The opportunity to strike presented itself, and Grith rushed ahead, not towards the injured guard, but instead towards his comrade. You were too busy defending your friend. You didn’t think about defending yourself.
Grith spun, choking up on his spear and taking the man on his left side. The guard responded, swinging around with his halberd in a move that would have split Grith’s belly open if he hadn’t been ready for it. He stepped inside the man’s swing and grabbed the haft of the halberd with his left hand, arresting the motion. A look of shock crossed the guard’s face, either confusion at the impotence of his attack, or marvel at the hidden strength in Grith’s arms.
Grith took that single moment of shock to drive his spear up under the man’s chin. There was only slight resistance as the tip punched through the roof of the guard’s mouth and into his brain. He went down with blood pouring from his lips and down the front of his armor. Three dead.
The wounded guard had taken the time to move in, managing to stay upright despite the trail of blood he had left in his wake. More guards were coming in now, six on either side. Irrin was done testing him. Now he wanted Grith dead.
Grith pushed forward, beating aside the wounded guard’s defense, and thrusting his spear into the man’s open faced helm once, twice, three times, each strike ruining the poor bastard’s face more and more. He wasn’t even screaming by the end, so thick was the blood covering his face and filling his mouth. Spirits! He had killed before, but this was something different, a brutality he hadn’t even known he possessed.
Trying to ignore his own traitorous thoughts, Grith turned, realization hitting him like a hammer blow. He was surrounded by a dozen soldiers, each clad the same as the ones he had left dead on Kuul’s boards, and likely just as skilled. He had taken four easily enough. I could probably beat half this many, but not twelve. There was only so much one man could do.
Grith quickly made his decision. There was no going back now, no hope of surrender. He would kill as many as he could, dragging them to the afterlife to join the four on the ground around him. It was said that each of your sins was a weight on your soul, like a ball and chain around the ankle of a drowning man. If the story was true, Grith would likely drown for all eternity. He was already damned, why not take a few more?
But instead of attacking, the soldiers parted as one, forming a semicircle that still blocked his path forward, while letting through the fop that Grith had seen accompanying Irrin’s retinue. He had taken the young man for one of the many sycophants that hounded most High Lords. But it seemed he was a warrior of some sort, or at least fancied himself one. He carried a saber in one hand, the blade thin and wickedly curved. The other held a wide brimmed hat of black velvet. He carelessly tossed the cavalier to the floor as he approached, leaving it to soak in the blood seeping across the boards.
Grith wanted to laugh. The man carried himself like a soldier, but the outfit he wore was meant for court, not a battlefield. His white coat was embroidered in gold and was worn over a deep violet shirt and black breeches. The ensemble was impractical as all hell, but still, Grith had to admit, it was fashionable.
The fabric was silk and fine wool. Useless in the heat.
The coat and breeches were impeccably tailored. It will only restrict his movements.
“I don’t need a show this time, Tain,” Irrin told him. “End it quickly.”
Grith squinted at the fop. The way Irrin talked to him… was this the High Lord’s son? There was little resemblance. He was angular and thin, with golden hair and eyes as green as mangrove leaves in summer. Adopted? It was impossible to tell with mainlanders. Their traditions were a murky pool into which Grith had never had the desire to plunge.
Fine. If the boy wanted to die, his wish would be granted.
“Don’t worry yourself, High Lord.” He pointed at Grith with the point of his saber. “You said the boy is a real challenge?”
Irrin nodded his reply.
There was something wrong with this man. His nonchalance was disturbing. I killed four of his High Lord’s guards, and he doesn’t even look fazed. What he’d done… it would have shaken the strongest of men.
Unperturbed, Grith took a battle stance, spear held before him. Time to shake one more…
Grith went onto the balls of his feet and leaped, covering a dozen paces and landing in a crouch just outside of Tain’s reach. Grith thrust up, both hands on the haft of his spear, putting all his strength behind the attack. There was no way Tain could dodge, no way he could parry. Grith waited for the terrible sound of his spear piercing flesh, but there was… nothing.
Tain had somehow managed to avoid his attack, spinning on one foot like a dancer and pushing the thrust aside with his saber’s false edge. Before Grith could get his bearings, the young man lunged forward, lashing out with a flurry of blows. Grith did his best to block, but crouched as he was, he had to twist and turn the weapon to deflect each slash. Tain cut splintering gashes along the rattan of Grith’s spear. The shaft was literally being chopped to pieces!
Grith saw his opportunity and dropped the weapon, drawing his second club and bringing it up to guard just as another attack landed. This man, Tain, was fast, faster than even Grith. The saber bit deep into the hardwood club, sending a vibration up Grith’s arm, and nearly throwing the weapon from his hand. Not only was Tain fast, he was strong as well.
Grith did his best to ignore the shuddering hand shock and pushed upward, shoving Tain back onto his heels. A look of surprise crossed the young man’s face. It seemed he hadn’t expected Grith to put up much of a fight. He opened his mouth to say something, but Grith cut him off with a strike towards his face.
Tain parried the attack with what looked to be some effort and backed away, leaving a few paces of breathing room between them.
“You’re slowing down,” said the fop, breathing heavily. He motioned to the bodies on the ground. “Give up and I might still be able to argue for your life.”
Argue for my life? Grith thought. So he still thinks me worthwhile.
Irrin frowned, glancing at Grith and back to Tain. “I don’t think so. He’s a danger, Tain. Kill him.” Clearly the two’s plans varied somewhat in respect to Grith’s life.
Tain bit his lip. There was a war going on behind his green eyes, but eventually he nodded. “As you wish, High Lord.”
Grith didn’t give Tain a chance for another swing. He wouldn’t be on the defensive this time around. He lashed out with his club, aiming for Tain’s sword arm, but the man was just too fast. He parried the attack along the flat of his blade and delivered a swift kick to Grith’s stomach.
He tried to shrug the blow off as he normally would, but was overcome by a sudden weakness. The Battle Trance crumbled around him, returning the world to gruesome normalcy. Slight aches became waves of pain in his belly. He glanced down at his hands. They were shaking so fiercely he thought he might drop his club.
Grith didn’t noticed the sword at his throat until he saw the glint of metal. At this distance, he could see the fine markings along the blade of the saber, the swirling patterns of jewel-clear metal. Grith closed his eyes and waited for Tain to open his throat, for the sharp pain followed by the pouring of hot blood down the front of his tunic. But something held him back.
“Kill him!” Irrin yelled. His voice dripped with venom. It seemed that even a High Lord could lose his cool under the right circumstances. It was enough to make Grith smile. His entire life had led up to this moment, this single battle, this single test. I could die knowing I had done this much, he thought. But only if his people were safe. He still had one more thing to do.
“He’s a prize, High Lord,” Tain protested. “Like me. Would you give that up?”
“He has personally insulted me! He has killed four of my men and tried to do the same to my most prized bodyguard. And you think I should spare him?”
Tain
was distracted by his argument with the High Lord. His eyes strayed from Grith. The dark-skinned man saw his opening and took it.
Grith grabbed Tain’s saber with both hands, crying out as the fop pulled the weapon back, dragging the main and false edges of the blade across his skin to tear into the meat of his palms. Blood welled from under his fingers.
Using his last reserves of strength, he pushed the sword aside before grabbing the knife at his belt and drawing it with bleeding hands. Something in his fingers wasn’t working properly anymore. The tendons must have been cut.
This was his last act, he now knew. He’d been blessed by the Sky Father to get even this chance at revenge. No time to worry about injury. Grith ran forward on weak legs, his stumbling path taking him towards the High Lord. Guards moved in, some of them with smirks on their faces, others with looks of pity for the poor bastard boy running to his inevitable death.
Grith moved in amongst them, dodging left and right, and stumbling around the points of halberds. In the Trance, as tenuous as it was, he was as elusive as the wind. It took all his concentration, all his skill, but somehow, he ran the gauntlet, coming to Irrin unscathed. The High Lord had pulled a dagger from within his robe, holding the jeweled blade in a hand that shook as violently as Grith’s own. His blue eyes were wide, his expression full of fear, as if he were staring into the face of death itself.
Grith smiled and raised his own dagger. He was completely spent. His body shook like a leaf. But even with sliced hands and useless fingers, he could put down one pompous High Lord.
Something hit him hard in the back of the head. It took Grith a moment to register the seizing pain for what it was, as it ran through his body and down his limbs. The knife fell from his hands, and his vision went dark.
Four:
Kareen
Kareen woke with the sun. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and groaned, rolling off the wide bed Livran had given her the use of, saying he wouldn’t see her staying in an inn on his watch.
She ran a hand through her unruly hair and went to her trunk, left against a wall beside the guest room’s washbasin, pulling out a dress, stockings, and shoes. She dressed her hair the best she could with the limited supplies she had brought from home, massaging her hair with creams and oils before arranging the black locks to fall down over her shoulders. The style wasn’t particularly fashionable, like the complex arrangements of twists and knots often worn by the most modish ladies, but it wasn’t out of fashion either. Regardless, the look would have to do until she could get more settled in.
Kareen could smell something cooking from down the hall. Strange. Most houses as large as Livran’s high street manor would have a kitchen set away from the main structure. She had never woken to the smell of fresh bread, or rashers of cooking bacon. Perhaps that was something she had missed being born into nobility.
When she thought herself presentable, Kareen took the hallway out of her room, trying to put on her best face for Livran. The man had taken her in after all. He at least deserved a smile from his guest, no matter how nervous she was about her current predicament. She passed two more rooms, both empty and immaculately cleaned. Brass buttons glinted on the uniforms hanging from pegs within. These were the rooms of Livran’s officers. She had met them only in passing the night before, giving them a cursory greeting before going to bed. Even so early in the day, they were nowhere to be found. Likely, Livran had them out on patrol, or training in one of the public practice grounds that dotted the city.
A few paces further, and the hallway opened into a kitchen. It was basic by knightly standards. A wide room, it had a pair of ovens along one wall, ostensibly for bread making, and a hearth and stovetop in front of a set of wide windows. Morning light flooded through the openings, illuminating a simply built yet sturdy looking table at the center of room. A pair of chairs sat on opposite sides of the table, and it didn’t look like there was space for more. A man who is used to living alone, Kareen thought as she stepped into the kitchen.
Livran stood at the stove, flipping something in a pan. Why wasn’t he letting the servants cook? Kareen had seen several of them as she had come in yesterday. Their lodgings were right behind the house, after all.
“A good morning to you,” Livran said, not turning from the stove. “How do you like your eggs?” It took Kareen a few moments to realize he was referring to her.
“Um…” She didn’t know what to say. Knights didn’t cook, and certainly not when there were servants to do the job. But you have to remember, she reminded herself. Livran has lived most of his life without a title. He is probably used to fending for himself, especially on the road.
“Sunnyside up? Poached? Scrambled?” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for one of the three. My culinary skills have never really evolved much past camp grub.”
“Poached, if you will?” she said, moving to stand near the bread oven. Even so far south, the morning air had a dry chill and the warmth felt good. “My father’s chef used to make the best poached eggs. He’d put them on top of ham and fresh bread. I think many mornings, his cooking was the only thing that got me out of bed.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have any ham. Meat can be hard to come by these days. Most of what comes in from the north goes to the Front. They say the army needs it more than we do.” He took a saucepan off a hook above the stove and filled it with water from a basin next to a door that led to the back garden.
“They’re probably right,” he continued, placing the pan on the stovetop. “Luckily, I raise my own chickens, so plenty of eggs.” He glanced over at the oven next to where Kareen stood. “The bread should be done by now.”
He was glancing around the room, clearly looking for something or someone. “Kimin? Where in Tirrak’s name is that woman? Kimin?! Get in here!”
A small servant poked her head into the room a few moments later. “You don’t have to yell, sir. I know, I know. The bread.” She took a paddle off the wall and pulled the loaf from the oven. Kareen looked on in anticipation. It looked to be good hard Kilrian white. If it wasn’t tough enough to break your teeth, it wasn’t worth eating, or so the saying went.
Good, Kareen thought. She had eaten enough rubbery Akivian flatbread on her journey to last a lifetime.
“Go ahead and take that to the table,” Livran directed. “And bring some butter. The salted kind.”
“Yes. Yes.” Kimin said, sounding put out. Servants weren’t supposed to sound put out. Kareen was no prude when it came to the social order, but for a servant to talk back to a knight… well, those sorts of things just weren’t done.
“My father never had to put up with that tone from you,” Livran snapped, breaking an egg into a cup and laying it into the water now simmering in the saucepan.
The old servant put her hands on her broad hips and turned to face him. “Your father was a good man, and he knew how to treat his servants right.” Blessed Tirrak! Kareen thought. She talks to him like he’s still a child.
“My father grew up the son of servants. He was little more than a common peasant until a few years before I was born. Do you know he said he still thought of himself as a lowly mercenary, even when he sat at the Emperor’s table?”
Kimin went to open her mouth, but Livran continued on, managing to keep one eye on the floating egg even as he spoke. “Do I not pay you well, Kimin? Twice the wage most of my peers give their servants, if I’m not mistaken. Enough for you to buy a house of your own in the city. That’s quite an achievement for a domestic servant.”
“Yes sir,” she mumbled. It looked like Livran had ripped the fight from the old woman.
He finally pulled the finished egg out of the water and laid it on a waiting cloth. He glanced over at the servant. “Thank you, Kimin. Now leave us, please.”
She nodded, still trying to conceal her embarrassment, and gave a short bow to Karee
n before leaving the room.
“I apologize for Kimin’s behavior. She’s a bit familiar for a servant.” He grabbed a pair of plates from a cabinet and sat them on the table, followed by forks, knives, and finally food and drink. “But I don’t have the heart to tell her off most of the time. I guess I have something to owe to the old woman,” he said as he worked. “She practically raised me after all.”
“Your mother, was she of the nobility?” Kareen asked. It wasn’t uncommon to see noble or even knightly children reared by nannies and master servants. Kareen had been lucky. For the most part, she had only known the caring hands of her mother and father.
“I’ve never met my mother,” he said, sitting pots of tea and coffee between their two place settings. “She could be dead for all I know. I’ve never really given it much thought.”
Kareen’s shock must have shown, because Livran looked up, confusion writ plainly on his face. Tirrak! The way he spoke of her, it was like he was talking about the weather! “I’m sorry. If she-”
“She was a whore.”
Kareen had to stop from tripping over her own two feet on her way to the table. She must have misheard him…
Livran continued. “It’s not uncommon for mercenaries. Father was a captain at the time. And you know how soldiers are…” He grabbed a knife and went to work on the bread.
He says he doesn’t care. I can’t believe that… what boy wouldn’t want to know his mother, whore or not?
“He at least had the decently to take me after the birth. He raised me as he would any other son, even made me his heir after he was knighted.” He placed a piece of bread on her plate and topped it with a poached egg. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t be giving my sob story to a guest.”
“It’s alright,” said Kareen. “I wanted to thank you again, for taking me in. You didn’t have to do that-”
The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1) Page 7
