The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (41 page)

‘I justify nothing,’ Venn corrected him, ‘but shame has always been the most foolish of notions. When the Land is being reshaped and the Gods themselves quake, what meaning does shame hold?’

There was a slight smile on the man’s face, perceptible in this light only to another student of expression and stance, but one Mihn recognised easily enough. ‘Tell me,’ he asked conversationally, ‘how long have you been thinking about this eventual meeting? How long has pride pricked at your side, wondering when we might cross swords?’

‘Oh, I admit it readily,’ the other said, giving a small bow. ‘I have looked forward to this day ever since I heard Lord Isak had taken a manservant with a Harlequin name – Mihn ab Netren ab Felith, I believe you were known as?’

Mihn inclined his head. ‘I know you only as Venn.’

‘If we were kings, you would confess I had you at a disadvantage perhaps,’ Venn ventured, ‘but such niceties are as foolish as shame. Venn ab Teier ab Pirc is the lineage my father bestowed upon me.’

‘I recognise the name. The blademasters mentioned you in passing.’

‘In passing?’ Venn scoffed. ‘I was
their
master long before they ever realised it.’

Mihn smiled. ‘Your pride was mentioned, yes. It is one of the ways in which I am your better.’

‘No one is my better,’ he spat, ‘a fact I will gladly prove.’ He turned to one of his colleagues. ‘Marn, give him your swords.’

There was a moment’s hesitation; Mihn could imagine the shock hidden behind her mask: a Harlequin’s blades should never be wielded by another. It was a testament to the thrall she was under that the woman paused for only a moment before reaching for the blades sheathed on her back.

Mihn raise a hand to stop her. ‘There is no need,’ he said. ‘I will not use another’s swords.’

‘It will be no test of my skills if you are not properly armed,’ Venn declared. ‘It must be a fair fight.’

‘No fight is truly fair – it would be no more so if I took her swords.’

‘I suppose so,’ Venn agreed after a moment. ‘How long is it since you used the blades? You have walked the wilderness for many years now; that dulls any edge.’

‘My apologies, you misunderstand,’ Mihn said. ‘It would be unfair on you.’

The anger was clear in Venn’s eyes as the former Harlequin took in Mihn’s boast, even if his voice remained level. ‘You make a bold claim – you think yourself the King of the Dancers?’

‘Others did,’ Mihn replied, inclining his head in acknowledge ment. ‘The masters who taught me, many elders of the clans. I have long since realised they were mistaken.’

‘Even before you met me – how perceptive of you.’

Mihn shook his head. ‘No, there was no King of the Dancers; no prophecy of our own to warm hearts while we watched the Land and those who truly lived in it. It was just a fairytale to bind the clans together; to give them hope of what might one day be. Whether or not you make the claim, it is this hope alone that gives you sway over the rest.’

‘Defiant to the end. I am glad,’ Venn announced, ‘I had thought to honour the failed hopes of the clans by allowing you to die blades in hand, but if you prefer your staff, so be it.’

‘Wait,’ Mihn interjected before Venn could draw his swords, ‘I will take a knife, if you permit it.’

The black Harlequin paused, wary of a ruse, then gestured for someone to toss Mihn a dagger. Marn did so, pulling one from the belt of a nearby soldier and throwing it for Mihn to pluck from the air. He inclined his head in thanks and swiftly cut the laces of his boots to slip his feet out of them.

‘If we are to honour our past when we fight,’ he announced, feeling the slight warmth of his tattoos trying to wrap him in the jagged shadows of the bridge, ‘then I would fight as the man this life has made me.’

Next he sliced open his sleeves to expose the tattoos running down his arms, ripping the cloth away until he was sleeveless. The rowan and hazel leaves echoed on the skin of every man of the Ghosts and Brotherhood looked stark in the glare of the torchlight, and highlighted how lean Mihn’s arms were.

‘No advantage, these,’ he explained, gesturing at the tattoos even as he brought his staff to a ready position, ‘but they show the man I am for all to witness.’

‘As do mine,’ Venn replied, touching a finger to the teardrops set under his right eye.

‘A pale imitation, but nothing more,’ Mihn declared. ‘One I am proud to call my friend bears Karkarn’s true mark, a ruby tear granted to him by the God of War himself. And you? Admit now why you are so eager for this fight – to prove yourself against me.’

‘History has placed us here,’ Venn declared, ‘and it is fitting such circles are closed in a manner of the myths we both learned.’

Mihn shook his head. ‘As my lord would put it: bugger the myths. You want to prove yourself because you are my replacement.’ He moved his staff through a lazy circle, but Venn ignored it.

‘I see it in your eyes. It is a question I have also asked: what purpose was intended for my life? Was there a plan that drove it all? I failed my people, broke under the weight of expectation, perhaps, but perhaps not without help. A failure of memory from a Harlequin, that is rare enough, but one who was expected to be the King of the Dancers? The one hoped to lead the clans out of history’s servitude fails at the last moment? The coincidence is more than unlikely.’

Venn drew his swords and advanced a step, but Mihn could see in his eyes that the man was transfixed. They began to circle warily. Mihn knew he was safe turning his back on the rest – Venn would cut any man or woman to pieces if they dared intervene.

‘What being loves to play with words, to rewrite history or interrupt what is in a man’s mind; to send a man down a new path, one that leads to a decade of wandering the meaner, more desperate parts of this Land? Such a path might make him embittered, making him hold a grudge against the life he never had, and desperate to prove himself. There were times I almost succumbed, almost listened to the anger in my heart, almost opened myself to a shadow’s whisper – but I passed, in the end, and so another was found.’

Mihn gestured expansively towards himself. ‘So come and get me. Test yourself against the one you replaced.’

Venn didn’t wait to refute the claim; he leaped forward with both blades zipping through the air. He moved with astonishing speed, slashing with each step of the dance, each recovery movement turning into a lethal lunge. Mihn gave ground steadily, turning and deflecting blows with calm precision before he thrust forward unexpectedly, stopping Venn’s advance dead as the end of his staff thumped against the black Harlequin’s chest.

Mihn’s blow was at the fullest extent of his reach and too weak to cause the man injury, but it was enough to momentarily halt the fight. Venn’s surprise at the other fighter making first contact was clear, but it shook him from his anger and Mihn saw a cold resolve take over. The Harlequin looked around at where they were fighting. The dead bodies on the ground were as much obstacles as much as the shrines and arches.

Venn pointed to the open stretch of the bridge where the Vanach soldiers were standing and ordered, ‘Back up, all of you.’ He spoke in the local dialect, and several hundred men jumped to obey, forcing their comrades back until they had cleared the best part of fifteen yards. Venn turned his back on Mihn and headed for the open ground, only to have his opponent seize upon the opening; he barely managed to bring his swords up in time, only just blocking one steel-capped end from cracking his skull. Venn found himself scrambling back as Mihn directed blow after punishing blow with each end of his staff, using every last scrap of his remarkable speed to prevent the Harlequin from recovering.

Venn twisted aside as he saw one strike coming, letting the blow glance off his shoulder as he cut brutally up in response.

Mihn caught the blow and danced back out of range.

‘A coward’s attack,’ Venn spat in the moment of stillness that followed.

‘As you wish,’ Mihn replied, attacking again before Venn could reply, using the longer reach of his staff and striking overhead like an axe, forcing Venn to cross his slender swords to catch the blow. Mihn stepped inside the man’s guard and kicked at Venn’s knee, then drove hard into the pinned swords, attempting to push the lethal edges back into Venn’s face.

Venn didn’t wait for the next attack. Swords tangled above his head, he leaned closer and smashed a knee into Mihn’s ribs. Turning, he tried to wrench the staff from Mihn’s hands and flick it aside, following that with a powerful reverse kick at Mihn’s head. Mihn ducked out of the way and launched up to kick at Venn’s chin. His foot glanced off the man’s shoulder and Mihn carried the movement on, throwing himself into a backflip, his staff above his head.

Venn’s swords crashed down on it, just inches from Mihn’s fingers, and he used the momentum to push one side of the staff down and kick at the side of Mihn’s head. The impact rocked Mihn back, but he had dropped to a crouch even before Venn’s sword came around for the kill. Thrusting his staff like a spear, Mihn caught Venn’s lead arm, but in the next moment was forced to roll away as the second blade followed its arc around.

Bracing his staff on the ground, Mihn jumped up and retreated as his opponent drove forward, his sword-tips weaving intricate paths through the air. Mihn watched them come, one high, one low, and darted left at the last moment, battering down at the nearer blade with his staff. Again he tried to come inside Venn’s guard, but the Harlequin was expecting it; he twisted and dropped to a crouch as Mihn drove an elbow at his arm, them surged up with one sword pushing the staff aside and the other heading for Mihn’s throat.

Only Mihn’s extreme athleticism saved him this time: he arched his back and wrenched his staff in a circle. He struck upwards and caught the lunging sword before it could be withdrawn, aiming diagonal blows down on Venn in furious succession. The speed at which he recovered his balance caught Venn by surprise. Now, mixing short, fast swings and jabs with longer strokes, he started pushing Venn back, herding him towards the parapet running down the side of the bridge.

Venn brought his swords close to his body, abandoning the killing lunges for tighter jostling work, edging up to Mihn’s body, but Mihn matched his gambit, his feet feinting to kick as he pressed in on Venn’s right side. He threw himself forward, driving Venn back and forcing his arm to bend at an unnatural angle as he absorbed the pressure.

Losing one hand from his staff, Mihn grabbed Venn’s wrist and smashed his shoulder into the former Harlequin’s, twisting the man’s hand savagely as he did so. As he bent Venn’s hand down, forcing the wrist back against his throat, he used the staff to push the other sword away. Venn tried to resist the pressure and keep hold of his sword, but Mihn kept forcing it until his fingers curled in on themselves and the wrist broke with a crisp snap.

Venn’s fingers went limp, his grip broken, but the sword was still pinned against his body. The pair slammed back into the parapet together, Mihn shoving Venn’s back against the stone edge. As he forced the black Harlequin to bend backwards over the edge, the sword’s razor-sharp edge sliced the cloth of his tunic and traced a red line towards Venn’s throat.

The sight of blood made Mihn freeze and Venn’s eyes widened as he felt the cut of his skin. There was a moment of perfect stillness as both men realised the kill was there. Venn was able to watch his demise in his enemy’s face.

But Mihn didn’t press any further. His attention was focused solely on the faint glitter of light playing on the edge of Venn’s sword.

‘No,’ he whispered, and released the pressure against Venn’s arm.

The sword fell, and the two men stood as close as lovers until Venn wrenched his body upright and brought his other hand up to bear. Dragging his remaining blade behind, Venn drew its edge across Mihn’s belly and felt the steel bite deep, even as the man gripped his hand.

Mihn gasped and shuddered, his hands tightly clasped around Venn’s broken wrist, even as he felt the sword tear up to his ribs.

The movement spun him against the parapet and Venn felt

Mihn’s breath on his face as a last gasp escaped his lips, but Mihn could not maintain the pressure and released his enemy. He sagged, one shoulder over the parapet while blood spilled down his legs. He looked up, fighting back the pain to stare Venn straight in the eye. ‘You will always know,’ he whispered, ‘that only my vow saved your life.’

Venn didn’t wait to hear any more. His ruined wrist clamped to his chest, the black Harlequin spun neatly around and smashed a foot across Mihn’s face. His head snapped backwards in a spray of blood and then he was falling over the edge. Mihn fell, as limp as a dead thing, and disappeared.

Venn ran to the parapet and watched the dying man hit the lake with a dull splash. The black waters swallowed Mihn and closed above his body, the ripples of his impact lasting just a few seconds before the waves washed over them and erased any sign.

He stayed there a long half-minute, watching the inky surface below. It betrayed no sign of the man he had killed.

Eventually Venn nodded to himself. No man could survive that injury, he knew that with certainty. Even without the cold water and the exertion of swimming, Mihn would be dead in minutes from such a cut. Satisfied, he turned away.

No man of such skill deserves an audience when he dies,
Venn thought to himself.
It is best I did not see the light extinguished from his eyes.

‘
A sentimentalist still?
’ Rojak said in the recesses of Venn’s mind. The minstrel laughed softly as Venn caught the faint scent of peach blossom on the wind. ‘
I did not appreciate the honour when King Emin left me to burn
.’

Venn tasted sour contempt in his throat. Rojak had been the first of Azaer’s most remarkable followers, but the minstrel had never understood true warriors, men like Ilumene or Mihn. There was a commonality that could not be explained to others; that went beyond the act of one killing another. Rojak had always been contemptuous of fighting men, thinking all those who killed on command were the same.