Chapter 8
Mac Anu is running as fast as he can. As fast as he can with
a rolled carpet over his shoulder. As fast as he can with a
carpet over his shoulder, filled in the center by a girl; at
least it sounds like a girl. As fast as he can with a stolen
hostage on his shoulder, while trying to evade the Calastian
army.
Mac Anu is running as fast as he can.
*****
Minister Fratreli is smiling. He climbs the narrow staircase
leading up to his office. The stairs are steeper than normal,
and the passage is very narrow; too narrow for swinging a weapon.
It is a stairway that hampers quick movement, each step a little
taller than normal, and not all the same height. Of course,
coming down was always easier than going up, but in this case,
the stairs provided a true advantage to anyone at the top trying
to defend himself.
Fratreli likes the stairs. They took some getting use to of
course, and required some patients, but they served situations
well. In fact he saw the stairs as an example of how to deal
with Calastian officials, and most of his enemies.
Anyone attempting to assassinate Fratreli would discover the
stairs; their odd shapes, and heights, and the narrowness of
the passage going up the side of his family home to the office
on the third floor, Anyone with an adequate level of tactical
knowledge would recognize that someone coming down the stairs
had more than the normal advantages. They would recognize that
going to the roof and breaking in through a window, left the
stairway as an advantageous escape route. A would-be assassin
would see the stairs as a problem that had to be neutralized.
They never notice the ceiling.
Dealing with Calastia was much the same way. You design a slightly
hidden problem for them, something that flickers at the corner
of their eye, something that is cunning, and puzzling. Once
they discover it, they'll never notice the ton of bricks.
Take Commander Vashin, for example. Right now he has probably
woken up all three of the Battle Mages stationed at the Embassy
demanding that they discover the magical apparatus or hidden
observation rooms which allowed Fratreli to see the girl. They
are tearing apart walls and searching through ceilings, and
probably even removing stones from the floor. All in vain. They
won't find the device, which will prove to Vashin, that it is
there. The idea of being watched will gnaw at him, and he is
certainly not a safe man to gnaw on.
Fratreli reaches the top of his stairs and opens the outer
door. There are three doors he has to go through to get to his
office. Each ante-chamber office has a slightly higher level
of security, but nothing elaborate, or expensive. Fratreli doesn't
believe in relying on static forms of security, such as alarms
and traps. A good thief or assassin is fluid, and chaotic. Therefore,
security measures should be as well.
None of the security measures are set right now anyway, and
all of the doors are unlocked. He half expected to actually
see the half-elf girl, Elaine, sitting in his office when he
got there. The other half of that expectation was that Vashin
killed her in a rage. Commander Vashin wasn't very stable once
his cart was knocked over.
He opens his office door, and looks inside, a little surprised
to see the shape of a young woman standing near his desk, looking
out the window. "By the breast of Enkili" he thought,
closing the door, and then catching just the hint of a very
familiar scent. The scent has been engraved on his mind since
childhood. A scent few people ever have a chance to remember.
It wasn't unpleasant, not really, but it was very distinctive,
bringing to mind burnt citrus and rose petals. It was the scent
of a poison called Blood and Tears, said to be used by the Ancients.
That he caught the scent told him he was safe. It was a warning,
not a warning of danger, but of presence. It was like scuffing
your shoe on the ground as you come up behind someone that you
know doesn't see you coming, so as to not startle them. A polite
gesture.
"Lianca, it is good to see you." Fratreli said, pulling
his jacket off without turning around from the door to face
her, exposing his back.
"Is it?" The woman said.
"Of course." Fratreli said, "They tell me that
if you are seen, then you are safe."
"Do they?" The woman asked, still not looking away
from the window. The view from that window is spectacular, up
on the center hill as they are, but Lianca's eyes are looking
down on the street below.
"And to whom do I owe this pleasure?" Fratreli asked,
walking around his desk and sitting down. She was paid to be
here. Lianca didn't do much without being paid to do it, and
waiting for him to arrive at his office this late at night,
was costing someone a small fortune. He struck a tinder stick
and put the flame to his desk lamps, sending warm orange light
into the expensively furnished, but tactfully sparse office.
Lianca turns and looks at Fratreli sitting in his plush high
backed swivel chair, not two feet from her, "I'm not at
liberty to say."
Fratreli has known Lianca since she was a child. She is as
thin and muscularly defined as a knife fighter, though she can
relax her muscles enough to appear as soft as a noble woman.
Her control over the shape of her eyes, and the muscles of her
face is truly remarkable. With a few moments of concentration,
her eyes can appear as round as a desert woman's, or sharp as
a Calastian's. Her lips can become full, or thin, and she can
raise and lower the lines of her cheeks.
As she was now, as Fratreli knew her, she is not beautiful,
nor plain. Passing her on the street, and trying to remember
her description later, would be difficult. She would look like
someone's sister, or cousin. Her hair is shoulder length, and
black, with highlights of brown. Though not cut in a fashionable
way, it has the sheen of mink. Her dark eyebrows are not plucked
or shaped, but they are not bushy either. Her entire appearance
borders on the edge of every woman in Shelzar. Minor changes
to any aspect, and she would appear like someone else, someone
expected.
She is a woman no man would feel embarrassed to be seen with
on his arm in any part of the city, and yet the idea of getting
her out of her clothes would not be the goal of the evening.
While these physical aspects of hers are certainly an edge,
in her career, they are not required. The training she acquired
over the years took her natural gifts and improved them beyond
imagination, even Fratreli's imagination. She was a perfect
assassin, in just about every way.
"So, why are you here?" Fratreli asked, leaning forward
to select a thin crystal decanter from a silver tray holding
three others and pouring himself a small glass of wine. He lifted
a questioning eyebrow and shrugged the decanter slightly in
her direction. She shook her head 'no', so he placed it back
in the silver desk rack and relaxed back into his chair. "Or
are you not at liberty to say that either?"
"I'm to kill anyone who kills you." Lianca replied,
and looks out the window briefly. "Your man is still across
the street, in that alley. Does this mean that you are expecting
the Calastian Ambassador to really show up with the girl?"
"I expect him to show up," Fratreli replied, "but
I'm not really sure whether he'll have the girl with him or
not. It isn't required." He takes a sip of his wine, his
mind rapidly moving around this event, trying to put the new
pieces where they belong, trying to see where the picture is
changing. "So you are my bodyguard then?"
The smile that blesses her lips is short, and sardonic. "The
stipulation that you needed to survive the encounter,"
She said, "was not specified, so I don't believe that body
guard would be the right term."
*****
Mac Anu is running as fast as he can.
He can no longer hear the shouts from the main street and the
park, where angry Shelzari are gathered throwing rocks and bottles
at the Embassy. For a few minutes there was the sound of heavy
boots behind them, and three heavy bolts had blazed by his head,
hammering into the wood or stone of a wall as he passed. He
didn't know if they are still behind them or not, he can't turn
to see with his burden on his shoulder, and it is starting to
annoy him.
Naill is behind him, easily keeping pace. He trusts her. Crystalis
is just ahead of him, and somewhere ahead of her is Tunk and
Lasher. Why Tunk was not carrying the burden Mac Anu didn't
know. He is obviously larger, though not taller than Mac Anu.
The size of the man's arms and shoulders are nearly on the same
scale as the Urkadan tribesmen.
Crystalis is slightly taller than Naill, and her flowing red
hair is easy to follow. He doesn't trust her. He wonders briefly
if she and Tunk are lovers, or just partners, but he doesn't
trust her.
Her hand suddenly shoots out, palm flat, signaling him to stop.
The extra weight of live girl on his shoulder makes the maneuver
more difficult that it normally would have been and he bumps
into her. She turns quickly with the angry look professionals
give armatures when they can't do something simple; like come
to a dead stop from a full run while the military is on your
tail and you are carrying a captured woman. But true to her
professional stature, the look is gone as quickly as it surfaced.
"We're going to get across this street, down the alley
and then into a cellar." She whispered. "Got it?"
Mac Anu let the question just hang there. He didn't like the
look of it; just acknowledging such a question seemed to bring
his status down even further.
"We're not hiding in a cellar." Naill said bluntly.
"They'll sniff us out in minutes."
"There's a tunnel." Crystalis whispered.
"Okay." Naill said, seeming satisfied. Mac Anu smiles.
This was why he like her. Simple, clear thinking, and limited
responses. She was the first woman he had ever been with for
more than a day that made him seem like a chatter box.
Crystalis looks around the corner again, and starts to remove
her jacket and then her shirt.
Mac Anu thinks about asking what she is doing, but decides
to readjust the girl on his shoulder instead. If she wants to
take her clothes off, that's okay with him. After all, this
is Shelzar.
With her jacket and shirt off, she quickly folds them up, and
tosses the bundle on the roof behind Mac Anu's head. She is
now wearing a thin, silk garment, that looks very close to what
he has seen some of the dancer women. The sheerness of the fabric
covers every feature, and hides nothing. Mac Anu feels the sudden
need to readjust the girl on his shoulder again. Crystalis looks
up at him with river blue eyes and smiles, then turns to look
around the corner again.
"Let's go!" she says in a whispered shout, and bolts
across the street into the alleyway.
Neither Mac Anu nor Naill hesitate.
Once across they quickly run down the alleyway for three houses,
and then cut into a backyard. There Tunk is waiting for them,
holding open a cellar door with one hand, and a rather wicked
looking steel whip in the other. Why he believes a whip, even
a steel one, is a good weapon of choice against a military pursuit,
Mac Anu can't guess, and doesn't waist time on. He runs past
Tunk, and down the stairs, right on the heels of Tunk's half
naked, extremely attractive partner.
Once down the stairs he blinks his eyes rapidly to adjust them
to the darkness. Tunk follows Naill down, his bulk making little
sound on the old wooden cellar stairs.
"Get the tunnel open Tunk, I got the door." Lasher's
voice said from Mac Anu's right. He turns slightly to look past
his bundle, and is just able to see the older man's outline
in the darkness of the room.
Mac Anu sets the girl down off his shoulder and starts feeling
for the knots of the binding ropes.
"Leave her." Lasher said, "She's safer as she
is."
"Who is she?" Mac Anu asked.
"Later." Lasher replied.
"No, now." Mac Anu demands. If he is going to die
carrying this girl, he wants to know who she is.
"Someone She wants safe." Lasher answers.
The emphasis on 'She' is self explanatory, and ends
any further objections. If Drendari wants her safe, that is
enough.
"You might have mentioned we are going to be abducting
someone tonight." Naill said.
"I didn't know until it happened." Lasher admits,
with just a hint of apology in his voice.
"Let's go." Tunk says from the far wall. A few boxes
are moved away from the wall and a small tunnel is now open.
"We're going to be tunnel jumping from here." Lasher
explains, as Mac Anu lifts the girl back on his shoulder. He
can hear small moans from inside the carpet cocoon. Being hauled
around like this could not be comfortable. "We'll be cutting
through several homes, down into tunnels from one place, out
again from another, working our way back out of Old City, and
on to safer ground. We'll split up then, you two will take the
girl back to Helen's house. The three of us will go underground
for a few days, and maybe even out of the city."
Lasher steps up to Mac Anu, "Don't leave Helen's house
for at least three days. Word is being sent ahead, she'll understand
the stakes against you before you arrive. A few people from
the temple will come over to look in on you. If they come to
the door, they'll have a message from Tess. It will be a color,
written on an ingot of silver. It won't matter what the color
is, blue, green, purple, whatever. If the color is red however,
you are to leave at once. Get out of the city, with the girl,
as fast as you can."
"Helen has three children." Naill says, the accusation
in her voice is evident to everyone.
"I know that." Lasher says, not unkindly. "It
can't be helped. They'll be safe as long as you do what I tell
you. We are known, and probably being tracked. You two are not,
and there isn't time to setup a safe house for you. You get
to ground, and you stay out of sight, they have nothing to go
on."
"Where do we go?" Mac Anu asks. "If the color
is red, where do we go?"
"North." Lasher answers, turning to start down the
tunnel, "Because if you go south you'll drown."
*****
Vangal's Edge is a pit with stadium chairs around it. The ceiling
is open to the sky, covered by sheets of white canvas, which
look like squared up sails. Heilan scans the crowd as he walks
in, looking for someone that appears to be the second in command
of the largest crime cartel of the Ghelspad.
The cries and cheers inside the building are deafening. Even
dwarves aren't this loud. Men are dressed in finery. Jewels
sparkle on raised and angry fists. Gold fills the gaps of broken
smiles. Silk and woolen hats are thrown down to the wooden decks,
and even tossed into the pit where the fighters perform.
Huge amounts of money is changing hands.
On the law books, gladiator games are illegal in Shelzar. The
sport is an underground indulgence. Most of the events are held
in empty warehouses, and some of the larger basements of expansive
buildings. Vangal's Edge is a bit different. It wasn't high
class, but it didn't really hide what was going on here either.
The Cartel probably paid a great deal of money every month to
keep the place open.
Two nights a week Vangal's edge has five matches. The matches
begin on the first bell after sunset, then one on each of the
next four bells. Between those days, the fighters who are elite
enough to fight in the pit of Vangal's Edge, are the guests,
celebrities and prizes of the rich and notorious. And then,
on those two nights, the rich and notorious come to Vangal's
edge to watch their celebrities, and to wager on who might win,
loose or die.
The citizens of Shelzar are not the type that enjoys bloodbaths.
The gladiator games which have wild beasts tearing apart the
helpless or near helpless has no appeal to them. Matches against
warriors armed with swords or axes, are also of little appeal.
However, a knife fight between two evenly matched warriors is
a different story.
The building is oval shaped. Three tiers of seating areas are
connected to the ground floor by an assortment of stairways
and ladders. The pit in the center is circular, and roughly
ten feet deep. The walls of the pit are a dark solid wood, with
ladders at each end. The fighters normally jump into the arena,
and then use the ladders to climb back out, if they are able
too. The rules are simple. Each fighter enters with a single
dagger. A crippling blow, or death ends the match. The matches
never last very long.
Heilan scanned the tiers. There are many men around the arena
who have body guards, and entourages of servants as women.
"Excuse me." He said to a passing servant girl, carrying
a tray of ale glasses.
She looks at him with the indifference of a barmaid who is
rushed. She sees a body, a head, and the hand which is reaching
for payment, but she doesn't see him. The fourth match is over,
and the crowds are buying drinks and making demands, his is
just another of many. "What's your pleasure." she
asks with a voice forced to be interested.
"Where is Domanar sitting tonight?" He asks. He has
only the vaguest description of the man. He is not going to
find him in this crowd without some help.
The waitress is much more alert now, the question cuts through
the fabric of apathy, a brief flash of fear glides across her
eyes. "Second tier, right above you." She tells him,
and walks quickly away before he can give her the copper he
has ready.
Heilan watches her retreat, to see if she makes any attempt
to tell someone else that he is asking about Domanar. She's
much more interested in getting out of the crowd and behind
the stands as quickly as possible. No one else around him seems
to notice his exchange with her.
There is a wide stairway to his left, and a ladder to his right.
He chooses the stairs and makes his way through the crowd. Clips
of conversations wash past at various volumes. Most of the people
he passes are interested in the money they have won or lost.
There are few comments on the fight that had just happened.
It was over. There is nothing to discuss. This is a typical
human trait, Heilan believes. If
Domanar is a lean man, dressed in tailored silk of dark blue
and purple. His goatee is trimmed short, and the thin mustache
manicured. His hair is dark, almost black. The eyes are cold
green. He is taller than Heilan, and his hands are long and
thin; the hands of an artist. He covers those with light gray
gloves. The gray gloves are thin, nearly transparent. He appears
to be a man who smiles a great deal, and enjoys his life. By
human standards, he is probably hansom.
Beside him is a knife fighter, a woman. She was deadly. He
has never seen or talked to a knife fighter, but just looking
at her, he can tell her only thoughts are on death, how to deal
it, and how to avoid it. There is a glow in her eyes, and he
guesses that she has already fought her match and won. She is
now back with her master, but aches to be inside the arena.
Domanar's area is sectioned off by gray woven ropes, attached
to silver poles. The ten by twenty foot area has just enough
room for five chairs and a table which sits in front of him
with deserts, fruits and wine decanters laid out for display
as much as consumption. On each side of this private area, cut
from a sea of public chaos, two bodyguards stand like statues,
warning those that come too close to the ropes of solitude.
Heilan walks up to the guards. They are the gatekeepers, so
he directs his attention to them. They are alert, and do not
distract easily, even in this environment. His direct path to
them is noticed, but they continue to scan the crowd as well.
The knife fighter notices him as well, and her eyes are only
for him. The focus she projects is nearly palpable.
"I request to talk to Domanar." Heilan says, not
wasting any time.
"Are you expected?" The guard asks.
"Do you know who I am?" Chances are the guard does.
There were few elves in this land who are not cursed, and fewer
still wearing a royal crest on his neck.
"You are the elf known as Heilan. I don't know your family
name." The guard says, revealing that he has some knowledge
of elf culture, and is willing to not offend him.
Heilan smiles, "Then chances are, he's expecting me."
The guard turns his head to Domanar. The other guard steps
back slightly, his hand coming to his hilt. Yes, they know him,
or know of him, Heilan thinks. They are good. One turns his
head, putting him in a vulnerable position, the other covers.
Both guards are wearing fine leather armor, with long swords
at their sides.
The swords are Peace-Kept, the seals are unbroken. In the city
of Shelzar, weapons other than daggers must be Peace-Kept if
they are to be carried. The swords are wired to the sheaths,
and a hard clay seal is stamped into the wire. If the sword
is drawn, the seal is broken. If your seal is broken, then you
are in a great deal of trouble. If your seal is broken and there
is a dead body at your feet, then it had better be self-defense.
You will still have to pay the fine, but at least you won't
be working as an indentured servant for the rest of your life.
Shelzar did not have the death penalty. Various amputation
punishments were available. Rape, for example was punished by
the amputation of the appendage that performed the rape.
The legal system of Shelzar would send any citizen of Hendrada
into seizures. There were available fines for everything. Deals
could always be made. Shelzar paid homage to those who earned
wealth. And this was the reason Shelzar had no death penalty.
Why waste an asset?
Domanar looked over at his guard, sized in Heilan, and gave
a slight nod, then returned to his conversation with the blond
young woman sitting across the table. He is telling her to move
away, that he needs to speak with this elf. She looks at Heilan,
smiles politely and excuses herself in a dignified manner, as
if she was just jilted from court, and perhaps she was. Heilan
is not familiar with the complicated aspects of social life
in this city. Formalities were fluid, as well as structures.
Those who understood the currents, prospered, those that didn't,
drown.
Heilan sits down, and accepts the offered glass of wine, glancing
at his jeweled ring as he does. The ring remains silent, so
he takes a sip. His back is to the arena, which is fine. He
is more interested in keeping an eye on the knife fighter, and
her master.
"The wine is good." he says, setting the glass down
again.
"Coming from one of the Tera Vi, that is an amazing complement."
Domanar takes a sip from his own glass.
"You know why I am here." Heilan said. It was not
a demand. He chooses the inflection of not wanting to waist
Domanar's valuable time with obvious conversation.
"I do, but I am curious as to why you believe if I could
help you, that I would." Domanar's tone is civil. He left
the door open to curiosity and curtsy. Enlighten me, he was
saying, or at the very least, amuse me.
"I thought that would be obvious, I apologize. Perhaps
I have been informed about certain aspects of this situation
you have overlooked, or were not informed of." Heilan said.
The Cartel did a great deal of business with Calastia as a
whole, and Vashon directly. Heilan knew that they had more than
a passing acquaintance with several Penumbrals. Edrin and Heilan
were not welcome guests. However, the Tera Vi were.
"Do you mean the information that Commander Vashin insists
on smuggling this girl out of the city to Calastia? Or are you
referring to his insistence that she be executed as a war criminal,
a spy." Domanar asked.
So, she is at the embassy, and she is still alive. That is
good. He touched a nerve there. Domanar is not as cool as his
appearance.
"No, I was sure someone in your position would have that
information, and probably directly from the Commander himself.
He is after all, only a Commander." Heilan says, taking
up his glass again. Let him guess. Make him sound obvious. The
next one that speaks looses.
Heilan isn't good at these games, but he has been around Edrin
all of his life. Edrin had to learn the pen and tongue long
before he could learn the sword. Heilan needed information,
not assistance. This man had the information, or knew where
to get it. If he didn't know either, he might make something
up. No matter which, Domanar knew more about the powers in Shelzar,
and their reaction to this situation than he did. Even his guesses
were more valuable than what Heilan had now.
The next person who speaks, looses.
If Heilan now offered information, Domanar would know what
Heilan was aware of. If Domanar spoke, then Heilan would get
another glimpse at Shelzar's world, from the eyes of one of
her masters. It was an old game, and unfortunately, a salesman's
game.
"Perhaps you could enlighten me yourself." Domanar
evaded after a longer than polite pause. "You want the
girl, or at least you think you do."
Domanar was no fool, he knew the game, and grew up playing
it where the stakes were always dire. Heilan watched it played,
his battles were with steel.
Okay, stick to what you know.
"Your knife fighter is impressive." Heilan said,
glancing at the woman. She was little more than a girl really,
but her eyes were old.
"She won her match against a much stronger opponent earlier."
Domanar said, with a small hint of pride. The fighter's eyes
were still completely focused on Heilan. Every move, every breath,
every heart beat. She saw his physical nature completely.
"Would you say that politics in Shelzar are much like
a knife fight?" Heilan asked.
"There have been several books written on that topic,
and I agree with some of it." Domanar answers. "However,
where these writers fail is, in a knife fight you strive to
survive, surpass and to kill. In politics, the death of your
opponent does you little good."
"You mean that it invites other players into the game."
Heilan said.
"Quite so. Blood feuds; distraught family members hiring
assassins; that sort of thing. Breaking them is much better.
No one hires an assassin to avenge their father's pride."
Domanar says with a curl of his lip.
A bell rings. The tone announces the starting of the next round.
The crowds quiet down, a collective anticipation sweeps through
the mood.
"I have a fighter in this match." Domanar says in
an even voice.
"Our conversation can of course wait. This is important
as well." Heilan says, feeling grateful that he can take
a moment to think through what he has learned thus far. It wasn't
much, but he felt like it was more. He feels like he is missing
something.
Heilan watches the match with only a casual interest as the
two fighters stand on each side of the pit, salute one another
and jump inside. He turns so he could see the match, but keep
his eyes on Domanar, and his knife fighter. He notices the body
guards continue to watch every shadow and movement of the crowd
around them. The knife fighter keeps her eyes on him. She never
looks away, and blinks rarely.
Domanar is well guarded at this event. Heilan is not here to
kill him, or even injure him. Domanar is only a starting point,
and he has as much as he is going to get out of the man. Perhaps
more than he knows. However, if he was here to kill Domanar,
it would be a tough assignment. Killing him might be easy, but
getting back out of here alive was problematic.
Domanar's knife fighter looses his match. The match didn't
last long, perhaps a minute, or just a little more. His fighter
is now laying on his back, with a knife wound in his forehead.
Heilan saw the killing blow and was amazed it landed. Domanar's
fighter seemed better than that, it was like he committed suicide.
Apparently most of the crowd agrees with his assessment. They
are subdued, and a little wonder struck. Glasses are being set
down, coats and company gathered. Vangal's Edge is clearing
out into the night, seeking other distractions.
Domanar throws down a white linen napkin and turns to say something
to his knife fighter. Her eyes are only seeing Heilan. Domanar
thinks better of it, and looks back at his dead fighter in the
arena.
He looks at Heilan, as if remembering he is there. "Our
conversation has been boring. You should leave." He says.
"The city."
"I'll be here for some time." Heilan responds, standing
up.
"Then you will probably die here." Domanar says,
his anger cracking through the civilized clothes and thin gray
gloves, "and so will that half-breed whore. I'll see to
it myself."
"Not a wise thing to say." Heilan suggests.
"Really." Domanar whispers, "Ashi, kill him."
Ashi's speed is amazing. She is like the wire of a crossbow
that has just been triggered. There is no hesitation. She simply
fires. It is not a bolt, but a knife that blurs through the
air at Heilan's chest.
Heilan didn't fall. He doesn't have a knife in his chest. Ashi
stares at him in wonder for a brief moment, and then sees that
her master has a dagger in his forehead, and is falling backwards
in his chair from the force of the blow.
Ashi looks back at Heilan; already the guard from behind him
is thrusting forward with his longsword into Heilan's back.
She spots the dagger in Heilan's left hand, her dagger. She
looks back at her master's falling body, trying to piece it
together as Heilan twists his hips slightly. The longsword cleaves
through his cloak, and passes harmlessly between his left arm
and his chest.
The dagger in Domanar's forehead is not her's, though it looked
like her's for a moment. She thought he had blocked the throw,
but instead he somehow caught her dagger and threw his own into
Domanar.
She looks back at Heilan. He has turned and is finishing an
attack, using her dagger to slice the first guard from his crotch
to his throat. Her blade cuts through the leather armor like
it doesn't exist. The elf throws the corpse into his approaching
partner. The two other guards are closing in, rushing past Ashi.
She looks back to her master. He's on the floor now, staring
at the ceiling, starring at what only the dead can see.
Heilan kicks the table up and hooks it into the path of the
other two rushing guards. He disarms the one entangled with
his dead partner, breaking his wrist. The man screams, and falls
under the weight of the dead body. Blood gushes from the dead
man when they hit the floor, the force popping open what the
tight leather armor was keeping closed.
Heilan throws the guard's sword into the first man past the
table. The gatekeeper, the one he talked to. The sword drives
through his chest reeling him backwards. Heilan moves forwards
with the throw, and takes the sword from the falling guard's
grip in time to parry the strike from the fourth guard. Keeping
his momentum, he pushes forward with his block, forcing the
other guard to use his left arm to strengthen his defense. Heilan
takes the opening and slices his throat with Ashi's dagger.
He has my dagger, Ashi thinks in dumb horror, he's fighting
with my dagger.
Heilan glanced at her as he crossed the once sectioned off
area to the guard who is getting up from under his dead partner's
corpse. "Die or witness." Heilan commands, still moving
forward. The man is unarmed. He looks at Domanar's body. There
was nothing to guard any longer.
"Witness." he says, and continues to get up. It is
a warrior's offer, and a warrior's choice. There is no shame
in it. The battle is over, and lost.
Heilan halts his attack and waits for him to get his feet.
"Tell them I'm coming for the girl. As far as I'm concerned,
she is a princess of the Tera Vi. Stay out of my way or die."
The guard nods his head. "Anything else?" He asks.
"Nothing. I have no interest in this city other than the
girl." Heilan says.
The guard nods again. Then bows, and turns to leave.
Heilan watches him go for a moment and then looks around the
arena. The second tier is almost empty. Spectators are pushing
down the stairs and ladders as fast as they can. A high member
of the Cartel is dead; they don't want to be associated with
the event.
The dagger in his left hand is vibrating, as if it's alive.
He can feel desire coming through its hilt. It is covered in
blood. He looks at Ashi.
Ashi trembles. He has her dagger. He survived the attack and
took her dagger. There is nothing she can do. She lifts her
eyes to his, hopeful, afraid, mesmerized as he twirls the dagger
in his hand, watching her.
He knows. Somehow he knows. Terror grips her throat. How could
he know? Oh goddess! Not like this!
"Your master is dead." Heilan says, looking at her
eyes. She nods her head, but is helpless to look away from the
flashing blade in his hand. It pulsates with her heartbeat.
"That makes you mine." Heilan continues. His voice
flat, emotionless. Again she nods. Yes, anything.
Heilan straightens the table and sets the knife down on its
surface. He's a little afraid of it. Weapons charged with magic
were not new to him. He owned several. But this was different.
It wasn't magic, it was something else. He heard rumors about
the knife fighters, the ones that were good, the ones that survived
in the pits long enough. It was said that they were bound to
their knives. Looking at the desperation on Ashi's face, a woman
who only moments ago had no fear of death, or killing, or anything
else on this world, he believes those rumors.
He doesn't want to torment the girl, but he needs answers,
and a guide. He watches her, unsure of his plan. She vibrates
with desperation, and terror. What she is afraid of he doesn't
know. Perhaps she is scared he will keep the dagger. It was
a good one, possibly the best he ever held.
If she got it back, would she keep her bond with him? She seeks
his eyes again, briefly, wondering. Trying to find some hint
of what he is going to do. There is no deceit in her. Cunning
yes, but no deceit. She doesn't hide her emotions, she's never
had to.
"You will help me find the girl I'm looking for, and obey
me until she is safe. After that, we will see to your future."
It wasn't a question. Ashi has a new master. She watches with
helpless joy as he picks up the dagger and presents it to her.
She steps forward, and takes the blade, feeling her soul rejoined.
"Yes, master." she whispers.
Heilan looks down at Domanar's corpse and realizes what it
was he missed. Domanar was not a politician, and neither are
the people that will be hunting him now. He didn't come here
to kill him, but that doesn't matter, the man is dead. News
that he is the one that killed the man will travel fast. The
Cartel will want retribution. They may go so far as to use the
girl. He needs to find her, much faster now. He can not afford
the softer ways.
"Come, we have work to do. I'll instruct you on the way."
He says, and she follows, putting her blade into the sheath
at her side. Ashi has no idea who he is, or what he is looking
for, but he will find it, she is sure of that.
