by S J Hartland
The marshal leaned, his breath unpleasantly warm. He used his knife to lift a stray strand of Kaell’s sweat-darkened hair.
“You’re Mountains-born from the way you speak, stranger. With the same colour hair as that ghoul. And you fight too well—like a ghoul. How many men did you put in the dirt? Five? Six?”
“I’m no ghoul,” Kaell muttered. Angrily he poked straying fair hair beneath his helm.
“Gut the ghoul,” a woman said. Other drunken voices picked up the cry amid a smattering of fearful mutterings and hisses. Spectators strained to get closer.
The marshal bellowed for silence. He faced Kaell. “Remove the helm. Or I’ll ask my lord for permission to rip your head off with it.”
The mob’s stares stabbed with macabre excitement. Desiring blood. How long before they attacked him? How long could Kaell bluff before an impatient Caelmarsh ordered his arrest?
He tore off his helm and flung it at his feet. Unlaced and shrugged out of his leather doublet.
Was this what they wanted? What would they see? A celebrated warrior? Or someone not quite human?
Kaell lifted his head, daring them to judge him as he stood arms bared from shoulder to wrist, clad only in a thin tunic, pants and boots.
He could be any warrior aged twenty. Muscles knotted his back and arms, his thighs moulded by years drilling with the blade.
Once Kaell complained that though he was tall, his lord still towered over him, only for Vraymorg to smile and assure him his build offered better balance in swordplay.
He looked exactly as a Telorian bladesman should. Except—
Except for his dark-blond hair falling to his shoulders, its shade uncommon since the fall of Seithin. Except for the tattoos disfiguring his arms, their dark whorls swirling across his shoulders onto his neck.
Onlookers gaped, gasped. They nudged each other, poking fingers at his hair then Khir’s sigils on his skin. A soldier recoiled.
The marshal stammered, “Apologies, I’m sure. We didn’t know the battle god’s bonded warrior fought here today.” He backed away.
“Wait,” Caelmarsh said. “Hold him. I permit you to lay hands on him.”
Soldiers grabbed Kaell’s arms. Indignant, he struggled but their grips only tightened.
The Lord of the Downs stepped through his guards, lips moving in soundless fury. He grasped Kaell’s chin with a bony hand. “You,” he said. “You dare come here.”
Unblinking, Kaell met Caelmarsh’s glare. A silence fell about them and lengthened … and still lengthened. Beneath it crept barbed memory neither would look at.
Caelmarsh clawed a cracked wheeze from deep in his throat. “No,” he said. “Not here. Not while others watch.”
He let Kaell go with a shove, turned and shouldered past the startled marshal. His soldiers followed.
Kaell’s breath hammered out. Stupid to think he could come to Knight’s Spike without trouble. Bitterly he scooped up his helm and doublet and pushed into the crowd. Their murmurs picked up, then fell away as he parted them.
At twenty he was old enough, surely, to laugh off the whispers, the stalking glances, but they prickled like coarse sackcloth against his skin.
It didn’t matter that the gods chose him, that he’d die young to keep these people safe in their soft lands far from the Mountains. They still feared him. Resented him as a son of privilege, arrogant and spoilt—just as his lord had warned him long ago.
Kaell, just fifteen, had laughed it off. “Why should I care what others think? I know who I am.”
Vraymorg’s dark eyes flashed with amusement. He reached to ruffle Kaell’s hair, only to whip his hand back as if afraid to show affection.
“I don’t care,” Kaell repeated stubbornly.
But he did. Not about the judging stares. He cared that Vraymorg didn’t muss his hair the way he patted the heads of young grooms or girls playing hopscotch in the castle ward.
A hard man, Vraymorg. The king’s man in the Mountains.
The closest to a father Kaell had ever known.
Sometimes he lay in his bed at the fortress of Vraymorg, moonlight carving patterns on the ceiling, wondering about his mother, his real father. Perhaps he was Venivan, given his blond hair. Or Tarlean-ah, from beyond the Ice Sea.
The one time he dared ask his lord, Vraymorg’s curt, “I don’t know,” his stiff shoulders, the edge to his voice meant: we don’t talk about this.
Forcing the past away, Kaell dragged his doublet down over his head and walked on.
Men exchanging coins glowered as they looked up. No doubt they bet against him, not knowing who he was. More fool them.
A stringy man with dirt-smeared cheeks bounded after him.
“So the unheralded swordsman is unmasked,” he said. “Khir’s bonded warrior. We are privileged, I’m sure. You want some advice, bonded warrior? You fight too cleanly. Spill a little blood and the crowd will warm to you.”
Kaell ignored him. He needed to be far from Caelmarsh before the Downs Lord thought better of letting him leave.
The man dogged him. “Aw, don’t go off sore. I’ll wager you can win the tournament.” He blew his nose on a dirty sleeve. Sniffed. “Not that it’s much of a tournament. No Isles warriors here. With their harsh training, you always bet on Isles bladesmen at tournaments, don’t you? Once I saw Aric Caelan fight. Years ago, but I’ll never forget it.”
Kaell pushed past. The words, though, kindled a fierce longing.
You always bet on Isles bladesmen.
The Isles produced the best swordsmen. Always had. Could he call himself a bladesman without matching steel and wits against the best?
Yet no Isles man had risked entering a tournament for two years. Their lord warred against the King of Telor. Hatton’s warriors, especially his son Aric, called upon to defend its walled towns, not defend their reputations in games.
His gaze drifted to the field as heralds announced new combatants. Men swaggered out to fight, legs brushing wildflowers that bowed and waved in the soft breeze. Kaell envied the flowers their nakedness. Sweat trickled uncomfortably down his neck.
Idly he slapped a fly and turned to search the crowd again for one man.
His lord was not here.
Deep within, Kaell knew Vraymorg would not come. Not this time. But nothing rational took away his longing, his constant, mortifying need for proof his lord cared about him. He badly wanted this man to follow—even if drawn only by anger.
His throat lumped at an echo in his mind of their argument two days ago. His unprovoked, sharp words. The way Vraymorg’s face tightened just before his lord hit him.
Kaell touched his bruised cheek. The blow fell too fast to avoid. It didn’t hurt. But it humiliated. And he did what he always did when ashamed.
He ran. Hid his face beneath a helm, disobeyed Vraymorg to enter a tournament to prove he controlled both his formidable skill and his temper.
If only his lord watched him fight, how he faced the ghoul, unafraid—
What? He might be proud?
A stale taste rolled about his mouth. Vraymorg ruled the Mountains, with more to concern him than—what? What was he to this man?
“You’re a burden,” a sly-tongued brute had told Kaell at sixteen. “A possession. No better than a slave.” Kaell had run from his vile words. The man laughed and shot an arrow into him.
Vraymorg carried him wounded to the keep, his face etched with misery. Emboldened by his lord’s concern, comforted by the strength of his arms, Kaell fought tears of pain to whisper: “Am I? Am I a burden?”
He might have asked: Am I loved? Who am I? He didn’t. He wasn’t ready for those answers. Not really.
His lord’s eyes were wet. Yes, he remembered that. But sinking into a poppy-juice sleep, he couldn’t recall Vraymorg’s reply. Only knew he didn’t hear, “you’re loved. Like a son.”
A hand fell upon his arm. With a hopeful gasp, Kaell snapped from the past back to the tournament field and its blur of cheers, scr
aping metal and colours. Did his lord come after all? Did he care enough to follow him?
His shoulders fell. “Arn.”
The man before him stood taller than most, heavy with muscle with huge, calloused hands and thick legs. Braided, greying hair clumped at his sun-darkened neck like a cropped tail. A worn, leather scabbard drooped at his hip. Its plain sword, the hilt unadorned by niello or gems, was like the man—straightforward, practical, no-nonsense.
“Who did you expect? Vraymorg?”
Kaell scuffed a boot across ground. “No.”
Arn dropped his hand. He sighed heavily. “He won’t come, boy. Not this time.”
“Why should I care?”
“You’re hurt.” Arn said. “Bleeding.”
Kaell clamped a palm over the seeping wound. “It’s nothing.”
“I heard talk of a ghoul—”
“He came for me, Arn.” A torrent of words spilled. “Here. In the Downs. Can you believe that? We fought. The ghoul ran off. Killed a guard and another man. I couldn’t save them—”
Kaell stopped, dismayed. He had failed his gods. Failed his lord.
Arn’s dark-eyed look rested knowingly. “I wonder how the ghoul found you. It took me two days to track you down.”
“I wasn’t hiding. I was just—”
“What? Fighting tournaments for a handful of gold?”
Kaell rolled his sword’s pommel beneath his palm, its knurl cool and smooth as though worn by hundreds of hands before his. He scraped the blade from its scabbard, jammed it back. In and out. In and out. The sound jarred. A fingernail down his spine.
“Why not?” He laughed without humour. “I could use that gold to go anywhere in Telor. Perhaps fight Venivan raiders and pirates as a bladesman in service to the Lord of the Isles.”
“The Lord of the Isles who rebels against the king.” Arn shook his head. “The Lord of the Mountains—your lord—is loyal to that king. Are you ready to turn traitor?”
Kaell shrugged. “The Lord of the Falls, then. Or even the Icelands.”
“The Icelands.” Arn scoffed in disbelief. “You? Serve the haughty Damadars? No, this is nonsense. A warrior bonded to Khir doesn’t fight for Ice lords. Nor should he waste his skills fighting tournaments. The truth, lad. Why are you here?”
Arn’s eyes held understanding, compassion. Kaell wanted to recoil from both.
“Why, Kaell?”
Again he groped for his sword, jagging it up and down. His need blurted out in a desperate flurry. “We argued. My lord struck me. I thought he might be sorry, might come after me.” Kaell broke off with a self-mocking laugh. “I don’t know what I thought.”
Arn squeezed his shoulder. “What do you want from him?”
Kaell shrugged, unable to voice his longing.
“It’s always my lord this, my lord that with you.” Arn gently teased. “You’re no longer a child wandering the gorge with a wooden sword pretending to hunt ghouls. You’re a warrior chosen by the gods. You need not bend your knee to any man, even Vraymorg.”
“It’s not that simple.” Unbidden, those sly words echoed in his mind again: No better than a slave, a burden. He shoved them aside.
“What did you and Vraymorg fight about?”
“Why do you have to know everything? You’re not my father.”
Arn’s face clouded with hurt. Quietly he said: “No, but I am your friend.”
Kaell rubbed the pommel, regretting his sharp words. Arn never tried to take Vraymorg’s place. As his captain and friend, he had every right to ask why Kaell ran.
Why did he? What did he hope to prove? Was it as childish as hoping his lord would chase after him to show he cared? Was that the painful, pathetic truth?
If he couldn’t admit the truth to himself, then he’d never be truthful with others.
Vraymorg taught him that. Vraymorg. Vraymorg. His lord shaped him. Everything he knew, what he was, even what he owned was all because of Vraymorg.
No better than a slave.
“I wanted to test myself at this tournament.” He gulped a breath. “To show I’m a warrior like any other. Nothing less, but nothing more. Nothing unnatural—inhuman.”
“Unnatural. Inhuman. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“My Lord forbade me to come, insisting I must prepare to ride to Dal-Kanu, that the king bids us kill ghouls in the Waste Mountains. That I can’t waste my skills at tournaments. I told him I’ll do as I liked, that just because he’s too cowardly to defy the king—”
“You called him a coward? Vraymorg? What madness possessed you?”
Kaell grimaced. “It just came out.”
Did it? Or did he deliberately provoke his lord? Wanting a reaction so badly that even a slap was better than nothing.
“It just came out,” he repeated stubbornly. “Of all men to call a coward. I know how he fights. Fearlessly.”
“Recklessly, you mean. As if he doesn’t care if he lives or dies.” Arn shook his head. “Tell me about the ghoul. I heard a Downs guardsman died.”
“The ghoul killed two men to taunt me. It was deliberate, cold.” Horror scraped the back of Kaell’s neck. “He said his lord waits for me in the Waste Mountains.”
Arn tensed. “What lord?”
“No clue. But the ghoul knew the king intends to send us to the Waste Mountains. How?”
“Ghouls are clever. They heard a rumour and hoped to unsettle you. Don’t let them get to you, Kaell. Wherever the king sends us, it will be like any other hunt.”
When he didn’t answer, his captain squinted harder.
“Ah,” Arn said softly. “The dream.”
Kaell broke away. The doublet suffocated him. He forced his focus on a black cloud of birds, torpid in flight, on the sounds of the stirred crowd and thundering swords.
Arn slid an arm about his shoulder. “It’s back? The dream about that ruin? The door?”
The door. Kaell passed an unsteady hand over his eyes.
The familiar dream had struck near dawn. A deep sleep chained him to it.
It had started with a girl’s kiss. A wondrous, sweet kiss. But Kaell could never hold on to her, finding himself alone in a desolate castle, the wind gnawing through empty towers. The air had smelt of dew and frosted grass. Of a forgotten past.
He had wandered into a tallow-scented passage of ancient, blackened stone. Torches in sconces barely breached welling shadows. Curling smoke hurt his eyes. He swiped it away.
And there it was. The door. It was iron hinged and brass handled. Its imposing length depicted carved warriors wearing exotic, flowing robes and turreted castles rising from sand.
Numb with terror he couldn’t explain, he tried to run, but a voice always called his name. Such a voice. As rich as gold, as dangerous as a blade’s edge.
“The dream starts in the Waste Mountains.” The words thickened in his throat. Kaell couldn’t say the rest. In the dream, I die. Behind the door.
Arn’s hands fell helplessly to his side. “I’ve never seen you afraid,” he said. “Not you.”
“I’m not—” Another lie? What was wrong with him? Did the dream unsettle him that much? His lord taught him to face the truth, to examine his motivations and thoughts.
“Kaell.” Arn’s tone softened. “You know your duty. Not only to the gods, but to the Lord of Vraymorg. To the men who ride with us. You never balked at that duty before.”
“Duty.” Kaell scoffed. “Duty.” It was his duty to die. Behind that door. Unless he ran.
“Everything will be all right, Kaell. We’ve crossed the great gorge more than once.”
“Not into the Waste Mountains. Where that ghoul’s master waits for me.”
“Khir gifts you with visions. Even if that ruin from your dream is close to whatever stinking ghoul den the king wants us to clear out, nothing can harm you, or any of us. Khir would warn you of danger.”
“So you say.”
“Kaell.”
He looked up. Arn’s expression was ble
ak. “Vraymorg sent me to bring you back.”
Steel clanged. A man howled. A sigh stirred through the crowd. Kaell glanced towards the sounds, wondering at the contest unfolding. A favourite warrior beaten?
Laughter rang as boys shook a tree to loosen apples. Leaves scattered about a still figure clad in a cowled cloak. The figure stared right at him.
Coldness brushed his neck. He blinked. When he looked again, no one was there.
“Did you hear me? Vraymorg ordered I bring you back. To do your duty.”
Duty. Always duty. Those scraps of his lord’s regard, his interest, so desperately fought for, all because the gods compelled this man to train him. Prepare him.
“He sent you rather than come himself.” Bitterness tore up his voice. “It should hardly surprise me how little I mean to him. But as you just reminded me—I answer to no one. Tell him, I’ll return when I’m ready.”
Kaell strode a rough coil of path below dark-trunked trees, helm in one hand, his swinging sword tapping his hip.
His thoughts churned. His lord did not care enough to seek him out. Why should he? The stares, the mutters from the tournament crowd said it all. He wasn’t like them. He was different, a freak even, and his lord knew it.
Lost in thought, he tripped over a stone and fell forward with a jarring thump. Kaell cursed as he rose, brushed dirt from his pants, and bent to retrieve his helm.
His arms tingled. He spun.
Bilberry bushes swept slopes tangled with gnarled roots and drooping, budding branches. Sunlight shattered upon leaves. The air scented of jasmine, grass and dried mud shimmered with heat. From the nearby tournament at Knight’s Spike, steel clanked.
Warmth dusted his skin like a golden mist. Wind gently fluttered his cloak.
Yet a misplaced sound, whisper-thin, swirled. A fluttering of warning not so much in his ears as down his backbone. Someone watched from the trees.
The ground rumbled. Horses thundered along the path.
Kaell ripped his sword from his belt as armed riders surrounded him.
The horsemen slowed. Unhurried, they moved in. Kaell whipped about. More men wearing Downs uniforms closed at his back. He tilted his chin, spat a defiant: “What do you want?”