by Angus Wells
Calandryll thought to speak of Varent then, and touched the red stone at his throat, its cold surface reminding him of their agreement so that he held silence, letting his thoughts wander as they idled the morning away. Whether Varent played some devious game, as Bracht believed, or was true, as remained his opinion, he set aside in the face of more immediate concerns. If Xanthese’s offer was sound and not some trap, then likely they had the means to reach Gessyth soon within their grasp. That was the paramount thing: to quit Kharasul, leaving Anomius—if he lived—and any other hunters behind. Wizards and woman, both. To gain the coast of Gessyth and strike inland for Tezin-dar. Without, he reminded himself, falling victim to cutthroat pirates. That would be difficult: likely they would heed to sleep turn and turn about, one always on watch; but he could see no other way with honest sailors taken by the Tyrant or awaiting the shifting of the winds. They had come this far, he told himself, against odds he would have thought a while ago insurmountable. They had eluded the woman once and he had survived attack by a Chaipaku; he had rescued Bracht from Philomen’s jail and they had survived capture by Sathoman ek’Hennem; they had escaped the clutches of Anomius and evaded seizure by the Tyrant’s sorcerers: surely they must now succeed in departing this city. And if the woman sought to take them, let her beware. Let treacherous corsairs beware! They dealt not with some soft Lyssian prince warded by a hired man, but with two hardened swordsmen—he would find Tezin-dar and broach the defenses of the city; bring out the Arcanum and return to Lysse in triumph.
Perhaps then, he thought, he would compose a volume describing his travels. A work to rival Medith and Sarnium, bound in the finest hide, with a transcription of Orwen’s map, and others. That would be a fine ending to this adventure. It did not occur to him that Nadama featured not at all in these contemplations.
“You seem pleased.”
Bracht’s voice woke him from the reverie and he blushed, grinning his embarrassment.
“I thought that we hear the ending of this quest,” he said.
“The ending?” Bracht shook his head. “We’ve a way yet to go before we speak of endings, and I suspect the hardest part lies ahead.”
The flight of fancy fell soundly to earth and Calandryll nodded solemnly, embarrassed afresh by the reminder that some part of him remained, as his brother had so contemptuously declared, a dreamer. Then, briefly, he was reminded of Secca, of Tobias wed to Nadama, she now, perhaps, bearing an heir, and he frowned; then smiled as he realized the memory brought no pain. Indeed, it lifted a weight, for if Nadama should carry Tobias’s child, then Secca had an heir and his brother no further cause to send the Chaipaku against him. He turned to his comrade and asked, “Do we find Xanthese soon?”
Bracht looked to the window, assessing the position of the sun, and nodded.
“Noon’s an hour off, but aye—let’s find this tavern and see how the land lies.”
The Peacock was situated only a few streets away, in an alley linking the tavern quarter with the harbor. It seemed salubrious enough, fresh sawdust on the floor and clean mugs hung behind the serving counter. Its clientele was a mixture of sailors, merchants and soldiers, those latter reassuring Bracht and Calandryll, their presence rendering treachery, at this juncture at least, unlikely. They called for wine and found a table by the inner wall from which they could watch the door. As the harbor bell tolled noon Xanthese entered.
He paused, squinting, and saw them across the common room, nodding a greeting as he approached.
“Good day, sirs.” He settled himself on a chair facing them, smiling as a third glass was brought and Calandryll poured him wine. “Your health—and success to your venture. Whatever it may be.”
“You have hews for us?” Bracht asked.
The scarred man winked, downing a generous measure of the wine and smacking his lips appreciatively before replying.
“I do, sirs; and good hews. A captain of my acquaintance—a reliable man—is willing to take you north. For a suitable reward.”
“How much?” asked Bracht.
“Ah, sirs, there remains the small matter of my own fee.” Xanthese’s smile became apologetic. “It is customary in these affairs.”
“How much?” Bracht repeated.
“Ten varre.”
Bracht glanced at Calandryll and ducked his head. Calandryll brought coins from his satchel, pushing them across the table.
“My thanks, good sirs,” Xanthese said, the coins disappearing beneath his tunic. “As for the captain, he asks five hundred. For that he guarantees you passage to Gessyth, and your return.”
“He’ll wait for us?” Bracht was suspicious.
Xanthese nodded enthusiastically. “Should he remain here …” He lowered his voice, glancing toward the soldiers in their scarlet puggarees, “Well, hell find his craft taken for less and him no say in it. And every chance of disaster should the Fayne lord raise a navy. He’d sooner stand off Gessyth’s coast than that.”
Bracht nodded. Calandryll asked, “What guarantee do we have of his honesty? How shall we know he’ll not rob us once at sea?”
“Sirs!” the little man declared, his disfigured face assuming an expression of hurt. “I give you my word he’s an honest sailor, with no thought of such treachery.”
“Even so,” Bracht said.
“I see that you are cautious men,” Xanthese murmured, “and I cannot blame you for that. May I suggest a solution to this doubt? There are traders in this city of Kharasul renowned for their honesty—I believe I can persuade my captain to accept a token payment whilst you leave the remainder with a merchant, the balance to be paid on your safe return. Would such resolve your misgivings?”
He studied them as they exchanged glances. Calandryll said, “It seems a reasonable answer.” Bracht ducked his head in agreement and Xanthese beamed afresh.
“Sirs, to further prove the honesty of our arrangement I shall leave you to find a merchant with whom to deposit your coin.” He raised his hands as if they protested, shaking his head vigorously. “Ill not give you a name. No—ask of some other and know that Xanthese does not lie.”
“So we shall,” Bracht said. “Now, how is this captain called and where do we find him?”
The scar-faced man leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice again as though afraid the soldiery might learn of their transaction.
“He is called Menophus ek’Lannharan and his boat the Sea Queen. He awaits you even now, at the harbor.”
“When can he sail?” Calandryll asked.
“On the tide, do you wish it,” replied Xanthese. “He’d as soon be gone as wait anchored for the lictor to claim his service.”
“And what boat does he command?”
“A warboat,” Xanthese said, “a swift warboat. With sturdy oarsmen to fight the wind and sail aplenty to ride her back.”
“And the lictor will allow him to sail?”
Xanthese grinned, conspiratorial now. “Need the lictor know? Come with me and I’ll effect introduction. Then, doubtless, you’ll wish to settle matters with a trader. That done, Menophus stands at your command and you can be out of Kharasul harbor before the sun sets.”
Calandryll looked to Bracht for confirmation: the free-sword smiled briefly. Calandryll said, “So be it. Let’s meet this captain.”
“As you bid, good sirs.”
Xanthese rose, draining his cup, and led the way out the door.
He brought them down the alley, turning where it crossed another, deeper into the jumbled ways behind the harbor. Calandryll shifted the satchel to his back, hand on scabbard, aware of the buildings looming overhead, quiet, shuttered against the noonday heat, the sky a thin strip of hazy blue high above. Sea gulls screamed from the waterfront, but in that narrow road the only sounds were the drumming of their boots and the drone of insects. Xanthese hurried before him, Bracht at his back, their route running parallel to the water, the alleys tortuous as the warren of the Beggars Gate, but, at this hour, unpopulated.
Neither Calandryll or Bracht offered answer and the scarred man took them deeper into the maze until they came to an open place, where the blank walls of storehouses formed a little square with no other exit than the alley down which they had come. Shuttered windows like eyes closed against sight of treachery stood high on the walls and cobblestones glistened in the hot sun. Xanthese scurried to the far side of the square, his shortsword suddenly in his hand, his face no longer obsequious, but harsh, set in lines of undisguised hatred.
Calandryll heard the slide of steel on leather as Bracht drew the falchion, his own blade loosed but an eye’s blink later.
“To the side! Put a wall at your back!”
Bracht’s voice brooked no debate, no hesitation, and he sprang to obey, suddenly aware of the soft footsteps that padded in the alley behind.
Five men appeared at the mouth, dressed as was Xanthese in loose tunics and breeks, for all the world like sailors or wharf rats, each bearing a shortsword. They spread across the exit and Xanthese moved to join them.
“You die for this!”
Bracht addressed himself to their betrayer, his threat met with a contemptuous smile.
“You think so?” Xanthese was changed. The fawning manner was gone and he seemed taller, even commanding, as if before he had played a part and now revealed himself. “It shall be you who dies, Kern. You and the Seccan puppy.”
“At the hand of a cringing wharf rat?” Bracht laughed. “I think not.”
“A cringing wharf rat?” Xanthese chuckled, and for an instant he assumed his earlier demeanor, mocking the freesword. Then, subtly, features and stance shifted again and he was menacing. “You face Chaipaku now, Kern!”
Calandryll gasped, unable to stem the wash of naked terror that flooded him. He could see it now, in the cold eyes and the professional way they held their swords. This was no ambush organized by some opportunistic thief: these men were of the Brotherhood. He felt sweat slicken his palms even as an awful chill slid unpleasantly down his spine.
“Aye, that frightens you.” Xanthese looked to him now. “And so it should.”
He heard himself ask, his voice husky, “Why?”
“Your brother sought our service.” A dagger not much shorter than the sword appeared in Xanthese’s left hand. “It seems he considers you a threat. But then you killed one of us—Mehemmed? He was young—he was told to watch you, to discover where you went—but you slew him and now you pay the price.”
“I slew him,” Bracht said. “He was careless and I gutted him like a pig. As he deserved.”
Xanthese laughed again, the sound echoing off the high walls.
“Do you seek to anger me, Kern? Do you seek to make me careless? You cannot. I am older than Mehemmed and I shall lay your entrails at your feet and watch you die. I shall enjoy that.”
From the corner of his eye Calandryll saw Bracht’s lips draw back from his teeth, the expression as much snarl as smile.
“I’ve not had much practice of late,” he said. And sprang forward.
He was fast—his move took Calandryll by surprise—but the Chaipaku were equally swift. Shortswords and daggers rose to meet the assault, steel clashing loud on steel, and Bracht sprang back to the protection of the wall, shirt cut, the falchion defensive before him. Xanthese wiped a thread of blood from his scarred cheek and nodded, his own smile feral now.
“Good. But not good enough. And I doubt the puppy’s so skilled.”
The raw contempt in his voice grated against Calandryll’s terror, stirring anger. The words were true—he knew he stood no chance against these assassins, even with Bracht at his side—and he must die here, but rising like the sun to dispel his fear he felt the heat of rage. He was no threat to Tobias, had no desire to usurp his brother, and yet that false assumption must now leave him dead in this lonely square, the way to the Arcanum left open for Azumandias to take. He cursed his brother and the Chaipaku with heartfelt rage, determining to sell his life as dear he could.
The six Chaipaku advanced.
And Bracht said softly, “Use your magic now. Destroy them with a storm, or fire—but destroy them.”
He shook his head helplessly, gaze darting from the assassins to the Kern, and said, “I know not how to summon it!”
“Even I cannot defeat six of the Brotherhood.” The falchion shifted like a living thing in the freesword’s hand. “Magic must aid us, or we die here. If you must, render yourself unseen.”
Calandryll hesitated, unwilling to leave his comrade. Even aided by the spell Varent had taught him it seemed unlikely he could slay so many Brothers: the spell offered escape only for him.
“Use it!” Bracht urged. “One of us at least may survive.”
He waited still, loath to take that path, and said, “I’d not desert you.”
“Better that than die,” Bracht snapped. “Use it!”
He opened his mouth to utter the spell, but even as he voiced the first strange syllables the assassins closed, their advance so swift the words died stillborn on lips that faltered, gasping as blades flashed in the noonday sun and death sprang ferocious toward him. He forgot the spell as he instinctively raised his own sword, thinking only of defense.
Steel clashed on steel, sparks shining bright, and he danced back, aware of fleeting pain against his ribs, of a warmth and wetness he knew was blood even as he parried. Fear grew, and anger with it, a mounting rage that his brother’s groundless jealousy should threaten his quest, should intervene now, to leave him dead in Kharasul after so perilous a journey, after surviving so many dangers. It grew, becoming a consuming thing, as great as the fear provoked by the grinning faces of the Chaipaku as they advanced, confident of slaving him.
And halted as he roared and hurled himself against them, careless of their blades, his own a whirling, thrusting thing propelled by a force he did not understand. It seemed then that he was possessed, for he did not know what he did, only that they fell back before him as if driven by a silent wind so strong it sent them stumbling across the square, their quarry become their attacker. He went after them, riding the magical wind, offensive now, their swords desperate in defense.
“Berserker!” Xanthese barked. “Dylus—ward the alley! You others take him. Leave the Kern to me.”
He sprang at Bracht as the others moved swiftly to obey. The falchion turned his cut; was itself deflected by a flanking blade. Bracht danced sideways along the wall. Calandryll darted to his left, advancing on the Chaipaku, separating them from Bracht and Xanthese. A Chaipaku grunted as the straightsword drove against his ribs, more surprise than pain in the sound. He spun, blade flailing before him, and Calandryll cut low, seeing the tunic severed, the dull red hue of dragon’s hide armor beneath brightened by flowing crimson. The blood seemed fuel to whatever magic aided him and he launched himself at the assassin, sword raised high.
A helm lay hidden by the headdress: Calandryll felt his blade turned, heard the clash. He swung the sword at the unprotected heck, the Chaipaku stunned long enough he made no move to duck. Steel met flesh. Crimson blossomed over the assassin’s shoulder. Calandryll hacked again, all his strength in the blow, and saw the head roll free, bouncing between the shifting feet of the others, who gaped and struggled to press forward against the force that opposed them. Calandryll saw the body stagger, sword arm working a moment longer before it fell, its blood spraying its companions. He sprang once more to the attack, raining ferocious blows at heads and shoulders, held back a while by sheer sword skill: even faced with magic, the Chaipaku were fierce opponents.
Two faced him, moving to either side, the third scuttling to take him from behind, and he saw the two sent staggering, human leaves blown on a glamorous wind. He spun to deal with the other, not knowing whether it was fear or rage or magic that worked his arm. He turned the man’s sword and dr
ove his own in a savage slash against the ribs, the power that gripped him lending him such strength that again he saw dragon-hide armor sundered, the Chaipaku screaming as ribs broke and steel hacked flesh. He cut again, where armor ended and the heck began. The Chaipaku jerked, his shortsword dropping as his dark eyes dulled. Blood jetted and he fell to his knees, then onto his face. Calandryll turned to meet the survivors, and saw the man, Dylus, who had remained to ward the exit, stiffen, sword and dagger dropping from hands that rose to clutch at the red wound across his throat. He was thrust aside, falling limp as his life drained out. In his place stood the warrior woman, capless, her golden hair drawn back like Bracht’s in a loose tail. She wore, as best he could tell, no armor beneath her tunic of white silk, nor any on the long legs, but in her hands was a bloodied saber, and in her eyes—storm grey, just as Bracht had said—he saw fierce satisfaction as she charged across the square, the saber swift as Bracht’s falchion, and equally deadly.
One of the Chaipaku sprang to block her; the other faced Calandryll, no longer confident, but fighting with a desperation born of terror, of the knowledge that he encountered a power beyond his understanding. Calandryll was no wiser, aware only that in some manner he did not comprehend, magic again stood between him and defeat. He ducked under a scything blow and countered with a cut that sent the assassin staggering back, not sure whether the mysterious force or his own resolve hurled the man against a wall smeared now with blood.
The woman’s eyes flickered in his direction, and a blade cut dangerously close to her side. She turned it with almost casual grace, spinning clear of the attack, parrying the thrust as her foot rose to land between the Chaipaku’s legs. He wore no armor there, for he yelped, bending, and the saber hacked across his exposed heck. He grunted and collapsed onto the cobbles.
Smiling grimly, the woman raised her saber in salute as Calandryll deflected a blow and sent his straightsword darting over the wielder’s arm, hard into the soft belly below the hide armor. He twisted the steel and stepped back as the assassin shrieked, face paling as agony gripped him, then cut, almost casually, to the side of the heck. The Chaipaku’s shriek ended abruptly as his head lolled to the side and he fell against the wall, adding his own marks to the stains already there.
