by RJ Baker
“Go away, Aydor,” he said. “This fight is not for you. When you swore fealty to Rufra you lost any claim to the crown.”
“No,” said Aydor, he seemed to have difficulty making words. Nywulf had warned him not to drink before a battle, but I wasn’t surprised though his words had made no impression. “Rufra let me keep my claim,” he said, “and refused to take my oath. I am still a king.”
“Do you forget how many times we fought in the squireyard?” said Tomas with a small, mocking smile. “And how you always ended up slinking away like a beaten dog?” He raised his voice. “In fact, in the end your mother forbade me from fighting you so you were not mocked!” Laughter from the troops on his side, but not from ours. Aydor had managed to weasel himself into a sort of popularity.
Aydor stared up at Tomas, the hilt of my warhammer held tight in his fist.
“Are you scared?” he said, and that shut Tomas’s flapping mouth. “You’ve always said my bark is worse than my bite, Tomas, and I have few teeth now. Surely you’re not afraid of being bitten?”
Laughter from our side. I glanced at Rufra, he looked tense.
“Very well.” Tomas slid from his mount. “Let’s get this over with quickly.”
They circled, but not for long, Aydor made a foolish lunge with the warhammer and Tomas skipped out of the way, shaking his head as if disappointed. I found myself whispering under my breath, “Come on, come on.” The only good outcome for us was for Aydor to wound Tomas and then die. But Aydor was Aydor, unpleasant and useless. He was so drunk, falling about the field, that it seemed unlikely he would do anything but demoralise our troops. This would be little more for Tomas than a warm-up, and he treated it as such, dancing around Aydor, making small cuts and dodging Aydor’s clumsy blows with showy moves.
I do not know when I realised Aydor was not drunk. It was more a gradual dawning than a conscious thought. The way he handled the warhammer, how he fell about without ever truly being off balance, the way his eyes never left Tomas’s face, the way, when he slipped, he always managed to right himself. Tomas did not see it; he felt he knew his opponent and underestimated him – it seemed everyone but me had.
Aydor slowed, breathing heavily, and it looked like his strength had drained to the point where he could barely lift the warhammer. He took a few clumsy swings that were barely above hip height, and Tomas laughed as he dodged nimbly out of the way. When he was far back enough to feel safe from Aydor’s clumsy swings, he turned to our lines, giving us a mocking bow.
And Aydor moved.
He darted forward, dropping all pretence of being drunk. The hammer came round in a great arc. Tomas must have sensed something and turned – but he did not even have time to look surprised before the warhammer smashed into his chest, sending him flying back. A great cry of shock went up from both sides of the field. It was a killing blow, but Aydor did not leave it at that. All traces of drunkenness were gone as he stalked towards his prey. I could hear Tomas’s laboured breathing, see him trying to crawl away as Aydor approached, raised the warhammer and then brought it down with a sickening crunch on Tomas’s head.
Aydor screamed something wordless and angry into the sky.
And then, where there had been noise and blood and fury, there was only silence.
Aydor walked towards us, leaving the broken body of Tomas in the mud behind him. Both armies watched as if under a spell. This was betrayal, complete and utter betrayal. Aydor was far cleverer than even I had believed, or maybe he had simply learned patience enough to bide his time. He stopped. His huge, threatening, lumbering presence cast a shadow long enough to reach the feet of Rufra. My hand went to my blade.
“No,” said Rufra, his grip tightening around my arm.
“He will—”
“No,” said Rufra gently. “This war ends here.” He sounded so calm. I wanted to rail at him, curse him for his trusting nature. I wanted to draw my weapon and run it through Aydor as he stood there, a grim smile on his blood-spattered face. I could kill him with one move, with a flick of my wrist send throwing knives into his throat.
Up and down the rows of the army I started to hear, “King Aydor, King Aydor,” repeated again and again.
I could stop his heart with a touch to the right place on his body.
Some soldiers fell to their knees while others only watched, waited. Then Aydor took the last few steps and was standing right in front of us, the sun at his back and the clouds of the Birthstorm darkening the sky behind him. He looked every inch like one of the terrifying shatter-spirits of folklore. If I killed him now I would probably die too. He had the army behind him, I could feel it.
But it would be worth it.
Rufra did not let go of my arm.
“No,” he said again. Wind caught the mousy-brown locks of his hair, blowing them into his face; half the strands were black, stuck together with dried blood.
“Rufra ap Vythr,” said Aydor.
“Aydor ap Mennix,” said Rufra, and his voice was thick with pain. The wound at his side was bleeding. Red spots marring the pristine white of his skirts.
“Under the laws of the high king,” said Aydor loudly enough for all to hear, “I say that only one king may stand in the lands of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides, and I call on the right of kings, combat until only one king stands.”
Rufra nodded and still, his hand did not leave my arm, his grip remained tight around tense muscles.
“Under the laws of the high king,” said Rufra quietly, “I accept the challenge of kings.” He glanced at me. A twitch and Aydor would be dead, but Rufra was my king and I had sworn an oath to obey him, and I had meant it. He commanded nothing and so I did nothing. I bowed my head. Rufra drew his sword, and even that movement was difficult for him, it etched pain onto his face. Aydor watched Rufra draw his blade, and when every eye was on him he lifted his warhammer, my warhammer, high.
We waited for the end. Aydor’s muscles bunched and tensed, sweat stood out on his brow. It was obvious to all watching that he could finish this with one swing. Rufra could barely stand.
Aydor dropped the hammer in the mud.
Then he threw his shield to one side and fell to his knees, raising his head and baring his throat to Rufra in the old salute.
“I concede the fight,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I concede the fight,” he said again, louder. “In the name of the high king I recognise a greater warrior and a greater claim on the throne. I renounce my kingship and swear my weapons to you, Rufra ap Vythr. My king.”
Rufra stared at him, then he lowered his blade, pushing the tip into the ground and taking a deep breath. When he spoke his words were audible to all.
“Aydor ap Mennix,” he said, “you may have renounced the kingship of men, but I say you remain a king among them.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then a shout went up from somewhere in Tomas’s lines.
“Rufra ap Vythr! Hail the king!”
And the shout was taken up by both armies: “Hail the king! Hail the king!” It filled the small valley, and at that moment the Birthstorm truly broke. Lightning quartered the sky and rain hurtled down from the heavens. And I was glad of the rain, thankful beyond reason, because I looked upon Aydor and saw a man changed, saw a man who had left behind the darkness of his past and become something else. A man who had chosen a different, and better, path.
And only I knew that the water running down my face was not rain, but tears, tears of fierce joy.
Epilogue
It may not be the truth that the Birthstorm broke the moment Aydor bowed to Rufra, but it is how I have always chosen to remember it, and it is as real to me as the black birds which wheel and turn far above.
The rain that night beat on the tents and caravans with the same fury that men and women had fought with earlier in the day. Yet you would not have known those men and women had been fighting each other if you had walked into anywhere that drink was being served. The Landsmen had left, taking the cursed
priest Neander with them, and the soldiers from both armies mixed – warily at first, then with better humour, and though there were fights and even some deaths they were overlooked and, largely, peace reigned – as it would for many years under Rufra’s rule.
I had moved through the drinking tents, pushing my way between drunk soldiers, smiling to calm hostility, scowling at those who wished to engage me in conversation, scanning for one man. I found him, unusually, alone. I had expected him to be surrounded by well-wishers, by soldiers toasting his actions, but that was not the case. He was sitting, his huge frame hunched over, his long hair touching the surface of the table where pools of spilled drinks dyed its ends a deep black. I stood behind him, my hands twitching for want of a blade.
“I thought you would be with the troops, celebrating being the hero of the day.”
Aydor turned at my voice and shrugged.
“I threw away a kingdom today, Girton Club-Foot.” He drew strange patterns in the moisture on the table. “It is not every day a man can say he threw away a kingdom, is it?”
“And now you regret it?”
Aydor shook his head and laughed quietly.
“No, that is the strange thing. I do not regret it at all. I feel like I have put down a great weight.”
I nodded and walked away, feeling his eyes on me as I did. I took two cups of perry from the boy ladling out drinks and returned, putting a cup down in front of him and taking the seat beside him. I tried to speak, but it was as though a fire lizard nested in my chest, its venom burning me, closing up my throat and I had to cough to clear a passage for the words.
“I wondered, Aydor,” I said, “if you would drink with me.” He stared at the cup in front of him for a moment, not long, but it felt like a long time. Then he nodded and picked up the cup, took a sip. For a while we were silent.
“Sometimes,” he said eventually, “I look at the things I have done and I do not know who I am.”
“Aye,” I said. “I know that feeling.”
One, my master.
Two, my master.
“But I think I am in the right place, Girton Club-Foot.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I think you are. We are.”
He grinned then and sucked down the entire cupful of drink in one gulp.
“I shall get us another then,” he said. “In fact, I think I may need two.”
The Birthstorm was unusually savage that year. The rains washed away the blood and the bodies from the field at Goldenson Copse, and the next morning it was almost as if the battle had never happened. Tarris, the priest of Anwith, declared it a miracle though I imagine, if you lived downstream of the battle, you would have been less inclined to agree.
The Landsman’s Leash carved into my flesh should have freed me of the strange dreams of hedging lords that had plagued me, but there was one more dream, and it happened when I returned to camp after I had stood by Rufra and watched, so proud of my friend, as he was acclaimed King of Maniyadoc and the Long Tides by all.
When I slept that night I dreamed of Dark Ungar, the worst of the hedging lords. He was the one who promised the most and, in turn, took the most. I felt him more than saw him. He offered me his hand, and though it smelled of sourings and yellow sand drifted from between his fingers I was drawn to him – only to do good. He offered me power and, even more tempting, knowledge. With it I could ensure Rufra’s rule. I could take on Dark Ungar’s mantle and Rufra would never have to dirty his hands. The life of the land would answer to me and through me to Rufra. Then I felt a calmness, as if a black and silent cloak had been wrapped around my shoulders, and a different hand took mine, a gentle, if cold, touch, and Dark Ungar’s presence faded. I found a peaceful place within myself, felt that gentle hand upon my shoulder.
When I woke, pigments had been placed by my bed: black and white, and beneath them, folded carefully, was the soft material of Death’s Jester’s motley. I picked up the pigments, smelled the familiar scent of the animal fats used to bind them. In the other bed my master lay; she would never walk unaided again. Her eyes were open, bright and sparkling, watching me. I lifted the paint stick, stopped just before it touched my face. My master smiled, nodded at me, then closed her eyes and fell straight into a deep and peaceful sleep.
And I took on the mantle of my god, Xus the unseen, god of death.
Considering what was to come, maybe I should have put the paint stick down. Maybe I should have taken the hand of Dark Ungar and sacrificed myself for knowledge.
I could have saved so many that I would come to care about.
But I did not.
Acknowledgements
It doesn’t seem like five minutes since I was writing the last one of these so I’ll try not to repeat myself but it’s probably a little bit inevitable. At least this version should be shorter.
The inestimable Ed Wilson for some high quality agenting and for sending Age of Assassins on a worldwide and multilingual adventure. My editor, Jenni Hill, whose gentle nudges in interesting directions are always welcome and my American editor, Lindsey Hall, who is round and about doing the same. Also, the rest of the wonderful team at Orbit: Joanna, Emily, James, and Nazia, my publicity officer, who has sent me off on some excellent adventures (and the unknown Orbit people I know are there but never meet. Oh! and Ellen and Nita in America.). I’d also like to thank Hugh the copyeditor, one of the unsung heroes of the literary world, who spends a lot of time making me look less stupid than I really are. Thank you, Hugh. I put a deliberate error in them for you, I thought you’d like it.
Matt, Fiona, Marcy and Richard for reading the early versions and offering their opinions which were, as always, useful and well thought out. (Even when you were clearly wrong.) Tim Payne for his technical assistance, thank you kindly.
My fellow 2017 debut authors who have gone a long way to making this year one that has been very funny and full of joy, so if you have enjoyed Age of Assassins and Blood of Assassins you could do worse than check out the books by Anna Stephens, Ed McDonald, Nicholas Eames, Anna Smith-Spark, Melissa Caruso and the tidily bearded Lee James Harrison (1*ol*cy8l).
All the nice people who have asked me to come and witter on at their conventions, top work. Stephen J Poore who was kind enough to invite me up to Sheffield to do my first ever reading, there will be others, I am sure, but, Stephen, you will always be my first. Michael W. Everest who was kind enough to show me round the Facebook fantasy forums. A big thank you to everyone who reviewed Age of Assassins and liked it, and those who didn’t like it, because the world would be very dull if we all liked the same stuff. Though, I suppose, it’s unlikely you’ll be reading this if you really hated it, but it’s the thought that counts.
Lastly, Lindy, for being Lindy and Rook for being amusing, and sometimes even being quiet when I ask. And our families who go a long way to making life as pleasant as it currently is.
I am sure, by the time this has seen print, there will be a whole host more people I want to thank but that’ll have to wait for King of Assassins. As ever, if you should be here but you’re not, mea culpa.
RJ Barker
Leeds, July 2017
The story continues in …
KING OF ASSASSINS
The Wounded Kingdom: Book Three
Keep reading for a sneak peek!
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.
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if you enjoyed
BLOOD OF ASSASSINS
look out for
KING OF ASSASSINS
The Wounded Kingdom: Book Three
by
RJ Barker
Many years of peace have passed in Maniyadoc, years of relative calm for the assassin Girton Club-Foot. Even the Forgetting Plague, which ravaged the rest of the kingdoms, seemed to pass them by.
But now Rufra ap Vthyr eyes the vacant high king’s throne and will take his court to the capital, a rat’s nest of intrigue and murder, where every enemy he has ever made will gather and the endgame of twenty years of politics and murder will be played out in his bid to become King of all Kings.
Friends become enemies, enemies become friends, and the god of death, Xus the unseen, stands closer than ever—casting his shadow over everything most dear to Girton.
A Killing
He had come in to Maniyadoc through the night soil drain, filth coating his clothes and skin, but it was worth it. No guard worth his salt would bother watching a night soil drain. From there he climbed into a shovelling room, a curious one, far taller than it was wide, and he could not understand why that would be. He did not think about it too much—he had seen many odd things among the blessed of the Tired Lands, many things that made no sense, things done simply because they could be, so he did not question it. From the shovelling room he passed through a door. A servant found him quickly enough, drawn by the stink of his filthy clothes. The man’s diligence was rewarded with a quick death, and filthy clothes were exchanged for the servant’s clean ones.
He moved into the castle.
