Grith didn’t have much strength left and certainly not enough to defend both himself and Irrin. He leaned against the wall opposite the High Lord, trying to conserve what vitality he had left.
“It might be too late by then,” Grith said. Even with his new bandage, even remaining still as a stone, his body would eventually give in to blood loss. How long after that until death took him?
“I don’t think so,” Irrin said. He seemed to have regained some of his composure. Perhaps the presence of a Delver, even one with shaky loyalties, reassured him, a calming salve on his mind.
“Care to explain?” Grith asked. Spirits! Even the effort of speaking made his vision swim.
Clearly Irrin did not. He just watched the door. Grith sighed. Good, he didn’t want to talk to the bastard anyway.
“You never call me by my honorific,” Irrin said after another stretch of silence. There was no anger in the statement, no haughty indignation.
“And I won’t. I may serve you, but you’re not my lord. My people have no lords.” Truer words, Grith had never said. He would die before he would bend the knee to this man. I will not be bound again. I will not kneel.
“You are one of my subjects,” Irrin maintained. “By the power vested in me by the Emperor.”
“Just because you have a piece of paper with a few ink marks claiming the Marshes lie within your borders, doesn’t mean you own them.” Grith turned and stumbled towards the door. “Spirits! I’m arguing with you while there’s a battle going on outside.”
“Where are you going?” Irrin demanded, his voice rising slightly.
“Just checking on the boys outside.” He pulled the door open and gave one last quick look around the room.
“In front of you!” Irrin cried, leaping to his feet and grabbing his sword. Grith turned to see a woman in a brown cloak blocking in the entryway, only a pace from him. He processed the scene in a space of single breath.
With no time to enter the Deepening, Grith analyzed the situation using his normal senses, honed over years of training. The assassin before him had sheathed her sword and drawn a long dagger, better for close work. The two guards who had stood watch at the door lay at her feet, throats slit, the wounds leaking blood onto the hardwood flooring beneath their still forms.
Without so much as a sound, she shoved her knife upward, trying to stick the blade under Grith’s ribs. He moved his off hand down to intercept the thrust. Even without going into the Deepening, he was faster than he had once been. Tain’s training had strengthened his muscles and sharpened his senses.
He dropped his sword and grabbed his own knife, turning the drawing motion into a thrust that he hoped would find the woman’s side. She grabbed his arm and pushed, managing to arrest the movement of Grith’s dagger before it could find flesh. Gritting his teeth, he slipped his hand around her knife’s hilt, miming the same motion she had used to halt his own strike.
Locked as they were, neither had the advantage. With the strength of the Deepening, Grith knew, he could crush the bones in the woman’s arm and toss her down the hallway like she was little more than a china doll. But with his much reduced strength, the best he could accomplish was a push out the doorway.
He might have been weaker without the Deepening, but he was still half a foot taller than this woman and at least fifty pounds heavier. He used that difference in size to his advantage, shoving with all of the strength of his one good leg and sending his attacker into the wall opposite the entrance to Irrin’s room.
It was then that Grith saw a vague form out of the corner of his eye. A man was approaching at a jog, sword in hand. No, they would never have sent one assassin to kill Irrin. There would always be two, just in case.
Grith did his best to disengage from the woman. He managed to get his hands free, and spun away, getting a shallow cut across his ribs in the process. He gritted his teeth against the pain and backed towards the open door into Irrin’s room.
They wouldn’t get Irrin, not that easily. This wasn’t about protecting the High Lord, or about impressing Tain. This was about his personal honor as a warrior, about winning. Irrin was his charge, and he had sworn to defend him. He might refuse to kneel at the pompous bastard’s feet, but he would die by the oath he had sworn, if need be.
His father’s words once again invaded his thoughts. We might be mercenaries, he had told Grith. But we are not common thugs. A thug would stab his employer in the back, if the price was right. We will never betray the trust of a client, not for all the livres in the Emperor’s vaults.
Grith reached deep inside himself, looking for any hidden strength he might have missed. Just a few seconds worth, it was all he would need to kill the pair of assassins. But there was nothing, not even a drop of power left.
He stumbled into the bedroom, turning and watching the brown cloaked man and woman. He could see them clearly now, illuminated by the flickering light of burning homes beyond the window. The female assassin was older, perhaps forty, with blonde hair turning to gray and skin the color of cream. Her companion was somehow even paler, his skin almost colorless, his hair a red bright as fire.
“Give up the High Lord, soot skin,” the woman said in heavily accented Sasken. Not her first language then. Could she be foreign? But that made no sense. What power would dare threaten the Empire? Bas’son? The Sunset Kingdoms? Fanalkiri Rebels? It seemed unlikely.
“Fuck you,” Grith croaked out. He was almost too light headed to speak. The darkness was closing in at the corners of his vision. He had minutes at best and stalling wasn’t doing him any good. The woman shrugged and stepped forward without another word.
Not very talkative, Grith thought. In his befuddled state he nearly laughed at the simple quip. He turned his back on the woman and reached towards Irrin. He stood at least, even if his legs shook, his weapon gripped tightly in both hands. “Give me your sword!” Grith managed to get out.
When the High Lord didn’t answer, Grith grabbed the weapon by the blade. He’d heard of knights who could do the same, using the pommel of their sword like a hammer to bludgeon opponents in thick armor. These weren’t ideal circumstances to test the theory, but in his current state, Grith had little choice but to trust rumor and hearsay. He pulled hard, hoping beyond hope that he didn’t end up with mangled hands for the second time in as many months. Irrin reluctantly let go of the sword.
Grith turned on his heels just as the woman came within striking distance. She had her knife in an underhand grip, ready to drive the double-edged blade into his back. There was no smile on her face, no grimace, no expression at all. This was just business to her, nothing more.
You bit off more than you could chew today, Grith thought, whipping the sword around. The woman didn’t even have time to register shock before the weighted pommel slammed into her left temple. There was a crack and she fell like a puppet with cut strings, blood welling from beneath broken skin and bone.
The red haired man leaped over his companion and came into range. Grith tucked the sword in tight against his chest, changing grip, holding the sword by its leather wrapping as he normally would. Tain had never shown him the longsword, although he kept several of the weapons on his cart. Trophies, he had said, of men foolish enough to challenge him in the dueling ring.
Still it seemed simple enough. Grith thrust forward with the weapon, putting all of strength behind the single attack. Just like a spear…
It was only as the point stopped a few inches from the man’s chest that Grith realized how wrong he had been. And unlike his friend, this man had his sword out. He beat the feeble attack away and stepped inside Grith’s guard.
Grith brought his sword back and blocked two spirited slashes. Each one shook the bones in his arms. He had trained in the Deepening for so long, he had forgotten how difficult it was to fight without the trance’s assistance. How easily an advantage could become a crutch…
Dazed and barely conscious, he lashed out blindly with everything he had left, delivering a flurry of punches and elbows. Flesh hit flesh with dull slaps. Grith opened his eyes to find they were both tangled on the ground. Snarling, he kept up his punches, pummeling the bastard over and over. Rage took him… and the assassin was unable to stand against it.
When the red haired man’s face was little more than blood and bruises, Grith grabbed his dagger and shoved it into the assassin’s right armpit, just above the protection of his breastplate. The man let out a single gurgling moan through broken lips and went limp.
Grith fell onto his back beside the dead man and gasped out several shallow breaths as darkness closed in. Unconsciousness, perhaps even death, took him, and he was powerless to stop it.
Eleven:
Kareen
Kareen woke from a restless sleep to the unmistakable sound of activity. Livran was already up, his clothes on, pacing the interior of the tent. “How long have you been doing that?” Kareen asked blearily. She rolled out of the bed roll she had been provided and stumbled to her feet. The thin piece of cloth had provided little protection from the stony ground. She tried to rub away the heavy pain in her back and shoulders.
Kareen brushed at her skirt, trying to get the wrinkles out of the mud-stained fabric. She wouldn’t have dared remove her dress to sleep, especially not with Livran sharing the same tent. The knight however, hadn’t had the same qualms, and had stripped down to his smallclothes right in front of her. When she asked him about his apparent lack of impropriety his only response had been: “It’s hot.”
“I don’t know,” Livran replied. “Long enough to get the woman outside staring daggers into my back.” He motioned to the tent flap. “She’s been trying to get me to pack up this tent for the better part of an hour.”
“You could have woken me,” Kareen pointed out, pulling on her boots and running a hand through her hair.
“I could have. But why?” It seemed that Livran would get his petty revenge in any way possible. He had watched his men get beaten to death, and was impotent to do anything in retaliation. Could she really blame him for wanting to get back at the Cutarans, even in this childish manner?
“Come on,” he finally said when she had risen to her feet. “I guess we shouldn’t leave the bitch waiting on us any longer.”
They stepped out of the tent and into what was left of the quickly disappearing camp. Tents were being deconstructed and placed onto carts pulled by the tribe’s children, something Kareen would have found cruel, if the children weren’t already each the size of a full-grown man.
Livran turned to the woman who was waiting to pack up their tent and gave her a wry smile. She was old. Deep wrinkles crossed her face and ran down to a sagging chest. But even in her advanced age, Kareen had little doubt she could have torn Livran in half if she so desired. Instead, she simply growled and went inside, mumbling to herself—likely something about how she wanted to rip the little human’s arms from their sockets.
“Did you have any ideas while I was asleep?” Kareen asked as they trudged towards the front of the column.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Livran asked. He gave her a look that could have melted ice. Kareen felt her cheeks redden under that gaze. Blessed Tirrak! How could this man come off as charming, even when saying something so risqué?
“I meant about escaping!” she snapped. Her brothers had acted the same around women sometimes, like they were nothing more than a fine pair of breasts with a face attached. Blessed Tirrak, it could be infuriating. You’re just angry that he made you blush, she told herself.
“Of course.” His face grew suddenly serious. She could see his lips move, but couldn’t hear his mumbling. He looked away and sighed. “I don’t know. It would be easy enough to run, but without Tason…”
It was strange to speak so openly about their escape plans. Kareen had to keep reminding herself, that with the exception of Xisa, none of the Cutarans could speak or understand Sasken. Well, none they knew of at least. “The healers said he might not make it through the week.”
Livran whirled on her, face going from the petulance of a boy to the hot anger of a man all in the space of a heartbeat. “Are you suggesting I leave him to the Cutarans?!”
“I never said that!” For a moment, she thought he might start shouting, but his anger had subsided as quickly as it had come, replaced by a dejection Kareen wouldn’t have thought the young man capable of. And were those tears in his eyes?
“They’re all dead,” he whispered. “You realize that, don’t you?” Kareen had a feeling the words were really meant for her. She suddenly felt like an eavesdropper, listening in on a whispered rendezvous. No one should see a man, especially a knight of renown, in their darkest moments. Grief like this was a personal thing.
“Dead because of me,” he continued. “I was a fool. A fucking fool. Thinking I could waltz out onto these plains. Thinking I could challenge the Cutarans-”
“Then we wait for him to recover.” Kareen concluded, placing a hand on Livran’s arm, hoping the gesture would calm him somewhat. “Until then, we need to stay strong, both of us.”
Livran nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “But you’re right. If Tason dies, then this whole situation becomes a hell of a lot easier.”
They started forward again, but at a more leisurely pace this time, just enough to keep up with the carts. “I’ve been thinking about something,” Kareen said, desperate to shift the subject to a problem they could actually deal with. “If Xisa only needs a blacksmith, then why keep us alive?” The question had kept playing across her thoughts through the night and still she had not produced a satisfactory answer.
“There’s only one reason I can think of. She sees me as a rival chieftain,” said Livran. “And you as my mate,” Kareen gave him a sharp look. “At least in her eyes,” he added quickly. “Xisa won’t kill me unless I challenge her.”
“And if you killed her, you would be chieftain?” Kareen asked. If that was the case, the power of the chief could be undermined by one lucky swing of the sword. It seemed like a terrible system of rule—unstable, constantly subject to change.
“I don’t think so. I would be fighting for our freedom more than anything. If I won, perhaps the next chieftain would let us go free.” Livran paused for a moment. “At least that’s the idea.”
“It seems like a gamble,” Kareen said. “Fighting that woman, can you imagine it?”
“I can.” His right hand tightened on the hilt of an invisible sword. “Driving my blade into her neck. I think it would be the capstone of my life.”
Kareen turned her head away, her thoughts a flutter of possibilities. So many things could happen in the next few days, and she could barely guess at the outcome of half. If Tason lived, then they would have to stay, or find a way to get him out. If he died, then escape might become a real possibility. Or Livran might fight this duel of his. If he won, they would be free to go, at least in theory, and if he lost… what then? Would Kareen be killed—left alive for some unknown purpose?
There were simply too many possibilities, too many threads to unravel. She only knew one thing with certainty. Inaction would be their downfal
l. They needed to make their move, if only they could choose a direction in which to head.
* * *
A cry echoed across the plains, breaking the quiet rumble of the Coldwaters Tribe on the move. Kareen jumped at the sound and twisted her head, searching for the source of the noise. Many of the Cutarans around them had turned their attention towards a hill to the right of their column, holding up their hands and bellowing in the resonant tones of Battle Speech.
“They must be expecting someone!” Livran shouted over the deafening, strangely singular voice of thousands of Cutarans.
“Reinforcements?” Kareen asked, once the commotion had died down. A single voice issued clearly from the front of the column and the Cutarans halted. The tribe had walked less than five miles and it wasn’t even halflight. Their pace towards the Front, or wherever it was they were headed, wasn’t exactly urgent.
Figures began to emerge from behind the hill. Cutarans, perhaps two thousand, men and women and children all, made their way down towards Xisa’s force. At their head was the tallest Cutaran Kareen had ever seen. He must have been close to nine feet tall with pounds of corded muscle wrapping his arms and legs. He carried a spear in one hand, and a hide shield in the other, both carved and painted with interlocking geometric patterns and surrounded by tribal fetishes. The weapons were massive, yet still, they were like toys in the monster’s hands.
“That must be their chief,” she told Livran. Behind him walked a much younger man, slightly shorter, but even more heavily built. It was hard to tell with Cutarans, but she thought there might be some family resemblance. They had the same hook nose, and their skin was a similar shade of sandy yellow. Perhaps a son or nephew.
“She’s gathering more to her banner,” Livran said. “Planning something big. Perhaps a concentrated attack on the Front.”
The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1) Page 18
