Stephen Deas - Warlock's shadow

‘Prince Syannis.’ Tasahre held her one sword straight out in front of her, pointing at Master Sy’s face, just like she and Berren had done in the practice yard. Whatever wound she’d taken, she wasn’t showing it. ‘Hold.’

‘Syannis! This fight is done.’ That was Justicar Kol again. ‘I can’t save you, not from this, but you can save your men. You can save your boy. He’s right here, you know.’

Master Sy held still for a moment. Berren kept walking, slowly, slowly closer, fighting to hold back each and every step.

‘I know the story.’ Kol spoke slowly and clearly. The Emperor’s men were swamping the ship now. Most of Radek’s soldiers were down, the rest had surrendered their arms. Radek himself still stood paralysed by the spar deck door, the scarf of shadow around his neck. Kuy, if that’s what the other shadows had been, had vanished, but Berren knew he wasn’t far. He felt the presence inside him, the guiding words, the desire he had no choice but to serve. ‘You think I don’t know half the men here? Of course I do. Came from the same place you did, one by one. Good men, most of them. Now look at them. You did this. They made lives for themselves here. It could have stayed that way. Now put your bloody sword down.’

Berren was in front of the thief-taker’s men, who had formed in a wall around Master Sy, against the edge of the ship, penned by Kol’s soldiers. They held their swords and their clubs ready. Their faces were hard. Whoever they were, they were set on dying. As Berren came close, one of them lunged.

Come! Come to me! Berren lurched. For a moment, he was confused, as the silent scream inside his head faded. Come to me — so much easier. He pushed his way between the Emperor’s soldiers, watching over his shoulder all the time. Everyone was looking at Tasahre and Master Sy, waiting to see what the thief-taker would do. His eyes were wild. They moved from one face to another. He barely seemed to recognise Berren. His gaze moved to the ropes that ran down to his own ship, and then back to Radek. Berren could see the thought forming in his head — Radek’s corpse on the end of his sword or a way out — which one?

Come, Berren. Come here! Come to me!

Radek. But Tasahre must have seen it in the thief-takers eyes before he even knew it himself. She launched herself at him a moment before he would have jumped. Sparks flew between her sword and Master Sy’s, but she forced him back, further and further towards the edge of the ship.

As Berren reached the frozen Radek, Master Sy seemed to falter. Tasahre stepped in to finish him. As she did, Master Sy slipped inside her guard to take her down, exactly the way he’d shown to Berren.

And exactly the way Berren had shown to Tasahre. Her weight shifted. She danced around the thief-taker. The pommel of her sword cracked him on the back of his head. For a moment, as he staggered, he was helpless. Tasahre was right behind him, sword poised to run him through.

Kill! Kill Radek! Now! Kill him now!

The warlock’s demand tore though him like a hurricane. Berren screamed. ‘Tasahre! No!’ Even as he screamed, his hands had snapped his waster high over his head. Radek didn’t even flinch. And then he brought the wooden stick crashing down on Radek’s skull.

Tasahre’s stare flicked to him. She hesitated. The horror on her face burned his eyes. He turned, finally, to see Radek slumped around his feet, his head staved in, his blood pouring out all over the wooden deck. He gasped and stepped back in horror. What have I done? He looked for the warlock’s voice inside his head, but Kuy was gone, vanished without a trace as though he’d never existed.

‘Berren!’

Berren span around to Tasahre, and as he did, the thief-taker lashed out. The tip of his blade sliced across the exposed skin of the sword-monk’s neck. Always strike where you can see flesh, Berren. That way you know there’s no hidden armour . Berren screamed again.

‘Tasahre!’ She staggered. Blood poured down her robe, half of it already stained dark. It dripped from the cloth onto the docks. The thief-taker took a step away. He looked at what he’d done, looked shocked, then turned on Berren. His eyes were wild.

‘Come on, Berren! Run! Run! We have to run!’

The nearest of Kol’s soldiers snatched at Berren, half grabbing his shirt. Berren tore himself away. Tasahre fell to the deck. The thief-taker was backing quickly away, back towards his little ship.

‘Tasahre!’ He was the first one to reach her. He’d never seen so much blood. The thief-taker’s sword had cut halfway into her neck. He grabbed her hand. Squeezed.

‘Berren!’ The thief-taker was at the edge of the deck now, beside a rope down to the other ship, looking at him, holding out his hand. It was covered in blood. So were his arms, his shirt. All about, the fighting began again, the Emperor’s men and the last of the thief-taker’s. At the top of the steps to the docks, Berren glimpsed the yellow of another sword-monk pushing forward. He knew the look, the tension. He stared back at Master Sy.

‘…’ Whatever words Tasahre had left, they died in a gurgle of blood.

‘For the love of the sun, Berren, come on !’

‘You! You … You killed her!’ If he’d still had Stealer, Berren would have stabbed the thief-taker without a thought. Stabbed him in the heart, over and over until he stopped moving and then stabbed him some more.

Tasahre’s hand shuddered and fell slack.

The thief-taker’s men were folding, crumpling inward, abandoning the fight and jumping over the side. The other sword-monk was almost on them.

Inside Berren, something broke. He jumped up onto the empty spar-deck, leapt across the water onto the docks and ran. Amid the screams and the clash of steel, he thought he heard the warlock. Laughing.

‘Berren !’ That was Master Sy, as he fled, but Berren didn’t stop. The sword-monk ignored him and went for the thief-taker, or else to Tasahre, Berren didn’t know, and for the moment he didn’t care. All that mattered was to get away. He landed hard on the docks, rolled and sprawled, thumped his elbow and his knees and got straight back up and ran on. The soldiers still on the waterfront seemed too stunned by what they’d seen, or else Berren looked too fierce. Whatever the reason, they were too slow and too late. Berren barged though them, past them, back to Hammersmiths’ Passage at the end of the Emperor’s docks and into the empty streets beyond. He didn’t stop racing away until his legs were burning and his lungs heaving and he was all the way up the hill and on the edge of the festival crowds in Deephaven Square itself.

There were soldiers here too, always were, standing guard around the centre of the city’s wealth. And there he was, hands and shirt covered in blood that wasn’t his. He darted for the nearest shadows, up against the sides of the Golden Cup of all places. He took deep breaths. His heart was pounding so hard it felt as if he was going to explode. It was still light. He had to hide. Hide until dark, until no one would see the blood all over him.

Tasahre. Master Sy.

What have I done?

He’d gone to the docks to tell Master Sy that the witch-doctor had sold Kasmin, and he hadn’t even managed that . He started laughing and the laughs turned at once to sobs. He sank into the deepest shadows he could find and held his head in his hands.

Later, as the sun finally set, he looked back down the Royal Parade. There wasn’t much to see, but he could hear the distant sounds of celebration echoing up from the river, just as they sounded out from the square and the streets up on The Peak. He couldn’t go back down there, not like this. The thief-taker was … The thief-taker was a murderer. He’d killed a sword-monk. He’d killed Tasahre. They’d hang him now, or they’d chop off his head and send him in bits to the mines, and Berren would cheer as they did it.