(EDIT) Hey all!
I edited this chapter just so I could remember when I posted a chapter 10 on October 10, 2010. I'm going to shoot for a chapter 11 on 11/11/11 next year, stay tuned
Kerchen washed off the last traces of facepaint in the pond and stared at the image that now looked back. It was much older than the face he'd seen a few minutes ago, with light scars imitating wrinkles, and deeper scars telling a story of his missions. Today was an important day, and for once, his ruined complexion was actually going to help him.
He scanned the now familiar groomed lawns of the Collegia gardens, noting that his now discarded Blues were sufficiently conspicuous, even in the young light of dawn. In the off chance that Dieder had stolen them, perhaps this way they would find their original owner.
His sacks were now nearly empty, and so the boy had no trouble tying them high up in one of the trees. Realizing that he had now left nothing of himself behind to find, Kerchen walked off to begin a long wait.
"Heyla, Alberich!" Selenay greeted cheerfully. Alberich returned the greeting gravely as Kantor lined himself up next to Caryo. Despite his appearance, he was beginning to enjoy the field experience that he was acquiring with Selenay. Though the topics in Heraldic hearings were more mundane than those in Valdemar's court and Karse's priesthood, they functioned similarly and were equally petty.
:That's rather insulting to our civilians,: Kantor remarked.
:I'm glad you have the sense not to defend your Court.:
:And I'm glad you've gotten so comfortable with how petty your Priesthood is.: Just like a Valdemaran was the unspoken idea, though Alberich was glad Kantor refrained from dealing the finishing blow.
The two Companions headed off to the city at a slow canter. Herald Mirilin had some business to finish so would be meeting them at the court instead. Alberich took it as a good sign that Mirilin trusted him enough to leave him alone with the Heir-though perhaps his Companion had a hand in that.
They were turning down a winding path to the city, passing through the last clumps of garden before the elaborate estates of the aristocracy began. As usual, the road was calm and relatively empty, but something today put Alberich on edge. There was something unnatural about how the wind moved, as if something that shouldn't be there, was-something that shouldn't be was blocking it from one direction-
There was no need for words. Kantor immediately pivoted to the right as Alberich drew his sword. He gestured to the bewildered Selenay to fall back as Kantor kicked with his front hooves at the attacker, who jumped back immediately. Alberich eyed him as he firmed his grips on two knives. The boy-no, man?-had a gaunt face covered in scars and a wiry body that was likely all muscle. Though his age was indiscernable, his features were undoubtedly Karsite.
"Who are you?" Alberich maintained a passive tone, which was not quite how he felt.
"I have come to kill you," was the equally passive reply. Kantor stirred, mirroring Alberich's own bewilderment.
This Karsite assassin had managed to infiltrate Haven, infiltrate the Palace grounds itself-and yet was stupid enough to make a sophomoric declaration of war like an amateur, against two mounted enemies in broad daylight no less. What was his aim? Was this apparent foolishness a part of his plan? Perhaps he wasn't alone?
:What do you think?: Kantor inquired, every bit a partner ready for orders. Alberich could feel the Companion's body bracing for a lethal kick.
:No, I can take him.: Alberich dismounted, carefully studying the assassin. There was no one near them-therefore, if he had an accomplice, it would have to be an archer of sorts. If Alberich engaged in close combat with the man instead, an accomplice would not have a clear shot of him. Selenay and Caryo were alert, and he would simply have to trust that they were alert enough. The assassin opened his mouth again, his tongue no longer speaking Valdemaran, but a gutteral yet liquid tongue that struck Alberich's heart.
"I will have your head, Alberich the Great Traitor!" And the man charged forward with two knives no less lethal than his words.
Left jab. Forward right. Fall back. Parry-right jab. Kerchen was unnaturally calm as he sparred off against Alberich. He performed every technique in his repertoire, his knives moving in ways that would have killed his previous targets five times over. The former Sunsguard captain, however, parried and evaded as though he had already seen these moves a hundred times over, wielding his longsword with the lethal power of three. The boy's shorter knives were an odd matchup to Alberich's longsword, but they may have been the only reasons why he was still alive; although it would be more difficult for him to land a killing blow, he had a greater mobility with his shorter weapons. Nevertheless, Alberich's weaponswork was brutal, strong, and precise, and completely overpowering Kerchen. That was, of course, his plan.
He could not run away from killing this man, nor could he kill him. The only answer was, then, to die trying.
Sacrificing his right arm, Kerchen lunged forward to score his first scrape on his opponent. The boy had wondered whether it would be a good idea to attack seriously the man he wanted to save just for versimilitude, but he realized now that it was a foolish concern-Alberich was at an entirely different level, and Kerchen's only bet to kill him would have been in his sleep. Through a flurry of blows, the longsword found its way into his leg, sending a shock of pain through his body even as he fell back out of reach.
This isn't sane, a small voice in his head whimpered, but Kerchen ignored it. If sane conduct interfered with his moral code, then there was no debate as to which of the two he would choose. Of course, he had no doubt that this was the logical option-if he died during an attempt at the Heir, the news of his death would certainly travel back to Father Goroch, so that the Sunpriest would know of Kerchen's fate. If he made the attempt, then perhaps Selenay would realize how poorly protected she normally was. In benefiting both Karse and Valdemar, his plan was flawless.
Yes, this is the perfect plan, another part of him drawled, except for the dying part.
Dying? And why not? Kerchen saw his fate clearly but also saw its insignificance with clarity. His life? Why should he care? The life of a coward that hid in a cellar, the life of a boy who should not have lived past Lugard's death-in a way, he should have died with his father, so his death was actually eight years due.
Sunpriest Goroch said this mission would redeem him. It would. He would make up for his failure to die on that night.
Parry-left thrust. Back, back, left thrust, forward, left thrust. Kerchen attacked relentlessly with his knife, though his left leg was already half gone and his right arm was entirely. Despite some broken ribs from an earlier blow, he managed to twist his body out of further harm as the longsword lunged forward and swept the knife across Alberich's chest. Alberich, as expected, stepped easily out of range, dragging his blade across Kerchen's body. He cried out in pain and doubled over, but what shocked him more was that he wasn't already dead.
He wants me alive, he realized. That's why I've been able to last this long against him-that's why these are all flesh wounds! Confirming his discovery, the longsword snaked forward to find his good leg, but he jumped back with little more than a scrape. For the first time in days, Kerchen felt fear. What happened to him was his own problem, but if they kept him prisoner under Truth Spell-what could that do to Goroch?
The Karsite boy was becoming painfully aware of the bleeding, limp state of half his body. He was being immobilized, and now only one thought rushed through his mind.
I can't let them cast Truth Spell on me!
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the silouette of Selenay, who was frozen on her Companion, staring in horror. Without hesitation, he put all his weight on his right leg and leapt forward, making as if to throw the knife at the Heir. Alberich, who had correctly deduced that Kerchen was there to kill him, was startled by this sudden change in target. Now unchecked by anything but instinct, the Weapons Second's sword moved with a mind of its own, lodging itself squarely into the chest of the Karsite assassin.
He stared down at the sword impaling him with a sort of disbelief, and then crumpled to the ground as it was suddenly removed.
It hurt. It really hurt. Before he knew it, the boy was shuddering with pain, unable to get up. With the trance of battle over, the burn of every blow crept up on him until every inch of him seemed to be on fire. He cried out, in more pain than he had ever learned to endure. Then, just as suddenly, all his senses seemed to dull, just a notch but enough to make him lucid again. No longer having the strength to writhe, he opened his eyes, seeing more and more people arrive through his streaming eyes. They seemed to be moving in slow motion-actually, everything seemed to be slower, duller. Mostly Heralds or Herald-Trainees with their White Demons-no, Companions-were gathering, faces with varying degrees of bewilderment, repulsion, and pity.
Look Kerchen, even the Demon-Riders think you're unseemly.
He would have laughed if it could have come out as anything other than a strangled groan. Of course he was repulsive; he knew what he looked like-pathetic, a bloody, unseemly pile of broken bones desecrating the beautiful verdant gardens of the Valdemaran palace. It was almost funny, really-he could still remember all those years he spent protecting his pride, refusing to show any pain in front of Werda.
Huh. Was that really me before? It felt like ages ago, but really it hadn't been that long at all. Well, I guess people can change quickly. He used to chastise himself for any sign of weakness-now, in front of the Great Traitor and other hated witches of Valdemar, he was a mess and made no attempt to hide it. Tears of pain were openly streaming down his face, and what still worked of his body was uncontrollably shuddering from the wounds he had sustained. The sight of him must have been grotesque, and he was aware of a wretched gurgling that seemed to be coming from his throat. But his pride meant nothing to him in front of these people whom he had come to love.
The Great Traitor-no, Alberich of Karse-was staring at him, his face unreadable, but his eyes betraying horror at what he had done. Horror as it dawned on him that he had delivered a boy of fifteen a fatal blow.
Nevermind that this boy was an assassin sent all the way from Karse, Kerchen thought, his thoughts getting increasingly sardonic. Though he'd thought I was a grown man, he still wasn't planning on killing me like this. How could a man so noble gain such an unfitting epithet?
And how did the Heralds of Valdemar become the Demon-Riders in Karse? And how did Karsite children all go to bed fearing the White Demons? And how did such a kind man as Lugard meet such an undeserved end? And how did Kerchen end up getting himself killed by people he liked?
It seems the longer I live, the more questions there are, Kerchen mused languidly, his mouth finally deciding to stop dribbling blood, like an exhausted well. I should probably get on with dying then. Resigned to his fate, he closed his eyes, but was jolted awake with a sudden stab in his mind.
:Stop it, you fool!:
Languidly bewildered, he spotted, through blurred eyesight, the impossible; a white figure was making a mad dash to him, weaving only just enough to stop from trampling everyone in her path, kicking up a cloud of dust behind her that seemed to reach the heavens themselves.
:I Choose you!: she cried desperately, as though flinging her very soul towards him. :I Choose you!:
There wasn't enough time left to form a coherent thought. His mind just barely stirred up a feeling of incredulity-why had she Chosen an assassin? And why had she Chosen him not even seconds from his death? There was one thing he had always known about Companions-it was that they died with their Chosen Herald. It was nothing but suicide-
Yet the eddy of emotions in his heart was quickly flooded by something else-some strange, unstoppable happiness. His soul was being filled with insurmountable joy, so overwhelming that his streaked face managed to break into a weak but heartfelt smile, a smile that oddly no longer felt foreign on his face. As his blood poured into the soil of Valdemar, he closed his eyes, with the relief of knowing that he would not have to face his death alone, and with the joy of having found a place where he had belonged.