The Colour of Vengeance (36 page)

The woman with the scarred neck came at Jacob snarling and he rejoiced. A female partner would maybe remind him of Sarah. He brushed away her sword with an empty palm and reached for the woman’s neck. A sword fell between them and Jacob recoiled, pulling back his hand just in time to stop it being severed. His blessings made him strong but they did not make him impervious to cold steel. The man attached to the sword was the spitting image of the heavy handed partner only younger. The sword darted at Jacob again and again and each time he ducked or twirled away. Then Jacob let a single thrust slide past him and placed his right hand on the man’s chest. He felt a rib snap under the force and the man flew away from him. His sword clattered to the floor with a metallic shriek.

So many partners and so much music. Jacob’s next four died too easily. One with a crushed larynx. Two with their own swords in their guts and the fourth with a snapped neck.

People were fleeing now, rushing to the warehouse doorway to escape him. The floor was becoming slick with red blood and some of those people tripped, a couple were likely trampled. Jacob dodged a spear thrust, stepped up to the man holding it and planted a knee in his stomach, as the man doubled over, retching blood onto the ground Jacob plucked the spear from his grasp and pinned him to the floor with it.

Then the woman was back, shouting at him. There was but a small distance between them and Jacob crossed it with a skip. He was too fast for her and the sword strike fell well wide. He gripped both of her hands and squeezed, pulling her close into his embrace. He felt a finger bone crack, a knuckle pop and he savoured the bulging of her eyes as she lost herself in the pain.

For just a moment there was a lull in the music and the sounds of the dying filled Jacob’s ears. The woman was screaming in pain, men lay on the floor nearby crying to the Gods. Somewhere close by a man said
for Joan
and grunted as though lifting something heavy.

Everything went white.

“How’s the leg, Henry?” Swift asked, grinning.

The leg ached, always ached these days but sometimes more than others. Most times she just grit her teeth and ignored the pain but sometimes it made her limp and unfortunately now was one of those times. Made her angry that Swift could see how his handiwork pained her, how it affected her but then anger was a constant companion these days. There were times when Henry wished she wasn’t angry, times she wished she could be happy but she knew it was just fantasy. As long as the bastard who’d raped her was still alive, as long as the cause of her shame was still breathing there could be nothing but anger.

“What makes ya think this time’ll be any different, Henry?” Swift asked. “Last time ya was top o’ ya game an’ I still beat ya. Fair fight too. Remember? I know I do. Ya won’t believe how much she struggled, Suzku. At first anyway. Reckon she took ta likin’ it soon enough.”

Henry let the bastard talk, circled him, waiting for him to make a mistake, to look away. His bodyguard watched the entire situation with a carefully passive look on his face. As long as he didn’t involve himself she stood a chance at least.

“See the thing ‘bout our Henry here,” Swift continued, not taking his eyes off of her “she’s a dangerous little thing, real scary but she ain’t too good at takin’ a hit. Never seen someone get punch drunk so quick. Couple o’ good strikes ta the face an’ she was swayin’ on her feet. So I pinned her arms together, bent her over an’ had a bit o’ fun. Now come on, Henry, admit it. Ya liked it.”

It was too much to take. Henry screamed and launched herself at him, daggers flashing. Swift blocked one of Henry’s strikes with his own dagger and the other with his short sword. Just as Henry was about to feint back and strike again Swift’s sword whipped at her and it was all she could do to stumble away.

Henry settled herself into a knife fighter’s crouch, ready to spring into action. Her left cheek felt wet and started stinging. A quick touch and her finger came away red; a shallow cut but a cut all the same. That bastard Swift was too quick for his own good.

“Ya see, Suzku. She’s got this way of wrigglin’ like she don’t want it. Feels so good. And the noises she makes.”

Henry attacked again, feinting right and then leaping left, one dagger looking to parry his sword, the other to find his gut. She knew if only she could get inside his guard Swift would be done for; she’d never met a fighter who could beat her up close.

Swift dodged backwards and Henry followed him. Without warning the blooded bastard stepped into her and before she could react he kicked her in the leg, the left leg; her bad one. Henry collapsed with a squeal and scrambled away from Swift, struggling to regain her feet. Her left leg screamed in pain and she realised she’d dropped one of her daggers. Swift plucked the weapon from the ground and considered it for a moment before tossing it away into the shadows.

“Ya really shouldn’t have come alone, Henry. Had yaself the Black Thorn at ya back but no, not Henry the Red. Always had ta do it alone didn’t ya. Hell I bet that dumb fuck, Thorn doesn’t even know who ya really are does he?”

Henry found one of her hidden throwing knives with her right hand and launched it at Swift. Fair to say he wasn’t expecting it, only just managed to get out of the way in time and by the time he had recovered Henry was on him. She brushed aside his sword and barrelled into him, sending them both crashing to the ground. For a moment she couldn’t tell which of them was which, who was on top and who was thrashing below. Then the world righted itself and she found herself straddling Swift, her dagger darted towards his throat but he was too quick, he caught her wrist with his left hand and punched her in the face with his right.

Henry found herself sprawled on the floor, a painful moan escaping her lips. She cracked open an eye and saw Swift regaining his feet. Bastard hadn’t even taken a scratch. He kicked her other dagger away, making sure it was out of reach.

“See the thing is, Henry. Unlike the other members of our ol’ crew I did some diggin’ inta ya past,” Swift looked back to his bodyguard and Henry tried to shake the bright lights from her vision. “See it turns out Henry the Red is actually Henrietta Vert. She’s a damned noble born brat an’ I don’t mean blooded, oh no. Henry here comes from the Five Kingdoms; she’s a fuckin’ royal bastard.”

She didn’t know how he knew but what she did know was he needed to die. Him and that bodyguard of his both. Some secrets were Henry’s alone and she’d protect them with blood if need be.

Swift looked past her, the grin gone from his face. “Seems like her backup’s arrived. Reckon you’ll keep fer later, wouldn’t mind tryin’ out ya royal cunt again ‘fore I kill ya.”

Henry managed to block Swift’s first punch but she didn’t even see the second, she felt it connect with her jaw though and then she felt nothing.

As if fleeing from the terror of the warehouse wasn’t enough, Anders was now breathing heavy from his brisk jog and was beginning to suspect at least one of his ribs might be cracked. He had Swift and the Haarin to thank for that and unfortunately it looked like he was about to have his chance at payback. Considering how the last encounter had ended it was not something he was looking forward to. At least he had the Black Thorn with him. The moment they had realised Henry was gone they looked around and found Swift gone also, it didn’t take a genius to realise the little murderess had gone after the man who had caused her so much pain.

It wasn’t until they heard Henry’s battle cry that they knew where she had gone and if it wasn’t for her shrill vocal outburst it was unlikely they’d ever have found her. Still, Anders wasn’t much used to running and neither was he in the best of conditions. It was, in fact, taking every ounce of intestinal fortitude he had not to pull up and heave his lunch onto the streets of Chade.

As they got closer Swift noticed them. Anders saw the blooded bastard punch Henry and she went down heavy, crashing to the ground in a heap and not moving. Despite his lack of breath, the burning in his chest and the more than certain feeling he was hopelessly outmatched Anders drew his sword and broke into a sprint, leaving Thorn behind.

Anders leapt at Swift and the bastard parried his strike and then sent back one of his own which Anders dodged away from.

“Suzku, deal with Thorn. Don’t kill him, jus’ hold him up ‘til I’ve finished with this fuck,” Swift said and then turned his full attention to Anders. It was about then Anders realised the most likely outcome of his current predicament was his own death. Still, it wasn’t the first time Anders Brekovich had faced certain death, he had in fact made something of a habit of surviving his own demise.

Swift thrust with his short sword. Anders parried with his longer blade and then flicked an attack at his opponent’s sword arm. Swift jumped backwards with a laugh. He had the speed and the strength advantage but Anders had the better reach and hopefully a touch more skill. He had, after all, been trained by Crucible’s finest master at arms. Of course half a lifetime pickled on the floor of any tavern that would have him may have rusted his training a little.

Anders flicked another attack at Swift’s right then danced left aiming a wild swing in his opponent’s general direction and letting forth with a dramatic yell. Swift parried the first attack, blocked the second and made to run Anders through. Only a rushed stumbling out of the way saved him.

The problem, Anders decided, with missing a finger, even the smallest of the lot, was it gave you a great deal less control over a sword. Not to mention it hurt like all the hells every time he gripped the hilt which, during a sword fight such as this, was the whole damned time.

He avoided another of Swift’s sword strikes and danced away on nimble, if a little drunken, feet. “Don’t you think you’ve injured me enough for one day?” Anders asked his half-blooded counterpart. “I daresay it’s only fair you let me poke you with the sharp end a little as way of repayment. I promise to be gentle.”

“What is it with you blooded fucks lovin’ ta talk?” Swift asked.

Anders laughed. “Pot… Kettle… Black.”

“What?”

“HAH!” Anders leapt at Swift with a serious of jabs, utilising the full extent of his longer sword. Swift parried each one with annoying ease. On the last thrust the half-blooded bastard stepped around Anders’ sword, grabbing hold of the hilt. Swift tried to punch Anders in the face but he saw it coming and turned his head just in time. The fist caught him on the ear and pain flared to life once again.

Anders stumbled backwards holding his bloody ear and cursing with all the venom he could muster. The bastard was clearly not above using cheap tricks. Poor form by any accounts. As he straightened up into a fighting stance he found Swift grinning at him. It took Anders a moment to realise why; he had a dagger sticking out of his chest. Might have been the adrenaline or maybe the booze but he hadn’t even felt the blade go in, seemed to hurt a lot now he knew it was there though.

To say the Haarin was good would be something of an understatement. He was as big as the Black Thorn and probably a little stronger, fast as a cat and by the feel of things he had Thorn beat in terms of skill as well. In any normal situation Betrim would be looking to make a quick getaway at this point but Henry’s life was at stake. The little murderess was out cold lying on the street despite the two fights taking place around her and Betrim would be thrice damned if he’d leave her to the whims of Swift. He’d lost too many friends from walking away and too many friends to failing when he should have succeeded. The Black Thorn had killed seven Arbiters in his lifetime and he’d damned well kill this Haarin if he had to.

With renewed vigour Betrim attacked. Raining blow after blow at the man in front of him, each attack heavier than the last and each one turned away by the dagger the Haarin carried, a dagger Betrim recognised as one of Henry’s. The bastard in front of him wasn’t even bothering to use the sword sheathed at his side.

“Thought you Haarin were supposed ta have honour or somethin’,” Betrim said. He broke off his attack to catch his breath. The Haarin didn’t strike, just positioned himself between Thorn and Swift.

“I honour the code,” the Haarin said.

Thorn spat. “An’ what fuckin’ code is that? Ta protect a man who rapes, murders an’ steals. A man…”

“A man who kills friends and allies just as quickly as he kills his enemies,” the Haarin interrupted Thorn. “A man who starts a war he cannot win in a city that doesn’t want him. I make no excuses Black Thorn, my client is the worst specimen of a man I have ever met. But I have to ask, are you any better?”

Betrim laughed. “Aye. Reckon ya might have got me there. Might be I’m jus’ as bad, might be I’m worse. So hows ‘bout you stand aside an’ let us kill each other. Better fer everyone, better fer the whole damned wilds.”

The Haarin shook his head. “I cannot. He is my client.”

Betrim snorted. “Aye?”

“I am Haarin,” the man said, sounded a little like an apology truth be told but Betrim no longer cared. He was just about to launch a throwing knife at the Haarin when he saw Anders tumble to the ground, a small dagger sticking out of his chest.

The Black Thorn gritted his teeth and fixed the Haarin with his eye. “Get out of the way!”

“Do as he says, Suzku,” Swift said from behind his Haarin. “Go an’ watch Henry, make sure she don’t wake up an’ get involved. This one’s ‘tween me an’ Thorn.”

For a moment Betrim wasn’t sure the Haarin would do as he was told. The man looked torn between decisions. Eventually he lowered his eyes and walked away.

Swift stood with a short sword in his right hand and a throwing knife in his left and a grin plastered to his smug face. Betrim plucked one of his own throwing knives into his left hand and gripped his axe a little tighter.

“The whole time we was in the ol’ crew all I ever heard was Black Thorn this, Black Thorn that,” Swift said, pacing on the empty street. “Like ya was the only name worth a damn there. Like ya was the only name worth a damn in the whole wilds.