David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

“Yes you have, Mitt.”

“Take me onto your ship! I can serve as one of your crew. They’ll never think to look for me there.”

Uestem gave a sad shake of his head. “I’m afraid that would be too great of a risk. You may be right: they might never look there. But if they did, and if they found you, it would endanger far more than one life. It might destroy the movement. I don’t mean to boast, but I’m quite important to the Weaver and his cause. You understand.”

Mitt nodded, tried to swallow but couldn’t.

“But neither can we allow you to be taken by Renald’s men. I don’t wish to see you tortured, Mitt.”

A different kind of fear gripped his heart. “I wouldn’t say anything about you, Uestem. When I said that I’d do that to Pillad, I meant just him. Not you. Certainly not the Weaver.”

“I know that. But torture does strange things to people. And to be honest with you, Pillad is valuable to us. He wasn’t before, but he’s made himself important again.” Once more, Uestem smiled, and at the same time he reached out and grabbed the barkeep’s hair with a powerful hand. An instant later, his other hand was at Mitt’s throat. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

“Uestem, no!” he sobbed.

“This will be quick. I swear it.”

He didn’t even have time to struggle. His eyes closed, his heart hammering in his chest, he felt nothing, and heard only the snapping of bone.

Dantrielle, Aneira

"Behind you, my lord!”

Tebeo spun, his sword arcing downward, intending to cleave his second attacker in half from shoulder to gut. The soldier danced away, avoiding his blade, and the duke allowed his momentum to carry him all the way around so that he faced the other soldier once more.

Let them think on that! he thought with some satisfaction. I may look like a fat old man, but I’ve some fight left in me still .

As if intent on proving him wrong, the man in front of him lunged forward, sword held high, his dagger hand leveling a killing blow at Tebeo’s side. The duke wrenched himself down and away from both blades, stumbled and fell heavily on his side. Fortunately, one of Dantrielle’s men was there to meet the assault and drive back the Solkaran soldier. It was the second time in the last few moments that Tebeo had needed aid from one of his soldiers just to stay alive.

A small group of Solkarans had caught them unawares, apparently entering the castle through a sally port that had been left unguarded. Bausef DarLesta, his master of arms, had taken several men to secure the entry, leaving Tebeo and perhaps two dozen soldiers to deal with the intruders. It was more than enough men-they outnumbered the Solkarans by nearly two to one-but Tebeo’s mistakes had forced the other men of Dantrielle to fight not only for their own lives, but for his as well. He should have found a way to retreat, to allow his soldiers to take care of the enemy and be done with it. But pride held him there.

There had been a time when Tebeo was thought to be one of the finest swordsmen in the realm. Back in the days when Tomaz the Ninth still ruled in Solkara, and Aneiran soldiers raised their steel against one another only in contests of skill, Tebeo had fought in his fair share of battle tournaments. Most considered Vidor of Tounstrel the land’s best-certainly he won the lion’s share of the competitions, though Tebeo had long thought that Bertin, the old duke of Noltierre, was Vidor’s equal-but when the betting began, there were always a few who chose to risk their hard-earned gold on Tebeo, and on more than a few occasions their faith in him had been rewarded.

Those days seemed centuries gone. The duke felt old, sluggish, like a plow horse that’s been worked too hard. He could still see the battle in all its intricacies, but too many years and too many castle feasts had taken their toll. He recognized feints, but he couldn’t adjust swiftly enough to guard himself against the true attack. He saw openings, weaknesses in the defenses of his opponent, but he couldn’t strike quickly enough to exploit them. In a sense, even the strengths that had come to him with advanced age worked against him. He remembered the excitement of old battle tournaments, the surge of strength and alacrity that used lo come wilh it. And he saw much the same thing in the young soldiers he commanded. Warriors had a name for it: battle fury. But Tebeo was too wise to succumb to such emotions, even knowing that they might fuel his fighting and counterbalance some of what he had lost to age. This war was destroying them, weakening the realm when it most needed to be strong, giving aid to Qirsi enemies who needed none.

The second Solkaran soldier advanced on the duke again, his sword and short blade raised. Tebeo scrambled to his feet and readied his steel, his eyes darting to the left and right. All of his men who were close enough to come to his rescue were engaged in combat. He’d have no help with this fight.

The Solkaran, a large, yellow-haired man with small dark eyes and a drooping mustache, gave a harsh grin, seeming to sense this as well. He closed the distance between them with one great stride and leveled a blow at Tebeo’s head. Looking for any advantage, Tebeo tried a trick Bertin had once used against him. Just as the man committed to his attack, Tebeo switched his sword to his left hand, turning his stance just enough to throw off the timing of the Solkaran’s assault. The big man’s sword whistled harmlessly past Tebeo’s head. And as it did Tebeo hacked at the man’s shoulder with his own blade. The soldier’s mail shirt absorbed most of the blow and kept Tebeo’s sword from drawing blood, but the Solkaran was staggered and when he faced the duke again, his grin was gone.

He wasted no time beginning his next assault, though he advanced more cautiously this time, and aimed his strike at the center of Tebeo’s chest, giving the duke no opportunity to turn a second time. Instead, he was forced to block the man’s blade with his own, the force of the blow numbing Tebeo’s arm and shoulder. The Solkaran raised his sword to strike again, the grin returning when he saw Tebeo back away. The duke flexed the fingers on his sword hand, trying to get some feeling to return. He took another step back, but came up against the castle wall. Seeing this, perhaps sensing that the end was at hand, the Solkaran launched himself at the duke. Their swords met again and Tebeo’s entire body seemed to shudder with the impact. Rather than stepping back to strike at him again, the Solkaran continued to press forward, crushing Tebeo against the stone, pinning the duke’s sword beneath his own. Tebeo could feel the man’s breath on his face, and even as he tried to free his own dagger, he sensed that the Solkaran was doing the same.

They struggled for several moments, silent save for the rasp of their breathing. And just as Tebeo managed to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his dagger, he saw the man’s arm fly free, steel glinting in the sunlight like the wing of a dragonfly. Then the arm angled downward, a blur of steel and mail and flesh, and Tebeo felt a searing pain in his side. His body sagged, though he fought to stay on his feet. The soldier stepped back, raising his sword again, the other hand empty, save for a smear of blood on the crescent between his thumb and forefinger. Tebeo tried to raise his own blade to ward himself, but it was all he could do not to tumble onto his side. The flesh under his right arm was ablaze; he felt himself growing light-headed. He heard someone call out to him from what seemed a great distance, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the man standing before him. The Solkaran, with his sword over his head, ready to smite the duke like some warrior god, and a blood stain on his hand that looked oddly like red Ilias early in the waxing.