Demon Blade

by Mark A. Garland

  The market was open as they strolled through the main square, so Frost took time to browse a few of the stalls along the way, while his Subartans kept a careful watch on the crowd. Frost purchased a finely tailored silk shirt, then encouraged his Subartans to each get one of the same.

  "Very well," Sharryl said, the only one to do so, and chose a rose blouse with white lace trim at the sleeve openings and collar. She used the serrated edge of her subarta to cut the threads and free the lace, and gave it back to the merchant. "It is fine this way," she told the vendor, and tucked the blouse away.

  Frost nodded approval. Subartans were seldom vain; in fact, Frost was amused to see her purchase anything so feminine at all.

  They continued to the south of the city, toward the only high ground the region had to offer, until they arrived at the massive walls of the castle of Lord Jurdef Ivran, King of Bouren at Lencia. A fine and gregarious man, Frost recalled, strong of mind and principles, a man who had seen to the well-being of Bouren in every detail, and one who believed he would not live long enough to repay the debt his father before him owed to the wizard Frost. In truth, Frost saw no debt outstanding; those times had been too long ago and he had been compensated in kind even then. Nevertheless, the young king's enduring hospitality was not to be refused.

  They arrived inside the walls late in the afternoon. The castle seneschal was eventually brought to greet the new visitors, then he went off again to formally announce their presence. He returned directly, and led them to a great dining hall, just in time for the evening meal.

  "A proper feast!" Frost proclaimed, famished from his journey, eyeing the roast fowl and breads and bean dishes being set about the massive table.

  "I would serve no less to such honorable guests," Lord Ivran said, entering at the other end of the room. He was a dark-bearded, prosperous looking man of proportions similar to Frost's, though not quite so tall, and without so much of the hard muscle Frost maintained beneath his own extra padding.

  He sat at the head of the table, directing Frost and his three Subartans to come and sit with him. There were nearly a dozen others present: noblemen and ladies, members of the royal court. Squires scrambled to bring a few extra chairs to accommodate their displaced lords—who in turn seemed to find little humor in the arrangement.

  One young lord in particular, a fair-sized, well-groomed man dressed in the finest velour and silks was forced to sit at the table's farthest end. He stood beside his chair, staring at the king and his guests. "Tell me," he asked the king after a time, loudly and clearly. "If those at the head of the table deserve the greatest honor, what manner of dishonor is it to be placed at the other end?"

  Ivran looked up, sized up the situation and burst out with a rolling laugh, as did the others at the head of the table. The young lord barely smiled, then sobered, as did the king. Frost, however, could not stop so quickly. The lord at the far end began to frown, then frowned still harder as Frost abruptly found this new expression quite humorous as well and made mention of the fact.

  "I take offense, sir!" the Lord replied, his face grown suddenly stern, his lips pursed. He moved as if to draw his sword—purely theatrics, Frost knew, but the three Subartans rose in a single motion, gleaming blades all poised. The young lord quickly stayed his hand and then stood still, no doubt reviewing the situation.

  "His threats are as empty as my stomach," Frost told the three warriors. "We cannot kill the king's only son over poor humor, after all."

  "At least not during dinner!," Lord Ivran said, exchanging glances with the younger man. Now the Subartans seemed to ease just slightly.

  "The prince?" Rosivok asked.

  "He is," Jurdef Ivran replied, "my son, Prince Jaran."

  Frost leaned toward the king. "You must understand, I haven't had such simple fun in months," he confided. "I trust the prince will recover."

  Jurdef nodded, then shook his head and smiled.

  Two women brought wine and ale to the table. Jurdef sipped at each, chose the wine, choosing for all, and then began filling his plate. Everyone else immediately followed.

  "You look much larger than I remember you," Frost said, when the meal had progressed to a more leisurely pace.

  "I was a young man, hardly older than Jaran," Jurdef replied. "And you are every bit as robust as I remember you."

  "I spent this past season well," Frost said. He finished his meal and took extra bread, then began eyeing the milk pudding being set about. "It appears Bouren is prosperous these days," he went on. "From all that I see and hear, you have done well."

  "It is easy. Bouren is the kind of land that does well on its own when its king has the sense to let it. And I have the sense! Bouren and I take excellent care of each other."

  Frost smiled, raised his wine in a salute.

  "I know you travel for profit," Jurdef said after that, swishing a bit of wine in his own mouth, swallowing. "So it interests me to know who in Bouren would require the aid of such a talented and expensive sorcerer."

  Frost briefly chuckled. "No one. I go to Neleva." Frost told Ivran of the messenger, the offer he'd received. "Glister is still the richest city in this part of the world," he added, "and one of the most interesting."

  "You have heard of the changes in Ariman?"

  "Some. Not much since rumors of King Andarys' death and apparent succession by the grand chamberlain. Some new tolls, I've been warned, and more soldiers."

  "Many more of both, my friend. And the king's death is no rumor, it is so."

  "You are sure?" Jaffic asked, a look of darkness on his face that Frost found almost profound.

  "I am," Jurdef said. "As I am sure of the problems Lord Ferris creates. He has increased each tax and added new ones, all to build his armies, as far as I can say. Armies to march against me, perhaps, though I have no idea why."

  "It is strange," Rosivok said, finishing his own meal. "If Ferris seeks to conquer, Neleva is the prize in the region. There is no wealth here that Ariman does not already possess, and to war with allies serves no purpose."

  "All things I have considered," Jurdef said.

  "Unless Ferris fears the great lords of the north might march against him if he attacks Neleva." The voice was that of Prince Jaran. He got up and moved around to stand just behind Jaffic. His father motioned him forward, and he continued to the head of the table.

  "That is my son's idea on the matter, and one I endorse. Kelren Andarys kept fair trade flowing to and from the southern seas, just as his father did before him, but with someone else sitting on the throne, this trade is threatened. Ferris could use his new armies to conquer Neleva, then strangle Vardale, Jasnok, Thorun, and Bouren. Even Ikaydin relies on the southern routes for many things. If Ferris believes we might oppose such a plan, he is right."

  "He can raise prices in the meantime, until we cannot afford what we need," Jaran said. "All while he prepares for a move against us. He would get richer, we poorer."

  "There are rumors that you are already plotting against him," Frost said. "That in fact the great lords of the north were plotting against King Andarys before, and will now be all the more eager."

  "Lies!" Jaran snapped. "Spread by those who would see Bouren diminished. They try to fill the heads of all the nobles of Ariman with fears and distrust, with ideas of war. We have no designs on Ariman, nor have the other three great lords. We've each kept our loyalties to that crown—within reason."

  "But we are not dealing with reasonable men," Jurdef said. "The meeting of the Grand Council in June has already been postponed. New troops are training daily. And we hear tell of dark rituals in the city of Kamrit itself."

  "Rituals?" Jaffic asked.

  The young prince looked at him carefully before he went on.

  "Yes," he said, "the work of a new fellowship, one that is gaining power there, feared by most, yet some say they are sanctioned by the crown."

  "My men report that the roads and towns of Ariman are already busy with soldiers this spring, a
nd the prisons are near full with anyone who would raise objections," Lord Ivran said, frowning, the darkest expression he had yet made. "They have even dared to ride on Bouren soil."

  "An army?" Rosivok asked.

  "A few squads," Prince Jaran replied. "People have seen them along our southern border, riding the western edge of Golemesk Swamp, entering it from time to time. We have no garrison in the region, and there have been no incidents, at least none that we know of, so we have not yet tried to oppose them."

  "I have never known an army to take such interest in another lord's swamp," Sharryl said, again entering the dialogue. "Golemesk has no strategic value."

  "It is centrally located," Jaffic said, apparently quite familiar with the subject. "Parts of the swamp lie in all five lands."

  "But so much of the area is impassible," Jaran explained. "And much of it is unexplored. And there are dangers there from bandits and leshys and worse. Few men enter far, and fewer return."

  "They ride the swamp in search of the Demon Blade," Lord Ivran said, taking a spoonful of pudding as Frost passed it to him, filling his bowl. He passed the pot to the others. "Rumors abound. They say the Blade rests there."

  "So I have heard," Frost said. "But Ramins, an old wizard, still has the Blade, and even I don't know where he lives these days."

  "He has died," Jurdef said. "Or so they say. Hunters claim they found a man's body on the edge of the swamp, carefully laid out—a very old man in strange robes, his hands folded over a staff carved of white birch. The villagers gave him a proper burial. Some there claimed that the body was that of the wizard who kept the Blade, and that the leshys must have left him there to be found."

  "Where is this staff now?" Frost asked.

  The king shrugged. "Sold, or buried with him, perhaps."

  "There are many old men in the swamps and forests, my friends, and villagers are known for their love of embellishment," Frost replied, shaking his head slowly, wrinkling his nose just a bit. "Every tale becomes legend on their lips. But you can be sure that if it was Ramins, and he died in the swamps, then the leshys have the Blade. They've always had a fascination with weapons, especially with blades, as well as a keen sense of magical properties.

  "But I must insist that Ramins would have sensed his time approaching, come out of hiding, and given the blade into another wizard's keeping, the one chosen, picked by Ramins and the council ages ago, when the Blade was given to him. And news of that would have reached me. I say the body was not his."

  "Still," Jaran said, at ease now, "even the chance that the Blade is there, and that it might fall into the hands of our enemies—"

  "That chance has existed for centuries," Frost said, shaking his head again. "As have rumors of the Blade's whereabouts and the health of the wizard who holds it. Any army would welcome the chance to possess the Demon Blade, but none know of its secrets, even I do not, and great care and sacrifice has been given to insure that none will. If I were you, I would worry more about the soldiers themselves than what they might find in the depths of Golemesk—those that return, of course."

  Frost finished his pudding and decided he was growing tired of the banter already. He loved to visit with most acquaintances, and especially to dine with them, but when the meal was through, he very much liked to go about his own business and be done with theirs. Usually they understood, and if they did not, there were many ways to encourage a more sympathetic attitude in the future. He grinned quietly at the thought.

  "Tell me, Frost," Jaran said, "why we should place any value on your advice? These are not your lands, your people. You have no stake in any of this and every reason to want the Demon Blade for yourself."

  All three Subartans tensed just noticeably.

  "It is all right, Jaffic," Frost said, smiling at the young sovereign, who stood so straight and bold. "This is a question, not an insult, if I read him right."

  "You do," said the prince.

  "Quarrels between barons are not really his concern," Lord Ivran told his son, putting a hand up to a ask for pause. "Unless he is directly requisitioned by one side or another. And even then, only if he likes the paying side. I know of a time decades ago, a story your grandfather told, of the mountain wars far to the north of the Spartooths. Frost had been offered a fortune to engage in a battle between armies, until he found that the emperor who had called him was mad, a man who took pleasure in torturing to death the young women of those villages he conquered while the children and old ones watched; the emperor's armies were slaughtering mostly peasants defending their homes. Frost turned against the emperor and took no payment from anyone. I've never told the boy the old stories, I'm afraid," Ivran added, turning to Frost, smiling. "He has grown up so fast."

  "Well, it is never too late!" Frost said, then he leaned back and belched. "Go on and tell him more!" He looked to the king, and the both of them broke into laughter.

  "Tell me, how are you planing to continue?" the king asked in a moment, a look of concern growing on his face, mild yet unmistakable.

  "How would you recommend?" Frost asked.

  "By road along the Saris to Kopeth, of course. Most take a barge the rest of the way to Kamrit, then the coastal road through Neleva to Glister. But you can turn west at the little town of Chelle, where the river forks just north of Kamrit. There is a road to the coast there, and passage by boat from Lina or Riale. I can send a few men with you, if you need them. They'll know the way, and know their swords."

  Frost nodded in deference to the king, then shook his head. He disliked travel by sea almost as much as he disliked famines, and there were good omens for the journey he had begun: an aura had been seen around the setting sun these past two nights, and the pattern cast by the handful of tiny stones given to him by a magic man from the deserts, many years ago—although, he had largely forgotten how to read the stones, and had even lost a few, and it was possible that an aura at sunset had something to do with rain, after all. . . .

  Then again, omens, as far as Frost was concerned, could mean different things to different people.

  "We must go to Kamrit," Jaffic said, leaning toward Frost, wearing a face so serious the wizard thought the young warrior might never smile again. Frost smiled for him.

  "A generous offer, dear Jurdef, but I have protection enough," he said. "The road will be kind to us. And I rather like the idea of a visit to Kamrit!" He looked again at Jaffic. "With so much mystery in the air, so much going on, I'd never forgive myself if I didn't go by for a look."

  "Will you hire a rider and send word back of goings-on?" Prince Jaran asked, stepping back as Frost got up.

  "No doubt," Frost replied.

  "There will be those who know you in that city," the Lord Ivran cautioned. "Some who still may wish they never had."

  "It has been a very long time," Frost said. "But few men are without enemies, my friend." Frost grinned, glancing first at Jaran, then his father. They only stared back.

  "Dear lords," he added, "if any man chooses to battle me, even the grand chamberlain himself, I will send his head to you along with my messenger. That should put you both at ease."

  "You will need supplies, perhaps a pack animal," Lord Ivran said, hatching a warm, hearty smile. "I'll see to it. And may the Greater Gods go with you!"

  "In their way," Frost replied, "they no doubt will."

  The seneschal showed them to their rooms. Each had fine beds covered in silks and sequestered by thick draperies. In the morning they ate heartily and bid their farewells, then took to the river road again. By the end of the day they had crossed the border into Ariman.

  Chapter X

  Madia came through the door shaking the brisk chill of the late April afternoon from between her shoulders. She spotted Hoke halfway across the room doing his fast hobble, getting to one of the tables. He stood and began pouring from a tall earthenware flagon, filling tankards with ale. Three young men, flashy travelers apparently just off the road, took up the mugs and drank deeply.

&n
bsp; Hoke seemed to linger a moment, considering them more closely now, as Madia then did. She saw the clouded, brooding look of a November day in their nervous eyes, and too many lines on their young faces. Highborn, one might think, taking them at a glance, since they were dressed as noblemen: fine boots, white shirts, short tunics of leather and fur, and unusually fine swords and scabbards dangling to their heels, with hilts carved in rare detail, imported workmanship from the ports of Neleva. But there was nothing so noble in their deportment or their faces, or their speech—which was clearly audible above the subtle voices of the inn's other patrons.

  They had not been men of such means for long, Madia decided, though they may well have come upon such men quite recently, from behind. . . .

  The spring market fair was to begin the day after tomorrow, and already Kern had begun to fill with all manner of folk. Soldiers were on hand in unusual numbers, along with a few visiting men-at-arms, and merchants and pilgrims from Vardale and Thorun, Jasnok and Bouren, and even parts of Ikaydin were growing plentiful. But no amount of troops could guarantee a traveler's safety.

  The roads were filled with hazards these days, with so many citizens—lords and freemen, peasants and beggars alike—falling on hard times under the weight of new taxes and the conscription of sons and husbands. The number of bandits had increased dramatically. Perilous times for all, Madia knew—and even the most perilous of folk were known to take ale like everybody else.

  Madia saw the look in Hoke's eye—acute, restless. He stepped back cautiously, still watching the three, with no awareness of the rest of the room; Madia didn't think he'd seen her enter. Though he may have, she thought after that. If he was concerned there might be trouble, he would purposely avoid drawing attention to me. . . .

  One of the travelers, the tallest one, wearing long hair and a painted leather hat, stood up suddenly and took off the hat, then used it in a motion directed at Keara, who had the misfortune to be passing nearby at that moment. When she didn't slow, the man tossed his hat at her. When this finally caught her attention, he stepped forward and reached out, grabbing Keara's arm.