*All right.* Jaxon accepted the premise, though doubt still showed through. *But, Dillion, can you name any other animals that can sail ships, whether or not they can build them? What kind of animals use tools, like axes and shields and swords? And how do animals work together well enough to . . . to manage a place like this?* Jaxon made a gesture that encompassed the prison. *And even we’re not capable of shapechanging; that’s magic, the realm of our Masters. Are you saying mere animals have powers we don’t?*
Discomfort ground through Dillion’s reply. He glanced around, as if worried a Kjempemagiska might overhear. *Fish breathe underwater, deer outrun us, birds actually fly, and, last I checked, jarfr can rip the snot out of most anyone. Aside from that last, all things we can’t do and the Kjempemagiska need magic to perform.* The uneasiness grew to the level of clear distress. *So what if these beasts we’re fighting have some very rudimentary communication skills and have learned to use left-behind tools in a primitive way, for war.They’re still not alsona, Jaxon. At best, they’re something in between animal and alsona. Call them creatures, instead of animals, if the word suits you better.The Kjempemagiska . . . * Real fear entered the sending now. * . . . refer to them as animals, so animals they are to me. *
Jaxon accepted the explanation. *So what do we do, Dillion?*
*Do you want to suffer ernontris?* The word had no translation, but an image came to Tae’s mind unbidden. He saw a circle of giants kicking a living, human torso. Limbless and blind, bleeding, the man screamed in agony as they tortured him in some sort of gleeful game. An enormous basket filled with similarly disfigured people lay nearby.
Though he had seen more than his share of horror,Tae found acid in his mouth and drooled it onto the stone floor. Had he swallowed, he would have retched, emptying the contents of his gut on the dungeon floor. He could not risk the pirates knowing he was awake nor the possibility that some of the meal Matrinka had secured for him might come out with the rest.
Jaxon visibly trembled. The fear Tae had noticed in his features when they first met colored his thoughts now. *Of course not.*
*Then we finish our mission.We kill as many of these animals . . . these creatures as possible. And, when the first chance arises, we kill ourselves or one another.*
No reply followed, other than the residual terror. Jaxon rose and paced to the opposite side of his cell, and lay back down.
Tae found his thoughts snapped back so suddenly, he had to fight nausea again. Pain rang through his head, and it took inordinately long to realize Imorelda was speaking.
*Did it work?*
*Yes, thank you.You’re the absolute best.*
*At everything,* Imorelda added immodestly.
Tae’s head hurt too much to nod. *I heard . . . it all.*
*Me, too,* Imorelda stated. *But I didn’t understand a word of it.* That surprised Tae. He had found it so easy to catch every single nuance, he had simply assumed Imorelda did, too. *Is that why you didn’t say anything? Or did taking me to their level just require too much focus to speak?*
*I could have talked. I didn’t have anything to say. I couldn’t even understand them.*
That explained a lot to Tae and opened some interesting possibilities. At first, he considered having Imorelda speak for him, but that seemed foolish at best. Even if he could coach her through the language, her catty sensibilities would overrule any control. *Do you think it’s possible you could take me to their “voice level” securely enough I could speak to them?*
*Why?*
Now that the men had broken off contact, the situation had become less urgent. Imorelda had done a great service and deserved an explanation. *They have some serious misconceptions about us I’d like to fix.* Although not the most important to him or the rest of the world, their impressions about Imorelda would make better examples for the cat. *They think you’re a male human, for example.*
*What?* Imorelda’s reply mixed startlement with offense. *So, they’re morons?*
*Not necessarily morons. Just . . . differently experienced. Their world is, apparently—*
*Incredibly weird?*
*I was going to say more magical, but your words work as well.* Still lying on his side, Tae grinned at the cat. *So, can you help me?*
*I don’t know? Why don’t you just talk to them the regular way?*
It was a good question, and Tae had no great answer. It might impress the pirates more to come at them with what they clearly considered a higher form of communication. On the other hand, the unnaturalness of it, and the need to use a mediator, might steal some of Tae’s concentration and the method’s power. *A very good point, Imorelda. I’ll try that first.*
Tae remained in position a bit longer, considering his approach. The last time he had attempted communication nearly resulted in his death. Finally, he sat up again, yawned, stretched, and glanced at his neighbors.
Dillion crouched, staring out the front of his cell. Jaxon remained on the floor, as far from Tae as the bars allowed.
Previous experience, and the overheard conversation, told Tae the smaller pirate was, by far, the more approachable. Tae cleared his throat, organizing the words he had managed to learn. He had added vastly to his vocabulary just in the last few moments. Mental speech defined as it presented. “Greetings, Jaxon.”
The pirate stiffened so suddenly, Tae worried he might have torn some muscles. He rolled over to look up at Tae. “Did you just . . . talk?” His gaze shifted past the little Easterner to his own companion in the next cell.
“I did,” Tae admitted. “We are intelligent. We are not animals.”
Jaxon only stared. His hands began to tremble. “Did you hear that, Dillion? Or am I—?”
“You’re not going crazy, Jaxon,” Tae said, slowly and distinctly. “I am talking to you.”
“I hear him, too,” Dillion admitted.
Tae looked over his shoulder as Dillion moved to the set of bars directly between them, the ones through which he had strangled Tae. The Easterner knew better than to approach, and he wanted to know the location of the larger pirate at all times.
They both fell silent. Certain he must be missing something, Tae sent his next message to Imorelda. *Are they talking in their minds?*
Imorelda hesitated only an instant. *No.They’re completely silent.* Another moment passed. *I think they’re both dead.*
Tae fought back a smile. *Not dead. Just very, very surprised.* He looked from Dillion to Jaxon and back. *Imorelda, would you please let me know immediately if they start talking by mind?*
*All right.*
The background noise continued: prisoners shifting, coughing, snoring. In the distance, urine splashing into older urine. But, near Tae, silence reigned; and he broke it with a gentle caution that revealed no emotion. “I think,” he started carefully, “it’s time for us to talk.”
Refusing to loiter in alleyways like a common thief, Calistin hun kered down outside the New Lovén fabric-seller’s doorway, polishing and oiling his blades. At first, the passersby gave him a wide berth. But, as he squatted calmly and paid them no obvious heed, they whisked about their business, pausing only to stare at the boyish stranger who had nothing better to do than tend to swords that clearly needed no further attention.
Sensing nothing more dangerous than suspicion, Calistin did not even bother to return their stares, simply waited for Treysind to let him know when the ruffians arrived. The sun touched the horizon, trailing hazy bands of colors muted by cloud cover that barely hinted at rain. Darkness followed quicker than usual, aided by the overcast. The citizens scurried about their final business, while merchants folded shutters over their stands or closed and latched their doors.
Calistin finally sheathed his weapons, rose, and stretched. He found himself eager to battle, hoping that a group of five or six toughs might actually prove a worthy challenge. At the least, it brought him one step closer to Valr Magnus. His jaw clenched at the thought. The best warrior the Northmen had to offer would die a
t the hand of a Renshai, this time in the fair fight that should have happened on the Fields of Wrath.
Treysind ran out from behind the fabric shop. “Hero, they’s comin’.”
Calistin glanced at the fabric-seller’s still-open door. Clearly, the merchant hoped to coax in the last straggling customers.
Calistin and Treysind walked inside. The untidy little shop held bolts of fabric on every level surface: tables, chairs, and shelves. The odors of fresh wool and billy goats hovered in the air, partially smothered by a sweet spice Calistin did not recognize. A door behind stacks of material apparently opened onto upstairs living quarters while another, sturdily fastened with broad bolts and two large locks, led to the alleyway.
A small, balding man who looked as if a strong breeze might carry him away spun toward them. Fear etched his features, then melted to relief. “Can I help you, boys?” Then his gaze dropped to the swords at Calistin’s belt, and his expression again turned grim.
Calistin opened his mouth to explain that killing the shopkeeper was not worth dirtying his swords over, but Treysind spoke first.
“Don’t worry, sir. Hero ain’t gonna hurt ya none. He’s gonna he’p ya wit’ ya’s problim.”
“Problem?” the man, apparently Khalen, repeated. “I don’t have—”
As if to prove him wrong, something heavy slammed repeatedly against the fastened back door.
The fabric-seller swallowed hard and raced to secure the front door. “You boys better get out now, or you might get hurt.”
Calistin started to laugh, silenced by a glare from Treysind.
Khalen’s face turned greenish and lapsed into terrified creases. “You’re with . . . them?”
“No!” Treysind said quickly. “I’s tole ya. We’s here ta he’p ya ’gainst ’em.” He turned toward Calistin. “Tell ’im, Hero.”
There did not seem much to tell. “We’re here to help you,” Calistin repeated. “We’re here to kill the brawlies.”
“Kill?” Khalen repeated uncertainly.
Three young men burst into the shop, slamming open the panel and knocking Khalen sprawling. One shouted into the street, “Front’s open! He’s here.”They wore dark leather and black cloth, each with a sword at his hip. Their hands appeared callused, their faces weather-beaten and scarred. The youngest looked about sixteen, the oldest well into his twenties. Dark bangs fringed killer eyes, and bright red circles defined their cheeks. They seemed not to notice Calistin and Treysind as they moved menacingly toward Khalen.
The fabric-seller scrambled to his feet, only to take several mincing, backward steps. He swallowed hard.
Two more toughs appeared in the doorway. The last, an enormous figure in his early twenties, sported a frosty gaze without a hint of mercy. He calmly shut and latched the door behind them. Clearly the leader, he took in details the others had skipped over, including the presence of the two young strangers. “What’s this, Khalen?” He gestured at Calistin and Treysind. “Your children?”
Before Khalen could answer, Calistin announced, “I’m a man.” Every eye went to him.
“I passed my tests at thirteen.”
“Thirteen?” the one who must be called Savage repeated derisively. “You mean . . . yesterday?”
The brawlies laughed.
“I’m eighteen,” Calistin informed them.
The Savage snorted. “If you’re eighteen, I’m a hundred and six.”
“Then,” Calistin informed him, “you’ll be the oldest man I’ve ever killed.”
Treysind cringed. Calistin suddenly realized the boy did that a lot when he spoke.
Silence descended over the room as everyone waited for Savage’s retort.
Finally, the enormous man laughed, waving dismissively. “I like your audacity, boy. That’s why I’m going to give you and your little friend there a chance to leave now. Alive.” He gestured to one of his cronies to open the front door.
The youth obeyed without hesitation. The latch clicked back open, and the panel eased inward.
Calistin watched the door but made no movements of his own. He measured Savage: well-muscled yet agile, probably quicker than one might expect for a man of his size. The others would prove no obstacle, only interesting distractions.
Treysind retreated a few steps in the wrong direction. Clearly, he intended to keep his promise to allow Calistin to handle the fighting alone. The Renshai remained firmly in place.
Savage frowned. “You’re trying my patience, boy. I’m not usually this generous.”
Calistin refused to be baited with words. “I’m not the one delaying this battle, old man.” He glanced around at the other brawlies. “Your friends may leave, if they wish. They’re hardly worth a sword stroke.”
None of the toughs took a step. Swords rasped from sheaths.
“My men are loyal.” Savage made a sharp gesture, and his nearest companion hurriedly shut and relatched the door.
“If they’re so loyal,” Calistin taunted. “Why do you feel the need to lock them in?”
Savage drew a wicked-looking, curve-bladed sword with a serrated edge that reminded Calistin of the ones the pirates used in Béarn. A dagger appeared in his left hand as well. He cut the air with them. “Put the bugger in carry position!”
As one, the toughs moved in on Calistin, and Khalen retreated to the farthest corner.
Calistin faked a yawn as the first man made a clumsy cut. The Renshai leaped onto one of the tables, stepped on the brawly’s shoulders, then vaulted over them to face the leader directly. Only then, his swords cleared their sheaths, cutting for Savage.
Savage managed a hurried block that caught one of Calistin’s blades. He dodged the other, inadvertently slamming a hip into one of the many tables. Bolts of cloth tumbled to the floor. “Get him!”
Already in motion, the brawlies charged Calistin from behind. He spun full circle, parrying one strike, slicing a deep gouge through one’s jerkin, and knocking a third to the ground. He completed the move with a strike to Savage’s face that nearly claimed his nose. Blood exploded from the wound, gushing down his face.
Savage howled with pain and anger. He attacked in a brutish frenzy that left no room for defense. Calistin danced around the wild strokes, excited as a toddler in his first spar.
“Behind you!” Treysind screamed.
Calistin had not forgotten his other opponents. In fact, he had already numbered them in the order he intended to kill them; it added an extra dimension of difficulty. He skipped through a weaving web of steel, feeling more than seeing it. His backstroke laid a man out, unconscious but alive—it was not yet his turn. Then Calistin bore in, stabbing straight through Savage’s abdomen to skewer the kidney behind.
Shock paralyzed Savage’s face. Forced to step on the man’s toes to liberate his sword, Calistin ripped the blade free, flinging gore across the folded silks and cottons, to meet the expected rush from behind him.
Savage collapsed, taking down three tables with him. Calistin faced the other four brawlies, no longer at his back. None charged him. They all stood, staring at the crumpled body of their leader, except for the one lying on the floor, knocked cold.
Calistin realized he had miscalculated. By taking out the leader first, he had staunched the others’ will to fight. “Have at me!” he howled, advancing. “Don’t just stand there, you whimpering cowards! Have . . . at . . . me!”
The three young brawlies glanced at one another, then lunged toward Calistin. But the bloodlust had disappeared, replaced by an uncertainty that stole the surety and power of their strokes. Calistin did not even bother to parry. The challenge had to come from within, and he placed conditions on his success that hampered him. Staying with his assigned order, he used a single stroke to tear one brawly from stomach to shoulder and slash open the neck of another.
Calistin dodged under the fountain of blood, avoided the organs spilling out of the first, and turned to face the last tough standing. This one retreated, which suited Calistin. L
et the coward hide. He’s not next.
“Mercy,” the last conscious brawly begged. “Mercy, please, master. I won’t cause no more trouble. I promise. I promise!”
Calistin kicked the youth he had knocked out. He stirred, groaning.
“Get up,” Calistin demanded. “Get up and defend yourself, or die a blithering coward like your friend there.” Calistin tipped his head toward the remaining man.
The indicated brawly sank to his knees, his gaze going to Khalen and Treysind.
The downed tough turned Calistin a groggy look that earned him another kick. “Get up!”
Instead of rising, the brawly closed his eyes and sank back to the floor.
Disgusted, Calistin inserted his blade through the rib cage and into the heart, watching his victim stiffen and then go utterly still. Freeing his sword, he looked toward the last of the brawlies who now cowered behind several tables.
As the Renshai met his gaze, the man lowered his head. “Please, sir. Spare me. Whatever you want, I’ll do it.” Slowly and deliberately, he laid his sword on one of the tables and raised his hands to show them empty.
Calistin scoffed. Light as a cat, he moved toward the man. “You would rather die disarmed then fighting? The very definition of a coward.”
“Yes,” the man agreed. “I’m a coward. Not worth the effort of killing me, sir.” He gave Khalen a wild, pleading look, eyes welling with tears. “But I can be useful in other ways. I can, sir. I can . . . I can . . . clean up.” He made a cautious gesture, as if worried anything more might be misinterpreted as an attack. “I can undo the bad we’ve done.”
Calistin took another step closer. “Shall I show you the same mercy you would have shown this merchant?”
“We were just after money. We wouldn’t have hurt him.”
Calistin took another step.
“Honest.”
Khalen finally spoke, softly, as if to an overwhelmed child, “Spare him. I’ll put him to work.”
“He’ll put me to work.” The brawly seized on this opening. “And I’ll do it, too. Happily and well.”
Calistin glided around the last table, and the brawly cringed toward Khalen.
Flight of the Renshai Page 50
