David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Let me see it,” he said. The man continued leading the horse right on by, forcing Ingram to jump in his way. Still the man didn’t slow, and Ingram took several steps backward to prevent from getting knocked over. At last he drew his sword and stood his ground.

“I said let me see,” he said. “I don’t think that’s no pig.”

“If you say so,” said the man. He pulled the sack off the horse with a grunt and plopped it to the ground. “Just a small one, maybe good for John and some of his closest…”

While he talked, his hands messed with a tie at the end. The moment the knot came undone, it flung open, and out ran a boy who even Ingram knew had to be Nathaniel. The boy darted underneath his horse’s legs and then shot straight for the castle.

“Fuck!” Ingram shouted, turning to give chase. This time the farmer, Matthew obviously, got in the way. He wielded an old sword, recently polished but still timeworn and unreliable. Didn’t seem to matter, though, for he wielded it as if it were Ashhur’s blade itself and Ingram the dark-spawn of Karak.

“Outta the way!”

Ingram slashed with his sword, hoping to overpower the unskilled farmer. He blocked, clumsily perhaps, but it still banged his sword away. Instead of pressing the advantage, Matthew retreated, full defensive. Behind him, the little brat hollered like his lungs were on fire.

“He’s gonna kill my pa, he’s gonna kill my pa, he’s gonna kill him!”

Damn right, thought Ingram.

Ingram feinted, smirked at how easily the farmer fell for it, and then cut from the other direction. The edge of his sword slashed into his arm, eliciting a cry of pain. Ingram swung again, lower, hoping to split his belly open. The man put his blade in the way just in time. The metal on metal sound rang out, though there was something funny to it, as if one of their weapons wasn’t flexing like it should. Ingram doubted it was his. Blood spilled down Matthew’s arm, and he saw the elbow below it shaking.

“Should have turned him over,” Ingram said. Their eyes met, and for that brief moment, he could tell Matthew thought the same. Behind him, the guards approached, alerted by the boy. Fear bubbled up Ingram’s throat. Even if he lived, what might Oric do for such a screw up? The least he could do was kill the stupid man who had given them so much trouble. He thrust, the tip nicking ribs before Matthew managed to parry it aside. Stepping closer, Ingram pulled his sword around, smacking it against Matthew’s, which had pulled back to defend, and then he slashed once more at exposed flesh. Matthew fell back, but he was too slow, too unprepared for the maneuver. He was a farmer, not a trained fighter.

The sword cleaved through his shoulder and shattered his collarbone. In the distance, he heard Nathaniel scream. Matthew coughed once, his sword falling from limp fingers. His eyes grew wide. His lips quivered, his skin turning white. Ingram put a boot on his chest and kicked him back, freeing his crimson blade. The body clumped to the ground and lay still.

“Stubborn little shit,” Ingram muttered as he wiped his sword clean on Matthew’s leg.

“Drop your blade!” ordered the two gate guards as they arrived. They had their swords drawn, and Ingram promptly obeyed. He gave Nathaniel a smile, who cowered behind the two guards, tears on his face.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked one as he picked up Ingram’s blade. The other circled around to his back and pressed the tip of his sword against him to ensure he did nothing stupid. A hand reached in, yanking his dagger from his belt and tossing it to the dirt.

“I can explain, though Oric can do it better,” he said. He pointed to the body. “That man there’s a kidnapper. I know it ‘cause we been searching high and low for him. And that boy there, well…”

He turned to Matthew, whose eyes looked like white saucers. He grinned, for he felt his lie building, the slow gears in his head turning.

“That’s Nathaniel Gemcroft, back from the dead, as we always hoped.”

The guards looked to the boy, whose skin had gone pale.

“I wasn’t kidnapped,” he insisted to the guards. “I wasn’t. He was helping me, and you let him kill him. Why didn’t you run? I told you to run!”

He was crying now, snot dripping from his nose. The first guard took him by the hand while the other grabbed Ingram by the arm and led him toward the castle.

“This is something lord Gandrem will settle,” said the guard. “Stay quiet, and answer only when you’ve been asked directly, understand?”

“Sure do, but don’t squeeze so rough. You’ll be treating me like a hero soon enough.”

The four entered through the castle gates, then followed the emerald carpet into the main chamber. Uri and Oric were already there, in mid-conversation with John Gandrem on his throne. He sat up straighter at their arrival, clearly recognizing the boy.

“Nathaniel?” he said, his mouth hanging open.

Ingram saw Oric glaring at him, his eyes ready to bulge out of his head. Not knowing what his captain might have been saying, he knew he should set things in motion, let his captain know what lie he’d created.

“I just saved him from his kidnapper,” he said, loud and boastful. A mailed fist struck the back of his head, and for a moment his vision turned to white stars over a purple sky.

“You weren’t addressed,” said the guard behind him.

“My apologies,” Ingram muttered.

Nathaniel rushed into the lord’s arms, and in their comfort he sobbed uncontrollably. John patted his back and whispered comforting words, but his eyes remained drawn to where his missing arm should have been.

“Milord,” said one of the guards, “we found him attacking another who had traveled with the boy, killing him before we could arrive. We’ve brought both here for you.”

“You told me you were searching for a man,” John said, looking to Oric. “Though you said he was merely a thief.”

“And indeed he was,” Oric said. Ingram beamed as his captain took his lie and ran with it. “We suspected him of taking Nathaniel from one of Lord Hadfield’s caravans. Never could we have hoped we’d find him here, of course. Perhaps he had come to issue ransom?”

Nathaniel had begun shaking his head, and Ingram watched him carefully. A child’s story against that of several men shouldn’t matter, but one never knew. If only he’d keep his mouth shut, keep crying.

“I was told Nathaniel had died,” John said. “Learned too late of the funeral, sadly. I was told they’d been given a body, by you in fact, Oric.”

Oric licked his lips.

“We suspected too late it was another child. He’d been badly burned. When I thought it might be a trick to throw us off the kidnapper’s trail, we went looking. We learned nothing worthwhile, not yet, so we’ve been keeping our reasons a secret. Don’t want harmful rumors flying about, nor to give Alyssa false hope.”

“He’s lying,” Nathaniel said. “Don’t listen to them, he’s lying! He was my friend, he killed my friend. He helped me!”

Oric’s voice dropped lower.

“Men do strange things to boys in their capture. Given time, he might twist their head around, make them friendly. He needs rest. This all’s clearly been too much for the lad.”

“He called the stranger his pa when running to us,” offered one of the guards.

John nodded, as this bit seemed to support what Oric was saying. He kept Nathaniel close, as if afraid he might lose him should he let go.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked.

“They said my arm got sick and had to be cut off.”

“Who is they?”

Ingram’s eyes widened. This might be tougher to explain. Maybe they could spin some blame onto that wife of his…