by D. T. Kane
Taul growled and drew his blade. Feigned confidence was often the highest tier of bravery one could hope to achieve. The Andstaed slipped again, reappearing with its own blade drawn, feet squared in an arrogant variation of Blaze stance. Anger swelled in Taul at the sight of Friend Slayer in the abomination’s hands. He advanced a step, shielding Ferrin’s writhing form with his own.
“We have waited for this moment, Bladesorrow.” The placid voice had returned, seductive in its calm. The Andstaed gave him a smile like that of a proud father to a son. Taul fought a sudden urge to lower his blade.
You must only touch it. Devan’s words darted through his mind.
“Touch us?” the calm voice susurrated. “Certainly you’re intelligent enough to realize we’ll never allow that?”
“Perhaps he isn’t,” cooed a female voice from the Andstaed’s mouth. “He is a Linear after all. Poor thing.”
“Let us play with him.” This voice shook him nearly as much as the placid elder, crazed and cruel.
“End him,” boomed what sounded to be a giant of a man.
Taul grated his teeth. Even more startling than the disparate voices was how the Andstaed’s expression changed to match each. Abrupt spasms and twitching of which no human face ought to be capable.
“Fight me then and we’ll see just how able you are to stop me.” His challenge sounded empty in the room’s vastness, dying like a whisper spoken into a storm.
The grandfatherly look returned to the monster’s face, though this time it was one of disappointment. Taul knew the thing’s seductive tricks, but shame gnawed at him all the same as its gaze washed over him.
“Your courage is wasted.” The Andstaed waved a hand through the air, level with Taul’s side. He doubled over in agony. His own face looked down at him, eyes projecting the pity of a farmer preparing to slaughter his prize swine.
“Let us show you how a battle would go. Then perhaps you’ll relent in your pointless resistance.”
It raised a hand. The blade toppled from Taul’s suddenly useless fingers. He clutched his throat, unable to breath, vision blurring.
He was looking down on the ballroom from above his own head, watching himself dueling the Andstaed. Some part of him realized this was a trick, like what the Angel had done at the trial to show his memory of Riverdale. Except this was different, showing not what had been, but what would come to pass.
Their blades were a blur. He moved with the swift precision that first Raldon, then Rikar, had taught him. Lion Rages at Noon transitioned to Lady Spreads Her Fan to Water Down a Narrow Stream.
But he was a sloth compared to the Andstaed.
Manticore Stalks about the Glade.
Sun Blazes Over Parched Earth.
Rapids Burst Over the Dam.
Perfect counters, like it knew what he would do before he knew his own thoughts. And that was without even accounting for its ability to slip from place to place. The Andstaed would leave its flank open, only to disappear a split second before he could land a blow. And whenever he gained an advantage, the thing merely waved a hand at his side, causing his back to arch in excruciating pain.
It was toying with him, just as the mad voice had said. A predator playing with its kill before the feast. Eventually, he knew, the hunger would become too great. But not soon enough. While he was doubled over from the pain in his side, he watched as the thing walked—no glided—over to the boy, lifted him off the ground by his throat, and ran him through with Friend Slayer. Ferrin gagged on his own blood as it bubbled over his bottom lip, down his chin, dripping onto the floor with audible thwacks. Then the Andstaed tossed his body into the darkness like so much garbage.
Rage overcame Taul’s features and he lunged at the thing’s back. It stopped him mid lunge with an absent gesture. The sword fell from his hand as he dropped to all fours and bellowed. It stalked behind him, squaring its shoulders into Sun stance.
Jackal Smiles at Lamed Prey.
Then it placed the tip of Friend Slayer’s blade at the nape of his neck. Taul was unable to move, consciousness consumed by pain and worse—the excruciating anxiety of failure. The Andstaed’s arms rose. The blade dropped.
Taul’s eyes snapped open. The Andstaed remained before him, wearing a look that chastised him like a disappointed elder. He snatched up his blade from where it had fallen. The leather grip was slick with sweat.
“Now you see,” the calm voice practically purred. “Your fate is inevitable. Why not drop that blade? We know you feel the tranquility it would bring. You’ve earned it, Grand Master. You owe this world nothing. It’s done naught but take your hard work, your perseverance, your sweat, and stomp upon them. No one cares about you. You needn’t care for them.”
These words rolled off its tongue like a sweet song, willing Taul to ease into the silken sheet of calm they offered. The final sentence, you needn’t care for them, perseverated about his skull like a lover’s gentle murmurs, touching emotions long forgotten. He’d spent nearly his whole life in one state of anguish or another. First over the arena; then over the inequity of the North-South conflict; then Rikar’s death; then Riverdale. Now he could add to that list the fall of Tragnè City to Valdin’s lies and the deaths of Raldon. Jenzara. Devan. Nellis. Maybe the boy too—he no longer appeared to be moving. It never ended. But it could. Peace was only a word away.
“Messorem,” Ferrin wheezed from the floor beside him.
Taul shook his head, the word bringing with it a chill so violent he nearly dropped his weapon once more. “What did you say?” he asked, looking down to Ferrin.
“Messorem,” the boy repeated. “Devan said he would try to steal our hope.”
“Silence!” the Andstaed roared. Black corruption shot from its hand, slamming into Ferrin and sending his limp body skidding out onto the balcony.
Messorem? The name cut through the fog of the Andstaed’s seduction like an axe through wood. The Andstaed was merely a vessel for the Seven. And if he failed here, the transformation would be complete. They would be unleashed.
Taul lashed out. It didn’t matter if the vision had been true. Probably it was—the Seven could likely see the future just like the Aldur. But if he was to be the Conclave’s proxy in this last battle for time, then he’d make sure the Path went down roaring, not whimpering into oblivion. The elemental steel of Nellis’s sword met the gleaming blade of the false Friend Slayer. The chamber seemed to quake with the impact.
There had been no exaggeration in the fiend’s vision. Taul had never been one for idle bragging, but neither had he ever seen a place for false modesty. His skill with a blade was virtually unparalleled. He’d even surpassed Rikar during the man’s later years.
But this abomination possessed every skill he had. Its parries and ripostes were deathly precise, so much so he became hesitant to take the initiative. And just as the vision had suggested, the thing seemed to know his every move, guarding even his most intricate combinations with ease. Taul’s legs began to ache with the constant effort of changing stances, while the monster seemed to exert no energy at all.
Around the hall they weaved, between pillars, in and out of purple shadows, across a carpet the color of dying men’s innards. More than once, Taul rounded a pillar to find the creature gone, only to be accosted from behind like a junior docent who’d never handled a sword. The enhanced mail the Northerners had given him saved his life more than once, but his back still cried out in agony from the crushing impacts of the Andstaed’s blows.
Breathing hard, Taul stepped back, seeking a moment of respite. Blood pounded in his ears like a river running red with viscera. He glanced over his shoulder to the balcony where Ferrin still lay, unmoving. He feared the boy was dead and felt the gripping hopelessness of the Andstaed’s presence begin to overtake him once more. His left side, where Valdin had stabbed him all those years ago, had become a blinding sea of pain, inflamed by the fighting and the creature’s proximity. His seared right arm fared little better.
And still the monster pressed him. Its face never altered from halcyon smoothness, that grandfatherly comfort. But it was a façade. Its blows were merciless. Evil given flesh. Faster and faster. Taul’s right hand ached from the force of its strikes. He shifted to Stone stance and wished for a shield. On and on. He breathed in ragged gasps, like sloshing water at the bottom of a jug on a scorching day.
He faltered, offering a parry to what had been only a feint. Friend Slayer took him full in the side. The blow cut clean through his armor, serrating skin; impacting rib. He bellowed and spun away, somehow remaining on his feet. But this was the beginning of the end. He knew it.
“And so the Constant falls,” cried the crazed voice, crooning like a demented animal. An insane gleam of hunger momentarily shown in the Andstaed’s eyes. His own blue eyes. Then a muscle in its face twitched and the placidity returned.
“A shame we could not have met under different circumstances, Grand Master,” the mild voice of Messorem said. For that was the only one to whom that voice could belong. The leader of the Seven’s ill-fated break from the Aldur and their Conclave. The Andstaed aimed another slicing attack at his midsection that he was only just able to fend off. “You’d have made a useful servant. Far better than the fallen Angel.”
Taul clenched his fists, both at the pain radiating from his side, and also for the knowledge that all he had to do was touch the thing to resolve the paradox, to end this whole nightmare. As though none of it had ever happened. But he might as well have told a dismembered man he need only climb the stairs for a drink of water.
The Andstaed smiled at him, an expression so vile he shuddered. Like a stranger laughing at a child’s failure. So cruel as to be incomprehensible.
“You realize the end is here. Not just for you, but for the world as you know it. It has been long since we walked the Path. But now we return to exact all the vengeance that is our due. To shape a world in our image.”
Taul tried to picture a world birthed by the Seven. One where every man was either devoid of all mercy and compassion or subjugated to the cruelty of such men.
No. It could not be. This society, this existence, might have a multitude of complications. Some atrocities even. But deep down he knew people were good. Scared and, as a result, often foolish. But still good. The Seven would destroy that basic nature, smother it until it died gasping for air under the weight of their malevolence.
But what could he do? His eyes jerked about the room, finally falling on the form of Ferrin, still unmoving on the balcony.
No. Not unmoving. He seemed to be pawing at his throat, like he couldn’t breathe. Taul feigned a strike at the Andstaed, buying himself enough opportunity to half hurry, half stagger over to the boy. He could at least give Ferrin the decency of a held hand as he took his final breaths. But when he knelt over him, Taul realized the boy wasn’t actually choking, but rather yanking at the chain around his throat, the necklace of rings he’d said his father had given him. His eyes were frantic, as if the thing were burning. Taul grasped it, intending to rip it free.
He gasped. Cold fire shot through his arm, clearing his mind, heightening his senses until he thought his head might burst. All thought of pulling the chain from the boy’s neck ceased. And yet, it separated from Ferrin’s neck of its own accord. The boy exhaled with such force his back arched off the floor.
“Take it,” Ferrin croaked, eyes staring upward at nothing. “This is the moment Devan spoke of. Use it.”
Taul had no clue what the boy meant. And he heard the Andstaed approaching. Frantic, not knowing what else to do, he tried to slip one of the rings onto his finger. It didn’t fit. At least, not at first. Then, it seemed to form to the shape of his digit like melting wax, molding to its circumference. A fresh jolt of energy hit his brain.
He did it again with the next ring. Same result, molding to his finger, invigorating his mind. So he did it again, and again, and again, until he had five rings on each hand, connected by fine chains. They chimed as he moved his arms, like tiny bells of hope. A sound that had always accompanied a certain visitor. Not jewelry at all.
Weapons.
Taul rose from Ferrin’s now-still form. He turned, shoulders square to his assailant. Angst drained from his face, replaced by sharp resolve that cut the air before him like a knife of sheer will. He still couldn’t move quickly enough to catch the Andstaed. But perhaps he wouldn’t have to. Not if the hunter had already caught its prey and thought the day won.
Sun stance came easily to him then. He raised Nellis’s sword above his head, the melody of the chained rings strengthening his resolve. A lesson he’d once heard Suzahne give to a student crossed his mind. And so it was, at the balcony’s entryway, on the border of the outside’s light and the ballroom’s dreadful dark, that tranquility finally touched his soul.
Wide smile gaping like a bottomless crater, the Andstaed stabbed forward. Taul didn’t try to evade, not even as he felt the blade penetrate his abdomen and exit through his back. Blood bubbled up his throat, into his mouth, steaming and metallic. The time for resistance had passed. He stepped forward, allowing Friend Slayer to burrow deeper, his own sword dropping from his hands and clattering uselessly to the floor. The pain was so great his mind ceased to process it. He was moving in slow motion, as if gravity itself had rebelled against him.
The Andstaed took a step back, releasing Friend Slayer, leaving it planted in Taul’s midsection like the sigil banner of a victorious army on a field of battle. The hilt nearly bumped against his waist now, blood covering the blue-gold lion that adorned it.
“Even in death you disappoint, Grand Master. Did you think us foolish enough to allow you to fall on our blade and let you touch us?”
Taul was thinking nothing of the sort. Every stone of thought left to him was focused on his sole remaining objective in life—picturing the blade that would slice through the Andstaed. He fell to his knees, some distant part of him registering the crack of bone in his spine as his knees impacted the ground. The creature smiled down at him, white teeth of triumph flashing.
Taul struck out with his hand.
He must not have done it right, for the creature merely stumbled forward to one knee. Or perhaps these weapons weren’t intended for use by a mere Linear. Had he been the Angel, the blade he’d envisioned in his mind would surely have severed the monster’s legs. But this was enough. More than enough. It would save everything.
The Andstaed grunted as it hit the ground, his own blue eyes flashing with fury as they met his own black ones. Taul reached out, running his fingers over the Andstaed’s face. His face. The beard pricked his fingers, sending chilling sensations up his arm. Taul let his eyes fall shut, letting peace wash over him for the first time in fifteen years.
Realization bloomed too late in the horror’s eyes. The monster’s features contorted in a pallor of rage, smile evaporating. Its mouth opened to proclaim its fury, but all that issued were the whispering grains of sand tumbling through an hourglass. Beneath Taul’s touch, the face turned to ash, brittle and oily on his fingers. The rest of the body soon followed. A pile of dust upon the stone floor.
Taul collapsed, sensation gone from his body. But it was fine. Nothing hurt anymore. Everything was as it should be. The dark room spun about him, going out of focus. He imagined a wooded clearing, full of green and light and happiness. A wife. A daughter.
Then Grand Master Keeper Taul Bladesorrow ceased to exist.
59
Devan
“I love you.”
-Agar’s final words, as recorded in Tragnè’s Oral Histories
HE STARED INTO THE bubbling pot. The need for further stirring had long since passed and his arms were beginning to ache. But he barely noticed. His mind was far too focused on the task that lay before him.
“Devan,” a young woman’s voice murmured. When he didn’t respond she repeated, louder this time, “Devan. I think it’s ready.”
He looked up at her. “Just a few more mi
nutes, don’t you think?”
She smiled. Actually smiled at him. How could she even think of directing such an expression at him now? She brushed a strand of hair from her freckled face. Auburn hair, like the color of leaves when the seasons change.
“It’s needed a few more minutes for almost an hour now. I’m hungry, and you promised I could have one of your delicious meals one last time.”
He shut his eyes and let out a sigh. She was right, of course. The broth was thick, rich. Almost a gravy. And if the lamb softened any further it would cease to be. He breathed in the smell of it, an experience he usually relished. This time, he nearly vomited. He doubted he’d ever want to eat again.
But dark ruts left by the undertaker’s wagon! After what he was about to do? What she was about to let him do? The least he could do was give her this last pleasure. So he grabbed two bowls from the nearby table and ladled the stew into them. He passed one to her and immediately pushed the thought of the other from his mind. Could barely stand even the sight of it.
She had no such compunctions, digging in with fervency. Like she might never—
A muscle at the edge of his eye twitched and he looked away from her. The interior of the cottage was mundane; he’d never really cared for amenities. A few hand-built chairs and a sturdy table by the door. A map of Agarsfar that Stephan had given him hung above the mantle. He’d been considering adding a nice chair before the fire.
“Could use some carrots, I think?”
“What?”
“Some carrots.”
He grimaced. Couldn’t even get the stew right.
She gave him a mock frown. “Oh, don’t be like that, Devan. I’m teasing. Besides, I can make my own if I really want them.” She shoveled another spoonful of stew into her mouth, waving at a pot of soil near the door with her other hand. The green sprout of a vegetable burst through a moment later.
Devan started. He’d seen her do that and more countless times, but had never grown accustomed to it. The control. The range. The simple elegance of the channel.