Steven Brust: Hawk

Lady Teldra was naked in my hand, and there was still someone around the edge of the park, moving from tree to bush, trying to stay out of my sight. I had to give him credit for balls, if not sense. Just one? Too soon to say.

There was almost a hundred feet between me and anything that could be used for cover. There is no way they’d come at me in the open like this, and I’d be fine with it if they tried. And no invisibility spell or illusion ever cast would fool Lady Teldra if she was alert and looking. She may not be the best at casting spells, but she can detect and disrupt them like nothing you’ve ever seen. So I waited.

I don’t know how long I waited, because when you’re standing like that, no idea what will happen, trying to be ready for anything, it’s hard to keep track of how much time is passing. But after what felt like an hour but was almost certainly closer to five minutes, I smelled smoke. Then I saw it rolling toward me; thick smoke, thick enough to let someone get right up to me before I could see him. He needn’t cast a spell on me; he just needed to cast a spell on himself to permit him to breathe and see through the smoke. He? I hoped he, not they. If there were more than one, I could be in trouble. Jhereg assassins usually work alone; but, like I said before, sometimes there are teams of two. And I’d just proven that sometimes there are four. Four, for the love of all things broken.

“Boss?”

“Stay where you are, Loiosh. I got this.”

There are times when-no, I won’t explain. I turned and ran just as fast as I could away from the smoke. And, yes, I knew there was a pretty good chance that either I was doing just what they expected, or they had contingencies for me running like that. Barlen’s scaly arse. Sophisticated trick they’d pulled on me. Flint, steel, a pile of leaves, and a wind spell. To get me, the button-man probably had a big stick.

I’m not all that fast a runner, and Dragaerans have longer legs than we poor, short humans; but there was always the hope no one was chasing me. There was a puddle of water in the middle of the park from yesterday’s rain-a big enough puddle to slow me down. I swung right to avoid it, and in front of me was a long, low shrub; perfect for someone to be hiding behind. Just in case, I swerved at the last minute, dove over it, and rolled to my feet. And, sure enough, there he was-just where he should have been. If I’d had time, I’d have been astonished-how often do you find an assassin where you’re expecting one?

But I didn’t have time.

He was very fast, that one. He drew a Morganti longsword and had a dagger in the other hand, and he was showing every sign of knowing how to use them. The sword came down in a fast arc from my left, toward my head. I took a step back and parried with Lady Teldra, while drawing a fighting knife from behind my back, but he was awfully quick, and very good, and there was what at first felt like a dull, weak thud in my right arm just at the elbow, but then there was a whole lot of pain, then there was numbness and Lady Teldra dropped to the ground; then there was panic. Well, almost.

He came at me with both blades then; I stepped back, tried to draw my rapier, but my right arm wasn’t working. He missed me, and then came in again, both weapons from the same angle, this time coming down from my right. I didn’t have a clear idea of what was behind me. I couldn’t look. Loiosh and Rocza were a long, long way away. My primary hand was disabled, and he had a Morganti sword and a long fighting knife coming at me. More important, Lady Teldra was on the ground and I kept getting farther away from her. And this guy may not have been the best assassin I’d ever met, but he was an awfully good fighter.

I was becoming concerned.

I took a step back and to my left as he struck again, this time the blades coming from completely different angles; I only just barely avoided the knife. I felt wetness on my right hand, which meant there was some feeling there, and it was bleeding. I threw my knife at him, aiming at his chest. It hit him point-first, which wasn’t bad for a left-hand shot, but there wasn’t enough strength for it to stick. It checked his progress for a moment. The good news was, a whole lot of the stuff I keep around to throw was set up to be drawn with my left hand, figuring I’d have a more convincing argument in my right. I drew out three shuriken and sent them at him, and one went into his cheek, making him pause again. I tested my right hand to see if I could do anything with it yet. I couldn’t. I continued circling to my left, hoping to make my way to Lady Teldra; if I could pick her up, I knew she could heal me.

He apparently figured out what I was doing-which was disturbing on several levels-and moved to interpose himself. For the first time, I got a look at him: a narrow face, dead gray eyes, broad shoulders, hair cut short enough to be bristles. Neither of us said a word.

I carelessly threw a handful of darts in his direction-he couldn’t know that I hadn’t gotten around to dabbing poison on them-and pulled a knife from my boot. Then, with the same motion, I stepped in to him, committing everything I had to a shot at his right arm, hoping for a combination of surprise and an unexpected angle of attack from inside the arc of that big fucking sword.

I got it; the knife sank in, and something connected with my right side, feeling like I’d been punched there, but I had gotten a good, satisfying thrust at his sword arm. The Morganti sword fell slowly, like I could watch it spinning on the way down. And with the same slowness, I drew the blade from his arm at the same time as he pulled his from my side.

Insofar as you do anything that can be called thinking in situations like that, what I thought was that he’d either stoop to pick up his Morganti weapon, or, more likely, stab me again with the knife in his left hand. I didn’t figure him to punch me in the throat.

I drove my knife up under his chin at the same time as he brought his right fist into my throat. He hit my throat in the right place-I mean, for him-and really, really hard.

I’d gotten him. Yay.

Now all I had to do was figure out a way to breathe.

His knees went, and he started to go down; it seemed to me that it was only then that the Morganti sword hit the ground. I don’t know. Most of my attention was on my throat; my brain was screaming that it really wanted some air, please. Right now.

When your windpipe is crushed, you can go maybe a minute or two at the best of times-and already panting from the exertion of surviving a fight is hardly the best of times. How much time did I have before I blacked out, then died? Twenty seconds? Twenty-five? I think Loiosh said something into my mind, but I didn’t have the attention to spare.

My first thought was Lady Teldra, but I was too disoriented; I had no idea which way to move, and whatever odd arcane sense might have told me where she was, was too busy screaming about getting air.

And my right arm still wasn’t working.

Seriously. This was starting to become a problem.

I had a knife in my hand. A fighting knife-mostly blade. It was good for cutting and slashing bellies and faces; it was never made for stabbing, or, if you will, puncturing. But it did have a point-ask the guy who’d just tasted it.

If there’s no other way, you can always cut your own throat.

I really, really, really do not recommend this as a way to pass an evening. Listening to someone with a monotonous voice recite an epic poem in a language you don’t speak while you’re hungry and need to find a privy is better than cutting your own throat. Well, okay, maybe as bad. Fortunately, I didn’t have time to think about it; if I had, I probably wouldn’t have done it.