Hand of the Black City (2 page)

Then, he stepped over the edge of the cliff, muttering his incantation as he dropped.

The spell carried him silently to the snowy ground some fifty feet below. His dark form went unnoticed, slipping through the shadows of the cliffs and stones, the entire party's focus drawn to the dead man. Even the women and child who'd been driving the cart were turned in their seats to peer back around the leather canopy walls. Drawing a slender black blade from his boot, Trystan darted forward.

All three died in a shared moment, throats slit in quick ceremonial succession.

The Matron would be satisfied with that.

Abruptly, a yell shattered the mountain calm. The arrow had been found. The murder discovered.

The game was up.

Stowing his dagger, Trystan unsheathed both sabers and dropped off the cart into plain view. More shouts picked up. All five of the remaining men were gathered around the body, three on the ground and two hovering over the scene still seated atop their horses. Most of them whirled about at their discovery, perhaps intent on warning the others in the cart.

Those who had turned, though, froze.

Trystan, bedecked in the black and burgundy clothes of the Hand, strode confidently towards them with both weapons drawn at his sides. To a one the blood drained from each of the knights' faces, leaving them pale even as they reached to tug the longswords free from their hips.

And then the back flaps of the wagon shifted, and a thin young woman with her dirty brown hair stuck her head out.

"Roen?" she demanded, addressing one of the knights. "What's going on? Is everything—?"

The words caught in her throat as she, too, saw Trystan.

"Kathyln, NO!" one of the men shouted, likely the one she'd been speaking to. "GET BACK! GET—!"

His words were cut short as the woman's head hit the ground, cleanly sheered from her shoulders by the razor edge of Trystan's saber.

"NO!"

A sudden flurry of movement accompanied Roen's heart-wrenching scream. The two men on horseback brought their mounts around to charge forward, yelling curses as they swung their blades at Trystan's head. Throwing himself into a forward roll, Trystan fell well below the arc of their blows. Landing on his feet he struck, left-right, in rapid succession. The saber blades sliced through the muscle and tendon of both steeds' rear legs like paper. As the lamed animals crashed the ground behind him, writhing and screaming, Trystan sprang forward to meet the rush of the other three men head on.

It was a short fight.

Catching a horizontal blow from either side with each blade, Trystan twisted, redirecting the knights' swords into the ground. In an instant one of the men lost both hands and the lower half of his left leg. He’d just fallen to the ground when his companion found himself on his knees, gurgling and choking as he clutched at his throat. Black blood ran free from between his gloved fingers, pouring from the vicious slash Trystan's blade had cleaved across his neck.

The third man did no better. His overhead swing was cut short when one of the saber's pommels caught him in the gut, doubling him over. A quick succession of blows dropped him on all fours, severing the tendons in his ankles. Even as the man screamed in pain Trystan's final strike plunged a saber-point through the back of the knight’s skull and out through his mouth. The pinned body twitched in the bloodstained snow.

Pulling his blade free of the man's head with a sharp tug, Trystan didn't stop moving. One of the riders whose animal he'd hamstringed was dead, partially crushed under the weight of the fallen horse. The other seemed, though, to have managed to make it out relatively unscathed. He stood on weak legs, sword shaking in both hands, and he stumbled back a step. Trystan followed him silently, so fluid he barely left so much as a boot print in the snow.

"M-mercy, sir!" the man pleaded, tripping and nearly falling as he continued his backwards retreat. "Mercy, I-I beg you! I BEG YOU!"

Trystan didn't reply, continuing his cool approach. When he was ten feet away the nerveless knight dropped his sword and fled. He bolted past the cart and scrambled over the uneven earth in his desperate attempt at escape. Trystan paused, studying the defeated form for a moment.

Then, sheathing one of the sabers in a flash, he drew his boot-blade out again and threw it with a careful snap of his wrist.

The dagger caught the fleeing man squarely in the back of the head, burying itself to the hilt in his skull. Impressively the knight managed another couple faltering steps before collapsing to the ground, his limbs convulsing weakly for a few lingering moments. At last, though, he stilled, and this time didn't rise again.

Satisfied, Trystan turned his attention to the last of his charges. Silently he made for the wagon, listening to the panicked breaths inside paired with remnants of barely muffled sobs. As he came to stand at the back of the cart he caught a whispered '
shhh
,' and he paused yet again.

It always paid to be wary.

Standing slightly to the side, Trystan reached out with his saber and caught the leather flap with the tip of the blade, just above where the limp form of the woman he'd beheaded hung over the back of the cart. He had only just begun to pull it open when there was a heavy clunk, and in that fraction of an instant all that saved him from a lifetime's worth of agony was the brutal instinct instilled in him by the Iron Will. Ducking to the side, Trystan barely made the escape. Something ripped through the thin hide, tearing a wide hole exactly where his outstretched hand had been only a moment before.

Had he not been paranoid, the bolt would likely have taken him through the chest.

Not bothering to give himself time to be relieved, Trystan leapt up and vaulted into the dark wagon, throwing aside the tattered entrance flap. Sure enough, two women were huddled in the back of the cart as he landed on his feet. One had her arms wrapped around the small forms of two young girls, but this group Trystan ignored. Instead he darted forward, baring down on the second woman.

The heavy crossbow in her skinny arms fell to the wagon floor just as he reached her.

Trystan's saber caught the woman across the face, slicing her from ear to chin. She dropped to her knees and screamed, clutching at her mangled features. The blade came around again, running her through and shutting her up in a sharp gasp. With a powerful kick Trystan retracted his weapon from her body and shoved her into the leather wall of the cart. The worn hides tore under the sudden strain, the woman's corpse tumbling backwards through the hole to
thump
against the hard ground outside. Grey light illuminated the inside of the cart suddenly, and the remaining woman shrieked and clutched at the girls held close to her chest as he whirled on them, saber flashing.

In barely enough time to draw breath, three more lay slain.

Breathing lightly, Trystan straightened up. Nothing moved amongst the dead. It was quiet again, silent save for the drip of dark blood creeping through the wooden slats of the cart floor. Lifeless eyes stared at or past him, motionless and empty, and it took no effort to meet their gaze.

Kneeling down, Trystan carefully wiped the blade of his saber clean on the thin wool dress of one of the still girls. Drawing the other, he did the same. This done, he stood and sheathed the weapons back in their scabbards, turning away from the corpses to step through the hole in the wall of the cart. Landing on his feet by the mangled form of the first woman, he walked away, tugging the red cloth free from his face. The wind had picked up again, throwing snow once more off the overhanging cliffs on either side of him. He welcomed the chill, welcomed the icy breeze. He breathed deep, offering up a silent prayer of thanks to the Matron.

When he was a fair distance from the carnage, Trystan finally stopped. Reaching back he drew a tiny roll of blank parchment from his belt, carefully untying the worn leather string that held it closed. When it was unrolled in his palm he extended his hand towards the stormy sky, whispering a final word. There was a flash of black, and the thin paper caught fire, burning painlessly between his fingers. The flames ate away at the sliver of parchment and the ashes were carried away, lifted into the air on the winter wind. When the spell ran its course, and the final bits of the message were whisked from his grasp, Trystan let his hand fall to watch the last wisps of smoke disappear into the heavens.

It was done, and the Black City would know within the hour.

Bryce O'Connor
learned the importance of a well-crafted story at an early age. Raised on the tall tales of Brian Jacques'
Redwall
and J.K. Rowling's
Harry Potter
series, he fell in love with reading when he realized that one's imagination is the only place where dragons might actually fly free. Graduating
from Ithaca College with his Bachelor’s in Creative Writing and Doctorate of Physical Therapy, O'Connor currently resides in Rochester, NY.

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