The Queen's Blade

by T C Southwell

  “What is it?”

  The assassin glanced at him. “Blade.”

  “Suitable for a man so fond of his dagger.”

  “I thought so.”

  Kerrion pondered. “Have you ever met your queen?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is she like?”

  Blade looked impatient, slicing the meat with flashing strokes of the razor-sharp weapon. “She is a queen. I do not know her that well.”

  “Is she proud? Disdainful? Did she make you grovel?”

  “She did not make me do anything,” Blade retorted. “I showed my respect, nothing more.”

  “How long before we reach the palace, or castle?”

  “About two tendays.”

  Kerrion eyed his captor. “You know, whatever she is paying you, I can better, if you take me back.”

  Blade shot him a contemptuous glance. “I am not for sale.”

  “Come, man, everyone has their price. I daresay yours is high, but name it. Lands, riches, titles, anything you wish, I can give you.”

  “The Cotti have nothing I want, even if I had a price, which I do not.”

  Kerrion shook his head. “Why else would you risk your life? I am sure she is paying you handsomely.”

  “So she is, but I would have done it simply for the pleasure of killing your father.”

  Blade contemplated the Prince, who stared into the newly lighted fire, his expression unreadable. How hard it must be, the assassin mused, to spend time in the company of the man who had slain your father. This was undoubtedly Kerrion’s first taste of grief, yet he seemed to forget that his father was dead until Blade reminded him. It must be a difficult thing to accept when he had seen no body.

  As if reading his thoughts, Kerrion looked up. “My father and I were not close. I am the eldest of sixteen sons, and not his favourite. I have always believed he brought me with him on his campaigns in the hope that I would be killed, for my younger brother is his choice for successor.”

  Blade concentrated on chopping meat into the pot, remembering all too well his own father’s corpse, a spear protruding from its belly; the blood staining the ground.

  His mind flew back to the time before that, when his father’s gentle smiles, rough pats and warm embraces had filled Blade’s world with joy. He recalled his two brothers’ horseplay, mud fights, tree climbing, skinned knees and swimming in a lake. He remembered his soft-eyed sisters with their hair tied up in long tails, like a pony’s, and their bright smiles when they picked flowers in the fields and giggled as they rolled down the warm, sun-drenched grassy slopes. Then his mother would call them in for supper, scold them for their dirty clothes, wash their scrapes and scrub them pink in the tub in front of the fire. His mother’s warm hugs had been so soft and tender; her fingers had stroked his hair and her sweet voice had told him of her love for him, her special son. Her screams had rent the air on the day shaven soldiers had come with long spears. The air had been filled with the smell of blood and smoke and the screams had pierced his heart....

  “Blade.”

  The assassin looked up at the hated Prince, ruler of the Cotti, who had murdered his family. The urge to kill Kerrion almost overwhelmed him, and his hand clenched on the dagger. He forced himself to relax and resume chopping the salted meat. “Be quiet.”

  Kerrion obeyed, for Blade’s deep frown and the vigour with which he cut the meat warned the Prince that something was amiss with the assassin. Sitting back with a sigh, Kerrion rubbed his chafed wrists and tried to ease the tight chains onto an area of less painful skin. The short length that joined his wrists to his waist allowed him to eat awkwardly and cling to the saddle when riding, but prevented him reaching the knot in the thong about his neck. When Blade secured him at night, he merely tied the thong to a tree, and, unless the Prince chewed through the tough leather, he could not get free. They ate in silence, then Blade bound Kerrion to a tree and went to sleep.

  The next day, they rode on as before, the Prince blind and silent within the hood. At supper that night, Kerrion once again tried to strike up a conversation.

  “Have you considered my offer?”

  “No.”

  The Prince nodded, unsurprised, but dug at his food in frustration. “I suppose there is nothing I can say to change your mind?”

  “You would be wasting your breath.”

  “Your hatred runs deep.”

  “More than you could ever imagine.” Blade frowned. “And before you ask, it is none of your business.”

  “Maybe not. I suppose your father was killed in the war?”

  Blade banged his empty bowl down. “You are as bad as a damned woman with your prying questions. What difference does it make to you? Yes, the damned Cotti killed my father. He was just a goatherd, and they did not only kill him, they massacred my entire family.”

  A pang of sympathy shot through Kerrion, but he hid it. “And how many more Cotti must you kill to even the score? How long will you lust for vengeance?”

  “I evened the score a long time ago, but maybe if I kill you, I will feel better about it.”

  Kerrion set aside his bowl and held up his chained wrists. “Take these off, and we will see if you can.”

  Blade shook his head and leant against a tree. “I am not a fighter. You cannot provoke me with a challenge. I would have killed you in your tent, if not for my queen’s wishes. Your father died too easily. He did not deserve such a clean death. Any man who orders the butchery of women and children, and who enslaves children, deserves to feel some of their pain before he dies.”

  “Slavery? My people do not practice slavery. That is another Jashimari lie.”

  “Have you spent your whole life with your head buried in the sand of your infernal desert? This is not something I heard in a taproom, bantered by a drunken soldier. I saw them with my own eyes. I was….” Blade looked away, scowling.

  “You were what?” Kerrion demanded. “How could you have been in a Cotti camp and have lived to tell the tale?”

  “I was in one just a few days ago, and I am still here.”

  “Disguised as a Cotti whore. Do you frequent Cotti camps in that guise often? Perhaps you earn more in that fashion than you do as an assassin. You did not lack for offers that night, I will wager.”

  “Be quiet.”

  “No. I will not be ordered around by a damned Jashimari half man assassin. There are no Jashimari child slaves in Cotti camps. Did you see any when you came to kill my father?”

  “No.” Oddly, Blade seemed calmer. “But I was not looking for them. There might have been some hidden in the tents.”

  “I would know if there were. No Cotti would stoop so low. What do you think we are, damned savages?”

  “Yes, your soldiers are, even if you high and mighty royals think you are so good.”

  “These so-called slaves you claim to have seen are doubtless the offspring of whores.”

  “These were Jashimari children, not Cotti brats.”

  Blade’s assertions annoyed Kerrion, who said, “So say you, but if they were dirty enough, you would not be able to tell the difference.”

  “They were Jashimari.”

  The Prince shook his head. “You are either lying, or your eyes have deceived you. Perhaps it was the cracked spyglass you used, and your over-active imagination. You Jashimari would love to believe us capable of such atrocities, but, in truth, the Cotti are more civilised than you.”

  Blade studied Kerrion, then lowered his eyes to the fire. “You really are ignorant, not so?”

  “I speak the truth!”

  “As you know it.”

  “Yes, as I know it! And as a prince of the Cotti people, I have spent more time than you in our camps. If there were Jashimari slaves, I would have seen them.”

  “Unless your father did not wish you to,” Blade pointed out.

  “Why would he not? He would never condone such a thing.”

  “But he did.”

  Kerrion leant forwar
d. “Your lies do not convince me, assassin. Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”

  Blade frowned at the fire, and Kerrion waited. When the assassin looked up, he met the Prince’s gaze with glacial eyes. “I do not particularly care whether or not you believe me. What happened to me is no great secret, nor am I ashamed of it. It is the Cotti who should be ashamed of what they did to innocent children, so I will tell you how I know that there are Jashimari child slaves in Cotti army camps. Fifteen years ago, I was one of them.”

  The assassin jumped up and walked to the edge of the firelight. Kerrion gazed into the flames, grappling with the enormity of the crime his people had committed, if what Blade had said was true. Not for a moment did Kerrion doubt the veracity of Blade’s words, however. They were spoken with too much conviction and suppressed emotion to be lies. The Cotti were people of learning and refinement, and atrocities against the innocent would outrage them. A war was one thing, perhaps barbarous, yet acceptable to most, but the enslavement of children, even of an enemy, was abhorrent. He looked at Blade’s rigid back, his shoulders squared by pride, and understood the rage in his eyes.

  He rose and went to stand beside Blade. “If I had known about it, I would have put a stop to it.”

  The assassin shrugged. “But you did not.”

  “How did you escape?”

  Blade stared into the darkness, his face shadowed. “When I was sixteen, I stole some women’s clothes and walked into the desert.”

  “And how long were you there for?”

  “Four years.”

  “How many of you were there?”

  Blade glanced at him. “A few dozen, maybe more.”

  “All boys?”

  “No, there were girls. Three of them were my sisters. They were only six, eight and fourteen years old when we were captured…. They died before I escaped.”

  “This was something the soldiers did on their own. My father would never have allowed it.”

  “Your father was there.” Blade faced him. “He condoned it.”

  “No. I cannot believe that. My father was a lot of things, but he would not keep child slaves.”

  Blade seemed to lose interest, his anger evaporating as quickly as it had boiled over, and he stared into the night again. “I never saw him myself, but I knew two of the boys he owned.”

  “Perhaps it was not him. Maybe the boys lied, or the man pretended to be my father.”

  The assassin shook his head. “He ordered it. The soldiers rounded up almost all the young children in my village, mostly twelve and under. I was almost too old. They should have killed me, but I was small for my age.”

  “What did you do in the camp? Fetch and carry, cook, clean and wash clothes, I suppose?”

  “Amongst other things.”

  “Like what?”

  Blade shook his head again, evidently tiring of the conversation. “That is enough.” He returned to the fire.

  The Prince followed. “What else? You must tell me. I have a right to know.”

  “Why should I tell you anything? It makes no difference anymore, not to you, not to me. What is done is done, and nobody can change it.”

  “Because it is still being done, is it not? No one has stopped it, because no one who cares knows about it. They are my people. I have a right to know the crimes they have committed.”

  “You know enough.”

  “But there is more, is there not, and worse?”

  Blade sighed. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Were you born yesterday?” Blade asked. “What do you think? Must I spell it out for you?”

  “Yes, I think you must.”

  The assassin stepped closer, his eyes glittering in the firelight, white teeth flashing as he bit out the words as if they soiled his lips. “We were their toys; their playthings. They starved us, tortured us, forced us to perform unspeakable acts for their amusement, made us fight each other and whipped us if we refused.”

  The Prince’s heart twisted with anguish and shame.

  “Your great people,” Blade said, “the mighty Cotti, scourge of the desert, torturers of little children.”

  “You have to let me go. I must put a stop to it.”

  Blade smiled with bitter satisfaction. “No, you are going to meet the Queen. I hope she has something particularly nasty planned for you.”

  “I am not to blame. I would never have allowed it.”

  “That does not matter, does it? That is not why she wants you. She does not even know about it, as far as I know.” Blade looked away. “No one does. I am the only one who ever escaped, and I have told nobody.”

  “Then you share the blame. You could have stopped it. Had you warned your people, they could have protected their children.”

  “Your men attacked undefended towns and villages. Who could have protected the children? Do you think my father did not try? How could unarmed farmers fight soldiers? Your father launched surprise attacks across the mountains in the dead of night, burnt whole villages to the ground and flung women into the flames.

  “Once all the border towns were wiped out, he sent raiding parties deep into Jashimari lands to attack more. He, most of all, enjoyed watching little girls dance until they dropped from exhaustion. He put babies on ants’ nests to see how long they screamed. Those who did not die of the cruelties perished from disease.”

  Blade gripped Kerrion’s collar and pulled him closer. “And they made the rest of us watch! Do you know what that does to a young boy? To see his sisters forced to dance like puppets until their feet bled in the hot sand and their faces turned red, and they dropped like broken dolls....”

  His face twisted with the intensity of his hatred, and his hand trembled. “The more I watched, the more I wanted to kill. Your father made me what I am, in more ways than one. He created the monster I have become, a killer, remorseless, ruthless and unfeeling. You do not see any tears in my eyes when I speak of what happened, do you? That is because I do not care anymore.

  “He made me the finest assassin in all the lands, for I have no mercy. Do you know how many assassins have died simply because they hesitated? Their victims begged for their lives, and they paused, moved by their soft hearts.”

  Blade gave a bark of bitter laughter, and Kerrion flinched at the madness in his eyes, a rage so powerful it swallowed all else. “Imagine that! An assassin with a soft heart! Yet compared to me, they did have feelings, enough to make them pause; enough to kill them. I have never hesitated, never felt the slightest twinge of pity for any man. Every time I kill, I grow emptier. The rush of hot blood does not bring me joy. The sigh of a final breath does not thrill me. I just grow colder inside. So, if you become my next victim, do not waste your breath begging for mercy.” Blade shoved him away, sending him staggering back a few steps.

  “I will not,” the Prince murmured. “I do not doubt that you are an excellent and merciless killer. But have you not become like those you profess to hate so much? If my father made you what you are, surely you hate his influence?”

  The assassin’s wintry gaze flicked away into the darkness. “Of course I do, but it has served me well. What else would I do with my life, being as I am? Perhaps become a soldier and throw it away in the carnage of a battle, yet that prospect has never appealed to me.”

  “But you must have scruples, surely? There must be someone you would not kill? Your queen, perhaps?”

  Blade smiled, and the Prince marvelled at the seduction of his expression, which hid his ruthless nature so well. Blade’s smile could probably charm birds from trees, and it meant nothing to him at all; it was just another tool he used for his own ends.

  “No one is safe from me. If they have a price on their head, they are dead.”

  “Have you no loyalty then? She is your queen.”

  “I am loyal only to my hatred of the Cotti.” The assassin squatted and held out his hands to the fire. Kerrion shivered, beginning to understand the man who had taken him prisoner
with such ease. In the leaping light, Blade’s face took on a sinister aspect. Death hung about him like a volt of vultures sitting in a tree, waiting for something to die.

  The Prince sat on the far side of the fire, studying his captor. Blade’s smile broadened to reveal even white teeth in an expression of profound, gentle beauty. This man, Kerrion pondered, was too fine in his looks to be described as handsome. His neutering robbed his face of true masculinity. What had caused that, he wondered. Who could have perpetrated this ultimate humiliation on a man such as Blade, and why? In his father’s court, he had heard tales of how the Jashimari Queen used male slaves to sire her offspring and castrated any man who offended her.

  Had Blade fallen foul of her anger, and, if so, why did he still serve her? Perhaps the assassin’s castration had been the revenge of one of his victims’ bereaved relatives. Would death not have been a better vengeance? Already he had learnt more about this strange man than he cared to, and had stumbled upon the secret of unlocking his tongue. The only way to make Blade talk, it seemed, was to goad him, and then he took his life in his hands whenever he did it. Only the Queen’s orders prevented the assassin from killing him, he was certain.

  “Was it only you and your sisters who were taken?”

  Blade shook his head. “No. My younger brother, who was ten, was also taken. I buried his body.”

  “How did he die?”

  “All the children in the camp fell ill eventually, and they all died. A disease carried by sand fleas, I was told, one that Jashimari have no resistance to.” He paused, staring past Kerrion with such intensity that the Prince was hard put not to look behind him. “I got it too, but for some reason, I survived.” Blade lowered his gaze to the fire again. “I seem to have a charmed life. There have been many times when I should have died. Yet I have never failed to kill the man I was sent to slay; even your father, who survived so many other attempts on his life.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  Blade snorted. “Any man who claims never to have known fear is either a fool or a liar.” He put down his wine cup. “Enough talk.”

  The assassin tied Kerrion to a tree, and then retired to his blanket.

  Chapter Six

  Cold rain fell the next day, making travelling pure misery for Kerrion. The hood was plastered to his face, his clothes chafed him in every conceivable place, and his wrists stung. The wound in his side kept up a dull throbbing in time with the jolting of his horse’s strides. By the time Blade made camp that evening, the Prince’s hands and feet were numb. The assassin built a fire, ignoring Kerrion’s violent shudders and chattering teeth. The inclement weather did not appear to have any effect on Blade. The water streamed down his face and slicked his hair to his head. When he passed Kerrion a bowl of hot stew, the Prince had warmed a little, and huddled close to the fire while he ate.