The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  Examine? Kaell blenched.

  “Not tonight. He’s here to learn, Bellicent,” Cathmor said. “I came to see my cousin.”

  Bellicent swept another bow. “Excellent timing, Your Grace. Your cousin proved stubborn today. I intend to soften him up with the whip tonight to poison his dreams.”

  Cathmor flicked up a brow. “The transcripts—”

  “A day old, I’m afraid. The wicked boy lost his tongue.” Bellicent rubbed her hands with pleasure. “Not literally. Unless you wish it?” She glanced hopefully at the king. “No? Then I shall use the whip—if it might amuse Your Grace.”

  “I cannot promise to be amused. But continue.”

  Kaell shuddered. He knew the bite of leather upon his shoulders.

  “Do you know what they say, Kaell?” Cathmor leaned to whisper like a conspirator. “Blackstone, black heart. Her appetites are extreme, but she’s thorough and inventive.”

  The interrogator snapped her fingers at the gaoler. “Get him up.”

  The jailer splashed water over the prisoner. Aric twitched, his lips moving noiselessly as the man hoisted him up and swung his manacled wrists onto a hook. His eyes held barely a flicker of awareness.

  Kaell fell back. His palm grazed rough stone. He had no taste for torture. No desire to see another man in pain. Why must Cathmor insist on bringing him here?

  The jailer cranked chains until Aric’s toes brushed the stone floor. At the unnatural position, muscles strained in his shoulders and back.

  Cathmor drifted his hand over the captive’s shoulder. “Striking, isn’t he? If my queen looked like her brother, she must have pleased the eye.”

  Kaell wrenched his head aside, uncomfortable at not only the confidence but the caress.

  “I’ll never know. Aric’s failure to protect his sister robbed me of my Caelan bride. Robbed me of the Isles. Do you understand why he must suffer, Kaell? Do you understand the extent of his crimes? Not just against you, but against his king.”

  Kaell said nothing. He longed to be anywhere but here, about to witness the king’s interrogator torture a man.

  With as much care as a bladesman might select a sword, Bellicent chose a whip. She fingered its knotted leather, smiling faintly as she circled Aric.

  Aric’s head lolled. A pulse fluttered in his throat as Bellicent grasped his buttocks to pull his groin against her. At the intrusive touch, Kaell flinched with distaste.

  The interrogator traced a bead of sweat down the prisoner’s breast onto his belly. “Such a sweet lordling. And he screams so prettily for me.”

  She sighed with pleasure, stepped back and lifted the whip. It whistled through air. Tore into flesh. Aric jerked. He made no sound. The lash cracked again. Blood streamed from welts in the captive’s back to the floor. Kaell locked his eyes on its slow drip.

  “He’s strong.” Bellicent stroked Aric’s cheek. “Deliciously strong.”

  Disgusted, Kaell ground his fists together. “Your Grace. Is this necessary?”

  “You’ll watch this, Kaell. Just as two days from now you’ll watch him die.”

  “No!” The protest ripped from him.

  Cathmor considered him with displeasure. “No?” His fist struck out. Beneath the blow, Kaell reeled. A snarling Janak moved in, sword extended. The king waved him off. Breaths tight, he yanked Kaell up. “You will watch every stroke and be glad of his suffering. And you’ll never question your king again.”

  Jaw aching, Kaell drew as still as a statue. He did not look at Cathmor. He forced his eyes to Bellicent as she slid her hands possessively all over Aric’s naked body.

  “He knows how to retreat from the pain.” The interrogator’s voice cracked with a sick desire. “Your Grace, I can break him. If you should only reconsider—”

  “No.”

  “I’ve learned what he fears—”

  “My orders stand. I don’t want him crippled. Nor do I want you to drive him mad. That makes for a dull execution. Tonight I do, however, wish to hear him scream. Make him.”

  The woman flashed a radiant smile. “With pleasure, Your Grace. I know just the thing.”

  Bile shot up Kaell’s throat. If only he could flee this foul cell with its stench of blood and misery. But he could only watch as Bellicent trod to the fire, humming as she drew on a glove to pull a glowing tong from the flames.

  Bellicent thrust. The tong sizzled into skin.

  Pain snapped Aric from whatever languor held him. He screamed. The drawn-out sound jarred down Kaell’s spine.

  He hazed his vision so he didn’t see Bellicent’s jabs. But he could not hide from Aric’s terrible, gut-wrenching shrieks that surely carried through every one of these passages.

  Time blurred. There was only Aric’s screams, the odour of burnt flesh. Bellicent’s sickening smiles. Cathmor’s intent, pitiless fascination.

  “Cut him down,” the king said at last. “Tend to his wounds.”

  Kaell blinked in surprise. A faint hope kindled. Perhaps the king might show mercy.

  But Cathmor smothered that at once. “Move him to a tower cell to await execution.”

  No. Not that. Kaell jammed a fist in his mouth, biting back another protest. Helpless anger whirled within him. Whatever Aric Caelan did to him, this was punishment enough. The man did not need to die.

  Cathmor turned. Shaken, Kaell trod after him, Janak a few steps ahead. As guards unlocked the door to the ward, the king said: “I hope you need never see that wretched place again, Kaell.”

  “I hope so, too, Your Grace.”

  “Of course, that depends on your lord.”

  “My Lord?”

  “Yes, your lord. He came close tonight to finding himself in a cell next to Aric. I should hate for you to see him like that. A prisoner in such squalor.” Cathmor wet his lips. “Although, I should enjoy seeing him in chains, I think. Such an arrogant creature.”

  Kaell braced a trembling hand against a wall. “I don’t understand.”

  “No.” Cathmor considered him. “I don’t suppose you do. Let’s just say upon your return from Thom you might like to consider who you bend your knee to.”

  The guard flung back the final grate. A covered bridge crossed to the mighty Kanu Tower. Its elegant length cut out the clear, star-bright sky, a silhouette etched by pallid moonbeams.

  Cathmor paused to stare up. “As a boy I looked in awe upon this tower. I wondered which god made it. It disappeared into clouds. Now I live in those clouds, in the king’s chamber.”

  He sighed and walked on. “And the tower seems small. Like the rest of the world.”

  Kaell hardly listened as he followed Cathmor into the tower, up twisting steps lit by blazing torches. After the bleak prison, even this indifferent glow seemed too brilliant. A mockery of pain.

  What did the king mean? Bend his knee to him or Cathmor imprisoned his lord? Surely he misunderstood. His Grace could not intend that. Yet his words contained menace.

  Cathmor stopped. He flicked a hand at Kaell. “Janak, return my wayward guest to his room. Make certain he doesn’t roam again.”

  The king brought his hard eyes to rest on Kaell’s face.

  “I’ll leave you with your thoughts, Kaell. But before you pity my cousin, think about this. That man wronged you. If he hadn’t wronged me as well, I might let you strike off his head.”

  Val Arques

  The blow felt good. Too good.

  Vraymorg clenched his fists against roiling anger. It was always with him, this anger. Buried beneath a veneer of control. Long ago he’d learned to push it deep down through sheer will, so it leaked out as recklessness in battle, in his impatient, curt manner.

  But now he wanted to surrender to it.

  Arn did not rise. Sprawled in dirt in the castle ward as though shot from a trebuchet, he rubbed his jaw, watching Vraymorg warily. “I deserved that, my lord. But forgive me if I don’t get up just so you can hit me again.”

  “I should have you whipped. I bid you to watch out f
or him.”

  “I failed you, my lord—and Kaell.”

  “Get up, fool.”

  Arn slowly got to his feet, shoulders hunched against another blow.

  Vraymorg expelled cool air to check his rage. Darkness spilled about him, but below streaked clouds beyond the castle towers a flux of dawn’s rose creased the horizon.

  “How could this—prince.” Vraymorg spat the word in disgust. “Wound him? The moment you learnt this man’s name, you should have stepped in. Stopped Kaell at once.”

  “My lord, the king’s cousin dared Kaell to fight him. He couldn’t back down.”

  “So for the sake of pride he nearly loses his life? I blame you. Kaell is eighteen, still with a boy’s hot-headed rashness.”

  “He’s twenty. Nearly twenty-one.” Arn’s tone implied his lord should know as much. “Kaell—all of us—were curious to see how this man Aric fought.”

  Curious? A fresh burst of anger heated his blood. Everyone knew how an Isles prince trained by Serravan-influenced weapons masters fought. With both wit and skill.

  Still—Vraymorg had taught Kaell to defeat clever, expert bladesmen.

  “You’re saying Aric Caelan is the better swordsman?”

  “My lord, that’s not quite how it is.”

  “Then how is it? Explain how a warrior dedicated to Khir, the God of Battles, only lives because some Isles sorceress cast spells over him.”

  Arn folded his arms. “My lord, Kaell fought as he trains, precisely, fairly—until he realised this man wanted to kill him. Before that, he held back his arm.”

  “And Aric?”

  “The Isles man—” Arn’s voice held awe. “Did not check his strokes. Aric Caelan is a splendid bladesman, at the peak of his abilities, but no better than the boy.”

  “No better doesn’t leave a man dying. You’re wrong. Aric out-thought Kaell and that makes him the superior swordsman.”

  He stalked to the stables. Arn’s words pursued him. No better than the boy. Yet no man, not even Aric Caelan, should match Kaell with steel. Not when he had trained him.

  “My lord.” His servant Ewen tightened stirrups on their horses. “Where’s Kaell?”

  “The king won’t surrender him.”

  “Surrender? Is he a prisoner?” Ewen bristled. “Why? Does this Isles prince blame Kaell? Does he claim Kaell provoked him? Then he’s a liar and a coward.”

  Vraymorg whipped up a hand before Ewen took it into his greying head to storm the castle, kill all the king’s guards and rescue Kaell. “Cathmor wants Kaell to hunt down those ghouls menacing villagers on the Downs.”

  “How many ghouls? As I hear it Kaell can hardly walk, let alone fight.”

  “Kaell’s fine.” He wondered why he lied to himself. “Arn will keep him out of trouble.”

  Ewen sniffed in disgust. “A poor job he’s made of that. First Caelmarsh almost grabs Kaell on the Downs, no thanks to Arn. Then some woman tries to smother him. Now this.”

  Vraymorg nibbled his lip. His fault. Kaell only ran off to that stupid Downs tournament because he lost his temper and struck him.

  “If it’s any comfort, Kaell had strength enough to answer me back just now.”

  “That sounds like him. I’m fond of the lad, the gods only know how much. He has an easy way about him, a warmth. But he doesn’t always hold his tongue.”

  “Next he’ll spin words at us again. Poems and such.”

  “Khir protect us.” Ewen grinned. “Before he left the Mountains, Kaell came up with a poem about the cook. Rhymed cook with chook or sook or some other nonsense. She chased him from the kitchen with a spoon.”

  “A fierce woman, that one. The boy would be sore if she caught him.”

  Ewen ran his palm over a horse’s flanks. “This thing with the king summoning Kaell to Dal-Kanu and now keeping him here. It worries me.”

  “Cathmor’s plotting something, yes.”

  “He takes his rights as king seriously. Wants Kaell to answer to him, not you.”

  The king resented his power. Resented him. Vraymorg shrugged. “Kaell will always obey me.”

  “The boy loves you, Val. Even though you don’t want to hear it. That’s why he argues with you, wanting attention all the time.”

  Loves you. The temptation to turn the words over, sift them, tugged like a storm wind through sails. No. Shield his heart or it would shatter. How many times could it shatter before he could no longer find himself among its pieces?

  “At least tell me the king will surrender the Isles coward to us. There are men ready to show this Aric Caelan a few tricks, if you take my meaning, my lord.”

  “No lordling pup to torment.”

  Ewen thrust out his bottom lip. He grabbed the bridles to lead their horses outside.

  Vraymorg tried to imagine him torturing Aric with hot pokers. No, Ewen would scold the prisoner until he sobbed and begged for quiet.

  “Do we ride for home, my lord? Empty-handed, though we may be?”

  “We’ll be at the foot of the mountains by dusk tomorrow. Home within a week if the gods feel charitable and the rivers aren’t high.”

  He peered up at the castle’s towers masked against the lightening sky. Unease coldly snaked his arms. His past stalked this place, his memories ghosting like fog.

  In this ward, he once danced with a bladesman with the ichor of gods in his veins. In a cell deep within the earth, a long-dead king had left him shackled and forgotten.

  “My lord.” Ewen tore him back to the present. “Something you should know. Word is Heath Damadar is here with one of his sisters. Judith, I think. Wedding guests, apparently.”

  “Heath. Not the eldest son, Velleran?”

  “No, Heath. Though I don’t believe the wedding guest bit for one moment.”

  “What are they up to, I wonder?”

  “Can’t be good. Ever come across a Damadar not intent on malice?”

  He tried never to come across a Damadar at all. Fickle allies, the Ice lords. Dangerous enemies. Their purpose shrouded, but always to do with ambition and magic.

  Vraymorg swung into the saddle. In streaked light, movement blurred. A young man watched him from the doorway to the blacksmith’s forge, his raven hair lit by fires within. A hammer bent iron.

  “Ah, trouble,” Ewen said. “Saw him staring when we rode in.”

  The stranger walked resolutely towards them. “My lord. May I speak with you?”

  “If you must. But be quick as we’ve a long ride. Who are you?”

  The man halted a sword’s length away. The aroma of ash clung to his guardsman’s uniform. “From the wary look in your eyes, I think you might know.”

  “Insolence,” Ewen spluttered. “How dare he address you so familiarly?”

  Vraymorg held up his hand. Ewen had once leapt off a horse to slap a sharp-tongued squire about the ears. He’d spare this young man’s ears.

  “You’re bold, whoever you are. What do they call you?”

  “Philip. And as you are leaving, I must take my chance and be bolder still.”

  He paused. Looked Vraymorg right in the face. “You knew my mother.”

  “Knew my mother, my lord,” Ewen said. “Address your betters correctly.”

  Philip’s stare did not move away. “You knew my mother—my lord.”

  Knew? What was he implying? “I think you mistake me for another.”

  “My uncle.” The guardsman glanced at the forge. “Tells me you’re Vraymorg. That is the name my mother gave me when I asked …” He shifted his weight.

  Vraymorg threw back a laugh to disguise his disquiet. That black hair. Those cheekbones.

  “I know what you’re hinting, Philip. By The Three, how old do you think I am?”

  “I cannot explain your age. I only know you’re the man she told me she … knew.” His voice quavered. Too dark to see the blush Vraymorg guessed crept up his neck.

  “Your mother—?”

  “Izzy, my lord. She died last winter. A fever.�
��

  “My lord,” Ewen said. “We have a long ride.”

  “As you say.” He swept Philip another look. Unmistakable, the signs of his blood.

  “Was there something you wanted, Philip?”

  The man’s gaze still did not falter. “With my mother gone, I have few ties in Dal-Kanu. Word is you always need trained warriors at Vraymorg. What with ghouls and the Varee.”

  “You need trained warriors—my lord.” Ewen shook his head. “Young man, I hope your bladework is not as sloppy as your manners.”

  “My lord.” Philip said with a faint smile. “I assure you my bladework is sharp enough.”

  “There’s a Mountains captain called Arn Tranter,” Vraymorg said. “Do you know him?”

  “No, but I’ll find him.”

  “Tell him we spoke. Two of my men return to the Mountains tomorrow. You can travel with them. If your bladework is as you say, I’m sure there’s a place for you.”

  The soldier nodded. “I’m sure there is, too—my lord.”

  Outside the gates, Ewen whistled. “You bedded his mother, then? Of course you did. You never learn, do you?”

  Gentle, lovely Izzy. She spent two afternoons in his bed, may The Three forgive his weakness. His impiety, though infrequent and always when he was lonely, haunted him.

  “And you swore by ‘The Three’. Careless. Do you want gossip about why a Mountains lord bends his knee to the Isles gods?”

  Vraymorg smiled grimly. “Once an Isles man.” A weary Isles man.

  “That boy, Philip, looks like an Isles man too. It’s unwise to bring him to the Mountains.”

  “What else can I do? I’m surprised no one mentioned the likeness to Cathmor.”

  “He’d just think your father didn’t keep it in his pants. Let’s hope this Izzy told no one else about your encounter.”

  Encounter. A cold word for the comfort he’d found.

  Vraymorg listened to the steady thud of hooves, remembering warm sunlight streaming through an open window, the scent of a young woman’s skin. He was miserable and lonely. Izzy, pretty and kind.