Chris Wooding: The Fade

Suddenly it all wells up inside me again. The fear, the helplessness, the torment of conflicting loyalties. My husband is dead. My son may already be lost, and nothing I can do seems like enough. I left someone on the surface and part of me wants to go back to them, to throw everything up in the air and run, run, run, to a place where none of this matters. And my master, the man to whom I gave everything, may be the man I have to kill to save my son.

I feel something splinter inside me, and I feel like I could collapse. To lie down and never get up. Wouldn't that be sweet?

But I don't, because that's when they come for me.

They run in almost perfect silence, and that's how I know they're Ya'yeen. They attack from three directions: one along the path, one from behind, one springing down from an overhang. Long, slender needles in their long, slender hands.

Not just muggers. Assassins.

I'm drunk and out of practice, but the chua-kin training is burned into every fibre. I'm still worth ten of any normal victim.

Their attacks are near-simultaneous, but not quite. That provides me opening enough to dodge them. I roll out of the path of the plunging assassin, taking me beyond the slash of the one coming from behind and inside the reach of the third. I grab at his arm and strike, but he bends in my grip and slips away, twisting in a fashion that would snap the bones of anyone but a Ya'yeen.

I drop and kick backwards, finding the leg of one of them, but again their flexible joints suck up the blow and the result is not what I had hoped for. A wet hiss tells me I hurt him, though. It's a start.

Block, kick, feint. For a few instants I'm on automatic, letting my instincts do what they do and trying not to override them with conscious thought. Then one of them makes a foolish double-thrust with his needles, and I pull him forward so that he's off-balance, seize his head and break his neck. Even these bastards can't flex that far.

The other two spring away as if burned, facing me on opposite sides. I let their companion drop to the ground and step away, stancing to receive both of them. They're wary. They thought this would be easy. Someone didn't prep them well enough.

Ya'yeen are tricky to fight. Unpredictable. Their skinny, double-jointed bodies and sinuous fighting style mean it's like trying to grab a bunch of eels. They're quick, and they shift techniques all the time, never settling on anything. Making bizarre choices, attacking when they should defend. Their randomness is their greatest strength and their greatest weakness. You never see them coming, but they're prone to mistakes.

I stare into the eyes of my enemy: large, tear-shaped black holes in a narrow grey face, which is given definition and individuality by bone ridges on the cheeks and brows or along the skull. These Ya'yeen are wearing battle garb, skintight outfits cut to some design that means nothing to me. Undoubtedly significant to them, though. One of them has strips of material like belts or ribbons hanging from his limbs that trail artistically behind him as he moves.

They close in slowly, sinister dancers on the hunt, needle points carving out shapes in the air. They're communicating their intentions to each other with their movements. Co-ordinating.

My senses sharpen hard under chua-kin chants. Preparing me for battle, loosening muscles, switching my brain to a higher level of alertness. The sensation of drunkenness fades and disappears. I can sober up in less than a minute when I have to.

Shouldn't have given me breathing space, I tell them mentally. I won't be so easy to surprise this time.

They come at me together, needles darting, seeking to puncture and pierce. They go for the eyes, the heart, the back of the neck. I'm not there. I drop, twist, kick out. They're fast too: my kick hits air, and I only just avoid having my ankle pinned by a needle.

I roll backwards, but they're striking even as I find my feet. A flurry of blocking follows as I retreat from the thrust and stab of four needles. Then I spot the weakness on their flank, my battle-keen senses picking up possibilities where an ordinary warrior would see nothing. I twist aside as they strike, catch one of the needles between the flat palms of my hand, break it.

Then I'm away, running towards a low cliff that rises up to one side of the path. Drawing my SunChild shortblades as I go. With only three needles to deal with now, I can press the attack.

They're close behind me as I spring up against the cliff and launch myself off it. They've seen the move coming but they're wrongfooted by the angle. A needle misses my belly by a whisper but I get a solid swing at the arm that held it, and take it off at the elbow.

The Ya'yeen squeals. The pain and shock has focused him on nothing but his own mutilated arm, and his guard collapses. I've put him between me and the last assassin, so I have all the time in the world. I hit the ground, spin on the ball of my foot and hack his head off.

The final Ya'yeen is the one with the ribbons and straps. He's barefoot, as they all were, balancing on his toes. Doubly wary now, but showing no sign of giving up. Ya'yeen aren't afraid of dying. Which is good, because he's going to.

I'd try to take him alive if I thought there was any point, but there's a reason people hire Ya'yeen assassins. You can't trace them back to their employers. Even if they did talk, nobody would understand them.

Besides, I don't need him to tell me who's trying to kill me. There's only one person who could have sent them. One person who knows I'm back in Veya, who can afford assassins like this and who has reason to kill me anonymously. His only mistake is that he underestimated me.

He could have had me executed, but then questions might be asked, and he doesn't want those kind of questions. He could have sent his Cadre: at least they might have done the job right. But then, he couldn't take the risk that I'd beat them, and then I'd know what he was up to.

But I know, Ledo. I know.

The last assassin makes his move. I take the fight to him. It doesn't last long.

I need to be active. Sitting in that graveyard of a home is killing me. So I send out a message to an old friend, and while I'm waiting for it to find him, I fulfil a promise I made to a dead man.

Spikevine hangovers are not the most pleasant of experiences, but I've invited the pain in and now I have to suffer it. Punishment for failure, and for my stupidity. Mouth dry and sticky, joints aching, I head into the seedier districts of Veya to deliver the letter entrusted to me by Juth before our escape from Farakza.

The address is in the Scornhold, on the poleways side of the city, just neath-backspin of the Flay and turnward of Marasca Springs. It's a run-down area in the process of revitalisation, all narrow, crumbling alleyways and graffiti. Far from the shinehouses that tower over the city, dimmer than the more wealthy areas. Lantern-posts dot the streets, some lit, some dark. Corners and alcoves are guarded by small groups of dangerously idle young men, eyeing passers-by.

I'm safe enough. Usually the Cadre symbol skinmarked on my shoulder is enough to deter anyone, but sometimes the thought of taking down a Cadre woman is too tempting. Thing is, anyone idiotic enough to try random violence against Cadre is almost certainly going to die for their trouble. Smart fighters, disciplined fighters, don't hang out on street corners desperate for someone to threaten in order to prove their masculinity. They're not that insecure.

The air rings with the blunt din of construction, adding to my already spectacular headache. Dirty arcades bristle with rootwood scaffolding and counterweighted crane jibs. Eskarans and Craggens work side-by-side here, the latter hauling great sleds of rock or applying their immense strength to huge pulleys. The air is dense with their language: a breathy, explosive mixture of glottal stops, swallowing noises and booming sounds. They hulk their way among their smaller companions, flat, spiked tails dragging behind them.