Black Salt

Black Salt - Chapter 02

 The bronze knife shone in an arc aimed at Nikias's face. Only the instincts gained through decades of battle saved him from losing an eye to the old fashioned blade. His arms shot up and covered his face, so he took the cut on his left forearm. At the same moment, he stepped back and to the right, to put space between them. The slash had opened a long line in his flesh, which glinted white, and then welled with blood. It hurt. It felt as if the metal were still inside, digging at his meat. The wasted assassin didn't give him time to dwell on the pain, he rushed at him, slashing with ferocious energy. Nikias started to draw his sword, but as he backed up to keep out of reach of the deadly weapon, he felt the brick wall hit his back. The assassin closed in on him, and he saw, in that tight space, his sword would be useless. He reached for his own dagger instead, but the attacker stabbed his arm, giving him a painful pinhole wound on the right, to go with the long cut on his left.

The gaunt youth closed in, panting, eyes wide, excited at the sight of blood running from Nikias's arm. Nikias tried to free his blade, but the stab had left his arm stunned and tingling. Nikias imagined the death blow, first the shock, like being plunged in icy water. Then the tearing agony, and the useless struggle to stand, to breathe, and the numb weakness as his blood failed. He imagined never again seeing Leaina, his daughter of golden hair and silver laughter, not being there at her wedding, or holding his grandchildren. He thought of his wife, Janina. He would never again hold her in his arms, never again see her with mortal eyes.

Something dark and fierce rose in his heart. His skin and hairs prickled, and his muscles surged with furious power. If this runt of a cur did kill him, even then, he would catch the blade and grip it with his heart muscle, and with his hands he'd take the little dog by the throat, and crush his life out.

It passed in an instant, and he came back to himself, as the assassin thrust the dagger at his heart. He felt the impact, and was surprised to find it weaker, easier to bear than he'd expected. It felt more like a punch on the breast bone than a wound that pierced the heart. His eyes flicked down, and the breath caught in his throat. The knife tip had stabbed into his bronze icon of Athena. He gave silent thanks to his patron goddess; her shield had done its work.

The assassin pulled back for another attempt, and Nikias knew he couldn't expect any more acts of divine protection. He made a silent oath to sacrifice to the goddess at the first opportunity, and decided to make a libation in his enemy's blood. He'd seen men catch snakes with a forked stick; he thrust his hand into the crook of the man's elbow, hoping to trap and control his arm in the same manner. In the same instant, he punched his face with his right fist, and felt bone and gristle crunch as he smashed his nose.

Staggered, the assassin fell back, and jerked his knife hand, trying to free it. Nikias held on, holding it trapped it against the man's side, but he couldn't control the hand and wrist; the attacker made several shallow cuts in his upper arm, and every cut hurt worse than the last. Nikias punched him again, and then managed to draw his own dagger, meaning to plunge it into the man's leg, to disable him. He had so many questions, and he intended to ask them with all the force he could muster. When the assassin saw the blade, his eyes widened, and he sobbed like a child. He flailed with his left arm, and some evil spirit guided his blow; the edge of his hand chopped Nikias's wrist, and his fingers went numb. His dagger slipped and stuck in the earth, so close, yet out of reach.

Nikias cursed all earthbound spirits, and hit the assassin in the face, but his numb hand weakened the strike. The assassin punched him a stinging blow in the mouth, and he tasted blood. Worse yet, the assassin's hand shot down to Nikias's own sword, and yanked it out.

Time seemed to freeze, as if Kronos wanted Nikias to appreciate every detail of his own death. He saw the look of insane glee on the triumphant killer's face, the shadowed eyes that shone red as if lit from within by an evil fire. He saw the pallor of the man's skin, and the sheen of the oil he wore. He saw his own arms, red with his own blood, and that coppery, salty taste filled his mouth. He saw his own fine, iron sword, raised high, about to fall and cleave his head in two.

He felt his terrible rage return, stronger than before. He stopped thinking, stopped feeling, stopped resisting the urges of the blood; he let it act through him, moving his limbs. His hands flew to the man's neck, slipped on the oil, and then closed on it like a strangling noose. In the same instant, he heaved with his arms, back and legs, and lifted the assassin off his feet. Deprived of a base, the man lost his strength, and his arms flailed. In a distant part of his mind, Nikias watched himself act. He knew it wasn't over; as long as he had even a single knife, the man could kill. The blood frenzy was not finished; as soon as he'd heaved the man up by his neck, Nikias pivoted, and slammed him into the ground, and he shot his hands down, and drove the man's head to land with shattering force. He felt the skull crack, saw the man's eyes roll up, and the part of his mind that still thought as a man knew it was over. Yet even then the blood rage drove his hands to squeeze the neck, to crush it, until the tension in his hands, arms and chest made him feel like a solid block of stone.

At last the fury ebbed away, he let go, and sat with his back against one of the mud brick walls. The blood that ran from his wounds was only matched by the sweat that poured down his face, chest and back. He took long, deep breaths, and as his mind and senses returned to him, so did his pains. He had to go, to see a doctor, to check on the king... The king! And Leaina. Where had she gone? Had this been a random outburst of madness, or part of a calculated attack on the king himself?

Questions whirled through his mind, filling him with awful hints and apprehensions. He rose to his feet, held fast through an attack of dizziness, and then snatched up his sword and dagger. He took a quick look over the corpse, but the dead man had nothing to show who he was. The old fashioned knife looked nicer than he'd thought, perhaps expensive, for an antique. Nikias claimed it as a prize.

Then, before he went, he took the skin of wine from his belt, and poured a libation. "Goddess Athena. Thank you for your guidance and your help. I think I'm going to need it."