Blood of Assassins

by RJ Baker

  “Most of the time I had a bag over my head, but I did a quick count on the way out. He has maybe two hundred, mostly infantry.” I stared at the sky, dark clouds scudding through blue, hurrying to find the Birthstorm. “You should not trust him.”

  “I have no choice, Girton. I need his men.” Rufra pointed into the distance. “Look, there is Cearis with our escort.” He glanced across, grinned and shouted, “Race me, Girton!” He put Balance to the spur, swiftly followed by me on Xus.

  “You cheated,” I shouted into the wind as Xus stretched to catch up. “You cheated!”

  “Kings cannot cheat.” Rufra laughed and I laughed too. It seemed in the years I had been away the serious side of him had almost entirely taken over as he planned and schemed against his enemies. I wanted him to laugh.

  I wanted him to be safe.

  A troop of about a hundred foot soldiers waited for us to ride out. They were all armoured like the men I had seen watching Arnst’s sermon by the paddocks. With them were twenty mount archers and ten heavy cavalry, headed by Cearis. All the mounts sported brightly coloured loyalty flags, and at the head of the troops more flags flew. I noticed some of Rufra’s council also waited: Nywulf on a shaggy-looking white mount, Cearis riding a spectacular black mount that gleamed in the sunlight and seemed entirely aware of what a fine animal it was. She also carried Rufra’s bonemount, topped by a flying lizard flag, its wings spread and teeth bared. By her was Karrick Thessan the Landsman, in his green armour on a mount of patched brown and deep red, under the white-tree-on-green flag of the Landsmen. By him and looking uncomfortable on the back of a mount of red, traditionally the most common and least popular colour among the blessed, sat Gabran the Smith.

  “You are late,” said Nywulf.

  “Kings are never late, Nywulf.” Rufra smiled, and those around him, even the Landsman, did the same.

  “Then you have made us all early, my king. Apologies for our rudeness,” said Nywulf, and some, including Rufra, laughed.

  “We should set off then. Let us not tarry here as we have a long way to go.”

  I had intended to ride with Rufra, but it was not so simple. Cearis rode on one side – as head of his heavy cavalry and carrier of the bonemount she was required to be with her king – while on the other rode Nywulf; as Heartblade his place was also next to the king. So I let Xus drop back, which he did with much ill will, growling and hissing at the mounts around him until I found a place in the procession next to Crast, Nywulf’s trainee.

  “Good day, Girton,” he said, looking away to wave at those lining the track.

  “And to you, Crast. Does Rufra always ride out on patrol with such numbers?”

  “No.” He smiled, rocking gently with the motion of his mount. “There is to be a prisoner exchange. I am to guard the prisoners, though I doubt they will run. Akirin might try, as he rides only to his death, but he is bound to his mount and will not get far with his wounds anyway.” He used his thumb to point over his shoulder. It was only then I realised that what I had thought was heavy cavalry was nothing of the sort, five of them were not armed, and one, who must be Akirin, was tied onto his mount, his head bowed and a dirty bandage around his leg. Around them rode five armed cavalrymen, though they seemed relaxed about their charges.

  “What have they done?”

  “The four who are unbound took arms against Rufra and are to be returned to Tomas in exchange for ransom.”

  “Rufra gives Tomas his soldiers back?”

  “For a price, and they must give their word never to fight Rufra or his soldiers again.”

  “And Rufra believes them?”

  “Yes.”

  “He should put traitors to death,” I said. “Sometimes I wonder if Rufra’s mind is a little mage-bent.” I smiled at Crast, but he gave me a strange look, as if he did not know how he should react and I half expected him to draw his blade, then he laughed. “I forgot you were friends with him before he was king, but you should be careful how you talk of Rufra around others, Girton. His people are loyal, fiercely loyal.”

  “You included, it seems.” I nodded to his hand, which was clutched around the hilt of his blade.

  Crast let go of the sword with a shrug. The resemblance between him and Neliu was remarkable for two who said they were not related, but that was common in the Tired Lands, a place of small and insular communities.

  “Without King Rufra, Nell and I would be dead, food for the wild herds at best, at worst toys for the Nonmen –” he shuddered “– and I would wish that on no one.”

  “Do they keep their word, those that Rufra frees?” I asked, glancing at the men behind me, who looked both miserable and thoughtful.

  “Some do; some decide to stay with Rufra; others go straight back to Tomas and pick up their swords.”

  “What happens to them if they are taken again?”

  “They die, Girton, that is what happens to them.” He glanced back at Akirin. “They die.”

  “But their death is given purpose.” I turned, having to guard my expression as I found myself face to face with the speaker: Karrick the Landsman. I was glad he spoke to me while we rode, part of the way Landsmen tracked down sorcerers was by scent. Those who were unschooled could not mask it – honey and pepper, sweet-sharp and alluring – though once I had found it cloying and sickly. My master had taught me not to wash too often, to use too much animal fat to grease my armour so its rancid stink overwhelmed any other scent, and lastly exercises to hold the magic within. I saw the scent as an extension of magic, a slow, misty emanation of darkness from the roiling sea within me. If I had to talk to a Landsman there was no better place than in among a group of armed Riders, where the smell of mounts and armour was almost overwhelming.

  “I thought the land would not accept a traitor’s blood?” I sneered the words at him; I could not help it.

  “Neander, the high priest, has decreed it is no longer so.”

  “Really?” I said. “I did not know the priest was a lover of irony.” The Landsman looked puzzled. “Never mind. I am only surprised the Landsmen trust Neander. I thought you would have had him in a blood gibbet.”

  Karrick laughed. “Ah, you talk of the business at Maniyadoc? No, it became quite plain he had been used as a scapegoat by the queen.” He had been no such thing but I kept my face straight. “He was entirely exonerated and now he heads the priests of the Long Tides.”

  “And gives the Landsmen more bodies for your engines of pain. That must please you.”

  Karrick looked surprised at my words and my barely suppressed snarl. He was a handsome man, riding with a stiff upright posture that showed off the way his armour hung from his muscular frame. His face was tanned almost as dark as my master’s, and he had a full, dark beard, which I suspect he grew to try and hide the fact he had several teeth missing.

  “You mean the blood gibbets?” I did not answer. “I have no love for them myself and can understand how they may appear barbaric to an outsider. A swift death should be our gift – we are servants of the dead gods after all and it is in our remit to be merciful – but with the war we cannot march the desolate into the sourlands as we should, and our elders tell us the blood gibbet is also a warning …”

  “And the leash?” He looked surprised, then puzzled, and I knew I had said too much. The Landsman’s Leash was one of their secrets, a system of scars and special knives used to smother a sorcerer’s power. He studied me as if I were a puzzle to be unravelled and I cursed myself for letting my temper speak instead of my wit.

  “It seems you are well informed for one from as far away as the Lean Isles.”

  “I fought with your men on the far borders. I have seen what passes for justice among you.”

  “The far borders are wild. We seek only to stop sorcerers rising there, their beliefs are often close to hedging worship.”

  “That is what the man I fought for said as well. He was never too choosy about who he killed.”

  “Girton Club-Foot, wait
until we have stopped at Grandon’s Souring and seen the work of sorcerers, then see how quick you are to judge me and mine.” He spurred his mount on, for which I was glad.

  “Do you always make friends so easily?” asked Crast, raising an eyebrow. I ignored him. I was no longer in the mood for levity and although the sun shone in a sky as clear and blue as deep ice, I felt as if the Birthstorm hovered over me as I rode.

  We travelled for most of the day, and as the heat and exhaustion took its toll all conversation died away. We left the infantry behind us; even going at their easiest the mounts could not walk as slowly as troops laden with weapons and packs. Nywulf dropped his mount back to guard the prisoners and Crast moved up to ride by Rufra just as my nostrils started to twitch, picking up the rank smell of a souring on the air.

  “I still think you should have taken the motley, Girton,” whispered Nywulf, “but ambassador is not a bad cover for you, eh?”

  “I know nothing about the Lean Isles,” I hissed.

  “Neither does anyone else.”

  I glanced up the column, to the gently swaying back of Karrick.

  “Why is he here? Surely Karrick reports everything to the Landsmen at Ceadoc? And from there it can be carried to Tomas.”

  “Karrick is not so bad. In a lot of things he supports Rufra, often in ways that surprise me. And he is not allowed into the war councils, something he accepts with good grace though he could have made a fuss and pushed his way in if he desired.”

  “You are trying to tell me he is a good man?”

  “Maybe, but it may be the balancing power of Cearis that causes him to be so reasonable.”

  “Rufra’s aunt has power? Last I heard she fled her home and had to hide at Festival until Rufra took her in.”

  “Cearis speaks for Festival on the council, though she has not the power to bring it back to Maniyadoc while war rages.”

  Festival was the huge travelling trade caravan that traversed the Tired Lands in an endless circle, bringing trade and merriment wherever it went. It was also the Tired Lands’ largest city and a power in its own right.

  “Festival does not come to Maniyadoc any more?”

  “No, it has not since the war started.”

  “It has its own soldiers. I cannot imagine anyone would be foolish enough to attack it.”

  “They wouldn’t, but we have nothing to trade at the moment so it has no reason to come here until either Rufra or Tomas win.”

  “They have not picked a side then?”

  “Well, Festival have not picked Rufra in the same way the Landsmen have not picked Tomas. They do nothing overt to prop him up, nothing that would offend the other side too much should they win, but there is support in small ways.”

  “I spoke to Arnst as well.”

  “Arnst,” said Nywulf with a sigh. “Rufra will never admit it, but he made a mistake there.”

  “I did not like him, and I did not like the atmosphere at his sermon either.”

  “Aye, Rufra lost his temper and acted in haste. He took a small man and gave him power, and he has used that power. If ever I saw a man who has given his spirit to the hedge-hungers it is Arnst.”

  “What does he believe?” I said. “I missed the beginning of his sermon. I know he says the gods are dead and gone apart from Xus, but I did not hear much else.”

  “He changes his beliefs daily, Girton. He was a priest once, but a bad one from what I gather. He likes women, and the vows did not suit him. I think has been weak all his life, flitting from one thing to another, failing and failing again because he does not truly apply himself.”

  “But he is a success now.”

  “No, Rufra is a success. Arnst only had a few followers when he arrived, but more came – more weak men and women attracted by the small amount of power Arnst seemed to have gained by being part of the Triangle Council. That attracted more followers, and now he has a power base of his own and it makes me uncomfortable.”

  “And Rufra ?”

  “It makes him uncomfortable too, though he will not admit it. He is as stubborn as he ever was.” Nywulf spoke with a mixture of irritation and fierce pride in his protégé.

  “Arnst sounds a little like Neander,” I said, thoughts of the traitorous priest from Castle Maniyadoc making the scars on my flesh shiver.

  “I suspect they would have much in common and as such hate each other with a passion. Maybe we should introduce them to each other –” he bared his teeth “– leave them in a locked room with a couple of knives. To be honest I am surprised Arnst is not with us today. He has a strange curiosity about the sourlands, though he is nervous around the Landsmen so that may be why he stays away.“

  “You think he is a sorcerer?” I said.

  “No.” Nywulf shook his head. “If I thought that he would be dead already. I think he is curious about things that no good can come from. It will look bad for Rufra if one of his council even dabbles at the edges of magic.” I stared down at the dirt of the path as Nywulf spoke. “In truth, Girton, life would be far easier if someone were to scratch the name of that turbulent priest on a wall for an assassin to read.”

  “If that is a hint, Nywulf, I am no longer in that line of work.” I tapped the warhammer at my side.

  “I am surprised you can even lift that thing,” he said, “but it was not a hint, not really. If Arnst were to die, his followers would be trouble for Rufra. No, we have soured that land now and must sow our wheat around it.” He stopped speaking, pursing his lips. I glanced over my shoulder to see Karrick was behind us. I wondered how much of our conversation he had heard.

  “Grandon’s Souring is over the next rise,” said Karrick, and he turned to the prisoner Akirin. “You should prepare yourself,” he said gently, but the man paid him no mind, only continuing to stare at his saddle.

  I had been ignoring the souring, ignoring the stink and the glowering yellow sky to the east. Yet something in the sourings spoke to the magic inside me whether I wanted to listen or not, and it was not a comfortable conversation. The sourings were places where life had been stolen from the land to feed a sorcerer’s great working. It felt like eating food that was too rich for your body: you longed for it but it made you sick to the stomach. I could feel the heady remnants of what had been done here – a thousand screaming voices, a woman begging to be freed, the ache of turning away – but the magic in me was repelled by the lack of life. It died when I travelled through the sourlands, and something of me died with it. As we crested a gentle rise I saw the souring for the first time and Xus let out a low growl. It was not big as sourings went. It did not vanish into the horizon like the western souring near Maniyadoc; instead it spread across the land like a lake of sulphur, stinking of death, its banks punctuated by the black wooden and metal skeletons of empty blood gibbets. The grass ran right up to it. There was no gradation of land as you would see with sand dunes on a shore; here the grass simply stopped in clearly demarcated lines, on one side life and on the other death. A flock of Xus’s black birds lifted from the blood gibbets, harsh voices calling out in worship of their master as they became rags against the blue. On the edge of my vision I thought I caught the flicker of a black robe shivering in the light breeze, but when I turned I saw only a hedgescare dressed in sacking, its head broken off and replaced with a crude face cut into the dried skin of a vegetable.

  Gabran the Smith trotted back past us, looking uncomfortable and miserable in the saddle of his mount.

  “Where do you go, Gabran?” asked Nywulf.

  “Back to my troops,” he said. “Seeing this will do nothing for their morale.”

  “They do not approve of the king’s justice?” I asked.

  Gabran shook his head. “They love the king’s justice, would like to see more of it if anything. But the souring? No one wishes to see that – it makes me sick to be this near.” I understood what he meant. I felt the same nausea everyone else was feeling but I thought the souring also had its own austere beauty. It was like b
ones lying in grass: it made the life around it somehow more vibrant and real. “Rufra has said I may take the troops directly to the camp. With any luck we will all arrive together.” He glanced at me. “Before I go I’d like a word with the ambassador, if that’s all right?”

  Nywulf shrugged. “Be my guest.”

  “Come with me, Ambassador,” he said, and there was something in his voice I couldn’t place as he led me aside. Once we were away from the body of the patrol he leaned towards me. “No need to lie to me,” he said, “and if you’re lying to Nywulf I’d come clean or he’ll like as not gut you like a fish.” I started to speak but he cut me off. “Listen, don’t flap your mouth. If you’re the ambassador for the Lean Isles my balls are a boat.”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “Enough,” he sneered. “I saw you at Maniyadoc all those years ago, I know what you are.” My hand was at the warhammer though he made no move to stop me. “If I wanted you dead, assassin, I’d not do it here before Rufra or warn you I was going to do it.” My hand tightened around the hilt of the hammer, knuckles whitening.

  “What do you want, Gabran?”

  “Same thing as the king, now he must have got his hard head around it. I want traitors in a gibbet. I’ve lost hundreds of my boys to Tomas, and whatever yellower’s responsible needs to pay. I don’t like to talk and I don’t like to sneak around so I’ll save you some time.”

  “You will?”

  He nodded then spat on the ground.

  “Aye, it’s not me for a start.”

  “You would hardly admit it if it were.”

  “Not unless I was a stupid yellower, which I’m not. But I’m from the living classes – you can probably hear that though.” He pointed at his mouth. “Tomas’ll see me dead before he sees me in command of so much as a latrine. There’s nothing in it for me to spy for him.”