A Choice of Blades: The Blade Remnant, Book One

by D. N. Woodward

  When Ferschall started in again on why they should all take up the Blade, Leon left the immediate vicinity of the group. He was all for taking up the Blade at some point, whatever that meant, but even Reed had admitted it would be years before he was ready.

  What a putz! We may not have another hour, much less another year!

  Ferschall's pressured pitch frustrated him. They didn't need the distraction. They needed to be focused on the here and now—he certainly didn't want to be reminded of what he would eventually have to face in the form of his own corrupt nature, if by some miracle he did survive the Hootsi.

  He and Merle climbed up onto a shady ledge tucked quietly away from everyone else. He pulled out his medallion just to feel its weight in his hand. Apart from his hat, it was the last vestige of Gus left to him. Holding it close helped him pretend like perhaps Gus wasn’t so terribly far away.

  Merle seemed to sense his mood and leaned in for a lick. It was classic Merle. He stooped in to hug that fur coat but paused when his nose caught wind of a steady dose of dog musk. Merle needed a bath, they all did. He gave him a pet instead and pretended to ignore the furry stench.

  Is it simply my mind playing tricks or has Merle grown a little taller?

  No, there could be no denying it. The dog had grown at least an inch or two taller. His fur had changed as well. It now grew longer, tougher…wirier?

  He sighed. Everything he knew was changing. Even before being swept up into Fayden, change had been brewing. What would be left of his old life if he ever returned? Would he even have a life to go back to at the CW? The hard work and isolation of ranch life wasn’t easy, but it was consistent. This new world was beautiful and mysterious, but also unpredictable and dangerous.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your companion here. The pup is from your world, yes?” Leon stiffened like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, his head swiveled to meet Ferschall’s broad smile. Tightening his hand around the medallion, he tried to return the smile.

  “That’s right. But he’s no pup. My Grandfather gave him to me years ago. The day I was adopted.”

  “Adopted? Hmmm, I see.” Did Ferschall stare at him with a bit more interest than normal?

  Hard to tell, Ferschall’s a weird dude. At least he isn't still pushing the Blade topic.

  “You are partly wrong, you know?”

  “Oh?”

  “Mmhmm. That is no ordinary hound, yes? That is a Bladed War Hound if I guess right.”

  Leon laughed. “A Bladed War Hound? What are trying to say Ferschall?”

  “Again, if I’m right, he’s from an ancient bloodline of hounds, bred for a unique purpose. Those beasts required specialized training, yet the pup seems to have bonded well with you.”

  “Well, I don’t know about all that. Gus told me he got him from old Dean Foster's place, just down the road. I do know this pup is at least ten years old, he's not a spring chicken—that's for sure.”

  Ferschall stooped over and scratched a spot behind one of Merle’s ears. Merle groaned appreciatively and rolled over on his back as if to invite a belly scratch.

  Leon snorted.

  “Ha! There’s your War Hound in action Ferschall. He’s just a lazy old ranch dog most of the time. He was a real worker back in his day though.”

  “You may only see him for what he was in your world, I see the product of what his ancestors, over generations, were bred to become in ours. His kind is rare, if they even exist at all these days. Don’t take him for granted, yes? He may not be as old as you suppose.”

  “Well, whatever he may be, he’s my best friend. I’ll keep him safe either way.”

  Ferschall responded with another wide-eyed smile. “Want to show me what you have in your hand?” The question nearly caught Leon off guard. He squared his shoulders and slid his free hand over his fist. For some reason, he wasn’t in the mood to share his secret with anyone else just yet.

  “Not really.”

  Ferschall mumbled to himself as he shimmied away, back down to the others. Leon held up the Medallion once more to study it in the light before tucking it away in his pocket.

  A few minutes later, Shana slid down next to him. “You look like you’re ready to pick a fight. Promise not to bite if I pet Merle for a bit?”

  Leon chuckled. “Sure, knock yourself out. Watch out, though. According to our native tour guide, Merle’s a Bladed War Hound. Whatever that means.”

  Shana just laughed as they settled into a comfortable conversation, recalling stories from when they were kids and giving each other a hard time as they remembered conflicting events from different perspectives. Leon had just begun to forget the anxiety of their situation and to enjoy himself when an odd sound carried over the wind, giving him pause.

  Motioning Shana quiet, Leon concentrated. At first, he could only hear the same whistling wail he had been hearing for hours. Yet, he could have sworn he had heard more than simple wind screaming through the rocks moments before. Then, just as the wind briefly died, there it went again. The sound of a screaming cat could be heard clearly without the gust of a stout breeze to drown it out.

  When he leaped from his ledge, Ferschall was also listening intently, ear cocked in the same general direction. Leon eventually found his eye and arched a brow.

  Reed beat him to the punch, “I think someone should check on things down there. I'll be right back.”

  "Wait!" Ferschall shouted. Once Reed stopped, he continued speaking through Leon, “No one leaves our group. We all go or no one goes, yes? It's too dangerous to split up at this point.".

  Leon started translating, then stopped, grimacing as a new sound that echoed up from down below.

  Ferschall held up a finger to quiet them all, before resuming, “That was a Hootsi warrior signaling the rest of the pack, they’ve obviously found our trail up the gorge and will be closing in on Ben and his men soon. If you all are intent on accompanying me, we do it my way, understand?”

  There were nods of consent all the way around, though it was more of a rhetorical question.

  Ferschall immediately laid out the ground rules. “I go first, followed by you, you, and you.” He pointed to Reed, Shana, then Leon, respectively. “We move quietly and stay down in these crevices as much as possible, yes? You all hold still where you are, even if I have to slip around a corner to get a better look at something.

  "Don’t move unless I come back and wave you forward. If I come running back up the ravine, don't pause to ask me any foolish questions. Just turn and run. Everyone, sprint back up to that shallow cave over there where we’ll stash our gear. Leon, you and Shana be ready to dive in and get set to throw what few spears we still have while Reed and I make a stand with our Blades. Understand?”

  When Leon finished communicating his instructions Shana raised a hand.

  “What?”

  “How do you throw a spear?” Leon translated.

  Ferschall threw his hands into the air. “Pointy end forward!”

  # # #

  They slowly backtracked a quarter mile down the trail. The slope wasn’t especially steep, but the adrenaline paired with all the hurry up and wait created quite an intense hike.

  Ferschall signaled a fast stop about once every ten feet until he eventually found a vantage point to his liking. After a few long moments, he glanced back over his shoulder and gestured for them to quietly approach his shaded ledge.

  Leon cautiously took a peek and could immediately recall that particular portion of terrain down below. The gorge continued to steadily rise from the trail at the bottom, but cliffs collapsed down at steep angles from either side, choking the passageway leading up the ravine.

  From the shadow at the bottom of the far cliff, one enormous black-clad figure stepped out into the afternoon sun just as a mob of Hootsi warriors, accompanied by two Anastashe riders, slowly rounded the bend. The big man held several spears in his arms. He stopped and quickly drove them all down into the ground before him. Th
en, he lifted his head back and let loose one of those wailing howls Leon first heard the night Gus had been attacked. Even hidden well out of reach, in the middle of the day, Leon felt goosebumps form up and down his arms.

  Ferschall’s jaw dropped, “Impossible.”

  If the Hootsi were surprised, they did a great job of hiding it. With practiced discipline, they all stopped at once and lifted their arms to shake their spears in the air. The two riders on cats simultaneously leaped forward to charge their giant foe in some unspoken command.

  The man in the suit stood motionless one moment and then, in the blink of an eye, spears were flying at the Hootsi, being released in a rhythm like a piston in an engine. The scene was hard to comprehend at first. Leon grew up hunting with rifles, but he occasionally used a bow. The speed at which those heavy metal spears sliced into the ranks of the charging enemy stunned him. In his estimation, those bolts moved much faster than any flash of fletching ever flung from the sixty-pound-draw on his old compound bow.

  Even so, the cats dodged the first few throws. Soon enough though, spear points found their mark. Painted Hootsi warriors screamed in horror as the two magnificent mounts went crashing down. The feline steeds thrashed about, biting down, and pawing at the burning pain buried within their chests. One even found the heart to slowly continue a shaky slog forward. Awful, ear splitting wails of dying cats and screaming Hootsi drowned out the sound of the wind. The lengthy bolts did their job in the end and both cats went still under the penetrating weight of sharpened iron.

  After their initial surprise at the speed and lethal accuracy of the lone warrior, a few of the Hootsi near the back of the pack quickly spread out, clearly preparing to bull rush their opponent. However, before they could make their move, two more enormous black-clad men leaped behind them from the cliffs above. The two new additions to the fight effectively blocked an escape. The Hootsi were forced to fight a battle on two fronts.

  The lone warrior, still blocking the path up the ravine, continued to zip spears into the ranks of the enemy. Yet when they charged, attempting to overrun him, several were immediately cut down by even more bolts coming down from the cliff above.

  Then, from directly behind Leon and his friends, Leon heard the skitter patter clacking of rocks and pebbles being dislodged. He turned and momentarily lost his breath.

  Three monstrous panthers were racing down the ravine. Above each panther rode a savage Hootsi warrior. The Hootsi warriors atop their Anastashe steeds were fluid pictures of grace in motion. They leaned back as their mounts dove forward, weaving headfirst through a rugged trail of boulders, leaping and dodging obstacles in their path.

  Each of the warriors clenched a spear in their free hand. They were so close Leon could see the white in the knuckles of the one leading the charge. The rage in his eyes remained fixed on the devastation below. He and his men rushed past like a soft breeze on padded paws the size of dinner plates. Leon could smell the hardy scent of cured leather from the saddles they rode, it was there for a heartbeat and gone like a forgotten dream before he could even blink. Leon couldn’t help but respect them for such a demonstration of physical prowess and noble pride.

  Then tragedy struck. Before they could make it another twenty feet down the ridge, a series of spears came slashing through the air, across Leon's periphery, from somewhere in the shadows of the rocks above.

  The first three targeted the rider’s mounts. The timing was such that each spear connected mid-leap. The panther's graceful descent was shattered. Their bodies crumbled, careening off rock faces and crashing down, head over heels. They disappeared from his sight down the belly of the ravine, and their Hootsi riders were thrown from their saddles.

  Within moments, another one of the black-clad skin-changers stood from a well-hidden location further up the ravine. He loped down the hill after the fallen Hootsi. For the first time, Leon could clearly see the thick mask covering the mercenary’s face. A tinted visor built into the fabric stretched over the eyes. It looked like polished plastic or glass, but it gave no reflection in the sun's light.

  Further down, one of the three fallen Hootsi jumped up and launched his own spear. His throw sailed true, but wounded as he was, it carried nowhere near the force of his larger opponent. The mercenary in black didn’t even bother to dodge the javelin. He simply knocked it away with one of his own at the last moment. Without breaking stride, he flicked his arm in a blur of motion. The Hootsi fell to a knee, the spear stuck through his belly. He made an effort to rise, but the wolfman was on him in seconds, swiftly ending the struggle.

  The scene down below played out in a similar fashion. The two men from behind converged on the remaining Hootsi. They pushed the warriors up the gorge to face their lone companion.

  The solo warrior stood his ground. Though he didn’t leave his position to attack, he let no one pass him by either. He moved with such speed and skill that not one Hootsi was able to touch him. Twice, they tried to rush him in mass, but spear thrusts from above continued to disrupt the effort. The third time, however, there was no help from above.

  Just before the solo soldier was overrun, the man who slew the three riders made it down into the pass. When he took the side of his ally, the few remaining Hootsi retreated up against a cliff and the fight moved out of view.

  Leon made no further attempt to witness the inevitable conclusion. He turned his back to the ledge and slumped down onto the bare gravel. Pushing his hat up with fingers that felt numb, he scratched at his head. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around what he had just witnessed. Everything seemed so senseless, he could barely grasp the gravity and scale of what had just gone down.

  Shana was already curled up at his side, sobbing quiet tears. He put his arm around her to give comfort, and she folded over on him in a tight hug. Her tears continued to flow less quietly.

  Leon looked to the others for answers as he held her. Reed still watched the battlefield below, blinking, wide-eyed. Leon couldn’t help but think he looked like a man attempting to solve a puzzle missing a few pieces.

  However, Ferschall’s response concerned him the most. Visibly shaken, his back was to the scene below. His jaw was clenched, and the knuckles of his right hand were white where they gripped his Blade handle. His eyes smoldered in stormy torrents of emotion.

  Leon had known, going into things that afternoon, that he and his companions were being hunted and that they were all in a dangerous situation, but in those last few moments of the fight it was sure hard to know how to feel about the outcome.

  # # #

  A half hour passed before Ben came looking for them. He was still dressed in his black tactical gear. His overly long sleeves and leggings were rolled up neatly to fit his smaller, human frame. He wasn’t wearing a mask. Leon noticed his free hand rested on the elaborately decorated pommel of a Hootsi sword in a leather sheath at his side. He smelled awful.

  Before he could speak, Ferschall lashed out at him through Leon, “What have you done?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Like I tried to tell you before, we aren’t prey, Mr. Grimm, we are predators. Besides, we wouldn’t have had to do what we did, had they not been attempting to kill us all after you let that fool go free!”

  Ferschall continued on a moment later, an abhorrent look in his eyes “I’m not talking about that, though that's bad enough. I’m talking about your ability to change in daylight, yes? What have you done? How do you not all have sun sickness at this point? Have you no idea what you will soon become!?”

  “Easy Ferschall, no one’s going rogue. It’s called tech-no-lo-gy. We use this clothing to fully protect us from the sun’s…well, just tell him no light touches our skin. Overlapping neoprene straps and Kevlar padding keep us completely protected. Our faces and eyes are also fully protected. While wearing these suits it is dark-thirty to our senses." He waited while Leon did his best to convey the general idea before continuing, "This is what we are able to create, to achieve, in our world. It’s an enhancement
of our natural abilities, and back where we come from, it is a small sample of the power we wield.”

  Ferschall’s shoulders dropped as he let out a breath he had been holding, "He's wrong, Leon, it’s twisting what is already twisted. It should not be done. Tell him I would like to speak with his prisoners.”

  Ben dropped his eyes for the first time. “There are no prisoners.”

  “What?” Ferschall's voice held a cold edge.

  “Not one of them bastards gave up. They don’t quit, I’ll give ‘em that.” He lifted his face once more, and his voice broke as he spoke, “Also, Jace is dead.”

  The news hit Leon hard for some reason. “Jace? How? You were all so much faster, so much stronger!”

  Ben looked even more dejected after Leon’s statement. “Sure we were. But let that be a lesson to us all as well. No one's bulletproof. One of them must have snuck up on him from behind. Not an easy thing to do, but what’s done is done.”

  He continued, “Of the three Hootsi Cooper stopped up here, only one managed to escape. At the time, Coop assumed he wouldn’t pose a problem. He didn't have time to stick around as I was a little outnumbered down below.”

  Shana gasped. “Coop was the one watching over us up here?”

  A small twinkle worked its way back into Ben’s eye. “That’s right, princess. What do you think of our mild-mannered doctor now?”

  Shana stammered, not knowing how to respond.

  Ferschall interjected, oblivious to the new direction the conversation had taken, “We should at least grant them the respect of covering their bodies, yes? I assume you also want to bury your friend?”

  “Yes, we need to give Jace a proper burial.” Ben agreed.