Quicksilver Rising

He remained perfectly still, immobile as a rock. Kutch, watching fear-flushed, unbelieving, saw that Caldason’s eyes were shut, and that he looked incongruously serene. But that lasted only a second, before the waves struck.

A sword in each hand, he parried both incomers, side-on, blocking expertly to the right and left. Then he swung out and round to face the pair.

They engaged him again instantly. Four blades rent the air. Steel clamoured in earnest as the three of them enacted that lissome dance, old as malice, which could only end in death.

At first it seemed to Kutch that Reeth did no more than hold the attackers at bay. But he soon realised his error. Caldason was deploying a strategy. For although they attacked him with equal ferocity, his response was two-tiered. The man on his right he held off. The one to the left, he fought. As they jockeyed to challenge him, his blades flashed from one to the other; defensive to offensive, soft to hard.

When it happened, it was quick and brutal. From the storm’s eye, Caldason lashed out at the man he’d worn down. To those looking on it was as though he quickly wiped his blade across the brigand’s chest. But the gash was deep. It liberated a cataract of blood. The victim made a sound, part outcry, part groan of pain, and let slip his sword. He swayed, then fell, broken.

It was the only sound any of them had made. Kutch was struck by how strange that seemed; no words exchanged, no shouted challenges or muttered threats. Just silence, save grunts of effort and clashing steel. It seemed the assassins plied their trade gravely and had no need of discourse.

Now there was general movement. As Caldason took on his other opponent, a fresh brigand waded in to join the fight. And Kutch had his own troubles. Two bandits were coming towards him and the stranger. The last of the band, his magic-eating staff marking him out as a sorcerer rather than a combatant, held back.

Kutch and the stranger instinctively moved closer together.

‘It’s me they want,’ the old man hissed.

It was the first thing he’d said and it made the boy start. But Kutch had no time to respond. Their assailants were a sword stretch away and closing the gap. The stranger tossed back his cloak and jerked a pair of daggers from his belt. But he didn’t have the look of a fighting man, and their enemies had superior reach and numbers. The assassins smiled. Prickling with sweat, Kutch tried to clear his mind of all but the Craft.

Caldason was delivering a righteous blow when his third attacker lumbered in. The newcomer, full-bearded, beefy, swung a two-handed axe. Caldason avoided the stroke, flowing beneath it, and countered with a wide, cutting sweep. It would have ribboned the axe-man if he hadn’t tottered backwards from its path. In retreat he nearly fell across the body of the accomplice Reeth had killed.

The Qalochian’s other opponent was nimbler. He favoured a sabre, and came in swift and lean, swiping like a barbcat. Reeth dodged the pass and commenced trading blows. Then the axe-man rejoined the fray and it was back to hacking at both.

Kutch and the stranger eyed their circling foes and tensed for the onslaught. It came suddenly when one of the thugs lunged, targeting the old man. Showing unexpected agility, the stranger side-stepped the charge, and managed a curving slash of his knives in answer. That sent the brigand into retreat. But his crony, a scabrous, gangling individual, slid in to menace Kutch. The boy recoiled, all the while trying not to garble an incantation he was murmuring under his breath.

The stranger grasped Kutch’s sleeve and pulled him closer. As one, they backed off, the stranger brandishing his daggers at the advancing bandits as though they really were a remedy against swords.

They took three paces before their backs met a rough brick wall. Pressed against it, the stranger held out his knives in an imperfect display of boldness. Next to him, Kutch continued his muttered chant, and began to make small movements with shaking hands. The bandits gloated.

Abruptly, a swarm of minute lights materialised, like luminous grains of sand. They swirled about Kutch and the stranger, then as quickly vanished, replaced by a misty luminescence that girdled man and boy. The bandits’ murderous leers turned to frowns. Wary, they held back.

On the principle of downing the biggest adversary first, Caldason fended off the leaner of his two opponents and concentrated on defeating the burly axe-man, showering him with weighty blows.

Several were blocked, glancing off the axe’s cutter or its sturdy wooden haft. Others whistled close to the thug’s bobbing head. Then Caldason saw his chance.

The blow he got through was savage. It shattered the axeman’s skull, immediately felling him.

Even as the assassin went down, his companion darted in, bent on reprisal. Caldason swung round to meet him. There was a swift, frenetic exchange. It was broken by Caldason deftly catching the bandit’s sword between his pair of blades. The assassin struggled to free it, teeth bared with effort, muscles knotted. Reeth’s hold was like a clamp. Sharply, he twisted the hilts of his swords, turning the man’s wrists painfully. Another jerk wrenched the blade from his grip. It flipped, pirouetted, went clattering on cobblestones.

The ambusher stood with empty hands, confounded, mouth slack. It was a transient state. Reeth’s swords blurred. Two strokes, right then left, carved his foe’s chest. For a breath the man stood, perplexed, a scarlet cross growing on his grubby shirt front. As he went down, Caldason was turning from him.

Reeth saw Kutch and the elderly stranger wrapped in a glittery mantle that flickered and faltered. The two remaining bandits were crowding them, weapons levelled. But now their attention was divided between their prey and Caldason, and what he’d just done to their comrades.

He quickly cleared the separating distance. The bandits turned to meet him, their intended victims forgotten. Blades clashed, pealing, as Caldason braved the scything steel and matched them blow for blow, repaying in kind. For infinite seconds the flurry of swordplay saw neither side gaining. Then Caldason realised a flaw in one of their defences. Every time the man attacking from the right delivered a stroke, he let down his guard. Just for a heartbeat.

Swerving to avoid a pass, Reeth struck out at the man to his left, warding him off. A swift turn brought him back to the right and he rammed home his blade. It ploughed through ribs and viscera.

The sword point erupted from the thug’s back. Blood flecked Kutch and the stranger huddled behind him, proving their protective shield useless. The old man ran the ball of a fist across his eyes to wipe away the gore. Shaken, Kutch felt embarrassment mingling with the fear; shame that his magical skill had turned out to be so ineffective. Concentration shot, he let his mental hold slip. The shield melted into filmy wisps and dissolved.

Caldason wrenched his blade free, letting the corpse drop. The last brigand charged at the Qalochian, bellowing, his sword carving a path. Reeth side-stepped, dodging the full force of the swing. But he didn’t avoid it entirely. The rapier’s tip gouged his left arm from wrist to crook. Reeth’s sword was dashed from his hand. His tattered sleeve welled red.

Kutch’s intake of breath was audible.

The wound didn’t hinder Reeth. He barged the man side-on, striking his shoulder with enough force to knock his next blow off course. Then he set to with his remaining sword, battering unmercifully. The bandit’s resistance grew shambolic. Reeth upset it terminally with a boot to the groin, and what was left of the assassin’s guard crumbled.

Reeth took the gap and forced home his blade. Its trajectory saw it through flesh and into his mark’s heart. Lifeless, the bandit fell.

Caldason turned from the carnage, looking to Kutch and the stranger. They were ashen.

Half a moment of numb silence held sway. It was Kutch who shattered it.

‘Reeth!’ he exclaimed, pointing in the direction of the stables.

They had forgotten the final ambusher, the one they assumed was a sorcerer. He stood further along the lane, in semi-shadow, but near enough for them to see his anxious expression. One end of the wand in his hand spewed a thick stream of tawny-coloured smoke. Instead of dispersing, the smoke was being drawn to the wand-bearer and wrapping itself about his body. Dense tendrils enfolded him from feet to waist and were rapidly spreading up his chest.

Caldason snatched one of the stranger’s daggers. He spun and lobbed it the sorcerer’s way. Even as it flew the yellow smoke had all but enveloped the knife’s target. As the last wisp covered the crown of the sorcerer’s head, the cloak of fog immediately solidified and turned translucent. The soaring blade struck the magical buffer and bounced off impotently.

At once the sorcerer turned and started to run. The stolen shield made it seem as though a thin layer of lustrous, flexible ice encased him. Just as it had when its original owner wore it.

‘Let him go,’ the stranger urged.

For all the interest Caldason showed in giving chase, he needn’t have bothered; and Kutch had still to conquer his trembling. They watched the survivor flee, arms pumping, cape billowing. Fifty paces on he rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

The trio regarded each other.

‘Your arm …’ Kutch said.

Caldason glanced at his dripping limb. He pressed a wad of torn shirt over the wound, apparently unconcerned. ‘It’s nothing.’

The stranger spoke, his voice hoarse. ‘Thank you. Thank you both.’

Kutch was dispirited. ‘I did little enough,’ he sighed. ‘So much for my skill with the Craft.’

‘You tried,’ Caldason told him. ‘That does you credit.’

The boy nodded, unconvinced, and addressed the stranger. ‘Who are you? What were you doing at my master’s funeral? Who were those –’

‘There’s no time for that now,’ Caldason interrupted. ‘If we loiter here we’ll have the Watch to contend with.’ He fixed his sights on the stranger. ‘Which I imagine is something you’d rather avoid.’

‘Your friend’s right,’ the old man confirmed softly, directing himself to Kutch. ‘I’ll explain everything. But it’d be best not to be found in these circumstances.’

Caldason bent to the nearest body and wiped his soiled blades on the man’s jerkin. Then he rose and re-sheathed the weapons.

‘Move,’ he ordered, grasping the stranger’s arm.

They hurried from the lane and its litter of corpses.

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