Free Shallows of Night - 02 by Eric Van Lustbader Page B

the deck of Freidal’s vessel.
    The rigging vibrated, singing dolefully in the breeze as the Security Saardin turned to face him, the tight cap of his blue-black hair gleaming, his long lean face swiveling like that of a predator’s. His hand at his chest; a blur, and if Ronin had had to look, he would have been dead. But he was already turning as the blur came at him, whispering past where he had just stood. And he was off across the deck, sword up, knees bent, searching with his peripheral vision for other daggam. He passed the scribe, solitary and unmoving, stylus poised until words rather than weapons filled the air. His cloak flapped sullenly in the wind; otherwise he could have been carved from rock.
    “Ah, sir, you have come to me at last.” Stylus in motion, then he was off, circling in a shallow arc so that he could see the entire length of the ship. “The corps are unleashed first.” The voice emotionless. “A basic rule of warfare.” Past the creaking mast, the straining sail. “Soften the enemy with a preliminary attack.” Mind the yard, swinging. “Deplete his energy with the soldiers.” Past coils of rope, lashed kegs, the spare mast as on his own craft fixed to the port sheer-strake. “Then come the elite.” Slick patches of ice near the starboard gunwale. “To finish the task.” Shhhhhhh, the runners peeling the ice below. “An admirable plan, sir, do you not agree?”
    The face closer than expected, white, the thin-lipped mouth, long and cruel, pulled back into a sneer. “Not too much trouble to kill a traitor!” The two remaining daggers caught the light as they lay nakedly strapped to his chest. Freidal, Saardin and Chondrin in one man. “The Freehold cannot tolerate your kind. You are a disease that must be cleansed. You see, I cannot allow you to return to the Freehold.” At last he drew his great sword. “Now I will crush you; with great care and equal skill, paying attention to the finer points. He twisted sideways until just his right shoulder was presented, leaving Ronin the smallest target to attack. “Of pain.” He advanced obliquely. “And fear.”
    The first was a downward thrust twisting at the last moment; the second a horizontal slash of enormous power coming from the opposite direction. Ronin parried them both and then Freidal had a dagger in his left hand, holding it before him, point tilted upward.
    The scribe observed them impassively as they moved slowly along the deck in a strange and deadly dance. They were just forward of midship when Ronin’s booted foot hit something on the deck and he stumbled. At that moment, his eyes still on Freidal’s face, he saw the barest flicker of the Saardin’s good eye and instead of struggling to regain his footing he relaxed his body and fell to the deck. He heard the angry whine as the dagger buried itself in the wood of the sheer-strake above his head.
    Now there was but one, yet it would be enough, and he had to close immediately before Freidal got to it and he sprang at the tall figure looming over him. The ship shuddered in a heavy gust of wind and the Saardin, shifting to compensate, avoided the full brunt of the blow of Ronin’s gauntleted fist. It scraped along his cheek, missing the bone which it would have otherwise shattered, dragging shards of skin as it flayed the flesh, split the corner of his mouth at the end of the arc. His head snapped back, recoiling as Ronin flew by, momentum carrying him into the port gunwale, striking him in the ribs, forcing the breath out of him. He gasped and tried not to double over. Freidal swiped at the blood whipping from his torn face in long droplets and swung a two-handed blow. A haze had descended over Ronin and with only his hearing now, not even fully comprehending what was occurring, he threw up his mailed fist, the scaled hide of the monstrous Makkon his only defense now. The blade hit the gauntlet and its hard peculiar surface rippled with movement. It absorbed much of the