Shadow Knight
Knight's Vigil
Solace Glade, the Sword Coast
15 Eleasias, the Year of the Cauldron (1378 DR)
Cyric's blood, Carianna thought, how does he do it?
Kijani spun, parried a blow meant for her shoulder, parried another meant for his exposed flank, then cut and stabbed, the Luskan assassin grunting as both attacks drew blood. Then he stop-cut with his off-hand, stabbed back over his shoulder, and lastly slashed horizontally, decapitating the Luskan. The assassin behind him screamed, blood streaming from an empty eye socket, before he stiffened and slowly toppled to the ground of Solace Glade.
"Need help with yours?" he laughed, moonlight dancing in his hazel eyes.
Carianna lunged, katana blades crossed over each other, and both sank deeply into her assassin's chest.
"No thanks," she grunted with effort, drawing the blades sideways, slashing them out of the man's lungs to do maximum damage, lethal damage.
"You favour the twin sword style of l'ilythiiri,"¹ he mentioned, stooping lightly to wipe his blades on the tunics of those he had so casually killed, before sheathing them in one fluid motion.
"The what?" she asked, trying to emulate him, but not quite succeeding.
"Two heavier swords, used at the same time, but with effort, not finesse."
It was the truth, although she had never thought of it in that way.
"I do what I can," she smiled, disarmingly.
"The last girl that smiled at me that way ended up warming my bedroll," he grinned, "Are you that desperate to buck tradition?"
"Are you that desperate to lose your only squire?" she asked, the smile on her lips not quite reaching her eyes, "And I'm no girl!"
"Oh I wouldn't mind," he drawled, "It was Axle's idea, not mine. Just how old are you anyway, girl?"
I wonder if Axle would mind if I killed my sponsor, she thought.
¹ drow:- the drow
Merchant Quarter, Neverwinter
13 Eleasias, the Year of the Cauldron (1378 DR)
"You've really gone and done it this time girl," Moire had smirked when she had entered Axle's house.
As usual, the sulky, snarling, elf had been leaning against a wall, arms crossed, but with her hand close to the grip of her rapier.
One of these days Axle's going to beg me to take you out, you rabid cur, Carianna had thought, yet had nodded at Axle's lieutenant as she passed into his sanctum.
"Ignore Moire, for now," Axle had said, not looking up from the vellum spread out in front of him.
Carianna could see it was a map of some sort, but had considered it prudent not to enquire about it.
"Cari, meet Sir Kijani," Axle had introduced the breastplate clad man with the dark skin, black hair and tattooed face, "He's one of us, but is in the unique position of also having Nasher's ear."
"Fascinating," Carianna had smirked.
"Oh, I agree," the shadow knight had drawled, tipping a ridiculous hat at her, "I really don't know why he knighted me, but for someone in your position, it does bear advantages."
"How so?" she had asked, somewhat intrigued, returning his chivalry with as ribald a wink as she could.
"Kijani's agreed to take you on as his squire," Axle had elaborated.
"His what?" she had exploded, her fury evoking emerald fire from her eyes.
"An inelegant suggestion," Kijani had agreed, appreciating her fire, "but with Luskan on your leather-clad arse, it might pay to play along."
"I can handle Luskan," she had declared, full of bravado. She did not need anyone to support her argument with Axle.
"I think not," Axle had disagreed, finally looking up from his map, and then added threateningly, "But with Kijani's help you might just live long enough to beat an actual trial here, in Neverwinter."
"What makes you think he can handle them and I can't?" she had resisted out of stubborn habit.
"You haven't seen the man in action," is all that Axle had answered.
Solace Glade, the Sword Coast
15 Eleasias, the Year of the Cauldron (1378 DR)
Now she had, and as hard as it was to admit, Axle had been right. Hells take the man. Not to mention the way he looked when killing so effortlessly.
I wonder if Axle would mind if my sponsor killed me if I tried, she corrected, grinning to herself.
"I'm ten-and-nine," she answered, and then stabbed verbally, twisting the dagger once it was in, "and just how old are you, Sir?"
Kijani laughed, allowing the sneaky attack to land, before riposting, "You may call me Kijani when we're alone, squire, and I'm only as young as the maiden I feel."
"That old?" she stabbed again, hoping for an opening.
"That old," he grinned, then feinted, "It suits you well."
"What does?"
"Your year of birth."
"My year of birth?" she echoed, trying to recover.
"The Year of Shadows," he smiled, then grinned even wider, "You really are a Harborman aren't you. Ever heard of that crazy witch, Augathra the Mad?"
"Never killed anyone by that name, no," she parried none too skilfully.
"Well she apparently predicted the future or some such; quite accurately too, or so they say."
"What of it?" she asked, curious despite herself.
"Well she named each year, which comes in quite handy when you have Dale Reckoning in this part of Faerûn, Cormyr Reckoning in Cormyr and North Reckoning in Waterdeep. And that's just to mention a few ways the sages count years."
"So when did this Agatha predict you'd die then?" she grinned.
"She didn't. But I was rather aptly born in the Year of the Wanderer."
"And where did that miscarriage happen?"
"A long way from here," he replied evenly, "You wouldn't know the place…"
"Oh really?"
"I didn't know West Harbor had acquired a geography tutor in recent years," he drawled, obviously feinting again.
"Oh, fine," she exploded, turning her back on him, "keep your hrasted secrets."
"So, are you willing to let me teach you, Cari?"
Yes I am, but I'll die before I admit it, she thought.
"If I can learn to kill as easily as you can," she replied instead, "then the answer is 'yes'. You can save your lore for Grobnar and condescending for Qara. They would appreciate it more, I'm sure."
"I was born in Ormpur," Kijani replied, sealing their unspoken pact, "the City of Saffron."
The Dolphingulf, Lapaliiya
27 Tarsakh, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)
Kijani remembered the day of the storm, the day he had killed his first man. The storm had blown in from Tharsult; the crew, convinced they had angered the Bitch Queen, Umberlee and the Storm Lord, Talos, had beached the old ship, dismantled the mast and had wrapped and laid the sail against the cliffs that marked the Dolphingulf. They had been on the trade run from the City of Saffron to the Tashalan port of Tashluta, last free City of the Seabreeze. They had been sitting around fires talking and laughing, playing dice; against all odds they had outrun the storm, had avoided the gods' wrath. They were alive, and their relieved laughter had echoed around the cliffs, the sound drifting into the shadow-haunted jungle beyond.
The killers had attacked silently from the jungle—Malar worshippers from the Black Jungle, the firelight gleaming from raised swords and axes, and hungry eyes. The unarmed sailors had stood no chance, they were hacked down without mercy; their blood stained the sand and the mouths of their killers.
As always, he had been sitting away from the others, lying on his back in the rocks, staring up at Selûne, her tears and the distant stars. At the first screams, he had rolled to his knees, watching the slaughter in the moonlight. Armed with a single rusty knife, the young sailor had been powerless to help his comrades. Crouching down he had hid, trembling, on the cold stones, the incoming tide lapping at his legs. He could hear the Beastlord's followers feasting on the fallen and plundering the ship, tearing open the hatches and unloading the booty. Saffron and liqueur from Ormpur, silks from the lands of Durpar, and a shipment of silver ingots bound for the mint in the City of Slithering Vines, as the capitol of the Tashalar was also known.
Towards dawn, one of the attackers had walked into the rocks to relieve himself. Terror had filled Kijani with panic, but then something else rose within him, flaring like a light within his skull. He had reared up before the astonished reaver, plunging his rusty dagger into the man's chest up to the hilt. The hunter had pitched forward without a sound. Dragging him out of sight, Kijani had drawn a knife from the man's belt and slit his throat to make sure he was dead.
The dead man had worn two short swords, their ivory hilts tightly bound with leather. Kijani had unbuckled the sword-belt and swung it around his own waist. Relieving the man of his bulging purse, he had stolen away through the rocks, leaving the scene of the massacre far behind. He had been the age of the young woman standing before him, defiance storming in her sea green eyes.
Solace Glade, the Sword Coast
15 Eleasias, the Year of the Cauldron (1378 DR)
"So how did you learn to fight like that?" Carianna asked, sitting down, cross-legged to clean her blades with oil.
"You handle your weapons with respect."
"I hadn't noticed," she winked.
"Do you know anything about Lapaliiya?" he asked, sitting down opposite her, gently moving one katana to his own lap, as if he might be holding her hand and not deadly steel.
"As you said yourself," she replied, a little disturbed by his casual proximity, "I'm but a Harborman. We don't get out of the Mere much."
"Well, should I bore you with some lore or not, squire?"
Carianna sensed the danger. This man before her had not merely mentioned his place of birth; she had inadvertently opened a part of his past he was perhaps reluctant to share with her. She was in two minds as to harm or to heal.
"I wish for some lore then, Kijani, if you'd be willing to tell me," she healed, despite herself.
"My mother was a Shaaran gypsy, a talented acrobat. My father was a minor noble. My mother's dark grace must have caught his eye during a sober moment between bottles of Ormpurian liqueur."
"Sounds like a pleasant man," she grinned, hoping the sarcasm in her voice was evident enough.
Mystra's frigid chastity belt, she thought, why am I being so gods cursed nice to him?
"Oh, pleasant enough," Kijani smiled, not missing her exhale of relief, "He actually married my mother after getting her with child. She died of the plague when I was still a child, while he… he died… later."
"You killed your own father?" Carianna gasped.
Sure, she had had thoughts of murdering her foster father, Daeghun, curse his elven dispassion, but she had never seriously considered it.
"I was young, dangerous and stupid," he snarled, "much like you are now."
"I didn't…" she parried, but his hurtful words overpowered her restraint, "Black Sun take you, you gods-hrasted hypocrite."
"Forgive me," he whispered, barely audible.
"Why?"
She wanted to hate him, daring herself not to.
"Your questions have brought back many unpleasant memories," he conceded, guard down for the first time in so long.
"Tell me more," she insisted, her price steep and to her advantage as usual.
"After she died, I took ship, and Tempus be praised, found a captain looking for a cabin boy. I travelled with that crew for close on ten years before our luck ran out."
"What happened?"
"I earned my swords," he stated, simply and flatly.
"But who taught you?"
"Lapaliiya did."
"Oh?" she feigned disinterest.
"In the Lapal League, honour is all," he grinned, meeting her eyes, "They fight duels with you over the way you look at them, when you cough too loud or over the colour of your hair or eyes—anything."
"The colour of your eyes?" she asked, incredulous.
"You'd have many duels there," he laughed, "Your eyes are too green and therefore an affront to their ancestors."
"Oh really?" she smirked, thinking he was lying.
"So when I strolled into Tashluta, my clothes torn and threadbare, but with two swords strapped to my waist, I affronted many and would've died that very day, had not a master swordsman seen my predicament—and my pride—and saved my life."
"How so?"
"When he found me, I'd been surrounded by five angry duellists. It would've been an even half dozen, but by sheer luck, I'd already killed one of my 'appointments' that afternoon."
"Gods," she exclaimed, "don't tell me you were always this cock sure?"
"To tell you the truth, Cari," he grinned, "I'd wet my trousers during that first duel. I'd been terrified, but my pride had been greater, and Sigguer had seen that."
"Your teacher?" she asked, wide eyed in wonder.
"Enough!" he cried, handing her back her sword, "A boon, before I say another word. By the Foehammer, you're insatiable!"
"Name your price," she grinned, "Any price…"
"We spar, not with words or innuendo, but with steel. I'll relate my tale during, and you may ask your questions if indeed you have the breath for it."
"It'll be my pleasure," she grinned again, jumping up like a cat, already swinging with her right-hand katana.
She had not seen him move, he was that quick, but his short, flat blade—held by an ivory hilt bound with leather—somehow stopped her Kara-Turan steel.
Carianna barely had time to bring her blade up, as his short sword flashed for her face. They had been sparring, if that is what you called practicing with live steel, for only a short while and already she could feel the familiar burn in her calves. She knew she was retreating too much, but against this fury, what else could she do. She might have managed to sneak barbs and slashes past his guard verbally, but with his blood up and with swords, she stood no chance at all.
"Sigguer…" she grunted, as the flat of his blade slapped against her shoulder, "tell me… about him."
"Tiring already, squire?" he laughed, then slapped her thigh and blocked her left-hand blade in quick succession.
"Cari!" she hissed through clenched teeth, "Name's… Cari."
Dark Sun help me, she thought, that's going to hurt in the morning. If I even make it to the dawn.
"Very well, Cari, if it'll improve your swordplay," he patronised, "Sigguer was the best swordsman in Tashluta."
Carianna grunted again, as he blocked both her blades, twisting them out to her sides, using the counter-force she exerted to slip past her guard and slap his swords against her hips. She cursed again.
"One look at him and my five opponents had bowed and taken their leave," Kijani continued, as if merely sitting in a tavern, regaling her over some ale, "He'd called them back though, promising them all a rematch once I could prove to be a fair fight."
She slipped, coming down hard on one knee, desperately bringing up her blades to chop frantically at his swords. One came past her hasty guard nonetheless, rapping hard against her upper arm. She winced and nearly dropped that blade as her hand went numb.
"I'd hated the man at that moment, promising my future away so easily. So I trained under him and he showed me the way of the sword. And when I'd learned all I could from him, I challenged him."
"Did you win?" Carianna asked, grunting triumphantly, as her katana scraped across his breastplate.
"Does killing excite you?" he asked in return, dropping his guard a little.
"And if it does?" she arched a brow at him, taking advantage of his lapse. She still was not fast enough.
"For a time, it was all I could think about."
Carianna attacked furiously, cutting, stabbing, feigning, but he slapped her blades away until, with arms cramping and wrists sore, her katanas simply fell from stiff fingers.
"Do you yield then, Cari?" he asked, short swords held casually at his sides.
I'll be hrasted if I do, she thought.
"I do, Kijani," she smiled and shrugged as he sheathed his swords.
With her hurt thigh cramping, tired calves protesting, she nevertheless rushed at him. She managed by luck, or by some fickle god's blessing, to catch him off guard. Or so she thought. The punch when it came, hit her squarely between and slightly above her breasts. Her leathers softened the blow, but she still crumpled around his fist, arms and legs jerking towards him like some spastic marionette. Her momentum arrested, she landing heavily on her rump and collapsed backwards. He kneeled on her sternum, blade against her throat, his eyes blazing fury.
"Don't ever try that again Carianna," he whispered, like drawn steel, "or I'll do Luskan a favour and kill you myself."
"Yes," she seethed, gritting her teeth against the pain, the lack of air and the humiliation.
"Now then, shall I help you remove your leathers, squire, or will you manage it yourself?" he asked, getting up to rummage through his pack.
"You've thumped me so much," she smiled, bitter-sweetly, "perhaps you should be the gentleman and help me."
"Would you have preferred it had I cut you?" he asked, producing a silver jar of ointment.
"It may have stung far less."
"That it may," he laughed, setting the jar in the fire, before stepping behind her and removing his gloves.
His nimble fingers made fast work of the buckles and clasps, and soon he had divested her of her armour.
"Now your clothes," he commanded, picking the jar out of the fire as if it was cool to the touch, which it was.
"You sure know how to show a girl a good time," she grinned sardonically, "Smallclothes too?"
"If you wish," he smiled, "but it'll be this, and not a quick tumble, that'll help with the bruising."
"How?" she hid her disappointment.
"It absorbs the heat of the fire," he explained, as he slathered some ointment into his hands, "then releases it into your muscles. You'll thank me in the morning."
"I'm sure I will," she winked.
She groaned as his hands massaged her bruised bicep, and then groaned some more, in relief this time, as the pain started subsiding.
"You're good with those hands," she purred, like a cat, arching her back.
"You have spirit," he soothed, kneading the pain out of her thigh, "but it's broken. You can't fight and hope to win without it being whole again though."
"And yours is whole?"
"It's whole enough," he sighed, then stopped to inspect the tattoo on her hip, before applying more ointment. "This mark… I may've killed some of your peers before."
"My peers?"
"Cyric's top assassins, yes, the Black Roses. One tried to kill me in my sleep, but when I woke up, he couldn't fight a fair fight. The other was a good swordsman; she would've made the Lord of Battles proud."
"Is that supposed to scare me?"
She winced as he rubbed the salve onto her chest. It was already turning an angry purple where she had run into his fist.
"Your secret's safe enough with me," Kijani stated, matter-of-factly, then kneeled to inspect her knee. "When we get back to Neverwinter, go see a priest or healer. This knee's going to stiffen up and will be of no use to you if you don't. If asked about payment, you may mention my name."
"How charitable of you," she scoffed, as he returned to their packs, "I have my own coin you know."
"Then use it if you must," he stated, tossing her rolled up bedroll at her, "Now get some sleep, squire."
"What about the vigil?" she asked, yawning as she shook it out.
"Right now you need the rest more than some arcane tradition," he grinned, tossing another log on the fire.
"What about you?" she asked, her eyes inviting him to all manner of distractions.
"I'll decline your offer for tonight," he smiled, then urged, "Sleep now, Cari, I'll wake you up before sunrise."
"You're an intriguing man," she yawned again, then on impulse blew him a kiss.
He caught it deftly, smiling softly as he pocketed it inside a pouch on his belt. Carianna smiled too and was fast asleep.
Ormpur, Lapaliiya
7 Flamerule, the Year of the Wyvern (1363 DR)
"So you've come back?" his father had slurred, three empty clay urns strewn across the floor like broken dreams.
"I see you've moved on to the cheap stuff," Kijani had observed sarcastically, "Easier to forget about her that way."
"You know nothing!" the older man had argued, trying to get up from the straight-backed chair, but failing.
"Don't bother getting up; I won't be staying long."
"You carry swords now?" the Lord of House Saffron had observed, "Thinking to raise weapons against your old man, eh?"
Though it shared the name of the city they had always called home, House Saffron was but minor nobility, prominent only for its production of the spice for which it and the city was named. Merchant matters rested on the broad shoulders of an uncle and the stooped ones of a spinster aunt, both older than his father. With too much coin to spend and too much time on his hands, his father had found his vocation as a minor drunk in most of the better alehouses in Ormpur.
It had been in one of these that he had first laid eyes on her, her dark beauty captivating him, as her dance entranced the crowd. He never drank in another alehouse after that, and for a time he had even sobered up a little, enough to become a passable suitor to win her hand. Being a restless spirit, she had laughed at the idea, and him, at first. Nevertheless, he had been persistent, if somewhat clumsy in his pursuit, and little by little she had come to care for him in return.
As a Shaaran, and a gypsy at that, she had never possessed much and had therefore always been drawn to the cities rather than the plains of her birth. She loved the bustle, the gifts, the keepsakes—trophies from her life as dancer and acrobat. Yet when he had shown her the family estates, she had known in her heart that she could live as a lady of House Saffron. Thus, they had lain together, and when she was late and had had it confirmed by a midwife, he had married her despite the frowns of his older siblings.
"I should kill you a thousand times, for what you made her suffer through," Kijani had seethed.
"Kelemvor take you," the man erupted, finally getting to his feet, "She suffered as little as this house could afford. The plague… Argh, but you were too young to remember."
"I do remember how you beat her… and me."
"Not enough in your case it seems," Lord Saffron had spat, slugging back a good swig from his fourth urn of the morning.
From Kijani's birth, his mother had doted on him, lavishing on him all the love she never felt for her husband. Though she cared for his father, she had never loved him as much as he adored her in return, and in a sense had proven her siblings-in-law right about her intentions. She had seen the opportunity to possess something permanent and had given herself in exchange for obtaining it. To her it had been a small price to pay.
As Kijani grew up his father had become increasingly jealous of him, sensing, finally, what had really been on the mind of the woman he had pursued for so long. Often he had only wanted to discipline his son, but mostly he spared neither the rod, nor the child. When his wife would intervene, his rage spilled over like seawater; slowly swamping the boat they called marriage.
Due to his father's hand, Kijani had loved his mother more and more, and they would often find solace from the beatings in each other's arms. At other times she would dance for him, or sing to him, as his father watched her, unseen, a silent spectator. Despite the rages, those had been the boy's happiest times, until the plague had come and the fever had burned it all to the hells.
"Too much in her case," Kijani had countered, knuckles white around the ivory of his swords.
"I loved her!" the older man had roared, knocking the urn to the floor, spilling wine like hearts blood.
"Yet you hated me?"
"I was a jealous fool," his father had railed, "but the plague had put paid to my folly. Now you wish to follow in my footsteps?"
"What do you mean?" Kijani had rasped, drawing his steel.
"I'm a drunken fool. I may always have been a drunken fool," Lord Saffron admitted, "but I loved your mother; as much as she'd loved you, my son."
"Don't you dare excuse yourself like that!"
"You know it's the truth, I can see it in your eyes."
"I should kill you now, cut out your lying tongue!"
"You should," his father had agreed, "You'd do me a favour son."
With sudden clarity, Kijani who had seen enough of the hearts of Tashlutar men, and women, had understood. "I can't give you that absolution, but I'll remember this day, father."
He had walked out, leaving behind an older and mostly drunk father, slumped and sobbing in his chair. House Saffron servants had found his father's body the next day, lying dead amongst the lilac flowers, in the saffron fields where Kijani had been conceived.
Solace Glade, the Sword Coast
15 Eleasias, the Year of the Cauldron (1378 DR)
"I thought this was supposed to be my vigil?" Carianna laughed from right behind him.
Kijani jerked slightly. He had been reliving that day—and many others—in his mind, as the fire burnt down to mere embers. His mood was much like the fire, and he had not heard the assassin sneak up on him.
"You're pretty good at doing that," he hid his discomfort.
"What, sneaking up on people?"
"I'd probably have been dead by now, had I been your intended victim."
"Who says you're not?" she grinned.
"As I said: if indeed I were, I'd be dead," he stated sardonically.
"Perhaps I'd let you live," she winked, trying to lighten his mood.
He would not bite.
"What's wrong, Kijani?" she asked, slightly exasperated at her ploy not working.
"I've had a lot to think about," he sighed, "Perhaps you're right, perhaps this was indeed my vigil."
"So my lord does have some chinks in his armour?"
"And my squire does have a sensitive side," he smiled at her.
"Hey, I resent that!" she teased.
"Then let us not waste any more time with maudlin."
He jumped up, grabbed her in his arms and gave her a surprise kiss.
"What was that for?" she grinned, touching fingers to her lips.
"For understanding, Cari, and not scratching for the truth just yet," he replied, letting go of her.
"I'll be sure to understand more often then," she agreed, smiling to herself.
"Come then, squire," he commanded, "Lord Nasher awaits his latest noble."
"If we must," she groaned, turning to find her clothes and armour.