Stephen Deas: Warlock's shadow

‘Stop!’ The shout came from above him. He looked up. Tasahre was standing up in the rigging, ten feet above him. ‘Stop! Now!’

For a moment, the fighting paused, but the one person who didn’t falter was the thief-taker. The soldier in front of him hesitated. Master Sy opened his throat and went straight on to the next, hacking the man’s arm off at the elbow. ‘Tethis!’ he screamed.

The soldiers in their leather skirts faltered. The thief-taker pushed forward. There were sailors, too; some of them had picked up clubs and hooks of their own, but now they were backing away, keeping behind the soldiers. Some were already shimming down the ropes that tied the ship to the dockside.

‘No!’ Tasahre jumped onto the deck, her swords in her hands. She walked through the fight like a ghost. No one, soldier or sailor, dared to go close. ‘Thief-taker!’ she cried. ‘Thief-taker! Stop! Stop now! I cannot let you do this.’

Back on the docks, another gang of men came spilling out of Hammersmiths’ Passage, screaming and waving their sticks. They ran towards the ship, howling. Master Sy rained blow after blow at the last soldier in his way. The man kept his halberd down, forcing the thief-taker to keep his distance for a moment, but then the thief-taker was inside the soldier’s guard. Blood sprayed across the deck and the soldier went down, clutching his throat.

And then Tasahre and the thief-taker faced one another.

‘Thief-taker!’ With deliberate care, she sheathed both her swords. She stood completely still, lit up by the afternoon sun, yellow robes streaked with blood from the men dying around her. In that moment she seemed to glow.

Behind Berren, at the entrance to Hammersmiths’, a new commotion broke out as yet more men came down from Toolmakers’ Square, soldiers this time, the Emperor’s men. Berren thought he saw more sword-monks too.

‘Master!’ Berren shouted. ‘Master! Stop!’

For a moment, the thief-taker paused. He stared at Tasahre and then at Berren. The fighting on the deck faltered, and then Berren saw Tasahre stiffen. Her head snapped towards the doors beneath the spar-deck. A man was coming out. He was old, not a greybeard yet, but his face was weathered and his hair was thinning. His clothes were rich and the hilt of his thin sword was jewelled. To Berren, his face seemed pained. Around his throat, a black scarf of shadow fluttered in the breeze, and he walked as though the shadow was a knife held at his throat. Master Sy bared his teeth and almost leapt straight at him, but Tasahre was looking straight through this man that Berren knew must be Radek of Kalda — for behind Radek, something else had stepped out of the gloom. It wasn’t even a man, but a creature, a creature made of the shadows themselves. Berren’s throat tightened. A silence stilled the deck. The fighting stopped, although the commotion on the docks behind Berren went on.

‘Radek!’ hissed the thief-taker.

‘Warlock!’ Tasahre had her swords in her hands again. The shadow-thing pointed a wispy tendril at her.

‘It is my day, monk,’ hissed the wind. ‘Abyss-Day. Fall on your swords and die!’

No one moved. For a moment, Tasahre stood frozen. Then she raised one sword towards the sun. ‘Look above you, demon! Your power is not greater than mine, not today, not under this sun.’ She took a step towards him and flared with light. ‘End!’

That was as far as she got before the thief-taker let out a roar.

‘No! You’ll not stop us, not now, not even you!’ The thief-taker lunged at her. Tasahre darted sideways, caught the next swing with her own blade, and then the two of them were a blur of swords. Around them, Radek’s soldiers surged forwards. On the docks behind Berren, that fight was breaking up. The crowd of men who’d first come down Hammersmiths’ weren’t after a fight any more, just an escape, bolting for the tiny alleys that wound up the hill from the other end of the docks.

Kill her!

The command rang inside his head.

‘Syannis!’ Berren thought he heard the justicar’s voice from somewhere in the midst of the chaos behind him. At the steps to the ship.

Kill!

He had no choice. The sword-monk was going to kill his master. He had to stop her! A little part of him screamed and screamed, but there was a piece missing from inside him, and so the rest of him didn’t hear. The rest of him knew, with a cold certainty, what he had to do, no matter how much it pained him.

Kill!

There were men running up the steps, the heavy boots of the Emperor’s soldiers. But Berren was already halfway across the deck.

Tasahre jumped away from Master Sy, holding her swords out towards him. ‘Drop your weapons,’ she called in a voice that rang the air.

‘Do it,’ shouted Kol. He was standing at the top of the steps, surrounded by the Emperor’s soldiers who were swarming aboard. The thief-taker’s men were crowding together, forming a circle around Master Sy. Their eyes darted from side to side as they fought, looking for an escape. Radek still stood frozen by the spar-deck door. Berren ignored them all. His eyes were set on Tasahre.

Kill!

The Emperor’s soldiers were pushing Radek’s men out of the way. Swords came out. One of Radek’s soldiers jabbed at one of the Emperor’s and got skewered and then suddenly there was fighting all around Berren again. Once more the thief-taker’s men surged forward. Master Sy and Tasahre were staring at each other.

Very slowly, Tasahre put her swords down onto the deck. Berren skittered away from one of Radek’s sailors who swung at him with a hook. The sailor came at him again. This time Berren blocked it with his waster, jumped at the man and clocked him on the head, dazing him long enough to dart past.

‘End this, thief-taker,’ said Tasahre. Her voice was calm, yet it still carried across the fight.

Kill! Berren dived out of the way of a soldier with a halberd. One of the Emperor’s men came bellowing past. The thief-taker howled with rage.

‘And why should we? So you can send us to the mines? Do you know what this man did to us? Did to all of us? He killed our fathers. He killed our mothers. He killed our brothers, our sisters, our sons, our daughters. He killed our king and our country. He killed our faith. He killed everything!’

The thief-taker lunged at Tasahre. As he passed her, he snatched up one of her short curved swords in his spare hand. Tasahre leapt straight up into the air. Master Sy stabbed at her, but she curled and twisted away from his steel. Then she was back on the deck, facing him.

Kill!

Berren pushed past a soldier and one of the thief-taker’s men, grappling each other with knives in their hands. He was yards away now, yet he paused. He’d seen Master Sy take three armed men down in as many blows; Tasahre didn’t even have a weapon, yet she ran right back at him and she was so unbelievably fast. The curved sword stabbed out, so quick that even Tasahre couldn’t have avoided it, yet somehow she did; her foot caught the other sword off the deck and kicked it into the air and into her hand. For a moment, the two of them stood, swords in guard, facing each other.

Kill! Now!

He clenched his teeth, gripped his waster. The screaming inside him was getting louder, starting to break through. ‘Master! Tasahre!’ They were going to kill each other. He knew that look in Master Sy’s face. There was no coming back from wherever the thief-taker was.

A dark stain was spreading out across Tasahre’s robe. She hadn’t dodged Master Sy’s blow after all. The other monks and the overlord’s soldiers surrounded them all now. The fight was petering out, Master Sy’s men pressed close around him, tense but not yet defeated. As far as Berren could tell, the ones that had fallen had fought to the death.