Thorarinn Gunnarsson - Battle of the Ring

“You said it to me yourself. ‘I’ve killed before and will again,’ or something like that.”

“Well, it’s not as if I go around killing people all the time.”

He stopped short, as if listening for something. In the next instant he spun around, his guns already in his hands, and fired two rapid shots through the sparse crowd of astonished people behind him. The bolts entered the short alley they had just passed and exploded through the middle of an open door, cracking the opaque glass of its window and leaving two smoking holes. Velmeran stood for a moment staring at the door. Everyone, over a dozen people in all, turned and looked as well, then scattered. He glanced back at Lenna, who was regarding him skeptically.

“As you were saying, Mr. Rachmaninoff?” she asked coolly.

“Oh, you are a… here!” He thrust a gun into her hands. “Take this and stand guard.”

“I have one of my own,” Lenna said, holding up a big Union service pistol, powerful enough to dent Starwolf armor. He stared in mild surprise, wondering where she had kept the thing hidden.

He shrugged and turned toward the door, opening it cautiously. A young man, clearly an off-worlder, lay on the floor inside, panting in his pain. One bolt had discharged against his sternum, shattering his rib cage. The other had passed completely through his chest, just under his right shoulder. There was nothing remarkable about him, just a sandy-haired boy in his early twenties. A very businesslike gun in his right hand was the only thing to indicate his profession. Velmeran confiscated the gun, handing it to Lenna.

“Who…?” she asked as she accepted the gun hesitantly.

“Kuari assassin,” he replied simply.

Lenna understood what he meant. The Kuari were an odd, barbaric religious sect occupying three frontier worlds, a small empire in themselves since not even the Union wanted them. The assassins were the elite of their priesthood, their purpose to earn the favor of their death-god with the innocent lives they took. The more lives they took, the greater their prestige and power in the death-god’s spirit guard, but they themselves had to meet an honorable death to win their place. The Assassin’s sect did not, for any reason, accept a pact on a Starwolf, but older assassins would sometimes cross a Starwolf to win the honorable death they needed.

“Do you hear me?” Velmeran demanded.

“I hear you, Lord,” the boy answered, gasping in pain.

“Have you killed before, boy?”

“I have, Lord,” he said, smiling grimly with pride. “I have assured myself some small place in the spirit guard, if you will give me honorable death.”

“That remains to be said,” Velmeran said. “I have two claims upon you. I have beaten you fairly, and I am your only hope for honorable death. The police will be here in a moment. Your injuries are not so great that they cannot steal you back from death. If you desire honorable death, then you must give me something in return.”

“I hear you, Lord,” the boy answered. “What would you know?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And what led you to attempt the foolhardy?”

“My lord, a pact was offered. An agent of your enemy came half a year ago, offering impossible riches for your death. He knew that the pact would be refused, but the reward was very tempting. And the honor.”

“And so you came hunting?” Velmeran asked.

“No, Lord,” the boy insisted. “I was here when your ship arrived, hunting by pact the chief of the Trade Association. When your ship came, I watched the port for you. I knew that I could never kill you while you wore your armor. But when you came from the tailor’s shop dressed as you are, I began to hope that I could do the impossible if I was very careful. But not careful enough, it would seem.”

“Sergei,” Lenna interrupted softly. “My brother’s coming and he’s in a hurry.”

“The police?” the young assassin asked fearfully. “Lord, I have answered truthfully. What else would you know?”

“Nothing else.” Velmeran placed his hand on the assassin’s throat, and the sound of snapping bone filled the small, dark room. Lenna drew back fearfully. She had never before seen death, certainly not given so casually and received so eagerly.

Velmeran rose and indicated for her to precede him out the broken door. He stepped outside just as Iyan arrived, stepping through the small crowd that had gathered at a cautious distance.

“You again?” he asked wearily.

“It was a Kuari assassin,” Lenna told him, still pale and shaken from what she had witnessed.

Iyan rolled his eyes and muttered some colorful local obscenity before looking at Velmeran. “And you shot him?”

“Self-protection,” the Starwolf offered calmly.

Makayen frowned and shook his head slowly, like a superior reluctantly conferring a deserved punishment. “What am I going to do with you?”

Velmeran regarded him questioningly. “You are not going to do anything except mind your own business. Under no circumstances are you to presume any authority over a Starwolf.”

Makayen drew back in alarm, suddenly aware that he was indeed asking for trouble. But Lenna, predictably, would not let the matter rest.

“Oh, come off it, Iyan,” she said indignantly. “That assassin was here to get Allon Makvenna. Said so himself. So you should be glad he got distracted with our friend here.”

“Then I suppose he deserves our heartfelt gratitude,” her brother said sarcastically.

“Sure, and I suppose you’d have been happier if he had gone ahead and shot old man Makvenna?” She demanded in return. “Then you’d have a nice crime to solve, and everything would be as it should be.”

Iyan opened his mouth to protest, then noticed the Starwolf watching them both in a mildly amused manner, like a tolerant parent watching two children. He closed his mouth and smiled. “You’ll have to excuse me, but it’s my sister I’m arguing with, not you. And I’m a terrible one for wanting the last word.”

“If you will forgo the last word, I will gladly forget the entire matter. And you,” Velmeran turned abruptly to Lenna, “will please shut up and come with me.”

“Just be careful!” Iyan called after then as they made their way through the small crowd that had gathered at a respectable distance. The medics had just arrived, effectively breaking up the congregation.

Lenna cringed. “Damn! He had the last word after all.”

Now that they were beyond the small crowd, Velmeran quietly returned his guns to his belt and folded his lower arms behind his cape, retreating into his assumed role. Lenna, observing him, tucked her own gun back inside her jacket. Then the delayed shock caught up with her. She wavered, pale and shaken, and paused to lean against a heavy wooden post.

“Great Spirit of Space, you shot him,” she muttered uncertainly. “You shot him and you broke his neck.”

“A moment later he would have been shooting at us,” Velmeran said gently, as if that was supposed to have been reassuring. To a Starwolf it would have been, but somehow Lenna did not quite see it that way. She stared at him in disbelief.

“I don’t even want to think about that!” she declared, and closed her eyes as she trembled at the thought. She blinked and looked at him again. “You. You have no regrets.”

“Of course I regret,” he insisted. “I regret every life that is lost, whether I had any part in it or not. But that is the way life is, and I do what I have to do.”

“Sergei, he was only a boy.”

“So am I. But he would have shot me in the back and been pleased with himself for doing so. At least I am not pleased with myself for what I did.” He paused, frowning. “Lenna, you know what I am. I make a career of shooting warships and freighters, and most of the time I do not think that there are lives — innocent lives — on those ships. Later, when I do think about it, I regret what I have done. I have killed twice today, and for once I have the reassurance of knowing that the lives I took were not innocent. Do you understand what I am saying?”