The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  And her son? What was her son—oh gods, his son—like? Should he regret missing Philip’s childhood? Dare he intrude on his life now? How would he answer his son’s questions? For there would be questions.

  Vraymorg dragged his tongue over dry lips, a twisting in his belly.

  His son. What should he feel? Could he feel?

  No, no, no. A dizzying fear beat up. He pulled hard on the reins, slid from the horse and staggered towards the trees.

  “Val.” Ewen came after him. “By Khir, Val, what is it?”

  Vraymorg tugged a leaf from a branch. He twisted it in his fist.

  “I can’t do this,” he muttered. “I can’t. I’ll never be what Kaell deserves, let alone this young man. I don’t know how to be a father. At least, not a good one.”

  “I have two daughters, Val. You do it because they need you to.”

  Vraymorg violently shook his head. “What was I thinking inviting Philip to the Mountains? There can’t be another young man to love and then mourn. Not again. I can’t hurt like that anymore. I have to keep control.”

  Ewen touched his shoulder. “I understand. I do. You’ve raised so many young warriors only to see them fall in this malign fight to save Telor. But it’s not all about loss. There’s joy, too, Val. There’s love.”

  Love. Vraymorg touched a corded scar on his wrist. He was cursed, broken in ways even he couldn’t understand. How could Philip, how could Kaell want his love?

  He had no right to pretend to be a father. How could anyone bear it? To look upon a son or daughter with that awful, writhing anguish. Silently swearing to keep them safe, immured from every hurt and danger.

  Except no father could keep a child safe. No, not at all.

  “Even beneath the joy, beneath those times when you laugh together, there’s always fear,” he whispered. “Because you know maybe not that day, maybe not the next, but one day you’ll mourn that child. I can’t do this. Love. Mourn. Not with Kaell, not with Philip.”

  “There are worse things than sorrow, Val.”

  Are there? He might have said.

  They trod back to the horses. Vraymorg’s skin was damp.

  “It’s safer if Philip is away from Dal-Kanu,” Ewen said, always practical. “Less talk about you. Dangerous if the king thinks too much about who you are, or are not.”

  A curious choice of words. Who he was or was not.

  He knew who he wasn’t. He wasn’t Vraymorg. That was a mask worn by a cursed Isles warrior once known as Val Arques Caelan. A man who’d sobbed as he cut his wrists in a sunlit room.

  Who he was? Even after 540 years he did not know the answer to that.

  Kaell

  His lord always put on a particular garment before he rode out to fight. It was black and padded like a quilt. Vraymorg wore it over a linen shirt but beneath leather armour. Iron and steel were expensive, mostly reserved for blades. It hurt Kaell’s heart when his lord later gave him the only chain mail in the castle.

  As a child, Kaell would sit upon his lord’s bed and watch him dress for battle, a fluttering in his belly. He knew this ritual—shirt, gambeson, leather—would one day be his.

  There was something in these quiet moments that Kaell didn’t have a name for—then. He’d watch in awe, wondering if he’d ever be as powerful as this splendid man. Longing for the day when he grew old enough to take on the Varee or ghouls at Vraymorg’s side.

  He remembered the first time he watched his lord leave for battle, that odd feeling in his little, five-year-old body, that fear Vraymorg would not come back. Kaell stood in the ward with the servants, feeling very small and alone as his lord strode towards his horse and the group of mounted warriors.

  “No.” He wrapped his arms about his lord’s leg.

  “Oh, you don’t want me to go, do you?” Vraymorg, often so stern, so aloof, looked amused.

  “I won’t let you.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Vraymorg swung his leg in an enormous stride that lifted Kaell half off the ground. It was so unexpected; he laughed.

  His lord took another big step, then another. Kaell held on tightly. He was laughing in delight now, his fear gone. His lord was laughing too. Until at last he hoisted Kaell up, so high, and dropped him onto his horse’s saddle.

  “You can see me out the gate,” he said.

  Kaell could so clearly hear Vraymorg’s voice from the past. It was a happy memory, a glimpse of what it could be like. Of that tenderness he longed for.

  But there were other memories too. Especially here in this bedchamber where flickering candlelight drew the walls in close. Just as it did in that gloomy tower room where Vraymorg had always imprisoned him to punish disobedience.

  Kaell was fourteen. Taller. Stronger. Rebellious. His lord had no patience with his adolescent tantrums. He remembered how he hugged his knees and rocked, impatient for that tap of Vraymorg’s boots on the stairs. Listening for his heavy sigh as he paused at the door.

  “Do you know why you’re here, boy?”

  Kaell scrambled to his feet. A bonded warrior did not cower. His lord taught him that.

  “Because I kept the weapons master waiting.”

  His lord lifted a new candle in a tarnished iron holder to his face. “Yes. So where were you? If you lie, make me believe it.”

  “With the cook.” He wanted out of that hateful room, away from its cold and its whispers. “I wrote a poem for her. Let me tell you how it goes.”

  “A lie. A poor one.”

  “In the stables. With Alyssa.”

  “The cook’s niece? Doing what?”

  “Nothing, my lord.” Kaell looked at the ground. “Talking.”

  “Talking,” his lord repeated softly.

  Kaell’s face burned. He kissed Alyssa in the stables two days ago only for the girl to back away. “You’re like a brother, Kaell,” she said, not unkindly. “And I love Will. My William.”

  “Alyssa is comely.” His lord seemed younger as he smiled, his gaze hazy with unspoken memory. “But duty first, Kaell. Do you understand? Very well. You may go.”

  Head down, Kaell scuttled towards the door, letting out a held breath in a sigh.

  “Wait.”

  Kaell stopped.

  “Come here.”

  His feet dragged as he wandered back. “My lord?”

  Vraymorg backhanded him. Humiliated, Kaell held his cheek. The blow intended to shock, not hurt, but he hated what it represented. It meant he disappointed his lord.

  “Another lie. Your shoulders fell as you walked away. Relief I believed you.”

  “No, I—”

  “Kaell, do you think I want to punish you? It’s only that I know what you must face. Listen. Never let your guard down until you’re alone. Gods forbid your enemies ever capture you, then lies may be all that keep you alive. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “So where were you?”

  “Fighting with the blacksmith’s sons, my lord.”

  Vraymorg gave him a measuring look, long and hard. “The truth, at last.”

  I never fooled him, Kaell thought, banishing the past where it belonged. But somehow, I must fool the king and his guards.

  With a heavy sigh he stretched his throbbing leg. The physician had left poppy syrup by the bed to help him sleep, to drift through veiled nightmares Kaell knew too well.

  “They’re a gift.” Vraymorg had reassured him one night when he crept shaking from his bed and found his lord drinking alone in the great hall. “Use them. Learn from them.”

  His lord’s grim face had softened to a smile. He’d beckoned Kaell to join him by the fire, slung an arm about his shoulders and held him until nearly dawn. Telling him stories about distant Quisnaf and Veniva and the rumoured lands beyond the Ice Sea.

  Footsteps clunked to the door. Familiar voices argued with guards. Kaell grinned. About time. Anyone might think he had nothing better to do than just lie here.

  “Let them i
n.” He raised his voice. “You heard me.”

  The door inched open. A guard said, “No one enters without the king’s permission.”

  “These are my captains. We must make plans for our campaign in the north.”

  “If the king hears, it’s on your head.” The man stepped aside to let two men through.

  At the sight of Kaell, Olier gaped.

  Arn flushed angrily. “What’s this? Some fool manacled you to the bed.”

  Kaell shook his wrist so its chain rustled its merry tune. “My fault.”

  “But—”

  He flashed a warning look.

  Olier shut the door then crossed to the bed. “Why? I’d understand a gag to stop your out-of-tune singing hurting everyone’s ears. But this?”

  “So I don’t wander. The king thinks I’ll slit his throat while he sleeps.”

  His captains exchanged glances.

  “Heard something about your night visit,” Olier said. “The king’s guardsman Merynn got duty on the castle walk. Just as it grows cold. Another enemy you made there, boy.”

  “And he doesn’t even know me.”

  “Oh indeed, he’d love you if he knew you,” Olier said. “All these soft lake-dwellers would love you if sang to them or shared your silly poems.”

  “Flatlanders don’t understand us.” Back to them, Arn rested his palms on the windowsill.

  “That town we’re to help—” Kaell said.

  “Thom,” Olier said. “Some forsaken Downs hole.”

  “Is Thom near your home, Arn?” Kaell was curious about his friend’s past.

  Arn turned. “Not very. Though I’ve heard of it. Those villages along the Ridges are remote. The villagers more Cahirean than Telorian. They don’t like outsiders.”

  “Charming,” Olier said. “We’re always sent to some dirt patch with unwelcoming, inbred villagers with two heads. Why can’t the king send us to Tide’s End? Women there love strangers. Real men for once instead of those pretty Isles boys with their painted faces.”

  “No ghouls in the Isles.” At this familiar banter, some of Kaell’s tension seeped away.

  “Got your message from that physician.” Arn threw an irritated glance at Olier. The two captains bickered like siblings. “But we’re not here to talk about our ghoul hunt, are we?”

  “I’m sure you have the arrangements in hand.”

  “As always. Though you’re hardly fit to ride.”

  “You won’t have to tie me to my horse if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No need.” Olier flapped a hand at the bed. “We’ve got chains now.”

  Arn grunted at this nonsense. “Better spit it out, Kaell.”

  “Aric Caelan. The king plans to execute him.”

  Olier shrugged. “I don’t care. Why should you?”

  “Olier is right—for once.” Arn’s hard stare dwelled on Kaell. “I, for one, will gladly watch Aric’s head roll.”

  Beneath his friend’s scrutiny, the way it exposed his thoughts, Kaell looked away. “Aric doesn’t deserve to die. Wouldn’t you act as he did?”

  Arn drew his brows together. “I’d ride fast for Dal-Kanu and seek the king’s help to hunt down the ghouls who took the girl.”

  “And condemn her to a horrible death?”

  “Just like this Isles snake condemned you to a horrible death?”

  “But I’m not dead. So why execute Aric?”

  “No, there’s more to this. What’s fermenting in that irritatingly restless mind of yours?”

  Kaell dropped back on pillows with a sigh. “The king marched me down to the dungeons to watch his interrogator, some Cahirean called Blackstone, torture Aric.”

  They stared, shocked.

  “Vile creature, Blackstone,” Olier muttered.

  “But that’s still not it,” Arn said quietly. “Is it, boy?”

  Kaell dug teeth into his lip, uncertain how to explain the turmoil inside. “It’s Azenor,” he blurted. “She’s dead. She must be. Because I’m alive.”

  “No, Kaell, no.” Arn bunted the words away with his palm. “It’s not your fault.”

  Kaell shut his eyes. With a twisted laugh, he said: “The ghoul, Lastenarron. He said I couldn’t save anyone. So far, he’s right. I have to try, at least, to save Aric.”

  “Who says you have to save everyone?” Arn said. “Where did that come from? No, you can’t take the guilt of that girl’s death on your shoulders. Her brother is a warrior. He rode into that ambush. This is his burden, not yours.”

  “She’s dead and I’m not,” Kaell said. “Maybe it’s stupid; maybe it won’t make sense to anyone else. But if I help Aric—” He broke off with a helpless shrug.

  Maybe this awful guilt might lift.

  They exchanged looks. The night-time sounds of the castle closed in. Footfall. An autumn wind whistling through stone passages. An owl’s hoot.

  “The king should exile Aric,” Olier said at last. “Execute him and the Isles will consider it a deliberate, hostile act. Lord Hatton will declare war.”

  Kaell snapped open his eyes. “Which is what Cathmor wants.”

  Arn glanced at the door. “Be careful.”

  “Cathmor wants the Isles.” Kaell lowered his voice. “But he can’t just attack Lord Hatton. Not every Telorian lord will support him. Not unless the Isles strikes first.”

  Arn crossed his arms. “Who cares about these flatlanders and their disputes? Our task is to kill ghouls. Besides, what would you have us do? Kill the king? Warn Lord Hatton? What?”

  Kaell could not hold back a grin. “No.”

  “Spit it out, boy.”

  “Free Aric.”

  Olier gaped. “You’re not jesting. That’s why they chained you up—you lost your wits.”

  “I’ve had time to think how to do it, but I need your help.”

  “So now we come to it.” Arn pressed his mouth into a harsh line. “No one chases trouble like you, Kaell. You swagger about the Downs, tempting Caelmarsh to abduct you and string you up. Now you recklessly intend to snatch a man from the king’s prisons.”

  “It’s not reckless.”

  “Is that right? Free Aric and Cathmor will know it’s us. Then it won’t just be Aric’s head that rolls, yours will too. Then ours. After Blackstone spends a little time with us all.”

  “The king can’t arrest us without evidence.”

  “You’re not really that naïve are you, boy?”

  Kaell shifted on the bed. “Cathmor will suspect me, yes. Especially as I asked him to free Aric. We’ll have to prove it wasn’t us.”

  “We didn’t agree to help you yet.”

  “But you will. Olier, go to the watch tomorrow and seek permission to leave Dal-Kanu. Tell them a blacksmith in Dal-Fast repaired a sword for you. It’s brought you luck in battle and you’re eager to have it back. Take Smiler.”

  “Why him? Chatter, chatter. Mindless rubbish.”

  “He looks like you.”

  “No need to insult me, Kaell.”

  “Wait with horses in the woods. When we get Aric to you, take him to his uncle in Dal-Decma. Smiler rides for Dal-Fast. He pays the blacksmith for the sword and visits the taverns, loudly telling everyone he’s the Vraymorg captain, Olier.”

  “So when the king sends men to check where I was—”

  “The descriptions of Smiler will sound like you.”

  “Can we trust Smiler?” Arn said. “He serves under you, Olier. You know him best.”

  “He adores Kaell,” Olier muttered miserably. “I could rip his every limb off, tell him it’ll make Kaell happy and he’ll help me rip. Smiler will keep his mouth shut.”

  Kaell looked at Arn. “The king moved Aric to the Watcher’s Tower. I need you with me.”

  “I’ll play cards. Drink, pick a fight. It’s the same every night. At the first punch, I’ll stay down and slip away after they dump me on my bed to sleep it off.”

  “Risky.”

  “And you, Kaell? I tru
st you can remove that shackle. Can’t count the times Vraymorg made you practise picking locks.”

  “Just leave me a knife or something, Arn.”

  “Putting manacles aside is one thing. Putting aside the king’s suspicions another.”

  Kaell tapped his nose. “Quickness of hand, friend.”

  Aingear

  The clearing closed in; the fire’s stench of charred flesh, the hot rain, the silent ring of trees. Throat clenched, dizzy, Aingear swayed.

  “Priestess?” A man poking a stick at ashes lifted his head.

  She thrust a scented cloth to her nose. “I’m all right, Pairas. Is it true? Ghouls? Here?”

  The man shrugged muscular shoulders. Even in this small movement he possessed feline grace. “They’re dead, at least. Burned. The villagers did well to stop them.”

  “How did they breach the Isles? Roaran Caelan’s magic protects us.”

  Pairas scuffed his boot to shake off ash. “Pitch forks and sticks against ghouls.” He imitated a sword stroke in the air. “If only I’d been here—”

  As he thrashed air, Aingear shook her head. Typical of a warrior to believe steel solved everything. In her youth, she’d known too many Isles men like him. Brave, strong, reckless.

  Dead.

  “You must stay here. The gods permit only their servants to enter the valley.”

  “Priestess, I can’t let you go alone. I’ve heard tales of this place. It’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous for you if you follow. Wait.”

  She left him with the horses and walked into the forest. Its tangle of roots and boughs, its green canopy swallowed her at once, the breeze carrying scents of mud and the creamy nutmeg of dark-brown earth.

  Like so much of the Isles, it was a lush wilderness of wildflowers, fat bushes dense with tiny, white blossoms and trunks too thick to hug. Butterflies danced in secret, sunlit groves where flame trees shed scarlet flowers.

  In a narrow valley, the birdsong faded. The breeze stilled. A silent, eerie world sprawled before her, an ancient, hidden place caged by crouching mountains thickly pelted in forest.

  Through dark-trunked trees, a burial tomb loomed. It was like others scattered across the Isles. Abandoned monoliths containing decaying shrouds and crumbling stone coffins.