Too easy, David thought, the words bothering him. Nothing in his life had been easy so far. Why should anything be different tonight?
Further along the wall, Grigor raised a hand. Each member mirrored the signal.
As one, they crept forward, weapons at the ready.
The structures were small, but sturdy, their walls constructed of thick timber, the cracks filled with mortar. Solid oak doors barred each from entry. Wisps of smoke arose from dozens of chimneys, the promise of warmth in a land where winter days were cold and nights frigid.
Given the cloudy night and numerous structures, shadows were plentiful, which allowed the Blade to dart from dark space to dark space, unseen. Twice Torp stubbed his toe on the edge of a building or a rock and cursed, but the wind carried his voice away before it could reach any slumbering ear.
The only problem: All of the buildings looked the same. Finding Lord Norris wouldn’t be easy in a city like this.
Grigor stopped. “Any ideas?” he asked in a hushed tone.
“Knock on a door and ask for directions?” Torp suggested.
“Any ideas from someone other than Torp?” Grigor asked.
“Bastard.”
“Can I help that my father kept a mistress?”
That shut Torp up. A clever quip usually did. David said, “Even on a quiet night like this, he will have guards. The lord of a castle is always at risk of mutiny, especially in winter.”
Torp said, “This is no castle,” but Grigor was already nodding.
“We’ll split into two parties of four, search block by block. Whoever finds the lord is the winner. Meet back here before the green moon reaches its peak.”
David thanked the frozen gods of the north when he wasn’t matched with Torp. The man was worse than an ice bear blundering through a snowstorm. His foursome was comprised of Chaunce, a mischievous man who liked to keep track of the various ways he’d killed a man, Boor, a quiet type who did as he was told, and Mick, whose lips were nearly always pulled back into a jackal’s smile, especially in the midst of a battle.
The first block was uneventful and thick with shadows. No one spoke as they filed in a single line, David at their head. Though he was the youngest, they’d seen what he could do in battle.
The second block was much the same.
And the third.
David began to doubt himself. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe the lords of the east were so unpretentious that they lived amongst their people, unprotected, without fear of mutiny or uprising.
Perhaps the lords of the east were loved.
He peered around the corner to the fourth block, and his breath caught in his chest, a cold, icy stab.
Three guards stood outside one of the structures, breathing into their gloved hands and stamping their feet to keep warm.
“They each have a sword,” Chaunce said. And then: “I’ve never killed a man with his own sword before.”
“And you’re not going to now,” David said.
Chaunce grinned like he’d been joking, though it was clear he was not.
The guards were four houses down. One was smoking. One was talking nonstop. The third kept laughing and slapping his knees.
Smiling from ear to ear, Mick said, “I see blades strapped to their boots too. Watch out for those.”
“We’re not taking them out,” Boor said. David liked the man because he knew how to listen, which meant he understood most things before they were said aloud.
“What do you mean?” Chaunce said. “We’re the winners. To the victors, the spoils.”
“Lord Norris is the spoils,” David said. “Not his guards. We kill him and leave the rest unless absolutely necessary.” The thought of the eight men they’d already killed spread like a pool of blood in his mind.
“No one will even know we—”
“Lord Norris,” David said again.
Chaunce chewed his lip. Mick smiled. Boor nodded.
“Let’s go.” David pointed up.
No one grumbled, each man beginning to climb once more. Just another reason David was glad to be rid of Torp, who believed complaining was a lost art form.
The roofs were gabled, allowing the heavy snow to be pushed off before it could crush the structures below. Beneath the snow was a thin layer of ice. David scrabbled for purchase, eventually pressing his knife through the ice and into the wood.
“Killing the guards would be easier,” Chaunce pointed out, breathing heavily. Hanging with one arm, he fingered a half-dozen small knives strapped to his belt. They were meant for throwing, and David had seen the man hit enemies with pinpoint accuracy many times. Even from this strange angle, he was certain Chaunce could kill at least two of the three guards.
The third, however, would raise the alarm.
“We climb.”
So they did, cautiously making their way over the apex of the structure, and then sliding slowly down the other side. Each house shared a wall, so it was as easy as climbing again. Climb. Slide. Climb. Slide.
When they reached the target structure, they stopped.
David pointed to his ear before any of them could say anything. Wind whistled between the buildings. Somewhere, a dog barked. There were no other sounds. No voices.
David crept forward until he could peek one eye over the edge of the roof.
Shite, he thought.
The guards were gone.
“Maybe they got cold,” Chaunce said. “My man parts are frozen solid.”
David considered the possibility the guards had simply gone inside to warm up. Something about it didn’t feel right. Maybe they didn’t do things the same in the east as they did in the north, but he didn’t believe men would up and abandon their posts.
“They haven’t raised the alarm,” David said.
Mick nodded, his grin more of a sneer now. “We go in quick and professional. No one will be the wiser until morning light.”
David couldn’t argue with that. Boor remained silent, waiting for someone else to decide.
Something didn’t feel right, but David couldn’t pinpoint what.
“We’ll go through the back window,” he said.
Climbing down to the window was more difficult than climbing up, but eventually they managed to lower themselves far enough to look through the frosted windowpane. Dark curtains blocked further sight.
Chaunce made a motion like he would smash through the glass, but David shook his head. He reached over and dug his fingernails beneath the window frame. Slowly, he pried it open. It was unlatched. Wind bullied its way through the opening, the curtains fluttering.
In a single motion, David swung through the window, less concerned about making a little noise now, more concerned with speed.
The room was dark, but enough light spilled through the window that he could see the bed, chair, and table. No one sprang from the bed, a scream on their lips. No guards burst through the door, weapons flashing. No one moved, except for David’s comrades, who pushed in behind him.
David pressed a finger to his lips and pointed at the bed, where a long lump bulged beneath the bedcovers.
Too easy, David thought again, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest.
He approached silently, dimly aware of the snow tumbling from his boots, leaving a wet trail behind him. He raised his sword, wondering whether Lord Norris was a good or bad man.
In this moment, he wondered if it even mattered anymore. Was there such a thing as good and bad in war?
He brought the sword down with the muffled whump! stabbing right through the covers, judging where the man’s chest would be.
David had killed many men in his short sixteen years of life, and he knew when he’d been duped.
He threw back the covers to find three pillows laid in a row, the one in the middle a mess of feathers and slashed fabric.
That’s when the bells began to peal.
Footsteps thundered down below. Cries joined the howling wind. The sharp exclamation points of metal meet
ing metal clangored from the streets.
“We’ve got to move!” Chaunce said. Though there was fear in his voice, there was excitement too. He was a man who loved battle more than anything.
The footsteps drew nearer, pounding up the steps, which presumably led to a hall which led to the closed doorway to the very room they were in.
David’s mind ticked over the situation. Chaunce was already at the open window, the curtains swirling around him. He looked back expectantly. Mick was close at his heels. Boor was staring at David.
David said, “Our cover is blown. We are outnumbered. The hallway and staircase will even the odds.”
Boor nodded, drawing his sword, a gesture that said what his lips did not. I’m with you.
Foosteps. Louder. Harder. More frantic.
Chaunce narrowed his eyes, a gleam filling them. David could almost see the man picturing all the different ways he’d get to kill on this night. Mick’s grin was broad and toothy.
The enemy was so close now David could feel the floorboards vibrating beneath his feet.
He turned and opened the door, his swordmark burning in the center of his back.
The man hadn’t expected the door to open, his face awash with surprise as he tried to stop, his weapon—a large hammer—still swinging at his side. David used his momentum against him, stabbing his sword out like a spear. The man ran into the tip, his breath rushing out as the blade entered his gut. David wrenched the sword back, simultaneously kicking his foe back, where he crashed into the next man.
They sprawled to the floor, their arms and legs akimbo.
The third man was just behind them, as was the fourth, leaping over their fallen comrades, unleashing a pair of war cries so loud in the small space they were almost like weapons.
David had heard a lot of war cries over the last three years. None had changed the result.
He blocked the first slash on the broad side of his sword, pirouetting around him to meet the next foe with a kick to the groin. The man bent over in pain and David found a weak spot in his armor and ended him. Behind him he heard the sounds of a struggle, but didn’t turn. He trusted the other three to handle one man with ease.
Instead, he focused on the next two enemies, galloping from the staircase and onto the landing. They stopped, taking in their fallen allies with narrowed eyes.
“You’re trapped,” one of them said.
“So are you,” David said, and then he attacked.
He feinted left, launching a kick that crunched against the man’s knee, his leg buckling from the impact. His sword was moving the entire time, faster than should be possible for even the most expert of swordsmen.
His swordmark was fire, the tempest raging through his blood, his bones, his muscles.
The second enemy’s head bounced down the steps, glancing off the legs of other foes.
This was survival. Best me and I will die gladly, David thought, grabbing the man whose knee he’d shattered, hauling him to his feet.
I will go to meet my father. I will go to face him, an apology on my lips.
The man screamed in pain. David launched him down the staircase, his armor clattering against the other men, knocking them back. Perhaps half a dozen landed in a heap, while dozens more pushed in around them.
The tight space truly was evening the odds.
“Save some for me, will ya?” Chaunce said, sidling up beside him. Just as two of the men were trying to regain their feet, Chaunce flicked each of his wrists in short succession. The men fell back, a knife in their foreheads. “Never done two at once like that,” Chaunce said. “Next I’ll have to try three.”
“You can have three hundred if it gets us out of here,” David said, starting down the steps.
They moved slowly, one step at a time, killing as they went. They took turns at the front, so the others could catch their breaths. In the throes of his swordmark’s power, David didn’t really need to rest, but the other members of the Blade insisted.
Eventually, they won the staircase and moved into a larger room, full of enemies standing their ground, waiting patiently. A door stood open behind them. They are getting smarter, David thought.
“Everyone okay?” David asked the others. Blood sheeted down Chaunce’s face. Boor was favoring his left arm. Mick’s smile had faded slightly and he seemed to be clutching his side.
David, as usual, was unscathed.
Chaunce said, “Flesh wounds, all of them. Am I right?” The others nodded, though it didn’t mean much. The saying was one coined by the Blade long before David’s time. It meant they would fight to the last breath, even if they were dying.
The dozen or so men standing before them advanced, spreading out.
Smarter, David thought again. Do what they least expect.
He moved like crashing lightning, leaping into their midst, so he was fully surrounded. His sword was a refracted blade of light, whistling in an arc as he spun.
Everyone froze. Crimson smiles appeared on pale throats.
Men fell, one by one, like dominoes.
I am death incarnate. I have killed many. I have saved many. But I could not save my father.
David shook his head. No, that wasn’t right. I would not save him.
“If you didn’t scare me so much,” Chaunce said, “I’d reprimand you for stealing all my kills again.”
The streets were chaos. Men charged from every direction, most toward them but some in another direction. Presumably toward where the other four members of the Blade were, fighting for their lives.
“Follow them!” David cried, suddenly anxious to be reunited with the rest of his company. Maybe the eight of them together could cut a path through the throng and escape. It was a longshot, but it was all they had.
‘Following them’ was more difficult than wading through quicksand. Enemies barred every passage. Hundreds stacked to the side and behind and in front and around.
Blood dripped from David’s chin, elbows, and sword, none of it his. His blade never stopped moving, slashing, hacking, cutting, stabbing. Ending. Always ending.
Mick went down first, still smiling even as the final blade entered his heart, his expression frozen forevermore in that final look of glee.
Chaunce, who had long ago run out of knives, was next. He shouted something as he died, but whatever he said was lost in a gurgle.
Boor hung on for a long time, the quiet man a force to be reckoned with, his blows swift and decisive. But even he could not survive this disastrous night.
David was alone, surrounded by enemies. His entire body shook with sadness at those he’d lost, with anger at the Dread King for sending them to this hell-frozen place, for killing his father…
The anger fueled him, becoming a mark of power of its own, until he was nothing but white-hot rage, a force of nature.
He didn’t know how many he’d killed, their cries of death melting together into a single stream of anguish.
A light in the dark.
“Grigor!” David cried. “Grigor!”
Seeing the man alone, pushed back against the wall as he tried to fight for enough space to begin his climb, gave David a new sense of purpose.
Grigor’s head darted to meet his eyes.
Oh no, David thought, realizing his error too late.
The distraction, though brief, was enough to seal the man’s fate. A blade snuck between his defenses. As he stared at David, his eyes widened. A sad smile creased his lips.
He fell.
David closed his eyes, dropped to his knees, his sword tumbling from his fingertips. “I surrender,” he said. “Kill me.”
He was chained to a metal horse in the center of the town’s yard. His eyes were closed. His ears barely heard the murmurings around him. Kill the bastard. Execute him. Death death death!
He’d failed his brothers. Just like he’d failed his father. This time at least he had tried, but it wasn’t enough. Was never enough.
More than ever before, David Dietric
h truly wanted to die.
“Look at me,” a new voice said, different than the others. More full of command, demanding obedience. It reminded him of Captain Stapleton, but harsher.
David opened his eyes to find a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face wearing a well-trimmed blond beard. He knew this man was Lord Norris based on the description they’d been given before leaving on this mission.
“You came to kill me,” the man said. There was no anger in his tone, just certainty. It wasn’t a question so David didn’t answer.
“My men are calling for your head. They say you’re an angel of death, that you killed hundreds.”
Hundreds? It might have been thousands—David didn’t keep track.
“Nothing to say? No plea for your life? No trade for information?”
David licked his chapped, blood-crusted lips. Said, “I am sorry for coming here. I am sorry for those I killed.”
Lord Norris cocked his head to the side. “Sorry? Sorry will not raise my men from the dead. This is war. Men will die. Victories and defeats will start to seem similar. Border towns like Norris will cease to exist.”
“Kill me,” David said. “I welcome death.”
“You will get your wish,” Lord Norris said, thoughtfully. “But not until you have suffered. Not until you have felt the same pain you’ve inflicted on so many tonight. I do not want information. Only for you to hurt.”
He plucked a small blade from his belt, turning it to catch the moonlight on its edge. “I see you do not fear me. You will.”
He stepped forward and began to cut.
Pain was a part of him, living inside him like a Calypsian fire-breathing dragon.
He felt light-headed with loss of blood, his legs unable to support his own weight. After the lord had worked for a few hours, he’d decided to take a break, so David could “heal.” Evidently he wanted the torture to last for several days.
David was alone, lying in the snow. Behind his eyelids, he could sense daylight. The last day he would ever see?