The King's Messenger

Chapter 7

They didn't have to wait long. This time, the single set of footsteps was replaced by a hail of them, and the crew appeared on the stairs soon after, swords out. The man leading the charge was instantly transfixed by Messenger.

"You!" he accused, pointing a finger at Messenger. "I killed you!"

It was the bastard who had run him through.

"The king has many Messengers," Messenger retorted. "And we don't respond well when you send others of our order to the bottom of the sea."

The bastard flushed. "How did you... You'll join him soon, dog!" he snarled, brandishing a familiar sword. The bastard had taken Messenger's shortsword.

"That," Messenger said flatly, "doesn't belong to you." He made the first move, taking them by surprise. Around two-thirds of the fifteen had swords or blades of some sort; despite the number advantage, even an untrained man with a sharp blade could do devastating damage to unarmed men. Messenger had to take the strongest opponents, if he could, to give the others a fighting chance.

Messenger engaged the red-faced bastard. Behind him, he could hear Lias calling out.

"Don't let them get behind him!" Lias commanded as Messenger lunged with his dagger. Red-face blocked the blow and jabbed forward, forcing Messenger to dodge. Messenger lashed out with a kick to the knee, forcing his opponent to stumble enough for him to ram his dagger into his shoulder. Messenger grabbed his shortsword and pushed the man off his dagger with his foot.

"Lias!" he called out. "Here!" Lias barely looked up in time to catch the shortsword Messenger threw his way. He stared at it in his hand for a moment before reentering the fray.

Exhaustion crept up as Messenger cut down another, then another, then another man. Lias and his men did well also, taking swords from fallen enemies to further their lead.

"Stop!" shouted a man in the back; he hadn't been fighting, nor did it seem as though he'd been there long. Messenger back-stepped and risked a look back. A few captives lay bleeding on the ground, unconscious or dead. Five of the seven remaining crew each held a man hostage. One more was engaged with Messenger. The last was the talker.

Reluctantly, Messenger stepped back as the crew dragged their hostages around to the talker.

"Weapons down or they die," the talker said. Some of the slaves, unsure, half lowered their weapons. Lias readjusted his grip and glanced at Messenger.

A grim idea formed in Messenger's mind. "No," he called back.

The speaker raised a brow. "No? Cut their throats."

"I have a counteroffer," Messenger cut in. "Let those men go and take me in their place."

The speaker laughed. "Five men for one? Don't be ridiculous."

"And to you, I would say don't be foolish," Messenger countered. The speaker paused. He'd seen how the men looked to Messenger, how they held their weapons because he did so.

"Fine, then. Drop your weapon and come here. We'll release the others when you get here."

Messenger turned to Lias. Be ready, he mouthed. Lias frowned. Messenger approached the enemy, weapon still in hand.

"Drop it or they die," the speaker commanded. Messenger took another step forward before dropping his dagger with a weighty clunk.

"Put him down!" the speaker shouted, pointing. The six crew set their captives aside and charged Messenger.

"I trust you know what to-" Messenger was cut off, quite literally, by a bouquet of blades. He looked down, seeing them spread from his chest like blades.

"NOW! GO!" Lias commanded. Messenger wrenched himself to the side, groaning as the blades only twisted inside him and out of his killers' grips. Thankfully, Lias had realized Messenger's plan. As Messenger had predicted, he would be able to keep their enemies disarmed, if but for a moment. Vision growing dim, he felt some number of blades- he wasn't sure- slide partway out of him. Without the support, he crumpled at first to his knees, then keeled forward. He watched the footwork of the battle until it was too much a strain to keep his eyes open. He gasped for breath; at least one of the blades had pierced a lung, and he choked up the blood that filled it. Damn. Second time in as many days.

Messenger was barely conscious when the battle drew to a close. He moaned as someone removed the steel from his body, almost wishing they'd just left it in; the motion exacerbated the wounds, sending fresh lines of stinging slashes through him.

Voices above him sounded like they were underwater. But we're not, Messenger though hazily. That was earlier...

"He's... he won't make it," Lias's voice said, as though a thousand feet away. The wooden planks creaked as he leaned back. "He's gone."

Not yet. The thought drifted through Messenger's head like a breeze. Then it was all gone.