Age of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  “Uses them for what, Master?”

  “Whatever he wishes.” She stands as if some signal has been given. “Her.” His master points as a woman, as stooped as the rest and with a heavy swelling belly, leaves the longhouse and walks towards the well.

  “Her?” he says. “What about her?”

  “She is what is needed. Come with me, Girton.” There is something about his master’s manner that sends a chill through him despite the humidity of the day. “When I speak to her hang back. Keep your face covered and say nothing.”

  Please wake me.

  His master walks up to the woman. Now he is nearer he can see she is a girl, though her flesh is grey with tiredness and, curiously, her front teeth are also missing. The girl struggles with the handle of the well. No one offers to help her.

  “Let me,” says his master. “You look like you have worked hard. You must need a drink.”

  I want to wake up.

  Wake me now.

  Please wake me now.

  The girl looks up, frightened. So obviously and clearly frightened.

  It is Blue-Eyes.

  How can it be?

  The last time he saw her was before the slave market the day his master bought him. She was crying. She was screaming his name as she was dragged off to a wagon and he did nothing to help her. He wants to step forward but he is unable to move and his master has told him he must not.

  “The water is not for me; it is for the guards,” says Blue-Eyes. “But thank you.”

  “I am glad to help. Maybe you can help me? I am a player and I was looking for work, but life here seems hard. Is your blessed poor?”

  “No.” Blue-Eyes’ words are hardly audible and her lip has been split recently. The damaged skin clings to her remaining teeth when she speaks. “He has plenty.”

  “Then I should introduce myself.” She hands the bucket to Blue-Eyes and the girl looks over her shoulder. She leans forward and melds into the silhouette of the well so Girton can no longer see her, only hear her low voice. She is close to tears.

  “You have done me a kindness, so let me do one for you in return. Do not enter the longhouse. Take your apprentice, turn away from this place and never come back.”

  “Thank you for that warning,” says my master. “May good fortune come to you.”

  “I doubt it will,” says Blue-Eyes as she walks away with the heavy bucket. Her shadow elongates in the setting sun until it touches his feet and he feels like it is entreating him for help.

  His master takes his arm.

  “Come, Girton. In an hour the guards will be asleep and you must be ready.”

  “That was Blue-Eyes,” he says. “She was my friend in the slave pens. She was always good to me. She was always smiling.”

  “She is no longer Blue-Eyes,” says his master sadly, and it is as if she shares his pain. “Blessed Ryneal took her happiness with his fists and his appetites. Who you knew is gone.” She shakes him. “Blue Eyes is gone, do you understand? But you can free her from this man.”

  “She begged for my help when they took her,” he says. The words are dry in his mouth.

  “You were six, untrained and unable to do anything. You were a helpless child.” She stares into his eyes. “Now you are not. You cannot change what was but tonight you may at least give her a chance for a future.” She places a parchment in his hand together with his stabswords. On the parchment is a truncated circle with the top left quarter missing, the sign of the assassins. Beneath is written, “… and the Lords shall care for their people.”

  “What is this?”

  “It is part of the high king’s law. We will leave it to remind this blessed’s heir that to be blessed is not to be untouchable.”

  He holds the blades in his hands, and though the calluses on his palms have long ago moulded themselves to the hilts tonight the blades feel alien, like he has never seen them before.

  “How will I know who it is?”

  “He will reveal himself.”

  An hour later they slip in past drunk guards slumped at the gates. He is shaking and has built Blessed Ryneal into a monster in his mind—a huge man and a despoiler of all he touches. A creature who shrugs off blade wounds like insect bites.

  Time passes too quickly.

  His master quietens a group of children huddled in the lee of the wall as they stalk purposefully past. Inside the hall it is almost pitch black and the flickering candles barely light their way, so they squat and concentrate on the exercise of the False Lantern. At the back of the hall is an area curtained off with animal skins. His master points at it.

  “Breathe out, Girton,” she whispers. “You are the instrument.”

  He breathes in the words drilled into him. “No room for fear.” Breathe out. Breathe in. “I am the weapon.” He pushes the curtain aside. He walks from one world to another.

  Blessed Ryneal is not a monster, only a man, heavily muscled and with a network of scars from battle decorating his naked body. A bed fills the back of the room and he can see figures moving, pulling covers over themselves.

  He is shaking with fear as he reaches for the hilts of his blades.

  “A boy,” says Ryneal. He is gently spoken. “I don’t remember asking for another boy.” Ryneal walks over to Girton and stares into his face. “Still got your teeth. Guidran knows he’s meant to take them out. He’s getting either soft or lazy. Still, I can’t risk a biter.”

  Shaking with anger, his hands tighten on the hilts of his blades.

  Blue-Eyes.

  Ryneal takes the front of his tunic in one hand and starts to draw back his fist.

  Everything happens so slowly. It is like the time he got tangled up in pondweed when he was learning to swim and thought Blue Watta had come to take him. It is like drowning.

  The tunic bunching around his neck.

  The fist reaches full draw.

  His clothes are loose.

  It is easy to shrug out of them.

  The fist comes down.

  Into the third iteration, the Maiden’s Pass. She laughs as he gets it wrong again and walks right into her. One foot around the other so he sways to the side and the fist swishes past his ear. Into the fifth iteration, the Boatgirl’s Dip. She holds his hand and twirls him under her arm. He grabs Ryneal’s forearm with his defence arm and twists it until he hears the crunch of the elbow joint dislocating. Then he’s behind Ryneal, stabsword out. He ends with the eighth iteration, the Placing of the Rose. She bows and takes the pretty flower with a laugh. His hand is against his partner’s neck. Except this time his partner is not his master and his hand holds a blade which is buried in Ryneal’s flesh.

  No one is laughing.

  Blessed Ryneal coughs, then sinks to his knees and falls face first onto the floor. He pushes himself onto his back while one hand grasps weakly at the blade in his neck. Ryneal looks puzzled, stares at him and says, “I didn’t ask for a boy.” Blood is everywhere. It fills the air with its metallic tang.

  A face appears from under the covers of the bed. She looks up. Looks at the body. Looks at him.

  Wake me.

  “Blue-Eyes,” he says. “It’s me. It’s Club-Foot. I’ve come to save you.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Who will look after my baby now?” she says. Then she sees the blood and the knife and the screaming starts.

  His master is at his elbow telling him they have to leave, and all he can hear is Blue-Eyes screaming, but this time he is the one being dragged away and he is the one calling her name.

  And the clouds are like knives in the sky.

  This is a dream of what was.

  Chapter 19

  In the Tired Lands the line between villager and bandit is often drawn by the hunger of children. Conversely, the Tired Lands are a land where the small pleasures of the living—hot food on a cold day, a shared joke, the heft of a well made tool—take on a weight far beyond the understanding of the blessed in their castles and halls.

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nbsp; There is little I like better than the rolling gait of a mount beneath me. Nywulf led us, a yellow and purple Mennix flag flying from a stick bound to his saddle. Behind him came Aydor ap Mennix, holding his father’s bonemount, his symbol of war, the skull of a mount festooned with yellow and purple streamers which straggled in the wind as he led his group. Behind them rode Rufra and I. Tomas and his little group were riding as scouts, looking for bandits after the incoming livestock. No doubt they were giving their mounts a real workout rather than trotting along in the dust watching a thousand cows stream into Maniyadoc’s gate. The air was full of plaintive lowing and the smell was unbelievable, but it did not upset me. Neither did it matter that I had been given the worst of the bows or that Aydor’s cronies took every opportunity they got to snipe and spit at me. None of it mattered because I was riding Xus and so I was happy.

  “… so,” said Rufra, “after you told me about the paddles I checked Balance over and, sure enough, bruising on his haunches. I would have missed it had your girlfriend not warned you. You must thank Drusl—” he left a gap in his sentence before leaning in nearer and leering “—whichever way you think best.” I attempted to swat him with my whip but he swayed out of reach and, with a laugh, spurred his mount in a circle. “Too slow,” he said. “He won’t be doing it again now, though I do wish I’d not punched Leiss so hard. I’ve hurt my knuckles.” He flexed his gloved hands and then immediately brightened up. “Do you think Nywulf would let us run? I will take the first chance I get to chase something down. Imby needs a run.” He patted his mount on the neck.

  He rode Imbalance, a huge black warmount. His other, Balance, was white. Imbalance had got its name as its left antler had only five points where the right had seven. Usually such a thing was a sign of poor quality in a bloodline, but Imbalance was a fine beast, night-black, strongly muscled and with a calm temperament. That and Rufra’s obvious love for the beast made me wonder if it was the animal he’d learned to ride on.

  “He’s a beautiful beast,” I said, spitting dust.

  “Aye, Bal is a better warmount though—fiercer, more like your Xus.”

  Xus tossed his head, as if he enjoyed being thought of as fierce, and bared his tusks at a passing rider flying a message flag. A moment later Nywulf brought us to a stop. Rufra manoeuvred his animal around Aydor’s group of friends and I followed. As we approached, Nywulf raised his voice.

  “… and I cannot leave them,” he shouted.

  “Squiremaster,” the messenger replied, “I can only give you my message. You are requested to report back to Maniyadoc by Neander, and we have received reports of raiders heading for the village of Calfey.”

  “And I say I cannot leave the squires alone.”

  “I am sorry, Squiremaster, but Neander was insistent.”

  Nywulf pulled on the reins of his mount to face us. “Aydor, this means I must leave you in charge. I will be as quick as I can, and it is likely that showing your faces at Calfey will be enough to scare off the raiders. If not, then mock charges and bows should do it.” He brought his mount up close to Aydor. “You are not to engage with blades and no one is to ride alone, do you understand?” They stared at each other until Aydor chose to squint up into the sky. Nywulf nodded to the rider closest to Aydor. “Celot, stay close to the heir. Do your job.” If Celot was excited by the idea of action I could not tell; his face wore the same half-smile that it always wore. Nywulf could have been asking him to pick apples for all the emotion he showed. “Girton, talk with me a moment,” said Nywulf, and where Celot’s face had barely changed mine must have fallen as Aydor gave me a superior smirk, as if to say, “Stay back, mage-bent, while real warriors do the work.”

  The other squires set heels to mounts and galloped off towards Calfey, sending panicking cows running and attracting abuse from the cowherds. Nywulf held Xus’s bridle and leaned over so he could speak quietly to me. “You’re good with that bow, Girton. So hang back and use it if anything happens.” Then he locked eyes with me. It was a fierce look and one that worried me as it felt as if he saw right past Girton ap Gwynr and into the boy below. “And watch out for Rufra; he is too trusting though he pretends otherwise.” With that he let go of the bridle and slapped Xus on the rear, sending me racing after the other mounts.

  There was joy in the speed and the clear air as Xus cut his way through the apple trees. Shadows flashed around me—light, dark, light, dark—and the world was turned into a series of juddering images until I broke out of the apple forest and fields stretched ahead of me for ever and ever. To my right the other squires kicked up a cloud of dust and beyond them I could see a column of smoke that must be Calfey. To my left was Barnew’s Wood, where Aydor had been “attacked,” and running towards it was a figure being chased by a man carrying a sword. I saw the sparkle of a blade as he lifted it and cut down the figure running before him. On the wind I thought I heard a voice, Aydor’s, but I could not tell what he said. A moment later a Rider split off from the group of squires and made towards the swordsman—Rufra on his black mount.

  In the back of my mind I heard my master’s voice. Many nights we had sat awake by a fire while she had drawn maps with a burned stick and explained what worked in war, how the tactics of battle could be used on the smaller scale of infiltration. How in the end all things were the same: big was small, small was big.

  And I saw what was before me for a lie.

  Calfey had little of value. Was this a feint to draw us away from the cows while another force hit the herders?

  I spurred Xus on towards the main group.

  Would Aydor listen to me?

  No.

  I glanced to my left, the swordsman had entered Barnew’s Wood and Rufra was riding hard after him.

  Or could this be a trap for one of us?

  Sayda Halfhand had gone, but any fool could wield a blade. Could this be a set-up for a move on Aydor?

  Why was Rufra riding alone? Had he been ordered to take down the swordsman or was it his own idea? Surely he would never disobey Nywulf?

  I heard a roar. The squires, also ignoring Nywulf’s orders, charged into the village of Calfey with their swords held high.

  What was happening? Was this a raid, albeit a misguided one? Or a feint.

  Or a trap for Rufra?

  Why would anyone lay a trap for Rufra?

  Was it a trap for Aydor?

  If Aydor died, then I had no doubt my master and I would soon follow him.

  But Barnew’s Wood? Was it only coincidence that was where Aydor’s ambush had been faked? Adran had hinted that she disliked Rufra. Had the pretend attack on Aydor given his mother ideas? No, she would be more subtle than to just repeat what had happened. Her son however?

  Or Tomas?

  I reigned Xus in and the warmount screeched in fury, fighting the bit in his eagerness to be part of the action.

  Something was wrong.

  For a moment I was torn, and then Rufra vanished into the dark space between the trees and a shiver ran through me. I leaned into Xus and with a shout of, “Ha! Xus, ha!” gave him his head. Free to run, he flew towards Barnew’s Wood like a bolt from a crossbow. We thundered past the body cut down by the bandit swordsman. It was a boy no older than I was.

  At the edge of the wood I pulled Xus to a stop and the mount huffed and pawed the ground in response to my anxiety. Speed or stealth? Everything in me screamed speed but I made myself stop and think.

  Breathe out.

  No time for this!

  Let the assassin work this through, not the boy.

  Breathe in.

  If it was a trap Rufra was likely to be outnumbered and lumbering in on Xus would only give me away. Then I would have to fight my way to him.

  Breathe out.

  He’ll be dead if you don’t act!

  Think.

  No time!

  I slid from Xus’s saddle.

  “Wait,” I told the mount and he bobbed his huge head before lowering it to chew on a bush. Un
slinging my bow I half strung an arrow before moving into the undergrowth. Rufra had ridden up a slim path and the mud had been churned up by his mount’s claws. Not far down the path I found the swordsman, dead, his head cracked open by Rufra’s sword. After killing him, Rufra must have heard something else as he had continued into the wood, going more slowly, but still at some speed.

  I found Imbalance’s body fifty steps further on. The animal’s neck had been broken by a line of wire stretched across the path, but his strange lopsided antlers had saved Rufra’s life. When the mount had struck the line, rather than stopping him abruptly and throwing the antlers back so the Rider was impaled on the tips, it had slewed Imbalance round, throwing Rufra into the undergrowth. I could see where he had rolled into the ferns. From there he had run to the left, going further into the wood. I found a crossbow bolt in Imbalance’s side and another buried in a tree.

  Further on I found the body of a crossbowyer with her neck opened. I could read the fight in the land. Rufra had hidden behind a tree and waited for her to reload then charged her as she did. A second warrior had been with the crossbowyer, they and Rufra had fought here. From the depth of footprints this fighter was armoured. Another fighter had joined the first and Rufra had fled further into the wood.

  I found blood on the leaves of a low-hanging branch and hoped it was not my friend’s.

  Ten steps later I heard the sound of combat and, keeping low in the undergrowth, hurried towards it.

  They fought in a clearing. A huge stone totem of the dead gods had fallen and ripped a hole in the canopy, creating an island of illumination in the dark wood. Bright shafts of light caught dust dancing in the air and glinted off the mismatched armour of six men surrounding another, who used jerky movements of his sword to ward off feigned attacks.

  Rufra, definitely Rufra. And he was still alive, though a crossbow bolt stuck out from the plate metal of his right shoulder guard. He didn’t look wounded, but the bolt was stopping him raising his longsword. Even if he had been able to lift his arm properly he didn’t stand a chance against six.

  The clang of metal on metal.