Demon Blade

by Mark A. Garland

  "Surely you have a moment to talk," the man said. His two companions grinned as they looked on, both of them examining his catch. Then one of them, the shorter, stockier man, stood up in support of his friend. He seemed to eye the coins on Keara's tray.

  "No, thank you," Keara said, bowing her head, forcing a smile. She tried to move away, but the hand held firm. The shorter man moved around to block her intended path, chuckling to the others. Madia recalled the two men who had greeted her outside the inn half a year ago; the same sort of men or worse, she thought, though now some things had changed. She touched her palm to the hilt of the long sword Hoke had given her, felt the now familiar shape as she slowly wrapped her hand around it. She watched Hoke step forward.

  "Right!" Hoke shouted. "That'll be enough of that. Let the lady be. You go on to your tasks," he told Keara. The third man, stout in a brutelike manner, wearing a full beard and grayish cloak, abruptly rose and pulled out his sword, and pointed the tip in Hoke's direction.

  "She's your daughter, then?" he asked, grinning with a mouthful of darkened teeth. Hoke made no sound. "Or maybe your wife?" the man prodded. He sidled away from the table, extending the sword to within an easy thrust of Hoke's chest. After a moment he drew back slightly, grinned again. He leaned over without looking and picked his tankard up off the table with his free hand.

  "If she's not, then she's not worth dyin' for, is she? So you'd be wise just to keep your say and be about your own tasks. We'll give 'er back." He drank back briefly then set the tankard down, but he kept his eyes on Hoke.

  "Let me be," Keara said, neither fear nor daring in her tone. "Do as the innkeeper says."

  "She works for me," Hoke explained, controlling his voice, at least temporarily, Madia thought. Patience had long been one of Hoke's hallmark qualities, though he did not possess it in endless abundance. During the long winter months, Hoke had shown her many things, how to fight, and when, but also he had helped her to hone her knowledge of the hearts of men, and to read more in the messages people constantly delivered in a hundred different ways. Such men as these saw only something for themselves in the lives of others. Madia held no hope of a peaceful end to this.

  The short one glanced about, surveying the inn, people standing still or sitting motionless at their tables. He seemed to find nothing to cause him worry. He turned back to the others. "Sure she works for you, when she's done workin' for us," he said, cackling in self-amusement.

  "No, that won't do," Hoke said.

  One of the men mumbled something, then all of them laughed. The man pointing his blade at Hoke and bore forward again. "You don't feel like livin', do you innkeeper?" he said. "Maybe another bad leg could change your tone?" He waved the blade toward Hoke's feet, then pressed it into the white linen of Hoke's blouse.

  "That threat doesn't work on him," Keara said. "I've tried it."

  Madia began to move slowly, quietly, just a bit at a time. No one else in the room was moving at all, and she knew how conspicuous that made her. The three strangers hadn't been here long, hadn't had much to drink yet, so they were as sharp as such types could get at the moment.

  She slid around one table and between two others as all three men concentrated on Hoke, who was making dark faces, switching his attention between the three. Keara found Madia with her eyes and stared at her in silent earnest. Madia gently nodded to her, exchanging messages. Keara took a breath, then turned to the man still holding her and giggled just audibly.

  All four men looked at her.

  "Well, maybe I would not mind a day off," she said, leaning toward the ringleader, putting her free hand gently on the arm that held her captive. She turned then, moving around so that her back was to Hoke. She leaned her head to one side and favored the shorter man with a remarkably wanton look—a look Madia had a sudden, deep respect for.

  "Maybe these bold young men are . . . rather welcome." Keara kept smiling.

  The Greater Gods bless you, Keara, Madia thought, inching forward again. She looked to Hoke and watched until his eyes flashed toward hers for a brief instant. He cleared his throat loudly, then slowly put up his hands, palms face out.

  "Wonderful," Hoke said. "You see, there is no need for argument after all. Perhaps we have solved this simply. In fact, I have good reason to wish that no blood be spilled here this night."

  "And what reason is that?" the bearded man asked.

  Madia, close as she was likely to get, drew her sword and leaped. She swung the blade high, then brought it down and across, following her momentum, cutting deep into the short man's side and belly. The bearded man turned just slightly at the commotion. Hoke took the opportunity to step back and kick with his stiff leg, more club than leg anyway. His boot caught the man's extended arm and the sword came loose, hitting the wall, then clanging on the inn's floor. Hoke fell to his knees and snatched it up.

  The bearded man pulled a dagger from his waist and held it out as he began to back away from Hoke. Keara let her legs fail, and sank to the floor.

  Rather than be dragged down with her, the taller man let go. Madia jumped over Keara's limp body and met his sword with hers as he tried to defend himself. She could see the sudden fear in his eyes, the awkward way he handled the weapon. She parried twice, then drove her blade into his upper ribs, forcing him backward. She let go, letting him take her sword with him. His eyes lost focus as he fell to his side on the floor, gasping, blood foaming at his chest as air escaped from the wound.

  Madia stood back from the body and looked up—in time to see the bearded man's head snapping back and forth, panic in his eyes as he faced off against Hoke. Abruptly Hoke picked up the flagon of ale beside him and threw it at the man, then he followed with a swift cut to one upper thigh as his opponent raised his arms to fend the tankard off. The man howled and went down in a jumble of flailing arms and ale and spurting blood.

  Hoke jerked forward and thrust the sword into the downed man's back as he tried to roll away, then he withdrew the sword. Madia leaned and pulled her blade free as well. The bearded man, wheezing, bleeding heavily, flopped over and curled up on his side.

  "The reason is," Hoke said, answering the man's question, "I hate to have to clean it up." The other man's eyes rolled up and he was still.

  Hoke walked around the table and helped Madia get Keara up and sitting in a chair. He comforted her as he did, congratulating her at the same time, and she thanked him.

  "You are welcome," Madia said to the both of them, just loud enough.

  "Oh, and thank you," Keara said to her. Hoke looked at Madia, saying nothing. Then he glanced about the room. People were gathered in clumps, looking on from the corners. He looked down again, eyeing the bodies. Blood seemed to ooze everywhere. "We'll need a mop," he muttered.

  Keara turned to the table and dragged all three flagons near, then lifted one and downed the better part of its contents. She looked up, wide-eyed. "And another flagon of ale," she said. She bent down and picked up a second flagon, then started to drink it. Madia smiled at her, then at Hoke. "I'll get it," she said. Hoke shrugged, then sat down to join them.

  * * *

  "There'll be more trouble before the fair is through," Hoke remarked, taking a seat at an empty table, one of many. "Pity. Dead customers have a way of spoiling the appetite. We will need to stay close to the inn for the next few days."

  Madia sat down with a sigh across from him. "We've been cooped up inside for months," she complained. "The weather grows warmer by the day. I was looking forward to meeting travelers, listening to their tales, hearing more news of Kamrit."

  "And buying the merchant's wares," Hoke added, smiling.

  "Perhaps a thing or two."

  "You will find that most travelers and news come to us at day's end, and after enough ale, they will tell you or sell you anything you like."

  "They bring mostly trouble," Madia said, making a face, holding up one foot, and on it a shoe still wet from mopping the bloodied floors.

  "Don't worry abo
ut any of it," Hoke chuckled. "I've made arrangements with some friends in the town, good with a sword. We'll have help on hand the next few days, enough so you and I can enjoy an afternoon or two of freedom."

  Madia nodded, felt her heart buoyed somewhat; she missed the stories and songs and tricks the many minstrels and jongleurs had brought to her father's castle. She missed a great many things, in fact. More all the time. . . .

  "Tomorrow?" she asked, the way she always asked Hoke for permission, even though, by right of her heritage, his first duty should have required him to do her slightest bidding. There was a time Madia would have sought only a way to conquer a man like Hoke, a conquest of the spirit, of position, but in truth she had never known any man quite like him—or she had never realized that she had.

  "Tomorrow, I think. I'll send Keara home shortly, and we'll close up a little early tonight. Start fresh in the morning. I may even go out with you."

  "Good!" Madia said. "I have the feeling tomorrow is going to be a most wonderful day."

  "You just hope it's better than tonight," Hoke grumbled.

  "Yes," Madia sang, "I will."

  * * *

  They strolled the square, picking out trinkets and clothing, wares for the inn, metal tools, a blown glass statue, and spices and fragrances that tinged the air, blending with the blooming fragrance of spring fields and the rich aroma of too many horses in town. Hoke nearly bought a strange sword made by the desert tribes far to the south, a large gleaming weapon, its blade curved like a quarter moon. But the price was too high, and he said it felt wrong, the weight too great on the end. Madia tested it herself, wielding it conservatively in the air.

  Just then two figures came up behind Hoke, men-at-arms from Kamrit Castle dressed in light armor and leather and mail. They each slapped Hoke on the back, then called him by a number of titles that were neither kind nor true, though their faces held no anger.

  "Still living, the both of you!" Hoke exclaimed, grinning as he did. "By the Greater Gods!" He shook hands with each, former comrades-in-arms, Madia thought, then she realized that they might know her as well. She stepped away, fading to the edge of the booth, and kept her face turned away. Hoke took each soldier by an arm and began hauling them off toward the inn, away from Madia. He never looked back. She decided he had thought the same as she.

  Madia waited until they had gone, then tried the great curved sword once more before handing it back to the merchant with a shake of her head.

  "Perhaps a gift for someone," the merchant suggested.

  "No, no," she told him.

  "It is nearly as big as you are," another voice said just behind her. She turned and found a very tall, very fat man standing before her wrapped in two brightly colored tunics and carrying an intricately carved walking staff, roughly half his height, made of a dark wood. He wore a soft silk hat that covered the top of one ear, and a most arrogant smile. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but full of energy.

  "Though she handles it well," said someone else, a more feminine voice. Now Madia saw the three figures behind the first, a man and a woman, both very tall and muscular, both with straight black hair and clean faces, and skin the color of tea; they wore thick cloth tunics under reinforced leather armor, and each one was armed with strange bladed weapons that were lashed to one arm from just below the elbow.

  The third was another man, younger and somewhat shorter than the first two, and certainly of less sturdy stock, though equally well armed. He had lighter skin, long wavy hair and a bushy beard light in color, and there was something about him that Madia found . . . familiar. She looked at him more closely, but the answer didn't come.

  Then she noticed the way he was looking at her, as if she had something horrible on the end of her nose, as if he were looking at a ghost. . . .

  He knows me, she thought, or we know each other, perhaps. Though anyone who had visited Kamrit in recent years would likely recognize her face, and she had met so many young men. He seemed to change moods then, and he looked away.

  The three stood calmly, quietly, surveying the booths and the crowds, not one of the three ever looking in the same direction at the same time. Madia had never seen their like before. She couldn't take her eyes off of them.

  "Thank you," she said. "But I prefer my own." She put her palm on the hilt of the long sword Hoke had given her, then looked sidelong at the plump giant before her. "You know much of swordsmanship?"

  "Ah, well," the first man said, nodding to her, "only what I see. I leave matters of weapons to my Subartans." He indicated his companions. "When I am pressed to fight, I usually prefer to turn my opponents into something less threatening—cowards, for instance, or cowards with no swords!" He chuckled at that, for just an instant.

  Madia shook her head, deliberating. A sorcerer of some sort, of course, and a brazen one at that, up to promoting himself at the first chance. Her father had kept a wizard or two through the years, most of them better at boasting and gimmickry than they were at spelling a man's courage or sword away. Still, some wizards were men were to be reckoned with. And certainly the three warriors with this one were.

  "What sort of weapons are those?" Madia asked, still eyeing the blades each of the warriors wore. She noticed now that each of the blades were serrated on one side and gleamingly honed on the other, a weapon that could no doubt be used to rip anything from silk to saplings. She looked at the wizard again and realized that he was still watching her.

  "Subarta, of course," the largest Subartan replied.

  "You seem to like my friends," Frost said.

  Madia realized she was staring and tried to compose herself. "Where did you find them?" she asked.

  "Here and there. Do you have a name, girl?"

  "Do you?" Madia countered, raising an eyebrow.

  "Frost," the wizard said. "Now, you will tell me yours."

  He reached out suddenly, put both his hands on the sides of Madia's head, and closed his eyes. Madia raised her hands to stop him, but found the three Subartans gathering closely around her, looking at her with cold, steady eyes. She froze exactly as she was, hands open and raised halfway. She looked at Frost, at his eyes, still closed, then jerked as he opened them suddenly wide. Madia felt a slight tingle run across her scalp as he let go.

  "Madia? Named after the princess of Kamrit, I see. A questionable honor, I would say."

  "She looks rather a little like her, too," the youngest Subartan said now, grimacing quite strangely. "Though, what in the name of Hual would the Princess Madia be doing here?" He leaned towards her, eyes growing narrow. "One might think the daughter of Kelren Andarys would be at Kamrit, mourning her father's passing and seeing to the affairs of Ariman. Though, from what is known of her, she well might be hiding instead in just such a place as this."

  Madia winced, then shook her head, trying to cover up. He was a devil, this fellow, and he was making her extremely nervous, and a little ill. But the voice, like the eyes, was indeed familiar. She almost had him placed, almost. . . .

  "Have you nothing to say to that?" Frost asked, breaking her thoughts. Frost was quick to act and to gather information, and he had some talent, certainly. Madia smiled at him, then at all three warriors now standing at ease around her. These were quite possibly the most interesting people she had met since leaving Kamrit Castle, though she wasn't at all sure whether that was a good thing.

  Before anything else was said, a small troll of a man wandered up, drawing everyone's attention. He was unkempt and unbathed, with a full winter's hair and whiskers grown all about his head, and he wore layered tunics instead of a coat. He nearly passed between Madia and Frost, but just as he reached them, he glanced up, then down again, and went round, past the booth, eyeing the weapons displayed on the wide boards that ran across the front. He lingered there, apparently interested in a stunning cinquedea dagger.

  Madia had seen too many men of this sort—large and small alike—traipse in and out of Kern these past few weeks. They reminded her of th
e peasant villagers she had stayed with, of a life she had nearly been sentenced to. The merchant came over and spoke to the little man, who in turn shook his head and waved him off. No money, and no prospects to acquire any, Madia thought. Only big eyes.

  "You have not told me where you come from," she said to the sorcerer, growing curious about it.

  "Neither have you," the youngest Subartan said to her. "I would be most interested in hearing that."

  "Many lands, many times," Frost said in answer. "Recently, Ikaydin, and before that the Lagareth province beyond the Spartooth mountains. But many years ago, I walked these very hills."

  "How far have you traveled?" Madia said, feeling her pulse quicken, letting her mind fill with images of exotic places described to her by minstrels and bards since childhood.

  "There is a country to the south," Frost said, "beyond the Kaya deserts, called Breshta, where I—"

  "I have heard of it!" Madia said, enamored of the chance to talk of such places again, their people and their ways, to imagine visiting them one day when she was . . . older.

  "You have heard of Breshta?" Jaffic asked now, much too craftily for her tastes. I do know him, she thought, certain now, from Kamrit. He reminds me of—

  No, she thought, that could not be. She found Frost eyeing her with a puzzled look, an ill-fitting look for him, somehow. The wizard intrigued her at least as much as the young Subartan bothered her, but she wasn't willing to trade one for the other.

  "Well, yes, a tale or two, as told to me," she answered the Subartan, though the teller of the stories she remembered had in fact been a diviner of some sort in her father's court, and much of what he had said remained in doubt; he had described it all admittedly secondhand.

  "And where would a young lady of Kern hear such things?" Frost inquired.

  "From a wizard, like yourself, passing through the inn."

  Frost glanced up the street at the big inn and nodded. "I see. And would you know if there might be a room there? We will need quarters for tonight. We can pay any price."