The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  At the sight of the slashed bushes at the tower’s entrance, Aingear shuddered in dismay. Who dared cross this threshold? Who even knew of this place?

  She rocked on her toes in the doorway, reluctant to enter this forbidding tomb.

  Coward. A high priestess did not hesitate because of what she might find. With a quick, sharp breath, Aingear walked inside. A wall torch flared at her touch, casting pale light on ledges along the walls, empty of shrouds, and upon rough-cut stairs.

  Her footsteps dragged as she climbed to the top chamber. A curtain of magic, invisible to others, shimmered. Aingear stepped forward, her neck prickling in anticipation.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then with a wail, an avalanche of wind struck. It needled her skin, her scalp, whipped her gown up to her thighs as it swept her. Briefly it held her. Too briefly; its power fast fading.

  Something was wrong. Roaran’s magic was stronger than that.

  She stumbled to the bench. Brushed her palm over the shroud. A morbid, precious offering that had kept the Isles safe for six centuries.

  How had the seer king chosen this sacrifice? When Roaran Caelan cast this spell so long ago, did this man offer his life and body willingly, to lie for centuries as a voiceless sentinel?

  And what of Roaran? Did he sacrifice a friend? Did he weep as he took up the knife?

  Desperately she tore at the rotting cloth. She gasped, reeled, hands raised.

  The corpse—defiled. The protective sigils tattooed on leathery skin burnt off. Fearfully she lifted her eyes to the walls. Every sigil, every one, defaced, the sacrifice useless.

  Only ghouls would do this. Destroy Roaran’s magic.

  Aingear’s knees hit the floor, her will and strength drained. She wished she could beat her fists on the grimy stone floor, weep. But in her gut, in her breast, sat only flat, empty despair.

  At last she rose from her knees, doused the torch and staggered from the tower. Her sandals slipped often. More than once she fell. More than once she did not want to rise.

  As she pushed through bushes, Pairas came forward in relief. Aingear let him help her onto her horse.

  “Priestess.” He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  Aingear shivered. He had a right to know. If she did not restore Roaran’s spells, ghouls would spill his blood—and that of too many young, Isles men like him.

  “Ghouls breached the tower.” The reins nearly slipped through her trembling fingers. “Perhaps the ones the villagers killed. They defiled the offering.”

  “This place is hidden. How could they know? Sorcery?”

  “Sorcery—or worse.” For centuries, this tower had remained secret. Did someone tell?

  Rain pattered, as hot as Aingear’s skin. If only she could throw off her cape and wail at the sky.

  “But the spells to protect the Isles can be recast. That girl, Ethne; I heard you say she’s powerful.”

  “No one has magic to match Roaran Caelan’s. And the seer king is long dead.”

  Pairas guided his horse cautiously along the overgrown path, one hand on the reins, the other close to his sword’s hilt. Alert. Careful. Not quite the feckless captain she had judged him before this journey.

  By reputation, he was intemperate with women, with ale. Though Aric trusted this man, said Pairas’ dissolute ways shielded against a childhood hurt.

  She sensed he wished to confide something. More than once since they left Tide’s End, he blurted, “Priestess,” only to shake his head.

  “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

  Pairas tensed, shoulders up. “I think I must tell someone about them. But not now.”

  Them? “I will listen if you confide in me.”

  They rode on. Beneath a cap of storm clouds twilight’s fugue of orange and peach frayed the darkness. Wild thyme spilling between grass released its scents.

  “How did you know to come here?” Pairas said. “Even before the villagers sent word about the ghouls you insisted upon going to that tower.”

  “A dream. The Three visit me often in my dreams.”

  Pairas slitted his eyes, knuckles white as he squeezed the reins.

  Warriors trusted steel, not gods. But only the gods could save them now.

  “I wish you dreamt of Aric,” he said.

  “I wish it as well.” If only to reassure the king his son lived. But she could not force a message from The Three. And on Aric’s Caelan’s fate, they remained silent.

  As silent and elusive as Roaran’s magic.

  Kaell

  “Such a mess.” Brenin clicked his tongue to his teeth. “I heard bonded warriors heal fast but the Isles traitor’s sword chipped bone. Now you’re stronger, I could dig around.”

  Kaell shook his head. “We leave in two days. I can’t carry a wound.”

  “A pity. At least it heals cleanly.” He shoved a cup at Kaell.

  “More sleeping draughts? The king worries I’ll roam in the night?”

  “The king is concerned you rest and recover.”

  Kaell sighed and put the cup to his lips.

  The physician gathered his lotions, cloths and torturous instruments. “I’ll return at midnight to make sure you’re not in pain.”

  Kaell hid the full cup beneath the bed.

  The first moon streaked light through shutters. Not the best night to steal away lordly captives.

  But Aric died tomorrow. He had to act tonight.

  Close to midnight, cool air gusted as his door opened. Footsteps slapped over rugs. The physician bent to listen to his breaths. His steps retreated. The door clicked. A guard coughed.

  Kaell slipped a knife into his fingers and jiggled his hand free with the tip. Once dressed, he eased the window shutters open.

  “Arn?”

  “Here.” His captain peered down from the tower roof. A rope dropped. Kaell caught it.

  “Lazy sod,” Arn said once he hauled Kaell up. “You just let me pull you. All this lying about made you slothful and heavy.”

  “Weapons?”

  Arn passed Kaell a double-edged blade.

  He swished it back and forth. “The weight’s wrong. Not like Fortitude.”

  “Oh good idea.” Arn slung a sack over his shoulder and headed into the circular stairwell. “Let’s take Fortitude. And when the guardsmen describe their attacker’s distinctive Seithin blade to the king, he’ll never guess it was you.”

  “What’s in the sack?”

  “Rope. Cloth. Apparently you don’t want to kill anyone. Such a sook.”

  “Did you get word to the Isles herald?”

  “Delivered. The man told the king he rode for the Isles but he’ll wait at Dal-Decma with Aric’s uncle.” Arn paused on the steps. “One thing, boy. Say little.”

  Kaell grinned. With an exaggerated Mountains accent, he softly sang: “Sweet his voice, like love’s embrace, sweet his voice, but not his face.”

  Arn shook his head. “Poets, singers. If I had my way, they’d execute them all.”

  “Poets, singers, please our lords. But me, I’d put them to the sword.”

  “You proved my point, Kaell.” Arn edged open the door. “That’s the Watcher’s Tower across the ward. Lots of guards. But something will distract them tonight.”

  “Distract?”

  His captain teased with twitched brows.

  They stole along the tower base, darting beneath the walk as sentries crossed above their heads. Men of the watch hurried through the ward, grim-faced and shivering beneath cloaks.

  A ruined palisade loomed ahead, waxen in moonlight, its rotted timbers once part of the wooden fort Caelan the Gormel Slayer replaced with this stone castle, the foundation of his new kingdom.

  It was a place of shadows and guttering torchlight, eerily lovely. Vine entangled weathered stone. Weeds intruded through cracked slabs. Buttressed walls crumbled, and a carved gargoyle lay shattered amidst white alyssum and nut grass.

  Opposite Caelan’s first keep, the Watcher’s Tower
rose from a worn-down mound, its red, hewed blocks smooth and windowless until five storeys up.

  Two guardsmen flanked the only door. The second moon blasted through streaked clouds. Sentries crossed on the wall walk, the dull beat of their steps ageing the night too fast.

  Crouched beside the first keep, Kaell tapped his foot against a loose cornerstone. What if the physician returned? The risk, already high, rose with every wasted minute.

  Arn nudged him. The guards bent their heads close. One slipped inside.

  Hood up, Kaell brazenly strode towards the doors. The remaining guard levelled a blade. “Who’s that? Stop.”

  Kaell walked on.

  The guard advanced. “Name yourself.”

  “Cael-Carren.”

  “Do you take me for a fool? Drop the hood. Show your face.”

  Arn stalked up from behind. He cracked his sword hilt against the guard’s head. The man folded. Kaell snatched up the guard’s spilled blade and helped Arn carry him into the tower.

  “Extra sentry duty for this one, too,” Arn said. “Soon the king will assign all his guards to the walls. But as Olier says, they’d love you if they knew you.”

  “Love me, and my sweet voice.”

  Footsteps clattered on steps. The second guard returned. Kaell cut him off at the bottom of the stairwell, poked steel at his neck. “Still and silent.”

  The guard groped for his blade. Kaell punched him. “My apologies,” he said as he caught the slumped figure.

  “You’re as soft and silly as a flatlander,” Arn said once they had hidden the man with his companion. “If you insist on snatching Isles lords from prisons someone will get hurt.”

  “And break my oath?” Kaell crept up the stairs. Torches lapped stone with a yellow glow. Crisp air nipped at their ankles. “Besides. This man did me no harm.”

  “No, the only one who harmed you is Aric. And we’re risking our lives to free him.”

  “I thought you might understand,” Kaell muttered. “If the king kills Aric because of me that’s another death on my conscience. How do I live with that, Arn?”

  “Aric deserves to die. He poisoned you, Kaell. Not just with any poison. Night’s Kiss.”

  “This is an old song. I thought you hated songs—”

  Glass smashed above.

  Arn threw up a warning hand. In a smoky, torch-lit room off the stairwell, men rolled dice at a table. An empty wine flagon rocked on a stained, slabbed floor near broken glass. A guardsman snored in a corner, his shirt loose at the waist.

  Kaell jerked his head at a second stairwell. Softly, they edged away.

  “What was that?” A man slammed his cup down. “I heard something.”

  “A rat.”

  “You heard his lordship crying out for more,” a third man said.

  “Wrong. Men cry for mercy when the Pearl is in their bed.”

  They all laughed.

  Kaell nudged Arn. “The Pearl?”

  His captain smirked.

  In an antechamber at the top, an oil lamp cast an eerie flicker about circular stone. Sword belts and blades lay upon a crude table, its scuffed legs uneven. Four men huddled near a wooden door, whistling and sniggering as they took turns to peer through the keyhole.

  Hoods shadowing their faces, a cloth covering all but their eyes, Kaell circled from the right, Arn from the left. Both levelled their swords.

  “Still and silent.”

  Guards spun. One sprang at Kaell. He slashed an arm. “That was stupid. Be still. Or die.”

  Arn shook his head at him, whispered, “Don’t talk, fool.”

  “Who are you?” The wounded man clutched his bloody arm.

  “On the floor.”

  Glaring, mouths thin with hate, the four men dropped to their knees.

  “Flat. On your faces.”

  “You’ve made a big mistake,” the injured man said. “We’re king’s guardsmen.”

  “You’re poor guardsmen. Not worthy of serving any king.” Kaell could not hold back a muffled retort. “No. Move and you’re dead.” He poked another man with steel.

  Arn took cloth and rope from his sack to bind and gag the first man. He moved to the second, knee pressed to his backbone as he grabbed his wrists.

  “You’re the dead men,” this one said. “The king will have your heads.” Arn dug his knee harder into the guard’s spine. “Shut your mouth and you’ll live to see our heads roll.”

  Kaell snatched bunched keys from the table and turned the lock to an inner chamber.

  At the door’s groan, a woman gasped. Candlelight glistened on moist, bare skin, on tangled sheets as two figures on a bed blinked in surprise.

  Kaell’s cheeks flamed. “Ah, my apologies.”

  The woman stared boldly. She was softly curved with heavy breasts and loosened brown hair that tumbled down her back in a thick, silky array.

  Aric Caelan, completely naked, lifted his arm to shade his eyes. “Who are you?”

  “A friend. Here to return you to the Isles.”

  “Did my father send you?”

  “Dress quickly. We must go.”

  Kaell retreated, his face still flushed.

  Arn grinned.

  “You knew about this.” Kaell drew his captain away from the bound guards.

  “It’s all over the barracks. Cathmor believes a man about to die should enjoy the pleasures of being a man before he does so.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Word is for a man as high-born as Aric the king sent his mistress, a lass called the Pearl of the Plains. In truth, the guards say her name is Jayne, and she’s a sailor’s daughter from the Bay of Wrecks. Well, is she beautiful? I didn’t get the eyeful you did.”

  Kaell heaved an impatient sigh. “Yes, she’s lovely. What do we do about her?”

  “I suppose she heard your voice? Good gods, Kaell. I told you to say nothing. And there you were, blabbing away to the guards.”

  “The cloth muffled my voice.”

  Arn grimaced. “At least tell me the girl didn’t see your face? Just lock her in.”

  Kaell strode back to rap on the doorframe. “We have little time.”

  Aric limped out, struggling to tie a woollen cloak about his broad shoulders. Cursing, he gave up and pressed his back to the wall, eyes shut, face gaunt with pain. Bruises on his cheeks shone as blue-black as his hair. Blood pooled on his crumpled tunic.

  After what Kaell just saw, Aric must take some blame for his re-opened wounds. But he still could not banish the memory of that dismal prison, of Blackstone’s groping hands, the whip tearing into flesh. Aric must be in pain.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I’ll manage.” Aric pushed off the wall. “Who are you?”

  “Talk later.” Kaell kept his face hidden. “What about the woman?”

  “She asked me to hit her so Cathmor doesn’t punish her for not raising the alarm.” His glance fell on the bound men. He muttered, “You’ve been busy,” and staggered to the stairs.

  Soldiers still rolled dice as they crept by. “Hear that? Something banging upstairs.”

  A snigger. “That’s one word for it.”

  “No, no. Listen. A thumping. Like heels on floorboards.”

  Kaell helped Aric below. They circled the ward, keeping to the murk along the wall. The second moon swept high and full, spraying too much light.

  A shadow bloated. Kaell turned fast, his neck prickling. No one. But he was almost certain someone trailed him. Who? Enemy or friend? And why?

  A guard burst from the Watcher’s Tower, shouting, “He’s loose. The prisoner’s loose.”

  Sentries clattered down stairs a sword’s breadth from them. Kaell waited until they passed, then led the others to the Kanu Tower. But for the flicker of torches, a hush clung to its winding, empty stairwell, at odds with the alarm erupting in the ward.

  The light revealed Aric’s wan face, how his lips pinched at every laboured step. When they reached the roof, his breaths wheezed. A dar
k, wet patch soaked his tunic.

  Arn caught Kaell’s eye, mouthing “dead man” as he retrieved the rope.

  “Please.” Aric clutched the balustrade. The stain on his tunic spread by the minute. “Tell me who you are.”

  “Save your strength. You’re bleeding badly.”

  “From places you don’t want to know about.” That mocking, amused glint stirred in his dark eyes. “Who are you? I must know.”

  Kaell glanced below. The ward enlivened with rushing men and bobbing torches. A long-cloaked figure barked orders. Men grouped, moved off. Soon they would wonder about him.

  Turning to Aric, he dropped the hood and grinned.

  The Isles prince whooped in surprise. “By The Three. You!” Then a shadow muddied his handsome face. “But I wished you dead. And that death was the most painful—”

  “There’s no time, Aric. See those trees? My captain has horses. He’ll take you to your uncle at Dal-Decma.”

  “But—”

  “No questions. Go. Just don’t bleed out on the journey.”

  Aric looked down. “It’s a long drop. My arm is useless.”

  “Then you must trust Arn’s strength.”

  Aric offered both men a wavering smile as Arn roped his waist. “I can’t think how to repay you. If ever I can do something—”

  “There is something,” Kaell said.

  “Anything.”

  “The ghouls who ambushed you. It really was daylight?”

  “Nearly dusk. Cloudy. They hid near the ford before Dal-Decma.” Aric lifted his eyes to Kaell. “I keep thinking about that day. About what the ghouls said.”

  He paused. Dug fingers into a merlon. “This will sound stupid now, especially after what I did, but I think I got it wrong. They never used the word kill, you see.”

  “What?”

  “The ghouls said to poison you. More than once they said poison, but never kill. My wits were all over the place. I assumed they meant kill. But what if they didn’t? What if they meant exactly what they said? Just poison.”

  Kaell shook his head, perplexed. “That makes no sense. They would want me dead.”

  “I hope there’s nothing sinister in it.” Aric swung his legs over the parapet.