The Argument of Empires

by Jacob T. Helvey

  Grith leaned against the wall and pulled off his doublet. He cut strips of cloth from the garment, wrapping them around the wound and tying them tight to staunch the bleeding. He threw down the ruined coat and got to his feet, looking down at the projectile he had pulled from his leg. It was an arrowhead, the broad variety used by hunters for taking down big game He reached down with burned fingers but drew back as his singed digits brushed the metal.

  The Delver heats steel as hot as a forge, he thought. And then what? Throws it? Shoots it from a bow? There were many types of Delvers, six if Grith remembered correctly. But the stories varied wildly on what those Delvers could do. There were men who never forgot a word spoken to them, women who could make any material as strong as steel, and others still who could lift objects with a thought.

  He had heard tales, the kind told to children around campfires, of Delvers who could conjure fire and shape it to their will. It had all sounded like nonsense at the time, but like so many stories, perhaps there was some grain of truth at its center.

  Grith pulled his attention from the arrowhead, scanning the room around him. He had to stop thinking about the “what if’s” of the situation. He could deal with this Delver later. There were men who wanted to kill Irrin, probably only feet above him. Those I can handle, he told himself, climbing to his feet.

  The bottom floor of the inn was dominated by a black-stained bar that stretched from the right wall to a door near the back of the room that looked to lead upstairs. Tables and stools were scattered around the tavern, some toppled, some left in place. Drinks sat unattended or scattered across the floor. The smell of wine permeated the air, mixing with the smoke coming from the fires outside to form a strangely pleasant mélange.

  Grith drew his belt knife. He’d wished he had the presence of mind to hold onto his sword as he’d fallen through the door, but dammit! He had just gotten a burning arrowhead through the leg.

  He gritted his teeth. He was about to face down a dozen assassins with a knife, a fucking knife! Trying to shove down a sudden, overriding sense of unease, Grith experimented with a series of different grips, trying to find one that felt comfortable. He finally settled on a simple handshake grip. It might be weak, but it would give him more reach, something he would desperately need when he faced men equipped with spears and swords.

  He gave the room another once-over and headed for the stairs, trying to force down the lances of pain that shot through his leg with every step. The Deepening might lessen that pain, but it would also burn through the last of the liquid he had drunk. Grith shook the bottle. Not much left, and he might still need the stuff if it came to a battle on the floors above.

  Blood pumped from Grith’s leg with every step. He could feel it, even through the leg of his breeches. The improvised bandages he had applied were already close to soaked through. How long could he go without the attentions of a surgeon? Maybe minutes, maybe hours. There were simply no way to be sure. I just have to keep going, he told himself. Think about the wound later. Right now he needed to keep his mind clear, focused on the present.

  Grith jogged his memory for any useful information he might need for the fight ahead. Remember to have a plan of attack before battle is joined, his father had always said. Even if the plan doesn’t survive contact with the enemy, you’ll find yourself one step ahead of your opponent.

  Well, father, Grith thought. Time to come up with a plan. Lords always slept on the highest floor of their homes, at least that’s what the stories always said. Spirits! Was he seriously taking tactical advice from fairytales now?

  Unfortunately, fairytales were all he had to go on. If Irrin wasn’t on the highest floor, Grith could always work his way down, going room by room and clearing out the brown cloaked men as he found them. It’s certainly one bastard of a plan, father. But it’ll have to do, given my current state.

  He picked up his pace, moving faster, taking the stairs two at a time. His leg protested, but he ignored the pain, passing door after door as he went, counting them off. One. Two. Three. Four. The sounds of fighting were closer now, on the floor above. The fifth floor.

  Someone gave a wordless shout and there was a crash like the breaking of fine pottery. Grith took the last few steps at a full jog, biting his tongue to stop from screaming. It felt like the muscles in his thigh were being tied into nots. He stopped at the top of the steps, opposite the door, gasping and leaning against the wall.

  Grith downed the last of the liquid left in the bottle. It was better off in his stomach than anywhere else. He entered the Deepening, forgetting the pain in his leg, and the panic just before combat. Beyond this door, he would have to fight and likely kill. He gave a prayer to the Spirits of his Ancestors, a single unspoken word between breaths.

  He was ready.

  Grith threw the door open and rushed through into a wide hallway. He held his knife forward, ready for one of the assassins to spring upon him. But the hall was quiet, if not empty…

  A battle had taken place here, only moments ago if the sound he had heard coming up the stairs was anything to go by. Three green-clad soldiers lay dead in the hallway, the sunburst of Selivia displayed clearly on their breastplates. The bastards had put up a fight, killing two of the brown-cloaked men before being slain. Grith stepped over the bodies of the guards. They had been felled by thrusting strikes into the gaps in their armor. Blood pooled around them.

  The pair of assassins had each suffered more gruesome fates. One had received a blow to the head so powerful that it had sprayed his brains across the wall to his right. The other had a terrible looking gash to his leg, so deep as to expose the bone beneath. He looked to have bled out not long before Grith arrived.

  Grith stepped over the corpses as ceremoniously as he could and followed the marks of fighting down the hallway, carved into the walls. Yes, men were dead on both sides, but it was difficult to tell exactly who had won. He couldn’t believe Irrin would only have three guards watching him. There would have to be a dozen, maybe more. And where was Tain in all of this? Grith couldn’t imagine the man being anywhere but at his High Lord’s side.

  The hall was lined with heavy doors. Dammit! Anyone of them could be Irrin’s room. Grith opened each in turn, finding the chambers beyond empty. Of course, Irrin had to have picked the biggest inn on the whole fucking continent.

  Seeing that it would take him too long to check each room one at a time, Grith picked up his pace, heading along the hallway, scanning the doors rather than going inside. One in particular caught his eye. It wasn’t any larger than the others and bore no distinguishing marks across its oak surface. But it was further separated from its neighbors. That had to mean there was more floor space within.

  Grith threw the door open, rushing in with his belt knife. Idiot! He should have picked up a weapon from one of the men in the lying dead hallway. Luckily, there were no assassins waiting to meet him, just an empty apartment. The room had clearly been used, unlike the others, but there wasn’t any sign that the brown cloaked men had been through.

  A four posted bed stood at the center of the chamber, flanked by doorways that led to a washroom and privy respectively. Tables and chairs had been set up around the bed, stacked high with papers and bottles of ink, quills sitting on top, likely meant for Irrin’s advisors.

  Grith checked all three rooms, every corner, even under the bed. Nothing. No bodies. No sign of a struggle. That meant Irrin might still be alive, and that his guard had somehow gotten him to safety.

  “Thank Tirrak, you’re here,” came a voice from behind him. Grith turned, resisting the urge to throw his knife at the shadow darkening the doorway. Tain stepped into the bedroom, his saber in one hand and a long dagger in the other. The sword, and the hand that held it were both covered in blood. His clothes had seen better days as well, ripped and torn in places. The tears revealed cuts and scratches beneath, but none that looked like they were slowing t
he Delver down.

  “Where’s Irrin?” Grith demanded, forgetting the honorific.

  “Downstairs, with the other half of his guard.” Tain slumped against the wall, looking suddenly weak. He took a bottle from inside his coat, a match to the one he had given Grith, and downed its contents in a few gulps. He grimaced and threw the empty bottle to the ground.

  “The other half?” Grith asked, confused.

  “We were ambushed. The bastards who attacked us—the ones in the brown cloaks—they drew us out. Someone had started a fire in the square about an hour ago, just outside. I took half the guard to investigate. Thought it might be a protest or the like. They’re common enough when a High Lord’s in town. But the brown-cloaked bastards played us—drew us into an ally and hit us with fucking firebombs. I was fast enough to get away, but the others…” He shook his head. “I’ve hunted down most of the assassins still in the building, but I’d put good livres on there still being a few left hiding somewhere, waiting for us to let our guard down.”

  “Who are they,” Grith asked. “They cut down those guards in the hallway like…”

  “Like you did,” Tain finished, “back in the Marshes.” He might have been bringing up a touchy subject, but there was no accusation in his voice. “They’re not Delvers, that much I know, but they’re better trained than anyone I’ve ever fought. Well, almost anyone.” A question passed through Grith’s mind, a question of who Tain had meant by “almost anyone,” but he shoved it down. This wasn’t the time.

  “I saw a dozen men climb in here,” Grith said. “How many did you kill?”

  “Eight dead, counting the ones in the hall. That means that somewhere in here, there’s still four of those fuckers crawling around, maybe more.” He turned towards the exit. “I don’t trust the High Lord’s guards as far as I could throw them, not in a situation like this. I need to be down there.”

  “And me?” Tain wouldn’t want him near Irrin, not after his performance at the docks in Galthegan.

  Tain turned back. “Can I trust you?” His face was dead serious, the bags under his eyes making him look far older than his mid-twenties. Grith nodded, but Tain continued to frown. “I need more than an ‘uh huh.’ Promise me. I need to know that whatever happens, you will protect Irrin.”

  Grith considered his next words carefully. The fire that had burned in him, the desire for Irrin’s death, had calmed in the last days and weeks. No, he had decided he wouldn’t kill the High Lord, not as long as his people were safe. “I swear it,” Grith said. “Swear it on the Spirits of my Ancestors.”

  “As good an oath as any.” Tain turned and ran towards the door. Grith followed a few paces behind, still a little surprised at how easily the other Delver had accepted his answer.

  Grith scooped up a sword on the way to the stairs, one of the straight blades Irrin’s guards carried. It was well balanced. Not as good as a spear, or even one of the sabers he had been training with, but certainly better than a belt knife. They took the stairs at a run, descending to the fourth floor. Grith’s leg burned, even through the serenity of the Deepening. He spared the wound a glance. Blood was now dripping from underneath the soaked bandage. Strange that he didn’t feel any different than he had just after receiving the wound. He should be light-headed, at the least.

  But he didn’t have time to think. He needed to remain in the present, alert. Tain had cracked open the door to the fourth floor hallway and stepped through, sword held forward in the same stance he had taught Grith. The fighting had been heaviest here. Half-a-dozen guards lay dead on the ground, run through with swords and daggers like their comrades on the floor above. There were more brown cloaked bodies as well. Seven in all. Still, there were two guards left live, standing at attention before a door, seemingly capable of ignoring the corpses of their friends and comrades laying only feet away.

  “You’ve been busy,” Grith said. The smell of the place made him want to vomit. The heavy scents of blood and shit were overpowering in such a confined space. It was enough to make a man run. But the Deepening became a shelter against the outside world. Just as it sharpened Grith’s senses, it deadened his emotions.

  “The bastards fought bravely, I’ll give them that,” Tain said, coming to the door and the pair of remaining guards. “Only two of them ran when they saw what I could do. That’s better than you’ll get from most soldiers. Whoever hired them knew what they were doing.”

  The guards began to salute, but stopped, staring at Grith and then looking at Tain with worried expressions. Their hands tightened on their halberds and they shared a glance. These men had been with Irrin when he had come to Kwell. They knew what Grith could do, had seen it with their own eyes.

  “We’re not supposed to let that one through,” the taller of the two said. “He’s a danger to the High Lord.”

  “Of course he’s a danger,” Tain spat. “He’s a Delver.” He took a step towards the guards. “But he’s sworn himself and that’s enough for me to trust him.”

  “Doesn’t matter, sir,” said the tall soldiers. “I can’t obey any order except one that comes directly from the High Lord.”

  “Tirrak be damned! Then I’ll talk to him myself.” Sounding more than a little miffed, Tain shoved his way between the two guards and into the room beyond. Grith turned towards the stairs, trying to ignore the guards’ eyes on his back. He needed to remain vigilant. The assassins could appear at any moment, knives sharp, looking for blood with which to wet their blades.

  Tain reappeared between the two guards a few moments later. “Come on.” He motioned for Grith to follow him into the room. “Calm down, you two,” he told the guards. “Grith here isn’t going to be murdering anyone unless I give him the order.” This time the guards relented and let him pass with only cautious glances.

  They came into a small bed chamber, the kind that a minor merchant of little means might be able to afford. Small, unadorned, but clean. Irrin sat cross legged on a thin bed in the corner, still in his smallclothes. His eyes grew wide as he saw Grith enter. His hand unconsciously reached for the sword lying next to him on the ruffled sheets, but stopped before he could wrap his fingers around the hilt.

  “Tain said that you have sworn yourself to me.” His voice shook and he looked down at the sword Grith held in his hand. It was enough to make Grith smile. Irrin’s thin veneer of aristocratic nonchalance had been shattered, and underneath, he showed the same base fear as his subjects.

  Grith let him squirm for a few moments before he spoke. “I have,” he said when he thought the man had had enough. “Time heals all wounds, as they say, even the ones between us.”

  Irrin let out a sigh, seeming for once to take Grith at his word. “Where are the rest of them?” he asked Tain.

  “Grith here thinks there are no more than four of the assassins left in the building. It seems like a reasonable number. Nothing I can’t handle, High Lord.” Tain turned to leave the room. “Grith, you stay here. I’ll do a quick sweep of the lower floors, see if I can’t flush a few of them out. Under no circumstances do you leave the High Lord’s side, understand?”

  Grith nodded. Of course he wouldn’t leave the High Lord’s side. Did Tain think him some kind of fool?

  “Good.” Tain exited through the front door, and a moment later, Grith could hear his shoes clapping on the staircase to the floors below.

  Alone in the dark room, Grith glanced over at the High Lord. Spirits! The man shook like a leaf. Was it because of the assassins still in the inn, or because he was alone with Grith, a man who had tried to murder him only a month previous?

  Well, there was nothing that could be done for the High Lord’s paranoia. All he could do was try his best to protect him. That, at least, was a skill in which he knew he was competent.

  Grith took a seat in the room’s only chair, opposite the door. He leaned back with a sigh, the pain in his leg lessening somewhat
as he took his weight off the wound. He sat in silence for several long minutes, his hand still tight on the hilt of his pilfered sword. It was strangely quiet in the room, the echoed sounds of the chaos outside dulled by the inn’s thick stone walls.

  After another minute or so of silent waiting, Grith rose impatiently to his feet, hobbling to the window and looking out across the town below. Buildings burned, throwing up great gouts of smoke, like the breath of some demon, shadowing the men laying dead on the cobbles. Most were Irrin’s. From this distance, Grith couldn’t tell what had killed them, but he had his suspicions. The fire-wielding Delver had yet to show himself again, but the marks of his work were scattered across the square outside. Perhaps even the houses and shops, set alight like dry kindling, were his doing.

  “You’re bleeding,” Irrin commented, finally looking up from the sword laying before him. Grith glanced down at his makeshift bandage. Blood was running down his leg in rivulets, soaking his breaches to where they were covered by his boots.

  “Thanks,” Grith replied, wryly. “I hadn’t noticed.” He stepped over to the dresser and rummaged around until he found a towel. With shaking hands, he removed the dressing. Blood poured from the wound as he let off the pressure holding it closed. And there was the light-headedness he had wondered about earlier, coming on so quickly he had to return to his chair to stop from fainting. Spirits! He couldn’t afford to pass out now. Not while he still had work to do.

  “I have surgeons in the baggage train,” Irrin said, watching him work. “When all of this is over, I can have one of them can tend to you.”

  Grith grunted, only half-listening to the High Lord. He placed the towel over the wound and pulled hard, gritting his teeth against the shooting pain as he twisted and tightened the cloth around his thigh. He tied it tight and stood up, testing his weight on the makeshift dressing. It held, but for how long would it stave back the bleeding?