Juliet McKenna - The Swordsman's Oath

“Livak, do you trust me?” Guinalle moved to one side, her eyes never leaving the Elietimm enchanter. “Believe me, anything he can do, I can match. Hold my hands, echo my words and understand that he cannot touch us.”

Livak’s eyes were wide with apprehension, but she took Guinalle’s pale and delicate hands in her own tanned ones and repeated the arcane chant that the younger woman raised, Guinalle’s ancient accents, unheard for so many generations, mingling with the cadence of Livak’s Forest blood, songs learned in childhood from her long absent father giving her the pattern of the lost magic.

“No, you cannot!” Kramisak leaped to his feet with a shout of outrage as his circle flickered and died. He seized a mace that lay on the floor and launched himself at Guinalle. I dashed forward to intercept him, catching the crushing head of his weapon on the battered edge of my sword. He spat at me, slime just missing my face, and cursed me in his own tongue before hissing a familiar chant at me. I braced myself but no confusion threatened me, no dizziness robbed me of my wits.

“Daughter of whores and mother of vermin!” Kramisak tried to go for Guinalle again but I sent him sprawling backward into the far wall with a kick in the stomach.

“It’s time for a fair fight, you pox-rotted bastard,” I heard myself say. “There’s unfinished business between us, gurry-breath!”

“Then it’s my turn.” Temar was circling around behind me now, making sure Kramisak had no opportunity to reach Guinalle and Livak if he somehow evaded me.

“I took you once, prince’s man. I can do it again,” the enchanter snarled, hefting his mace in both hands.

Not today, I thought, going in hard against his rapid blows, sweeping his iron-bound mace aside to rip a long tear down his near arm. To have his own blood let like that seemed to enrage Kramisak still more and he came at me with a flurry of furious strokes. For all his ferocity, I found myself evading him with ease. He seemed completely unable to read my moves, and equally was unable to stop himself mistakenly anticipating my strokes and stepping into a blow rather than defending against it. I cut him again, a deep wound to the upper arm that weakened his blows considerably. He still managed to get a bruising strike in on my leg, but in doing so laid himself open to a sideways slice that left his ribs showing white bone within the torn red flesh. This ragged sword was sawing into him like wood and I leaned all my strength into my blows.

He was fighting Temar. I saw it in an instant of incredulous understanding. Kramisak did not realize that the mind behind my sword in our battle before Shek Kul had been another’s. He was fighting Temar and was losing to me. What would Temar do to that lunge, I asked myself rapidly. He would parry, just so. I stepped in the other direction and slid my notched sword around and over Kramisak’s mace to rip into his throat, great gouts of his blood making the hilt slip in my hands as the disbelief in his eyes faded and he fell forward, the foul and all too familiar stench of death rising from his body as his last spasms ended. I leaned down and cut the belt, with its antique buckle, from his corpse.

Great cries rose from the mercenaries outside. I stepped to a ruined window to see what was going on. To my total surprise, those Elietimm still standing were throwing down their weapons, kneeling, arms spread wide, unmistakably suing for mercy, something the mercenaries were rather more inclined to grant than the colonists, who slew most that they could reach before the mercenaries stopped them. Across the river the fires around the steading suddenly died and Shiv vanished in a flash of azure light, leaving the knot of colonists he had been defending with spears of lightning looking at each other, completely astounded. He reappeared next to me a moment later, chest heaving.

“Is it over?” I demanded, Temar at my side, Livak and Guinalle still clutching each other’s hands by the stairway.

“For the present!” Shiv let loose a wild yell of triumph, embracing me, a gesture I returned without hesitation before turning to do the same to Livak, kissing her soundly as well.

Taken from the family archive of the House Den Rannion,

Bremilayne.

From Lyal, Sieur Den Rannion, to Ingaret, Messire Den Perinal, by the hand in person of Milral Arman, of common height with red hair and blue eyes, a scar on his sword arm and a brand of horse theft on his off hand.

My dear cousin,

I write with the sad tidings that my esteemed father, Vahil, late Sieur of this House was received by Saedrin’s grace on the 44th day of For-Summer. I would ask that you convey this news to your mother, my beloved aunt, Maitresse Elsire, in such a manner as you feel appropriate for her age and infirmity. I leave it to your discretion as to whether or not you tell her his final words were of their parents, the friends of his youth, and sorrow over some undischarged vow. I regret to say that this last caused him no little distress and consequently, I assured him that, when circumstance allowed, I would seek to rediscover the lost colony of which I know your mother also still speaks.

Between, ourselves, I can only pray that Saedrin is able to pacify my father on this matter, else we face the prospect of his inconsolate shade wandering our halls for some generations to come. Our situation is not as desperate as some but Misaen will halt the moons before I have resources to spend chasing an old man’s disappointments with only half-remembered tales and inadequate records to guide me. The fighting has passed us by for the moment and I am in negotiation with sundry Houses in support of the Sieur D’Aleonne. I would appreciate your thoughts on this matter and, of course, any assurance of military aid that you might care to make available, should the situation in your locality become more stable. You might also care to know that the Sieur D’Istrac has approached me in respect of a betrothal between my daughter Kindra and his eldest nephew. How go your negotiations with D’Evoir?

Are you all ready to go?” Shiv sauntered down the wharf, his own baggage slung negligently over one shoulder.

“I think so.” I looked up to the gateway to the Den Rannion steading, now cleared and roughly repaired. Halice and Livak were deep in conversation, Halice in workaday breeches and jerkin while Livak stood with her kit-bag leaning against the wall. I rubbed a hand against my pocket to reassure me that the parchment bearing Halice’s account of the healing done to her leg was secure there. If I were going to hand back my oath, I would be rendering a full accounting.

“I was rather surprised when she said she was staying,” Shiv remarked. “How’s Livak taking it? I know they’ve been close a long time.”

“Whatever else, she wants Halice to be content,” I shrugged.

“Yes, she’s sad, and she’s done every cursed thing she can to change her mind, but when all the runes are thrown, it’s still Halice’s decision. Livak can’t deny her that.”

“Do you know why, exactly?” Shiv looked curious. “I haven’t liked to ask.”

“Halice says she’s had enough of fighting in Lescar, of spending every season losing friends only to have all the runes swept back into the bag and drawn afresh the next year. I can’t say I blame her, that’s one of the reasons my friend Aiten got clear of the civil wars. Now Halice reckons she’s found a place where her skills can be useful and she feels she’s fighting for a worthwhile cause.” I grimaced, wondering where I would find such a thing now and still feeling a dull pang at Aiten’s name.