Lost Lore: A Fantasy Anthology

by Ben Galley

  The first man went down before any of them had time to draw. His blade barely half unsheathed, he only managed to smash me across the face with the hilt before three quick jabs of my dagger severed the rear tendon of one ankle, nicked the massive artery on the inside of his right thigh, and—for good measure, of course—shoved up between his legs to have a pointed discussion with man’s most precious commodity.

  As he stumbled howling into the bath, my left hand darting out to free the remainder of his longsword from its sheath, I remember wondering whether he would be better off living or dying.

  The remaining two attacked as a pair, hoping to catch me before I got my footing. It nearly worked. A quick leap backwards kept my head firmly atop my shoulders and my insides still safely in place, but it didn’t keep the tip of one blade from cleaving a shallow four-inch gash across my chest. They didn’t give me a beat to catch up, following me and pushing me backwards around the bath.

  But now things weren’t quite so unmatched.

  The stolen sword was in my weak hand. As I dodged and deflected blow after blow, wincing at near misses and new cuts, I cursed myself for not having worked harder at learning to fight off-hand. It hadn’t been a keen focus of my teaching as of yet, but if I survived I would have to make a point of requesting a more thorough investment in the practice.

  As it was, though, there was a reason my master was the most demanded assassin in the city. As it was, a sword in my bad hand was well worth two in their good.

  It took some time to catch up with the pace, but eventually I was giving as good as I got. My blade snuck out, striking in the infinitesimal opportunities I could find between the men’s defenses. Soon I was cut and bloody, a half-dozen more narrow wounds across my naked arms, legs, and body, but I was in no worse shape than either of my opponents. What’s more, the pair seemed well aware of the turning tide. They became more vicious in their attacks, striking with strength fueled by desperation.

  “Panic leads to mistakes,” my master’s voice rumbled in my head. “Make a mistake in the wrong fight, and it will be the last thing you ever do.”

  I was not the one to make the first mistake.

  The walkway was a narrow thing. For a time the two men had worked well together, careful to stay out of each other’s way. As they became more and more desperate to finish the fight, though, they became increasingly less aware of each other’s movements.

  And so it was when the heel of the outermost man caught the step of his comrade, tripping him forward.

  In a flash, it was done. The sword in my left hand swept up to take the stumbler through the throat. Distracted by his mistake, the second man didn’t think to duck when right wrist flicked upward.

  My little dagger took him through the eye, burying halfway up the makeshift handle.

  But there was no time to savor victory. Beaten and bloody as I was, I wasn’t going to venture a guess as to how I would get home alive, much less conscious. Instead I focused on the one tangible thing left to me, the only thing that mattered.

  Where the hell was my walker?

  He hadn’t gone out the door. I was sure of it. I would have seen. Which left him only once choice.

  Leaving the bodies for the guardsmen to eventually make what sense of the scene they could, I whirled and sprinted down the strange tunnel in the wall behind the bath, sword in hand.

  Footprints. I could make them out, wet and muddy, even in the limited light of scattered torches. I had no idea where I was going, had no idea how long this tunnel continued before it broke ground. I could hear the Fool berating me in my head, telling me my preparations, planning, and plotting had clearly not been thorough enough.

  I’d jump into the sea before I gave the old man any more reason to be right about it.

  Fortunately for me, wherever the tunnel was going seemed a fair distance away. It rolled and bucked, turning sharply and even splitting off into other spaces here and there.

  The ground was soft, though, not even hard-packed dirt, and Arrun’s mad dash for his life was betraying him.

  The path was child’s play to follow, the markings clear. Here and there I saw indents of hands and knees where he’d fallen, or else the wild confusion of his feet as he’d tried to decide which way to turn. Each of these was a flare of hope for me, spurning me on.

  In the end, I caught up to him. In the end, the wolf ran down the sheep.

  My feet were bleeding by the time I turned a corner and saw it. Set in the middle of a large dug-out chamber, expanded and supported on all sides by timber beams and heavy planks of wood, was an old iron ladder leading upward. A hatch was thrown wide at the top, and for a second I thought I heard the giggling of women falling through the opening.

  Then I saw Arrun, naked and dirty, already climbing the rungs.

  Never do I think I remember running so fast in my life. Perhaps it was the imagination of my youth, or perhaps just the youth of my limbs, but I was on him in a moment. The absolute refusal to let my walker escape fueled my steps, and I reached him just as he made it halfway up the ladder. Rather than grab the rungs myself, though, I took a wild leap, swinging the stolen sword in both hands.

  The top quarter of my blade caught him in the flesh below his ribs, and as I tumbled to the dirt, losing the sword in the process, I heard him shriek and fall.

  It took me some time to gather all my limbs, to figure out how everything worked again. Eventually I managed to groan and rolled myself onto my side, feeling the dust and earth stick to the blood and cuts that covered me. Finally I got myself up to sit, looking around.

  Arrun was still screaming, lying on his back in the light beneath the shaft. One bloody hand he held to his side, attempting vainly to keep his organs from spilling out onto the dirt. The other was stretched out beside him, scrabbling for the ladder that led upwards to light and life.

  Groaning again, I pushed myself onto my knees, then up to a stand. Stumbling forward on torn feet, I bent down to pick my dropped sword from the ground. Step by step by step I approached Arrun, hefting the heavy blade above my head as I did.

  It was only when I stood directly over him that he finally noticed me, tearing his gaze away from the ladder that was just out of reach. He was shaking violently, blood pooling from his mouth and nose, spraying as he coughed. Wide eyes took me in, wet with fear and pain, and again I saw the sheep.

  Then I brought the blade down, feeling it shear through flesh and bone.

  My walker was done walking.

  When I stood up again, I realized that the screaming hadn’t ended. Turning my face upwards, I squinted into the light of the shaft, raising a hand to shield my eyes from most of the glare. A number of long-haired heads were poking out over the edge, looking down on me. When they realized I was watching them, though, the screams reached new volume, and a moment later the hatch slammed shut, leaving me again in the dim light of the slowly dying torches.

  That is how he found me, in the end. Naked, bloody, and covered in dirt, I sat curled up with my back against the ladder rungs, shivering beside the separated head and body of Wex Arrun.

  The hatch above opened once more, and when I gathered the strength to look up I saw a pair of familiar boots climbing down to me. As it transpired, the building above was a brothel bordering the western slums of the city. The wealthier patrons of establishments such as The Lily’s Den had wanted the ability to enjoy whatever entertainment they might desire in the freedom of private rooms. Seeing an opportunity for great profit, the owners had obliged, and tunnels were built, twisting and crossing below a large portion of Kingport.

  Fortunately for me, my master just so happened to be on excellent terms with a majority of the city’s courtesans.

  Wex Arrun, we discovered eventually, was more than a common dockworker, though I’m sure you’ve figured that out for yourself, dear journal. He was a spy, a rat, a spider with a good
mind for numbers and detail. He would use his work and connections along the harbor to get information on the holds and crews of docking ships, ranking their estimated values against the ease with which they might be taken. In turn he sold this information to the highest bidder, holding auction in the private chambers of The Lily’s Den, where the secret tunnels provided for an ideal measure of discretion.

  All this my master told me later, once he’d sorted out the details and long after he’d gotten me home and stitched up. After some time at my bedside, he’d left to do his own digging. He was gone for two days, and when he came back he brought me a gift.

  Something small hit me upside the head, forcing me to roll over and blink blearily against the afternoon light. There beside me, staining my pillow red, was a bloody burlap sack the size of my hand.

  When I looked up, finding my master leaning casually in the doorway of my room, I was told to open it.

  I did as instructed, sitting up and lifting the bag gingerly from the bed. I knew its contents without having to look, but I pulled it open obediently and peeked inside.

  Two fingers. A pointer and middle, by the look of them.

  They’d belonged to our employer, my master told me. As it turned out, he’d known all about my walker and his business ventures. Figuring there was no reason for us to know, he’d paid our fees for a simple job, angling to save himself the price of a more intricate contract.

  I remember my master looking at me intently, then. As I’ve said, he was not a fatherly man, but he was good to me. For this reason I write the following words verbatim, as they are among the purest forms of expression I believe a killer is capable of.

  “If you’d died, I would have needed a much bigger bag.”

  That was about as sentimental as he got.

  I end this passage, dear journal, with some advice for whoever might stumble across it. They are words that are harder to follow than remember but, considering my circumstances as I write this, remembering is well and good enough for now.

  Prepare. Plan. Plot.

  After all, killing a man is a simple thing…

  Except when it’s not.

  Head to www.bryceoconnorbooks.com to discover more stories by Bryce O'Connor.

  11

  Palesword

  T L Greylock

  The goat trembled at Eyja’s touch.

  It was a small thing, smaller than it ought to be. Eyja resisted the urge to glance to her left, to weigh her sacrifice against those the other children had brought within the grove of birch trees. The goat shivered again, its white coat rippling over shoulders and knees. The color of the goat was something Eyja could take pride in, even if it was all skin and bone and sinew. Pure white it was, a rare thing, made rarer still by the bright blue of its eyes. The gods would be pleased.

  Eyja crouched and ran her left hand down the goat’s neck and along its spine while her other hand fingered the blade at her belt. The goat shifted away, as though it sensed death was at hand, and Eyja cursed under her breath as she reached out to seize it by the cord around its neck. Its fear mounting, the goat lashed out with spindly front legs, the hooves grazing Eyja’s shins.

  “Ull’s balls!” Eyja shouted, jumping back.

  The grove went quiet and Eyja felt the priest’s cold stare before she turned to face him.

  “Eyja Rikulfstottir.”

  Eyja waited, forcing herself to keep her eyes on Ljotolf even as the goat scampered away, slipping between the pale trunks of the birches and vanishing in the thick juniper bushes.

  “You were warned.”

  “It kicked me.” The words tumbled from Eyja’s lips before she could swallow them.

  The priest sucked in a sharp breath. “Is it not enough that you cannot keep your sacrifice calm? You must speak out of turn as well?”

  “I can keep my sacrifice calm,” Eyja muttered.

  “And now you speak falsehoods. You bring shame to your family.” The priest advanced toward Eyja in long, quick strides. She held her ground though her heart pounded in her chest. “I told your father there was no place for you here. I told him you lacked the discipline to serve the Allfather. I told him you were a disgrace!” Ljotolf’s voice rose with every sentence and he shouted the last, spittle flying from his lips. Eyja swallowed hard and tried to unclench her fists. The priest was hovering over her now, his wide hood blotting out the clear sky above, his face marred with malice long repressed.

  “You are not fit for this sacred task,” the priest went on. “Even fat, clumsy Arhild is more beloved of Odin than you.” Arhild, visible just beyond the priest’s elbow, flushed crimson but stared straight ahead. The rest of the children, Eyja saw, watched her humiliation, their faces a mixture of delighted fascination and dread. “You are a fisherman’s daughter. The gods take no joy of you.” The priest’s face twisted with revulsion. “You deserve nothing more than the hovel you were born in. Go! And do not return!”

  “You are no true priest of Odin!” Eyja shouted. Something hot and wet rolled down her cheek. She brushed at the tears, ashamed. “You do not even know how to read the will of the gods.”

  The blow came with terrible swiftness, the priest’s palm striking her cheek into numbness. Eyja gasped and fought to hold Ljotolf’s gaze, but her tears blurred her vision and then she was running, racing from the hated grove, sobbing, oblivious to the stinging branches that slapped at her face as the sound of laughter echoed after her.

  Eyja ran until she felt her lungs would burst. She stumbled to a halt at last at the edge of the fjord. The dark waters lapped at her toes, inviting her in to their depths, and for a moment Eyja was tempted to swim until her limbs failed her, until the fjord claimed her as a prize for the fish and the crabs. Then she shook her head at her own foolishness. She was far too strong a swimmer. The fjord could never have her, her father had made sure of that.

  After her heart ceased to thud between her ribs, after her tears were no more than salty tracks upon her cheeks, Eyja replaited her braid and walked along the rock-strewn shore. The fish were rising, seeking insects on the surface of the fjord, their mouths breaking the still water into ripples. Eyja watched, trying to count the silver bodies, wondering if the trout were thriving this season or if her father would have to fish more distant waters.

  By the time Eyja reached her family’s small cottage, twilight had come, sending its shadows across the turf roof. The smell of bread greeted her and Eyja’s stomach grumbled loudly. But that was not the only thing that waited for Eyja.

  “Fuck Thor’s hairy arse, would you look at that.”

  The goat stared back at Eyja and bleated quietly.

  “I’ve seen fish with more brains than you.” Eyja grabbed the rope around the goat’s neck. It followed willingly as she led it back toward the small lean-to attached to the side of the house. “And you hurt me, you know.” The goat bleated again. “If you had any sense between those ears, you would have kicked him instead,” Eyja muttered.

  “Eyja.”

  Rikulf Ketillsson peered down at his daughter from the turf roof. He was on his knees, his hands busy repairing a patch of turf, his head framed by the last light of the sun.

  “What is it this time?”

  Eyja dropped her gaze to the ground. Her father waited, his patience well-practiced.

  “I cursed.”

  Eyja ventured to lift her chin and eyed her father from beneath lowered lids. His face was quietly blank.

  “And I spoke out of turn.”

  Still Rikulf said nothing.

  “Then the goat kicked me and ran away.”

  Eyja was sure she saw her father’s mouth twitch with a repressed smile. Shame flared to life in her cheeks at what she had to say next.

  “I’m not allowed back.”

  Even with the sun at his back and his face in shadow, Eyja could see the way her fat
her exhaled, a single short sigh, could see the humor vanish from his eyes, could see his hands go still on the turf.

  “He insulted you, papa,” Eyja said, her shame turning to anger at the memory. “He said a fisherman’s daughter had no place in the birch grove. He said we lived in a hovel.”

  With another sigh, Rikulf abandoned the turf and climbed down from the roof. He squatted in front of Eyja so that she looked down on his sad eyes. He patted the goat. “You understand why your mother and I sent you to learn from the priest.”

  Eyja nodded.

  “A place among those who serve the gods is a place of safety. Security. It is a path toward something more than this,” Rikulf went on, gesturing to the small house and the crooked lean-to.

  “I like this,” Eyja said.

  Rikulf smiled and took one of Eyja’s hands in his. “Always so fierce. Is it wrong that I want more for my daughter? That I want her to rise above the humble home she has known?” Rikulf got to his feet and pulled Eyja close. She buried her face in his shirt, fighting back tears. “I will speak with Ljotolf. I will make him take you back.”

  “But what if I do not want to go back?”

  Rikulf held Eyja at arm’s length, his weathered hands heavy on her shoulders. “Sometimes we must do things we do not wish to do, Eyja.” After holding Eyja’s gaze for a long moment, he tucked her against his side and smoothed her hair. “Have I told you about your uncle and the fjord race?”

  “Yes, and how he made a sail out of a skin from a bear he killed himself when he was only my age.” Eyja grinned. “I don’t think I believe that story any more, papa.”

  “Every word of it is true,” Rikulf said, the twinkle in his eyes giving lie to his words, “but that’s a story from the year he won the race. I was speaking of the year before his victory.”

  Eyja frowned. “He raced twice?”

  Rikulf shook his head. “No, and that is the point. He wanted to race, scrapped together the materials for his little boat, worked at it for days on end, but always after his chores. The morning of the race, word came of a great gathering of fish far down the fjord toward the sea. More than even Odin could count. Our father readied the boat and I prepared to go with him. And my brother, without a word and though he knew he might never get another chance, put aside his dreams of racing that day and came with us.”