Rising Ch.2

Ahma rushed quietly back to the foyer, this time approaching from one of the halls leading from the kitchen. She clung to the shadows, trying to keep hidden near corners or in the little niches and cubbies to be sure she wouldn’t be so easily seen. As she got a clear view into the foyer, she saw her efforts at stealth were largely unneeded.

Two of the cloaked figures were sprawled face down on the polished floor and only one of them still had its head. The remaining four men were upon the Master, their blades cutting and thrusting at him wildly. They were clearly desperate to get through his defenses. Even to Ahma, who had no knowledge or experience in matters of battle or combat, they seemed well trained and skilled with the sword. To defend against all four seemed an impossible task.

Ahma’s eyes were wide with disbelief as the Master did just that. He skillfully, gracefully maneuvered his blade, turning aside every slash and parrying every thrust, stopping with seeming ease blows that should have been impossibly close to felling him. In a blur of motion he worked his huge blade this way and that before him with more speed than seemed possible for the bulky weapon. He blocked a strike, knocking the weapon wide and away, then rolled his blade across and opened the leftmost attackers belly.

Ahma, mesmerized, slid along the wall, certain that the men were too occupied to notice her. The Master sidestepped an unbalanced thrust and, flicking his powerful wrist, brought his blade down in a curt, quick chop that cleaved the man’s arm off at the elbow. A gout of blood spattered across the Masters gleaming armor, but he did not flinch. Before the man had a chance to scream his head was lopped from his shoulders by the Master‘s arcing blade.

Now down to two men, the attackers were doomed. The Master lunged forward, knocking the nearest cloaked man’s sword wide before roughly thrusting his great sword through his chest. Three feet of steel erupted from the man’s back. The Master gave the sword a vicious twist, making Ahma flinch at the sudden brutality. She looked into the Master’s face, seeing the grim, hard set of his features. Burning flames kindled in his shining silver eyes. A shudder ran through her. Even standing just outside of the foyer she could feel the rage and power radiating from those eyes. They seemed almost unnatural, the way the fires burned and crackled in their depths. Ahma was momentarily not at all certain who she feared more, the shadowy men or her Master. The remaining man noticed he was now alone. Deciding he held little chance against the apparent juggernaut he turned and lunged for the door.

In an explosion of movement the Master whipped a dagger into the middle of the would-be assassin’s back. The man fell, gurgling, and twitched for a moment before settling more fully into death.

Stillness filled the room. Ahma watched him, awed. He breathed a bit heavily with the exhilaration of the battle, but seemed largely unmoved by what would have brought most men to their knees in exertion. A scowl marred his face as he stared at the carnage at his front door.

Ahma dared not move. Emotions roiled within her. At once, she still hated and loathed him…possibly even more than ever, that he would bring such danger upon all of them. But at the same time, she was fascinated by him. Never had she seen a battle, but she knew she had just seen prowess that was nearly unheard of. The Master had an amazing level of competence and mastery. Not only had he been able to dispatch six men at once, but he had been graceful and mesmerizing to watch, his every movement precise and purposeful. To Ahma, whose world consisted of duties and chores, cleaning and trudging through life day by day, he seemed a great hero, a warrior from the old tales that the elder Master had told her so often. He seemed so much more than the simple boy who she had glimpsed so briefly as a young girl.

The moment was shattered as several of the field workers came barreling into the room, hoes, picks, and forks raised high to defend their home. They fell short however, stopping several feet behind The Master. One of the older men, the head planter Marts, glanced at the Master with wide eyes. “M‘lord? M‘lord Methaniel? Is that you?”

“Indeed,” Master Methaniel replied evenly. He pulled his eyes from the scene of carnage and nodded to the men, who gawked at him for a moment before hastily bowing and muttering ‘M’lord’ and ‘welcome home’ with downcast eyes.

“Master, are you injured?” Marts asked awkwardly as he pulled his hat from his head respectfully.

“No. But I believe someone else may have been,” the Master responded. He turned to look at the servant boy slumped against the wall, his eyes gazing out into nothingness. “We have dead. We should tend to the wounded first and then prepare the lad for proper care and his death-rights.”

Marts turned to a younger man. “You heard our lord! Get the women folk over ‘ere. We’ve fallen to tend to and grieving to begin, and the Master needs be welcome home more proper than this!”

He turned and nervously glanced at Master Methaniel, though his eyes remained low. “We ‘ad no word M’lord…we would have prepared proper like ‘ad we known. Yer return ‘s’prised us all.”

“I know,” Methaniel replied evenly. He nodded to the lifeless youth. “He was supposed to arrive shortly before me to inform you. I did not expect…this unfortunate happening to come upon us.”

Marts nodded and wrung his had nervously. “What would you ‘ave us do, Master?”

“I would have you return to your work,” Methaniel said after a moments silence. “Let the servants who tend the Manor worry about what to do here. In the next few days I will call on all of you men to speak with you about the state of my lands and our crops. For now, return to your work and know that this incident will not be repeated. That is all.”

Ahma silently crept forward and knelt beside the dead boy. She swallowed hard and shut his frozen eyes for good as the men bowed and mumbled their acknowledgements to Master Methaniel before filing out of the building, talking excitedly among themselves.

The Master reached down with his blade, wiping it on one of the bodies till he was satisfied it was clean for the moment. Scowling once more, he shoved the blade roughly into its sheath. He turned as Cook and her helpers crept into the Foyer. All gasped at the grisly scene that greeted them. One of the kitchen lads began vomiting noisily into a kerchief. Methaniel nodded curtly to them, his mouth set in a grim line. Blood dripped from his mail.

“Take this lad into one of the spare rooms be sure someone with some level of experience with this kind of thing tends him and dresses his body, and prepares to give him his death-rights. Find his family, whether they are servants here or not. Inform them I wish to offer my condolences and whatever compensation I may for his loss. Then return to your duties for now. I will make an announcement considering these events at a later time. For the time being, please go about your lives as usual.”

“Aye, M’lord,” Cook replied softly. She and the two kitchen lads gathered the fallen lad, showing the same tenderness and care they would to one of their own family members. They carried him slowly and carefully from the room and down the hall.

He turned his hard gaze and his eyes fell upon Ahma, still crouched where the boy had slumped against the wall. He met her eyes, and some of the agitated look faded from his face. His body untensed slightly, but she could tell his temper remained frayed, if a bit more controlled now. She realized she was meeting his eyes and quickly cast her gaze downward.

“Fetch some servants to clean this. And where is the Steward?”

Ahma kept her eyes upon the floor. “I do not know, Master. He is probably in his rooms upstairs.”

Methaniel arched a brow. The rooms on the second floor were for the family itself. His lips pressed into that thin line once more, but he otherwise seemed not to have heard her “Tell him I have summoned him to the Foyer.”

Ahma could hardly believe it. He should be outraged! He should be demanding the Steward’s head! A Noble should be having the man executed on the spot for such disgrace and dishonor. The measure of growing respect and awe Ahma had felt moments ago suddenly dropped. Her guts twisted into bitter knots. He was going to let the fiend get away with his foul treatment.

She rose and dropped a curtsy. When she reached the hall she glanced back at the Master. Methaniel gathered three of the torn, bloodied bodies in one massive, bulging arm and a fourth in the other, putting the pile of them on his shoulders and hauling them to the street with no apparent effort.

Ahma went upstairs and knocked briefly on the steward’s door. When there was no answer, nor an answer to the second knock, she opened the door and ventured into the room. She expected to be cursed for her disrespect and threatened with a number of unpleasant, lewd punishments. Instead she found the Steward crouched under his desk, hands tearing at his thin hair. She peered down at him.

“The Master would like to see you.”

“What was that noise? Are there robbers in the house? Call the guard you stupid girl!” he shrieked.

“I already sent for the guard, but Master Methaniel disposed of the intruders himself. He wishes to see you right away,” she replied.

The steward crawled from behind the desk. His eyes were enormous and his jaw hung open limply. “Wait. You say the Master is returned? It is he? Truly?”

“He is,” Ahma replied.

“If this is some kind of stupid trick I’ll have you sold to a brothel.”

Ahma said nothing and exited the room.

Downstairs, Methaniel spoke briefly with the captain of the city patrol while two guardsmen removed the remaining bodies. The captain took a brief report, promising to give the details of the incident to one of his superiors before excusing himself and leaving.

At the same time, several of the maids cleaned the foyer. The room had been lovely, wide and open with rich blue marbled floors veined with silver, the house colors. Tapestries in blue hung down the whitewashed walls, and a painting of the Master’s mother hung on the right wall, resplendent and beautiful. It had been drawn before the illness had begun to claim her, and her hair was like fire burning about her lovely pale face. A massive, sweeping stairway was stood across the foyer from the doors and led upward to the study and family rooms, including Methaniel’s own. The top of the steps were covered with neat marble slabs and the railings were polished oak wood. Paterns and lines ran along the banisters like vines creeping upward. Now the floors were covered in blood and splotches marred one of the white walls.

Ahma moved to aid the maids. She took up a rag and began to mop the bloodied floor. She glanced up as the Steward shuffled his plump body into the room. The Master stepped up to him, his massive arms crossed over his broad chest. He said nothing, only stared at the Steward mutely. The Steward dropped into a shaky bow.

“How are you, young Master? Are you harmed?” The steward sputtered. Sweat beaded across his brow already.

Methaniel’s scowl deepened and he shook his head, his coppery locks swishing slightly. One of the servants carrying a bucket of fresh water suddenly slipped on a sticky smear of blood, spilling water across the floor.

“Fool!” The steward bellowed, moving to kick the woman. One of the Masters huge hands moved in front of him, stopping his forward waddle. The Steward made to stammer out an explanation, but Methaniel motioned curtly for him to be silent.