and clutching at his wound. The wound wouldn’t kill him, but his fighting days were done.

  “On a moonless night the battle … was joined,

  The King of Bryanae and … fierce Willow”

  D’Arbignal thought a moment then added:

  “Battle for the Ages the fight was … was coined.”

  He considered this for a moment, and then his face scrunched up into a disgusted grimace. “Yea gods, that’s dreadful!” he lamented.

  By now, all of Four Fingers’s men had either fled or been slain, leaving the two of them to contend “only” with the survivors of the K’Low and the Wolves. Perhaps twenty foes remained.

  Willow caught a sword thrust to her shoulder as she tried to free herself from her bodice. She turned her body at the last minute, so instead of penetrating the muscle, the blade sliced along her skin. The chemise soaked up the blood, a scarlet flower billowing on the sheer material. She made a sound that was halfway between a grunt and a snarl

  “Are you all right?” asked D’Arbignal.

  Sure, she thought. Never better.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  She parried thrusts from two attackers, and then countered with a slash along the inside of her attacker’s thigh. She had been aiming for the femoral artery, but she missed by perhaps an inch. It was a deep cut, nonetheless, and bled profusely.

  The wounded man stooped to apply pressure to his wound. Idiotic; he should have withdrawn behind the battle lines first. She sliced upward, severing the brachial artery under his arm. Blood sprayed from the wound; he was dead within seconds.

  Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, she finally managed to rid herself of the constricting bodice.

  She heaved a sigh of relief. She hadn’t realized how uncomfortable that infernal garment had been until she had finally freed herself from it.

  “These wolf pups are getting a bit … monotonous,” D’Arbignal said. “I suggest we switch places … clockwise … on three.”

  Willow had little time for such games, but she knew if she didn’t move when he did, their enemies would capitalize on the error.

  “Very well,” she said, gasping for air.

  “Onetwothree!” D’Arbignal shouted.

  They circled to the right. Willow now faced the Wolves. She saw that D’Arbignal had done extremely well, as bodies lay sprawled everywhere. Only five Wolves remained in any sort of fighting condition, though a sixth crawled from the battle with his arms, dragging his useless legs behind him. She felt no particular animosity toward the fleeing man, though she would have to track him down at some point and kill him. She couldn’t have every assassin in the region thinking he could operate in Bryanae with impunity.

  “So that’s where that smell … was coming from,” D’Arbignal remarked. “How did you manage to … tolerate them, Willow?”

  “Mainly … by killing them, sir,” she said.

  The Wolves in front of her dashed about, making a big showing of their sharpened teeth. However, Willow had fought too many battles to be taken in by their amateurish theatrics. She dispatched two right away, parrying their spear thrusts and slaying them on the ripostes.

  That was the problem with spears, of course. They were great for keeping your enemies at a distance, but the moment you tried to close with them, you gave up that advantage. So you only got one try.

  Willow demonstrated why one try wasn’t enough.

  D’Arbignal yelped in pain.

  “Confound it!” he said. “That was cheating!”

  She heard his blades whistle an odd staccato. Then she heard the sound of bodies dropping.

  D’Arbignal pivoted. He now stood side-by-side with Willow.

  “I’m done … with mine,” he said. He bled from several small cuts, including one on his shoulder that bled heavily. His shirt was gradually turning crimson. “Mind if I share yours?”

  Pride made her want to say no, but discipline took precedence. She realized the battle would go better with the two of them fighting alongside each other.

  They began to develop a sort of rhythm, where each played off the enemy’s position that the other had set up. It seemed almost unconscious on D’Arbignal’s part, and she felt a depth of a connection to him unlike any she had experienced before.

  Abruptly, the night was silent. Willow and D’Arbignal circled wearily, searching for enemies. There was none to be found.

  “That wasn’t … so bad,” D’Arbignal said. He tore off a piece of his shirt and pressed it against his shoulder. Willow did likewise with a piece of her discarded bodice. He leaned back against the wall, catching his breath; she wanted to do the same, but refused to show any sign of weakness.

  “It’s time we get you back to the castle, Your Majesty,” she said.

  He nodded, his breathing returning to normal at last. “Ordinarily, after a party like that, I’d look for an after-party, but in this ca—”

  An intensely bright light illuminated the street, making the world look entirely black and white for a moment. The light was painful to look at, and Willow had to shield her eyes. She heard D’Arbignal cry out next to her as he stumbled into her.

  “Get behind me, Your Majesty,” she instructed, her eyes closed.

  She felt his hand grasp her shoulder. “Get behind you? I can’t even see you!”

  She heard a primordial hiss, such as a gigantic lizard might make. The white light receded, and then brilliant flashes of orange and yellow flickered through her eyelids. She blinked quickly, trying to get her eyes to acclimate.

  “Oh, that is just not fair,” D’Arbignal said. “I mean, sure, the guards at the party were easy, I grant you. Nevertheless, didn’t you just see us defeat not one, but two teams of assassins? Come on, that
was impressive, wasn’t it? Just a bit? I know I was impressed by me, and I have very high standards!”

  Willow managed to get her eyes open a little. She saw something moving in the distance ahead. It was large, extraordinarily large. Moreover, it seemed to be on fire.

  Fyrelord. This had to be his doing.

  “Very well,” D’Arbignal said with a sigh. “We might as well get started.”

  He released his hold on her shoulder and advanced toward the burning thing.

  “Your Majesty, no!” She reached for him, but her hands closed on empty air.

  The … thing ahead of them laughed, the sound of a crackling fire. Willow rubbed her burning eyes with the back of her hand and then forced them open.

  It was shaped roughly like a man, this creature, and seemed to be comprised entirely of flame. As far as she could tell, the creature wasn’t on fire, it was fire.

  It stood almost as tall as the two-story buildings on the street. The smoke from its amorphous head curled upward past them like a grey-black snake.

  “You think that’s funny,” D’Arbignal said, “then you’re going to love this!”

  He touched the creature’s “foot” with the tip of his orange-hued rapier. The rapier seemed to “inhale” the fire the way it had the candles at the party … but only as much as a toenail’s worth.

  The fire creature roared in pain. It kicked at D’Arbignal, who evaded by diving through the air. He landed in a somersault.

  “To be honest,” he said when emerged from his roll, “I had been hoping for something a little more spectacular than that. I won’t deny being the slightest bit disappointed.”

  Now that Willow could see again, she raced to engage the creature. The heat surrounding it was almost a physical barrier; she had trouble breathing. She searched for something solid, something to strike at, but there was nothing.

  She remembered the sorcerous attack at the inn. That creature hadn’t been solid, either, yet she had hurt it just the same. She hoped the same would hold true here.

  She drove her rapier through the creature’s “shin”, and rolled between its legs to come up behind it. Her skirts threw off her roll; she landed against the side of one of the wooden shops. The blow knocked the wind from her.