Ordination Read online

  Hacker turned back toward Allystaire, his lips parting to spit, when the hammer swung in a straight, short whip-like upward arc and took him on the bottom of the jaw. His jaw and teeth shattered in a spray of bone, blood, and flesh that left his mouth obscenely distended. The shocked and wretched howl that immediately followed was abruptly silenced as Allystaire, in a practiced motion of iron-strong fingers, turned his grip and brought the hammer back down straight on the top of Hacker’s head.

  The crack was audible on the quays across the street. Hacker dropped, and another short, quick hammer blow left his brains leaking into the dirt.

  Allystaire used his gore-spattered hammer to push open the cutout in the wagon-sized door and stepped almost delicately inside.

  The central room was bustling; the cage had been emptied, and both wagons were being readied for transport, their wheels tested and canvas coverings hammered into place. The slavers moved about with lazy, assured purpose. More than one whip was in hand, and though the light was meager, Allystaire felt sure they gleamed wetly.

  The second man on the door was slow to realize anything was amiss. He sauntered over, hand resting casually, ineffectually on the sword at his hip.

  Allystaire turned on him with a snarl, sweat and flecks of Hacker’s blood rolling down his lip and into his mouth. Suddenly crouching behind his shield, he rushed the man; though the distance between them measured but a few steps, the shock of his armored weight met the man’s casual stance and knocked him flat on his back, and the impact of the shield took his wind.

  And the hammer that swung down over the shield crushed his breastbone and left him gasping for a breath he would never catch.

  “Are you all going to die like cattle?” Allystaire muttered. The sight of him—gore dripping from the hammer in his hand, his face set in animal rage—along with the horrid, wet sounds of their comrade flattened at his feet, set two men running. Three others stood frozen in stunned disbelief.

  The first to fully assess the situation was the Captain; he whipped out his sword in one hand and deftly produced a dagger from behind his brilliant green brigantine with the other. His feet instantly assumed a classic fighting stance—spread, weight shifting between his front and back foot. “I’ll brook no cowards in my band! After him!” He pivoted sharply and hurled his dagger straight into the calf of one of his own men, one of the two who were fleeing. The man went down with a sharp curse. His companion thought better of doing a runner and turned to join the fray.

  Meanwhile, Allystaire had reached the next nearest slaver, one who had drawn a thick, straight-bladed short sword and was busy fumbling to get a targe into his other hand. Shortsword was no coward; as Allystaire closed the distance, the man lunged forward and swung his blade in a wide arc, cutting the air audibly until the moment it rebounded hard off of Allystaire’s grey shield.

  As Allystaire felt the shock move up his arm, he let several inches of his hammer’s haft fall through his hand, effectively shortening both the distance and power needed to swing. He took another blow off his shield, and with his shortened grip, raised his hammer and started chopping it down straight onto his opponent’s shield—once, twice, three times, again. On the fourth blow, the targe was knocked clean out of the man’s hand, and the next quick, chopping blow took him in the cheek. He dropped, his sword clattering from suddenly limp fingers.

  Move, bellowed the voice of Allystaire’s thoughts, and instinctively, he skittered two steps to his right and one step back. A sword cut through the space he’d just been standing in, swung in a wild two-handed grip; a mad-eyed, red-headed, bearded man in reeking boiled leather had charged him, thinking to split him from appetite to asshole.

  But the sudden wild swing into air had unbalanced Ginger, and Allystaire reared back and lifted his right leg in a short, sharp kick directly on the seat of his pants. The man pitched forward, tripping over the unconscious form of his compatriot.

  He spared a quick glance for the state of the field, sweeping his vision from one end of the huge room to the other. The Captain was hanging back, hoping, perhaps, to see his men earn their gold. The moment he had doubtless dreaded, though, was unfolding: men were running for the crossbows propped in opposite corners, dozens of feet apart from each other.

  Without hesitation, Allystaire broke into a run for the nearer of the two would-be archers. He’s going to reach the crossbow before you reach him, his own thoughts dryly informed. And he was, in truth. It wasn’t a huge, belly-braced weapon and wouldn’t need a windlass or claw to crank, but at this distance, it would do. By the time Allystaire was a dozen paces away, the man had reached the bow, calmly and expertly stuck his foot through the stirrup, and pulled back the bowstring. Deft fingers plucked a bolt from his belt and he turned, smiling, pleased with himself, to line up what he expected to be an easy shot.

  Allystaire’s hurled hammer, thrown stiff-elbowed from ten paces, took him square in one cheek, shattering the bones on one entire side of his face, forever destroying one eye. If not dead, he was done for, and the bolt fired up at the high roof as he fell.

  Allystaire turned; his sprint had put the cage between himself and the other crossbowman, who didn’t appear eager to fight.

  Suddenly, both breath and thought were squeezed out of him as something hard curled around his neck and cut off his air. One of the slavers carrying a whip had employed it and was standing at the end of its length, smirking as he gave it a tug, assuming, likely, that as it tightened, Allystaire would fall.

  Instead, with no time to waste and no trace of panic, Allystaire seized the taut length of hide in his free right hand and pulled as hard as he could, twisting his legs and leaning backward.

  Stunned bewilderment replaced the slaver’s smirking visage as he stumbled weakly toward Allystaire, pulled nearly off his feet. Allystaire pounced as the man stumbled. Reaching for Bullwhip’s belt, he seized the hilt of a long, bare knife thrust through it. He tugged it free, pointed the tip up, and drove it into the base of the man’s throat with one quick stab, then sawed it back and forth, tearing open Bullwhip’s throat with a wound that would kill him instantly.

  The whip immediately slackened around his own neck, and Allystaire tugged it off, gasping for air and feeling some blood seeping from thin, torn skin. He had little time to rest, though, for Ginger had gotten back to his feet, gathered up his two-hander, and was charging again, wild-eyed and brandishing his sword above his head. Quickly, Allystaire took a step forward, raising his shield as if to absorb the blow—then just as quickly stepped to the side, lowered his arm, and drove the rim of his shield straight into the man’s stomach.

  Between the momentum of his sprint and the force of Allystaire’s blow, Ginger folded around the iron-rimmed shield and vomited as he fell. Discarding the shield, Allystaire reached over his shoulder and drew his sword with both hands. It was of a size with Ginger’s, who lay gasping on the floor.

  With bored efficiency, Allystaire reversed his grip and drove the point of his sword through the back of Ginger’s ribcage, underneath the left shoulder, where he knew it would interfere with something vital. He drew it free and dropped its point down a second time, above the small of his back.

  His odds were better now, but still bad; across the room planning his demise were another crossbowman, the irritatingly competent Captain, and at least two more men. The Captain appeared to be directing maneuvers in a low voice. Allystaire spread his feet and lifted his sword, which was heavier and less sure to his hand than the hammer that still lay in a corner. He held the blade in a cross-body guard running from his left shoulder toward his right hip, crouched slightly, and waited.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, just outside the gate, a newly laden string of pack mules, led by three members of the reaver band, was just arriving. The men were bored, well armed, and lightly but effectively armored in studded leather jacks.

  The leader stopped the string an
d pulled a thin-bladed hatchet off his belt. “What in the Cold?” He pointed at the gory scene at the entrance.

  * * *

  “Throw down your weapons and come forward, you treacherous dog!”

  “I was about to say the same. I have already butchered half your rabble,” Allystaire called back. “I will make it the lot of you if I must.”

  “And the odds are still against you. Why’d you turn on our bargain? Come to recover your gold and gems? The former’s mostly spent and the latter sold!”

  Allystaire suppressed a wince at the thought of his wondrous lapis gone to waste, never seeing a craftsman’s hands. “I never meant to bargain. I came here to keep a promise.”

  A moment of silence followed, during which Allystaire peered through the bars for flickers of movement, but most of the men appeared to be standing still. The one with the knife in his calf was still down, but the Captain, crossbowman, and the one who’d thought better were standing, clustered, opposite the far corner. Then, suddenly, the slim figure in green let out a harsh laugh.

  “These folk under your protection then? They mean something to you, aye?” He gestured with one hand. “Daevat. Get on that wagon and start killing folk. Start with children.”

  The man hesitated, but bowed to the order and drew a hatchet and a long knife from his belt as he ran for a wagon.

  If you go to meet him the crossbowman’ll have a shot, he thought. Then he thought of Mol’s anger, her tears.

  “So be it,” he muttered aloud in reply to his own thoughts, turning to intercept Daevat. The instant he was free of the cover of the cage, he dove for the ground in an awkward, painful roll toward the wagons. The crossbow thrummed with the release of its deadly tension, and a line of hot pain striped across Allystaire’s foot. The bolt, shot in haste and low, had scraped across his boot, tearing leather and skin both. But then Allystaire was engaging Daevat, and the crossbowman had no clear shot.

  Daevat was wiry and fast, and he alternated the point of his knife with the edge of his axe in blows that were designed to keep Allystaire away as much as do him injury. Even so, unshielded and with the larger and clumsier sword, Allystaire was forced to defend mostly by throwing his bracered forearms at the weapons. Twice the knife point skidded off them to draw blood—once from the back of his right hand, the other time digging a shallow gash on his left upper arm.

  Daevat was emboldened by scoring a hit, and he lunged, leading with the point of his knife. Allystaire let it squeal off his breastplate, which turned the point, and leaned back, extending his arms to chop the heavy, dullish, final foot of blade above the hilt into Daevat’s neck.

  Dullness notwithstanding, it opened the slaver like a cleaver cutting ham, snapping his delicate collarbone and unleashing a fountain of blood.

  Allystaire roughly kneed the dying slaver off his blade, grunting as he was forced to stand painfully, for a moment, on his bleeding foot.

  * * *

  Outside the slaver’s den, the three who’d gone to lay in supplies stood over the door guard’s mangled, lifeless corpse in silence. All had filled their hands, though. Two held knives, and the third grasped a stout cudgel with a metal cap riveted to one end.

  “Figger the cap’n finally tired o’ Morrys’s spittin’ n’coughin,” one suggested.

  “Morrys? He’d never—”

  He never had the chance to finish his statement. His knife fell from suddenly nerveless fingers at the same time that his neck sprouted four inches of slim, razored steel that was withdrawn as quickly as it came. He burbled blood from his mouth and the wound and sank to his knees.

  Behind him, a tall, slim form swung the sword that had killed the first man in a quick arc, spraying the cudgel wielder with hot blood and blinding him for a crucial moment.

  She whirled, her arms a blur, her sword a curved gleam. A long gash opened on the cudgel wielder’s neck, and he, too, fell to the ground, clutching at the blood that poured from him.

  The second knifeman readied himself to attack, but she had three times the length of steel in her hand, and he was cut three times before he could even begin to fight back.

  The last thing that any of them heard was a husky feminine voice saying, “Your captain doesn’t carry a hammer heavy enough to split rocks. Idiots.”

  * * *

  Kicking the twitching body free of his blade was, Allystaire realized almost instantly, a tactical error, because it left him wide open for the crossbowman, whose weapon thrummed with the release of a bolt, immediately driving the breath from Allystaire’s lungs. He expected, as he threw himself between the wagons, to feel the bolt tearing its way into his abdomen. But when he put his back to a wheel and looked, he realized the bolt had skipped off a bracer, lost much of its force, and simply put a large dent, rather than a hole, into his cuirass.

  It still hurt.

  It can hurt later, he willed himself, forcing the pain to some other part of his mind where he wouldn’t feel it here and now. He knew very well how to be hurt, and to keep fighting.

  But what are you going to do about the crossbow, you old fool? At this distance, he couldn’t charge. The Captain, who’d been waiting all of this out, watching his men fall, appeared fresh and unhurt, and too calm by half for Allystaire’s liking. And now the green-jacketed reaver was calling out to taunt him. “Come on, you fool avenger. You’ve had your share of blood. You can still take what you paid for and leave. I’m a civilized man and will allow you that. But my generous offer is good for only a few seconds.”

  Allystaire heard the deep thrum of the crossbow immediately following the Captain’s words, and splinters quickly showered him. A bolt lay quivering in the bed of the wagon mere inches from his lightly-armored head.

  Move!

  He spun out from under the wagon, and as he stood, something caught his eye. Charging forward, he bent and scooped up the hatchet that Daevat had been swinging at him. With the same grip, the same straightened arm and downward motion he’d used to throw his hammer, he threw it at the archer.

  Luck was with him, or the crossbowman must’ve been green; instead of using the stirrup, he had pressed the stock against his stomach and pulled the bowstring back with his hands, then slotted a bolt in and lowered the weapon. A panicked move.

  The hatchet thunked straight into the understock of the crossbow and relieved the bowman of all the fingers that were curled around it in the bargain. He dropped his weapon, and the quarrel rolled free; then he fell backward, clutching at the bleeding ruin of his hand.

  The Captain laughed contemptuously, stepped toward his fallen man, and casually skewered his throat with the heavy point of his blade. Then he stepped away, smartly raised the bloodied weapon in a salute, and began circling, nimbly shuffling his feet and shifting his weight.

  Allystaire instinctively did the same, moving to his right as the Captain moved to his left, though each step caused a small jolt of ever-worsening pain in his bleeding foot.

  “You’ve done me a favor, you know,” the Captain sneered at him.

  “Not yet,” Allystaire replied through gritted teeth. “Come a little closer and I shall.”

  The Captain laughed again and lunged forward, swinging his sword in a swift, sidelong arc. Allystaire’s blade caught it and flung it aside, and the Captain danced backward.

  “Oh not at all, my bloodthirsty friend. Indeed, what you most obligingly did was lower my costs.” The smile widened, the sword point danced. He tried another lunge with an overhead chop, and once again it was turned away. “Dead men draw no wages and drink no beer, you see.”

  Allystaire tried a long, slow swing, but he aimed it at the Captain’s left side and put some heft into it. The Captain danced to his own right, backing toward his dead crossbowman in the corner, and Allystaire shuffled to bring them square.

  “After I kill you, I’ll still have my cheerless chattel, my profit will be doub
led, and I’ll have no shares to pay.” He followed his taunt with a lunge and a low sweep.

  Allystaire knocked it into the ground, but it nearly took him at the knee.

  “You’re getting slow. Your body’s finally feeling what it’s done,” the Captain taunted. He tried a quick slash, then again on the backhand, which drew a sizzling line across Allystaire’s forehead, just beneath his cap. Blood began to trickle toward his eyes.

  At least he fights with style, Allystaire thought, even as he felt warm droplets tickle his eyebrows. “You talk too much.” He stepped forward with his left foot and ran his blade like a spear at his opponent’s stomach. The Captain, instead of parrying, stepped aside like a young man dodging a bull in the ring at a village festival. He even rose to his toes, bringing his feet closer together until they touched.

  If Allystaire’s thoughts could’ve smiled, they would have, but he stopped the expression from showing on his features. Style is for dead men.

  With a light laugh, the green-coated Captain swung his sword in another slash, this time parting the leather on Allystaire’s left upper arm between bracer and cuirass, opening a shallow gash on the layers of muscle beneath.

  This may hurt. Allystaire gathered himself and drew back his sword almost clumsily, showing his opponent another spear-point lunge. As he’d hoped, the Captain started to draw his feet together, but instead of lunging, Allystaire threw his sword at the Captain’s face. A desperate gamble, and intended merely to befuddle, but in his startled confusion, the nimbler and fresher swordsman overbalanced and stumbled.