by S J Hartland
Without games life ground to boredom. Every Damadar child learned that during long winters in cut-off ice caverns with nothing to do but torment each other. Alliances formed, broke, reformed. Schemes hatched amid tears, shouting, bruised pride or bruised flesh.
“That smirk, sister dear, makes you look like a horny, deprived squire about to tumble into bed with a buxom wench.”
“Crude.” Judith squinted through sunlight. “And typical. You think of nothing but women and swordplay.”
“And wine. Though that leads to thoughts of women and swordplay.”
Bluntly, Judith said: “He’s here.”
“You ruined the game, Judith.” He sighed. “Who’s here?”
“Lack wit. Who do you think?”
Heath’s heart brawled in his chest. “Aric? I was just with the king. No Aric.”
“Well now he’s here.”
Wind whipped dark-brown hair about her face. Heath snatched at a strand. “Where exactly?”
Judith stabbed a finger at the air beyond the balcony.
“The training fields? How single-minded. Though Aric might prove a worthy opponent in a fire dance. Tournament champion and all that, Isles commander—”
“And in Dal-Kanu all alone. Isn’t that sad? Left his men at Dal-whatever with his sister.”
“The skinny one with freckles? Always pouting and hanging about like a rusting sword, whining about Aric not paying her enough attention.”
“Azenor Caelan? She scrubs up well, now. Apparently.”
Heath smoothed Judith’s hair between his fingers. “But still Cathmor will have eyes only for you. It’s unfair isn’t it, how blessed our family is? Myranthe with wickedness. Velleran with ambition. Griffin earnestness. Me with my wits. You with beauty.”
“I may have a beautiful head,” Judith sweetly mocked. “But yours is entirely wit-free.”
“You said I thought about women and swordplay. Now I’m empty-headed?”
She didn’t reply. Her gaze fell on the ward. Through clouds of dust stirred by trampling feet, Kaell leaned against a stone wall, arms crossed, sun glinting on bright hair.
“Good gods, another one,” Heath said. “What is it about him?”
“What are you on about now?”
“I just watched the lovely Queen of Cahir drool all over that young warrior. She called Kaell dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Surely not. Interesting, though. Myranthe would love to play with him. Marked by his Mountains gods. She’d say he reeked of enchantment.”
Heath grunted. “That’s the stink of unwashed Mountains flesh. Forget him. We can’t touch the Vraymorg child. You know that.”
“He has secrets.”
“We men merely pretend to have secrets, Judith. So women think we’re intriguing. They want to unravel us, scratch away to what’s beneath—”
“Where all they find is an empty head and a belly full of wine. No, listen. Kaell left his room after dark last night, taking care no one followed him.”
“Except Judith Damadar, scourge of secret keepers. And he went?”
“To the temple first—”
“How the gods draw the wicked.” Heath smothered a yawn. “It must be horrible to be a god. I’d want to be a deaf god.”
“Looking furtive, he snatched up a torch and crept down to the crypt. Our young warrior laid a moonflower on a particular coffin. Then stood there a long while, saying nothing.”
“A flower. How revoltingly sweet. Whose coffin?”
Judith sniffed. “I don’t think I’ll tell you. You’re too annoying.”
“Oh please, Judith.” Heath wrung his hands and attempted an innocent look. “I let your pretty Isles captain live. I’m a good brother, really. Hardly annoying at all, or at least annoying only half the time. The rest of the time, I’m—”
“Tiresome.”
“Charming?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Dashing, loveable, sweet—”
“Like I said, annoying.” Judith tried to hide a smile. “All right, charming, dashing Heath. Why should an unwashed warrior of distant Vraymorg sneak into the crypt to visit the tomb of Cathmor’s first queen? The one who threw herself from a bridge and drowned.”
“Caelmarsh’s daughter, Annatise? That makes no sense. How could a Mountains warrior with no second name know a high-born lass like that?”
“A mystery,” Judith said. Then at his suspicious look, she spread her arms. “No, really, I don’t know. Though let me offer you a further puzzle, charming Heath. Someone followed Kaell. I heard her at the top of the stairs. It sounded like she pushed him.”
“Did you see who?”
“No. But I smelt perfume before Kaell cried out.”
“It’s very curious. But hardly our concern.” He threw her a look. “Why do you care?”
“I like to know things. Information is useful.”
Heath smiled, thinking again of their childhood games when he and Judith teamed up to outwit Myranthe and the Icelands heir Velleran. Judith always complained she possessed fewer weapons than her siblings, only whatever secrets she unearthed.
“Talking of curiosities that are our concern,” Judith said. “What brews in that charmingly wine-sodden head? I am delighted you at last positioned us where Aric is, but how do you plan to snatch him? You do intend to snatch him, don’t you?”
“Why, what do you think I should do with him? Dance with him? Give him the name of my new boot maker?”
Judith slapped his shoulder. “I know what I should do with you. It involves my hands and your neck. About Aric.” She paused. Looked at him. “You were boyhood friends, but you won’t go soft on me will you, brother? You will be all Heath-like, all cold and merciless?”
“I shall be heartless, ruthless, unpleasant and entirely Heath-like. The only time I’ve been un-Heath-like was for you, Judith dear. Heath-like Heath would never let Pairas live.”
Judith dug teeth into her lip, her expression shuttered. “I told you. He reminds me of someone. It was the right thing to do, Heath. I can’t believe you’re so soaked in violence you forgot that.”
“I’m soaked in alcohol, actually. Now about Aric—”
“He’ll no doubt join us at dinner with the king, being well-bred and Cathmor’s cousin.”
Heath flicked a ladybug off her cloak. “Don’t worry Judith. I shall be polite, witty, charming, all non-Heath-like attributes, to show I’m also well-bred.”
“You shall have to be on your best behaviour.”
“But I’m at my best when I’m, well, bad. Or drunk.”
“You’re always at your best then. The plan?”
Heath rubbed a bristled chin. “You could seduce Aric. I’m told women think he’s easy to look at, that he washes once a day, is vaguely amusing, terribly arrogant and all that.”
She pouted. “How dreadful. He sounds like you, except for the amusing bit. Can I seduce that Vraymorg warrior too?”
“They don’t wash in the Mountains, you know.” Heath tilted his head to consider her. “It’s the pale hair isn’t it?” He thrust a hand to his breast. “Oh Kaell, what pretty hair you have. Oh, Kaell, what big, strong arms you have.”
“Oh Heath, what a big bag of wind you are. When we return to the Icelands—”
“With Aric.”
“I’ll beg Myranthe to find a spell to make you mute.”
“That’s very cruel, Judith. Just when we agreed I was charming and sweet.”
“Not even asleep.”
“How I suffer. And here I was about to impress you in my windy, wine-soaked way by explaining how we’ll snatch a young Isles lordling from one of the most heavily guarded castles in Telor. And from right under the king’s nose.”
Aric
Aric was already dead. He knew it.
He would cut down this warrior of Khir’s. Slaughter him. Coldly. Precisely. Because he could. Because that’s what he always did.
But then came the festering wound. The stain of murder. A killing blow within.
With quick steps he crossed the ward towards the training field. The execution ground.
The sword at his hip, always so familiar, no longer felt part of him. Nor did his body. It had become a shell, hollow of his warrior’s spirit, nothing but a butcher’s tool.
A rancid laugh burst up in his throat at the irony of it all.
Many men wished him ill. His brother Gendrick, who stewed with envy. The king. But Cathmor’s malicious plots, even Gendrick’s jealousy, could not destroy him.
No, he’d do that himself. The moment he killed this bonded warrior. Reputation, honour, his life gone. But he had no choice. He must save Azenor.
Snatching a steadying breath, Aric passed men drilling with unblunted weapons, shields wrapped about sagging arms.
The odours of sweat and leather, the dust, reminded him of Tide’s End where grim-faced weapons masters had yelled about balance as he learnt the centuries-old dance of steel.
Who trained these warriors? The Lord of the Mountains? Vraymorg rarely competed in tournaments though Pairas declared the man fought with calculated savagery.
Aric paused to watch a smooth-skinned youth trade blows with a thick-necked brute, their skulls capped by helms. The boy flashed a smile through broken teeth, but his eyes were dark and hard. Solid enough blade work. Feet as lumbering as a siege engine though.
He peered across the yard. Men grunting, sweating, cursing, their boots scuffing dirt and flattening grass. Ringing, shuddering steel. Laughter. The squawks of black birds circling a spired tower an irregular chorus for the ragged melody of his heart.
Then his heart slammed still for a beat.
You will know him by the colour of his hair. As light as daylight.
The ghoul did not lie about that, at least. Among so many dark Telorian heads, the man he must kill stood out like a beacon. Kaell, the king had called him. Aric wished he had never heard the name. Easier to murder an unnamed stranger.
His thoughts flew again to the song he had heard on that hot Isles night:
A thousand times I’ll kill the man I do not know.
But weep a thousand tears for the friend who falls to any blow.
Kaell.
With horrified fascination, Aric watched the young man move among his companions, nodding or frowning at swordplay. Men grinned or greeted him with words that drew a laugh. One or two threw Kaell a shadowed look, flinching as he passed.
“You.” Kaell strode at Aric. “What do you want? Who are you?”
Aric unravelled the sing-song words.
“Do you have a name?” Kaell halted before Aric, a smile curving an expressive mouth.
“Aric. The king sent me to train with you.”
How the lies thickened. He might prove a courtier one day. No, thankfully he’d not live that long. This foul deed done, Cathmor would gleefully behead him.
“If that’s the king’s wish. Let me find you a sparring partner.”
“I’ll fight only you. Kaell.”
“I rarely fight inexperienced bladesmen—friend.”
Kaell’s tone held a friendly insolence, but his eyes hardened to clouded emeralds, the colour of the sea off Tide’s End where ships floundered on hidden reefs.
“You make dangerous assumptions.” Aric fought to steady his voice. His heart bolted free like a shutter banged by wind, hammering not with fear, but anger. He could not do this. Kaell was younger than him. A boy.
“And you throw out dangerous challenges. If you know my name then you know what I am.”
“A boy too afraid to fight me.”
Now amusement, not annoyance, danced in those striking eyes.
“A cheap taunt.” Kaell turned his back.
Other warriors lowered weapons to listen. Use it. Embarrass him. “Then here’s another, even cheaper. I heard you had no honour and would never accept a challenge.”
Kaell spun back. “Who said this?”
An older man, thick rather than tall, with a long braid of greying black hair and a pale scar disfiguring his jaw, stepped between them.
“Just words, Kaell. Words.” He glared at Aric. “Who sent you? Caelmarsh?”
“Caelmarsh?” What history did Caelmarsh have with this young Mountains warrior? “That snake? Do I look like a Downs man?”
That drew nervous laughter. Men crowded closer. The scarred warrior rounded on them. “You, Smiler. Leaning on your sword, your mouth flapping like a fish, won’t keep you alive against ghouls. And you two—”
Aric slipped his hand to his dagger as he edged towards Kaell.
The older man blocked him. “Keep your distance, stranger. Or I’ll gut you myself.”
“You can try. I’ll readily fight you after I’ve fought him. Unless you’re craven too.”
“Why you—” The man drew his sword.
Kaell patted his arm. “Just words, Arn.” He grinned at Aric. “If you weren’t such a conceited blowhard I might like you, whoever you are.”
Aric made a self-mocking bow. The birds on the tower squawked approval as though he did it nicely. “The conceited blowhard assumed everyone knew me. My name is Aric Caelan.”
Startled murmurs rippled among the Mountains men. Arn reluctantly bent his knees.
“Aric Caelan.” Kaell whistled. “Such stories about you. You challenged the Black Lord of Long Rock to single combat when his ships turned pirate.”
“A dead man the instant he agreed to fight,” Aric said truthfully.
“And you defeated nine challengers in a row at Princes’ Stone when the king offered a fat purse to any knight who put you in the dirt.”
“The king should love me. I saved him all that gold.”
“Why even before you turned seventeen, your father named you commander of the Isles.”
Ten years ago. Aric could hardly remember what he was like then. He dangled a snare. “My ancestor, Roaran Caelan, first commanded the Isles at fifteen. He, too, trained as a Serravan bladesman. You see little of the Serravan style in the Mountains. But Isles weapons masters still teach their methods.”
Those striking green eyes were too alive. Aric knew men who laughed as they turned a blade against your heart, their gazes flat and empty. Yet ghouls feared this young man enough to abduct him, threaten his sister and slaughter his men.
Fight me, he willed. Let Azenor live. The birds shrieked as if knowing a feast neared.
“You tempt me, Aric Caelan.” Kaell eagerly tapped his sword sheath with fingers bare of rings. “I long to know more of Serravan techniques.”
“Pick up your sword, then. Test my technique.”
Arn rose, jaw clenched. “You’re injured, Kaell. And we ride north soon.”
“Who’s he? Your nursemaid?” Aric returned Arn’s glare.
Kaell laughed. “Arn, you always tell me I’ll learn nothing more from you or Olier and must seek worthy opponents. Here’s a worthy opponent. Only a few moments, I swear.”
Aric only needed a moment to kill. “As long as your nursemaid agrees. If you’re injured—a blunted sword, perhaps?”
Kaell glanced at steel strapped to Aric’s back. “You don’t carry a blunted sword.”
“Nor do you.” The young man wore a peculiar-looking blade. “What is that?”
Kaell ripped out the sword and cut the air. Seithin steel. The match of Aric’s blade.
“Every bonded warrior carries this blade. It’s called Fortitude.”
“Fortitude? You’ll need more than that to beat me.”
“I have more than that.” He faced Aric with a smile. “You haven’t encountered a bonded warrior before, have you?”
Aric shrugged. “One warrior’s the same as another. They all fall readily to my blade.”
“Shall we see?” Kaell stripped off his cloak and grabbed a helm.
So it was done. Just like that pirate lord, Kaell was dead the instant he agreed to fight.
Guilt and regret knotted in Aric’s breast. A tight, hard clench.
The temptation to fli
ng down his sword, drop to his knees and confess it all gnawed at him. What if he didn’t have to face this alone? If he asked Kaell to help save his sister?
No. This was his fault. His duty to keep Azenor safe. He could not risk her life on some chance a stranger helped him. No way out. He must shed blood.
Shed, shed, shed, the birds squawked. Aric tossed them a mirthless grin. Maybe mine? Is that what you sing? Be patient. You’ll feast on my spiked head soon enough.
Drawing his sword, he took an offered helm and let coldness tame his mind as trained. It didn’t matter how young this warrior was. How worthy. To save his sister, it fell to him to murder Kaell.
“A fine weapon,” Kaell said.
Fine? Cursed—now. “It’s called The Cup.”
Kaell whistled. “That’s an infamous blade.”
“An infamous blade with a meaningless name.” After this, best call it Treachery.
Arn again grasped Kaell’s arm. “Think about this, boy. This lordling is champion of the Isles. Telor’s best tournament fighter. You can’t risk that ankle. Not before we ride out.”
“Don’t fuss so. I’ll be careful.” Kaell paused, considered, then turned a smile on Aric. “Since you’re from the Isles, I must ask. Have you come upon a girl—?”
“Isles men come upon lots of girls,” a man quipped, drawing leering laughter.
Kaell shook his head. “Ignore the would-be jesters, Aric Caelan. Our Mountains’ humour is crude. What I mean is, I seek a young woman with a scar on her breast, just near the heart.”
Aric’s breath stalled. “Do you call that funny?”
“What?” Kaell’s smile withered. “No.”
“He asks everyone that,” the thick-necked man said. “Some girl he dreams about.”
“Do you want to babble about women? Or fight?” Aric snapped the visor shut. He exhaled slowly. A coincidence. It must be.
“Listen, boy.” Arn fisted his hands at his side. “Your injured ankle aside, this isn’t right. If he’s really Aric Caelan, why is he here? Ask yourself that.”
“In Dal-Kanu?” Aric sniffed. “Why, for the fetid air.” More laughter.
“When else can I test myself against the Isles champion?” Kaell closed his helm. “You know Arn; you do fuss like an old woman.”