‘Careful with that!’ grunted Red Face, so busy slapping the cloak away as water flicked in his eyes Koll had no difficulty easing the dagger from his belt with his other hand. It’s amazing what a man won’t notice while he’s distracted.
‘So sorry, my king!’ said Koll, backing away. He nudged Bald Patches in the ribs. ‘Got some airs on him, your companion, don’t he?’ And under his flapping cloak, he slipped the dagger into this man’s belt. ‘Let me show you a wonderful thing!’ He held his hand up before either of them could get a word in, flipping a copper coin back and forth over his knuckles, fingers wriggling, both men fixed on it.
‘Copper,’ murmured Koll, ‘copper, copper, and … silver!’
He flipped his hand over, palming the copper in a twinkling and holding a silver coin up between finger and thumb, Queen Laithlin’s face stamped on it glinting in the firelight
Bald Patches frowned, sitting forward. ‘How d’you do that?’
‘Ha! I’ll show you the trick to it. Lend me your dagger a moment.’
‘What dagger?’
‘Your dagger.’ Koll pointed at his belt. ‘That one.’
Red Face sprang up. ‘What’re you doing with my damn knife?’
‘What?’ Bald Patches gaped at his belt. ‘How—’
‘The One God frowns upon stealing.’ Koll held up his hands in a display of piety. ‘That’s a fact well known.’
Thorn’s black hand clamped down on Red Face’s mouth and her black knife stabbed through his neck. At almost the same moment Bald Patches’ head jerked as Fror hacked his axe into the back of it, and his eyes went crossed, and he muttered something, drooling, then toppled sideways.
‘Let’s move,’ hissed Thorn, lowering her man to the ground, ‘’fore those others join me in realizing what a double-tongued little weasel you are.’
‘By all means, my Chosen Shield,’ said Koll, and he slid the rune-marked bar from its brackets, and heaved the gate open.
The Killer
The faintest dot of light glimmered in the storm and like a blood-drunk hound let off the leash, Raith was away.
He sped across the wet grass, shield on one arm and his axe gripped so tight below the blade his knuckles ached.
Swords were no doubt prettier but pretty weapons, like pretty people, are prone to sulk. Swords need subtlety and when the battle joy was on him Raith could be less than careful. He’d once beaten a man’s head with the flat of a sword until both sword and head were bent far past any further use. Axes weren’t so sensitive.
Lightning lit the sky again, Bail’s Point a brooding blackness above the sea, wind-driven raindrops frozen before the night closed in. He Who Speaks the Thunder bellowed his upset at the world, so close it made Raith’s heart leap.
He could still taste his bite of the last loaf, bread baked with blood salty across his tongue. The Vanstermen thought that good weaponluck, but Raith had always reckoned luck less use than fury. He bit down hard on the old builder’s peg between his teeth. Near chewed the end of his tongue off in a rage once and ever since he’d made sure to wedge his jaws when there was a fight coming.
There was no feeling like charging into battle. Gambling everything on your cunning, your will, your strength. Dancing at the threshold of the Last Door. Spitting in Death’s face.
He’d left Grom-gil-Gorm, and Soryorn, and even his brother Rakki far behind in his eagerness, the rain-slick elf-walls and the one flickering light at their foot rushing up to meet him.
‘In here!’
Father Yarvi’s boy held up a lantern, shadows in the hollows of his gawping face, pointing through a doorway hidden in the angle of the tower beside him.
Raith tore through, bouncing off the walls, bounding up the steps three at a time, growling breath echoing in the narrow tunnel, legs on fire, chest on fire, thoughts on fire, the din of metal, swearing, screaming building in his head as he burst out into the yard above.
He caught a mad glimpse of bodies straining, weapons flashing, spit and splinters, saw Thorn Bathu’s tarred snarl and went crashing past her at full tilt, into the midst of the fight.
His shield crunched into a warrior’s teeth and flung him over, sword skittering from his hand. Another staggered back, the spear poised to stab at Thorn wobbling wide.
Raith hacked at someone and made him scream, raw and broken and sounding like metal. Shoved with his shield and it grated against another, hissing and slobbering around the peg in his jaws as he pushed, wild, savage, driving a man back, his bloody spit spraying in Raith’s face, close enough to kiss. Raith heaved him back again, kneed at him, made him stumble. A hollow thud as Thorn’s sword chopped deep into his neck, stuck there as he fell and she let it go, kicking him away pouring blood.
Someone went down all tangled with a flapping canvas awning. Someone shouted in Raith’s ear. Something pinged off his helmet and everything was bright, too bright to see, but he lashed blindly over his shield, growling, coughing.