Assassins' Dawn (86 page)

Once outside the trees’ shelter, he looked for Valdisa. She stood at the top of the ridge, watching him. Against the sky, her hands moved.

?
she signed.

Not there,
Gyll answered with the hand-code, hoping that the nightcloak and darkness would allow his deception to work. Valdisa was perhaps forty meters away, but her face was hidden in the shadow of her hood.
Go around,
Gyll told her, waving her toward the far side of the stand of trees.
Circle. Surround.

Valdisa hesitated. She seemed to regard him strangely. Then she moved, down from the summit and toward the trees. When the tangle of limbs finally hid her, Gyll put his back to the trees and ran upstream along the creekbed.
Be with me, Dame, and this will put an end to the night. Another soul’s gone to the Hag by my hand, but it’s not Valdisa and it’s not me. Give me a little more time, and she can’t take me.

Running, he did not see Valdisa come back out from the trees, did not see her watch him and then—swiftly, lithely—begin the chase, keeping to the higher ground, moving parallel with him.

He could not run for long. His wind was low, his side ached with each breath, his legs were sore with fatigue. Gyll had put himself in good condition over the last few standards, but the night had taken its damage, as had age. He simply did not have the stamina of his youth. He forced himself to continue moving, if only at a trot, coming to an area of broken rock. He began to climb, seeking a hollow where he could rest in concealment for a while. He reached for an outcropping of rock with his left hand.

Steel grated against rock—his hand throbbed with stabbing agony. Gyll bit back a shout of pain and surprise. A Khaelian dagger impaled his hand. Like a live thing, it twisted and bucked, tearing flesh, grating against bone, blood spilling down his arm. It pulled loose even as he reached for it, a hissing coming from the tiny jets in the handle. The dagger turned in the air and was gone, spilling droplets of red. Gyll turned to watch it go, cradling his injured hand. Valdisa was there, above and behind him, and the dagger was back in her hand. Her arm went back to cast it once more. Gyll twisted sideways, sliding down the rocks, his hand in torment, sharp outcroppings tearing at his clothing and skin. Valdisa’s dagger clattered against rock where he had been, falling and then leaping up again to return to Valdisa. Gyll found his footing and ran, knowing that the range of the Khaelian weapons was very short, aware that the fuel for it was limited.
Run. She won’t throw again until she’s very sure
of her target.
He couldn’t move the fingers of his left hand, and the blood poured forth—he put pressure on the wound as he ran, trying to stop the flow, gritting his teeth against the hurt.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t used the dagger he’d taken from Meka.
Was it because the target would be Valdisa, or did you simply forget with the pain and fear?
For the first time that night, he felt that Hag Death might be able to take him, and panic at that thought filled him with a new energy. He ran, knowing that Valdisa and the Hag were close behind, each pursuing him relentlessly. If he had harbored doubts that Valdisa could finish this task, they were gone now. She would. She would kill him.

The worst realization was that he was not sure if, to stop her, he could kill her first. Certainly he might be capable of it—self-preservation is a powerful motivator—but would he strike first with all his strength? To try to wound her, disable or disarm her, was to limit himself, to lower his odds. He knew he could not run long enough to avoid a confrontation. Already the new rush of adrenaline was gone. His breath was harsh and loud, his lungs cried for surcease. He had to turn, had to become the hunter instead of the hunted.

Damn Neweden, damn all of its gods: She of the Five, Dame Fate, Hag Death. Why did You bring me to this? The night could have gone easily, but You wouldn’t permit it. Why, damn
You? Why?

Ahead, the valley widened into a meadow dotted with large boulders. The creek meandered through the middle, glinting in moonlight. There was no cover here, but the walls about the valley were steep and high. Valdisa would have to enter as he had, along the creekbed—she would be too easy a target if she attempted to descend the cliffs. Gyll crouched behind a scree of rock, trying to slow his breath. He heard her footstep and rose slightly, Khaelian dagger in his hand.

He threw it, knowing he could not miss. She was too close.

And he knew he had been abandoned by the gods. The dagger tumbled, awkward, like any plain dagger. Broken. It struck her fully in the chest, handle foremost. Valdisa let out a cry and leapt back. The dagger flopped on the ground, the jets moving it spasmodically.

Gyll knew that dawn was close. It might as well have been hours away. If he ran, she’d use her own dagger again, and this time she would not miss. If he stayed, she would come to him.

“Valdisa?” he said loudly.

He thought at first that she would not reply. Then her voice came from darkness. “You’ve destroyed the caves, Gyll. I hope it gave you pleasure—there’s no home for the guild now. I’ll have to go begging to Vingi, and we’ll lose what little autonomy we had.”

“You won’t go begging if you’ve sold the ippicator’s bones.”

He heard her grunt of surprise. “So that’s why you demolished Underasgard,” she said. “Because of a religion you claim you don’t believe.”

“I would have done it anyway.”

“Then you’re simply vindictive and you deserve to die, Gyll. As for the bones—they would have staved off the inevitable. You’ve destroyed us, Gyll. The Hoorka have no future here, and your code and the guild will die together. I’ll sell the rest of the bones if I can get to them, and we’ll guarantee deaths, for the Li-Gallant at least.”

You’ll get your answer. I hope you enjoy it.
“I’ll smash the Hoorka myself, then. I told you that I could do it. Now I will.”

“Hoorka wants your life. I’ll have it, too.”

“It’s almost dawn, Valdisa.”

“What is dawn, if the code’s gone?”

He felt a thrill of fear tightening his back. “You can’t mean that,” he said.

“Does that scare you, Gyll? Good. But you needn’t worry. You’ll never see dawn.” Then she stepped out, kicking aside the dagger he’d taken from Meka. He could hear the whine of her vibrofoil, could see the glimmering of vibrowire in the moonlight, the luminous tip glowing. “You have a foil, Gyll. Use it, and see if She of the Five will forgive you.” Valdisa hefted the Khaelian dagger as well, holding it easily in her right hand. “Come out, or are you going to hide like a lassari?”

He’d finished tending the wound. Dame Fate had made her decree known. Gyll slipped his foil from its sheath, held it in his hand, unactivated. He ducked behind the rocks, moved a few meters to his left, then peered up again. Valdisa was looking to where he’d been, the dagger ready. Gyll stood in a rush, flicking on his vibro. Valdisa whirled and tossed the blade.

Gyll sidestepped, his vibro in front of him. He was lucky; he managed to touch the quickly thrown weapon; that, plus his motion, deflected it enough. The keen edge nicked his side, tore a hole in Meka’s nightcloak. Gyll rushed at Valdisa, who had transferred her foil to her other hand—their weapons met with a clashing. Brilliant sparks arced to the ground. Gyll tried to muscle past her defense; Valdisa parried, riposting. Gyll countered the attack, still advancing. They did not speak. Their feet scraped on rock, their breaths loud and harsh, their gaze always on the other’s foil.

Valdisa had been good. She was better now. It took all of Gyll’s skill to keep her back, to stop her from reaching him. The Khaelian dagger slashed through the air near him, hissing like an angry dragon, clacking against Valdisa’s homing belt. She took the dagger in her left hand as fear hammered at Gyll’s chest—he could not watch two weapons at once.

Neither had noticed the rising sound through the clamor of their vibrofoils, but now thunder rushed by overhead: a flitter, low in the sky. Valdisa’s foil stopped in mid-attack, though she did not glance up at the craft as it passed them, nor did she let her guard drop to give Gyll an opening. Gyll had seen the insignia on the flitter’s side: the taloned world of the Oldins. He lunged at Valdisa, a straight thrust. She hesitated a fraction of a second too long; his foil nicked her shoulder as she knocked his blade aside. He could see her hand, just at the edge of his vision, tightening on the handle of the Khaelian dagger. He knew she was ready to use it, and he did not have enough hands or the two sets of eyes he needed to defend himself.

The flitter wheeled about savagely, dipping, then careened to a halt in the meadow near them.

Valdisa, underhanded, tossed the dagger. The jets spat vapor, speeding the weapon unerringly toward him. Gyll tried to slap it aside with his foil. As he did so, Valdisa thrust, lunging.

The dagger struck him in the stomach, burying itself deep, twisting as it entered. The vibro slid into his chest, striking bone and then slithering between the ribs.

“Valdisa . . .” Gyll began. He could not feel his hands; he heard rather than felt himself drop his weapon. The vibro screamed against stone. Valdisa stared at him and he found that, curiously, she seemed to be crying. He tried to smile to her, but the night was dimming. Gyll could not be sure, but he thought he saw Helgin step from the flitter. He would have spoken, but the ground swirled around him, lumbering, then slammed up at him. Gyll felt cool stone on his cheek. He knew that he should be hearing the grumbling of the flitter’s engines, the keening of the vibros, but the sounds were gone. There was only silence and the chill of the rocks.

Then, nothing at all.

•   •   •

“Back away!”
Helgin snarled. The sting he held was pointed unwaveringly at Valdisa. “Turn the vibro off and toss it gently to one side, and back away from him.”

Valdisa turned to face the Motsognir. Helgin could see the glistening of her eyes; he could also see the blood on her foil. “The body is mine,” she said, her voice steady despite the obvious emotion she was feeling. “It has to be given to the signer of the contract.”

“And I’m telling you to get away from him, or you won’t be killing anyone else in the future. I haven’t got Gyll’s sense of honor, lady, and that’s my friend lying there—I’d love to see you pay for him. Now, move back.”

She hesitated a moment, staring at the dwarf and the weapon he held. Then she switched off her vibro (though Gyll’s still chattered on the ground) and moved away from the body. Helgin came forward, knelt beside Gyll, one hand at the sting’s trigger, the other probing Gyll’s neck for a pulse.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Oh,
damn!
”

“He’s dead?”

“What the hell do you think?” Helgin said throatily. The dagger was still in the body, its fuel exhausted. Helgin took the weapon out, threw it down on the stones. He picked up Gyll’s vibro, flicked it off, and put the weapon in his belt. “Help me put the body on the flitter,” he said.

“The body’s mine, Motsognir. You know the code. Go against Hoorka, and we’ll be hunting you.”

“Where? I’m not like Gyll, Thane. I’d sit in
Goshawk
and laugh at you. And I’ve got the sting.”

“You can’t hold it and the body, too.”

Helgin scowled. He rose to his feet, legs well apart. He lifted the sting, pointed it at her chest. “I can move him myself if I have to, Thane, but I won’t leave you standing there to stab me in the back while I do it. It’s your choice. Frankly, I hope you don’t decide to help me.”

Neither of them moved for long seconds. Then Valdisa sighed. She shrugged. “All right, Motsognir. What’s the difference now, neh? The code’s junk, and there’ll be no more contracts—I’ll be killing those pointed to by Vingi. I’ll help you.” She looked at the body, the nightcloak tangled around it.

As they lifted Gyll’s limp body into the passenger seat of the flitter, she leaned over it, feeling for the pulse. Helgin watched her, impassive. “You don’t trust me, Thane? Did you think I’d lie to you?”

“I’m surprised you’d want the body, Motsognir, that’s all. And it’s my duty to see that Gyll’s dead. The last duty.”

“Gyll was my friend, and friends do what they can for each other. I couldn’t get here quicker, but I’ll take him back to the Oldins.” False dawn touched the eastern sky. Shadows had become more distinct, color had returned to the landscape, the stars had fled.

“He was my lover.”

“You certainly have a touching way of showing your affection.”

Valdisa hissed, a sharp intake of breath. Her hand went to her vibro sheath, found it empty. She stepped back from Helgin, her hand fisted at her side. “Gyll would have done the same to me,” she said.

“Keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday we’ll both believe it.”

Helgin swung into the pilot’s seat. He revved the engines—the rotors whined as a harsh wind sprang up, billowing Valdisa’s nightcloak, ruffling her short hair. Helgin leaned from his seat, bellowing against the roar of the engines, his beard flying. “Thane, I’ll give you a chance you don’t deserve, because
he
would have done it. You can come with me, go back to the ship. We’ll make a place for you.”

She hesitated only a moment. “No,” she shouted back to him. “I can’t.”

Helgin grunted. “Good.” He reached for the flitter’s controls and wrenched the craft into a quick ascent, circling the meadow as he rose.

Valdisa watched until the flitter was gone behind the hills, until the morning stillness had returned. She stared for a long time at the blood spilled on the stones.

Then, the clouds touched with light, she made her way back to the ruin of Underasgard and her kin.