Demon Blade

by Mark A. Garland

  Anna stared at her, numb, or just weary of the argument, Tristan thought—just as he was. Madia had been at it for a day and a half, cursing everyone in memory, and the mothers that bore them. But especially cursing Anna. And with good reason, perhaps, Tristan speculated; Anna had quite possibly done exactly as Madia claimed.

  "She means should we send word of your coming," the seneschal said, "to friends you might have elsewhere in the land."

  "I—" She seemed to lose the words somewhere in her mouth for a moment. "I do not have . . . friends."

  "Surely you have some destination in mind?" Tristan said.

  "I have been to Kopeth before, several times. A busy city full of traders and adventurers. I may find I prefer such a place. Some will know me there. And I will make many friends. Perhaps the folk there will take pity on me, something no one in all Kamrit can seem to do. Indeed, a few might hold the thought that I may one day return to Kamrit and recall their kindness." She glared again at Anna. "Or their wickedness."

  "How will you survive once your pouch is empty?" Tristan asked, hoping she might have an answer but doubting it.

  "I have been taught many skills. I'm sure I will be of value."

  Perhaps, the seneschal thought. Perhaps not.

  "Kopeth may be sensible, but it is known for its dangers as well as its prosperity," Anna remarked.

  "I can be sensible at times," Madia told her. "When I am allowed."

  "He will relent, I think," Anna confided. "I believe that deep inside he still loves you. He will take you back, Madia, but many things must change first, and I think some time must pass."

  "You must change," Tristan said.

  "You must see that it is you who betrayed him," Anna said, starting in again. "And not—"

  "My father is a heartless, evil man!" Madia screeched at her. "And you, Anna, are a traitorous, evil woman! The one friend I dared trust!"

  "Enough, now," Tristan said, stepping between them. "It is time." He turned and took Lady Anna by the arm, then began to lead her back inside. Anna walked away, half turned around, looking back at Madia, all in tears now. Madia turned finally and started slowly up the road, headed north. Anna kept watching until Tristan was able to get her out of sight within the castle walls.

  "They are both wrong," Anna said, straightening her dress, rubbing her eyes. "This is the worst that could happen to either of them. They need one another and yet—"

  "Lord Andarys is king, my lady. He had no choice."

  "I know." Anna turned away, quiet sobs beginning again. Tristan took a step toward her, then leaned very close. "We must trust in both of them."

  "I did not betray her," Anna said, the tears flowing harder.

  "I know," Tristan said, even though he didn't.

  Anna nodded, then moved slowly away. Tristan waited patiently. When she was gone, he looked right and signaled forth a figure who waited there. Though a young man, and certainly a foolish one, Calif was a seasoned knight, Tristan thought. He wore light mail and battle leathers and the king's crested surcoat over that, and carried a leather traveler's drawstring pouch over his shoulder, as Madia had. His scabbard bore the same crest as his surcoat.

  "The king puts great faith in you, Sir Calif. This is your only chance to redeem yourself in his eyes and, no doubt, those of your own father."

  "He would have had me killed if I refused," Calif said grimly. "They both would have."

  "Surely you don't want to see any harm come to the princess, all the same."

  "Quite true, but she can get herself into a great deal of trouble, and I am not an army. Am I not even to be furnished with a mount?"

  "The king wishes no one to know of his true concern for her welfare. A mounted knight would, you must agree, be rather conspicuous." Not quite true, of course, but Calif seemed to accept it. "Should I speak to the king of your misgivings?"

  "No! Tell him I will guard Madia with my life, at the very least . . . and it will be our secret," Calif added a cordial bow.

  "The king feels that a week or two at the mercy of the countryside will turn his daughter far enough around. She is your responsibility until then. Stay back so that she does not see you—which means making sure you don't catch up to her. But you are never to lose sight of her. When you reach a garrison, send a rider with word. At some garrisons, a rider will be waiting for you."

  "I will, my lord."

  "Then go."

  Calif made haste, trotting out and making his way across the drawbridge, then he slowed and continued up the road. Tristan followed him to the walls. Madia was no longer in sight. He watched until Calif disappeared as well, then shrugged to himself. You have served too long, he reflected, finding himself unable to raise concern beyond a certain level, and deciding he didn't need to. He didn't have much faith in anyone at all these days.

  Tornen approached from behind, leading his mount and followed some paces back by his squad of twenty men, hand picked. The seneschal turned and faced him. He was one of the most trusted captains in the king's guard. Today he would be entrusted with a part of the kingdom's future.

  "Wait until young Calif is well on his way, give him perhaps half the morning, then follow along. The king wants you seen by neither the young lord or Madia, unless it becomes necessary."

  "A distance may be sufficient for the road," Tornen said, "but what if she enters a village? How can we ensure her safety in a town from outside it?"

  "You may have no choice but to show yourselves. It depends on the town, does it not? You know them all. Use your judgment."

  "Of course," Tornen said, bowing his head slightly.

  "No harm must come to her," Tristan reminded, staring into the captain's eyes.

  "None will," Tornen replied, then he turned and walked away toward his waiting men.

  They will all come back, or they will not, Tristan thought, and the king will have to live with either end, just as Lady Anna will. He walked back toward the castle, back to his duties.

  Chapter III

  In the fields, Madia saw families busy with the early harvest; men scything hay, women and children laying it out to dry or bundling that which the sun had already finished with. She saw people along the riverbank, bathing, washing their clothing, watering their livestock or fetching a bucketful. The waters flowed slowly south to Kamrit—welcome there, she thought, as she no longer was. Even the simplest peasant was welcome on his lord's manor, unless he'd committed the most terrible crimes. . . .

  The truth of the matter was still almost impossible for her to accept, and yet here she was.

  She kept walking, the sun high above her now. She watched women coming from a small manor house on a hill to the west, carrying pots of ale for the midday break. She had never observed such goings-on in detail before—never more than a passing glance from behind the king's swift horses. To Madia, the life of a serf seemed such a quaint and simple one, days filled with decent, productive work and plenty of the lord's ale, evenings filled with family and village conversations, and a good deal more ale. Of course, she had often heard tell of some lords who were entirely without compassion, those that gave almost nothing to the villagers who bore them on their backs, but surely this was the exception. For most, as far as she had been able to determine, manor life was rather fair.

  After all, the majority of barons treated their vassals and serfs reasonably well, awarding them land to grow what they needed to eat and even paying them enough to replace lost livestock. Some dreamed of freedom and saved enough to become freemen one day; perhaps many, she had never made a count. And these were all the dreams such people were capable of, certainly. All that they might require.

  As she walked past pastures and small fields of crops she could not bring herself to imagine her own life coming to that. It was, after all, the same work, day after day, the same talk among the village huts each evening. A small existence with little sport or adventure. Though your taste for adventure is what got you into trouble in the first place, she reminded he
rself. That hunger was fading, but the idea still did excite her in a very real way. For the past two days, she had wondered how she would fare on the road, alone in the world, lost in the land. She did not see the situation as hopeless, having been well educated in spite of herself, and she still had her beauty—something a few men she'd known had valued more than gold. In the proper light, this could be seen as an opportunity for her to discover the world. Surely some wonderful things would happen, and just as surely, if trouble arrived, there would be a gentleman or two more than willing to come to her aid if she asked.

  And her father, for all his ridiculous spit and rage, would not forsake her for long. Anna was right about that, Madia thought, I am almost certain of it. Without doubt this whole unfortunate affair was largely theatrics, all the result of an aging king's boyish posturing, of having too little to occupy his time—a king who would calm himself and come to his senses in due time. He had given her gold enough to live on for several weeks, if she spent it well, but no more. So he apparently planned to come for her long before winter spread across the land. She need only get by until then, prove herself somehow—whatever that involved—and then apologize again to His Pompousness like a good little girl when the time came, as it surely would.

  The road curved away from the river then, branching off to the east. She kept to the main way, losing sight of the river as the country grew rocky and turned mostly to woodlands. As she walked in shade the air felt cool against her face, a breeze that came through the trees, free of the scent of livestock and cut hay, thick with the smell of moss. Many feared the forest, she knew, superstitious peasants who counted backward and hung garlic about and avoided stepping on each other's shadows—a whole parade of nonsense she had never understood. She had been through many a wood on royal hunts, and it seemed that no real or imagined menace dared so much as come near the king's knights and nobles, or his daughter.

  Though, as she looked back and ahead at the road winding through the tall oaks, empty as far as she could see, as she listened to a silence touched only by the sounds of distant birds high in the forest's thick leafy canopy, she began to wonder what might be there, hidden, watching her even now? Who could say what mortal or mythical creatures existed in such deep, dark, silent places—afraid, perhaps, to confront a hunting party, but full of much sterner stuff where a single young girl was concerned?

  She quickened her pace and tried to keep her eyes set on the road ahead. She had never been much afraid of anything, and she didn't wish to start now.

  The road turned again and rose up onto a knoll cast deep in shade, a place even farther removed from countryside and daylight than the rest of the woods. A small rocky hillside rose beneath the trees to her right, while on the left the edge of the road dropped away several feet into thick brush, then gave way again to the tall dark trees beyond. She began to wonder if she hadn't gone the wrong way back at the fork.

  Move on, she thought. Just get to someplace else. A sudden rustling from behind startled her. She turned to find two figures approaching. The boy, a young man really, tall and stout, was staring at her with flat eyes set in a brutish, bone-heavy face; the girl looked about Madia's size and age, and her face made her the young man's sister. They were dressed in very plain shirts and tunics, dirty and worn, made of poor but sturdy linen. Each one wore a dingy white vest, possibly wool, Madia thought, though it was impossible to tell. They carried drawn ax and blade, crude rusted weapons, no doubt scavenged from some long forgotten battlefield, but sturdy enough that Madia knew her short sword would be a poor match.

  Madia tried to draw her blade just the same, but the young man moved too quickly, laying his ax against her arm to stop her from bringing it up. The girl came slowly around to the right, extending her sword, and Madia feared she would simply run her through. I may die, she thought, tasting the idea like some new imported dish, finding little appeal. She felt her insides turning hard and cold, felt the blood pounding in her ears as sweat formed on her hands and face. An awful feeling, really, and getting worse. She noticed she was shaking. . . .

  "A lady of some sort," the girl said, grinning a drunkard's grin. Madia could smell the ale on them now, overwhelming, and believed they would kill her for certain.

  "We'll just see what you have in that purse," the girl said then. She slipped the edge of her sword blade under the leather cord on Madia's pouch and sliced back. The cord split and the bag fell to the ground. Next the girl leaned carefully and grabbed Madia's sword, then pulled it out and threw it down behind her. She sheathed her own sword and scooped up the bag.

  "Gold," she said momentarily, plunging her hand into the bag, pulling out some of the coins. She grinned broadly and tossed a gold piece to her friend. He caught it with one hand, but kept his ax at the ready with the other.

  "Best we've done in weeks," he said, looking the coin over. "How much have we got?"

  "The king will have you killed for this!" Madia said, glaring at them, though she kept very still.

  The girl barely glanced up as she rummaged in the bag. "Three handfuls at least," she announced—which Madia took to mean she couldn't count very high. Worthless folk, she decided, though they were experienced enough at robbery. And killing, no doubt.

  Madia tried to think of something—any way to call attention to something else and grab the girl's sword, or lie that she had more gold in a pouch under her arm, and then, when the girl got close—but it all sounded so crazy! She knew none of that would work. These people knew what they were about, and she did not.

  "Take the whole bag," the brother said, observing the food and change of clothes the girl was lifting out and examining, then putting back.

  "And her jacket," the girl said, touching the leather of Madia's sleeve. "Take it off!" she snapped, the smile suddenly gone. And Madia saw a mood in the other's face that made her even more uneasy, a cold ire come to the surface that seemed more animal than human—something Madia knew she could not hope to fight. She tugged her coat off before the girl could force her and handed it over; she felt the cool air touch her as she did. The girl put the coat on, then ran her fingers over the front of it, grinning at the material.

  "And see what's that little bit around her neck, too," the boy said, squinting.

  The girl looked up and eyed Madia more closely. She stepped near again, then reached out and tugged at the thin gold chain that disappeared into the front of Madia's blouse. When the girl saw the medallion, her eyes went wide. She wrapped a fist around it and worked it up over Madia's head, yanking when it caught on one ear. Madia winced and tipped her head and the chain pulled free.

  The girl looked her prize over thoughtfully a moment, then tossed the medallion to her friend. This too he caught in one hand, then held it up to the light. "The king's mark, I'd say."

  The girl nodded.

  "Gold dip, anyway," the young man added. "Bet she stole this off some other poor bastard!" He broke out laughing as he tossed it back to the girl. She slipped it over her head, centered it on her breast, then they laughed together, the two of them making enough noise that Madia didn't hear the sudden scuffle from the road behind them until her eyes called her to it.

  A knight—wearing leather and mail armor, a mail coif over his head, and a surcoat which bore the mark and colors of King Andarys. His face was mostly obscured by the coif as he came near, rushing forward on foot, head down and sword drawn.

  Which seemed odd, Madia thought. If her father had sent an escort after her, or someone to bring her back, surely he would have sent them on horseback—and certainly more than one. But if some dishonorable lord or paid knight from Kamrit had ransom or worse on their minds, they might come alone, hoping to catch up to her on the road. . . .

  The others turned an instant later. The girl faced the attacker while the boy told Madia not to move. Madia watched the knight pause as he drew near, apparently looking things over, then he came forward again and prepared to strike the girl down. She is dressed like me, Madia realiz
ed. He wants to kill me! But the boy stepped up instead and stood before the girl—who seemed to understand. She turned and checked on Madia again. The knight took up with the peasant boy without protest. As the contest began, the other girl's eyes danced with the two men, following every move.

  Madia stepped aside and scurried to pick her sword up off the ground. The girl saw the movement quickly enough and thrust her blade out straight ahead. Madia grasped her weapon and blocked the thrust, but felt her own narrow blade nearly give as it took the blow. No match, she thought again.

  A few yards away, the knight and the boy traded a flurry of fierce blows, and the boy began falling back almost at once, his actions already purely defensive as he gave up ground. He called to the girl above the clang of steel, and she stepped back from Madia and turned toward him.

  "Help me!" the boy yelled, then ducked as the knight's broadsword parted air where his head had been. "Kill the girl and get over here!"

  Madia's eyes flashed from side to side—the girl, the two men, the near, inviting brush beside the road and the shadowy woods beyond. The girl glanced at Madia, then back again, taking another look at the two men as she readied herself for action. Madia turned and leaped, trying for a new advantage, but the other girl saw the move and swung hard. Madia pulled her sword back in time to shield herself, but at such an angle, and under such force, she could not hold onto it. The weapon left her hand and fell. She turned and leaped as high as she could, then leaped again.

  She landed on her side at the edge of the road and rolled down the bank. Brush and rocks rose up, scratching her face and hands, bruising her back. At the bottom, she jumped up and felt pain lance through her right knee. She ran ahead, made it work anyway. The tall oaks waited there. She glanced over her shoulder as the leafy canopy cast cool shadows all around her. She could barely see the road now. No one followed.