Sword of the Scarred

by Jeffrey Hall

  The scar stone had taken a lot from him before, but he had always recovered quickly, and he had only ever collapsed after pushing himself too far for too long. This latest collapse was quicker.

  Maybe he was getting too old, or perhaps the scar stone had taken from places he could not see, but only feel. A hidden well inside of him that was near empty.

  Each step was exhausting. Painful. And it didn’t help that Garp was jaunting through the city like he had a charge of magic in his step.

  “Would you slow down?” said Requiem when they had risen halfway up the rock. “You’re gonna turn a corner and face off with a soldier.”

  “Grey’s rotting in that cage,” said Garp. “So is your old lady.”

  “And they’ll keep rotting or worse if we get caught,” said Requiem.

  But Garp barely listened. It was like the new mission had given him an energy he didn’t know he had. Requiem thought he understood. This was another chance, and those chances were becoming fewer and farther between as people were figuring out that he shouldn’t be given any. If he were to succeed then those chances would keep coming. If not, they might just stop altogether.

  So when they arrived at the Ivy Bridge Requiem’s legs felt wobbly, like he’d just run halfway across the world.

  “Look at it,” said Garp as he stared down the spoke. The rails to either side were extravagant pillars, made of cloud-white stone, each with the faces of beasts carved into its base block. Along the pillars and floor stones, a web of red vegetation spread out over the bridge. It was Demon’s Hands, an ivy fed by the Abysmal gasses that rose up from far below.

  “Never seen Ivy Bridge before?” said Requiem.

  “Never had a reason to come to this side of the city,” said Garp.

  “Don’t let its beauty capture you.” Requiem pointed to the other end. Hanging over either side of the bridge were clusters of cages, things tied together and thrown over the edge like Requiem had seen fishermen do in the Dread Lakes of the north. Figures lay inside, some two to a cage. A great crowd gathered at the end of the bridge near the cages, all of them surrounding the Elder. The lord of Bothane sat atop an armored high-back, overlooking his people as he addressed them.

  “Just in time,” said Garp as they shuffled their way into the crowd. As they moved closer Requiem could see Sasha sitting inside the topmost cage, Glassius stuffed in beside her as if they were a pair of mating birds on display. Her hair looked unkempt, her clothes too, but she was unharmed. He could not say the same thing for Grey.

  A few cages closer to the Abyss the man swayed with his legs dangling out between the bars of the cages. One of his eyes was swollen shut. A crust of blood stained his beard. A part of his right ear looked to have been torn away. A bloodied bandage wrapped around his leg where he’d been struck by the spear that Garp kept telling him about.

  The man was alive, but only barely by the looks of it.

  “By the Abyss,” whispered Garp, “that old fool looks like he’s been dancing with death.”

  The other cages held soldiers of Glimmer who occupied the city of Bothane and those who had accompanied Glassius and the other emissaries, all in varying states of health, some showing the badges of violence as indicators of who stood up and who didn’t.

  The Elder’s voice fell over them, stern and measured, as if he were desperately trying to hold in his fury. Even though it had only been a day since they had seen the Elder, the events that had transpired since had changed him. His eyes were darker, the bags beneath them more bruised, as if the Abyss itself had swept into his skin.

  “Behold, my people, the truth of my brother.” He waved towards the cages. “Cowardness. Subversiveness. Treachery. Greed. We allowed these men and women into our home under the assurance of peace, a peace that many of our own kin spilled their blood to achieve, and what do they do with such a gift? They take advantage of it. They reach into our hands and take more than what they’re entitled to by conspiring with fanatics. Thieves.”

  Glassius tried to speak up from where he sat. “We’ve never done anything of the sort—”

  “Silence!” the Elder yelled, finally letting loose of the restraint he held on his voice. Glassius obliged, though he gripped the bars like he might try to rip them down. “Your words are lies. Same as my brother’s. No good will come from listening to them any longer. We have offered you our peace and it is apparent you don’t know how to handle it. Therefore, it is rescinded.”

  The king pointed to one of the Bothanian soldiers nearby, who had a large sack of stones at his feet. The soldier reached in and produced a bright green shard of stone.

  Gasps ran across the onlooking crowd.

  “What is that?” said Garp, standing on the tips of his toes for a better look.

  Requiem eyed the stone in disbelief. It was wrought pearl. A rare, devious chunk of rock found only in the deepest recesses of Moonsland. Miners often cursed it and shied away from it when they unearthed it for what it did if it was struck and its surface penetrated. But if put in the hands of a Geomage and its essence brought to life, all it needed was to be activated for the same disastrous results.

  The soldier tapped the wrought pearl against another and threw it into a cage holding a soldier from Glimmer. “No!” shouted the Glimmerian, trying to kick the stone away but it was already too late. The wrought pearl popped and a cloud of green gas sprang into the air. As soon as it touched the Glimmerian soldier, he fell back and grabbed at his skin as it turned from flesh to bright green crystal, a hideous rendition of the man that once was. His screaming stopped, and he lay there frozen, a green statue meant to commemorate the start of a new round of violence.

  “Ardan! That was a good man you just put to death!” cried Glassius.

  “And so I will put the rest of you. One by one at the stroke of noon each day until your king comes to witness you all, a bouquet of his greed splayed before him like a welcome gift.”

  “Do you realize what you’re doing!” Glassius shouted, but the Elder was already moving, waving his retinue to follow as his high-back sauntered through the onlooking crowd. “This is grounds for war. Your people are still recovering. You’ll lose again!”

  The Elder addressed his people as he passed through them. “Fear not. War will not befall us. We will not lose. This is simply the first step in protecting you. Protecting what’s yours.”

  “Bless you, King Larken!” shouted one of the onlookers, while most others stared on in stunned silence.

  “What are we going to do?” said Garp.

  Requiem looked past him to the cages. The people inside of them stared at the solidified corpse of their fallen brethren. A battalion of Bothanian soldiers stood overlooking the cages.

  “You want to help them? Then start climbing.” Requiem pointed to the ivy that ran along the side of the bridge all the way to where the cages hung. The soldiers stood at the end of the bridge, their backs facing westward, towards Glimmer. If Garp was sneaky enough he could climb right underneath them, unlock the cages, and let them out without raising a single alarm.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” said Requiem.

  “I don’t do heights. Plus I’ve only got one hand.”

  “You giving me a reason to think you’re useless?”

  Garp looked over the side of the rail. “Wouldn’t you be better at this?”

  “I’ll talk to the Elder. There’s still a chance to salvage this,” said Requiem.

  “Can’t I just wait?” said Garp.

  “No, because I’m not sure this will work.” He had seen the conviction in the Elder’s face, heard it in his voice. The man had come to a conclusion and was prepared to die for that decision. Pulling a man from that was difficult to do, but it was either try or watch another civil war start—this time one that he helped start. “Besides, I’ll be a bigger distraction than you, which you’ll need if you want to free your uncle and my wife.”

  Garp hesitated.

  “Go on.” Requi
em kept looking from him back to the Elder, who was slowly making his way past him and back into the city. Garp came to the pillars, made sure that no one was looking, looked down, took a visible deep breath, muttered something to himself, and climbed down the ivy, wrapping his bad arm around the plants and slowly going over the edge.

  “Don’t screw this up,” Requiem muttered for himself as much as Garp. And though his fresh wound still stung and he felt as though he could barely stand, he approached the lord of Bothane with his hand on his hilt.

  “King Larken,” he shouted as he approached the cadre of soldiers that lined his high-back. The soldiers immediately stopped and put up their blades and spears to block him from passing, creating a gate of steel he would need to pass. “King Larken!”

  The Elder turned, no doubt appreciative of his own promotion in the eyes of his followers. The man’s sunken eyes narrowed and then widened as they fell on Requiem.

  “Requiem Balestone.” The Elder pulled up on the reins leading to the high-back. The beast squealed as it came to a stop. The soldiers recognized his name and immediately formed a circle around him. “I heard rumblings of your presence in our city. Imagine my surprise when I heard I had you to thank for this... wonderful outcome.”

  “Not at all,” said Requiem as he searched for Benglar in the Elder’s retinue. He found the official among them, his arms folded as if he were waiting for Requiem to call him out. “There’s the man who released your prisoner.”

  “Benglar?” said the prince. “My advisor and confidant for years? Where’s your proof?”

  “Exactly,” said Benglar, unfolding his hands. “All there’s evidence of is a dozen soldiers who can speak of you breaking into Bothane’s dungeon and freeing a criminal.”

  “Then tell your king, Benglar. Where’s the prisoner Glassius brought you?”

  “What prisoner?” said the Elder.

  Requiem’s stomach dropped as he realized the Elder himself had probably never been informed of their capture in the first place. He’d thought this was a fool’s plan in the first place, and now he was sure it was. “Ask him. Ask the others in the group about the member of Proth’s Prodigy we brought to you. He was the one who attacked your caravan and your advisor cut him loose, back into the wild.”

  The Elder shook his head, leaning slightly forward on the high-back. “What happened to you, Requiem? You used to be my father’s favorite. You used to be the one to call when there were fights that needed winning. Now you are in my city, spouting lies, jailbreaking prisoners, nothing more than a common thug.” He leaned back and gave a slight swipe with his hand at the soldiers that surrounded him. The soldiers narrowed in.

  “You’re wrong, Ardan. You’ve got rats right beneath your nose.” Requiem backed away, and as he did he glanced over to the bridge. To his surprise, Garp was already beside one of the cages, clinging onto the bars like a bug would a wall.

  “I don’t fear rodents, Requiem. Not anymore. The only thing I fear these days is letting my brother have his way with my father’s legacy. With my people and what I’ve tried to build for them. I made them a promise of a better world, and I plan on giving them one. One my brother can’t even touch.” He turned his high-back back down the direction of the street he was heading. “But having you amongst my people… that’s most fearsome of all.” He nodded towards his soldiers. “Grab his sword. He’s useless without it. And be careful.”

  The king slapped the reins and the high-back groaned as it trotted forward, the rest of his unarmed retinue hurrying to follow.

  The soldiers encroached. Requiem drew his blade, the noise as it left his sheath sounding like a bird of prey on the hunt. The soldiers hesitated.

  “You are good men and women,” said Requiem. “I didn’t come here to fight you.”

  “Drop your sword,” snarled one of the soldiers.

  “I can’t,” said Requiem. “One quick move and this whole city might fall into the Abyss.”

  The soldiers looked to one another, and Requiem knew he had found their uncertainty.

  “You know what I am, don’t you?” He raised his neck to show the soldiers one of the three wounds that were now visible there.

  “A Scarred,” said one of them.

  “That’s right. With one flick of my wrist I can send this all crashing down.”

  “If you could do that then the Elder would never have told us to surround you.”

  “The Elder doesn’t care about you. He just started another war. You’re nothing but a barrel of sticks he throws into the fire.”

  “They’re escaping!” Shouts came from down the bridge. He could see Garp, Grey, Sasha, Glassius, and a few Glimmerian soldiers running towards them.

  The soldiers that surrounded Requiem turned. He attacked, slapping away some of the pointed blades and spears and driving into them with his shoulder, sending three to the ground. He leapt over the downed soldiers and stood outside their circle. The soldiers gathered together, helping up their downed brethren, filling in the gap that Requiem had created to form a wedge.

  He held out Ruse, waiting till he could hear the footsteps of the others over the screaming soldiers at his back. When he did, he slashed twice in a low X and sent a wave of force at the soldiers’ feet.

  They all fell or leapt out of the way like blades of grass in a tremendous wind.

  Garp and the others arrived just as he felt a new scar emerge on his right arm.

  He grunted, and the impact of what the stone took from him almost put him to the ground again.

  Stay up, you old fool, he thought, and those words kept him from falling.

  “I did it!” said Garp. “You see that? I climbed that damned bridge and did it!”

  “Enough, boy. We can celebrate you growing a pair after,” said Grey as he threw Requiem’s uninjured arm over his shoulder. Requiem and he met eyes.

  “You’re still alive?” said Requiem, leaning on the limping man.

  “Same to you,” said Grey.

  Glassius and some of the other Glimmerian soldiers grabbed the downed Bothanians’ weapons and headed down the street as the soldiers at their back charged and threw spears and fired slings at them as they ran.

  “Which way!” shouted Garp.

  In front of them the Elder’s retinue had turned to face the new commotion, and the Elder himself was leading the charge to face Requiem and the other escapees, a trail of soldiers at his back.

  Requiem pointed to a nearby alley, directing them back to the Alley of Fangs to regroup and find a place to hide away from the city. They turned into the narrow corridor as arrows clattered on the ground behind them.

  “Faster!” barked Glassius.

  Behind them, Bothanian soldiers hurried into the alley, yet Requiem and the others had a sizeable lead despite how slow Requiem and Grey made them.

  They turned the corner of the alley onto a main artery only to skid to a stop. Standing in the middle of that cobbled, pristine road was a lone, cloaked figure.

  It stood there, its black cloak flapping slightly in the light wind like a dark flag meant to signal its intention. It wore a hood that mostly covered its face except for its chin, which was as red as blood.

  Lying on its shoulder was what could only be described as an obese lizard, its black belly hanging over the figure, its head lifted ever so slightly as if the arrival of the escapees was mildly amusing.

  “Who, who are you?” called Sasha.

  But Requiem already knew the answer. It was the thing that had been hunting him. Hunting her. The girl. And as if to emphasize his own thought, the lizard upon the figure’s shoulder lifted its head higher and opened its mouth.

  And to their surprise it spoke. “The girl.”

  “What girl?” said Glassius.

  The figure pointed to Requiem. The lizard spoke. “He knows.”

  The first of the soldiers at their backs rounded the corner, but stopped when they saw the strange figure ahead of them.

  The lone person was
not fazed by the arrival of the force.

  “The girl will be brought before us or we will tear this city down. Piece by piece.” The lizard’s voice was little more than a whisper, yet Requiem could understand it as if it were an inch away from him as opposed to many yards.

  The sound of the Elder’s high-back broke the silence that came next. When the Elder was finished assessing the situation he spoke forcefully. “You are interfering with a matter of Bothane affairs, stranger. Remove yourself and your threat from the situation or be added to it.”

  The figure reached into his cloak and pulled from it a blade made of black metal. It was so long and thin that it looked like the straightened leg of a spider. But most stunning of all was the gem socketed in the middle of its hilt, its bone-white color so brilliant that it bordered on glowing.

  “What is that?” said Sasha.

  “Put your weapon away—” the Elder started to say, but the lizard upon the figure’s shoulder opened its dark maw and croaked.

  “The girl!”

  The figure flicked its blade in one direction and a growl of thunder burst forth. Requiem watched in horror as a ripple of force left the blade’s tip, hurried across the ground, pulling up stone and dirt and debris as it did, and connected with the nearby building, cracking the stone it was made from like it was the shell of an egg.

  “Watch out!” shouted Grey beneath the great roar of the bursting stone as the building’s bottom gave way and toppled inward towards the street. The people inside of it screamed, and it was the only noise louder than that of the crashing.

  The shadow of the falling building engulfed the escapees as it tumbled towards them. Requiem—with the shred of energy he had left—grabbed hold of Sasha, who lingered nearby, and drew from the stone the power to easily lift her from the ground and pull her away from the building.

  Every one of his scars rose to their former pain, but as they hit the ground safely and the building tumbled at their feet, he could ignore the swelling throb of anguish that washed over him.

  At last the catastrophic noise of the falling building stopped, but the screams didn’t. Somewhere nearby there were people trapped, perhaps dying, perhaps trying to find a way free. The debris, a foggy storm of dust and soot kicked up into the air, caused him to hack and rub his eyes. As it settled and the world once again became visible, he saw Sasha beside him on her hands and knees, fighting to stand. Not much further away were Glassius, Grey, and Garp in similar positions, some of the Glimmerian soldiers too. The others were somewhere beneath the rubble, pummeled by the stroke of a single black sword and its otherworldly stone.