Escana (23 page)

His
disdain for bloodshed came more from the inconvenience it caused than
any ethical dilemma. He had long ago put to bed any qualms of
assassination, instead choosing to focus on the motivations and
possible repercussions as his master had taught him.

His
train of thought stopped dead. Two figures behind him, poised to
strike, weapons drawn. Two scimitars, most likely poisoned. They
planned to make quick work of this then.

There
was no doubting that these were operatives, their barely detectable
approach indicated an utmost economy of movement. So they knew who
they were approaching and were using all their skill to do so. Good,
perhaps in their fear they would err at a crucial moment. He didn't
sense any trepidation, just a quiet confidence at their target's
impending demise, far too smug for their own good.

He
made a show of scratching the back of his neck and checked his wrist
strap from the corner of his eye, all the while maintaining a steady
pace down the alleyway. He still had enough for a four star spread
and some blinding powder if things got desperate. He was naturally
frugal with his resources and had little left on his person after a
long day. This was not how he wanted to be caught. They had been
tracking him a little bit too well and had unfortunately chosen an
admirable time to strike.

They
sprung noisily toward him as he unleashed a volley of stars to greet
them, catching them off balance. They dove in mid-flight and managed
to evade them, sweeping their curved blades toward him in a feint
before ducking into a roll. Hern had seen this all before, their
desperate evasion gave him time to extend his staff and call their
bluff with a frontal assault. They leapt to their feet and deflected
his blows with the flats of their blades.

Seeking
a way past him, one darted up the side of the wall and attempted to
horizontally vault his staff. He spotted the threat and smashed the
first man in the face with an extended thrust before taking out the
second operatives attack with a swinging blow to the back of the
head. The man didn't get up.

He
offered his first opponent a grin before sending the staff behind his
defences and crushing his windpipe.

He
noticed the man on the floor settling into a crouch a fraction too
late and cursed him as the scimitar knocked his hasty block out of
his hands. The staff clattered to the ground as they eyed each other
patiently, trying to anticipate the next play.

Hern
knew the blade was by his foot and that the staff was tantalisingly
close but out of his immediate reach. The operative facing him shared
this knowledge and they both stood perfectly still, waiting for the
gurgling asphyxiation at their feet to cease. The death rattle
signalled their motion and Hern violently kicked dust into the other
man's eyes, giving him a small window of opportunity to kick the
scimitar up into his hands. They met with a ring of steel on steel, a
deadly struggle from which a single poisoned scratch spelled an
inevitable end. In the heated blur of motion, Hern spotted the cut he
had made on the man's cheek, a tiny red smear trickling down to his
jawline. He shifted into a defensive posture, parrying every
increasingly aggressive lunge.

The
efforts grew erratic over time and the man's grip weakened, his sword
hand started shaking and when the convulsions hit he dropped his
guard altogether. It wasn't until he stopped twitching that Hern let
his own defences drop. He swapped sword for staff, the transition
saved his life.

Searing
pain arched up his back as he swung the staff out into thin air. He
swirled about on the balls of his feet, but it was the malevolent
rage he sensed that saved him.

He
deflected the blade at the last possible moment, letting the
remaining force lodge into his shoulder. He brought the staff up in a
counter as it bit deeper into him, hearing a cry and falling to his
knees as it was wrenched free of him. His staff clattered to the
ground and he closed his eyes tightly, awaiting the final blow.

It
never came.

'So
you are telling us that one of our own masters attacked you?'

Hern
dared not smirk at the presumption. 'No Arbiter, I am merely saying
that the person attacking me was as skilled with a blade as any
master I have encountered.'

The
voice from the far left bristled with rage. 'We know exactly what
you're implying, there are no others as skilled with a blade. This is
blatant treason hidden in diplomatic nicety.'

The
far right voice countered indignantly. 'Your witness is a liar and
there are many that could stand amongst us in their skill with a
blade should they decide to deflate the pomposity of your claim.
There can be no death here on such shaky grounds.'

Hern
stood patiently as the less vocal at the table muttered among
themselves. He couldn't tell if it was the weight of his life in
another's hands or the sheer length of the debate that slowed time to
a crawl.

The
Arbiter finally spoke. 'I have considered every viewpoint and have
decided to stay your termination. We have no proof that such wounds
could be caused by anything but a master, yet we also concede that
you made no attempt to imply that.' There was a pause, as if the
Arbiter had yet to come to a conclusion himself.

Now
we
would
see
how
far
the
rot
had
set
in,
yes
indeed
.

'However,
your past history with the council and your flagrant attitude towards
our rule leads some of us to question the validity of your account.
You are the most talented operative we have and by all rights you
should be a part of this council. We shall both punish you and
provide you an opportunity.' His gavel hammered down. 'You are to be
banished into slavery. Return here a free man and you will have won
your place.'

Rotten
to
the
core
.

'
Y
ou're
not going after it?' Garth asked, baffled at the uncharacteristic
display of sense.

'That's
right, I fully expect it to lick its wounds and then come after me.'

Thom
smiled, all those years of tracking down the beast's trail, yet now
it was tracking him. What he would have given for this opportunity
twenty years ago.

He
would admit to none that those long years had taken a greater toll on
him than the scars showed. He felt time chipping away mercilessly at
his wounds, the sense of powerless frustration constantly pushing him
into further reckless pursuits. He lived in constant fear that he was
chasing lengthening shadows of a past gone by.

'You
intend to bring it to Escana?' Garth said, helping him mount the
horse.

Confusion
cut through Thom's grimace as he found the reins. 'What? Of course
not! I would not be so selfish as to endanger the entire population.'
He turned the horse on the spot. 'No, the Urian guard take a much
dimmer view on such incursions these days. It wouldn't dare strike
within their walls. Unless it moves faster than a horse and heals
quicker than a priest I'll be safe enough.'

Garth
stared at him sceptically. 'And what if this thing sneaks into your
room and cuts you up in the night as you sleep?'

Thom
shook his head, shouldering the small pack Garth had handed him. 'I
will make it clear to the Justice that I'm a marked man, he won't let
a soul in as I rest. Besides, you know I'm a light sleeper.'

Garth
frowned. 'Don't mistake this for my usual concern for your
well-being, you're not just chasing criminals here or saving some
damsel in distress. This phantom you're chasing, I wouldn't attribute
it mortal characteristics. It's an unknown Thom, and unknown is
dangerous, you of all people should know that.'

There
was something in his tone that stopped Thom from a quick riposte.
Perhaps he was making too many assumptions. Who knew what this thing
was capable of? One certainty was that not enough caution would see
him dead.

'You're
right as always,' he sighed. 'I'll be careful.'

Garth
watched as Thom spurred his own horse forward. He hoped the ploy
would work, that El-Vador had been listening carefully and would
follow Thom to certain capture. The smith's thoughts were scattered
when he realised in the galloping of hooves that he had just given
Thom his mount. The knowing smile Thom flashed back at him as he
headed off had Garth cursing every step back to his home.

In
spite of that it proved surprisingly pleasant and uneventful, the
kind of walk he would have relished years ago. One of the trade
wagons had eventually offered him a lift and had spared him walking
through the night. It was a small price to pay but the endless
wagging of the horseman's tongue was little help in distracting him
from the twisted and bloodied metal that awaited him.

It
didn't matter to him what reports said, the war on the eastern front
wasn't going well. He had done repairs before in war time, he had
never seen quotas this bad. Nor had he had to scrub the blood off
each and every piece.

His
concern over Thom had already cost him time that he didn't have and
things were going to get ugly if he couldn't meet their demands
again. He wasn't looking forward to the prospect of smithery all
night, especially the complaints he'd receive from his unfortunate
neighbours.

The
amount of material from the front line that was beyond salvageable
was what shocked him most. Often he'd find broken claws still lodged
within the armour at hideous angles, or a cuirass that was so bent
out of shape that it may as well be scrap metal. He didn't envy the
poor soul with the task of cutting the corpses from it. Yet still
came the party line that his efforts were helping them win the war,
the gold bits for his service were scant consolation for hearing the
blatant lie that travelled across the land.

He
managed to find a word in edgeways with the driver before the wagon
sped past Escana, he was still recounting the same nonsensical tale
that Garth had been nodding to the entire journey. The palpable
contrast of the silence that greeted him was swathed in an
apprehension that seemed to grow with each passing step. He put it
down to being the dead of night, a fear of which he had never quite
shaken off. A single pale lamp in the square cut through the dark,
guiding him to the path home, he chided himself for the sudden dash
he made toward the door when he caught sight of it. He didn't know
how long he had kept his back to it, trying to breathe evenly with
his eyes tight shut before recalling that his time was at a premium
and no man would care for his excuses. His eyes had grown accustomed
to the dark, aided by the moonlight from the single small window he
could afford. He quickly lit the lamp at his bedside table and
carried it out back, no sense in tripping over armour in the dark.

It
was then that he realised he wasn't alone.

It
wasn't his mind playing tricks on him in the faint light, nor the
previous sense of foreboding that brought him to that conclusion. A
faint chuckling seemed to start in his own head, breaking out into
full blown laughter as he searched frantically around the room for a
source.

'And
so the mighty General arrives home to smelt and smelt and smelt until
his arms are weary and he's bent over double by the constant,
mind-numbing demands.'

Garth
knew that voice. He said nothing, instead taking no small amount of
time to scan the room.

'Oh
no, you won't find me, not with that pathetic sight of yours. My
quarrel with you is your quarrel in me, my dear General.'

The
lamp was snuffed out as if by a breeze.

'Alas,
that isn't the true nature of my visit. We must get down to business
first, the dull tedium of bureaucracy has since had word that you
know of my existence and has thus sent me out like some errand boy to
deliver a message to your lumbering self.'

In
spite of his fear, Garth couldn't help a bold smirk. 'An enigma such
as yourself held in thrall by the council?'

'Alas,
small minds and small words seek to goad and distract. I am a large
part of an altogether bigger picture, one that even you should be
aware of.'

Garth
felt the tip of steel press down on his back as if from a great
height.

'The
council in their wisdom have decided that you are not working hard
enough. Should your efforts not improve they shall be sending some of
their enforcers around for a quiet chat with you. I doubt even one
such as yourself would be stupid enough to fail in comprehending what
this portends.'

The
steel pricked him, forcing him to remain completely still.

'Now
we move on to other matters. Your unfortunate actions that have
resulted in my wounding and your decision to ignore the
uncharacteristically wise words of your friend Thom and stay out of
business that is beyond you.'

The
bolt dropped into his hand. 'This is yours, I didn't particularly
want it. In fact it would be fair to say that many wouldn't
appreciate it at all.' The air around him seemed to grow tighter.