I’ll Explain Later

By M. A. E.

Surrounded by shouting hagglers, I sweep my eyes over the market as we step into an abandoned tent. Back turned to the crowd, I rummage in my pack for the scroll. Passersby will only see a traveling swordsman and his student counting their coins before visiting the blacksmith’s booth.

“You’re my best student. Like a son to me.” I ruefully regard the gangly, curly-haired youth. Abasi is so young for the burden he’ll soon carry. As his mentor, it’s my duty to prepare the kid for the trials to come without overwhelming him.

“I wish I had more time to explain, but they’re on my trail. Here’s a map to Marta Valley. You must leave at once.” I shove the rolled parchment into his shaking hands.

“Who’s ‘they’? Can’t you come with me?” He’s so confused it hurts to look at him.

“Sorry, kiddo. I’ll explain everything later.” If I had time, I’d go through the bag resting at his feet to ensure he’s adequately supplied. Instead, I remove a coin pouch from my robe pocket. It jangles as I toss it onto his satchel. I cringe at the memory of our latest backpacking trip. He’s likely forgotten half the bare necessities.

I straighten and look toward the exit. Once again, I’m going into hiding. Terrific.

“I’ll meet you in Marta after I finish some business.” More like, take out the assassins hired to off me. We embrace, and I give him one last wistful look before turning away.

I take a few steps, the weight in my chest heavier than the pack slung over my arm, then stop short. I’m alone in an empty walkway. This corner of the market has grown eerily empty—the crowd thinned down to a few elderly shoppers. Tapestries flap softly in the breeze. Shouts resound from the west entrance—perhaps where someone caused a disturbance to draw the crowd, leaving the target exposed. Exactly what I would have done, a lifetime ago.

Assassins. How many did the prince send this time? Even if they succeed in killing me, I can’t let them take him.

I spin on my heel and race back to Abasi, grab his shoulder, and drag him behind a deserted booth close to an alleyway exit.

“Swordmaster? Wha—?”

“Shut up before you get us killed, kiddo,” I hiss. Hopefully those aren’t my last words.

As we crouch behind the booth, I slip my sword from its sheath. Abasi, who hasn’t yet earned his own regal weapon, instinctively grips his dagger to his chest. My seriousness silenced his typical annoying chatter, but I see fear and questions in his shining eyes. If I’m going to fight to the death for this kid, I might as well tell him why.

“Forget the mysterious mentor stuff,” I blurt in a loud whisper. “Your biological mother is the Empress. Frankly, she’s evil. You’re the true heir of Cantlanta. Assassins are hunting me because I lead a rebel alliance that wants you on the throne. Your stepbrother sent them. They’re probably going to kill me.”

Abasi stares at me, mouth agape.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.” I hate rushing this, but I might not be around to guide him later.

“W—who are you, really?”

I meet his gaze and see only his father’s eyes. “I’m actually your uncle.” Despite the somber moment, I smile, remembering the many times we were mistaken for parent and child. How did this clueless kid never see the resemblance? “Your father’s brother. He’s alive, by the way. He faked his death to protect you.”

Tears stream down his face. Fabric swishes above us.

“Get down.” I shove my stunned nephew under the display table, lift my sword, and block the assassin’s stroke. I thrust a dagger into the man’s stomach with my other hand. Another of the prince’s hired blades leaps down from the beam overhead, and I only nick his shoulder with a dagger toss. Awkward.

“You weren’t supposed to duck,” I sputter as we cross swords.

Clang! I spy Abasi cowering in the crawlspace between two booths.

“There’s a secret passage—” Clang! “—in Marta Valley. The passcode is—” Clang! Clang! Swish! “—‘Hope of Cantlanta.’”

I smirk at the assassin. “Now that you know, guess I have to kill you.”

Clang! I have him pinned in a few strokes and raise my sword. As I plunge it into his chest, a knife pierces my side from behind. Warm blood gushes as my assailant pulls the knife from the wound. Gasping at the shock of unfathomable pain, I spin and grip his wrist, pushing back a second stab. So—Abasi’s royal stepbrother sent three assassins this time.

“Run! Now!” I scream. My heart twists in fear that he won’t obey, that he’ll do something reckless and my death will count for nothing. But as I struggle with the last assassin, I hear Abasi’s shoes thudding against the sand in retreat.

I twist my attacker’s knife against him, and he collapses. I clutch at my wound and sink to the ground. My vision goes dark. It’s… all right. I fulfilled my mission. I close my eyes.

“They’re dead! Someone! Help!”

A woman’s screams grow distant. The tarps on empty booths snap in the wind. I press my hand against the bloodstain across my tunic and reach for a dusty shawl abandoned under a table. I tear it into strips and wrap my bleeding side. Rising slowly, I retrieve my sword and limp away from the sound of footsteps—the heavy boots of useless marketplace guards.

Poor Abasi. Surely that was too much of an info-dump for anyone to handle gracefully. He’ll be frightened and confused. And he still has to unite the rebels in Marta and fight his stepbrother for the throne. So much family drama. The weight in my chest returns. He’ll cry for me.

I smile wryly to myself. It’s all right, kid. I’m not really dead.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

M. A. E. is passionate about all things creative and can usually be found painting, baking, reading, writing, or discussing sci-fi film plots. She believes that imagination and creativity are gifts from God for His glory and our joy and encouragement.

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