Gregory Keyes - The Blood Knight

“Well, sceat,” he said.

The man retrieved his sword and was returning with it gripped in his left hand.

“My name is Ashern,” he said. “Brother Ashern. I’d like you to know there’s nothing personal in this. You fought well.”

Aspar lifted his dirk and shouted, hoping it would drown out the approaching hoofbeats, but Ashern heard them in the last instant and turned. Aspar launched himself, and everything went red.

Ogre reared from a full gallop, his hooves striking down at the monk. Brother Ashern’s swing cut right through the lower part of the great beast’s neck, and the churchman continued turning, deftly blocking Aspar’s desperate knife thrust.

Then Ogre’s hoof, still descending, hit him in the back of the head and crushed his skull.

Aspar fell, and Ogre collapsed just next to him, blood pumping from his neck in great gouts. Gasping, Aspar crawled over, thinking he might somehow close the bay’s wound, but when he saw it, he knew it was no use. Instead he cradled the stallion’s head in one arm and stroked his muzzle. Ogre seemed more puzzled than anything.

“Old boy.” Aspar sighed. “You never could stay out of a fight, could you?”

Red foam blew from Ogre’s nose as if he were trying to whinny an answer.

“Thank you, old friend,” Aspar said. “You rest now, yah? Just rest.”

He continued stroking Ogre until his breath stopped and his terrible eyes went dull.

And for a while after.

When Aspar finally lifted his head again, he saw, four kingsyards away, the case of the black arrow.

Nodding grimly to himself, he strung his bow and crawled until he found a branch the right size and shape to use as a crutch. His leg was pulsing with awful pain now, but he ignored it as best he could. He retrieved the arrow and began hobbling toward the sounds of combat.

Cazio lunged deep, driving Acredo through a swordsman’s eye. A blade cut at him from the right, but with his rapier busy killing, the only thing he had to deflect it with was his left arm. He got lucky and caught the flat, but the pain was terrific.

Withdrawing Acredo’s bloody tip, he parried another blow, retreating all the while, wondering how much farther back the chamber went. Robert’s men were taking advantage of the space to spread out, forcing Cazio to retreat more quickly or be surrounded. He reckoned he would kill one, maybe two more of them before one of their cleavers cut off enough of him to end the fight. After that, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

No . He couldn’t let them have Austra or Anne. He couldn’t think that way.

He deepened and slowed his breathing, willed the muscles he wasn’t using to relax.

Z’Acatto had spoken once or twice of something called chiado sivo , or “entirely sword,” a state of oneness that a true dessrator could enter in which he might accomplish fantastic things. There had been times when Cazio had felt he was almost in that state. He had to let go of winning and losing, of life and death, of fear, and become nothing but motion.

Parry, attack, parry, disengage, breathe, feel the sword as part of his arm, his spine, his heart, his mind…

They can’t hurt me , he thought. There’s nothing here to hurt, just a sword .

And for long, beautiful moment he had it. Perfection. Every move correct, every motion the best. Two more men went down, then another two, and he wasn’t retreating anymore. He controlled the rhythm, the footwork, the floor itself.

For a moment. But recognizing that moment, he lost the detachment he needed to prolong it, and his assault faltered as two men arrived to replace every one he put down. He retreated again, ever more desperate as Robert’s forces began to encircle him.

He realized he’d lost track of the women and hoped against hope that his instant of chiado sivo had given them a chance to escape.

Even you might have been proud of me, z’Acatto , he thought as the corner of his eye warned him of a new fighter, flanking him.

No, not flanking him, flanking Robert’s men.

And not just one man but a horde .

The newcomers were unarmored but fighting with long, wicked knives and firing short, powerful-looking bows. Cazio’s antagonists were all down within a few heartbeats, leaving him gasping, still on guard, wondering if he would be next. Just because they were Robert’s enemies, that didn’t make them Anne’s friends.

But those who were closest merely smiled at him, nodded, and finished their butchery. He reckoned there were at least fifty of them.

He also realized belatedly that they weren’t human but Sefry.

The folk of Gobelin Court had finally weighed in on a side, it seemed.

Aspar paused, gaping, wondering how long it had been since anyone had witnessed anything remotely like what he was seeing. He’d thought he was numb, but now he understood he wasn’t so much numb as insane.

He could see them because they had flattened the forest for half a league in every direction. The Briar King was a hulking mass roughly sembling human shape, albeit with the antlers of a buck, but all and all he was less human in appearance than he had been before.

The apparition was locked in combat with the woorm, which coiled about him like a blacksnake around a mouse. The king, in turn, had both titanic hands gripped about the monster’s neck.

As Aspar watched, a stream of green venom spewed from the great serpent’s mouth, not just vapor but a viscous liquor that spattered upon the forest lord and began to smoke, burning great holes in him. The stuff of the king shifted to fill those gaps.

He didn’t see Fend. The saddle was empty, and a quick scan of the forest showed nothing, though a little farther off a battle was raging between the praifecs men and some other force. He couldn’t make out much of that.

A rush of pain and fever from his leg reminded Aspar that he might lose consciousness at any time. If he had anything to do here, he’d better do it now.

And he certainly had something to do. He wasn’t going to think about it anymore; there was no riddle here.

He knew which side he was on.

He carefully opened the case and brought forth the black arrow. Its head glittered like the heart of a lightning stroke.

The praifec had said the arrow could be used seven times. It had been used five times already when Aspar had received it. He’d shot it once to kill an utin and save Winna’s life.

That left one.

He set the shaft to his string and sighted, feeling the wind, watching the curl of vapors around the combatants, willing his shaking muscles to quell so his mind could tell them what to do.

One deep breath, two, three, and then he felt the shot and released the string. He watched the flash of light grow tiny and vanish at the base of the woorm’s skull.

Aspar caught himself holding his breath.

He didn’t have long to wait. The woorm shrilled an awful stone-shattering scream, and its body twisted as it arched back, vomiting venom. The Briar King grabbed it by the tail and unwound it and hurled it into the forest. Part of the king’s arm tore loose and went with the monster, and he staggered as great chunks of his body sloughed away. He gripped a tree to steady himself but continued to melt.

“Grim,” Aspar muttered, and closed his eyes. He sank down next to the spruce he’d used for support, watching the great coils of the woorm heave up into sight and subside behind the trees. With each heartbeat the sounds of its thrashing diminished.

He couldn’t see the Briar King anymore at all.

Exhaustion flooded through him, and relief. That, at least, was done.

He knew he ought to try to set the bone in his leg, but he’d have to rest first. He drew out his water flask and had a drink. His food was back with Ogre’s tack, but he didn’t have much of an appetite, anyway. Still, he probably needed to eat…