by S J Hartland
“He’s right, nursemaid. Nag, nag, nag.” Go away. But which ankle? An injury he could use. Kill him. Wound him. Either way Kaell died, and he saved Azenor.
Dead, dead, the birds mocked. Aric shook his head at them. Soon. You can have me soon.
As the two took stance, Aric considered tactics. No shields. The ground cracked and hard. Let Kaell set the rhythm. Assess his speed. His bladework.
He deliberately hung back. Kaell obliged with a probing lunge, shallow and easily parried. Then a quick thrust on a different line.
Aric lazily blocked. His opponent sought to uncover his patterns with false attacks.
Sure enough, Kaell feinted low to draw that same defence, then jabbed high. Aric slipped away without using the blade. Show him nothing.
Kaell slashed at his shoulder. Aric threw up a false defence. Circling, he tapped Kaell’s blade. No reaction. But his swift lunge drew a late, deliberate parry. His opponent, too, revealing only enough to deceive.
When Aric again misleadingly left an opening, Kaell stepped in to hammer his blade with ringing, thundering steel.
Somewhere in the chaos of biting, screeching metal, grunts and glittering sun on blades, a deep feint sought Aric’s lateral block. But his circular parry caught his opponent’s sword.
Kaell skipped back from a quick riposte, his grin good-natured. Enjoying their contest. But this game he could not win. Because Aric meant to kill him and Kaell didn’t know it.
Wanting it done, he took up the attack. Unleashed a flurry of blows, of thrusts, cuts, jabs. But steel only jarred on steel. Kaell’s parries, counterattacks as controlled as his.
A hush gripped enthralled spectators, broken only by occasional gasps. Every Mountains warrior and a few king’s men circled as the screech of clangoring blades drowned the wind, as their feet stirred up dust and the air charged with danger.
When their swords caught, Aric glimpsed a warm light in Kaell’s eyes. Not battle fever but pleasure, a simple joy in the challenge, the cut and thrust and manipulation of swordplay.
For all that, Kaell’s blows fell hard. Cut, hack, hew, at his head, his chest, his belly. Aric flashed parry after parry, his mind sifting a rhythm in the furious strokes, found something but did not trust it.
Soon both men were panting. Sweat glistened on their arms and necks. Kaell did not let up. No surprises there. He was strong. Fast. Cocky.
Injured. Use it.
Aric rained metal, driving Kaell towards the ringed spectators, one step, another, but always back. The young bladesman effortlessly held off his thrusts, but each time he defended he put less weight on his left foot. Or winced. Quickly hidden.
“Kaell, are you without sense?” Arn yelled. “Enough.”
Catching his opponent’s single distracted blink, Aric crashed steel down to cleave flesh and bone. At the last heartbeat Kaell deflected the blow. Just. Startled, he glared.
Too ferocious—boy? He had only just started.
Aric hacked so hard his stroke shuddered through his tight shoulders. Sparks flew as Kaell took the brutal blow high up, locking their swords and bodies close.
“By all your gods.” His pulse leapt in his throat. “Just what counts as practice in the Isles?”
Aric only laughed, a shockingly vicious sound. Kaell shouldered him back, shifted his grip and waited. There was a flatness to his eyes now, a wariness in his stance.
Willingly Aric rushed in. His sword shrieked as it struck. Kaell spun away. His riposte clunked so hard on Aric’s helm his ears rang. Careless. Those wretched crows nearly got a meal. But Kaell still didn’t want to kill him. Which was why he would die.
Kaell lunged, the thrust a fraction short. Aric stepped into the attack, swinging. A rapid parry flew, then quick-fire blows back and forth. Their rasped breath fogged air. Metal shredded blue sparks. Men pressed nearer, shouting.
Aric wanted to shout too. Yield. Die. I’ve hardly slept since I left the Isles. But he saved his breath to partner Kaell in a furious dance.
“How’s that ankle?” he said as their swords again ground together. “About to give?”
He kicked.
Kaell collapsed to one knee.
Finish it.
“You made your point.” Kaell reeled to his feet. “My balance, this cursed ankle—”
Aric slashed. A death stroke set to shatter bone. With breathtaking speed, Kaell smacked it aside, his face stiff with anger.
Yes, at last you see it, Aric thought. You finally realise I mean to kill you.
All deception over, he hailed lethal blows. Kaell ripped up steel to defend, metal clattering in showering blue.
Sensing something had changed, tension boiled through onlookers. They stilled, their yells and curses dying away. A few shook their heads.
Stab. Hew. Jab. Sword scraped against sword. Aric upped his speed to cut the distance. He swung an arm. Beneath the unexpected whack, Kaell stumbled. Buckled on that weak ankle.
Aric struck. His blade tore into flesh. A red stain burst on his opponent’s sleeve. As Kaell gasped, an angry mutter spread. The Mountains warrior flung his blade into his left hand.
Aric circled like the crows. End this. With a quick thrust in the heart. Not the cruel, slow death of Night’s Kiss. He jabbed.
Kaell blocked hard. But Aric’s blade dipped beneath.
The young man crashed steel across, partly deflecting the blade. It missed his heart, missed his belly. Sliced his thigh. Kaell cried out. His face contorted in pain. He dropped.
No quick release then. No cawing applause from the crows. But it was done. This bonded warrior was dead. He just didn’t realise it yet.
Nauseous, appalled at what he’d just done, Aric let his sword wilt. Night’s Kiss. A painful, lingering end. A hideous act, this. But Azenor—saved.
Silence. Then shock erupted to outrage. Men shook fists, heckled, but none dared touch him. The youth with chipped teeth shoved his face into Aric’s. “You wounded him. A warrior who serves Khir. What’s wrong with you?”
Sprawled in dirt, blood oozing through fingers clamped against his thigh, Kaell panted. He glared up. “Is this how you train in the Isles? Anyone would think you want to kill me.”
“I have killed you,” Aric said. “It hardly matters but I’m sorry for it.”
Arn grabbed Aric’s sword. He sniffed the tip. “What have you done? Curse you.”
Kaell tried to rise, but failed. “Arn, something’s wrong with me.”
“The blade’s tainted. Smells strange.”
The young man stared at Aric. “You poisoned me?”
Now that was a philosophical question for men much smarter than Aric. I poisoned us both, he might say. But only you with the sword.
Crows circled. Soon they would feed on his flesh. He hoped they choked on it.
Again Kaell struggled to get up. Fell back. He thumped a fist into the ground.
“Stay still,” Arn said. “I’ll fetch a healer.”
He spoke quickly to a young warrior who took to his heels, then called two men to him. “Olier, Smiler.” Arn shoved Aric at them. “Arrest him. If he resists, knock him out.”
“But Arn, what if he’s really the king’s cousin?” the chip-toothed youth protested.
“Get him out of my sight before I kill him. He poisoned Kaell. If he’s the king’s cousin, then the king will have to deal with him.”
Heath
“No!” Cathmor sprang up, snatched a goblet from a table and smashed it against the wall. Wine splattered like blood.
Heath recoiled, bewildered. What had just happened? Had Aric lost his mind?
Cael-Carren grabbed the king’s elbow. “Careful. Think before you act rashly.”
“Rash?” Cathmor threw off his grip. “Aric Caelan struck down a bonded warrior under my protection. If Kaell dies, do you understand what it means?”
Cael-Carren poured wine with a shaking hand. “It means war.”
War? Heath shot the man a look. The old fool cut to tha
t conclusion quickly.
“You’re right.” Cathmor tugged at his fringe. “If Kaell dies, then I must execute Aric. It is the law. No leniency to a man who strikes a bonded warrior.”
“Aric’s father will use it as an excuse to attack,” Cael-Carren said glumly. “The Isles will rise again.”
That didn’t sound right. Cathmor longed to attack the Isles again, to recover face after losing the last war. No, he’d tell his lords Hatton would resume hostilities to convince them to act. “Why would Aric Caelan want this boy dead?” Heath said.
Cael-Carren stared into his wine cup. “Why does Aric Caelan do anything? You’ve missed the point, Damadar. If this boy dies, ghouls will overrun the Mountains and Downs, perhaps even breach the Falls.”
“And when Aric’s head comes off, the Isles will seek to overrun us.” Cathmor squeezed a fist. “We must strike first.”
Heath knuckled his chin. “But this Kaell might survive?”
“The physician says the boy sickens by the minute. It seems Aric laced his sword with poison, but the physician doesn’t know what sort.”
“Then Aric must tell us,” said Heath.
Aric
They gripped his shoulders as tightly as a miser clutched a bag of coins.
No need. Hands bound, a split lip bleeding onto his tunic, Aric staggered, head down, no fight in him.
The two Mountains men threw him to the floor, then backed up.
Cathmor yanked Aric to his knees by his hair.
“What have you done? Khir will punish you for this.”
Aric flinched. Not his god. But his would surely judge him as he judged himself. Sick disgust rolled in his gut. This cowardly deed—murder no less—tainted everything he was. He deserved death.
“Yes, be afraid.” Cathmor twisted his hair until he winced. “You deliberately struck a bonded warrior. Spilled his blood. Khir’s curse rests upon you. But why? Why?”
“Someone paid him.” Arn kicked Aric. “Caelmarsh. He bears Kaell a grudge.”
Cathmor rounded on him. “What’s this you’re saying? I should cut you down for such treasonous words about my high constable.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace.” The scar on the man’s jaw coloured as blood rushed to his face. “I spoke hastily. Out of fear for Kaell.”
The king drove his boot into Aric’s knee. “Well? You always had a lot to say before. Does nothing justify your actions? A blood dispute between you and Kaell? Did he wrong you?”
Aric squinted into flickering light. Glares as tangible as a whip fell on him. He could not regret poisoning Kaell to save Azenor. Nor did he expect or deserve mercy.
“I am guilty of the act, though it was not my choice.”
“It was your sword.” Arn’s voice impaled with contempt.
Cathmor cut the Mountains man off with a gesture.
“Why no choice, cousin? Give me a reason to spare you.”
“Ghouls hold Azenor.” Aric licked his bleeding lips. “They ambushed us. Slaughtered all—” Gods help him. Cass.
Grief splintered his voice, his will. He shoved down gut-churning memories. “Slaughtered my men. Threatened to kill Azenor unless I murdered this boy.”
A horrified silence fell. It was there in the swiftly drawn-in breaths, the fixed stares, the shuffling feet.
“Your Grace—” Cael-Carren began but could not continue.
“Where?” Cathmor’s grim voice rolled like nearing thunder. “You rode with my bride to protect her. You, the Isles commander. Yet you live and she is—” He, too, could not finish.
“Ghouls attacked us at the ford.” Aric stared at the swirls of the mosaic floor. Nothing felt real. Not the ambush, not what he just did. It was as though he was watching another man, a ruthless man broken down to the beast within.
A man already dead.
“The women got away, thank The Three. To where, I don’t know. Ghouls took Azenor and me prisoner. Said someone called Archanin would kill Azenor—”
“Archanin?” Arn said sharply. “He took the lady?”
“This Archanin is a fairy-tale,” Cael-Carren said. “A story to frighten children. And you women from the Mountains, it seems.”
“You let her be taken.” Every part of Cathmor could be carved from stone. Taut. Still. Except his eyes. They glittered, dark and terrible with smouldered rage.
“Your task was to bring her safely to Dal-Kanu. To your king. You failed me.”
“No. I saved my sister. Now this bonded warrior will die.”
Cathmor struck his cheek, his ring ripping skin.
“You believe the word of ghouls?” the king said. “Are you Isles demon worshippers guileless? These things care nothing for you or Azenor. They fear one man. He lies dying.”
“Azenor is kin. The boy is nothing to me.”
Cathmor jabbed a finger. “Kaell. He’s called Kaell. He serves the gods, you heathen fool.”
“Your gods,” Aric said. “Not mine.”
The king hit him again. This time the blow knocked Aric flat, cheek to stone. Dizzy, he could not rise. Blood from his torn cheek slowly puddled.
“Your Grace.” Cael-Carren grasped his nephew’s arm. “He might have the poison on him. If we at least knew what it was—”
Cathmor flicked a hand. “Strip him. Search him.”
Cael-Carren waved at guards. “Take him away.”
“Do it here. We’re among friends. Kin.” The king snorted vicious laughter.
“Do as His Majesty says.”
No, no, no. What humiliation was this? The hall was full. Every servant who could slip away from their duties, every guard, every one of the Mountains warriors, jostled to watch.
Aric writhed as guards grabbed him. They struck him until he stopped thrashing. With rough hands they ripped off his garments, their touch moving impersonally over his body.
“Careful,” Cathmor said. “Don’t mess his hair.”
Aric managed a sneer. “Find a bard to teach you new lines. Your obsession with my hair bores me.”
A guardsman dumped him hard on the tiles and backed away. “Nothing, Your Grace.”
“Find his horse. Search his saddlebag,” Cael-Carren said. “Then deliver him to the king’s interrogators. He must tell us.”
More humiliation and pain. For what? Because he was ashamed to name the poison he’d used?
No, he feared if he told them they might cure Kaell—and Azenor died. But there was no cure.
“Night’s Kiss.” Aric slumped over his raised knees, a barrier against intrusive eyes. “It was Night’s Kiss.”
“You snake.” Arn rocked back. “You piece of filth.”
Others turned aside as though unable to look at him. Beneath the weight of their disgust, Aric hunched. No less than he deserved.
“So Kaell must die. Painfully.” Cathmor spoke softly so only Aric heard. “The law demands you die as well. No doubt your father will use this as a reason to attack, call it vengeance. By summer war will rip this land apart. Do you know what you’ve done?”
Aric lifted his chin, defiant. He knew exactly what he’d done. Saved his sister. He had to believe that. But war? No. His father would accept Aric wronged Cathmor. He had no desire to plunge Telor into war again, a war the Isles could not win—this time.
No, Cathmor hoped his father would march on Dal-Kanu for a flimsy reason like vengeance. Then every other Telorian lord would rally to the false king. Perhaps even the haughty Damadars with their formidable Ice warriors.
“My cousin’s words condemn him.” Cathmor raised his voice. “Put him somewhere safe. See no harm comes to him. Not until my questioners are ready for him.”
Aric hugged his knees, fighting down panic. Torture, then. No quick death.
The king’s gaze passed over him again. It held a myriad of emotions: fury, sneering triumph, but disappointment too. Perhaps beheading was too swift an end for a man he hated.
Cathmor leaned close. In a low voice, the words for his captive alone, he
said, “I don’t care what song you sing for my interrogator, Aric. Just so long as you take a long, agonising time to sing it.”
Heath
Heath reeled from the scene in the hall. An echo of Cathmor’s voice taunted as he strode through the castle. “My cousin’s words condemn him.”
Condemn. No. Aric could not die. At least, not yet. And not here.
Early moonlight frosted stone as he took the tower steps two at a time. The wind barbed his skin, its cool, autumn breath layered with that distant scent of pine, wood smoke and rancid fat from the kitchens.
A door near the top stood open to an octagonal room. Curtains banished moonlight, trapping the stench of sickness and despair within circular, stone walls.
Kaell writhed on a bed. Still conscious. A Mountains man held him down as a physician salted his wounds in a useless bid to counter the poison.
Heath winced. A painful, lingering and certain death. The fire, at least, was quick.
Light footsteps tapped. Torchlight blinked on hair like streaming gold as Rozenn emerged from the stairwell.
“Your Grace.” He bowed.
She threw Heath a remote smile as she brushed past.
“Do you know him? Kaell?”
Rozenn stopped. Turned. “I met him—once. How strange he should die like this. His gods are cruel. Far crueller than I could ever be.”
Heath left Rozenn at the room’s threshold, staring within.
As he reached their chambers, Judith sprang to her feet. “Is it true? Aric poisoned Kaell?”
“I can’t take it in. Aric Caelan is no assassin. But he admitted his crime.”
Judith dragged hands down her face. “I can hear Kaell’s screams. Heath, it sounds so dreadful. Night’s Kiss, they said.”
“It’s not a quick death.”
“And Aric? Where is he? Did he flee Dal-Kanu?”
“He’s in the tender care of Cathmor’s interrogators. Until the king executes him. No, don’t look at me like that, Judith. It’s the law. A bonded warrior serves Khir. To kill such a man offends both king and gods.”