Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  “The red wyvern.”

  “Told you,” Devan replied. “Go ahead, Grand Master. Try it out.”

  The dwarf raised the weapon up to the man. Bladesorrow hesitated a moment, then took it. He held it straight out, peering down its length, then took a few probing swings of his own.

  “Heftier than it looks. Impeccable balance. A fine weapon.”

  “A blade fit for a shadow-attuned blademaster. Ridiculous that they’ve been banned for nearly 600 years. The Aldur have used them for millennia. Much better than steel, even elementally enforced.”

  Taul assumed a modified River stance and took a few, more purposeful swings.

  “Right then.” Devan clapped his hands together, chained rings jangling. He moved to position himself in front of the Grand Master Keeper. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Bladesorrow cocked an eyebrow. “Against you?” He inspected Devan for a time, then said, “You’re unarmed.”

  Devan rolled his eyes. “Honestly. Do you think I’d step in front of one of the greatest swordsmen of all time and ask him to spar if I was unarmed?”

  To the man’s credit, the Grand Master Keeper continued to study him, probing for trickery. Most would have looked at him as if he were a lunatic. But Devan persisted and the man eventually shrugged. The Grand Master took a deep breath and settled into classical Stone stance.

  Well, he’s certainly living up to his reputation. Devan had pulled this stunt on many a blademaster. Virtually all of them assumed an aggressive posture, trusting what their eyes told them. Bladesorrow, however, had taken up the most defensive of the stances. It was a basic adage that you never took an aggressive opening against the unknown. But so few masters actually abided by the lesson that Devan had developed his own adage: It’s often the tragically unskilled—or at least those who seem to be—who pose the greatest threat to a master. The fable of the farm boy with the quarterstaff held all too much truth.

  The Grand Master approached, shuffling diagonally to both encircle Devan and close the distance between them. When he reached striking distance, he fainted a blow at Devan’s shin, attempting to draw him out, glean an idea of his true defenses. Crocodile Snaps its Jaws. Devan smiled but remained still, shaking his head. Bladesorrow circled some more, then slashed at Devan’s midsection.

  Heron Soars at Sunrise.

  Devan stuck out his hand, picturing in his mind the longsword necessary to parry the strike. Gate Slams Shut on Evening. Just before Bladesorrow’s blow disemboweled him, Devan deflected it away, the outline of a blade shimmering for just a moment in Devan’s outstretched hand.

  The strike had left the Grand Master’s weak side exposed. In an instant, Devan changed his mental image to that of a dirk, lashing out at the weakness, aiming to land a glancing blow to Bladesorrow’s side. Mouse Through the Keyhole. To anyone assuming he held an invisible longsword, it would have looked an impossible maneuver. Precisely what Devan wanted. He grinned as he imagined the great Grand Master Keeper’s shocked reaction.

  Devan’s strike met steel, deflecting off the Grand Master’s wrist. The man shoved him away, the bracer he wore flashing in the sunlight. Devan blinked and took a step back. Bladesorrow resumed his defensive posture.

  “What is this trickery?” the Grand Master Keeper growled.

  Devan flashed a smile. No one—no Linear anyway—had ever defensed that combination of Gate Slams and Mouse before. He could hardly contain his eagerness to continue.

  “It’s my paws,” Devan replied, wiggling his fingers up before his face.

  Bladesorrow regarded him like a physician might regard a crazed lout. Devan looked to Nellis, who was giving him a similarly vacant look. He sighed.

  “P-A-W? Psychic Aptitude Weapon?” Still no reaction from the man or the dwarf. “Well I thought it was clever anyway,” Devan muttered to himself. Then, so that Taul could hear. “Come. Let’s continue.” He charged at the man, not waiting for consent.

  Bear Crushes the Door.

  Dimly from the corner of his eye, Devan noticed the courtyard brighten. The Grand Master drove the ebon blade tip first into the ground in the face of Devan’s charge. Shadow power exploded from the point of impact, sending Devan flying backward, slamming into the courtyard’s wall. He sat where he’d landed for a moment, shaking off the daze.

  Then he burst out laughing.

  “Grand Master, let me tell you. It’s not often someone lives up to the expectations set for them by the written histories. But ho ho! Do you ever. I see why the Symposium liked you so.”

  Bladesorrow’s face dropped, taking on an almost ashen appearance. He spun and strode several paces away. Nellis grumbled something that Devan couldn’t quite hear.

  “You know, dwarf,” Devan said, looking after the retreating Grand Master, “if you really think I’m some kind of god, you shouldn’t go around cursing me under your breath like that.”

  Nellis flushed. “My apol’gies,” he said, without the faintest hint of ardor in his voice. “But ye hit a nerve. The news just came yest’day. Senate voted te disband the Symposium. May Trimale help us.”

  Muddy ruts in the high road on trade day! The Path truly was falling apart. Agarsfar’s government structure was one of its defining features; Lady Tragnè’s finest civic achievement. Twenty senators each from two diametrically opposed factions—the Keepers and Parents—tempered by the Commons, twenty ordinary Agarians randomly selected every two years to serve. An elegantly simple solution to maintain balance. But remove the Keepers... Devan had no doubt the Parents had already moved in to ensure their dominance. They’d likely been behind the disbanding in the first place.

  He let out a long sigh and pushed himself back to his feet, wincing slightly as his back popped where it had impacted the wall.

  “I won’t lie to you, master dwarf. The current outlook is grim. We must protect that man at all costs; help him however we can. With our lives if need be. The Path is certain to fall without him.”

  Nellis bowed his head. “A heavy burden ye’ give me, Angel. But I was raised te serve the Aldur, and serve I shall. Besides, I like the man.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Grand Master Keeper. “His heart. It’s in teh right place, even if recent exper’ence ’as soured ’im. Certainly wouldn’t want to see ’im—”

  “I’m still here,” the Grand Master gruffed. “I won’t be talked about like a piece of pottery that needs protecting. Nellis has been putting off my questions for months, telling me to wait for your arrival, Angel. Well now you’re here. Stop treating me like a toy and tell me what’s going on.”

  Devan narrowed his eyes at the man, then sighed at the look on his face. It left no room for subterfuge.

  “You’re familiar with the Angelic Church?”

  Bladesorrow leered at him, folding his arms. “You know I am, Angel. Let’s skip the games and get to the part where you start giving actual information.”

  Devan raised both eyebrows. The man was right, of course. Devan knew everything there was to know about him. Knowing things was his business. But Taul Lightsblade had never been so mordant.

  “Very well. Then I presume you also understand just what it was that attacked you that day at the Dales?”

  Bladesorrow closed his eyes and ran a hand over his scalp. He nodded.

  “I see. Then you must also understand that Lesser Terrors are not of this plane. They’re from the Elsewhere, where the rules of time don’t work the same, if they even have time there at all. When it attacked you with that shadow heart—”

  “The Terror wasn’t the one that—”

  Devan held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt.”

  This time the Grand Master Keeper raised his eyebrows. The man was far from arrogant but was wholly unaccustomed to being addressed as a subservient. But at least he shut his mouth.

  “When it attacked you? Well.... You died.”

  To Devan’s surprise, the Grand Master didn’t immediately react in any outward way, his face instead turning pen
sive. Almost as if this revelation weren’t a total surprise to him. And perhaps it wasn’t. Even if he didn’t have true memories of his death, his metaphysical self certainly knew it had happened. His subconscious might realize the truth, even if the man would never be able to explain why news of his having died didn’t surprise him. Eventually, it was Nellis who cried out.

  “No he didn’t. Ye saved ’im. I was there. He is here.”

  “Yes,” Devan said. “I did. But he also died.”

  Nellis’s face paled. “The paradox ye spoke of? That’s what ye meant?”

  Devan nodded. “First, someone—” it didn’t seem prudent to tell them another Aldur had attacked the Grand Master, “—or something, I suppose, killed the Grand Master well before he’s meant to die on the True Path. The result was catastrophic—like a dam splitting clean open. The flows of time became confused, flowing in so many directions the forward momentum of existence itself began to slow, sending shockwaves of temporal disturbance through the Path. Like thunderstorms that can change the past and future.”

  “A dam?” the dwarf mumbled, face contorting.

  The Grand Master Keeper remained silent, though Devan could see from his pursed lips he understood the implications. Bladesorrow might not have been an adherent of the Church, but Devan knew he’d read more than his share of the Church’s texts during his years at the Symposium.

  “So I came here,” Devan went on, shifting his full focus to the Grand Master. “One year ago. By your reckoning anyway. And I saved you. It was the only way to keep the Path from falling into irreconcilable desolation. Or so I thought, anyway. Saving you ought to have at least stabilized things. But it didn’t. Things only got worse. If we don’t do something soon, there won’t be enough of the Path left to save it.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” the Grand Master finally said. “Lesser Terrors aren’t an infrequent occurrence; there’s dozens of records of men being killed by the creatures throughout Agarsfar’s history. None of those deaths ever caused a break in the Path before. Why now? Why should I have been any different?”

  Devan glanced at Nellis. The dwarf’s wide eyes betrayed that he’d already connected the dots.

  “Because,” Devan replied, “until now a Lesser Terror had never successfully attacked a Constant.”

  Bladesorrow furrowed his brow, then shot an incredulous look to Nellis. When the dwarf gave no indication of dispute, he spun back to face Devan.

  “That’s outrageous. Me? A Constant? Anyone who’s read the Angelic texts knows there are only four Agarian Constants.”

  Devan shook his head. “You’re thinking much too linearally. Of course during the Constant’s own life the texts don’t proclaim him or her to be such. Think of the inflated egos that would cause. Not to mention the causal loops.” Devan gave a mock shudder.

  “Impossible.”

  Devan shrugged. “Perhaps. But impossible’s never stopped a paradox before. When you both died and I saved you, it was like hitting a keystone with a hammer—the whole arch came tumbling down. And not only that, the keystone—you—split in two.”

  A gurgle of shocked surprise issued from Bladesorrow’s throat.

  “Yes,” Devan said. “That is the paradox. Two of you existing at once. As best I can tell, you’re the Leifar, or remnant half if you don’t speak the old tongue. Taul Lightsblade did, but I’ve no idea about you. You’re the one I removed the shadow heart from. I’m still searching for the Andstaed, or your anti-self. The one that I didn’t remove the shadow heart from.”

  “But didn’t ye just say the other died?” Nellis asked. “Surely if there were another Taul that didn’t have the shadow heart removed, he’d have died? Wouldn’t that mean the other half is dead?”

  It was a fair question, one with which Devan had been grappling and was still without a wholly satisfactory answer. But he knew one thing for certain.

  “The other half can’t be dead. I’m not sure how yet, but something must have happened to keep it living. It’s the only answer, for if the anti-self were dead, we’d be no better off than if I hadn’t saved the Grand Master in the first place. It would mean an unresolvable paradox involving a Constant. The Path would have devolved into madness by now. We wouldn’t be here at all. Even with both still living it’s degraded at an unacceptable rate. No. The Grand Master’s other half must yet live. The paradox can still be resolved. I just have to—”

  “Enough,” boomed Bladesorrow. Even Devan felt inclined to take a step back from the power his voice emanated.

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing at Angel, or what role you think you’ll have me play in it. But let’s be clear—I’ll not participate.”

  “But the Path.”

  “Elsewhere take the Path,” the Grand Master almost snarled. Nellis let out a low moan at this blasphemy.

  “I’ve served the people of your blasted Path my whole life and look where it got me. All those loyal to me dead or suffering.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the tents out on the Founders’ Circle. “North and South more spiteful than ever. Me an exile and a pariah. Those I care about—” he trailed off, body visibly quaking with anger. “I’ve no intent to help you or anyone else.”

  The man stormed out of the courtyard without another word. Devan stared after him, then turned to Nellis. That was hardly how he’d envisioned the encounter with the Grand Master progressing.

  “Is he always so sensitive?”

  Nellis harrumphed and plopped down on the edge of the fountain.

  “Ye did just tell ’im he died. And that he’s been split in two.”

  “Yes. And?”

  Nellis only stared in reply and eventually Devan threw up his arms.

  “Never mind. You’ll explain more if he has questions?”

  “Aye.”

  “About how the only way to resolve the paradox is to bring the remnant and anti-self together so they can annihilate?”

  Nellis frowned. “Are ye even sure that will fix it?”

  “Of course not. Nothing is sure when it comes to a paradox, save that if it’s unresolved there will never be anything to be unsure of ever again. Because there won’t be anything.”

  The dwarf couldn’t even understand the half of it. The Path’s terrain was so marred, it was possible it might never flow the same way again. You couldn’t expect to take a river, cut a dozen new branches in it, block it up with a mountain’s worth of boulders, and still expect its course to remain unchanged. But you could try to dam those branches, dredge up the rocks, and return it to a semblance of what had been before.

  “So you’ll speak to him?”

  “Aye. Aye.” The dwarf bobbed his head, mustaches swinging back and forth.

  “Good. Have you been able to draw any more information from him about what happened at Riverdale?”

  The dwarf shook his head. “Very little. He hates te speak o’ it, though he did confirm it was teh Grand Father who he’d tried te work wit’. To org’nize peace talks.”

  Devan had to strain his memory to recall who’d been raised to the Grand Parentage at this time.

  “Shinzar?”

  Nellis shook his head. “Shinzar? Nay. He was favored for a time, but never raised. Valdin is Grand Father now. He was raised a few years ago.” A puzzled expression crossed the High Emissary’s face. “Can’t recall exac’ly when.”

  It took every ounce of self-control Devan had to keep his face neutral. Valdin? Bloody footprints on a dust-blown path! He’d rarely used the traitor’s full name, but it was unmistakable. Val had always liked to say there was none other like it on all the Path. So this was where he’d been hiding. Devan had to control the urge to spit. His feelings may have softened, but this sudden revelation caused the hate to rise within him once more like a raging storm.

  Val had a silken tongue, but Devan doubted that even he could have manipulated his way all the way up to the Grand Parentage without the full extent of his Alduric powers. Which meant the
turncloak had been at this game since even before he’d murdered the others. And once entrenched in the Temple, he was powerful enough to maintain the charade even after he’d been stripped of his shadow powers (and thus his ability to peregrinate), reduced to little more than an ordinary—if supremely powerful—Linear. Near-irresistible mind enchantment was possible with only four, sometimes just three, of the elements. The fact that such mental violations were forbidden wouldn’t stop Val now, and he was skilled enough that he wouldn’t immediately destroy the minds of those under his compulsion. Such acts would be petty misdemeanors compared to his other crimes. Those around him would simply take his presence for granted, caught in his elemental web of deceit. Devan knew that if pressed, none would be able to recall just how long they’d known him or how he’d risen to his current station. Nellis’s curious expression was all the confirmation Devan needed of that. The dwarf had been embroiled in the politics of the land and even he couldn’t recall the man’s history.

  “Angel?” Nellis gave him a questioning look.

  “Nellis,” Devan replied hurriedly. “Valdin is...” Devan hesitated. He detested the thought of putting faith in a Linear. But if Val was involved, Devan would need all the help he could get.

  “Valdin is like me. An Aldur. Or at least, he was. I wounded him; robbed him of some of his power. But he is dangerous. And ruthless.”

  Nellis’s beard blazed against his suddenly white face. His shoulders sagged and he Pathed himself again.

  “Trimale help us all,” the dwarf mumbled. “But it explains much. An Aldur disguised as teh most pow’ful man in Agarsfar? He’d be able te change an’thing he wanted.”

  In fact, it raised more questions than it answered for Devan. If Val held such power in this time, why go through the hassle of killing the Grand Master at Riverdale? And summoning a creature from the Elsewhere no less to do it? There were too many variables. Why not just order him murdered in a dark alley? Sodden, pot-holed paths! If Val had been here in this time long enough, why not simply kill Bladesorrow before he was even elected Grand Master? Even if Val was working with forces of the Elsewhere—a possibility Devan still couldn’t bring himself to fully accept—certainly they could have aided in the act without doing so in front of so many witnesses at the Dales.