by John March
De'Argent packed what he needed, and left. What else was there for him?
The passage from Cassadia to Vergence was considered easy, but he leat badly, tumbled through the between, landing off-balance, and dishevelled.
He'd left Cassadia in the evening, arriving after dark in the midst of a broad well lit street. Directly ahead of him stood a large wrought iron gate in a high curtain wall, surrounding a dark hulking structure. Two soldiers guarded the entrance, each with a short lance and long tapered shield in the Kurbezh style, and De'Argent knew intuitively he'd find his target somewhere in the building behind them.
Years of training asserted themselves, fingers and mind working seamlessly, even as he took in his surroundings. Aside from the soldiers, the street was clear of onlookers, well maintained and undoubtedly in a wealthier part of the city, which suggested the dwellings might have additional guards inside.
The men facing him were young, with the hardened faces of fanatics, and evidently skilled. Surprised by his appearance, they barely paused before swinging their shields into place, standing far enough apart to avoid entangling themselves, yet close enough for mutual support.
He swept his arms inwards, the shape and movement of his body acting as a substitute for words in shaping his casting, blending the outline of a second and third casting seamlessly into place to follow the first. A sound smothering blanket rolled outwards, as if the earth had exhaled a muffling silence to suck away minor noises and mask sharper, louder sounds.
De'Argent's hands finished the first movement resting above his belt and as he straightened he unclipped a sheaf of four-sided, palm-sized throwing blades from his belt with each hand, and threw them towards the soldiers. His hands twisted outwards to release the blades and second casting together. A powerful impulse seized the blades and hurled them outwards, scattering into a shower of humming steel, each spinning along its own path.
Some clanged from the ironwork gate, skimming across the ground, whilst others embedded into the surface of the stone wall on either side. One guard fell, his armour riven by the razor-sharp disks, the second turned them with his shield, shuffling forward with just his eyes and point of his lance visible over the rim.
The casting sequence completed with his arms held in a wide welcoming gesture, a narrow blade slipped from a concealed wrist mechanism into each hand, and he waited for the remaining soldier to strike.
As he closed the last few paces the soldier's movements shifted to a fluid close-quarters style, a rising lance thrust under his shield, using the movement of his body to lend power, and conceal the attack until the last moment.
De'Argent angled across the soldier, his blade slipping through a gap between body armour and helmet in a single clean action as he passed, and where he'd stood a perfect likeness remained — a shape illusion with arms still spread and inviting, impaled by a lance.
The soldier stepped forward a single pace, and then a second — much slower, and folded into a heap on the road. De'Argent didn't wait to check the bodies, but ran at the wall besides the gate and, with a single leap, caught the top, and vaulted over.
The stratagem he'd used was an old one, a version of the blended hand combat and craft system taught to acolytes, effective, but lacking in artistry. He stumbled as he landed on the far side — doubly disappointed with himself.
De'Argent entered through an upper window at the front of the building, finding himself on a narrow balcony which ran along the full width above the main entrance, and along both sides to the far end of the room. Below the balconies a single large room extended back some way, with an elevated wooden platform at the far end.
Although he had little experience of such things De'Argent thought the space might suit select gatherings for entertainment, or serve as a public assembly.
The upper levels were in darkness, the floorspace below half-lit from a number of concealed sources, and near the far left corner stood two men, both similarly dressed in long light coloured robes. The nearest was Yale, wearing some kind of a turban on his head. From his position on the balcony the man made an easy target, but something held him back, lingering in the shadows, and watching. He felt something at the edge of his awareness — suspecting, hoping it would be the Ronyon.
The second man moved away, leaving through a door at the far end of the room, and Yale turned, his eyes travelling along the edge of the room as if he'd heard something.
A dark shape, bulky and ungainly, dropped downwards from above the balcony and landed with a soft thump near where De'Argent stood, hidden behind a pillar. The shape suggested a man, then something else, as it folded and flapped — some kind of glamoured ephemeral.
Too late, he realised he'd shifted slightly from the cover of the shadows. Light flared in the far corner of the room opposite Yale, and the Ronyon moved from behind a partition, his muscular frame outlined by a vortex of rushing embers, his lips moving and hands trailing sparks as they burnt patterns into the air. De'Argent leapt head-first over the lip of the balcony as two flaming masses hurtled towards him. He seized the rim to switch direction as he went over, and changed the dive into a tumble.
De'Argent landed and rolled as a double blast blew away the section of balcony he'd been standing on. He hurled another double set of flat throwing blades as he came up onto his feet, sending a handful at each man, and ducked behind a pillar near the main entrance.
The blades accelerating at Yale curved away midway across the room, seeming to slide impossibly around where he stood. Expertly deflected by some kind of ward or shield.
Those aimed at the Ronyon met a gout of flame and burst in mid-air, spitting molten fragments back at him, splattering the pillar, and main doors.
Streams of fire followed, racing around the edge of the room, igniting walls and doorways, as dark smoky shapes moved from behind the Ronyon, and folded protectively around him. Where the flowing flames met Yale's wards they turned back, streaming across the floor, igniting everything they touched.
De'Argent sensed powerful castings protecting the corner of the room where Yale stood, and when he glanced back broad pale ribbons of fabric streamed from between Yale's hands, as if he held invisible basket full of writhing, darting serpents. Yale seemed to be reacting disconcertingly like a seasoned battle caster, nothing like the aged doddering fool he'd expected after the last two.
His client's instructions had been excruciatingly clear on the order in which he must dispose of his first three assignments — Conant, Spetimane, Yale. But for the first time his mind was drawn to someone other than his intended prize, bitter rage eroding the discipline of a lifetimes, and he knew in his heart the real fight at hand was between him and the Ronyon. Yale a distraction, spoils for the victor.
De'Argent's fingers moved in complex patterns, summoning a shield elemental and shadow selves, multiple illusory versions of himself. And ephemeral force sprites, each gripping one of his eight remaining throwing blades.
A fine sensory mesh flowed into place without effort, entangling and clashing with those of his opponents to produce small perceptual eddies, and blind spots. A writhing force built behind Yale's ward, binding to and animating the dozens of yards of twisting fabric, and behind that something else grew. But his attention was drawn to the Ronyon. The castings there distorted the world skin and tiny lines of fire, forced through fine rips, appeared as burning droplets in the air.
De'Argent's far-sense spread, seeking past defences, feeling for the fundamental lines of power behind them. The Ronyon's castings concentrated huge potency, but felt like ragged, poorly formed things, and there in the shaping of the man's ward he felt a weakness and pushed forward — seeking the critical thread which bound all the others into a whole. Further within the web-like strands of the ward, avenues of possibilities opened up.
A heartbeat before it was too late, De'Argent sensed a trap, a sudden focus of energy around the Ronyon, and the symmetry inside the supposed weakness alerting him.
He reacted ins
tinctively, sent one shadow version of himself to step out from each side of the pillar he stood behind, another rolling to the right, across the inside of the main doors, and after a fraction of a heartbeat dived left, wrapped in a fourth illusory version of himself.
A gout of flame reached out, scythed through one of the illusions, and slammed into the door frame with a deafening bang. Chunks of masonry and wood flew across the room, followed by a dense cloud of dust and smoke.
Twisting ropes of entangling fabric followed, rippling through the billowing clouds. De'Argent admired Yale's strategy, waiting until his opponents were engaged with each other before joining the fight. He sent two of his blade wielding sprites spinning towards the Ronyon as the others shredded Yale's attack.
Burning fragments of cloth drifted out of the dense smoke gathering around the Ronyon, and as the ragged remnants of cloth strips fluttered away the building shook again. Part of the wall behind Yale collapsed, chunks of stone and wood ripping loose and drawing together into a hulking shape twice the height of a man. Yale backed away and slipped through the gap in the wall, passing under the protective arms of his freshly summoned golem.
So, De'Argent thought, Yale's move had been as much distraction as attack, the intention being to find a way out, create a path of escape. With Yale free for the moment, De'Argent's heart filled with a harsh exultation — here was a chance to face the Ronyon, one against one, and avenge his loss.
A shape moved towards him through the smoke, but as he half crouched, ready to deflect the expectYaleed blow, he realised he faced an illusion of bound smoke, a phantasm much like the shadow selves of his own, scattered across the room behind him. Smoke flowed across the room as more forms swirled towards him, and then the real man rushed at him, axe and shortsword whirling in deadly arcs through the thickening air.
He evaded a blow, and another, feinting and countering, crowding his own shadow creations in the space between them until it seemed they battled the Ronyon's smoke phantasms — part of some larger melee. As they fought with blades, neither able to find an opening, they also grappled with their minds, each striving to rip apart the other's defences, attempting to summon, and countering in turn, some deadly ephemeral.
They struggled back and forth as the building burnt around them, each striving to be first to find an opening. Random half-completed and countered castings rolled outwards from them to collide with walls, floors and ceiling.
Droplets of fire and ice rained down. The floorboards burst with stray discharges like miniature lightning storms.
In an indefinite shift, he felt something in the pattern of the exchange change, and abruptly he had the advantage, driving forwards, slashing into the leather of the Ronyon's left sleeve, and nearly skewering the larger man with a lunge.
In the half moment as he recovered from his strike, something round appeared between the Ronyon's hands. He knew what it would be before it landed on the floor and bounced towards the wall of flame near the rear of the room. Like a splinter of burning ice in his chest, he felt his shield collapse around him as his eyes followed the last piece of his collection, a perfect copy of Yale's head, rolling away into the fire.
De'Argent looked up in time to see the edge of the Ronyon's axe sweep round in a short powerful arc — aimed at his face.
The Spike
SASH RAN A FINGER over her map, tracing a path through the buildings toward the dextral spike. The part of the city they found themselves in was dominated by large well proportioned one and two storey buildings, partitioned from each other by an irregular series of interlinked terraced gardens and courtyards.
Ebryn sensed the structures here were amongst the oldest he'd seen in Vergence, and while they were not on the scale of those at the heart of the city, they had successfully resisted encroachment by more populous surrounding districts, which suggested wealth, and influence.
As their destination was on almost the opposite side of Vergence from their quarters, Sash had arranged for a symor to take them as far as the road would allow, but the last part of the journey would need to be on foot.
“From here we probably need to go through there,” Sash said, pointing at a gap between the buildings ahead of them.
Elouphe stood behind her and peered over her shoulder, making a smacking noise with his lips. Teblin and Addae stood at the edge of the road, having an animated discussion about the differences in performance styles between Epitu and Vergence.
Leon and his sister Ciara, also a member of Teblin's acting troupe, loitered nearby, listening. Ebryn hadn't met Ciara before. She had the same fine features and dark glossy shoulder-length hair as her brother. Standing together, they looked like twins.
“Where spike?” Elouphe asked.
“Right about here,” Sash said, pointing to an x at the edge of her map. “It looks like it's in the centre of a small courtyard.”
Ebryn looked from the map to Sash. She'd reproduced a part of the map they'd looked at in the library almost perfectly. An extraordinary feat of memory — scaled up, but with the proportions almost perfect from what he could recall.
Ciara wandered over to them, and draped an arm across Elouphe's upper shoulder. “What now? If we leave them standing there talking, they'll still be here when it's dark.”
“This way,” Elouphe called out.
Like many parts of Vergence, this area of the city had its own distinctive architecture, built almost as a maze of interconnecting courtyards and walled lanes, with broad slabs of stones paving underfoot, and thick archways at every intersection.
Ebryn and Sash had agreed privately to let Elouphe lead the way, with a few subtle hints from Sash to nudge him in the right direction.
All the lanes and open spaces were enclosed between walls, half again his height, most a couple of yards thick, with separate walkways running along the tops. At every other intersection, and at the entrance to most of the open spaces, they encountered sets of stairs with broad shallow steps.
The buildings were large solid, open-faced structures of two or three levels, each with a main entrance through an iron grilled gate, leading from one of the many squares, and featuring a small ornamental garden in front.
Everything about the neighbourhood seemed designed to prevent travel by any means other than foot, Ebryn thought, and the lanes were certainly much cleaner for it. Small statuettes and decorative shrubs occupied every spare nook and corner.
They trailed along behind Elouphe in a ragged line, Sash walking beside Ebryn, with the others straggling behind, laughing, and joking. A few well-dressed locals nodded greetings as they passed by. Ebryn thought some looked like they'd come from the adjacent temple district.
He caught a glimpse of the outer city wall as they went under a high arch into the largest open square yet, and realised they must be near.
On the right hand side, a circular fountain squirted a complex pattern of water into the air, creating a rainbow effect with the late morning light. A dozen stalls, were arranged along the wall to the left, and at the far end.
A few shoppers browsed through the goods on offer, and groups of men, monks dressed in long hooded robes, moved slowly along the near wall, praying in low voices as they walked. Laughter and the erratic sound of plucking at string instruments drifted down from a handful of young men on the wall at the far edge of the square.
Elouphe veered off towards the fountain, and Ebryn shook his head, wondering how he managed to retain interest with all things water when he worked with it every day. Leon and his sister drifted in the other direction, attracted to a collection of necklaces displayed on the nearest stall.
The far third of the courtyard lay higher than the rest of the space, separated from the lower part by a knee-high elevation topped with a low wall. A broad set of stairs, flanked by shrubbery, linked the two parts. From the upper section there were two options for the way forward — a narrow gateway on the left, and a wider archway on the far right.
“Let's have a look at your
map again,” Ebryn said to Sash, stopping at the top of the stairs, and moving to one side as Teblin passed him.
He peered at the fine lines, trying to find the edge nearest to the outer wall, and locate the marker for the stone.
With a snapping sound something hissed past his ear.
Ebryn looked towards the stall-keeper in front of him, the direction the sound had come from, and found the man staring back at him open-mouthed.
A cluster of shapes flew from behind him, over his head, and Ebryn looked up involuntarily, expecting to see a flight of leatherwings, or perhaps Leth rejoining them. Shapes of clotted darkness — tangles of impossibly black cord — whipped past and plunged into the three young men who'd been sitting on the walkway above the stall, except now they knelt, and each held a crossbow pointing towards him.
Elouphe squealed, and someone shoved Ebryn from behind, almost pushing him over.
He turned to find the courtyard filled with running people. The monks were gone, replaced by armoured men carrying short swords. More vaulted down from the walkways, and from the corner of his eye he saw smaller groups charging through the upper entrances on either side.
Sash stood directly in front of him, facing away, and just below her, a broad shouldered armoured man. At the bottom of the stairs, Addae moved with the speed and precision of dancer, men falling in front of him, while near the fountain Elouphe reared up and flailed with four limbs, screeching as he tried to fend off another swordsman.
A short figure stood under the lower entrance archway, twenty yards away, hunched over a wooden staff at the centre of an explosion of smoky purple-black tendrils. Ebryn recognised him from the library — the one called Fla.
Sash staggered sideways and folded, reaching out an arm to grasp a stone urn at the side of the steps for support, and Ebryn lunged to catch her as a blade erupted through the neck of the soldier on the steps in front of them. The soldier spun away, showering red into the air, and Addae leapt past Ebryn to block those approaching from behind.
