The Kimota Anthology (41 page)

“She died.” The heartbreak in her throat. “How did you know? Who are you?”

“Roger told me.”

“Is he -- ?” Choked off sobs destroyed whatever else she was going to say.

“He’s alive if that’s what you want to know.” Aron kept his voice low. “He’s with a friend of mine.”

“Why are you here? Who are you?”

“I need to know something, something important. Do you want to get away from here?”

“Gods, of course I want to get away. Now stop playing games and tell me who you are.” Anger replaced the tears.

“Listen carefully. This needs to be done right if we’re to get you away.” Aron spoke for a few minutes telling her what he needed for the witch’s reading and then made Seranna repeat his instructions back to him.

“Right. I’ll see you in three days then.” Aron stood up to leave. A brief moment of disappointment flickered through the girl’s eyes as he opened the door.

“Three days then,” she said quietly.

“You got something for me to read then?” The old woman’s dark eyes glittered in her lined face. Aron passed the small package to her and returned to his herbal tea. The package gave under her fingers as if filled with jelly. Nimbly she undid the cloth wrapping and examined the contents. “That’ll do fine. What do you want to know?”

“Nearly five years ago the Earldom of Darien was overrun and possessed by the Duke of Caldon. There were Saxish mercenaries in the fortress of Darien. They betrayed their employer, the Earl, and opened the gates to the Duke’s army. The Earl and his garrison were put to the sword.” Aron’s voice was low with all the emotion squeezed out of it. “My father amongst them.”

“Aah my lad, now I place you. I thought I recognised the accent. So you want to know if this one was there.” Her eyes glittered in the gloom. Aron nodded to her. “You go and sit next door and I’ll have an answer in a while.”

Aron sat in the small kitchen his nostrils assailed by the smell of fresh bread emanating from the bakery next door. He had no idea how long the process would take so he did not dare leave the room to buy something to eat. Instead he sat and thought about the immediate future, his concentration broken by the demands of his stomach. He fervently hoped that the Clansman had been one of the betrayers, that he could justify killing him to release poor pretty Seranna from that stinking room and send her back to her village. It would give an extra edge to his revenge.

Hours passed and the sun was westering before the door opened and the old woman appeared. She fixed Aron with a gaze that was slightly out of focus. “He was there -. I hope you get the girl out.” Then the door closed, leaving Aron alone.

“Tonight, gods I can’t believe it. I’ll be ready. What do you want me to do?” said Roger. The flesh around his eyes was still slightly puffy and yellow; his fingers worked but had lost much of their former strength, and the wound in his side was healing well.

“All you need to do is to get him out of his lair and I’ll take care of the rest.

Simeon are the horses your father promised going to appear?”

“Yes, yes of course. What time do you need them?” The lad’s words fell over each other in his excitement.

“An hour before the city gates close. Pack more than enough supplies for the ride to Fox Hollow. You may be pursued and end up a long way off your road. I’ll try to minimise pursuit but I can’t promise. And don’t forget some clothes for the girl. She can’t ride far in what she’ll be wearing.”

“Are you sure you can handle this?” The new voice cut across their conversation. Aron turned. Simeon’s father stood in the doorway. “Sure enough,” Aron replied calmly.

“I have a number of caravan guards standing idle just at the moment if you need a little help.”

“I suppose that it would be no harm if they were to drink in the Sailor’s Ease this evening, but please remind them that this is a matter of blood.”

“I wondered why you’re doing this,” Simeon’s father said quietly

“Darien.” Aron spoke the single word and was silent for a moment. “And why do you not forbid this?”

The older man did not answer immediately. “I knew a girl once and I didn’t know anyone like you then.”

Aron, Roger and Simeon walked, leading the horses down the hill from the prosperous areas of Oxport towards the Swamp. No-one spoke as they walked through the evening, the lanterns haloed as the mist rose from the wetlands beyond the city wall. Simeon and Roger halted the horses around the corner from The Sailor’s Ease. As Aron kept walking towards the tavern, he gave one tug of adjustment to the mail shirt beneath his tunic and stepped through the door. The taproom was only half full with the usual clientele, plus a group of six tough-looking men who sat quietly not drinking much from the table full of mugs before them. Seranna stood beside the stairs next to the Saxishman. She looked up as Aron walked into the room and broke into a broad smile, her eyes unnaturally wide in her face. At that moment Aron knew he was doing the right thing. He nodded once to her as his gaze swept over the Clansman beside her; if the man recognised Aron he gave no hint of it. Aron turned and strode out into the night back to Roger and Simeon, his nerves wound tight. “Go just inside, she’s waiting and she’ll come to you. Don’t delay. There’s nothing I can do if you don’t get her outside. Right, on your way.”

“I won’t see you after if this works. How can I thank you?” said Roger, his voice shaking.

“Call your son Aron, now go.”

Roger walked slowly towards the Sailor’s Ease. Aron eased his sword in its scabbard and tried to focus his mind as Roger disappeared through the door. A few breaths only passed before Roger reappeared half dragging Seranna. They were only five paces clear of the door when the guard emerged bellowing guttural oaths, a naked blade in his left hand. Aron smiled with relief, drew his own blade and stepped forward to block the Clansman’s path as Roger and Seranna ran past towards the horses Simeon held. The Clansman slid to a halt as Aron levelled his sword at the man’s throat.

“Get out of the way peasant.” The man’s accent twisted the words into almost unrecognisable shapes. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Darien.” Aron spoke clearly, his eyes not shifting from his opponent. The clansman’s eyes widened with surprise and recognition. The witch had been right. “I see you remember. I want you to know what you’re dying for.”

The clansman swore an oath in reply and swung a blow at Aron who blocked it firmly and flicked out a riposte that left a trickle of blood running down his opponent’s face. There was no need to hurry; it would buy the fugitives more time and the man didn’t deserve to die quickly. There was no reason to believe that the Darien garrison had died quickly.

The clansman was really quite a competent swordsman. He didn’t overextend on his thrusts and parried firmly, he never put all his strength into a move and so retained his balance. It wasn’t enough though. Aron was always a touch faster in his moves, always a shade ahead in anticipation, and the Saxishman was bleeding from half a dozen wounds after five minutes. He was good enough to know he was overmatched, and desperation entered his bladework as he began to tire; desperation seeking an opening against the odds. No opening came. A crowd gathered, partisan cheers began to ring out, with roars of encouragement and appreciation at every move. Wagers were offered and accepted. This was a far better duel than the Swamp normally offered.

Aron emptied his mind, just as he had been taught, of all except his opponent. Nothing mattered, nothing intruded. The Clansman started to slow, his counters slightly late, the co-ordination a little ragged as sweat dripped down his face and his breathing laboured. It was time for the kill. Aron began to increase the tempo, moving onto the offensive, pushing his man back waiting for the mistake. The mistake came and Aron killed him. It was that simple. The Clansman was a fraction of a second slow in blocking a thrust to his stomach and Aron’s blade skewered him. He gasped in pain, clasping his hands over his abdomen where dark blood was beginning to soak through his jerkin. Aron tugged his blade free, blood gushed, a blank dark stare entered the man’s eyes. He died in the mud gurgling and spitting curses. Aron put away his own sword, picked up the dead man’s blade and walked away, the crowd parting to let him through.

Aron kept walking up the hill, away from the swamp, a fierce glow of satisfaction burning within him.. “That’s one more of the traitors has paid the price father,” he said softly then muttered prayers to the soldiers’ god, one in thanks for his own survival and a second to honour his father’s shade. Later he would seek out a shrine and light a candle to offer more thanks; he offered no prayers for the dead clansman.

A servant, eyes full of questions, opened the door of Simeon’s house to him and showed him into a sitting room. Aron sat before the fire, closed his eyes and tried to let all the tension drain from him, washing him clean of the experience. Ten minutes passed before Simeon returned. He rushed into the sitting room and flung his arms around Aron declaring “You were magnificent, absolutely faultless. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“You shouldn’t have been there. You were to return here directly they were away in case things went wrong.” Aron was too tired to be truly angry. Things hadn’t gone wrong and he knew that he would have stayed to watch the outcome if he’d been in Simeon’s shoes. “Just fetch me a drink will you, a good strong one.” A drink was fetched and Aron contented himself with staring into the depths of the fire as Simeon prattled on until the door opened and Simeon’s father stepped into the room, extending his right hand. Aron reached out his own hand, the older man gripped it firmly. “Very impressive young man. My caravan guards say you’re an excellent swordsman.”

Aron didn’t know what to say so he said “Thank you.”

“I think it might be a good idea if you were to stay beneath my roof for a few days, just until the dust settles.”

Aron accepted gratefully. This was more than he’d hoped for. The solid walls of merchant’s villa offered much better shelter than he would find in the swamp and the clansman may have had more friends than he’d counted. He wondered about the girl Simeon’s father had referred to and guessed that the story had ended badly.

So Aron took up temporary residence in a fine house in the best district of Oxport and Simeon found his time filled with extra lessons. Nothing is for nothing, after all. During this time the merchant’s intelligence network provided two pieces of information; firstly a message arrived from Fox Hollow concerning the return of two young people, secondly four Saxish riders passed into the city through the east gate. Aron was pleased by the first piece, though he wondered for a moment how Seranna would settle back in to life in her quiet village and greatly interested by the second. He thought it most unlikely their arrival was a coincidence, blood feuds being a central part of Saxish life, and pressed the merchant to find out all he could of their doings. It’s nigh certain they too were betrayers of Darien, he thought with a smile. And I don’t have to scour the High Kingdom for them. The next few weeks promised to be more of a challenge than tutoring the pampered sons of Oxport.

Life passed quietly for the next five days with no news of the Saxishmen and, as the uneventful days slipped by, an unease grew within Aron that all was not well, like the dark finger of cloud hanging on the horizon that presages a summer storm. He started seeing movements out of the corner of his eye that resolved into nothing when he turned his head. Dark shadows crept across the floor as he lay in his bed and he took to sleeping with a lit candle by his bedside and a knife under the pillow. None of this disturbed him as much as the constant feeling that some malevolent being was watching him; a feeling he was quite unable to dispel.

Aron was three steps down the stairs when it happened. He felt a firm shove between the shoulder blades and then he was falling. He managed to break the fall partially by rolling, but he still hit the ground with a solid thump that drove the breath from his body and left his ears ringing. He had heard no-one behind him and there was certainly no-one to be seen on the stairs. Servants hurried to aid him having heard the tumble and soon Aron was the centre of attention being offered poultices for his bruises and a glass of spirit for the shock. Aron took the spirit but it did little to calm his nerves; the feeling of malevolent presence was stronger than ever.

Aron took much more notice of his surroundings from then on. Never before superstitious he developed a sharp aversion to walking under ladders or anywhere near loads on hoists; stairs took much longer to negotiate than his previous three steps at a time and nothing on earth would get him close to the edge of a drop. It was difficult continuing teaching his classes which had expanded with an influx of new pupils. Pleading damage from his fall, he no longer sparred, but watched as the pupils faced each other.

It is impossible to remove yourself from all sources of peril if you are going to continue some semblance of normal life so the menace persisted. Aron’s heightened awareness and sharp reactions in the street saved him from a fall of roof tiles. Four times horses shied and kicked close beside him, and each time he managed to step aside. His nerves, however, suffered and, acutely aware of every tiny sound in the night, he barely slept. Every situation presented a threat, there was in truth nowhere safe. He felt angry and humiliated in equal measure by his vulnerability and at times wondered if he was going mad. Reluctantly he was driven to the conclusion that he had no other option and went down into the Swamp to the house behind a bakery.

“Ah, the young killer from Darien. I didn’t think to see you again - what brings you to my door?” The dark eyes twinkled at Aron through the quarter-open door.

“I have a problem. Something is stalking me.” He spoke, quietly looking directly into her eyes.

“So kill him.”

“Something not someone. That makes it your area of speciality.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder, the alleyway was empty.

“’Something you can’t handle, hey. So you’d better come in.” The door swung fully open, filling Aron with relief. He had brought all the coin he possessed to try to persuade her and if she had refused him then he did not know what he would have done.