by Rj Barker
“This,” he hissed, thumbs pushing down on my windpipe, “is much more satisfying…” The edges of my vision began to darken. I stretched my right arm out, searching for a rock, a stick, anything to use as a weapon. “… way to…” My fingers hit wood, closed around it. “… kill you.” With the last vestige of my strength I swung the piece of wood, seeing a flash of metal in the moment before I shoved the spiked end of the broken pike into the vulnerable area of his armour under the arm. His eyes widened. I pushed harder. His grip loosened. “No,” he said. He leaned forward, drool spilling from his mouth onto my face. “No,” he said again. Then he went limp, falling dead onto the stomach of his mount.
Gasping, and with every muscle aching, I pulled the pike loose and used it to to help me stand. Further out in the mist Hallin, armed with sword and shield, was advancing on my master as she stumbled away from him, doubled over in pain.
“Hallin.” The word came out of my mouth as barely more than a whisper and I had to gather my strength before shouting again. “Hallin!” He turned. “Borniya is dead. I killed him. Now face me. Unless you are only brave enough to kill my servant?” He stopped, turned in my direction. It was drilled into squires not to leave a live enemy behind you, but I had to distract him from my master. “Are you a coward, Hallin?” I felt my legs begin to buckle and clasped the pike staff harder. “I think you are a coward.”
Hallin took a step towards me.
“I am not a coward.”
“Prove it.”
He came towards me at a jog, his shield up. He slowed and came to a stop when he saw the body of Borniya, and for a moment I thought I stood a chance. You really are a coward, I thought. You are afraid. Then my world spun, faded, and when it came back into focus I was on one knee, only the broken pike keeping me upright. Hallin smiled.
We both knew I was done.
“Aydor will reward me well for your head, cripple.” He walked forward, swinging his blade.
I had nothing left.
Nothing.
“You!”
The shout filled the mist. Hallin’s sword stopped mid-swing.
“You! Face me! Face me now!” Out of the mist strode a warrior in a blessed’s armour, all silvered and sleek. His visor was down and he held a blade in each hand. I did not know the armour, or the device of the golden flying lizard emblazoned across it, but there was no mistaking the voice.
Rufra.
Rufra had come. He had come alone, but he had come.
“So—” Hallin spat on the ground “—the filthy ap Vthyr has come to die with his mage-bent friend.” Rufra didn’t answer, only lifted his longsword and pointed it at Hallin as he marched forward. “I’ll kill you, ap Vthyr,” said Hallin, “and then I’ll kill your pet cripple.”
“No,” shouted Rufra.
“Oh, I think so. I’ll kill the cripple slowly. Slice him up. You know all about that, eh? You begged me to stop when I cut you; you think your friend will beg as well, eh? Think he’ll cry like a child when the knife bites?”
Rufra threw himself into an attack, roaring as he brought his blade down in a heavy overhead swing. Hallin brought up his shield and Rufra rained blows on it. He punctuated each blow with a word. “No!” The first blow staggered Hallin. “You!” The second forced him back. “Will!” The third pushed him to his knees. “Not!” He landed the fourth blow so hard his blade broke in two.
Hallin reacted immediately, pushing Rufra back with his splintered shield and swinging with his longsword. Rufra dodged the blade and attacked again. I knew Rufra was a skilled swordsman but he showed none of his skill here. His attack was all fury, a withering hail of blows with his stabsword and broken longsword. He made no attempt to defend himself; he only attacked, forcing Hallin to react to him and giving him no room to counter. Pace by pace he pushed Hallin back until, with a vicious swipe of his stabsword, he broke Hallin’s guard. Rufra followed up with a blow of such strength his broken longsword punched through the chest piece of Hallin’s armour. Then he pulled the dying Hallin close to him, shoving the broken sword further up into the squire’s body. He gave the blade a final twist and I heard Rufra’s voice, a harsh whisper:
“I will not let you hurt my friend.”
Rufra stepped back, pulling the blade from Hallin’s corpse and letting the body fall. He lifted the broken and blood-covered blade that was meant to secure his death, stared at it, then threw it to one side in disgust before hurrying towards me, lifting his visor as he approached.
“Rufra,” I said. There was so much more I wanted to say but the words would not come.
“Let me help you.” He put my arm over his shoulder, taking my weight and helping me stand.
“My master,” I said, pointing to where she had fallen. He nodded and helped me limp over to where she lay face down. As we approached she pushed herself over with a painful grunt.
“Master, are you—”
“The beast’s blow broke a few ribs, wrenched my arm.” She winced. “I’ve had worse.” I helped her to sit up and she looked at Rufra. “You are alone?”
“I am with my friend,” he said, glancing at me. Then he pointed into the mist, “And we are not alone any more.” The shades of Riders were slowly solidifying. At their head they carried a bonemount, the skull of a mount which carried the authority of a Tired Lands king. I recognised the skull amid the fluttering streamers tied to it: one antler was shorter than the other, which meant it was Imbalance, Rufra’s mount killed in Barnew’s Wood. I do not know whether it was exhaustion or something other, but as they appeared these Riders seemed something more than human: taller, thinner, their mounts barely making a sound as though they trod on air, not filthy mud. Both mounts and Riders appeared to glow. If you had told me at that moment that the gods had returned to life, I would have believed you.
“The stables are ours now,” said Nywulf, and the moment was gone. Before me were twenty Riders in scratched armour. Some still bore the remnants of Festival colours; others wore the armour they had used in the squireyard. Every one of them had a golden flying lizard painted on their armour, some done crudely, some beautifully but the insignia left no question of their allegiance. These were Rufra’s Riders.
Nywulf had brought Rufra’s pure white mount, Balance. He let go of the mount’s reins.
“We’ll take the castle next if you’d be good enough not to run off again.”
Rufra smiled and gave me a shrug.
“Will you fight with us, Girton?” said Rufra.
I wanted to, more than anything. My eyes darted to my master, small and hurt, trying to force herself to her feet. “I…”
Rufra followed my gaze and bowed his head, then gently placed his gauntleted hand on my arm.
“I understand.” He squeezed my arm and turned, putting one foot in Balance’s stirrup.
“Wait!” I called. He turned, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Wait, only a moment.” By now his Riders surrounded us. I could feel their impatience in the air and hear it in the growling and hissing of their mounts. I found what I was looking for quickly, shining in the mud: my blades. I limped over and retrieved them. “Take my blades, Rufra.” I placed them in his hands. “You seem to have lost yours. You will need a good blade.”
He grinned, then noticed the wording on the longsword where the binding had fallen away during the fighting.
“Conwy? Girton, these are a king’s weapons.”
“And you are a king,” I said. We locked stares for a second, then he looked away and nodded before turning back to me. He placed the Conwy stabsword in my hand.
“Keep this,” he said, his voice coming close to breaking as he closed my fingers around the hilt. “And know where you find its twin, you find a brother.” Then he pulled himself up into Balance’s saddle, unable to look at me.
Rufra bent forward in his saddle with his head enveloped in the smoky clouds of his breath and he took two long deep lungfuls of air, as if filling himself with courage for the task to come. Then he s
tood in his stirrups, lofted his Conwy blade and pulled on his mount’s rein so it turned in a tight circle that allowed him to look each of the mounted men and women around him in the eye. You would not have known he was only fourteen. He seemed to age five years and the nervousness and melancholy that had followed him in the squireyard was replaced by a ferocious smile.
“Today,” shouted Rufra,“a king will be made in that castle.” He pointed his blade at Maniyadoc. “If you will take up a sword for the dream of a fair land and a good king, then I say…” He pulled the rein harder, and Balance screamed and reared. The light of Festival’s fires flashed from his Conwy blade. “I say,” he shouted again, “raise the bonemount and follow me! Raise the bonemount! Follow me now!” Then he slammed down his visor and the air filled with the thunder of heavy cavalry as he rode out to make his name famous.
King Rufra ap Vthyr
My brother.
My friend.
Epilogue
You will, of course, know a version of what happened next. Rufra stormed the castle and, if you believe common gossip, it was he who murdered Queen Adran and King Doran ap Mennix, though I swear it was not so.
My master and I left the lands of Maniyadoc, running from the ghosts of assassins we never saw but felt sure were always there. We would return, and when we did I found out a curious thing that makes me shiver whenever I think of that looming black castle. I spoke to a man who had been a slave. He was old, blind and free by then but what he told me had the ring of truth. He said that Maniyadoc had never had a priest of Xus.
That ancient castle is where I started along the road to adulthood and it would draw me back again and again, no matter what I wished. My name would never appear in the history books; I would never sit for a portrait and my actions would be known to only a few. Nonetheless, those actions would change the Tired Lands for ever.
Whether that was for good or ill? Well, I am still unsure.
I am old now, and when I look at the times I lived through—knowing what was to come for myself, my master and for Rufra—I ask myself, could I have acted any differently?
The answer?
Though I wish I could have saved Drusl, and fading memories of her face and a night spent together in the warm dark are all I have left of her. Though I know the strife and pain I would be put through. Though I know the price that would be paid in death, sorrow and betrayal. It is still always no. The Tired Lands are cruel, and much blood was spilt but, for a while, the tiredness was banished from Maniyadoc. It was a wonderful time—though far too short—and I am proud of the part I played in it.
When I think of Rufra ap Vthyr, I always think of him as young and full of hope, at that moment when I had given him his famous Conwy blade—his mount rearing, his shining sword aloft and his face alight with the thought of action.
We would meet again of course. And death, as it always was, would be the dog snapping at my heels.
So ends the first confession of the murderer, Girton Club-Foot.
Acknowledgements
Writing, though it’s done alone, is not actually a very lonely business and I’m indebted to so many people that a comprehensive list would be longer than the book itself—so if you read through this list and think “I can’t believe he forgot me!” then a) you probably know me well enough to work out it’s rubbishness on my part and b) let me know; I’ll put you in the next one.
So, on with it. First off, thanks to my agent, Ed “The Wilson” Wilson of Johnson and Alcock, for taking this (and me) on and letting me just write while he did all the boring stuff. You’re a gent, Ed, and a pleasure to deal with. Thanks to everyone at Orbit and my editor, Jenni Hill, for helping me focus the thing down into something people will (hopefully) want to read and for not being scary and definitely not a miserabilist (it was always going to appear some-where). I also owe a debt of gratitude to Rob Dinsdale whose advice on a previous project went, in no small way, to setting me up for this one. Micheala and Stephen Deas who gave me a leg up when it was much needed. As did Simon Spanton whose quiet and timely advice is, and has always been, welcome. And Mathilda Imlah, a long chat with whom about an entirely different book ended up being the genesis of Age of Assassins.
Then there’s the people who read various versions and offered their advice and opinion on what worked and what didn’t, so Fiona Pollard, Matt Broom (much goodminton, never badminton), Marcy Hindson, Aidan Williamson, Dylan Godfrey, Alasdair Stuart and Dr. Richard Clegg, thank you for your time, your positiveness and your patience with my constant questions.
Television and Radio’s Dr. Katherine Lewis, DOCTOR Simon Trafford, Dr. Kate Vigurs and Dr. Christopher Heath whose knowledge of history and willingness to chat about it provided much grist to the mill and actual bits of history for me to maul (all maulings are my own). You are all lovely, but you know that.
Then there’s the people who have been such a help/hindrance (I’m looking at you, Twitter) in many and various wonderful ways: Richard Palmer (have you actually read it yet?) Bernardo Velasquez, Maureen Kincaid-Speller, Jonathan McCalmont, Paul C. Smith, Eric Edwards, Tomoe Hill, Paul Watson, Gary Quinn, Lyndon Marquis, Sam Diegutis, Tom Parker, Hookland’s very own David Southwell, (the award-winning) Ian “Spaceship” Sales, Rhys Wilcox, KT Davies, Helen Murphy, The Famous Author Susi Holliday, Kev McVeigh and Clare Bowey (for distracting my wife from my indolence). And all the others who keep me distracted on Twitter, it’s much appreciated; I only wish I had more room here.
Jane, Deborah, Dr. Linda Juby and all the staff at Bradford Royal Infirmary for doing a stirling job in keeping me alive to write things and, well, the entire NHS in doing a stirling job full stop.
Jason Arnopp, Scott K. Andrews, Kit Power, Andrew Freudenberg and Nazia Khatun for making my first ever con such a hilarious experience (thankyou xtra).
Music has always played a huge part in in everything I do and of particular effect on Age of Assassins were: The Afghan Whigs, Fields of the Nephilim/The Nefilim, Jay Munly, Slim Cessna’s Auto Club, Reverend Glasseye, Black Moth, Purson and Blood Ceremony.
A whole host of authors have kept me going through the years and their work has fed back into everything I do so if you’re reading this and have enjoyed the book you could do worse than look at any of the following: Richard Adams, Hilaire Belloc, Iain M. Banks, Agatha Christie, James Lee Burke, Alan Dean Foster, Robert Crais, John Connolly, Bernard Cornwell, Steve Mosby, Susanna Clarke, C. J. Sansom, Marlon James, William Hope-Hodgson and Patrick O’Brian.
Di and Bob Dark for letting your glorious daughter marry someone who didn’t exactly have a real job at the time. Or any job. Their glorious daughter, Lindy, for always encouraging me to do this and never being anything but wonderful. Our son, Rook, who is a constant source of joy and amusement. My brother, John, for being my brother. Lastly, Mum and Dad, for always being there and instilling a love of words and a healthy curiosity in me. I guess that worked out.
And of course you, gentle reader. I hope you have enjoyed spending time with Girton as much as I have.
Oh, and, Mikko I-told-you-so Sovijarvi. Yes, yes, you did tell me so. And you were right. Don’t get smug. No one likes a smug Finn.
The story continues in…
BLOOD OF ASSASSINS
Coming in FEBRUARY 2018
extras
meet the author
RJ BARKER lives in Leeds with his wife, son, and a collection of questionable taxidermy, odd art, scary music, and more books than they have room for. He grew up reading whatever he could get his hands on, and has always been “that one with the book in his pocket.” Having played in a rock band before deciding he was a rubbish musician, RJ returned to his first love, fiction, to find he is rather better at that. As well as his debut epic fantasy novel, Age of Assassins, RJ has written short stories and historical scripts, which have been performed across the country. He has the sort of flowing locks any cavalier would be proud of.
interview
When did you first start w
riting? Have you always wanted to be an author?
I first started just after leaving school but was drawn away by guitars and loud music and spent a lot of time imagining I was going to be a rock star. Sadly, my almost complete lack of musical talent turned out to be more of a handicap than I’d imagined (fancy that, eh?) so I ended up not becoming a rock star, though I did have a tremendous amount of fun, which is what really matters. Then I sort of drifted back to what I’d always loved most—books and words—and the idea of doing something with them that I’d put aside in favour of a bass guitar. That was about thirteen years ago.
But, well, that leads neatly into the next question…
It’s really refreshing to see a protagonist with a disability, what was your inspiration for Girton Club-Foot?
Me! I was in the inspiration. At least six of the thirteen years were spent being really, really ill and nearly dying and all that other very boring stuff chronic illness involves. I have Crohn’s disease and one of the symptoms is chronic joint pain. This can vary between being an annoying ache and being barely able to walk, but—and in this I am like most ill or disabled people—I just get on to the best of my ability. Girton is a (very) exaggerated version of this. He is not his disability; it is only a part of him. He does not let it stop or define him.
Can you tell us a little bit about your writing process?
Sit, write. Eat lots of crisps. I don’t really have a process; it’s just a thing I do. That I am always doing. Or thinking about doing. Or dreaming about doing.
