The Exiled Blade (The Assassini)

45





“Y-you could h-have gone with h-her . . .”

“No, highness, I couldn’t.”

Marco sighed and glanced up the track towards the pass through which Lady Giulietta, her son and the krieghund had vanished. The cliff rose high on one side of the track and dropped into a ravine on the other. It was just wide enough for six spearmen to block the way. Those behind could stab and slice, and provide weight for the shield wall in front.

Although Marco’s remaining knights had the best armour, without mounts to carry them they were near useless and were already shedding what plate they could. It was the infantry who would meet Alonzo’s charge. Marco had chosen the battlefield carefully. About twelve paces down the track was a tight bend round a rocky spur. This, Marco announced, was to prevent Alonzo from being able to charge at speed.

It would take two days for Giulietta to reach the coast, possibly three . . . The longer they could hold Alonzo the better chance she’d have. They had the kink in the road and the narrowness of the path on their side. Prince Alonzo had greater numbers and cavalry on his. “W-what are you t-thinking?”

“Your uncle will hate our position.”

“You w-would have m-made a good g-general.”

The thought was so absurd that Tycho grinned in self-mockery, then realised the duke was serious. “Highness . . .”

“What else would you d-do?”

Tycho looked at men locking shields. “Nothing.”

“J-just thought I’d c-check . . . It’s t-thawing,” Marco added.

Late winter sun and daytime warmth had set runnels sliding down rocks to create a stream below. The temperature was still above freezing because pockets of snow trapped in the cliff face kept dripping and the track was slushy underfoot.

“S-should m-make it easier for G-Giulietta.”

Tycho nodded, not knowing if it was even true.

They heard Alonzo’s men long before they climbed the track and turned the tight bend around the promontory, stopping suddenly at the sight of the shield wall. As the lead horse shied, another skidded on the slush and Alonzo nearly lost a knight as the heavily armoured man fought to control his beast.

Horses, Tycho thought.

They were Alonzo’s strength and his weakness.

“Shoot their mounts,” Tycho shouted. The only two archers in Marco’s troop looked to the duke for guidance.

“D-do it,” he said decisively. And they pushed forward . . . The shield wall opened while Alonzo’s two knights were still deciding what to do and the bowmen aimed and released. Both missed.

Grabbing a bow, Tycho slotted an arrow and let go, drawing and releasing another arrow while the first was still in the air. He was already slotting a third when his first target reared, presenting its neck to the arrow he was about to release. It fell with Tycho’s arrow in its throat, although what killed it was sliding over the track’s crumbling edge and hitting rocks below.

Its rider screamed once on the way down.

The second knight was fighting his wounded mount as Tycho put another arrow into the poor creature’s flank, jerking the horse round so it slammed the knight into the rock face. It took the swearing man longer than it should to cut his animal’s throat. Infantry pushed their way through to retrieve the heavily armoured knight and barge his dying mount over the edge.

Tycho used the moment to unleash more arrows. A sergeant went down with one through his eye and a horse shied from a strike to its chest, but that was when Tycho’s luck ran out. His next arrow flopped to the dirt as the bow cracked and the tension went out of its string.

Stepping back, Tycho let the shield wall close around him.

Two knights edged forward on Alonzo’s orders and lowered their lances. One wore a battle axe at his hip, the other had a great sword. It seemed unlikely they’d thought about how much space they’d need to wield either.

“Brace the wall,” Captain Weimer shouted.

One of Marco’s foot soldiers suddenly stood tall and hurled his precious spear as if it was a common javelin. It arced through the air as Captain Weimer cursed, and struck the leading horse in the chest, sending it stumbling.

The animal next to it shied in panic and threw its rider.

“Open the wall,” Captain Weimer howled. He sprinted for the fallen knight and swung his spike axe one-handed through the man’s helmet, kicking the man’s head to work the axe free. He swung at the other knight, missed and put his axe into the horse’s neck, ripping it free and retreating through the shield wall. He punched the offending soldier on his way past.

“N-nicely d-done,” Marco said.

The captain grinned. “Thank you, highness.”

Dead horses and high ground – those could be Marco’s weapons. Dead horses, high ground and the tight bend in the track. The sergeant Alonzo sent to dispatch the screaming mount finally landed a killing blow but couldn’t drive the animal over the cliff before it bled out. Both armies could hear Alonzo’s fury. The prince wasn’t discreet in his anger.

“W-well done,” Marco said. “We c-can do t-this.”

Maybe he really was mad enough to believe it. Alonzo had ridden ahead, which was obviously why he had mostly knights with him, but his army would be following behind and they far outnumbered Marco’s group. Everyone but Marco knew death was merely a matter of time.

“W-what will m-my uncle do n-now?”

“Unhorse his light cavalry,” Captain Weimer said. “Use them as foot soldiers.”

And so it proved. A group of mercenaries advanced with their shields held high as they edged carefully between dead horses. They wore breastplates and open-faced helmets and looked utterly professional. Raising their shields, they advanced in step.

“Tortuca,” Captain Weimer shouted.

As the front row of Marco’s men steadied their shields, Tycho took his place in the second row beside Captain Weimer. The men behind them had shields that they raised against spears or arrows from above. It was a formation as old as Venice itself, possibly older.

Shield met shield as the mercenaries slammed into Marco’s wall. The men in Marco’s tortuca dug their boots in, steadied themselves and punched with their shields, hoping to hear air whoosh from those they faced. A mercenary stumbled, and his immediate opponent stabbed for the gap. His sword slid off armour and entered a man’s neck, jutting right through for a moment until he withdrew his blade in a spray of blood. The enemy wall roared in fury.

The mercenary’s comrades closed the gap as he fell.

“Well done, lad,” Captain Weimer roared. Quietly, he muttered, “They’re pushing us back.” Tycho already realised that. The small group protecting Marco gave ground slowly as extra men joined the back of Alonzo’s own tortuca.

“We can’t hold them for long enough,” Captain Weimer whispered. Tycho’s answer was lost as the captain roared, “That’s it, lads. Push harder, we’re going to march right over them.”

Those at the front of Marco’s tortuca pushed and grunted, reversing their grips to stab down over shields, while those behind jabbed with spears when they could. One man risked a glance over the wall and took a sword through the eye. Tycho grabbed his drooping shield, stepped into the gap and stabbed the man’s attacker. Dropping to a crouch, he slashed another across the ankle. These men had wives and children, maybe even mothers, but he welcomed their screams all the same.

“You’ve done this before, sir.”

He punched his shield into an enemy who tried to push him, heard breath burst from the man’s body and slammed the bottom of his shield down on the man’s foot, jerking it upwards to catch him under his chin. “I learn fast.”

“Nah . . .” The man shook his head doggedly. “You’ve done this before.”

Not at Bjornvin, Tycho thought. In Bjornvin, slaves couldn’t even own knives. “I’m going out here. Close the gap after me.”

“If you do,” said his neighbour, “we’ll all die.” His tone said he realised there was little to choose between nobles, children and idiots . . . None the less, he’d rather the idiot next to him keep his place. Tycho remained where he was rather than break the shield wall. Those behind him provided the shields that made a roof against spears, while those in his line held fast against the brutal weight of numbers pushing them and those at the very back dug in their heels, fought the slush and strained to hold those in front. Together they made a metal and flesh monster, solid on the outside and fear-filled, stinking and desperate within. All they could do was retreat and keep retreating as slowly as possible.

Marco was muttering to himself, a stuttery two-way conversation about how strange life was and how death was going to be even stranger. He didn’t seem upset at the thought, simply resigned. Captain Weimer was beside him. The man would die to protect the duke, probably sooner rather than later.

At least their weight of numbers made Alonzo’s men careless.

Marco’s group kept their shields high and took heart from enemy screams every time their blades bit home or spears found their mark. The smell of blood was overpowering, the stench of voided bowels even worse. The grinding of shields hurt Tycho’s ears until he hated the noise and his sharp hearing. He fought, he pushed back and slammed his shield into the enemy in front. Around him, tired men were facing thoughts of death. Flat, unwelcome thoughts. They stared death in the face and death scowled back. They would die on a mountain road, frozen and hungry, and surrounded by the clash of steel, the gasps of exhausted men . . .

What am I missing? Tycho thought.

In the unexpected silence of both sides suddenly falling quiet he found it and knew it had been there before, time and again, calling to him and waiting on his answer. The high call of a goshawk. Shivers ran down his back. On the wind came a second call, so clear he almost froze in shock. Did he want help?

Of course he wanted help, and badly. Tycho risked a glance above the shield wall, blocked a thrusting blade and slashed at the fingers of his attacker, hearing the man swear and not caring, because he was already sending a high answering call of his own.

“W-what’s-that?”

“Assassini business.”

A shadow dropped from the cliffs on to the rear of the tortuca, ran its brief length and leapt on to Alonzo’s tortuca, ripped up a roofing shield and broke the neck of the soldier beneath. Howling with excitement, it lunged for another man.

A patter of bare feet on Marco’s tortuca turned to a torrent. Screaming began as Alonzo’s shield wall fell apart. Standing straight, Tycho watched ragged darkness wash over Alonzo’s front line and take down his men.

“Charge the traitorous bastards,” Captain Weimer yelled.

“No,” Tycho’s voice was fierce. “Stand firm.”

“T-Tycho. W-what is it?”

“Our sins returned to haunt us.”

Marco stared at the ragged children backlit by stars. They were mostly female and dressed in rags that did little to hide their scrawny bodies and even less to keep out the wind. Lacking Tycho’s vision, Marco couldn’t see the blood running down their chins or the baby white dog teeth with which they tore out the throats of their victims. He just heard screams and saw bodies falling. The children killed the horses cleanly but they fed on anything human.

“S-some s-sins,” Marco said.

Tycho nodded grimly. He heard footsteps and turned. On the dark road behind him stood two women. One he’d expected to see, the other he hadn’t. She was Nubian, with braided hair that ended in silver thimbles. Her companion was almost a girl, dressed in a tattered gown that had once belonged to Eleanor, Lady Giulietta’s dead lady-in-waiting. “Hold Alonzo,” she barked.

Her followers swarmed round the prince.

“Your highness,” Amelia said. “Apologies for our lateness.”

Marco smiled at the Nubian. “You t-timed your entrance p-perfectly. N-now, introduce m-me to your interesting f-friend . . .”

“We’ve met,” the ragged girl said.

“This is Lady Rosalyn of the Carpathians.”

“Greetings, my lady . . . And t-those? Marco gestured at the urchins, a few of whom still crouched over shuddering bodies. Some formed the circle that kept Alonzo secure. Behind those were more urchins, silently blocking the path against retreat, had there been any of Alonzo’s followers left alive to do so.

“My children,” Rosalyn said proudly.

“S-such a big f-family for one so y-young.” Marco smiled at Tycho. “And s-such interesting p-parents . . .”

A few of the children came to stand around their mistress. The rest guarded the road or kept Alonzo penned as she’d ordered, although they glanced over jealously. One of the urchins with Rosalyn, smaller than the rest, laid her head against Rosalyn’s hip and Rosalyn hugged her briefly. There was something lost in the child’s face. “Your little brother is fine,” Tycho said.

Fierce eyes fixed on him. “You promise?”

It seemed she remembered Pietro, who got his sister back from the grave only to lose her again. “He’s Lady Giulietta’s page.”

“She treats him well?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then she can live. That one, however . . .” Rosalyn pointed to where Prince Alonzo stood. “He dies.”

“H-he m-must be t-tried.”

“Then killed?” she asked contemptuously.

Marco looked rueful. Tycho imagined that was exactly what he wanted. The men behind Marco waited on his orders. Rosalyn waited on his next words and her wild brood waited on her reaction. Amelia stood still, her face impassive. Tycho had a bad feeling about this.

“Some s-sort of t-trial is n-necessary . . .”

“Due process,” Alonzo said. “The Venetian way.”

“If you give m-me your p-parole,” Marco said. “If you s-surrender your s-sword and g-give me your p-promise you won’t t-try to escape we won’t t-tie you up.”

“Your highness.” Captain Weimer sounded worried.

“I refuse,” Alonzo said.

“To give your w-word?”

“To surrender my sword. You declared me a traitor. I declare you lie. I demand the right to judicial battle.”

Tycho looked at Captain Weimer.

“Trial by combat,” the captain muttered.

Stepping forward, Tycho drew his sword. “I am the duke’s champion.”

“You?” Alonzo snorted. “The freak will fight for the fool?”

Tycho held his gaze until the ex-Regent looked away. “I’ll have your head if it’s what’s on offer. Although a goose quill through the heart is what you deserve.”

Alonzo flushed. “No champions. I will fight Marco if he dares face me. If not, then I declare him a coward and my innocence is proved.” He looked slowly round his accusers. “This is the law. You know this is the law.”

“I accept.” Marco didn’t even stutter. When Captain Weimer opened his mouth to argue the duke held up a hand forbidding it. He was in armour already and had his sword at his side. Both men wore helmets, breastplates and vambraces. Though it would be hard to argue one was better armed, the difference in size and strength was obvious and huge. “I h-have the c-choice of w-weapons.”

Prince Alonzo nodded.

“We already fight alla m-macchia.”

“On common ground,” Captain Weimer muttered. Tycho nodded his thanks.

“But the s-slope h-here is uneven.”

“I cede you the high ground.” Alonzo was impatient.

“I r-refuse to accept. We will f-fight somewhere l-level.”

“Up there, highness,” Amelia said. “Next to a waterfall, with a shepherd’s hut empty in ruins.” She saw Tycho’s surprise and muttered, “We had time to examine it, God knows.” She glanced at Rosalyn and he wondered what she wasn’t saying.

Marco smiled. “T-that s-sounds ideal.”

“He can’t mean to fight him?” Captain Weimer asked. The captain dropped back to walk beside Tycho, who had a gaggle of urchins around him, but was watching Marco and Rosalyn walk side by side ahead. The duke was chatting politely like someone taking an afternoon walk.

It was obvious to Tycho that every last urchin in Rosalyn’s wild brood could see almost as well in the dark as he could. She’d created the army he’d failed to produce for Alexa – wild and fierce and under a single person’s control. And Marco walked beside her as if doing anything except go to his death.

“T-this is n-nice,” he said.

The passing place for carts was as level as Amelia had promised. Except for a handful of tracks in the thawing earth it was also smooth. A waterfall cascaded from high above into a pool below that bubbled with dark water. Marco walked to its edge and peered down. He whistled.

“Satisfied?” Alonzo demanded.

“V-very impressive.” Marco turned to Amelia. “T-thank y-you.” He made it sound as if she’d levelled the ground herself and carved him a pool into which water could fall. “I’ll h-have a p-proper look afterwards.”

“He must have a plan,” Captain Weimer whispered. “My lord, tell me the duke has a plan . . .”

Possibly, thought Tycho. Although it might not be what those around him called a plan. He sighed when Marco began to remove his helmet.

“It’s h-heavy,” the duke explained.

Alonzo grinned. “I hope you don’t expect me to remove mine?”

“Oh n-no,” Marco said. “It suits y-you.” He looked around and spotted the small axe hanging on Captain Weimer’s belt. Its armour-piercing spike was dark with dried blood. “We’ll f-fight with t-those.”

His uncle looked disgusted.

It made sense though. A wrist loop secured the handle to stop it being dropped, the head was reasonably light and the spike fierce enough to puncture plate. With a weapon like that, speed was as valuable as strength. One of Marco’s foot soldiers handed Alonzo his own axe with a bow, then stepped back and stared straight ahead. If the ex-Regent won he might well become the next duke. The Nicoletti, Arsenalotti and Castellani liked their politics simple. A victorious Alonzo outranked an untried Giulietta.

“W-when you’re r-ready.”

Alonzo flushed at the implied insult.

His answer was brutal. He simply charged at Marco and swung the spike axe at his head. The duke dropped under the blow, tripped on a cart rut and rolled away from a second swing. Standing, he then waited while Alonzo wrestled his axe from the hard dirt. “Should have counter-attacked,” Captain Weimer complained.

Tycho could only agree.

Alonzo made the next attack as well. A fierce swing that would have spiked Marco through the heart if he hadn’t twisted away, his uncle’s axe squealing down the side of his breastplate.

“Close,” the captain said.

Way too close . . . And Tycho suspected Alonzo would be launching all the attacks. Working his way round those watching the fight, Tycho hurried to where Amelia stood next to Rosalyn.

“My lady,” he said to Rosalyn.

The ragged girl looked to see if she was being mocked.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to . . .” He nodded at Amelia, who glanced at Marco, who was backing away from Alonzo. There was a frightening intensity to Amelia’s gaze. Like Tycho, she was forcing herself not to intervene.

“Go ahead,” Rosalyn said.

“I have a message for Lady Giulietta.”

Beside Amelia, Rosalyn’s expression froze and Tycho knew she was listening. “Tell my lady I have the right to name my successor as head of . . .”

A gasp made them both start. Marco was rolling across muddy ground away from Alonzo, as his uncle slammed his axe into the dirt and ripped it free. Scrambling to his feet, Marco swung a wild blow that almost landed.

Both men stepped back.

“As head of the Assassini,” Tycho said hurriedly, “I can name my successor. I name you.”

“My lord, there has never been a . . .”

“Doesn’t matter if there’s never been a female head. Remind her there’s never been a ruling duchess, either. With her there will be.”

“Alonzo?”

“Dies tonight, one way or the other.”

Amelia’s eyes widened as she realised what Tycho was saying. Anyone who won a trial by combat was proved innocent. If Tycho killed Alonzo it would be judged pure revenge and he’d be judged to have murdered an innocent man. There would be no stepping back from this.

“That’s it?” Rosalyn interrupted. “That’s Giulietta’s message?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Gods,” she said. “You’re still a fool.”

On the patch of flat ground provided by the passing place, Marco and Alonzo were circling slowly, their breath coming in jagged gasps. Each circle brought Marco closer and closer to the edge of the waterfall. So close he could slip over the edge and tumble into the pool far below at any moment. “You die here,” Alonzo said.

“You f-f*cked my m-mother. She s-said it was b-boring.”

Prince Alonzo scowled at him furiously.

“You f-f*cked my m-mother, you m-murdered my f-father, you tried to p-poison me . . . W-which one of us d-do you think deserves to d-die?”

“You should never have been born.”

“If you’d m-managed to p-poison me p-properly I wouldn’t have b-been.” Marco grinned. “You’re t-too stupid for plots.”

Someone among those watching laughed and that was enough. Incensed, the ex-Regent hurled himself forward and planted the spike of his axe so firmly in Marco’s chest his breastplate bent. The crowd gasped. Soldiers hurried forward and Captain Weimer shouted to hold their position.

“It’s not over yet,” he yelled.

“Q-quite r-right,” whispered Marco. He leant backwards over the waterfall’s drop and everyone realised the only thing stopping him falling was the strap fixing Alonzo’s wrist to the axe. As Alonzo fought to free his hand from the straining strap, Marco calmly swung his own axe, nailing Alonzo’s hand in place, then kicked from the edge of the drop and smiled.

Tycho swallowed the scene in a glance.

Rosalyn all sharp cheeks and high amusement. Amelia, wide-eyed but clever enough to know Marco and Alonzo killing each other could only do Venice good. Captain Weimer and his men – the men Tycho had fought beside – unable to believe what they’d just seen. And Rosalyn’s ragged children watching it all in silence.

This was where the world changed.

Tycho was moving in the instant. Time slowing as he crossed the trampled dirt, drew his dagger and launched himself from the edge into the dark pool below. He hated water, hated it with a fierceness, but knew he had almost no time to act. Ahead of him Alonzo was hitting water first, Marco tumbling after. The weight of their armour took both under.

Tycho followed.