Conflict (16 page)

The Empress left the chamber, her slanting black eyes glittering.

Isuzeni looked at the Skull.

The Marked must die, now!

Komir, crouching on the second floor landing, could hear cries of alarm coming from the guards below. Downstairs, Hartz had acted with his usual stealth and finesse. Komir grinned at the thought. He hoped his big friend would be able to sort out the situation on the ground floor. He was not happy at parting from his companions, but there was no choice. He had to go after Guzmik, and leaving Kayti and Lindaro was not an option so he sent Hartz to help them. The plan had not gone as well as the smart redhead had predicted, but it would have to do.

He heard running footsteps and hid, sword and knife in his hands, ready to attack whoever came down from the third floor. Four guards were answering the call for help. Komir let them pass, flattening himself against the wall of the second floor corridor. When the last man had gone past him, he moved. Without a sound, he jumped down the stairs onto the back of the guards, launching a pair of savage thrusts with sword and knife. He hit the two stragglers, then landed on the stairs and with much effort and a dash of luck managed to keep his balance as the two men, caught by surprise, rolled down the stairs.

The other two guards turned round, and avoiding their falling comrades went straight for Komir. He ran back upstairs. They came at him with short sword and dagger. He warded off the attack with his long sword in one hand and hunting knife in the other. One stab scratched his arm, and he felt a touch of alarm.

Concentrate, stay calm and don’t lose your concentration
, he said to himself.

He deflected a thrust to his head and counter-attacked with a stroke which caught one of his opponents in the shoulder, forcing him to go back down a couple of steps.

Komir breathed deeply and managed to focus. Calmly, his feelings at rest, he began to perform the lethal dance, many times rehearsed, of sword and knife. With the skill gained from years of training and a natural ability, his weapons soon began to take control of the situation. He blocked or deflected every attack his two opponents launched at him. But Komir, within that absolute inner calm, knew he had to end that mortal dance, since each instant of confrontation was a risk: one slip or stumble and it might mean his end. The guard on the left tripped, and Komir took advantage of it. With a swift circular thrust as he took a step forward he slit the guard’s throat as the man was getting up. Blood spattered part of the wooden railing with red. The other guard aimed a powerful thrust at Komir’s stomach, which he deflected with his hunting knife. He risked a mighty forward leap, surprising the guard, and pierced the man’s heart from the air. He landed on the stairs with the ease of a cat as his victim fell backwards, clutching his chest. Fearing the arrival of reinforcements, Komir went back to his position on the second floor and crouched, sword and knife at the ready, like a hawk awaiting its prey.

Hartz lifted the heavy library table with a grunt and raised it high above his head. Around him a dozen soldiers were staring, half-astonished, half-undecided.
This is going to be fun,
he thought, oblivious to the danger.
I’m going to have a great time!
Without giving the matter any further thought he threw the oak table at the perplexed guards with all his might, like a giant or demigod playing with frail humans. The brutal impact of the table hurled half a dozen of the armed men out into the courtyard. Only two of them managed to stand up again. Hartz could not restrain a hearty laugh. Sometimes the strength Mother Earth had given him enabled him to do some really amusing things.

“Will you please stop playing silly games?” Kayti chided him. “If you don’t take this seriously you’ll get us killed!” She sounded genuinely annoyed.

“I don’t see what you’re grumbling about, carrot-top,” the giant replied with a grin. “I just got rid of half the guards! There’s no law that says you can’t have a bit of fun at the same time.”

Kayti rolled her eyes at him. “Ugh! You great brainless troll!” With a grimace of desperation she turned to face the two attackers who were coming at her.

Hartz was well aware of the seriousness of the situation, but he could not let the opportunity of teasing the red-headed warrior pass.
Carrot-top,
he chuckled to himself. Throwing that table against the group of palace defenders had seemed the best way of solving the problem. Infuriating the girl had been an added bonus. Inside him, a whirlwind of emotions began to rage every time she got annoyed with him. He did not clearly understand what was happening to him, why those emotions should trouble his quiet nature like that, but he was beginning to notice that his feelings for her went deeper than he was willing to admit. Seeing Kayti fighting, in danger, risking her life, he had to repress an irresistible urge to go and help her, leaving everything else to one side. If anything should happen to her as she was fighting beside him, he would rue it eternally.

He raised his hands behind him and with a swift move took hold of his precious, bewitched sword. Two guards attacked simultaneously. He blocked the first man’s thrust and aimed a powerful kick at the stomach of the second man, who fell to his knees, breathless. With a flick of his arm like a whiplash he cut the face of the first attacker, who was trying to reach him with his sword held high. The wretched man’s blood spattered Hartz’s chest. With a downward stroke he hit the kneeling man’s head with the pommel of his sword, and with a loud crack he fell to the floor senseless.

At the other end of the room Hartz could see Lotas defending himself skillfully. That sewer-rat was crafty, which did not surprise him: no one lived so long, or still more became king of the port city’s low-life, without knowing his weapons. Not only that, he was an expert in the kind of street fighting where anything is allowed, particularly backstabbing. He would have to keep a watchful eye on Lotas. That crawling worm was dangerous, and his loyalty was solely to himself.

He heard Lindaro trip behind him. Hartz turned his head and saw that he was white as flour. He had come up against a dead body and nearly fallen over it. The color had drained from his face. The poor man of faith was not at his best when it came to battles and bloodshed. Hartz winked at him and smiled, hoping to calm him a little. The priest gave a weak smile in return and signaled with much arm-waving that danger was at hand.

As the guards appeared to be busy downstairs, Komir ran up to find Guzmik and resolve the situation, or else his companions would be caught. He was not going to let anything stop him. The echo of boots on the wooden floor behind him told him help had arrived from the floor below. He was anxious to go and help Hartz and Kayti, to fight with them and make sure no harm came to them, but he was aware that this was his only chance to get right to the brain which had put a price on their heads, and to get some answers.

And answers he was going to get, whatever the cost. Nothing would stop him. Today he would find out who had given the order that led eventually to the murder of his parents. Guzmik had paid Lotas to kill them, and very probably someone else had ordered Guzmik to do it. He had to get that name, the sinister figure who stalked them from the shadows. Not only that, he had to find out the reason why someone had made several attempts to kill him. That reason would lead him, to an understanding of why his parents had died. Once he had his answers, he could concentrate...

My revenge is close…I can almost touch it with the tips of my fingers. Guzmik has the answers I need and he’s going to give them to me, one way or the other, even if I have to get them out of him with a red-hot iron rod. Nothing will stop me. Nothing!

He reached the third floor. A wide corridor awaited him, lit with oil lamps, with eight doors along the sides and one double, embossed, at the end of it. The elegance of the door and its location suggested that this was the room where he would find Guzmik. He set off down the corridor swiftly and vigilantly, ignoring the first two doors, aware of the risk involved. He went on with the utmost caution, his senses on edge and his weapons ready for action. He was concentrated and calm, moving stealthily. He was almost savoring the end of his mission.

I will have my revenge!

With the lethal coldness of some amoral assassin, he went on past the second pair of doors. Nothing happened. He was aware that behind the ornamented double door at the end of the corridor danger awaited, even death, but he did not care. Nothing mattered except finding the answers.

A faint sound behind alarmed him.

He stopped at once in an instinctive reflex, cursing to himself. He turned his head in time to see two guards coming out of two of the rooms he had left behind, lunging at him, weapons in hand.

A trap!

With no time to react, he crossed sword and knife at his back to block the attack. He stopped the first thrust, aimed at his back. The second attacker, coming from the left, penetrated his defense, piercing his coat of mail and cutting through his shoulder. Intense pain filled Komir’s senses, so that he flinched involuntarily. But at the same time he took advantage of the movement to turn the pommel of his sword and launch a backwards thrust at the leg of the nearest assailant.

A cry of pain filled the corridor, and the wounded man stumbled backwards. The stroke had been both sure and deep. The other guard, far from being discouraged, launched a powerful cut towards his head. Komir, propelling his body forward, rolled over his weapons, enabling himself to get out of his adversary’s range and recover his balance. With a whirlwind turn he faced his enemy, who now attempted a knife-stroke together with a sword-thrust to Komir’s belly. The Norriel deflected both attacks with two instinctive blocking moves.

His attacker took a hesitant step back. Fear began to show in his eyes, the fear of someone who realizes his opponent is more skilled than himself. Komir, reading the guard’s hesitation, attacked with two circular strokes: one to the groin, which the guard blocked, and the other to the throat, which he had no time to avoid. A jet of blood spattered the wall of the corridor. The wretched man fell to the floor choking on his own blood, terror in his eyes.

The other guard, wounded in the leg, got to one knee, raised his right arm and clumsily thrust a short dagger at Komir’s chest. The young Norriel deflected it swiftly with his hunting knife. Seeing the failure of his desperate attempt, the guard began to crawl toward the stairs, leaving a trail of blood from his leg wound on the exotic carpet. Komir reached the man in two strides and raised his sword to finish him off. There was a cold thirst for revenge animating him, and anger blinded his judgment.

The man turned over, despair in his eyes. He raised his hand in a protective gesture.

“No, please, don’t kill me!” he sobbed.

Komir hesitated. This man was his enemy, he had to die, he knew that. Both the training he had received and the hate which burned in his soul required it. There is no room for pity among Norriel warriors. Once they unsheathed their swords, the confrontation had to end with the enemy dead. That was the law of combat. That was what he had been taught.

He prepared to finish him off.

The guard closed his eyes, knowing death was coming.

But Komir stopped.

This man did not pose any threat. The wound in his leg was deep, he had crippled him and he was losing a lot of blood. Komir let out his breath and with a wave of his sword motioned the man to leave. A mistake, he knew, but his conscience would not let him kill the man.
I’m an idiot, and what’s even worse, a softy
, he chided himself bitterly.

He focused his attention once again on the embossed double door. He was about to discover what dangers awaited him behind it.

Hartz looked at the apocalyptic state of the great library. All those books stored on their shelves, all that knowledge, spattered now with red blood. Dead bodies were strewn around the polished grey marble floor. He raised his gaze and saw two more guards running towards him, their swords high, confident on their own terrain. Hartz shook his head.
Poor fools, tonight you’ll be sleeping with your ancestors
. With an unexpected move, amazingly fast for a man his size, he stepped forward and launched a two-handed blow at the first attacker without letting go of his weapon. The unfortunate man impaled himself without intending to, unable to break his run in time. The second launched a thrust at Hartz’s right leg, which he could not altogether avoid. A pang of pain told the big man he had been wounded, and he did not like it one bit. In fact it infuriated him. With a savage circular stroke he decapitated the daring assailant, whose surprise lingered on the face which was now rolling on the floor and leaving a trail of blood behind it.

Despite his wound, Hartz was possessed by an unbreakable certainty: nothing could stop him. With that splendid sword in his hands he was totally invincible. Neither pain nor exhaustion existed, only a feeling of absolute command and excitement. Nothing could stop him, he would deal with all his enemies and come out triumphant. There was no trace of doubt about it. Hartz recognized the magic of the sword and accepted it gladly, not looking for more explanations or reasons, or trying to understand mysteries he found unfathomable. He had feared that magic at first; he was a Norriel, and his people did not trust the mystic or arcane.
The only companions of magic
are suffering and pain.
But he had experienced this power in battle, and no matter how scared he might be of it, the results were undeniable and he had come to accept them. The link with the sword was growing, and he no longer resisted its influence. He now embraced it, knowing the advantages it gave him. The more blood it shed the stronger this link became, and Hartz was very much aware of it. More aware with each life he took.