The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  Without looking at him, the boy stepped off the path into the trees.

  “Stop!”

  Vraymorg sprang from his horse and peered into a tangle of gloomy trunks, of snaked vines and red-berried bushes. No sign of the boy.

  “Kaell!” Panic laced his shout. Uneasily he remembered Kaell’s rapt look. What was happening here? Some spell? Yes, beneath the soft, lyric tone the song held power.

  Grasping the horse’s bridle, he pursued into the unwelcoming forest. Creaking branches clawed his face. Roots spread as though to trip him. Whispers drifted. Rich, deep caramel scents of earth whorled with threads of mud, pine and the sweat beading on his brow.

  A crackle of dead leaves fractured the quiet. Vraymorg wrenched his sword free. A rough-skinned lizard considered him then scuttled off.

  Other eyes watched from the undergrowth. A fox? A bird? The mare whinnied. Absently he stroked her nose.

  The song broke off. Vraymorg hissed in a breath. No beacon to track Kaell. He forced down paralysing fear. Which way now? One black-barked tree looked like the next.

  The thud in his chest belted ribs. Breathe. Decide. Do nothing and achieve nothing. More words from the past when he had trained as a Serravan warrior. Indecision is action’s enemy.

  Vraymorg hurried straight on, marking trunks with his knife. No birdsong, no wind. Sodden leaves piled as though undisturbed for months. Surely no one had come this way.

  As he retraced his steps, the cut trees mocked him. You won’t find him. The Silent Mountains take the lost.

  Vraymorg veered right, slipping on sloped ground. The mare snorted as he jerked the bridle. He patted her flank and clambered down knotted roots into a gully dense with delicate ferns. Water trickled through the muddy bottom. In soft earth, a heel imprinted. A booted heel.

  Vraymorg released his held breath. Thank The Three for Kaell’s careless haste.

  He led the mare back up to a clearing, only to trip over a stump. Cleanly cut as if felled by an axe. Further on, a second stunted trunk, then a third marked a trail.

  The mare pulled back, nostrils flared. When he tried to coax her forward, she bucked. The forest’s stillness unsettled him too; the black trunks, the eerie absence of birdsong, the changing shape of shadows.

  Looping the horse’s reins about a bush, Vraymorg put aside a prickling apprehension and followed the stumps into a shady grove. He stepped from the trees into drenching sunlight and drew up short, hand on hilt, the thinnest breeze stirring his hair, breath stalled.

  Near a derelict woodsman’s hut, Kaell knelt before a young woman, his sword sheathed, neck bent and bared, stretched, vulnerable.

  She lifted her head and locked her eyes with Vraymorg’s. For a second that stare snared him. Then he curled his fingers about his hilt and strode at her.

  The woman smiled. She broke into song. The melody hit Vraymorg like a wall. He slammed to a stop. Her song flowed into him, a dusting over his skin, a sweet burning in his veins, a dizzying drum beat in his skull.

  “Kaell. Step away. Fight this. Fight. Draw your sword.”

  The woman sang louder. She tilted Kaell’s chin with a finger. A tiny gesture, but possessive. Taunting. Come, take him. I dare you.

  Anger knotted in his belly and flowed into his limbs. Shoulders hunched, Vraymorg pressed through air viscous with dark music as though wading a battering storm.

  A sword length from her, he levelled his blade. “Move away from the boy.”

  The woman quietened. Sunlight struck a silver brooch clasping a cloak over a fustian gown. Reddish-brown hair spilled from beneath a ruby-encrusted band as she tilted her head to consider him. She was young and pretty with freckles sprinkled on a delicate nose. Soft, but for her eyes. They were hard and unafraid.

  “Why don’t you hear me?” Her voice thrummed with power.

  For the briefest moment that voice lulled him. He shook it off. “Witch. Let the boy go.”

  “So I shall. For I did not call him.” She twitched a triumphant smile. “I called you.”

  Boiling emotions plugged his throat, briefly burying his voice within. Surprise. Alarm. Who was she? What did she mean “called him?” Why him? Because he was lord of these Mountains? Or because she knew he was … someone else?

  “Let him go, witch.”

  “That word again. Witch.” She rolled it about her mouth with disgust. “Your ignorance surprises me. Your strength does not. Though perhaps you wear a protective charm.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Someone sent to trap you. You hid for centuries, Val Arques. But now you are both betrayed and exposed.”

  His body stiffened with panic. He knew only too well who hunted him; who’d hunted him for centuries. Could he bluff? Deny who he was? Or had they watched him a while?

  Swallowing hard, he managed, “You’re Quisnaf. You must be.”

  The woman pushed back her hair. A tattoo swirled from her shoulder to neck, its writhing reds and greens vibrant and alive.

  The mark of the Quisnaf goddess Cyrah. He clicked his tongue against teeth, fighting panic. Keep control. For Kaell’s sake.

  “What now?”

  She stroked Kaell’s hair. “You drop your sword and fall to your knees. Or I hurt the boy.”

  “Let the boy go.”

  The woman laughed and tossed her head with a swing of auburn hair.

  “Why? Because he’s yours? No. Your hair is dark and his pale. Yet you came for him, so you value him.”

  One lunge and he could grab Kaell. Unless her magic held him off.

  Get closer. Do, say, promise, whatever it takes to save the boy. That was all that mattered. Kaell. Keeping him safe. It was all that ever mattered.

  As if guessing his thoughts, the woman uncurled a smug smile. She whipped out a knife and thrust it to Kaell’s throat. The boy peered up at her with trusting eyes.

  Vraymorg flung down his sword. “All right. Don’t hurt him.”

  “Go inside,” she said. “Fetch the blue bottle on the table. Be quick or I slit his throat.”

  Vraymorg stood his ground, his body tight with rage. How to escape her trap? Think.

  The woman sighed. Slowly, precisely, she caressed Kaell’s jaw with the blade.

  “Stop.” He threw up his empty hands. Sweat broke out on his back.

  “The bottle.”

  With dragging footsteps, Vraymorg trudged to the thatched hut and kicked the door in so hard it dangled from hinges.

  The gloomy room inside stank of mildew and trapped smoke from a fire blackening the hearth. Weeds sprouted between slanting, grubby floorboards. Cloudy webs clung like hoarfrost to a splintering, wooden pole supporting a sagged roof.

  It contained only a mattress, table and chair. And one blue bottle.

  Vraymorg snatched it up and stomped outside. “I have it. Let him go.”

  “On your knees.”

  Reluctantly he dropped. “Let him go.”

  “Uncork the bottle. Drink.”

  Ah, he wondered how she hoped to control him. The bottle must hold a sleeping draught. Drink and he’d wake a prisoner on a ship sailing for Quisnaf.

  The knife glinted. A thin, red line streaked Kaell’s neck. Still the boy did nothing, only looked at her with dazed, unquestioning eyes.

  Anger shut down reason. His every muscle compressed, ready to spring.

  Vraymorg seized a breath. Think, fool. Submit or she’ll hurt Kaell. Save Kaell.

  Do whatever it took. Offer himself up. Did it matter, did it really matter what happened to him? He was damaged already.

  Vraymorg ripped the cork out. “Swear you won’t hurt him.”

  She shrugged. “I have no interest in him. I want you.”

  He drank.

  “All of it.”

  She watched with a thin smile as he drained the bottle and hurled it away. “You’ll sleep now. Long enough for my warrior sisters to come for you. I sent my servant to fetch them the moment I glimpsed you in the forest. They’re close.”r />
  Vraymorg swayed on his knees. “It’s a long way to Quisnaf. Not so easy to take a man so far against his will. Especially as I’ll fight you every step.”

  She mocked him with lifted brows. “My sisters are prepared.” Her knife fell from Kaell’s throat. At least Vraymorg thought it did. Trees moved around him. Shadows flickered.

  The woman cupped Kaell’s face. “Guard this man until he sleeps. Then drag him inside.”

  The boy shot to his feet, ripped his sword from its scabbard and pointed it at Vraymorg.

  “His sword.” The woman jabbed a trembling hand. “I recognise that design on the hilt, the etching along the blade. This is an evil sword.”

  “What?” Kaell carried a centuries-old blade of Seithin steel. Why evil?

  “From all they told me of you, Val Arques, I didn’t pick you for a fool. You do not give such a vicious weapon to a child.”

  Words thickened in his throat. Too tired. “This boy is destined to carry that sword.”

  “You lie. Only a warrior of Khir’s, or a seer, a true seer, should carry such a blade. Is he Roaran Caelan in disguise? Impossible. He must not touch that sword.”

  Vraymorg teetered, eyelids drooping. Sleep plucked with velvet hands. So easy to let it have him. “Why should I lie? Now free him or risk the wrath of the god who marked him.”

  “Marked?” She fumbled beneath Kaell’s sleeve. To Vraymorg’s alarm, she laughed, her fear gone. “Khir’s sigils. A bonded warrior. A prize my sisters shall gladly take, too.”

  “No!” What had he done? Instead of frightening her about gods and their vengeance, he only betrayed Kaell’s value.

  She rubbed ringed hands. “All this while I waited in this foul hut for you to return to this forest. This makes up for my misery. The Quisnaf council will reward me well.”

  Vraymorg thrust out a palm. Blackness spun on the edge of his vision. His cheek cushioned on dew-scented grass. A storm of darkness swept in.

  He woke with a throbbing skull, wood smoke in his nostrils and dread pulsing his heart.

  Vraymorg straightened stiff legs. Iron welted his wrists at the back of a rotting post in the hut stinking of neglect. His captor, it seemed, took no chances.

  “You’re awake already.” The Quisnaf woman huddled in a chair by the fire.

  Smoke twisted into shapes that seemed to float above her, then spiral into darkness. It stung his eyes. Air bitter with cold and damp defied the crackling flames.

  The woman rose. “I thought my draught stronger.”

  “Where’s Kaell?”

  She gestured to a mattress. “He’s sleeping. Now I know what he is, I’ll be very careful with him. Such a prize.”

  Vraymorg sighed with relief. With stiff fingers he scrabbled at planks behind the post. If he could break off a splinter, he might spring the lock.

  “I found your horse. A mare? How untypical.”

  “I have a healthy respect for females. Even Quisnaf women who chain me up.”

  “Very wise, given what’s ahead of you. I set your mare free to run home. No doubt they’ll look for you. They won’t find you. Not before my sisters arrive at dawn.”

  Vraymorg scratched a moan from his dry throat. His temple throbbed.

  The woman passed amber eyes over him leisurely. She smoothed her hair.

  “You must be thirsty.” She knelt and put a waterskin to his lips. He caught a wisp of lilac as she needlessly pressed against him. “Drink.”

  Vraymorg wrenched his head aside, too aware of her breast against his ribs.

  “You don’t trust me?” She swigged water then brushed his lips with her wet mouth. “I should put you to sleep again but we’ve a long night ahead.”

  Groggy, thirsty, Vraymorg drank. Water trickled down his chin. When she pulled the skin away, he leaned his head against the post with a sigh, surprised at a slow heat moving through his body; a softening of the edges in his mind, a relaxation of tension.

  “Better?” Fingers traced beads of moisture on his throat. “Mmm, your skin is cool.”

  Her hand lingered.

  “Take your hand off me.”

  “What do you imagine our blood keepers intend? With your precious Caelan blood, they’ll make good use of you.” Slowly, slowly, she walked fingers to his breast and unlaced his shirt. Her caress glided beneath to bare flesh.

  He growled. “Don’t touch me.”

  “You’re in no position to object, Val Arques. Iron on your wrists. My sisters on their way. How shall we fill the time? Hmm? Why not enjoy an hour of pleasure? You’re very pretty and it can be lonely in this silent forest night after night.”

  “Do—not—touch—me.”

  “You don’t mean that.” She fisted his hair, pulling his head close. He could not stop his lips parting as hers pressed, allowing her tongue to thrust and flicker in his mouth.

  Her breath fluttered over his cheek. One hand stroked ridged muscles beneath his shirt; the other on his hip to hold him against her.

  Vraymorg’s senses blurred until he knew only the touch of fingers, the perfume of her hair, a crush of heavy breasts.

  Shame flushed up his neck into his jaw. What was he doing? Thinking? No, not thinking. Groaning, Vraymorg pulled from her embrace. “What did you give me?”

  “It’s called Black Velvet.” She ran her palm over his shoulder. “Don’t fight it. It can be very pleasant. If you’re worried about the boy, he won’t wake for hours.”

  She touched a droplet of sweat on his collarbone. “Time enough for us to take our pleasure. It’s a while since I’ve been with a man.” Undeterred, she brushed soft lips over his again.

  Vraymorg pressed his back into the post. “Get off me. I don’t want this.”

  “A lie.” Her hand fondled between his thighs. “Yes, a lie. Be nice and I’ll tell you who betrayed you, told us where to find you.”

  He bucked. Still her hand encouraged too-willing flesh. Bound, his body responding to whatever Black Velvet was, his best weapon was his tongue. “You show your true Quisnaf skin. You bed men only to prove them weak.”

  The woman rose off him gracefully. “Or because I’m bored. I’ve been in this hateful forest for a long time. All by myself.”

  “How sad.”

  She tapped his cheek. “What a proud fool. Beg to touch me and I might free one hand. A chance to manipulate me, convince me to release you? I won’t. Though I might pretend to want to. But since you’re so disagreeable, you can sit there in discomfort all night, longing for any kind of sensation.”

  Vraymorg scraped a nail at a board. Wood splintered into soft skin beneath. He winced.

  The woman considered him for a long moment. Shrugging, she returned to her chair.

  He clutched the splinter in his fingertips. His wrists burned and bled as he twisted. At last the splinter slid into the lock. Patiently he worked it back and forth.

  “You have a look.” The woman squinted. “What mischief are you up to?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  She rose to tend the fire. “What were your words? How sad?”

  The lock clicked. Vraymorg ripped his hands free and sprang to his feet. The woman spun. She flung up her arms as though expecting him to hit her.

  He didn’t. He punched the post. Hard. The blow held every bit of his fear for Kaell, his despair at his powerlessness. The chains, captivity snapped back nightmares, buried deep where they only poisoned his dreams.

  The woman dashed for her knives. Vraymorg blocked her.

  She rocked to a halt; her face contorted with spite. When she tried to edge around, he put his bulk between her and the weapons. “I intend to walk out of here with Kaell. Do not try to stop me. You’re no bladeswoman and your magic doesn’t work on me.”

  Her lips thinned with loathing. She said nothing.

  He turned and lifted Kaell to carry him to safety, leaving her staring after him in that cold, quiet hut that reeked of damp and decay.

  He didn’t know her name. He didn’t c
are.

  Vraymorg’s chattering teeth snapped him from the past, from uncomfortable memories of a nameless Quisnaf woman. His frozen fingers struggled to hold the reins. A wolf howled in the distance for the absent moon.

  “By moonlight, she loves me,” Vraymorg sang to the trees. “Her name lost to time. When tides turn, I howl at the moon: she’ll never be mine.”

  Where did he hear that? From a minstrel singing at the Mountains castle for a meal and a silver coin? No, an Isles song. From his youth.

  “When tides turn, I howl at the moon,” he sang louder. “A curse is upon me, she’ll never be—” He broke off. A glow in a window pierced the gloom.

  Shoulders hunched, he urged the horse forward.

  The manor house sat in a tangle of branches and trunks. Leaves clotted on a sloping roof. Pine-scented smoke puffed from a stone chimney.

  A young man with fringed black hair and sun-brown skin took his horse. A stranger. The second man, though—oh, he remembered the insolent Tarvan Blackstone.

  “Look who’s here.” Blackstone slouched near the door. “Our splendid, brave, excellent and always handsome Lord of the Mountains.”

  “I hear your sister is the king’s new torturer,” Vraymorg said. “My, my. How you must wish you could rise to such lofty heights.”

  He stepped around the sneering Blackstone and bobbed his head at a third figure, a woman dressed in fur. She threw him a distracted nod.

  As he ducked beneath the overhanging roof, Rozenn flung the door open.

  “Welcome.” She wore an enticing smile that could mean anything and a gown that hugged every delicious curve. Her beauty always struck him anew. But what lay beneath?

  He remembered a bleak night, miserable with shadows. How the wind howled outside, and a lonely man looked up from his books to find Rozenn at his door. How she let her cloak fall to the floor. How her bare skin glistened in sputtering candlelight.

  Even then, as he took her in his arms, he sensed she wanted something from him.

  Tonight you delivered me the throne.

  A threat in that. But Gendrick Caelan claimed Rozenn’s son as his, the fruits of the queen’s visit to the Isles nine months before the birth.