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.
8
As far as they could tell, no one saw them arrive at Domex’s run-down house.
Kutch fished a large iron key from the folds of his shirt and fumbled with it. Once the rusty lock was turned, Caldason unceremoniously kicked the door open. Bundling Kutch and the stranger inside, he shot the bolts.
‘Windows!’ he snapped.
Kutch went to draw the blinds. He was pale and unsteady. The stranger seemed calmer. He studied Reeth closely, tight-lipped, his gaze shrewd. But he held his peace. Caldason shoved him, not too gently, in the direction of the main room.
With daylight barred, save for tiny chinks in the tattered drapes, the chamber was gloomy and oppressive. Kutch lit a lamp. Cupping the taper with a trembling hand, he moved to the fireplace and applied the flame to the candles in a pair of bulky lead holders on the mantelpiece. Shadows played on the tattered spines of the books lining the walls.
‘Now sit,’ Caldason said.
‘You’re still treating me like a dog,’ Kutch complained, but did as he was told.
The Qalochian looked to the old man. ‘You, too.’ He pushed against the small of his back again, driving him towards an overstuffed chair. The stranger plumped into it, sighing. Dust motes swirled in the candlelight.
Even up close his age was hard to guess. He was certainly of advanced years, but more autumn than winter. It was his careworn appearance that made him seem older. Worry lines crimped his beardless face. His silvered hair, grown perhaps a mite too long for his age, gave him a venerable appearance. He dressed affluently.
When he spoke, his tone was easier, almost dulcet. ‘I owe my thanks to you both, and an explanation.’
‘You owe me nothing,’ Caldason replied brusquely. ‘I don’t much care who you are or what problems you might have.’
‘Yet you risked your life for me.’
‘I had no choice.’
The stranger scrutinised him. ‘I think there was more to it than that,’ he said gently.
‘Think what you like.
My
thought is that you’ve involved me in your troubles, and likely there’s more on the way. It’d be best to get out of here and not linger over it.’