by Rj Barker
And a death.
A man holding a heavy two-handed mace launched an overhead attack at Rufra. The mace came down towards his head and Rufra danced to the side, dropped his useless longsword and thrust his stabsword into the man’s gut, giving it a twist before pulling back. As he fought to push the dying man away another of his attackers dashed in. They were not skilled warriors but they didn’t need to be; they had numbers. He brought down a spiked morningstar against Rufra’s helm and my friend fell, the fallen statue blocked my view of him. With a roar the morningstar wielder lifted his weapon, ready to bring it down in a killing blow.
I stood.
Raised the bow.
Drew it and let the arrow fly in one motion.
No thought. No conscious aiming.
The arrow took the man through the eye of his elaborate snarling facemask.
The remaining four stood, looking shocked and stupid. I nocked an arrow and advanced on them with the bow at full stretch, snapping my aim from one to the other as quickly as the breath went in and out of my lungs.
“You can’t get us all, boy,” shouted a man who carried a longsword and stabsword. His voice rang in the still wood, and he dropped the snarling visor on his wide helm. If he thought it would protect him from my arrow he was a fool.
“I can get two of you,” I said, sitting on the fallen statue and sliding over it. There was no waver in my voice, no doubt of the threat I posed. “Maybe I’ll get three.” I returned my aim to the man with his visor down. “You die first.” I could see his eyes behind his visor as he watched. Occasionally his glance flicked to his friends as they spread out around me. I walked forward until I was in the centre of the clearing and Rufra lay at my feet. His dented helm had come off and he was still as a corpse. But he breathed.
He breathed.
“Rufra,” I hissed and nudged him with my foot. He groaned.
Did his eyes flicker?
The moment I glanced down at my friend the swordsman advanced. I drew the bow the final few fingerbreadths I needed to get the arrow through his armour.
The bow snapped.
“Dead gods,” I cursed as the thing jumped out of my hands, stinging my fingertips and leaving them numb.
“You should have run, boy,” laughed the swordsman. “Just go. Leave him. We don’t expect mage-bent to fight real men.”
I could run. My cover would stay intact if I did.
But Rufra was unconscious. He would not see what happened here.
And he was my friend.
I drew my blades.
“If you want him, come and get him.”
The warrior shook his head. “Well, you’ve had your chance, cripple, and you have chosen to be pig food.”
I wanted to curse Rufra for falling in the centre of the clearing rather than somewhere more tactically useful. Three of the men were using the traditional long and short sword, one held a large shield and a stabsword. My skills were in close work. I had no doubt that one on one with paired swords I could take any of them. But four on one was a different matter. They could circle me and keep feinting until I tired. Then, while one distracted me, another would take me from behind. It would only be a matter of time.
Their leader began with a thrust of his longsword. It was an obvious feint as his blade could not reach me. All my instincts said to ignore it as he only tested me but instead I swung wildly, like the novice I was meant to be. He laughed again.
“Not much of a swordsman, are you, boy?”
I lifted my head and tried to appear like a boy faking confidence. “I have trained to wield a blade. I am a squire of Maniyadoc.”
“Trained, have you?” His friends chuckled around me. “How long for, an hour?” He feinted again and I swung wildly in return.
“I have had over a week of training at the hands of Squiremaster Nywulf,” I said.
“A week?” He laughed and gave a subtle nod at the two swordsmen behind me. “Well, we’d best be careful of you then, eh?”
He feinted again. I did not move this time as I had seen his signal to the men behind me. The two ran in to finish me and I spun on the spot then began to fall, making it look like I stumbled on my club foot. Their swords came up and I turned my fall into the twelfth iteration, the Fool’s Tumble. As I fell, I threw my longsword at the man on my right, tangling and cutting his legs. The tumble took me under the blade of the man coming from my left and I came up into a crouch. My extended stabsword hooked under his chain kilt and took the man in the groin, severing the artery. He dropped his blades. I pushed him away and grabbed his stabsword from the ground, turning to send it through the air and into the throat of the second warrior as he untangled himself from my longsword.
The two remaining men did not move as I walked over to retrieve my longsword and then back to Rufra. I stuck the long blade in the ground by my unconscious friend and picked up one of the fallen stabsword belonging to the men I had killed.
“Maybe it was two weeks training with the blade,” I said. “You know how time flies when you are doing something you enjoy.” Behind me a man wept as his blood pulsed from his body. I lowered my voice and pointed my blade at the leader of the men. “You should run,” I said. He knew he should. I had shed Girton ap Gwynr like a wet cloak and there was no concealing how dangerous the assassin, Girton Club-Foot, was.
He rushed me. A foolish move that showed his lack of real skill. He came in trailing his longsword for a big swing and gambling everything on it. As his arm came round I danced with him and was as disappointed as anyone who loved their art could be when confronted with a clumsy partner. First iteration: the Precise Steps. One step, two step, and I was within his reach. Eighth iteration: The Placing of the Rose. With an upward thrust I drove my blade through the bottom of his jaw and into his brain. Using the remaining momentum of his charge I spun him on the spot and threw his body at the man with the shield who was coming at me from the other side. He did what comes naturally when an object is thrown at you and used his shield to push the body away. Unfortunately for him, the body also hid my actions—the Speed-that-Defies-the-Eye—and when he exposed himself I was there. He was unhelmeted and I slashed my blade across his eyes, blinding him.
He screamed. And he kept screaming as I returned to Rufra. My friend’s breathing had changed. It seemed faster, almost as if he was frightened. I did not know what that meant though I knew head wounds could be bad. I hoped he was not dying.
I faded out the screaming of the blinded man while I tried to think. I could not help Rufra. I carried no medical supplies and he was too heavy to carry in his armour. Rufra’s longsword lay on the ground and his stabsword was still in his limp hand. It was a terrible weapon, all rusted and nicked. As was the longsword, which was barely bloodied, but the blades gave me an idea. I took his longsword and returned to the blinded man.
“Quiet,” I hissed and placed Rufra’s blade against the man’s throat. “Who sent you?”
“Garim,” he choked out. “Dead gods, you have blinded me! How will I feed my children? You have blinded me.”
“I said be quiet.” I pushed the sword harder against his neck. “Answer my questions if you want to live.” He swallowed and nodded. “Who is Garim and why did he want my friend dead?”
“Garim is who leads us. You killed him. As to the rest. I only know someone at the castle paid him. I just do what I’m—”
He knew nothing. I cut his throat before he finished speaking and then made sure Rufra’s sword was covered in blood and returned to the man I had shot with my bow. I cut the arrow out of his eye and thrust the blade into the wound. Then placed Rufra’s bloodied longsword in my friend’s empty hand. If he lived I hoped his head wound would make his memories of the attack hazy. Faced with no other option he would have to believe he had fought off all of his attackers before giving in to unconsciousness.
That done I returned to Xus, mounted and concentrated on becoming Girton ap Gwynr again. As the adrenaline drained from me I realised how
dangerous what I had done was. Though it felt as if I had trained for it all my life I had never fought without the knowledge my master was at my back, ready to defend me. And today I had fought five and the killing had been easy. I had been ruthless and it had shocked me, but I had also enjoyed it. I had never really thought of myself as a warrior before, only as an assassin, someone who slunk in silently, avoiding conflict whenever possible. When the shaking started I realised that somewhere, deep inside, I was as shocked by what I had done as the fictional Girton ap Gwynr would have been.
Chapter 20
I threw Xus into a run. Smoke rose above Calfey, and the wind brought with it the whoops of warriors and the screams of the dying. A scruffy mount with short antlers ran past me, dragging the corpse of its rider behind it and leaving a trail of red on the stones of the path. On the far side of the village I saw a group of six raiders being pursued by Tomas and his small squad, whipping their mounts and riding as fast as they could for the village. As the raiders approached Calfey, a volley of arrows brought their front three down and the second rank rode into them, their mounts falling and spilling raiders to the ground. Tomas brought his group to a halt and they dismounted to go about the work of finishing the wounded; they showed no mercy, and I heard them laughing as I drove Xus into the the village.
Calfey was small, only a few dozen houses surrounded by a fence of dried thorn bushes, and as I entered Xus lowered his antlers in response to the presence of death. Bodies lay everywhere, some in armour and some not; men and women ran hither and thither in panic. A child ran past, screaming, and I turned to find the raider he fled from, but instead saw Borniya, his bow drawn and aimed at the child.
As Xus and I came between them he grinned.
“Duck, mage-bent,” he shouted and loosed his arrow. I pulled on Xus’s rein, bringing him sliding to a stop as the arrow shot over my head. I had to fight to keep my balance in the saddle. At the moment I thought I was safe a mount side-swiped me. If Xus had not moved, swinging about to face the threat with his antlers down and a high-pitched hiss, my leg would have been smashed between the two animals. As it was I fell from his back into the mud. Xus stood at bay above me, trained to protect his rider he would not move. He spat and hissed at Borniya and Hallin as they circled me on their twin black mounts.
“You could have killed me,” I said, pulling myself up.
Borniya laughed.
“You’re a mage-bent country boy, not a Rider. You fell because that beast is too much for you.” Xus let out a low growl as Borniya and Hallin walked their mounts around us.
“A real Rider wouldn’t be baiting me when there are raiders to fight.”
“They’re dealt with, mage-bent,” said Borniya. “Now we’re just clearing up the dregs.” His mount continued to circle and I had to turn to follow him. Hallin rode opposite him, running his thumb along the back of the little knife he was so fond of hurting people with.
“Rufra is hurt,” I said.
“Dead?”
“No.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Hallin laughed. Behind them men, women and children were lined up against the lumpy mud and wicker walls of the village hall. Aydor was telling some of his troop to get their bows ready. Tomas stood off to one side, watching.
“You need to help Rufra,” I said. “Remember what Nywulf said about us—”
“We have to deal with the traitors first,” said Borniya. He pointed at the villagers lined up against the wall. Aydor was driving his mount backwards and forwards shouting, “Treason!” and “Death!” He was a fool with his blood up; the people against the walls were not warriors.
“They are only villagers,” I said.
“Villagers who were harbouring raiders.”
“They were being attacked by raiders, not harbouring them.”
“Or that is what they want us to think,” said Borniya. “Maybe it is what you want us to think also? Are you a traitor, Girton ap Gwynr? Dark Ungar knows, the heir would be pleased if you had an accident.” Behind him Hallin had put away his knife and was stringing an arrow to his bow. “Maybe you attacked Rufra in the wood?”
“No!”
“Most would believe it. There’s something of the yellower in you, you’re a bringer of misfortune. Especially to Kyril.” I saw in the eyes of these two boys, almost men, an implacable hatred I did not understand. Aydor I understood. He was weak, a bully and eager to throw his weight around because he knew I could not fight back, and in some way he saw my friendship with Rufra as a threat. But these two were different: I was sure they would kill me quite happily, partly to curry favour with Aydor but mostly because they would enjoy it. They were the sort of people my master delighted in ending. I reached for the blades at my hip and Borniya grinned.
“Got a bit of fight in you then, mage-bent?”
“What is happening here?”
The sudden interruption made me jump, and both Borniya and Hallin turned at the shout to see Aydor wheeling his mount and coming face to face with Nwyulf.
“These people are traitors—they attacked us,” said Aydor. “The penalty for treason is death.”
“Did you announce yourselves?”
“What?”
“Coil the Yellower’s piss,” hissed Nywulf. “Did you announce yourselves?”
“We carry the bonemount,” said Aydor.
Nywulf looked along the line of squires. “You carry the bonemount, Aydor; the rest carry nothing and these villagers are not soldiers, alert to the signs of who is who. One armoured man looks like any other to them. Do you think I told you not to enter the village for my own amusement?”
“Well,” began a squire. “Aydor said—”
“Aydor has made a mistake,” said Nywulf. “As you are all here, let us discuss tactical failures and …” His voice tailed off. “Where is Rufra?” He looked to me but Aydor replied:
“He ran away.”
“Like a coward,” added Hallin.
“Heir, you ordered—” began Celot, but Aydor cut him off.
“Quiet, fool.”
“He’s in the wood,” I said, pulling myself up into Xus’s saddle. “He rode after a swordsman who cut a young boy down. I followed but lost him.”
Nywulf went pale and turned to Aydor and his squires. If I had been Aydor I would have been frightened. “Let these people go,” said Nywulf in a voice full of barely restrained anger. “You let one of your number ride off alone, Aydor? Did you not hear a word I said about working together?” Even Aydor had the good sense to look ashamed. “You are not fit to command sheep never mind men.” Nywulf turned to Celot. “You will take charge, find Rufra and bring him back to me.” Celot gave Nywulf a solemn salute and spurred his mount. Nywulf stared at the other squires. “Well? Why are you still here? Follow Celot.” They set off at a gallop.
As I was about to join them Nywulf placed his mount in front of mine.
“Does he live?” he asked.
“Sorry?”
“Don’t play games. Does Rufra live?” He was staring at me but not at my face; he was looking into my eyes the way a warrior does when he is about to fight. His hand was on his sword hilt. His eyes flicked down to my armour. I glanced down to see a spray of blood, arterial bright, across the many-coloured plates that protected my chest. It became harder to breathe. Air struggled in and out of my chest. Nywulf knew. He knew what I was.
“Rufra is very skilled,” I said. “I doubt there was anything in the wood that he could not deal with.”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“Few could fight multiple opponents without taking some wound.”
Nywulf’s knuckles whitened on his blade hilt.
“But he lives?”
I nodded, and then chose my words carefully, unwilling to give anything away.
“The last time I saw him he was alive. No one else was.”
Nywulf nodded slowly and when he spoke his voice was as threatening as the clouds that herald the great storms of yearsbirth
. “Ride to the castle, Girton. Have the healers be ready and pray that Rufra still lives. For your sake if for nothing else.”
I rode Xus as fast as he would go for the castle, sliding off his back and shoving the reins into Drusl’s hands when I reached the stable.
“Rufra’s hurt,” I said, my breath coming in gasps. “I must get to the healers. Then I ran for the keepyard gate shouting for a healer. Minutes later five mounted healers galloped out of the gate with their long grey robes flapping about them. Half an hour later I watched Nywulf ride in followed by the healers and Rufra, slack as baggage, on his saddle. He looked like a child, exhausted after a day’s riding, sleeping in the arms of his parent . From the stricken look on Nywulf’s face I wondered what his relationship really was with my friend—it was clearly far more than trainer and pupil. More grey-robed healers fell into step behind Nywulf’s mount. I was about to follow when a hand stopped me.
“What happened, Girton?”
My master, clothed in the shadow of the gate. She pulled me back into the empty guardroom.
“Raiders attacked Calfey. Rufra chased one into the wood, and it was a trap. I saved him.”
“He saw you fight?”
“No. He was unconscious, but I am sure Nywulf knows what I am.”
“He said so?”
“Not as such. It was more what he didn’t say.”
She leaned back against the wall and sighed. “Well, he has said nothing so far, and outside of killing Nywulf—and from the way he moves I am not sure that is something I wish to try—there is little we can do. You said it was a trap?”
“Yes, men waited in the wood. Rufra killed three before he was struck down. I killed the rest, but I left no sign and bloodied Rufra’s weapons so he will think he finished them.”
She leaned in close to me.
“You should have let him die,” she whispered.
“He is my friend.”
“If what we are is revealed we become worthless to Adran, and she is ruthless.”
“He was unconscious, Master, and a strike to the head can often affect the memory. Besides, the other squires will think he took on seven men alone and prevailed. It will win him respect. Even if he saw me, he’d not be fool enough to throw that away.”
