Stan Nicholls - Quicksilver Zenith

‘You can’t account for yourself and you’re in violation of the curfew,’ the paladin told him. ‘We’re taking you in.’

‘C’mon.’ The watch captain laid a rough hand on the youth.

‘I won’t!’ the young man blurted, trying to shake himself loose.

‘You what ?’

‘I mean … it was just a mistake. I didn’t know I’d broken the law and –’

The watchman cuffed him, hard. It was enough to make the youth stagger.

‘You speak when you’re spoken to.’

A red welt coloured the youth’s cheek, a trickle of blood snaked from the corner of his mouth. He braced himself for another blow.

‘And you address us with the respect we’re due,’ the watchman added, raising his fist again.

‘Take your filthy hands off him.’

A figure emerged from the fog. He was tall and dark. His flowing cloak made him look like some kind of giant winged beast.

The watchman swung to face him. ‘Who the hell are you ?’

Forgetting their captive, they all turned their attention to the newcomer.

‘Stand aside,’ he said. His tone was even. Calm.

‘Who in damnation do you think you’re giving orders to?’ the paladin thundered.

‘I said stand aside.’

‘Who are you,’ the watchman repeated, ‘to be out in curfew and obstructing the watch?’ Stupefaction tinged his building rage, unaccustomed as he was to having his authority defied.

‘The boy’s coming with me.’

‘Is that so? Well, we’re in charge here.’ He sliced air with the sorcerer’s knife to stress his words. ‘If he’s going anywhere, it’s with us. And you with him.’

The stranger came closer. His movements were unhurried, almost leisurely. But now that he stood in the lantern’s glow they saw that there was something disturbing about his eyes.

‘No we’re not,’ he said.

The watch captain glared at him. He took in the man’s brooding features. The somewhat angular structure of his face, the slight ruddiness of complexion, his long raven hair.

‘Should have known,’ the captain sneered, turning his head to spit contemptuously. ‘We’ve got ourselves a real lowlife here, lads.’

His comrades laughed again, united in bigotry, if a little uneasily this time. The paladin stayed silent, and so did the sorcerer. Bewildered, the youth’s head swung from side to side, trying to make out what was going on.

‘Reckons he can insult his betters,’ the watchman grandstanded. ‘We’ll show him the price of that.’

The stranger moved forward. He only stopped when the tip of the watchman’s raised knife touched his chest. It didn’t seem to bother him.

They locked gazes. The stranger didn’t blink, or move a muscle. The captain’s knuckles were white.

A flock of oversized butterflies fluttered past. They were garishly coloured and appeared to be made of hammered tin. A faint squeaking emitted from their beating wings. Nobody paid them any mind.

‘We can settle this peacefully,’ the stranger said. ‘Give me the boy and I’ll let you go.’

‘Let us –?’ The captain seethed. He applied more pressure to the knife. ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell when we bow to your sort.’

‘I can arrange for you to check the temperature personally,’ the stranger offered, and smiled. There was nothing comforting about it.

Perhaps there was a glimmer of realisation in the captain’s features, a suspicion of what he might be facing. The shadow of a doubt darkened his face. He half whispered, ‘Who are you?’

‘A man who doesn’t like being on the business end of a blade.’

There was a blur of motion, an action so quick and fluid the others couldn’t follow it.

Now the stranger had the knife. He held it by the blade, hilt up. Dazed, empty-handed, the captain gaped at him.

‘I think this belongs to you,’ the stranger said, and just as swiftly lobbed it. But his target wasn’t the watch captain.

The knife winged to the sorcerer. It punctured his chest, driving deep. Whiskered mouth in an O of surprise, the wizard gawked, bewildered, at the blade quivering in his breast. He went down in a swirl of robes.

What had been a glacial scene instantly thawed.

Everyone bar the stranger seemed to be shouting. There was a confusion of movement. Weapons were deployed, lanterns discarded.

‘What is it?’ the youth pleaded, twisting in the chaos. ‘What’s happening?’

The stranger shoved him aside. The youth tottered, and fell.

From beneath his billowing cloak the stranger quickly drew a pair of swords. Then the patrol moved in to engage him.

On hands and knees, head low, the young man scurried away from the sound of ringing steel. Bumping into a wall, he huddled with his back against its coarse surface, making himself small.

A watchman circled the stranger to seize him from behind. He met the smartly delivered backward thrust of a granite-hard elbow. There was the audible crack of a breaking nose. Palms to face, the watchman reeled clear. The stranger resumed fencing with barely a pause.

He faced the captain and the third patrolman. His most dangerous opponent by far, the paladin, knelt beside the sorcerer. He was feeling the wizard’s neck for a pulse, but his eyes were on the fight.

Anger rode the captain. It made him unruly. He fought with wild swings and a reckless stance. His companion was more sober. He came in with measured passes and well-aimed strokes. The stranger met both with equal vigour, his twin blades flashing smoothly from one to the other.

The alley was lit by an eerie gleam from the cast-off lanterns. It threw enormous shadows of the duellists onto the wall behind the cowering youth. The shades of frenzied giants, performing an eccentric ballet. Until one of them stopped.

An expression of consternation was etched on the captain’s face. A blade jutted from his chest. The stranger tugged it free in a gush of crimson. Knees buckling, the captain dropped.

His cohort, momentarily stunned, battled on with renewed ferocity. The man with the broken nose, bloodied and ashen, recovered enough to join in. They tried to overcome their opponent with sheer force but he held them off with ease, dodging swipes, side-stepping thrusts with sure dexterity. Nothing they did slowed his attack. Then he took an opening.

The young man, cringing at the wall, had his hands covering his bowed head, fingers splayed. Half a dozen paces to his left was a sealed window. A grey-uniformed body hurtled into it, crashing through the wooden shutters. It came to rest half in, half out, legs dangling. The youth whimpered.

With Broken Nose out of the picture, the stranger turned to the remaining watchman and fell on him like a ravening wolf.

A slash of glistening arterial blood sprayed across the brickwork above the youth. Flecks splashed him, warm drops spattered his head, hands and shoulders. He quailed.

The stranger had no further interest in the downed watchman. His attention was on the paladin, still kneeling by the wizard. They stared at each other. The paladin was young, robust; his turn-out immaculate, with hair and beard neatly trimmed, in common with his kind. He slowly rose. With measured tread he advanced, drawing his sword as he came. For his part the stranger re-sheathed the flatter of his blades, leaving him with a rapier.

The paladin asked, ‘Why do that?’

‘So we can meet equally.’

‘Gallantry from a savage?’ he scoffed. ‘Only a fool throws away an advantage.’

They’d begun to circle each other slowly.

‘We’ll see,’ the stranger replied.

They moved simultaneously, and fast. Their blades met, pealing, and for a moment locked. Disengaging, both men pulled back and commenced their duel in earnest. Exchanging stinging passes, hacking and chopping, they set up a rhythmic beat of pounding steel. The paladin was a skilful fighter, and disciplined, but no match for his opponent.