Herald of the Storm (10 page)

These men were not innocents – they were robbers and larcenists, deviants and kidnappers, the lowest scum of the city … not that it mattered. Fact was they were employed by his mark, and they were in his way. They could not be allowed to live.

The voices were louder from his vantage point at the top of the staircase and River paused, assessing the battlefield. The warehouse was wide and scantly lit, with men moving purposefully in its midst.

‘Fucking move it!’ A voice loud and desperate. ‘I don’t have all night. The longer we stay here the more chance they have of finding us.’

The speaker moved into the light, a short man, his clothes made of satin, probably silk lined, his boots fastened with shiny golden buckles. The other men were larger, their clothes less fashionable, more functional. Six of them: four moving with haste to stack barrels into a cart; two standing guard, their crossbows loaded in clenched hands, edgy, afraid.

Good.

Fear was as potent a weapon as any blade; sometimes it could prove even deadlier. It was clear who the mark was, but first River had to down the six guards, fast and efficiently,
engulfing them like the rising tide. Washing them away in the flood
.

River drew his second blade. He began to descend the stairs two at a time, fluid, silent, never taking his eyes off his first target, but also keeping the rest in his periphery lest they spot him as he moved. The man saw him at the last second, only time to widen his eyes in surprise before River slashed a gaping wound in his throat. Quick and silent, but enough to leave the man clutching at his neck, desperate to stem the tide of lifeblood flowing out and down his chest as he gasped his last. He was no longer a threat.

River was almost on his second target before someone saw him – a tall thin man at the opposite side of the warehouse – but his warning came too late. The blade slid in easily, between the third and fourth ribs, stabbing into the lungs, which then flooded with the gush of blood.

‘Look out!’ cried the thin mercenary even as his comrade fell, clutching at his side. No longer a threat.

The two guards with crossbows would have heard now, would be finding their aim. He had perhaps the space of two breaths.

More time than he would ever need.

Another man dropped the crate he was carrying. River was on him before it hit the ground, twin blades lashing at neck and groin simultaneously. He opened his mouth to scream but fell dead, his weapon untouched in its sheath.

River could hear the shrill and desperate voice of the mark. The words came fast and garbled; meaningless, unimportant,
he was riding the water now, pulled along by the undertow, silent beneath the surface
.

The tall thin bodyguard was moving in, his tread practised, his blade held low and ready. As he faced off against this challenger, River heard the telltale thrum of a crossbow string. He had been anticipating it, patient as an angler on the shore. He rolled forward, allowing it to shoot well overhead before springing to his feet in front of the swordsman, his left blade parrying the incoming attack, the right slipping into his opponent’s gut, angled upwards towards the heart.

The man retched out a breath as though gagging on his own entrails, then went limp. River grabbed his shirt and swung him sharply to the left as he heard the second crossbow being loosed. The bolt thudded into the dying man’s back, but with no air left in him to expel, he uttered no sound.

River whipped his blade free of the man’s gut, spun round and flung it towards the second crossbowman. The knife thudded into his throat, propelling him backwards to land against the wall of the warehouse. With a hideous grimace he slowly slipped down it, leaving a trail of crimson on the stone. No longer a threat.

River could hear the last of the mercenaries, huffing desperately as he tried to pull the string of his crossbow back over the nut, his foot in the stirrup, the stave bending – but not far enough. Hired thugs just weren’t what they used to be.

The man squealed in his desperation, not daring to look up, fearful of seeing his dead comrades. Almost a comical sight, but River could have no remorse, no mercy … not even for jesters.

He moved quick, there was no need to draw this out. Reaching the man as he struggled with his bow, River pushed his head up and clamped a hand over his mouth. He saw a tear in the man’s eye, and watched it roll down his cheek as the blade pierced through to the heart, stopping the blood,
cutting the flow
. No longer a threat.

The mark was standing alone now, staring wide-eyed at the corpses of the men who, only moments before, had stood ready to defend him with their lives.

They had done that all right.

‘Wait!’ he said, holding up a hand.

How many times had River heard that word? How many times had it been the last plea of a condemned man?

River stared at him from beneath his hood.

‘Do you know who I am?’ said the mark, his voice growing shriller with every word. ‘I’m Constantin Deredko, one of the richest men in Steelhaven. I can get you anything you want; money, jewels … girls … boys … whatever you want.’

River moved towards him, slowly now; there was no longer any urgency. He had been told to draw this part out, to make the mark suffer. Though River was no sadist, he was nothing if not obedient.

‘Do you know why I have come for you, Constantin Deredko?’ River said, pulling the hood back from his face, revealing those striking features, marred on one side by a crosshatch of scars.

The mark paused, then nodded, as though finally accepting his fate, as though seeing in River’s face that there would be no mercy this day. ‘Yes, you were sent by the Guild. You were sent because I owe them money and I didn’t pay. Well, it’s
my
fucking money, and they can go—’

River’s raised hand halted Constantin’s rant. The man fell silent, realising it would do him no good now.

‘You have a choice,’ said River, reaching into his jerkin and producing a small glass vial. ‘You can take this, or I can use
this
.’ He held out the vial in one hand, and showed Constantin the blade he held in his other, still slick with blood.

‘What’s in that?’ asked Constantin, gesturing towards the vial.

‘I don’t know.’ It was true – River had no idea of the contents, but he had been told to give his mark this choice, and that was what he would do.

Constantin glanced from vial to blade, weighing up his options. It wasn’t a great choice. ‘Will it be quick?’ he said finally, pointing again to the vial.

‘I don’t know,’ River repeated.

Constantin gave one final, remorseful gaze towards the red blade in River’s fist, then held his hand out for the vial.

River handed it over and Constantin held it for several seconds, staring defiantly, steeling himself to make one last gesture of hopeless bravery. River couldn’t help but admire him as he wrenched out the stopper and chugged the clear liquid down his throat, swallowing with an exaggerated grimace.

They stared at one another for several moments as nothing happened. River simply standing and waiting, Constantin trembling but trying his best to show a smattering of courage.

‘Nothing’s happening,’ said Constantin, a flicker of a smile crossing his face. ‘Was this some kind of tes—’

Suddenly he doubled over, groaning in agony and clutching at his stomach. He fell to his knees and began to retch, but nothing came out but a thin line of red bile. River could only watch as his mark writhed on the ground, screeching in pain and torment. Constantin looked up, red tears streaming down his cheeks from the burst blood vessels in his eyes. The look was accusatorial, and if the man could have spoken River was sure he would have cursed him to the hells. River could have spared him this torment if only he had chosen to die by the blade. He would have made it fast and painless.

With a last agonising gasp, Constantin died. River paused for just a second, just a heartbeat’s length to look down at the man, his eyes pooling with red, the black bile oozing from his mouth. Then there was nothing else to see.

He walked to one of the dead crossbowmen, his blade still embedded in the man’s neck. After pulling it free he knelt, pausing for a second to clean the blood from his weapons on the man’s tunic.

A sudden panicked scrabbling noise from the opposite end of the warehouse made River start, and the blades were in his hands in an instant as he adopted a defensive stance. In the shadows at the other end of the building he saw movement, but it was no attack … it was an escape.

A door burst open, allowing in the street noise as a figure ran out.

Stupid.

Foolish.

River had been seen at his work – been seen with his hood thrown back. And the witness had fled. How could he have let his focus on the kill make him so careless?

In a blur of movement he was across the warehouse and in full pursuit. The noise and light of the street were unsettling, but River had only one thing on his mind – catching his prey; there must be no witnesses.

He glimpsed a figure moving at speed into a passing crowd of revellers. Concealed by stylised masks in the shape of grinning daemons, they held aloft gaudy banners and flags.

River pulled up his hood while weaving through them, keeping his blades low and hidden lest he slash one of the crowd by mistake. It was a dense throng, with revellers moving like a great wave, laughing and oblivious of the drama in their midst. For anyone else the sea of bodies might have been overwhelming, but River was no ordinary man,
he could follow the ebb and flow
.

He passed smoothly through the crowd, moving inexorably towards his target whom he could see pushing past the wall of people in desperate panic. River’s grip tightened on his blades as he moved in. He would strike quickly then disappear, leaving his final victim to bleed out on the packed street.

Before he could reach him however, his quarry, with a final desperate burst of strength, broke from the crowd. River emerged to see him turn down an alleyway. They both splashed through the filth of the back street. It was never really a contest: River was on him well short of the bustling avenue at the end.

The man must have sensed that death was on him, because he turned, hands held up in surrender.

‘Please don’t kill me. They only hired me for one night. I knew it was wrong. I just needed the money.’

River had been expecting a plea for clemency, the same as he had heard a hundred times before, but it was not the words that stayed his hand. Looking back at him was not a man, but a boy, maybe five winters younger than River himself. His eyes were wide and blue – innocent, even childlike, not the hawkish, brutal eyes of a seasoned thug.

For several beats of his heart, River simply stared, his blade still poised to deal the killing blow – but he couldn’t.

It simply wasn’t right.

Surely he could have done nothing in his short life to be deserving of a blade across the throat, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Roused by a sudden scream, River darted a glance towards the bustling street.

‘Robber! Murderer!’ screamed a woman, staring down the alleyway at River with his blades drawn and ready to kill.

Damn it!

Before he could flee, the woman gained two companions, open-faced bascinets on their heads. Weapons in their hands.

Greencoats.

Without giving the boy another thought he turned tail and fled.

He could hear the Greencoats ordering him to stop, wasting their breath on calling out instead of chasing him. Let them – by the time they started in pursuit he would be gone.

River leapt atop an abandoned cart then vaulted upwards, planting his foot against the side of the alleyway and boosting himself to the rooftop above. Glancing back he saw the Greencoats setting off, splashing down the alley behind him. One put something to his lips, blowing hard, and a shrill whistle rose high above the sounds of the crowd.

Not giving it a second thought, River moved off, but heard another whistle, as though in answer to the first. It was quickly followed by a third.

‘Oi! Bastard!’ cried a voice to his left, and River looked up in time to see another Greencoat taking aim with a crossbow.

He could so easily have taken the man down – flung one of his blades and silenced him – but this was not the mark or one of his thugs. This was a Greencoat; one of the city’s custodians, and River was not a simple murderer.

No, as he ran from his Greencoat pursuers, some of whom had already made it to the rooftops, he vowed that tonight he would do no more killing.

He just hoped that his pursuers would return the favour.

R
ag stood on the roof of the Silent Bull, arms round Tidge’s shoulders. All of them looked out towards Eastgate, from where there still came the sound of celebration.

It had been a good night. Everyone had eaten well, Fender’s bronze trinket paying for a large pot of broth and fresh bread, courtesy of Boris the Innkeeper. Migs was lying on his back, caressing his swollen belly, whilst Chirpy sat cross-legged beside him gazing over the rooftops at the bright lights. Where Fender was, Rag had no idea – he’d left before sundown and not come back. Not that she gave a shit. She’d not spoken to him since he’d bullied Markus away earlier. The longer Fender was gone the better.

But she couldn’t stand here enjoying the show all evening. Down in the streets below were thronging crowds, vendors selling ale and food, live entertainment and carny stalls. People had full purses and couldn’t wait to part with their money. Rag could certainly help.

Before she could drag herself away from her boys, the rickety staircase at the side of the building give off a whiny creak. Tidge and Chirpy jumped, but Migs just continued rubbing his bare tummy as if polishing it to a shine. When they saw it was Markus coming up the stairs, the boys let out a sigh. Rag’s welcoming smile dropped when she saw the look on his face. His eyes looked red from crying, and the streetlight showed up a livid bruise on his cheek.

‘You okay, Markus?’ Rag asked, gently.