Deathknight

by Andrew J Offutt

  “Perhap I’d best meditate on that for the next few kilometres,” she said with a mild satiric emphasis.

  He did, whether she did so or not. Now and again he glanced at her, still surprised. Rather abruptly he realised that they were riding along under an amber sky. The day had passed faster than others had done since her joining him.

  “I’ve been trying not to complain,” she said soon after that, at sunset, “but I’m tired of our junky cold meals.”

  He thought about that. He had noticed the first, and he agreed with her in the second. “So am I. Let’s go into that little wood and see if another sort of dinner presents itself.”

  They rode in among the trees. He found a ricker’s trail and new droppings, and said so.

  She smiled. “Shall I collect some dry wood?”

  Falc nodded. He set off stealthily, and was able to kill a chubby grey-blue ricker. He carried it rather proudly back to her, along with some old dry wood. He was pleased to discover that she had been collecting herbs and tubers — and kindling. She cooked as if she enjoyed it, with nothing to prove. The crackle and the aroma were beyond welcome, and their mouths watered. That anticipation helped turn this little hot meal into a feast.

  When they had eaten he got her to practice some more with the knife. He told her that she showed promise. He saw her practically glow at being complimented and remembered how badly she had responded that night in her home. How she has changed, he thought, but forewent mentioning it to her.

  What she could not do was cut at him. Yet after watching him exercise and practice, she agreed to use a stick as substitute for a knife. She attacked him three times. He blocked each “cut.” Once he remarked also that he had just cut off her arm. The other two times he disarmed her relatively painlessly; the second time her fingertips tingled. When he stopped it, she was panting and noticed that he was not.

  “Falc... what you said this afternoon — is that what you are, Sir Falc, Cousin Falc, Sir Deathknight, Son of Ashah, Omo?”

  “I am all that,” he said, with a satirical note.

  “No, I mean what you said: an extremely competent warrior and killer?”

  “Yes. I am that.”

  “Is that why that youngster was so respectful at the High Temple? — and others?”

  “That’s part of it. I am... they also know me as a dedicated servant of Ashah and the Order, and of my Contractor.”

  “Kinneven, Holder of Lock.”

  As she had grown to expect with regard to unnecessary comments and questions, he saw no reason to reply.

  “A servant, to Holder Kinneven of Lock.”

  “Yes.”

  “The ever-confident man who can face down anyone, best anyone if he won’t face down; the arrogant Falc who chooses when to answer and when not to answer... a servant? Another paradox.”

  “So it is.”

  “I — what?” She broke off, because as she had started to speak he raised a hand, palm out and all three fingers up. She recognised his staying motion.

  “I have just decided to tell you. I didn’t before, because I don’t need your gratitude and had no care what you thought.”

  “Does that mean you care what I think, now?”

  “Don’t push, cousin,” he said, and at that instant Jinnery saw what few others had seen: that this man did smile, but only with his eyes. “The four men who — who destroyed your fam... your life... they are dead.”

  She swallowed. A long breath left her and she sort of sagged back against the tree he had twice chopped in the drama of his practice. She looked down and ran both hands along her section-clad thighs.

  He waited.

  After a minute or so she asked, “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “All four? You alone, Falc?”

  “Yes. They waylaid me. Got ahead of me, somehow; some mighty fast riding while Harr and I only ambled. They were stretched across the road, waiting to kill me. That was their purpose. They wanted me. Perhap if Chalis hadn’t said I was his — your cousin...” He broke off to gesture helplessly.

  “At any rate. Their mistake was in facing me. They could have slain me from ambush, or perhap succeeded if they had merely charged. Instead they wanted drama. They had to prolong it, to gloat, and at last I charged them.”

  “What!”

  When he said nothing but only stood looking down, she said, “Falc? Four men — very well-armed men, and murderers — lay in wait for you, and gloated, and you charged them. I’m sorry I made it sound like a question; it’s so hard to believe!”

  He looked embarrassed, or something like. “No matter how good a man is, four have an advantage over one. Taking the attack to them gives me a brief advantage: surprise. I’ve done it before. It serves to cut the odds by one, at once.”

  He described the murderous quartet. She nodded.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “They are the ones.”

  Then she surprised him anew: she turned away. Falc sighed and told her no more. He should have heeded his original decision, he thought, and kept to himself the fact that he had avenged Querry and Chalis, although without knowing it.

  *

  Later, after they had weathered a minor quake and a scary windstorm that snapped and hurled branches as if they were twigs, they sat watching the fire without feeding it. The fire drew crellies. They danced about it, flirting with the brightness; flirting with death. Some found it. Falc asked if she would care to have him train her darg to come to call. Deliberately he referred to it as “Shabtain.”

  Yes, Jinnery would. And perhaps... perhaps they should use just his nickname, “Tain.”

  “Good idea,” Falc said, solemnly and with no sign of comment or amusement. “And let’s both be sure to call him that, a lot. He must be made to understand that it’s his name.”

  “I think he already does, Falc.”

  He nodded. Yes. They were not stupid, these ugly creatures of mutation. And, he at last knew, neither was Jinnery.

  3

  The rain was hard and violent that night. They survived it. Next day Falc of Risskor made a woman a valuable gift: the jewel-handled dagger from Holder Chasmal of Lango.

  “You know how to use a knife. You can be safe with it or dangerous with it. You deserve a good one.”

  She stammered surprised thanks and flushed at accepting it. Moments later she turned her head away and kept it so, and he pretended not to notice that she was quietly weeping and striving to keep him from knowing it. Falc saw no reason to say anything and saw definite reason to say nothing. He was content to ride in silence for a while, trying to look dour while feeling very warm and pleased that he had given her the knife — and further, that she was touched.

  When she again turned her profile to him, riding beside him, he pointed and suggested that they go into that meadow to begin the training of Shabtain-no-more.

  “Falc,” she said slowly, in that quiet voice that made him give her his full attention, “later. I want to hear about it. I want you to tell me about it. About those four men.”

  “Uh...”

  She turned her head with a jerk to show him a fierce-eyed glare from pupils expanded to roundness. “Tell me, Falc! All of it! I want details — everything you can remember!”

  “Uh... Jinn...”

  “What? What, Falc?”

  “I’m... I’m not sure I can do that. For one thing, I don’t always remember anything like every detail, once my my blood’s aboil and my sword is out. For another —”

  “Is that what happens? The blood boils?”

  “Something like. I hear it roaring; I hear my heart pounding in my ears and yet I feel chill — cool, I suppose; just doing the job as fast as I possibly can because if I don’t one of them might do it better.”

  She stared, and her hand left her thigh to start toward him, quavering. Almost she touched the black-clad arm of the man riding beside her; almost. Then she drew back her hand. She had heard him. Did he know what he had just told her? Had he intended
to tell her so much about himself? Her teeth dented her lower lip, deeply. Tain plodded on beside Harr, and she continued to stare at the side of the face of this too often dour, too often silent and more than competent man of weapons. He was gazing straight ahead, and she was sure it was because he did not wish to look at her. It was hard to know whether a man’s jaw was tight, when he wore a beard!

  Suddenly her hand leaped across that space between them. Thumb and all three fingers clamped his arm, clamped and squeezed.

  “Falc! I need to know, cousin. I need to hear it! I need to see those men die!”

  He turned to look at her then, and down at her fingers on him, the knuckles all pale with her clutching, and back into her face. Torture showed in those deep midnight pools that were his eyes, and she saw that he hated this. This man among men — this almost superhuman man really did not like talking at all, really, much less telling of his — his feats. And she wanted details.

  She ignored the anguish in his eyes, the tortured set of his face. Jinnery only stared, waiting.

  Slowly, Falc nodded. Her hand dropped away. He turned his head to stare ahead again, and he began talking. Very quietly he talked for the next several kilometres, and he answered every question as well as he possibly could. He even told her of the beheadings, and his sending the heads off in the direction of their unworthy master in Lango.

  At last she said, “Thank you, Cousin Falc. Thank you for killing them, and thank you for telling me.” She heaved a huge sigh. “I know you didn’t want to, Son of Ashah. Thank you for letting me force you.”

  Falc did not reply. Faic said nothing for the next several kilometres.

  4

  “A darg is not stupid,” he said, when they dismounted under a big lone lajenta tree in the sprawling meadow and he glanced about, as he always did. Ever cautious, ever suspicious. Never, never had Jinnery felt so secure, or Esphodine either. She saw that he saw nothing, no possible menace.

  “They enjoy serving,” he said, “and they like to please. It isn’t difficult. It’s done with kindness.”

  She put her head on one side. “Kindness. Dargs.”

  “Yes.”

  “A strange concept, kindness to dargs or to enemies.”

  “I have been known to be kind to enemies. It is easier with dargoni, and feels much better. Come.”

  The dark man began walking through the tall blue grass into the field. He heard the rustle of ballooning aquamarine leggings whispering together, and knew she was coming.

  The dargs watched while their masters walked away; twenty paces, then a few more. Falc stopped. He glanced about. He squatted, white cloth folding about him like a tent, and she watched him overturn a palm-sized stone.

  “Ahh.” He straightened. She saw him transfer something from one gauntleted fist to the other as he turned. He bellowed the word: “HARR!”

  Harr rushed to them at the waddle-trot, an ungainly hulk in greenish slate-blue whose each step was a lunge through tall grass the colour of manganese. Falc spoke nice words, just words — many of them “Harr” and “good boy,” she noticed — and opened his fist to the beast. For an instant Jinnery saw the pallid, fat worm in the gloved palm; then she saw Harr’s tongue, and the grubworm was gone. Falc patted his darg’s nose. Suddenly impossibly dark blue eyes were looking at her.

  “Call Tain. Just the name.”

  “Tain!” she called, and saw the creature’s golden-eyed gaze shift to her. He looked alert and attentive. He also did not move. “TAINN!”

  “Take this,” Falc said, extending his fist.

  “Wha — oh. Another of those worms?”

  He nodded, gazing at her, and his arm remained extended. Not wishing to take it, she did. He saw a tremor run through her as he deposited the squirmy grubworm in her palm.

  “Some farmgirl,” he said, but his voice was not unkind and she swallowed the rejoinder that tried to leap to her lips. “Wait here,” he said, and strode back to her darg.

  She watched the flutter of the white derlin and thought how pretty it was, how graceful on such a big man; such a big dark man. White and black. It was what he believed in, she thought in a burst of realisation.

  He began talking very quietly as he approached Tain on silent feet, with much use of the creature’s name. Then he was beside Tain, patting its thick neck. His hand slid into its halter, between cheek-strap and head.

  “Call him, Jinnery!”

  “TAINNN!”

  Falc felt the darg quiver, but it did not move. At once he began walking back to Jinnery, hustling the creature. Harr watched.

  “See how he comes when you call? Goo-ood Tain. Open your hand and extend it to him. Hold it flat. No, Harr; Harr bide!”

  Tain flicked the grub from her hand and Jinnery immediately wiped it on her derlin, several times. Harr’s hiss sounded like a sigh.

  Falc returned to the stone. He used his dagger to dig in the softer dirt under it and straightened with both fists closed. “Now back to the tree, Jinn.”

  Once again they walked away from the dargs, and turned to look at them. Once again Falc called Harr, who came at the galumph. This time he received only rubs, pats, and words.

  “You never know do you, big boy?” Falc said, and to Jinnery: “That’s important, too, Jinn. You won’t be able to give him something every time, and he needs to know that early.”

  She nodded. “Now?”

  When he nodded, she called Tain again. The darg definitely came to attention and definitely stared at her from bright yellow eyes. Then a flit of purple and yellow with tan caught his attention, and his tongue shot out to take the butterfly out of the air. Tain missed and looked shocked. Drool dripped.

  Falc extended a fisted hand to Jinnery.

  She showed him a distasteful look. “Ugh.”

  “We are training a darg,” he reminded her, with an exaggerated air of patience. “Your darg.”

  “You have a glove and don’t have to feel the icky wormies squirming in your hand,” she pointed out, with an exaggerated air of... something.

  Solemnly he removed his glove. He handed it to her. With exaggerated unconcern, he transferred the grub into his bare hand. Once her hand was lost in his big gauntlet and she extended it, he placed the wriggly white creature in the palm. It looked twice as white there, against the black. He turned with a rustle of his derlin and strode toward her darg.

  Tain was still looking around for more butterflies when Falc approached. Again he took the creature’s halter. Again Jinnery called. Again the omo hustled the darg to her, and Tain took his reward from her hand while receiving lots of undeserved praise. Harr watched, drooling while he let his tongue loll, definitely trying to look as pitiful as possible.

  With a sigh and a shake of his head, Falc helped him find some large ants.

  On the second try next day Tain came hurrying to her when she called, and was rewarded, praised, and petted. Within another day he was following her around unbidden and they began the harder task of training him to stay, on command.

  EIGHT

  The gods create life, whilst mortals take it as if they had the right.

  — Sar Sarlis

  The dead have advantage over the living and this is why: the dead need never fear dying.

  — the fifth Master

  *

  For once, Falc was caught by surprise.

  It very nearly cost him his life.

  He and Jinnery had stopped a few meters off the road for rest and more defence tutoring and practice for her, with knives. He was showing her the silly ’lectric pistol and lecturing caustically on the thing when the three men came along. That was what saved Falc’s life, that and Jinnery.

  They were three riders, male, wearing no city’s or individual’s colours. One was obviously sick or hurt. He reeled in his saddle, head down and back bowed, hands clutching the pommel. The round-faced one with the bushy beard seemed preoccupied with him, but noticed the two beside the road and called out in a nervous voice.

/>   “Know anything about what do when a man’s had a — a stroke’s what I think it’s called...?”

  “Get him over here in the shade, to begin with,” Jinnery said.

  The men turned their dargoni off the road to ride across the grass toward her. She and Falc had dismounted under two patriarchal finleaf trees so huge that they practically formed a grove of themselves. A few seconds ago Jinnery had not only put the throwing knife into one of them, but into the area just above the light patch in the bark that was her target.

  Falc remembered later that he had glanced over at his mailcoat, slung over a branch just low enough for him to hang it there. Because they were working with knives and Jinnery’s throws sometimes went wild and worse, they had tethered Harr and Tain well away.

  Just as the trio of travellers entered the cool of the shade of those towering trees, the sick man swayed and began to tilt. Clearly he was about to fall off his mount. Falc forgot the little pistol still in his hand as he pounced to break the fellow’s fall. That was when metal rasped its way out of its sheath: one of the other two drew and struck so fast that Falc had no time to do anything save try to hurl himself backward — not far enough — and to grunt, as the sword chopped into his left arm and he felt the blow to that side.

  “— that, Deathknight!” he heard his attacker’s raspy voice snarl.

  Even as he felt the horribly forceful blow that staggered him, the “Deathknight” was jerking up his good arm to squeeze the trigger of Chasmal’s gift pistol. He heard a faint crackling sound, smelled the acrid odour as of fried air, and watched his attacker stiffen in his saddle. The man shivered. Then he fell. Even while Falc realised that the blood was rushing from his head to the detriment of his vision and thinking, he knew a sensation of wonder mingled with elation.

  The damned technoweapon had worked! He had just shot a man with the device he had always thought of as described in one complete phrase: silly little pistol.

  But there were three of them, and Falc was wounded. The man supposedly in need of help experienced a miraculous recovery. All in an instant he became very much alive and very healthy. Short and burly, he kicked a russet-clad leg at the man in black at the same time as he straightened in his saddle, to draw sword.