Knife and bolt, a deadly game

Blood spilled always leaves a stain.

It was another perfect morning. The new sun was still so low that it cast a beam of light from the front windows all the way across the room to rest upon Lord Requar's table.

The sorcerer sat with his hands clasped loosely around a glass of water, gazing at the finches playing in the purple fuchsia outside the window. One of them hopped along the sill and blinked at him curiously before darting off with the rest of its flock into the sunshine over the river.

Such a simple, happy life is that of a bird, he thought.

He rubbed his eyes wearily with one hand. He hadn't got much sleep last night, since he'd spent half the night waiting for Flint to appear and two or three hours after that pondering the whole incident. He supposed he should have let himself sleep in, but he had too much on his mind.

Requar was alone in the common room save for two other guests eating breakfast in the far corner and a couple of young serving maids bustling quietly around. The beam of sunlight on his table was suddenly obscured with the approach of one of the girls. The smell of hot bread and wickerwork caused him to look up: she was carrying a huge basket full of baked goods.

"Sorry t'bother you, sir!" the girl said shyly, curtsying hastily, and knocked the basket on the corner of the table as she did so, sending bread rolls bouncing in all directions.

Requar got to his feet at once to help her pick them up. The other serving girl, who was wiping down a nearby table, giggled.

"Oh! Oh, I'm so clumsy!" the girl chided herself, sounding distraught. She blushed deeply. "Would sir care for some bread, sir? Baked fresh this mornin' sir?"

Requar looked at the cob loaf he had just picked up off the floor, and declined as politely as possible.

"But sir hasn't had any breakfast yet, couldn't help but notice, sir! 'Tis not t'do, goin' all mornin' till lunch wiv an empty stomach, sir!"

"I'm… really not a breakfast person–" Requar started.

"But I 'ave nice sweet buns, sir!"

A clatter of glasses came from somewhere across the room, and the girl who was carrying them put a hand to her mouth and had to sit down.

The girl with the basket turned and glared at her, then took a fruit bun and placed it on the table in front of Requar. Before he could protest, she added another one. And another.

He gave up, watching in faint exasperation as she began to unload the contents of her basket onto his table, chattering nervously all the while. "… 'tis not good, a fine and noble man such as yourself not eatin', sir!" We don't get many nobles this far east these days, no sir, not fer many years, sir, can't 'ave the ones that do visit our fair town wastin' away, sir! Has sir come all the way from t'Crystal City, or Sel Varence? Or from across t'border? Though you don't looks like a Sirinese, sir, if you won't take offence. I 'eard tell that t'Sirinese peoples have skin like dusk an' eyes blue as night an' are t'handsomest men in all of Arvanor, but I'm sure that's rubbish, sir, 'cause I can't imagine a man handsomer than you, sir–" Her words cut off with a choked gasp.

"Apologies, sir! Such words are meant for ladies much finer than myself, sir!"

Requar was taken aback, so much so that he nearly blushed himself. He couldn't remember the last time he had been given a compliment. He opened his mouth to reply and found himself lost for words, so settled for a polite smile in return.

The serving girl's downcast expression turned into a beam as bright as the morning sun. Over at the counter, her fellow worker sniffed disdainfully and tried to look nonchalant.

The girl curtsied hurriedly, stammered her thanks and turned to leave, but Requar called her back. "If you wouldn't mind, may I ask you a question?"

"O' course, sir!" she said, curtsying again.

"Have you ever heard anything about a boy who brings winter wherever he goes?"

A change came over the girl. Her eyes dazzled at the prospect of gossip and her self-consciousness dropped away like a curtain. She dumped her basket on an empty table and slid onto the bench opposite him, leaning forward conspiratorially.

"Oooh, yes, sir! There're tales all over t'place, sir!" Her voice was hushed and excited. "My friend's brother hired a farmhand a few months back, he owns a farm a few miles out of town, y'know. One day he left to drive 'is cattle up north t'fresher pastures near t'mountains, an’ when he came back, 'is house was destroyed! Naught left but broken sticks all scattered across t'fields, an' t’hay stalks all flattened as though a nasty fierce storm'd blown through. But no one in town remembered a storm, an' t'boy he'd hired was missin', just disappeared!"

The girl looked delighted to be telling this to someone who would listen. "If you ask me, 'tis a good thing t'Freeroamers caught 'im when they did, sir!"

"Freeroamers?" Requar said, staring at her intently.

"Aye, sir, took 'im back t'Forthwhite. An' told everyone that he was no sorcerer, but no one much believes 'em. We know vile magic when we sees it, sir!" Then her voice lowered even further. "There's somethin' fishy goin' on, you mark my words. No disrespect t'the Freeroamers, but I always thought there was somethin' odd about 'em."

"In what way?" Requar asked.

The girl shook her head, frowning anxiously. "Don't know, sir, just a feelin'. Like they're keepin' secrets all t'time…"

Requar frowned as well, and was silent for a few moments, thinking.

Forthwhite.

"Lenna! What're you whisperin' about over there? There's work t'be done in t'kitchen!"

The girl looked over her shoulder, and then gave Requar an apologetic look. "Sorry sir, 'ave to go! Pleasant day to you, sir!" She got up hurriedly and moved to fetch her basket.

At that moment the bell over the door jingled, and a group of unfortunately familiar people entered the tavern. Catching sight of them, the serving girl froze.

The Bladeshifters strolled casually through the middle of the room. A few perched themselves on tables. The guests in the corner put down their cutlery and stared, then quickly lowered their heads, hoping not to be noticed. A tall man with a limp and a helmet adorned with a long horsehair plume leered at the basket girl as he passed.

She took a startled step backwards, stumbled against a bench, and would have fallen if it weren't for the firm hands that caught her shoulders. She turned to thank the kind noble, but he was gone.

Requar left the serving girl peering under the tables in puzzlement and slipped out the door before it closed behind the last Bladeshifter. He walked out of sight of the windows, then let his camouflage spell slip and paused, frowning back at the tavern.

How did they get here so fast? he wondered. The Bladeshifters had been in Meadrun only two days ago. That meant they had left only hours after he and Flint. Was it simply a coincidence that they had chosen the same town, or were they here to rendezvous with Flint, assuming he had either completed his mission or died in the attempt? If Hillbank had been prearranged as a meeting point, they had certainly not given him much time to carry it out…

Ah, he thought in a sudden flash of insight. That was probably the idea. It made sense, in a strange sort of way. The Bladeshifter leader had given Flint the ludicrous mission of assassinating a sorcerer in order to get rid of him, and Flint was too gullible to realise what he was getting himself into. The reasons for this Requar could only guess at. Jealousy? Perhaps he was becoming a little too skilled with that giant crossbow, developing as a potential threat.

It was an over-elaborate way of eliminating someone, but from what Requar had seen of Nightwalker, he appeared the kind of man who liked his sport...

He folded his arms and closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face while he considered what to do next. Nightwalker had not been among the gang who had just entered the tavern, and that bothered Requar, for he had a fair idea of where the Bladeshifter leader had gone.

I don't need to interfere, he told himself. Flint has made his decision; I am not responsible for the consequences. There are important things I must attend to. There is every chance he will resent me even further, if not reject my help outright.

Yet still, he hesitated. He had no real reason to go after Flint, but he could not bring himself to abandon the man to his fate. Starshadow Flint may have taken a dark and dubious path in life, but he was a good man at heart, of that Requar was sure. He didn't deserve to be the victim of some kind of twisted game.

The sorcerer opened his eyes and sighed. The mystery of the Winter boy would have to wait a little longer. He looked down at the dusty ground and snapped his fingers twice.

The ghostly white footprints were fading in the bright morning sunlight, but were still identifiable. His moonlight spell had served its secondary purpose, though he hadn't expected to need it, until now.

He waved a hand theatrically at the prints. "Lead on, Master Flint!" he said, and began to follow the trail.

* * *

The shadows had grown deep in the secluded gully where Flint had finally collapsed out of sheer exhaustion; more mental and emotional than physical, as he had only walked about five miles from Hillbank. He slept for the remainder of the day lying exactly as he had fallen; flat on his face, possessions strewn on the ground and the Justifier still strapped to his back, and had awoken just as the last rays of the sun cast a fiery glow through the trees.

Pushing himself up groggily, he had eaten a little, cursed his waterskin for not containing whiskey but gulped nearly half of it down anyway, then slumped moodily against a tree and watched his tiny, half-hearted cooking fire dwindle to a dying flicker.

Now he sat in the darkness, staring at the firelight glinting off the crossbow bolts in their quiver on the ground and wondering vaguely what the hell had happened.

He couldn't figure Requar out. By all rights, Flint should be dead by now, nothing more than ashes drifting on the wind like the Justifier bolt the sorcerer had fried so easily. But Requar had just let him walk out. Not even so much as a warning not to try it again! And the look in his eyes… as though he completely understood what Flint had been asked to do…

To Flint's mind, the fact that a sorcerer could be an honest, genuinely decent, well-meaning person was almost incomprehensible. He had prepared himself mentally to either succeed or die, but neither had happened and now he felt lost, like a ghost drifting aimlessly around, detached from the world and belonging nowhere.

He didn't know what to do.

"Ah, there you are, Flint!" a voice spoke suddenly from behind him.

Flint jumped, recognising it instantly. The voice was not the sorcerer's: it was much more familiar than that.

And in many ways far worse.

He was on his feet, Justifier in hand in seconds. He grabbed his quiver, shoved a bolt into the slot and began cranking.

"Now, now, is that any way to greet an old friend?" Eltorian Nightwalker said. He was standing a few yards away, his black garb rendering him almost invisible in the trees. Only the glitter of the metal objects adorning his jacket, his pale streak of hair and altogether too-bright eyes gave him away.

"You're not an old friend!" Flint growled, lifting the now loaded Justifier and pointing it squarely at his former leader's chest.

Nightwalker assumed a hurt expression, wandering into the firelight. "Oh, Flint," he said. "What can I possibly be, if not your dearest friend?"

Flint followed the Bladeshifter's every movement with his crossbow. "I can write you a list if you like, but it ain't the sort you'd want to send home to your grandmother."

Nightwalker laughed. "I don't have a grandmother."

"Nah, I don't reckon you do."

There was a brief silence as Flint continued to track Nightwalker as he wandered around, apparently unconcerned at the sight of the Justifier pointed at him. He stopped by the fire, picked up a discarded pot of soup, and tasted it.

"What are you doing here, Eltorian?" Flint snapped, his patience already dangerously thin.

"Oh, I just thought I'd stop by and see how you were getting on with that mission I gave you," he replied pleasantly.

Flint hesitated. His heart was pounding very fast.

He licked his lips. "I backed out," he answered frankly. Lying to Eltorian Nightwalker wasn't worth the effort, he'd find out what had happened eventually. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am!"

Nightwalker put the pot down carefully, and was silent for a moment before replying in a quiet voice: "I see. Well, that's a shame. And where has your sorcerer friend gone?"

"He's not my friend either!" Flint said angrily, realising then that his hands were shaking. He tightened his grip on the Justifier to steady them, praying that Nightwalker would not notice. "And I don't know where he is! Still in Hillbank, for all I care!"

"That's a shame, too. Something tells me you could use a little help right now."

There was a knife in his hand. Flint hadn't seen him reach for it; it must have been hidden up his sleeve. He was reminded with a flash of apprehension that despite his outward charm and nonchalance, Nightwalker was a very dangerous man.

"So I failed your stupid mission, or test, or whatever the hell it was! What are you gonna do, kill me?"

Nightwalker considered. "The thought occurs…"

Flint pulled off the safety catch, lifted the Justifier a little higher and braced himself. Nightwalker's knife twirled in his hand. "Now, Flint, let's be rational about this. You've only got one shot."

"I only need one shot!"

"You underestimate my reflexes."

"You underestimate mine!"

"You won't be so confident," Nightwalker said, eyes narrowing, "with several knives buried in your skull!"

Flint's eyes flashed with anger. "You won't be so confident with your guts scattered half a mile down this gully!"

The night was perfectly still around them. No breeze stirred the leaves. The only sound was the chirrup of crickets in the undergrowth. They could barely see each other in the last glowing embers from the fire.

Nightwalker's smile was twisted. "It appears we have a stand off," he murmured. "One of us is going to die tonight, or both of us will.

The question is… who will be the first to blink?"

As he said the final word, the knife left his hand. It happened in the space between heartbeats, so fast that Flint barely caught the twitch of his arm. He didn't have time to think: his instincts reacted for him.

He pressed the trigger on the Justifier at the same moment something cold, sharp and lethal plunged into his throat.

Staggering backwards in shock, he dropped the crossbow and fell to his knees. Pain lashed his senses, the worst pain he had ever felt. He tried to gasp, but could not breathe. He lifted his hands to the source of the pain and encountered the hard, cruel steel of Eltorian's knife. Blood came away on his fingers, he could feel it filling his lacerated windpipe and trickling down his neck.

Dimly, he remembered a bright flash of light upon impact and there seemed to be a strange blue afterglow in the air, but his eyesight was quickly failing, turning grey around the edges.

I hope I… shot his damned… head… off… was his final wish before slumping to the ground.

As his life slipped away, he thought he could hear a faint voice telling him to hold on.

"Hold on, Flint, you're going to be all right!"

Requar worked as quickly as possible: his magic was only effective while the patient was still alive. If Flint's heart stopped beating for too long, the Sword would be useless.

He pulled the knife out – there was no time to be gentle – and replaced it immediately with the Sword of Healing. Blood gushed over his hands and trickled from the corners of Flint's mouth. The Bladeshifter convulsed. "Stay with me!" Requar shouted. He shoved his Sword as deep as the wound allowed and sent magic flooding down the blade.

The night was silent as the seconds ticked away. Requar bent over the Sword, pouring all his willpower into it, and the Sword flared dazzling blue in response. When the wound had healed completely, he removed it but kept one hand on Flint's throat, feeling for a pulse.

It was there. The Bladeshifter was alive and remarkably still conscious, though barely. He patted the man's cheek to rouse him. "Flint, you're all right! The blade's out, the wound is healed!" Not waiting to see Flint's reaction, he leapt to his feet and hurried to the far side of the clearing.

There lay Eltorian Nightwalker, sprawled beneath the tree he'd been thrown against with the force of Requar's intervention spell. The one the sorcerer had cast a fraction of a second too late.

"Ah, damn it," Requar muttered in dismay. Miraculously, the Bladeshifter leader was still in one piece, mostly; with the exception of his lower right arm, which had been torn completely off by Flint's Justifier bolt.

Normally, Requar could reattach severed limbs quite easily, but judging by the damage done to the rest of the arm, he doubted he'd be able to find a suitably intact piece to attach. Shattered bone and bloody flesh protruded from the place where his elbow had been, and the bones all the way up his arm were splintered and loose beneath his skin. His shoulder was dislocated from its socket.

Requar wasted no more time. Flint's injury had been urgent, but simple. This man was a mess.

When his work was finished some time later, he added an extra spell to keep Nightwalker unconscious. It would do none of them any good for him to wake up just now.

He looked up to see Flint crouched nearby, his eyes glitters of disbelief in the darkness. "You… that sword…" he stammered. "You saved our lives!"

"Yes," Requar sighed wearily, and leaned back against a tree.

Flint simply stared at him in awe.

The silver tip of the huge crossbow bolt glinted in the sunlight.

Flint whistled. "Look at that!" he said, holding it proudly aloft. "Not so much as a crack! But you should see what it did to the tree back there!"

Requar opened his eyes long enough to scowl at him. "I saw what it did to a man's arm, and I don't care to witness anything like that again, if you don't mind."

"Humph. He got lucky," Flint muttered, casting a dark glance at the still-unconscious form of Eltorian Nightwalker.

"You both got lucky," Requar reminded him.

Flint's expression turned meek and he rubbed his throat self-consciously. Every time he touched it he expected to find a scar, at the very least, but nothing remained to indicate that the knife had ever been embedded there.

Except for the memory. He would never, ever forget that.

Suppressing a shudder, he cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh, thanks," he said gratefully. "Never thought I'd be in debt to a sorcerer…"

Requar shook his head. "You owe me nothing, Flint. It is my duty as a practitioner of the healing arts to help those in need, regardless of race, age, personality or moral ambiguity. It is not my place to judge anyone for his or her crimes.

"Although I must admit," he said, blue eyes hardening as they settled upon Nightwalker, "sometimes I am tempted."

"Ain't we all," Flint muttered, replacing the bolt in its quiver and checking the Justifier itself for signs of damage. As he had expected, it was still in perfect working order. "How'd you know Nightwalker would be here?" he asked.

"Instinct, at first, then a Mind Sweep confirmed it."

"Right," Flint replied, seating himself on a rock opposite where the sorcerer was laying, stretched out on his blue cloak with a now familiar contemplative expression on his fine features. Flint didn't bother to ask how Requar had known where to find him. Nightwalker had sniffed him out easily even without the use of magic.

Flint's near brush with death had given him a completely new perspective on his life. Whether a residual effect of the magic or a good night of decent sleep, or both, he had woken this morning with a clear mind, and felt brighter than he had in a long time. He had a strange feeling that the Sword had healed more than his physical wound, that it had gone through his brain and put all his thoughts in order, sweeping away harmful ones of despair and self-pity as it did so.

No longer did he fear or distrust Requar as he once had. Terror had given way to fascination. Here was living proof that the tales of his childhood had been wrong, that magic could be used for something other than hateful destruction.

However, the magic had not completely eliminated the strong sense of satisfaction he felt that his former leader had come out of their encounter second best, though he was careful not to reveal the extent of this emotion to Requar. A dark, vengeful part of him wished his bolt had killed Eltorian, but another part was relieved that he didn't have to bear the responsibility for his death.

"So, what are we gonna do with him?" Flint said, nodding at the Bladeshifter leader.

"I've been thinking about that," Requar replied, getting to his feet. He strode over to Eltorian Nightwalker and stopped, staring down at him, arms folded across his chest.

Flint watched him. "And…?"

Requar pursed his lips, but said nothing.

"Gah, leave him here!" Flint said, waving a hand dismissively. "The other 'shifters'll find him anyway, sooner or–"

"No," Requar said, still staring at Nightwalker.

"Huh?"

"I am not going to leave him here. He deserves to know what has happened, and as I am the one who saved his life, I shall be the one to explain it to him. And I have a feeling he's not going to be terribly forgiving about it, especially towards you. I don't want him causing any more trouble."

Flint raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What do you have in mind?"

Requar glanced at him. "I'm travelling to Forthwhite to find out what has become of the Winter boy. I intend to take Master Nightwalker with me. There is a local Guard House there, I believe?"

Flint stared at him, then all of a sudden burst into laughter.

Requar raised an eyebrow quizzically. "You approve?"

"Approve?" Flint said when he had regained his breath. "That's the best damn idea I've heard all week! Haha! I can't wait to see the look on Commander Trice's face when he sees what we dump on his doorstep – his arch-enemy, Eltorian Nightwalker, leader of the Bladeshifters!"

This time, it was Requar's turn to stare. "We?" he said.

Flint fell silent, and looked suddenly embarrassed. He coughed. "Yeah, well, uh… I kind of thought… I'd tag along. You don't think I'd miss a meeting like this, do you?"

Requar regarded him in silence for a moment, then smiled. "Not at all," he replied.

"But I'm only going with you as far as Forthwhite, mind," Flint added quickly. "After that we go our separate ways. No following me, right? My business is my business, an' I'll deal with the other 'shifters in my own way, right? I don't need no one to protect me, even a sorcerer with a... er, healin' sword. I mean, no offence, your Lordship, I appreciate you saving my life, but I can look after meself."

It was clear from the sorcerer's expression that he wasn't convinced of the words 'deal with the other 'shifters in my own way,' but he nodded nevertheless. "You have my word," he said quietly, "that I will not interfere with your life again, unless it impacts my own quest."

Flint nodded. "Okay, good." He stuck out his hand. "Do you wanna shake on that?"

Requar stepped over to the Bladeshifter and clasped his hand. "Travelling companions until Forthwhite, then we both let destiny choose our paths. Deal."

Then he turned back to Eltorian Nightwalker. "Now then," he said. "Shall we wake our friend Nightwalker and tell him the good news?"