Ten Minute Tales : Sword for Hire by Nicky Galliers

Ten Minute Tales

For your entertainment

a different Ten Minute Tale* every day

(except Friday when we have Novel Conversations)

Today another story  about
Swordsman, Caelan the Cat
(it's a long one, so probably a 20 minute tale!)
Enjoy!

3

Sword for Hire 
by
Nicky Galliers

Caelan Thorn, also known as Caelan the Cat, doesn’t enter tournaments - he doesn’t want any potential adversary knowing what he can do. So, when he is employed to carry out an assassination during a tournament, he faces something of a dilemma...

The castle was mostly still asleep and the bailey was empty of all but a few errand boys sleepily carrying out their tasks and I was left alone to train. I didn’t like to be watched, it gave too much away of my weaknesses. 

   It was a warm morning so my jerkin and shirt were discarded on the ground, out of the way, and I enjoyed the freedom of movement not wearing armour gave. I didn’t often train bare-chested, I needed to feel that weight of thick leather with its reinforcements of metal plates and studs, and work with it; not be hampered by it. But, on this occasion, I felt the benefits to out-weigh the risks. For all that the castle was mostly asleep, not all were, and each one of those who saw me would report to any they met that there was someone new arrived.

  Let me be honest - my body is as much my weapon as my sword and, as such, needs to be kept as sharp and well cared for. As honed as is my blade, so is my body, and I work on it constantly. So I’m pretty big and muscular, and I know how to use it.

And, of course, there is an assumption that a man the size of me can’t move quickly, and when facing a pointless, ridiculous waste of time that is a tournament, that is an assumption I am more than happy to let fly.

‘Aren’t you being a little - overt?’

I was beginning to very much regret taking on this commission. Not only did it mean I would have to compete in a wretched tournament, I had to suffer this stupid fool.

I pulled my legs under me and pushed myself up off the ground where I had been doing press ups. I dusted off my hands and shook my cream coloured hair from my eyes, spattering him satisfyingly with droplets of sweat. And then, when I was ready, I deigned to pay attention to the man who had employed me.

‘Lord Racter,’ I said with as much respect as I could muster, which wasn’t much. It wasn’t his height (a good foot shorter than me) or his sumptuous clothes (I owned something like it - if I could ever remember where I left that particular tunic). No, he was just annoying.

‘You should be keeping out of sight. I want you to be unknown, not the most talked about combatant.’ He raked me a contemptuous gaze from my loose hair to my booted feet. He was jealous - one didn’t need to be a Prescient to read that - but he wanted me to believe he found me physically distasteful, despite the idea being ludicrous.

I resisted the temptation to sigh deeply as if I were his tutor and he had just given an answer so wrong there was no hope for him. ‘You are paying me to do something for you. There was no mention, when you contracted me, of you telling me how to do it. You hired me because you weren’t able to do it yourself. So, why do you now insist on telling me how?’

Lord Racter stiffened, feeling the censure. I had thought to hide it, but, well, it didn’t matter. The only loyalty binding us was paid for.

‘I cannot be seen to be involved else, yes, I would do it myself,’ he hissed. Red smudges had highlighted his cheeks and his dark hair managed to muss itself. ‘I can’t get my hands dirty.’

‘If the plan and method are yours, you may as well affix your seal to my arse.’

He reddened further, not used to having anyone he deemed below him speak to him in such a manner. 

‘You may have hired me,’ I snapped, losing patience, ‘but I am not your servant. I am doing something you cannot accomplish without me.’ I collected my sword and belt and reached for my jerkin. ‘If you don’t like the way I work, get someone else to do it. If you can.’

‘No,’ Lord Racter said quickly. ‘You’ll do.’ He sneered again, more fear than real dislike, although, it was true he disliked me. He gave me another long look before he stalked away. 

Had I cared at all, I would have breathed a sigh of relief, but I didn’t. He was no threat to me and there was no one he could call on who could face me. This was purely for the money and as soon as I was done, I would be away, never to return.

I watched the first pairing, wanting to know the very details that of myself I shrouded from everyone. I wanted to see how they fought, how brutal they were, how showy they were. How much did they play to the audience, and how much was to win?

I was not impressed. There was little skill on display, more showmanship, and, had I not been there for a reason, I would have left. They were not making contact where they should have done, they were not striking as hard as was possible. It was a parody, and I didn’t do play-acting.

I turned and walked away, and headed back to the tent that Lord Racter had kindly provided. I had left my armour and sword there, under the careful eye of a man I found the night before who needed coin and was trustworthy enough. 

‘Denil, give me a reason to stay,’ I said to the man stood in the tent. I felt the humour rise and the smile warm.

‘The money,’ he said with confidence. Then he laughed and I felt his attempt to settle me. I gave in to him - he knew far more than me about these charades that are tournaments, and I could trust his opinion.

‘Then you should get me ready,’ I replied, exchanging a wry grin.

I wasn’t used to the care and found it hard to relax and allow Denil to dress me. He was adept at handling my armour. Not that it was that difficult, a jerkin, gauntlets, and little else. I never fought with a helm, heavy and restrictive, what was the point? But I let him do this thing, easing my arms into my jerkin and pushing my sword into the sheath at my belt. He had other talents beyond nursemaid that I was happy to utilise later.

Everything was in place, secure, and I was ready to go. With Denil close by, I knew I looked the part without needing a polished mirror - a little disheveled, struggling to afford anything very fancy; an impoverished entrant looking to swell his purse. I nodded with approval.

‘One day, I’m sure I’ll be used to this, to you knowing what I’m thinking, but until then, I feel I want to run away.’

‘Don’t,’ I advised. ‘You won’t get paid.’

He followed behind me at a suitable distance as I wandered to the tourney ground in anticipation of my first bout. Knowing he was there was a novel feeling. I was so used to being alone, that to have any company was strange. It was not, however, unwelcome.

‘Stay close by,’ I said to him, then felt that he had never intended otherwise.

‘I’ll be here,’ he said calmly. He was more in control than I was.

I wanted to grin, but even I knew that such triteness was not appropriate. I maintained my stoney-faced look as I entered the arena, ducking under the ropes rather than wait for a steward to lift them or untie them. My opponent was still the other side while I had unsheathed my blade and was swinging it to keep my muscles warm.

He was not someone I knew - I knew no one here - but I was not in any way afraid, scared or intimidated. He was just not as good as me. The only challenge was to make it look like he was.

The man was slight, wiry rather than muscular, but strong for that. Not strong enough, but nothing that practice and years would not put right. 

I let him attack first, testing his strength and skill, his reactions, understanding his tactics and what he thought he would do to defeat me. His indecision was, frankly, annoying, and made my ability to react to him harder than otherwise. I parried a particularly wild strike and he stepped back to think, reassess. I used those moments to consider the various outcomes and how each was reached. I could explain how I do this, but you won’t understand so just accept that I do it. I couldn’t see how I could lose, each outcome was broadly the same, just the route to get there differed. I shrugged, more than happy to fight without needing to study the man and his intentions in too much detail. 

I let him swing a few times, stepping back away from the heavy blade, watching as he lifted it to prepare again, each movement slightly more laboured than the last. The boy was ill prepared and poorly instructed and I felt a brief stab of pity. So, I let him keep playing and I let a few strikes make contact, allowed the crowd to cheer for him, give him that boost of self-confidence, that he was doing better than he was, before I ended it, swiftly and comprehensively. I looked like a big bully, he looked skillful but too delicate; and when he took his helm off, he was quite pretty and he had a new following of young girls who made a show of swooning as he smiled at them, getting used to his new fame.

I left him to it, stalked towards my tent, playing my own part in this mummery, weaving my way through the sea of tents.

‘That was well done,’ a voice said to my side. I was rarely surprised but I was thinking too heavily on what I had been forced to do here, and I turned to the voice with a frown. As soon as I saw him, I knew who he was. A man of middling size, muscular, a properly trained fighter, handsome, confident in himself but not arrogant, it was hard not to like him. His praise was more generous than others thought let alone said, and it was genuine.

‘Thank you,’ I said with caution. 

‘He is young, and his tutor at arms was old and never very good in his prime, but you made him look able.’

‘Not his fault,’ I said, ‘but he should learn some more before he steps into an arena again.’

The man grinned in agreement. ‘I shall be sure to advise him. Someone should.’

‘He’ll accept it from you,’ I said, intending to move on and away from this man.

Instead, he stuck a hand out, pulled his gauntlet off and then re-presented. ‘Gilbert,’ he said, ‘Gilbert the Red they call me, because of, well,’ and he pointed with his free hand to his hair, a warm, honeyed-red colour that flared in the spring sun.

‘Caelan Thorn,’ I said, ignoring the hand.

‘Delighted,’ Gilbert said, his smile no less warm for my reserve. ‘You’re a Prescient,’ he added sheepishly, afraid of offending me.

‘I am.’

‘And what brings a Prescient to this backwater for a pointless tournament?’ He laughed as he said it.

‘Prize money,’ I lied.

‘Precious little of that here,’ Gilbert said, his lips downturned at the corners. ‘I’m not saying the Great Conflict was a good thing, but the Great Peace is proving a challenge to my career development.’

‘You fought in the Conflict?’

He grinned. ‘You tell me,’ he said.

I laughed, it was hard not to like this man Gilbert the Red. ‘You did, and well. A pity we are both reduced to this.’

‘Every tournament is a shop window for potential employers. Swords for hire need to let their prospective masters know what they can do.’

‘Of course,’ I agreed, though it didn’t apply to me. A Prescient was always going to be the first choice, if they could afford me.

‘I hope we meet in the arena,’ Gilbert said, ‘not that I have any chance of beating you, but I would feel it a privilege to fight you.’

My smile was tight - I was no player - and I walked away, feeling less than good that Gilbert was left feeling he had said something to offend me. 

Denil met me at the flap to the tent, his arms folded, looking like an angry nurse. ‘Who was that?’ he snapped, frowning towards where I had spoken with Gilbert.

‘My charge,’ I said grimly, and I pushed past him to gain the interior of the tent where I was not being watched.

‘Racter wants you to kill him?’ Denil said as he followed me in. ‘What were you doing?’

‘He stopped me, not the other way around,’

‘Who is he?’

‘Gilbert the Red. On account of his hair. Which you may have noticed.’

‘Can’t miss it. But what’s he done to incur the wrath of the lord? Too pretty? A better sword?’

‘A better sword?’ I asked.

‘Well, Racter ain’t competing at his own tournament, and he needs you to do his dirty work.’ Denil tipped his head to one side. ‘How much is he paying you?’

I growled under my breath, ‘I’m beginning to think, not enough.’

‘So, why does he want him killed?’ Denil asked as he checked over my leather jerkin for tears and damaged plates. I grunted rather than explain.    ‘Don’t you ever ask?’ he demanded testily.

‘I never ask,’ I snapped. He cast me a hard look of disapproval. I raised an eyebrow. ‘Prescient?’

‘How am I supposed to remember that? You look almost normal.’

I took no offence, for none was intended.

‘Gilbert is a good man,’ I said for Denil’s benefit. ‘Racter, however,’ and I let the phrase hang unfinished.

‘What are you going to do?’

I sat heavily onto a small wooden stool, the fabric of my full shirt sleeves draping over my knees as I rested my elbows and leaned forwards. What was I going to do? I stared at the lace that edged my cuffs. I liked to  dress well when I could - if only I could remember where I had left my tunic.

Denil crossed to the flat-topped chest and consulted the parchment that detailed the sequence of events for the day. All the bouts were listed; mine were underlined in red ink, the remnants still staining my fingers.

‘If you win your rounds, you are not scheduled to fight him until tomorrow. If he wins his.’

‘Racter will ensure we meet in the arena,’ I said to stop Denil’s speculation. ‘How else am I to kill him whilst making it look like an accident?’

‘And how will he do that?’

It was a stupid question and the look I gave him ensured he understood that. ‘He’ll change the order. His tournament, his rules.’

My next opponent was as much of a threat as my first, just this one was older, approaching hanging up his sword. His best years were behind him, and he was here merely because he refused to admit that he was done. Grey-bearded and slow, I ended it swiftly and painlessly, leaving him with no doubt that this was his last professional bout. Cruel, some see it that way, but I wanted to ensure he survived to live peacefully, to see out his days on his estate with his grandchildren rather than the alternative, stuck on a blade to bleed out while an unfeeling competitor watched on, wondering if it was too soon to retrieve his sword from the man’s belly.

Racter was less pleased. Such bloodless sport was not what he had envisaged when he contracted me to fight in this mummery. I was beginning to feel real dislike towards the man, an unfamiliar emotion as I usually saw little point in acknowledging anyone else. I didn’t avoid him when I saw him approach me, despite not at all wishing to have any contact with him, but my demeanour told him enough about the risk he ran if he dared to confront me. He steered his feet onto another path in such a manner that anyone watching would see nothing amiss. Before he was too far away, I caught his intention to swap the lists and ensure I fought Gilbert the Red sooner than scheduled. If I refused to kill one man, I would be forced to kill another.

I sat down heavily on my stool and held my head in my hands, my fingers even then feeling the silky strands of my creamy blond hair. I smoothed them and rested my forearms on my thighs instead.

‘You’re the Prescient, not me. Talk to me,’ Denil demanded.

‘Racter,’ I said, the name being enough to warn Denil of my mood.

He left, to return a short while later with a sheet of parchment. ‘He’s changed it. You fight Gilbert the Red, last bout today.’ I said nothing, it not being a surprise. ‘Why does he want the man dead? What has he done?’’

I frowned, trying to discern just that. Racter’s mind was a maelstrom of violence, overlapping emotion and disjointed thoughts. His was the worst type to read because nothing made sense. The insane were the hardest to read.

I closed my eyes and concentrated as a listener tries to pick out a conversation in a crowded room, filtering what was irrelevant and seeking the truth, the little pinpricks that all joined to make a more cohesive image.

‘He saved the life of the king. The king was grateful and gifted him something valuable to thank him. Racter had been there and was too slow, his sword play never very good. He failed and he believes that Gilbert showed him up, betrayed him. The gift, it was something Racter wanted. I can’t see what.’

‘That’s madness,’ Denil exclaimed.

I lifted my blue gaze, my concern showing. ‘He is mad, was never very balanced, and to have another perform such a task in front of him where he feels he should have acted, tipped him into insanity.’

‘And this is the man who employs you.’

‘He is not my master. I have no master, I bit back.’

‘Not even the king?’

‘Not even he.’

Denil whistled through his teeth, partly at the fate of Gilbert, partly at my pronouncement. It was tantamount to treason in his mind. But he wasn’t to know.

‘So, what will you do?’

‘Fight him, I suppose.’

‘And kill him?’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘I shall try not to.’

Although I knew I could best Gilbert in the arena, I didn’t relish the thought of fighting him. He was an instinctive fighter and they were as hard as madmen to predict because they didn’t think about their actions. And the fairer and cleaner the fight, the harder to read was the fighter, as he didn’t need to consider his options. I was better, there are few as skillful as me even without my abilities, but with someone like Gilbert, there were many outcomes that saw me losing. This bout would be hard, and I would have to rely more heavily on my own sword mastery and less on my particular talents.

I stalked to the arena with Denil trailing me, my sword sheathed for now, grim faced and determined. Gilbert was already there, standing serenely, waiting for me. He smiled warmly and his nose wrinkled at my cool response. 

Denil came up behind me and watched as the lord warmed up his arms by swinging his heavy sword.

‘What was the gift from the king that meant so much to Racter?’

‘It wasn’t just the gift, it was the loss of face.’

‘And the gift was…’ Denil pressed.

I paused, wondering if Denil would appreciate the answer.

‘His wife.’

‘It is always a woman,’ Denil said, but I felt his surprise and his sympathy that the girl had had the luck to be given to Gilbert and not Racter. I agreed, wholeheartedly.

I turned to find Racter in the crowd, not hard as he was the most lustrously attired in the stand that loomed over the arena. He was glaring at Gilbert, not at me, but that didn’t give me any sense of satisfaction. An image flashed into my mind, a hatred that was condensed and focused; a desire to destroy again.

Again.

I turned away, careful to keep aware of him - the man was dangerous and unpredictable - and regarded Gilbert once more.

The girl was dead, the wife given by the king, dead these six years. Poisoned. By Racter. That was the image - a vial of liquid, delivered into a cup of wine and a smile wiped out forever. 

   Now he wanted rid of Gilbert because, if Gilbert ever suspected, the king would discover it and Racter’s castle walls would fall.

‘Well,’ Racter howled from the stand, ‘get on with it.’

Gilbert shrugged and began to check his buckles, his hair a blazing accusation in the bright sunlight. I staggered a step, the sheer force of Racter’s malice surging in and around me. It made me dizzy; it was ripping Racter apart.

Gilbert appeared at my shoulder. ‘Are you well, Thorn?’

I stood up straight and clenched my jaw, regretful that Gilbert interpreted this as an action directed at him. I would settle that misunderstanding later. I spoke quickly to Denil who hurried away.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ I snarled, feeling contaminated by Racter’s filth.

Assuming a perfect draw pose, Gilbert readied himself, holding his sword in one hand, the other arm behind him and slightly raised to balance his weight, waiting for me to reveal myself. 

   I watched him, I had time, and admired the precision of his stance, the tutored, honed, position he had taken up. I rarely bothered with it, the draw - with a blade in my hand, I’m no rigid-stanced archer, feet planted to the ground. I’m a dancer, more swift on my feet than most think possible, quick thinking, quicker acting, a master of my trade. There is one thing better than practicing and honing your skill - using it.

And yet, I wasn’t going to fight Gilbert. He looked too good, stood in the sand of the arena, his leather jerkin a polished brown, the plates shining almost as brightly as his hair. I wasn’t going to muss him, cover him in dirt. I was going to expunge my own.

Denil returned with a leather purse, tied with laces at the top, anonymous. It chinked as he passed it to me, Gilbert’s frown a ripple in my mind.

I fed the leather onto the point of my blade, careful that none of the coin fell. The crowd, which had been somewhat restless, as eager as Racter to see the bout begin, now calmed, questioning what I was doing. Racter was also curious, and shouted once more for us to stop pissing around and get on with it.

Gilbert didn’t say a word when I turned from him and walked with purpose towards the stand. It was easy enough to vault the barrier and land soft footed in front of Racter. His eyes were wide with sudden fear, taken entirely by surprise by the man he thought was acting for him.

‘You paid me for a death,’ I said to him. I spoke low so only he could hear me. ‘And I will give you one.’

I drew back my sword, the purse still attached, and placed it carefully on Racter’s tunic, just over his heart. He stared at the point and tried to move backwards away from it, but his seat was one of those huge backed, ornately carved affairs, more throne than chair, and he was trapped. His guards stood mute, unable to fathom what was happening. By the time they reacted, it would be done and they would not want to be near me.

‘You should thank me.’ I began to speak once more, still low, still menacing. ‘I will grant you a swifter, more painless death than the one you inflicted on Carina. She suffered, though not for very long, her skin grew painful, and then numb so she couldn’t feel the comforting touch of her loving husband; her heart raced, her breathing slowed. She began to vomit, and expel at the other end. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t kind.’

His eyes opened wider, the horror that I knew what had happened six years ago reflected in his wide pupils, as deep and black as his hate.

‘Never say I am not merciful.’ 

Those were the last words Racter ever heard, for I pushed on my sword and the blade slid through his ribs and into his heart. He grasped at the sword, trying to stop its inevitable path into his body but succeeded only in grabbing at the purse. Blood spurted from the wound as the pressure of it in his heart broke free but he was dead before the blade was a foot in. His hands still enveloped the coin-filled purse as his head sagged onto his shoulder. Too quick, too kind. But done.

The crowd had quietened into silence and a flutter of voices began to spread from those a little distance away who had seen all and wished to tell their neighbour. Those closest were too stunned by horror to say a word. The guards kept away, even as I put my booted foot on the dead man’s chest to pull out my weapon. I wiped the blood away on his tunic until the metal shone once more.

No one stopped me from hopping back into the arena and once there only Gilbert stood between me and the rope barrier. His sword was raised.

‘Why did you do that?’ he asked, his honourable, innocent mind not able to understand my brutal actions.

To be fair to him, he had courage, to stand against me at that moment, so soon after I had revealed to him what I could do.

‘You are a good man, Gilbert,’ I said rather than explain.

‘But what are you?’

I shrugged. ‘A hired sword, a mercenary; an assassin. Take your pick.’

‘I thought you a man of honour. There was nothing honourable in what you just did.’ 

   The disgust and the disdain actually hurt, but I didn’t react. The truth would twist him and damage him, the revenge he would have craved would be beyond his reach; it was not something he could have sought for himself had he discovered before today what I knew. Better to leave him whole and his antipathy directed towards me. I would cope. I would always see him coming.

   ‘You see me as I am ‘ I said instead. ‘You can’t beat me, so, please don't try. One death today is enough.’

Denil followed me into my tent and watched me sit in my accustomed gloominess.

‘You should have told him,’ he accused.

‘No, I shouldn’t,’ I responded heavily,

‘But if what you say is true-’

‘It is.’

‘Hasn’t he a right to know?’

I scratched an itch at the back of my head and cursed - damned fleas, damned accursed fleas, such things to take away from this hellhole.

‘He will be a better person if he knows nothing of it.’

Denil sighed deeply as the truth, something of it, filtered into his thoughts. He was not slow, this squire, for he was now going to be my squire. I couldn't have shaken him off if I tried. So, yes, I could, but I chose not to. He had proven himself trustworthy and sometimes the company was pleasant.

‘You leave him thinking you to be some knave when he should have been your friend.’

I bobbed my head, mulling over the options. ‘There is hope, a little, that he will forgive me without knowing why he should. Seems I’ll cling to that.’

‘Well,’ Denil said, the light returning to his voice, ‘seems you’ll have to do with me, I’m your friend.’’

‘You’re my squire,’ I growled.

‘I’m your friend,’ Denil said firmly, then began to remove my jerkin to end the conversation.

© Nicky Galliers

 you can read another short story 

about Caelan HERE 

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