Age of Assassins

by Rj Barker

  “Whichever way they comes, we’ll not let ’em any further.”

  I slid my blade from its scabbard.

  “What if they win?”

  “They won’t. Some o’ ours been sent to take the stables. Who has the mounts wins the fight, everyone knows that.”

  The one called Girron, tall for a Tired Lands man, turned—only a little but it was enough—and he saw us. He barely had time to shout. As he brought round his pike to face us in the narrow corridor he tangled himself up in his friend. I lunged, my Conwy blade cutting through his leather armour and the flesh beneath, silencing him in one swift move. At the same same my master slashed her blade across the throat of the second guard, who fell, coughing as she bled out.

  Come, Girton,” said my master, reaching for the door to the stairs. “It may be clear further down now.”

  “No, Master.” Down the corridor the priest of Xus pulled aside another tapestry and vanished behind it. “This way,” I said, pulling her after me and into more tunnels, more darkness, slimy walls and crumbling stairs. We went round and round, listening to men and women fighting and dying for Aydor and Tomas. Sometimes, as we made our way through the tunnels, I had the oddest sensation we were surrounded by huge crowds of people, it was not unlike the dizzying claustrophobia I had felt at Festival. But this time I had not been drinking and when I put my hand out it met only cold and empty air.

  We left the black tunnels and this time there was no shadowy mocking figure waiting for us, only the sound of war and the bite of the air, cold and thick with mist. The passages had led us outside the walls of the keep and we had exited near where I had entered the dungeons. There were bodies scattered around and shadowy figures half hidden in the mist. I saw Aydor, with Celot by his side. He had gathered some troops and arrayed them across the courtyard, their shields locked into a wall bristling with spears and pikes. Opposite them, Tomas, his squires and guards, all with red material tied around their arms. Both sides were working themselves up into a frenzy, beating swords and pikeshafts against shields to attract their fellows. More guards ran from the keep, pulling on armour as they rounded the water clock. The castle was like a disturbed lizard hive, disgorging defenders to the beat of the shields. Aydor had the bigger of the two forces and had placed his shield wall across the courtyard to stop Tomas getting to the gatehouse and from there to the stables. Behind them the great gates were shut.

  “Stay in the shadows, Girton. We can’t fight them all.” I nodded, glad she wanted to avoid a fight. My master was in no state for combat and my muscles were burning with fatigue. “We need to get out. Our best option is to get to Festival, claim sanctuary.”

  “The gate is shut.”

  “I am wounded, not blinded, Girton.”

  “You have a plan, Master?”

  “No, I didn’t expect we would live this long.” She let out a hiss of pain, and I glanced at her leg. It was awash with blood. She pulled on the tourniquet around her thigh, tightening it. “We must open the gate. Rufra will need it open for his Riders.”

  With a shout of “Huh!” Aydor’s guards beat their swords and pikes against their shields in unison and took a step forward. Tomas’s troops gave an answering shout and advanced. Insults began to fly across the narrowing gap between them. From the windows above arrows began to fall, but there were not many and in the mist and the darkness they were poorly aimed. We hugged the wall as we worked our way around the two sides, they were too intent on each other to notice us. When we neared the towers that flanked the gate my master switched to sign language.

  “Guard me while I work the windlass.”

  We skirted the tower, keeping low, and found two guards in the windlass room watching the shield walls from a small window and exchanging bets on who would win. We cut them down before they knew we were there. My master put her back against the windlass that opened the gate and took two deep breaths, stealing herself for the pain.

  “Master, I should do that.”

  “No,” she grunted as she pushed against the windlass. “When the gates start to open, troops will come.” The windlass started to turn. “My leg will hamper me in a fight.”

  “At least let me help.” I started towards her, the chains of the windlass shaking and rattling as they began to move.

  “No! Take up that bow.” She nodded at the weapon lying on the floor. “Give those who will come reason to stay back.”

  I picked up the bow, glanced around the gatehouse.

  “Master, there are no arrows.”

  She grunted again, and now the windlass started to turn more easily.

  “Then… Girton… get ready… to… fight.”

  I stood guard at the door as the gates inched open. Behind me my master sweated and hissed in agony as she turned the windlass. The two lines of troops were so preoccupied with each other that we had the gates half open before a shout went up.

  “The gatehouse!”

  Aydor’s wall turned their heads and Tomas took advantage of the distraction to charge his troops forward. The sound of metal on metal as the two lines met crashed through air which quickly filled with the sounds of grunting, screaming and shouting as the troops set about each other.

  “The gates!” Aydor shouted. “It is the cripple.” He pointed his blade at me then at some men in the rear of his line. “You and you and you! Kill him! Ten bits for his head.”

  Five guards broke away from the rear of Aydor’s line as the gates crept further open. I drew my longsword and stabsword. The guards ran toward me, four armed with pikes and their captain with a sword.

  I readied myself. These were not bandits like those I had faced in the wood. These were real soldiers, and out in the open their pikes were an excellent weapon. The captain ran at me but all he saw was a mage-bent child and he was overconfident, leaving behind the men who would have protected him. He grinned as if he already had his coin and held his longsword high for a downward slash. As his blade came down, I simply stepped forward and dropped to one knee with my stabsword held out. In his eagerness to kill me he impaled himself on my blade.

  “No,” he said quietly. “That is not right.” I pulled my stabsword loose and he fell to his knees, staring up at me. His mouth moved without making a sound as his strength drained out onto the cobbles. It had not been a killing blow so I slit his throat. I did not want to worry about him at my back while I faced the guards following him. On his back he had a quiver with four arrows in it and I took them, picking up the bow and stringing an arrow. The pikers slowed in their approach, stopped and took a moment to organise themselves, hunkering down behind their shields. I loosed an arrow which stuck in a shield as the four advanced on me. Armoured I would have stood a fair chance, but I was unarmoured; even a glancing blow from one of their pikes would end me. I strung another arrow and backed away, switching where I aimed the bow from guard to guard. Quickly, I fired my remaining three arrows. One found a chink in the shields and a woman fell screaming. Then the hard grip of my master was around my arm.

  “The gate is open. Run.” I dropped the bow and we ran as best we could. Within twenty paces the mist had concealed the gatehouse and the guards who had followed us, though I did not doubt they were still there.

  “Rufra will be at the stables,” I said. “He will come. He will protect us.”

  “No, Festival, Girton. We head for Festival.”

  I was about to argue when we were sent sprawling in the mud. I had tripped over a corpse. The dead man had the red rag of Tomas, and further on we found a second corpse, this without a rag. The ground underfoot was churned up by the feet of guards, and in between the footprints I found the tracks of mounts. I could not tell how many.

  “Everyone wants to control the stables,” said my master. “Who has the mounts, wins the fight.’

  “This looks like a lot of troops,” I said, staring at the ground. “Rufra may need our help.”

  “We are tired and hurt, Girton. We need help, we are in no position to give it.
Head for Festival.” I stared at her. She was tired. Blood ran down her leg and stained her skirts.

  “Very well.” I slung my master’s arm over my shoulder and she had found a pike which she used as a crutch. We moved as quickly as we could. Out in the mist I heard guards shouting to each other. They were looking for us, and I heard far more than four of them now. Above the shouts rose the sounds of battle. The cloudy air was alive with the sound of suffering and death.

  We slipped and slid forward. As well as her wound, my master was fatigued from days of staying alert to watch Aydor and Adran, and the sheer physical effort of turning the giant windlass. As we moved through the misty darkness her legs kept going from underneath her. The sounds of fighting were swallowed by the mist and we struggled on through an eerie quiet. In the darkness I saw the flickering torches that marked the entrance to Festival.

  “Master, we are here.”

  “Stop!”

  The voice came out of the night, we staggered to a halt.

  “Sanctuary,” shouted my master, but her voice was weak. She spat and tried again, this time louder. “Sanctuary! We request sanctuary at Festival.”

  “Tomorrow,” came the reply. “Festival shows no favours or sides. While the fighting continues our doors stay shut.”

  “But that is not the way—” began my master. The unseen gatekeeper interrupted:

  “Blame your queen, she changed the rules.”

  “Adran is dead,” said my master. “And we are not her subjects and so not safe out here.”

  “Our gates are closed,” came the voice again.

  “No!” I took a step forward, my blades coming out of their sheaths. “She is hurt. We need—”

  I heard the twang of a crossbow and a bolt buried itself into the mud by my foot.

  “Next one is in your throat,” came out of the mist.

  I felt my master’s hand on my arm.

  “Come, Girton. There is no help for us here.”

  “Then we try for the stables.” I put her arm over my shoulders. “Rufra will help.”

  “Rufra will have enough to think on, if he lives,” she said. “He will not care about us.”

  “He will come,” I said, and we headed out into the night.

  Gradually, as we moved through the night, my master transferred more and more of her weight onto me.

  “Don’t stop, Master,” I said. “We need to keep going. Rufra will take the stables and ride on the castle. He will come.”

  “If he lives,” she gasped. “Both Aydor and Tomas have sent troops…”

  “He will come.”

  We stumbled on, slipping as much as walking in the freezing mud. Out in the mist I heard more voices echoing around us, searching. My master dropped the pike she had been using to walk with and fell. I slid to a stop, trying to pull her up.

  “I am done, Girton. Run.” She took her blades from their scabbards and pushed herself up to a kneeling position. “They will find us. It is only a matter of time. I will buy you as much time as I can when they do.”

  “No.” I pulled her up. “Listen, Master.” She cocked her head to better hear the voices in the mist. “They are moving away from us, I am sure of it.”

  “Girton…”

  “And Rufra will come.”

  “You cannot be—”

  “He will come!”

  She stared at me, long and hard, then nodded, too tired to argue and, knowing I would not leave her, she put her blades away and struggled up. I picked up the pike, put it in her hands then glanced over my shoulder into the mist. We forced ourselves on. Somewhere in front of us I thought I heard fighting.

  “Girton,” said my master. She was near to finished—I could hear it in her voice—and I was not much better. “Listen to me, Girton…”

  “Look!” I pointed into the mist. Mounted figures were approaching. “Rufra!” We staggered on a few steps. “It is Rufra, Master.”

  “There are only two mounts,” she said.

  The Riders approaching from the mist were armoured for war, holding shields and lances. Razor-sharp gilding glinted on their mount’s antlers.

  “Rufra has sent them for us!” I shouted. The knights put down their visors, lowered their lances.

  “Girton, that isn’t Rufra.”

  “But—”

  “It isn’t Rufra!” she shouted in my face

  The mounts screamed as their Riders put in the spur. Then they charged forward, heads coming down to impale us on the points of their antlers. I tried to run and pull my master with me.

  “No,” she shouted, gripping tightly onto my arm, holding me still against all good sense while my mind screamed, Run!

  The two mounts raced towards us, growing until they filled my vision and the sound of their galloping feet filled my ears. I was sure my master intended us to die together on their antlers and I closed my eyes. Then she shouted, “Now!” From somewhere she mustered up the energy to shove me out of the way. Fourteenth iteration—cartwheeling out of the path of the rampaging mounts. I slipped in the mud as I landed, falling to all fours. The moment I had my feet under me I heard my master shout.

  “Girton! Pike!” I turned. My master threw me the weapon and I plucked it from the air. Then, to try and draw the Riders away from my master, I ran as fast as I could away from her until I heard galloping feet behind me. A glance back. Dead gods! Only one followed. I counted the animal’s footsteps as it gained, trying to feel the rhythm of its run. Duh-duh-duhduh, duh-duh-duhduh, duh-duh-duhduh. When it was near enough to gore me I clasped the staff of the pike tight and dropped, rolling under the animal’s feet, hoping the Rider wasn’t well trained enough to change his animal’s gait and trample me—he wasn’t. I heard him swear as I rolled under the galloping mount unscathed and came to my feet behind him with the pike extended. The mount screamed as its Rider pulled hard on the rein and it skidded to a halt on its haunches. To my left, almost lost in the mist, my master was limping in a tight circle, making it hard for the other Rider to get at her, but it was a desperate move and she was tiring quickly. Both Riders rode black mounts and I knew they must be Borniya and Hallin, though I had no idea which of them I faced. My attacker came round again, this time keeping his mount’s head low to stop me going under his animal. He spurred the mount on and I brought the pike down. The animal started to sweep its head back and forth to knock the weapon away. As it closed on me I dived to the side, throwing the pike between the mount’s legs. With an audible crack and a scream of agony, the animal and Rider went down in a tangle of broken legs and broken wood. Had I been lucky, the fall would have killed the Rider but I was not. He dragged himself to his feet and, taking the shield from his back, unhooked a warhammer from his belt. He used his weapon to kill the screaming mount before turning to me and lifting his visor to reveal a misshapen face. Borniya, which meant the Rider trying to skewer my master must be Hallin.

  “We were disturbed in Calfey, mage-bent, but this time I’m going to kill you. I swear it.” He hefted his warhammer and brought his shield round in front of him.

  “I didn’t kill your friend Kyril, Borniya.”

  “I don’t really care.” He grinned at me.

  I attacked first, my long sword flickering out. I expected him to take the blow on his shield but he danced back out of my reach and I stumbled forward two paces before catching myself. My breath came in great gasps.

  “You’ve had a long day.” He let the shield slip from his arm and drew his stabsword. “You’re tired, mage-bent.” He lunged at me with the stabsword, and I jumped back, sliding in the mud and fighting to keep my balance. Ordinarily I would have walked over Borniya, but he was fully armoured and fresh to the fight where exhaustion had robbed me of my skill and the pattern cut into my chest stopped me using any assassin tricks.

  “If you’re expecting your friend Rufra to save you then I’m sorry. He ran into a little surprise in the stables. I don’t think he’ll be coming.” He feigned coming forward and I staggered back
wards again. Making him laugh. “Oh dear, mage-bent, oh dear.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my master fall—Hallin’s mount sweeping its head backwards and forwards, catching my master a glancing blow that sent her stumbling away to fall in the mud. While I was distracted, Borniya attacked. He brought his stabsword down and I brought my blades up—sixth iteration—to block his attack. He’d been waiting for me to block and followed the blow from his stabsword with a blow from his warhammer. I tried to move but wasn’t quick enough, and the longsword was ripped from my hand by the impact. Before he could follow up I lunged with my stabsword, aiming for his eye. He was quick to dodge but the blade still scored his cheek. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it was enough to make him back off a little. He wiped at the blood running down his face then stared at the stain on his gauntlet.

  “Hallin!” he shouted. “Kill the woman quickly. I don’t want you to miss out on killing the cripple.”

  “Am I too much for you, Borniya?” I said. He licked his lips where blood running from his cheek had stained them red. “Are you scared of me?”

  I threw myself at Borniya. It was the last thing he expected and the last thing I should have done. I hit him hard, pushing us both down into the freezing mud, but he was armoured and physically bigger than me. I tried to bring my knee up into his groin, but the rods of iron laced into his kilt protected him. I tried to find the edge of his armour with the point of my stabsword, scraping the tip across the metal squares

  He stank of old sweat.

  Borniya grabbed my hand, slamming it into the ground until I could no longer hold the blade. I had been stupid to go in close with him. Bit by bit his greater strength and weight started to tell. He rolled me away from my blade and, grunting like pigs in the mud, we continued to struggle and roll until we were stopped by the warm corpse of his mount.

  My left arm was trapped against the dead animal. I tried landing punches with my right but only bruised my knuckles on his armour, while Borniya’s punches left me gasping. He tried to get his hand round my throat I broke his grip, once, twice, three times. He delivered three quick rabbit punches into my side with a gauntleted hand, stealing the wind from me. His strength was too much. His hands locked around my throat and this time I could not loosen them.