Knight's Shadow (51 page)

I dropped my other sword on the ground and brawled with Shuran, striking out at him with every part of me: I kicked, I punched, I bit, and while Shuran fought with consummate skill, I fought like an animal. The difference was that he was trying to win – I wasn’t. I didn’t need to. I just needed to keep everyone distracted a little longer.

I screamed, over and over again, with no idea what words were coming out of my mouth, but it didn’t matter. I was there, with her, in that damned tavern with those damned men, and yes, they were going to kill me, but I was going to take with me every piece of them that I could.

Time to be brave, sweetheart. The fights that matter most aren’t won on skill.

Shuran was yelling as well now, for he’d found himself fighting for his life despite his superior strength, despite his matchless speed and his consummate skill.

You brought Aline back, you bastards, and it’s time you met her properly.

And now the Knight-Commander was towering over me, his face red with sweat and blood and rage. He reached down, picked up one of my rapiers and tossed it to me. ‘Take it,’ he growled. ‘I want you to die with a blade in your hand.’ He’d been trying to win elegantly before and that had been his mistake. But he was done with that; now it was going to be about sheer power and speed. Shuran was going to kill me.

But the fights that matter most aren’t won on skill, and I had kept everyone’s eyes on me long enough.

‘Kest,’ I said, ‘now.’

And Shuran looked past me to see Kest on his knees inside the circle, his right hand pushing against the invisible wall that separated us as it had since my fight with Shuran had started. The Knight began laughing. ‘Is that what this was about? All that kicking and screaming? Did you think it would somehow set Kest free? I’m afraid the world doesn’t work that way.’

Kest, still on his knees in the circle, kept pushing slowly with his right hand, trying to reach us. ‘You’re a master swordsman, Shuran.’

The Knight-Commander raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, Kest? That’s what you have to say? “You’re good”?’

‘Better than good – better than Falcio.’

‘That much is evident to all concerned, I think.’

I didn’t think he needed to sound quite so sneery.

Kest’s fingertips were shaking and sweat was dripping from all his pores. It looked as if his fingers weren’t getting any closer at all, and yet I knew they were. ‘You know,’ Kest said, ‘the moment I killed Caveil, his Sainthood passed to the next most skilled swordsman in the world. Me.’

‘Yes,’ Shuran said, ‘I already knew that.’

Kest’s eyes were far away. I heard a cracking sound and wondered if the bones of his right hand were breaking. ‘It was like . . . it was as if all the power of a raging river was flowing from inside me. The sensation was . . . intoxicating . . . overwhelming.’ His hand was closer now, and I could see it was nearly past the circle.

I tensed, and Shuran noticed and smiled warmly at me. ‘Ah, ready for our seventh exchange? I believe that will be the last one.’

Kest shook his head, still pushing with all his might. Blood was dripping from his right hand. ‘Two. There are two movements left.’

Shuran’s expression was confused.

With a last, soul-breaking effort, Kest extended his right arm out, his wrist just past the circle binding him. For just an instant I looked into his eyes and saw tears of sorrow and fear. His lips barely moved as he mouthed the word ‘Now.’

I lifted my sword and in a single strike I brought it down against his exposed wrist. The blade cut through skin and muscle and bone, and Kest’s right hand fell to the ground.

‘Why . . . why would you do that? How—?’

Shuran’s eyes took on an unnatural colour. Red.

‘That was one,’ Kest growled, gripping his wrist with his remaining hand.

Shuran looked over himself. He was beginning to glow crimson.

‘Congratulations, Sir Shuran,’ I said. ‘You’re the new Saint of Swords.’

‘I . . . the sensations . . . Gods,
I am the Saint of Swords
. I can see . . . I can see . . .’ Shuran was smiling, an incandescent smile that lit up his face. ‘I felt that . . . even before you moved, I felt it. I see how every movement of the air—! Kest, you’re right, the sensation is like nothing else. I—’

It was only then that Sir Shuran, Knight-Commander of Aramor, bothered to take note that my rapier was thrust deep into his belly.

‘That’s two,’ Kest said, and then he fell to the ground.

Shuran looked at me and then at Kest. ‘He had . . . he gave this up? For
you
? Why?’

‘Because the fights that matter most aren’t won on skill,’ I said.

They’re won on sacrifice.

Chapter Forty-Seven

The War

Just before the world went mad, it went quiet.

*

It begins with Shuran staring at me, his eyes wide, his mouth pleading wordlessly. There is a foul odour in the air, and I realise I must have punctured his bowels when I ran him through with my sword. His body slides, very slowly, towards the ground, taking my rapier with it.

My now empty hands begin to shake, and at first I think it’s from exhaustion and fear but then the faint red glow starts moving slowly across the surface of my skin and I look up to see the world in front of me, full of colour and detail: a repository of never-ending challengers for me to defeat. I glance at the Knights, standing two hundred yards in front of me, and I can see the flaws inside them. I feel my friends behind me, with their own strengths and their weaknesses and I feel a sudden burst of excitement at the chance to test them, to defeat them, to watch their blood slip down the length of my blade and onto my already red hands . . .

He isn’t yours,
a voice inside me says. It’s Aline, my wife, and she’s standing in front of me. She’s holding back the red.

He is called,
the red voice replies.

She doesn’t answer; instead, she takes my hand and holds it up. There’s a word inscribed on it. I can’t make it out and yet between the lines and curves of the letters I see pieces of myself, and those I love.

Think of what you could accomplish with me,
the red voice calls.

I believe it – I can
see
it. How much better would the world be if I could walk up to my enemies and just kill them? How much faster and easier life would become without any foolish notions of justice and law, which are nothing but excuses weak men make to hide their fear of doing what must be done.

I want to listen to the red voice. I want its whisper to fill me up inside.

Aline has not even a trace of concern on her face. She shows me that damned pernicious word, and again, and over again, and I know with absolute clarity why I will never, ever become the Saint of Swords, even though I was once the third-best swordsman in Tristia
. Go,
I say to the red voice
, go and find some other fool. I’m already spoken for.

I look back down at my hands and they are my own again, pale and white and trembling, but this time shaking not with anticipation but because of fatigue.

The flat thump of Shuran’s body hitting the ground reaches my ears, and whatever combination of desperation and need that has been keeping me on my feet until that moment disappears and I drop to my knees. I can hear only the sound of my own breathing; the beat of my heart pounding faster than it should in my chest, but after a moment, even that begins to fade as the last vestiges of Shuran’s impact against the dirt die away and time starts to demand her proper pace once again.

*

For an instant, there was absolute silence.

Then Trin screamed.

She ran – or rather,
Aline
ran – to Shuran’s corpse. Trin beat his chest with Aline’s fists and cried with Aline’s tears, but the rage and hatred in her eyes was all Trin’s own. Then the corners of her mouth moved very slowly up as she smiled. ‘Yours for mine,’ she whispered.

Damn you
, I thought helplessly, and even as I reached towards her I knew I could never get to her in time. Trin was going to kill Aline and there was nothing I could do.

A voice yelled from behind me, ‘Now!’ and out of the corner of my eye I saw someone run past me, and before I had even finished processing the image, Valiana and Dari had grabbed a firm hold of each of Aline’s arms, stopping Trin from making Aline reach up and twist the wooden handles to drive the iron screws deep into her skull. They pulled Aline’s body to the ground and Ethalia knelt in front of her. Trin spat in her face, screaming incoherently, still struggling to free her hands, but they were sitting on her now and she wasn’t going anywhere fast.

Ethalia reached down and very carefully undid the bolts fastening the contraption around Aline’s head so she could remove it. Then with a sudden angry movement she smashed the wooden frame over her knee, and immediately Aline was herself once more.

It had all happened so fast. The three of them had orchestrated this while I was fighting Shuran . . . before any of us knew if there was any hope at all for our survival.

Damn, but I’ve known some smart women in my time . . .

Aline’s eyes fluttered open and almost instantly flooded with tears, but Valiana held her close even as Ethalia got to her feet and ran to Kest, Dariana close behind her.

‘Quickly now,’ she said, and her voice was astonishingly calm under the circumstances. ‘We must staunch the bleeding.’ She pulled a small jar of salve from a pocket in her dress as Dariana stripped off Kest’s shirt and started tearing it into bandages.

I wanted to help them, but I discovered that I hadn’t the strength to rise. I knelt there on the ground, completely useless, desperately trying to keep myself from tipping forward. I had never felt so tired before, not even when the neatha was at its most virulent inside me. I closed my eyes, just for a moment.

My wife stared back at me.

I think I like this Ethalia well enough, Falcio. She seems competent. And sensible.

I’ll tell her you think so
, I said.

She laughed.
So you really don’t know any more about women now than you did when I was alive.

Perhaps you could educate me
. I reached a hand out towards her face.

She shook her head.
No. That’s enough now: enough of living with memories, and enough of guilt. Time to leave me be, Falcio. And leave that foolish King of yours alone too. Stop using the dead to justify the living.

Her words hurt me, but Aline had always been a woman who said what needed to be said, not what I wanted to hear. The world around me was falling to pieces but I still wanted to spend a few more moments with my pragmatic, beautiful, brave—

No, she was right. That’s enough now.

Then say it, Falcio.

I took one last look at Aline, my wife, my first love, the woman who made me the man I was. She really was right: it was past time for me to become the man I
should
be.

‘Goodbye,’ I said.

I opened my eyes and looked down at Kest, but something was wrong because the ground looked suspiciously like the sky.

‘Now why is it that the man who just lost his hand is standing on his own two feet and the one who chopped it off is lying flat on his back?’ Dariana asked.

‘You should get up now,’ Kest said. His face was pale but his eyes were clear. I wondered how much of the hard candy he had taken to keep himself from passing out.

‘Kest, you need to—’

The bandage wrapped over the stump where his right hand should have been was already a little bloody. ‘A thousand Knights are about to overrun us, Falcio.’

*

Dariana helped me to my feet and I looked out at the field in front of us. Some small, foolish part of me had hoped that Shuran’s death would make the Black Tabards reconsider their position.

Any minute now one of them is going to come and offer their unconditional surrender to me
.

At least, that’s what would have happened in the old stories.

Disappointingly – and I really hated to admit it, but this kept happening to me – life failed to live up to my expectations.

Rather than falling to their knees and begging for their miserable lives, the Knights began to straighten their lines. I looked towards the sun, which was close to the horizon now, and wondered idly how much time we had before they killed us all. An hour? A few minutes? And part of me couldn’t help but wonder why they were even bothering – would a thousand Knights really ride down the field to overrun the six of us? It hardly seemed worth the effort.

I looked around at Castle Aramor, where I could see the Dukes, standing just inside the castle entrance with their guards in close formation around them. When the battle started they’d close that gate – it had been built to withstand a siege, after all, so it would be nice to see if it was really up to the job – and cower inside, awaiting a later death. I noticed that all of them – the Dukes, their guards and what family they’d foolishly brought with them – were staring not at the Black Tabards, but at us.

‘What are they doing?’ Dariana asked.

‘They’re hoping,’ I said.

‘Hoping what?’

I turned to look at her. There was something fiendishly compelling about her hawkish features and the prideful way she stood. Her arms were crossed and she had one eyebrow raised; she looked as if she was about to launch into her usual litany of reasons explaining why everyone except her was a fool. It made me smile.

I turned my attention back to her question. ‘They’re hoping that the old stories are true.’

‘Which ones are those?’

‘The ones where we save everybody.’

‘Then maybe we should do it,’ Valiana said. An angry little red scar on her cheek drew my gaze: it was where Heryn had inserted his needle. For the first time I realised how many cuts and wounds Valiana had taken over the past months. She was still beautiful, but that beauty was marred – no, I was wrong; her beauty was
accented
by the proofs of her courage and her determination.

It wasn’t just her, though; it was all of them. Kest had sacrificed his hand. Ethalia had given up any chance for peace and happiness. Aline crept over to us and clung to Ethalia. Her hair was in disarray, messed up by that loathsome frame, and her face was tracked with tears. Betrayal, terror and violence had destroyed her innocence and she more than any of us deserved better than this. I had spent so much time concerned with the dead and dying that I’d never truly understood how much I loved the people who stood right in front of me. They all deserved a better end than to be mowed down by cowards in masks and black tabards.

And now they all looked at me: my friends, my enemies, even the craven Dukes hiding at the entrance to the castle, and for a moment the weight of their gazes nearly drove me back to my knees.

I can’t bear this weight, my King. Tell me what to do
. Despite my promise to my wife I closed my eyes, hoping to see his cocky smile, his winking eyes. I wanted to hear him give me one final command, or at least tell me one more of those stories he always loved – the ones about courage and honour and virtue that all managed somehow to end up in a dirty joke.

But Paelis wasn’t there and I knew that it was my turn to tell the story.

I think I was finally beginning to understand why he’d created the Greatcoats, or at least a small part of his intention. It wasn’t about imposing his laws on the corrupt Dukes, or keeping thugs under control by beating them senseless in duels; it wasn’t even about putting his daughter on the throne. My King wanted us to be an
example
– that’s why each Greatcoat was given a mission. Winnow and Nile and Parrick were sent to protect the Dukes who’d killed him to show that we stood for something beyond the King himself. And that was why Trin and all the rest of them were so keen to see us ruined, even when there were so few left, and that was why the Dashini created the Lament, so they could twist the
story
of the Greatcoats into one of despair.

No. You can take everything else away from us, but not that.

I forced myself to walk as normally as I could towards to the Knights assembled at the other end of the field. I took a deep breath, trying not to show how much that hurt with half my ribs broken, and projected my hoarse voice, hoping I could make it loud enough to be heard. ‘Look at you: a thousand men on horseback, clothed in armour and shielded by the lies you’ve told yourselves. You think you’ve come here to change the world, but all you’re here to do is commit murder.’

I could see some of them bristling at the word
murder
. Their nervousness was making their horses uneasy, but the commanders quickly restored order.

I didn’t give them time to enjoy it. ‘I said,
look at yourselves
! You wear black tabards to hide your origins. You wear helmets to hide your faces. You give no names so that when this black, bloody work is done no one will remember who you were and what you did here.’

I paused to breathe in again. Damn, but I’d forgotten how much broken ribs could hurt.

‘You want to hide behind your masks?’ I cried. ‘You want your names to be forgotten? Then I say:
Be forgotten
.’

I turned and directed my voice to the castle gates where the Dukes and their families and their guards cowered in safety . . . well,
temporary
safety.

‘There will be stories told about this day: tales about anonymous men in black garb who came to commit murder. And there will be stories about those who died fighting them – those who
stood up to them
. For a hundred years and more, people will talk about what happened at Aramor.’

I turned back to the Knights. ‘Your own children will grow up hearing those stories. So have your way: let the world forget your names.’ I took a step forward. ‘But they will remember
ours
. Every child of yours, every grandchild and great-grandchild will hear of the day men in armour and black tabards came a-thousand-strong against four Greatcoats, an unarmed woman and a little girl, and our names will be repeated, over and over again, until the day you lie on your deathbed waiting for the last shadow to fall across your face. And your last fumbling words?
They will be our names
.’

I thought about what I was going to say next, and for the briefest moment I laughed to myself.
Damn you, you sickly wretch. If you’d told me any of this I never would have volunteered!

I raised my sword as high as I could and announced, ‘I am Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats, and I am the King’s Heart. I fought at Aramor.’