by Mike Truk
“I know,” she replied. “You’re a failed Lost Reaver. A drunk, a wastrel, and a shame to the Stasiek name. I know precisely who I’m dealing with. But it seems you’ve forgotten. Looks like I’ll have to teach you anew.”
Hugh finished the bottle. “I’m always up for a lesson. Come at me, Morwyn. I’ve been looking forward to this for some time.”
She drew her knife. The blade gleamed dully in the morning light. “More fool you.”
Hugh stilled. He’d expected her to attack him. But to draw a knife? That was a completely different level of aggression. This was going to get very bloody, very fast.
“Careful,” he said. “You’ll hang if you kill me.”
Her smile was pure disdain. “I’m sure I’ll get a pardon. Last chance, Hugh. This time I won’t hold back.”
Hugh took a deep breath. He couldn’t be sure of defeating her without serious injury. In fact, the odds of his dying were incredibly high. Should he just let her go? After all, it wasn’t like he had a reputation to uphold. Let Morwyn scorn him even further. Consign him to a lower hall of humiliation in her view.
Anger flickered within him. The memory of the beating he’d received, the affection he’d once harbored for her, the disdain she’d always shown him.
No.
He’d not back down. Not give his brother the satisfaction, nor confirm in her eyes that he was still little better than that callow youth.
But if he was to fight her, he’d have to crush her. Assert his dominance so irrevocably that she’d never wonder if she could take him again.
And there was only one way to do that.
Anger washed away his hesitation. He’d pay the consequences later. Right now, it was time to settle some old scores. “You talk too much, Morwyn.”
Her eyes and lips narrowed, and in that moment before she came at him, Hugh whispered forth his summons.
Sweet Severin. Nobody was as good at knife fighting as you. Come to me, brother.
And the shade was there, within him, filling him with that icy cold that came of Severin’s murderous innocence, and the world seemed to slow, dynamics and intimations becoming apparent that had been hidden to his senses but a moment before.
No scream, no shout of rage. Morwyn was all business now. She came at him fast and hard, blade slashing faster than he could follow, an opening sally that would have either opened up both his forearms if he’d blocked or cut his chest to the bone if he failed to react in time.
Instead, there was a discordant CLINK as her blade was deflected by his wine bottle, the curvature of the glass angled perfectly so that her knife bounced off, leaving her open for a blow. Hugh chose not to take it. Morwyn recovered immediately and it was all Hugh could do, even with Sweet Severin’s infamous skills, to block her every slash with the bottle, weaving it back and forth, deflecting each blow, shards and chips of glass flying.
How many blows he parried he’d no idea. A dozen in a second or two? She kept coming, half-crouched, backhands, diagonal slashes, stabs, thrusts - and each and every one he blocked.
With a fucking wine bottle, held by the neck.
Faster and faster she came, the tendons standing out in her neck, hacking at him now, the sound of each parry louder and louder. Hugh could sense Sweet Severin’s muted amazement; no doubt even that infamously murderous youth had never faced so skilled an opponent, someone as talented as himself, so that when an opening appeared Hugh kicked forward, thrusting from the hips, and planted his boot square in Morwyn’s chest, sending her staggering back, arms cartwheeling gracelessly until she caught her balance.
They both stood there, panting, staring at each other.
“I’ll admit, I’m impressed,” she said. Strands of hair had slipped free from her clasp and now hung along either side of her face, framing her beauty. “A wine bottle? I guess that makes a poetic kind of sense.”
Hugh considered his implement. It was riven with so many cracks he knew it would take only a few more blows to shatter. “Thanks. Drinking’s a hard business.”
Morwyn reached behind her back and drew a second knife. “Problem with drunks is they have trouble keeping it up.” She threw her second knife up, and for a second Hugh thought she was going to catch it by the tip and hurl it at him, but instead she caught it in a reverse grip and lowered herself into a lethal combat crouch. “Not bad, Hugh. But now this ends.”
Fuck.
Severin was seething. Aching for the knife that lay on the writing desk, its tip still embedded in a cork. Hugh could sense the youth’s anger and embarrassment at being forced to fight with a wine bottle.
“Fine,” said Hugh to Sweet Severin, setting the bottle down and taking up the blade. “But we keep the cork in. I don’t want you gutting her by ‘accident.’”
Morwyn’s brows quirked in confusion. “You talking to your knife? Never mind. The less I know about your madness the better. Goodbye, Hugh.” And once more she flung herself upon him.
Evassier, thought Hugh, summoning the melancholic assassin. Akilina. Birandillo.
The three Reavers manifested within him, joining Sweet Severin, and the blade became a feather in his grip. Morwyn’s attacks were like twin bolts of lightning, one high, the other low, and somehow he blocked them both, arm flickering up and down and then he stepped into her, slamming her with his shoulder, knocking her back.
She didn’t resist; fell into a reverse roll, came up with this insane scissoring kick twist that would have taken him out at the knees and knocked his head off if he’d been any closer, and was upon him. Arms interweaving, blades dancing, face contorted in focus and growing amazement as he parried.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Hugh folded his free arm behind his back and began to press forward. His knife was a falling leaf, a whispering breeze, a waterfall. The clangor of their blades meeting was near constant. Sweat bathed her face, her breath was coming hard now, but he saw no give in her gaze, and then it hit him: by Fortuna’s fickle love, Morwyn’s fighting me and four Reavers and still holding her own.
His skin crawled in amazement, and in that moment his concentration slipped. So quick was their knife-play, so intricate, that even that moment’s distraction was nearly fatal; her blade slid through his guard and opened a wide gash across his upper chest. The pain barely registered, but he saw her eyes light up with victory and newfound confidence.
Damn! Any chance of intimidating her into submission had just vanished. She stepped back, glanced at the blood that was smeared across her knife, then wiped it off on her cheek, the crimson startling against her alabaster skin.
“So you do bleed. I was beginning to wonder.”
Hugh grimaced. “I got sloppy. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what they all say.” She took a deep breath and blew a lock of hair out of her face. “First blood is mine, Hugh. You desist?”
“First, I’m not trying to cut you. Second, never. What do I have to do to get you to concede?”
“I won’t. You can’t. Plus, you won’t win this fight, even if you have developed some… impressive skills.”
Hugh couldn’t help it; he gave a wry grin. “Morwyn. That sounded close to being a compliment.”
Her smile was hauntingly beautiful and didn’t come close to touching her dark blue eyes. “It’s the last you’ll ever get from me.” A final deep breath. She spun both blades about in her palms so that they blurred and then snatched them up. Something shifted in her eyes. Something that Severin sensed, that Evassier confirmed.
She’s going to kill you now.
Hugh shook his head, flinging beads of sweat away from his eyes. How was she doing this? How did she have any reserves left?
He could sense Sweet Severin and Evassier’s urge to kill her. Birandillo was smitten, Akilina’s contempt for the whole situation was sufficiently caustic as to sour his mouth.
Enough. Kevanir. Jaro and Marko. Come.
Icy cool descended up
on him as Kevanir came to the fore, the cold, inhumanly fast second-in-command of the Reavers. The wild brothers Jaro and Marko with their impossible vitality and command of throwing axes and blades.
Hugh closed his eyes. The sheer amount of power suddenly flowing through him was nearly too much to control. To contain. He heard the whisper of movement, Morwyn hurling herself at him, sensed the blows coming, moved his arms in the right way and parried the first attacks before even opening his eyes.
Just as he’d summoned new reserves, so had Morwyn. She was looking through him, face blank as she fought, blades coming at him from every angle, so that it was as if he faced a blizzard of edges, a storm of needle points, a gale of slashes intent on flensing his flesh from his bones.
For a moment he was content to parry, his own face expressionless, his arm moving faster than he thought possible, anticipating every attack, and then Kevanir’s impatience arose within him, and he decided to end this fight, and end it now.
Instead of parrying he punched her incoming knife hand in the wrist, slammed his knuckles into the slender bones, forced her fingers to spring open, the blade spinning free to thwok into the side of the bed. Her recovery was flawless; she flicked her blade from one hand to the other, a move that would have surprised anyone else, but Kevanir and Sweet Severin saw it coming, so that he reached forward and snagged her knife midair before it could complete its journey to her waiting palm.
No hesitation; Morwyn stepped forward and slammed her brow forward, aiming to shatter his nose. Hugh jerked his head aside so that she instead buffeted his shoulder, her arm wrapping around his neck so that she could apply punishing leverage to her attempt to knee him in the gut, but he twisted, took the blow in the hip. She released, slammed her elbow at his jaw, but he raised his arm, curled it about his face, bicep pressed to his temple, and absorbed the blow.
Morwyn screamed, the sound that of naked fury, went to strike at him but he caught her wrist, dropping his blade as he did so. He stopped her next attack in similar fashion, and held her arms out wide, fingers like iron around her wrists.
Her eyes were wide with shock and disbelief, brows raised, mouth working.
Hugh lifted her off the floor. He had at least a foot on her in height. His massive muscles coiled along his back and shoulders and she rose, higher and higher, till her eyes were level with him.
Those lethal, murderous, dark blue eyes that seemed to stare right through him and into his wretched soul.
So, of course, she kicked him in the ribs.
Hugh didn’t even bother to block the blow. Took it, and the next, the third, the fourth, the fifth, and sixth without even flinching.
Registered the pain on some distant realm but didn’t once change his expression. Front kicks, round houses to his ribs, heels to his thighs, again and again she lashed out at him till finally she sagged, gasping, sweat dripping from the tip of her nose, from the line of her jaw.
“You’re done,” said Hugh, voice deep and unequivocal. “You’ve lost, Morwyn. The victory is mine.”
“Never,” she panted. “This… this isn’t possible.” She let out a cry and with a great convulsive movement brought her foot up and swinging at his head. Hugh swayed back, released her arms, her foot scything through where his face had been a moment before, and before she could fall to the ground stepped back in, catching her from behind as momentum swung her around midair, a hand clasping her throat, his other arm wrapping around her arms and chest and pinning her to him.
“You’ve lost,” he said again, voice quiet in her ear. “You will accompany me to Erro. You will acknowledge me as your commanding officer and do as I command. Say it.”
She thrashed in his grip to no avail. Let out a cry through gritted teeth.
“Say it,” said Hugh. “You gave me your best. It wasn’t enough. You will serve me. Say it.”
For a whole minute more she fought him. It felt like an eternity. But his arms were like iron, his grip implacable, and he sensed the exact moment when she finally conceded defeat. No words were necessary. He released her, and she fell, landing lightly in a crouch, one hand planted on the floor, to turn and stare up at him in incredulity.
“How…?”
“I’m not the man you once knew,” said Hugh, voice hollow in his own ears. “I may have spent the past few years trying to drown myself in wine, but before that, I was a Lost Reaver. Once, that meant something. Perhaps now it means something again.”
Morwyn was staring at him as if he were a revenant or Thavma. She rose slowly to her feet, eyes wide, face gleaming with sweat, strands of jet-black hair plastered to her brow, chest rising and falling. “Impossible. Nobody can move that fast. Nobody.”
“You almost can.” Which was still almost more than he could understand. Was she an exemplar of some kind? Demon-ridden? Enchanted? No normal human could move like that - could they?
She shook her head, blinking rapidly. Something fundamental in her world view was shifting. He could see it happening behind her eyes. It was as if she were truly seeing him for the first time. Him as a person, an entity worthy of consideration. Not just another obstacle to be navigated or destroyed.
Morwyn reached up and wiped the back of her hand across her lips, then stared down at her knuckles, frowning as if expecting blood, then back up to Hugh.
“Very… very well. I’ll follow you to Erro. I acknowledge you the leader of this expedition.” Her words came slowly, as if she were stunned. For a moment Hugh thought she’d follow this up with an insult of some kind, a warning, but she simply shook her head and snatched up one of her blades before moving over to the bed to pull free the other. She stood there, staring at the near shattered bottle on the table, then shook her head again, walked past Hugh and out the open door, her footsteps so light he could barely hear them once she left his line of sight.
“Fuck,” whispered Hugh, staggering back to sit against the table’s edge. Figures crowded in around the corners of his vision. His bedroom was barely large enough to hold them all. A somber rank of the dead, their gaze leaden, pressing upon him, accusing him, holding him accountable for the misfortune that had befallen them all.
She was good with a blade, said Sweet Severin, voice dreamy, musing. What I wouldn’t have done to have met her while I yet drew breath.
She’d have cut you apart, retorted Birandillo. You were gifted, little brother, but ah, she is wed to the knife. I yearn to learn of her past. What drives her? Did you see how she fought?
Would have made a fine candidate for the Lost Reavers, said Kevanir, voice sober.
Hugh glanced up. It was the first time he’d heard Kevanir speak since… since he died. The Reaver’s second-in-command had exuded a quiet, unshakeable authority that had reined in even their maddest members. Hugh had seen him talk Foughtash down from a drunken rage, stop even Dragoslav in the midst of a blood frenzy. And without ever raising his voice.
Too bad we’re all dead, the Reaver’s destroyed, said melancholic Evassier, who stood by the doorway, arms crossed, face obscured as always by his hood. Too bad we’re denied the Ashen Garden and forced instead to watch the paltry escapades of our newest recruit.
Guilt flowered once more within Hugh’s soul. He felt his heartbeat stutter, his blood run cold. To summon the greatest warriors of Mendev to aid him in his paltry efforts to - what - subdue a minor hamlet? Shame was over him.
“I’m sorry.” His voice but a grim whisper. “Thank you. I know it means less than nothing, but -”
“Who are you talking to?”
Anastasia stood in the doorway. The ghosts were gone. No, not quite; they didn’t simply disappear, but as his attention shifted they moved to some background realm, lingering, but no longer forcing themselves upon his awareness.
Anastasia’s dark eyes were cool with careful appraisal; despite all he’d been through, despite being as old as she was, or perhaps even a little older, the disciplus’ composure still made him feel like a youth. She was impeccably dressed, th
e slate blue and gold complimenting her olive skin, the black and gold silk scarf that was carelessly wrapped around her long neck adding a soft touch to the otherwise military severity of her greatcoat and bearing.
But it was her eyes that captivated him. As sternly arresting and classically beautiful as she might be, everything seemed to fade away behind the sharp, almost melancholic intelligence that gleamed within her brown eyes. As if she’d seen tragedies, witnessed horrors, been forced to live through experiences beyond the common run of most people. Had not only lived through them, but absorbed their lessons, made her peace with them, and found a way to move on.
“My apologies,” said Hugh, pushing off the desk to stand tall. Already the pain from Morwyn’s blows was receding. “Just thinking out loud.”
“You’re bleeding,” said Anastasia, moving forward with a frown. “Were you in a fight?”
“I - yes.” Hugh looked down at his chest, saw the wide cut. “Morwyn. She wasn’t pleased with my request.”
“Morwyn?” Anastasia raised one finely arched brow. “That explains it. I’m surprised you’re still standing. I assume you changed your mind?”
“I didn’t. She’s coming with us.”
For the first time, Anastasia seemed genuinely surprised; Hugh realized that it was the first time he’d seen her lose her poise. “She agreed to go? To leave the duke?”
“Yes.” No need to elaborate. “And you, disciplus? I hope you won’t register any complaints with the point of a knife?”
A quiet smile. “No. That isn’t my style. And I have no objections. It’s a legitimate command, and I serve at the duke’s pleasure. It will be good to leave Stasiek and see something of the countryside. I’ve not had a chance to explore since arriving.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Hugh sat back down and cast around for a bottle of wine. None were left. Suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his hands; her composure was such that he felt almost boorish in her presence. “You, ah, arrived about a year ago?”
“That’s correct. Can I ask why you feel my presence is necessary on this mission?”
