For a Precious Person (3)

Moonlight shone on the scratches in Beynon's armor.

As the assassins closed in, he let out a long breath. This might be his last night alive.

And, as though death were already near, a memory returned to him.

I miss you.

It was from long ago, when he had been Falair, a mercenary commander, rather than Beynon, a knight of House Deharem.

His company had been ruined in its final battle. All his men were gone. He fled to the County of Pelgaroin, only to collapse against a wall in the street, wounded and convinced he was dying.

Passersby paid him no attention. A blood-soaked mercenary dying in public was hardly a sight anyone wanted to get involved with.

Then a nobleman in silk approached.

Beynon expected him to complain about the ugly spectacle, perhaps order him out of the street. Instead, the noble knelt and examined him.

“Hey! What are you doing here? Stay awake!”

Beynon tried to ignore him.

The nobleman slapped his cheek to make sure he was conscious. Somehow that affront stung more than the wounds in his body.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You're alive. Then why are you pretending to be dead?”

“Leave me alone. I'll die soon enough.”

“If you wanted to die in peace, why didn't you do it at the foot of a mountain? You dragged yourself into a city. Don't stand on your pride now—say you want to live if you want to live!”

After scolding him, the nobleman slid his arms under Beynon and lifted him.

Beynon wanted to refuse. He was too weak to push the stranger away. The man carried him without concern for the blood soaking his expensive clothes.

“My family's carriage is nearby. I know an excellent physician. We'll have you treated.”

What sort of noble put a dying mercenary into his own carriage and summoned a doctor for him?

“I have nothing to give you,” Beynon said. “If you're expecting payment, put me down.”

“You certainly have a mercenary's way of looking at the world. Must everything be a bargain?”

“So you want nothing?”

The nobleman looked at him briefly, then ahead again.

“Well, if you insist… When you're better, tell my son how impressive his father is. I'd like him to think I'm a great man.”

Beynon could not help laughing at so modest a request.

“I can do that. What's your name?”

The nobleman answered without hesitation.

“Wellion. Wellion Deharem.”

That was how Beynon first met the father of Theorad Deharem.

Remembering him now, Beynon laughed bitterly and raised his face to the night sky.

“Are you watching, my lord? You saved my life once. Tonight I'll repay you—with interest!”

No answer came.

The nearest assassin charged.

Beynon's expression hardened. His sword rose as he read the angle of the attacker's grip and anticipated the blow.

As the blade came down diagonally, Beynon drew his left foot back and shifted his shoulder. The strike passed through empty air.

Before his opponent could recover, Beynon drove a fist into the man's jaw, then swept his sword across his exposed throat.

Blood spilled as the assassin fell.

Beynon spun and kicked a second attacker hard in the stomach. The man collapsed, but there was no time to finish him.

A dagger flashed at Beynon's side.

He knocked it away with his blade, turned the sword and slashed into the attacker's shoulder.

The wounded assassin staggered back. Beynon tore his blade free.

Another enemy moved in from his blind side. Beynon reacted before he could think, catching the descending sword on his crossguard.

Clang!

He forced the opposing weapon upward. Sparks flew as their blades scraped together.

Then he turned his wrist and drove his sword straight into the man's heart.

The assassin dropped his weapon.

Beynon tried to withdraw the blade, but it had caught between the ribs. He pulled again. It would not come.

He abandoned the sword and rushed the next man.

The attacker stabbed with a dagger. Beynon twisted aside, but the blade ripped open his flank.

Pain flared through him. He seized the man anyway, threw him to the ground and wrenched the dagger from his hand.

He struck the fallen assassin's neck once, twice, three times.

A heavy noise sounded behind him.

Beynon hurled himself sideways.

An enormous two-edged axe smashed into the spot where he had been standing.

The hulking assassin wielding it would kill him if he got another chance.

Beynon lunged forward and drove the dagger into the man's neck.

The man roared and struggled.

Beynon clung to him, avoiding his flailing fists, and thrust the dagger up beneath his chin. The giant fell with a choking sound.

Beynon seized the fallen axe.

The assassin he had kicked earlier was still crawling away, barely able to move. Beynon approached and brought the axe down into his back.

Thud!

The man's scream broke off. His convulsions stopped.

Beynon stood over him, breathing hard, and surveyed the yard.

Apart from Tolask, three killers remained. They hesitated, frightened by the bodies of their comrades.

“What's wrong? Nervous?”

Beynon's heart hammered so fiercely that it hurt. He needed a moment to steady himself.

The night air reeked of blood.

“Did you come here thinking only of killing,” he rasped, “and never once consider that you might die?”

He took up a longsword from the ground.

At that, the three assassins attacked together.

He barely had time to set his feet before their weapons reached him.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

He blocked, thrust, kicked and grappled in a frantic struggle. Two of the three fell beneath his blows.

The last assassin fought on.

Their swords came down almost together, each aimed at the other's head. Beynon managed to turn his face; the assassin did not.

The man's skull split under Beynon's blow.

But Beynon's own eye took the point of the enemy's blade.

“Damn it…”

He dropped to one knee, clutching the ruined eye. Blood and pale fluid ran between his fingers. His torn side bled heavily, and every breath brought more pain.

He had reached his body's limit.

Only Tolask remained.

Beynon held on to his sword.

“Strange,” Tolask murmured.

“You turned down enough gold to live comfortably for the rest of your life, just to fight a battle you might not survive. The Falair I know was never such a noble fellow.”

“…You know me?”

“Everyone knows the story. I loved hearing it when I was young: the legendary commander who led an undefeated mercenary company. Then came the Battle of Crete Basin, his first defeat, and his heroic death.”

Tolask gave him a mocking look.

“Of course, the hero of the story being alive rather spoils the ending.”

He continued:

“I even remember your saying: know fear of death, fear your enemies, and never despise survival. Mercenaries still repeat it. So why…?”

Beynon could bear no more of that.

“I'm a knight!”

His shout rang across the yard.

He set the tip of his sword against the ground and forced himself upright, using the weapon as a staff. His body could barely support him, but his spirit had not broken.

“A knight must be willing to face death for his lord. He must stand before his enemies. He must put his duty ahead of his own survival!”

What use was a knight who failed to protect the person entrusted to him?

Beynon gripped the sword more tightly.

“Falair, the mercenary commander, died in Crete Basin. The life in me now belongs to the man who saved it—Viscount Wellion Deharem!”

Wellion had asked him to protect his son.

Even at the end of his own life, the viscount had repeated that request with tears in his eyes: help Theorad survive in this harsh world.

Beynon could not refuse his lord's last command.

Even if no one ever knew what happened in this yard, he would give his life to keep Theorad safe.

“So…”

Blood ran from his wounded eye and dripped from his chin. He forced his weakening hand to hold the sword.

A warrior's smile touched his mouth.

“Until I see you with my own eyes, I cannot die.”

Tolask seemed almost impressed. He drew his weapon.

Beynon spat blood and charged.

“Haaah!”

Not as Falair of the Heavenly Hawk mercenaries, but as a sworn knight of House Deharem.