Stan Nicholls - Quicksilver Rising

‘Phoenix?’ Kutch bucked up a little. ‘Probably no more than you’ve heard yourself. You know; that he, or she, is somebody with great skill in the Craft, and can’t be caught. Can’t be killed either.’

‘How can that be?’ Caldason said, real interest in his eyes.

‘What does it matter? The important thing is that Covenant could be your best chance of aid. They don’t just have the magic, Reeth. They’re patriots, and they oppose Gath Tampoor. Which means they’re a thorn in the paladins’ side. Makes you natural allies, I’d say.’

Caldason’s expression hardened. ‘You know what I think about allies. And I’m no patriot. Not as far as Bhealfa’s concerned anyway.’

The ground began to level. They were in sight of the hamlet’s outlying buildings.

‘You should go and find them,’ Kutch ventured.

‘Where?’

‘Valdarr.’

‘Do you know where in Valdarr?’

‘No … no, I don’t. But it’s the biggest city. It makes sense Covenant would be there, doesn’t it? We could –’

‘There’s no we , and you’re just guessing they can be found there. If I go looking for Covenant, I’ll be doing it by myself.’

‘Why can’t I come with you?’ the boy pleaded.

‘I’ve told you. I travel alone.’

‘I wouldn’t get in your way, and I can shift for myself.’

‘No. People around me tend to end up dying.’

‘I know it’d be dangerous, with you an outlaw and all, and a Qalochian, but –’

‘They don’t just die the way you think. There’s ways other than violently.’

Kutch didn’t understand. But they’d reached the edge of his settlement, putting their conversation on hold. ‘This is a quicker way to the house,’ he announced morosely, leading Caldason into a side street.

The street became an alley, darkened by overhanging upper storeys of houses. It narrowed, twisted, intersected other byways, all deserted. Then they turned into a downward-sloping, cobbled lane, lined to the right by stables, to the left by mean cottages.

Twenty or thirty paces ahead, with his back to them, someone walked briskly in the same direction they were heading.

‘It’s him,’ Kutch whispered. ‘The man at the funeral.’

Caldason regarded the figure and nodded, adding, ‘He takes risks.’

‘How?’

‘He’s far from young, and by the cut of his clothes, moneyed. Yet no sign of bodyguards.’

‘He has protection. There’s a defensive shield around him. Good quality, too.’

‘Damned if I can see it, Kutch.’

‘You have to know how to look. Come on, let’s talk to him.’

Reeth caught his arm. ‘Why?’

‘Aren’t you curious to know who he is?’

‘Not greatly. If a man looks like a threat, or like somebody who could help me, I’m curious. I doubt he’s either.’

‘He was the only one at my master’s funeral apart from us.’ Kutch shook loose his arm. ‘I’d like to know why.’

Reeth shrugged. ‘All right. But I’m not for lingering, remember.’

They quickened their pace.

Kutch was right. As they approached, Caldason spotted an indistinct sheath of agitated air, a finger’s span deep, enveloping the stranger’s body. It shimmered like a heat haze.

The man heard their footfalls, stopped and turned. The questioning look on his distinguished, grey-maned features mutated into apprehension.

Kutch stretched his hands placatingly, palms up. ‘We mean you no harm!’

Tensely, the stranger retreated a step or two, staring at them but saying nothing.

Reeth glanced around. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘What isn’t?’ Kutch asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You have to know how to look,’ Caldason replied dryly.

Something fell into their field of vision, a blur of glistening silver.

The fraudulent bird they had glimpsed earlier descended with wings fluttering languorously. Time seemed to slow to a glacial pace as it came to rest on the stranger’s outstretched arm. There was a flurry of radiant feathers. The creature’s eyes, vivid crimson, fixed upon him.

‘ Treachery !’ the bird screeched.

Then it raised its wings as though to take off. Instead it soundlessly imploded, crushing to a tiny ball of pulsing brilliance that immediately consumed itself.

Blinking, the stranger assumed the pair facing him were the object of the warning. He made to run.

‘No!’ Kutch shouted, still dazed. ‘We don’t want to hurt you!’

Caldason’s attention hadn’t been on the glamour or the stranger. He was scanning the doorways and stables. Face hard, gaze intense, he began drawing his sword.

Kutch noticed. He managed a puzzled, ‘What –?’ before he saw why.

Men were emerging from dingy stables and out of shadowed nooks. There were a good half-dozen of them, and if there was any doubt about their intent, the blades in their hands dispelled it.

All but one had a look Caldason had seen many times. The mark of predators. Street pirates. Men who killed for coin, or for the sport of it. The exception appeared to be unarmed and his garb was less martial. Unlike the others, he wore a cloak, and held a staff too short for a weapon, embellished in gold.

Fanning out, the brigands moved to surround the trio. The man Kutch and Reeth had been following seemed more self-possessed, but still suspicious of the pair’s allegiance. He looked from them to the encircling ambushers, then back again, undecided.

Ever watchful, Caldason reached over his shoulder and slowly unsheathed his second blade.

As he freed it there was a flash of fierce white light.

It lasted no more than a second but dazzled them all. Fiery motes in his eyes, Caldason found its source. The unsuitably dressed brigand had his ornate staff in a raised hand. He was pointing it at the elderly stranger.

Kutch cried out something unintelligible. Reeth saw that the stranger now stood unprotected. His buffer of magic was gone, the radiant bubble had dispersed.

A negating glamour. Caldason hoped they didn’t have anything worse.

One of the ambushers on the right began to move their way, sword raised. A bandit on the opposite side did the same. The rest stood their ground.

Caldason shoved Kutch hard, propelling him towards the stranger. The boy exclaimed, stumbled, almost collided with the old man.

‘ Stay !’ Caldason snapped, as though commanding a dog.

Then the pincer closed on him.

He remained perfectly still, immobile as a rock. Kutch, watching fear-flushed, unbelieving, saw that Caldason’s eyes were shut, and that he looked incongruously serene. But that lasted only a second, before the waves struck.

A sword in each hand, he parried both incomers, side-on, blocking expertly to the right and left. Then he swung out and round to face the pair.

They engaged him again instantly. Four blades rent the air. Steel clamoured in earnest as the three of them enacted that lissome dance, old as malice, which could only end in death.

At first it seemed to Kutch that Reeth did no more than hold the attackers at bay. But he soon realised his error. Caldason was deploying a strategy. For although they attacked him with equal ferocity, his response was two-tiered. The man on his right he held off. The one to the left, he fought. As they jockeyed to challenge him, his blades flashed from one to the other; defensive to offensive, soft to hard.

When it happened, it was quick and brutal. From the storm’s eye, Caldason lashed out at the man he’d worn down. To those looking on it was as though he quickly wiped his blade across the brigand’s chest. But the gash was deep. It liberated a cataract of blood. The victim made a sound, part outcry, part groan of pain, and let slip his sword. He swayed, then fell, broken.