The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  Kaell slid another glance at Vraymorg.

  “You insolent whelp. I told you not to look at him. Do as I say.”

  Kaell fumbled at breeches. He stepped out of them, teeth snapped down, expression hooded, the bared body hard with muscle.

  The child slipped away, Vraymorg thought with an odd mix of pride and disquiet. Even Kaell’s bruised cheeks angled with a new sharpness. He knew what lay beneath. Enough coldness, he hoped, to keep Kaell alive.

  Caelmarsh clicked his tongue again. He circled, fingers squeezing flesh.

  Paulin leaned against the wall, arms folded. His low-lidded gaze held something Vraymorg didn’t like. Stories spread about Paulin’s violent appetites, lies an enemy might invent. And Paulin had enemies enough. But that look—

  “Nothing strips our defences quicker than stripping away our garments,” Caelmarsh said. “It’s the first lesson a good interrogator learns.”

  Interrogator? Vraymorg didn’t like what was playing out here.

  “What are these bruises?” Caelmarsh touched Kaell’s cheek. “On his face, his ribs.”

  “The boy fought some peasant,” Paulin said. “Only minutes after hitting Goffren.”

  Vraymorg glowered. Captain of the Cesspool and castle gossip, apparently.

  “A bad-tempered boy, indeed.” Caelmarsh’s yellowed nails traced Khir’s sigils. “These are frightening. The ceremony. He was how old?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “And sixteen now? His Majesty read me your report about that last hunt, Vraymorg. Ten ghouls killed? How many fell to his sword? You let him carry the sword, did you?”

  “I killed three,” Kaell said.

  Caelmarsh slapped his cheek. “Did I speak to you? No.”

  Kaell stiffened, rebellion flattening his green eyes.

  Caelmarsh smiled sourly. “The façade—let’s call it that—seems in order. That should please the king, at least. But his temper, Vraymorg. His arrogance. How he talks back. The boy needs discipline.”

  “You’re soft on him,” Paulin said, his tone oily. “I’ll teach him properly.”

  Vraymorg’s temper exploded. “This ends now. No more prodding and poking. A bonded warrior answers to the gods—and to me.”

  “He answers to the king, and that means me, the king’s representative.”

  “You would rewrite the law, Caelmarsh?” He grabbed Kaell’s cloak and draped it over the boy’s shoulders. “Go to your room. The steward will bring you something to eat.”

  Kaell scooped up his tunic and pants. Vraymorg pushed him through the door.

  “What? Banishing him to his room?” Paulin’s silky sly voice raised Vraymorg’s hackles. “Afraid if he joins us in the feasting hall we’ll see more of his bad temper, his ill-discipline?”

  Spittle hit the air as Caelmarsh hissed, “You don’t say when this ends, Vraymorg. I do. The king needs to know what manner of man he’ll entrust soldiers to.”

  “And the king approves of your methods?” Vraymorg let Caelmarsh hear the steel in his voice. “Granted, it’s tradition to question and test a new bonded warrior, but your two trained dogs yapped too loudly this afternoon. Now you try a different humiliation.”

  Caelmarsh thrust a finger at Vraymorg’s face. “My dogs, as you rudely call them, hardly barked and your prize warrior showed his temper. Another push and what? He bites? Like an animal? A bonded warrior you can’t control is dangerous.”

  “You said it, my lord. The boy needs discipline,” Paulin said.

  “Can you control this one, Vraymorg? If not, the king will give him to someone who can.”

  Like you? Vraymorg bit back a scornful laugh. Or the king? Now he understood their intent. That scheming Cathmor wanted Kaell. The gods didn’t care who controlled Kaell just so long as he killed for them.

  A bonded warrior was a powerful weapon in a king’s hands. Cathmor just needed a reason to declare Vraymorg did not properly prepare the boy.

  “There’s no risk Kaell will turn on his own. The boy is entirely sane.”

  And dutiful. Mostly. “I assure you, he’s ready to fight.”

  Caelmarsh rudely stuck his face in Vraymorg’s. “Ready to fight. But is he ready to be unleashed? I determine this. How dare you interfere.”

  Vraymorg held his tongue. Stupid to rise to anger. If he controlled his temper, Caelmarsh questioned Kaell, the boy fought and defeated Paulin or Goffren tomorrow and this ended.

  “As you say, grand constable. I understand my error. I had no right to interfere. Let me call Kaell back.”

  Caelmarsh looked mollified. “Well—”

  Paulin began a slow handclap. “And they say Heath Damadar has a honeyed tongue, hmm, Vraymorg. I see yours is just as smooth.”

  My blade is smooth, too, Vraymorg thought. Slides in and out in a heartbeat. “If I gave offence—” It isn’t nearly enough.

  “Offence? No. But I begin to understand you.” Another insolent bow. “My lord.”

  You’ll understand me better if I show you my smooth sword. Vraymorg flung his hands onto his hips. “Is that a challenge in your words?”

  Caelmarsh grunted. “Pay no attention, Vraymorg. Paulin is unpleasant when he’s hungry.” He sniffed. “The boy can wait until tomorrow. When do we eat? Drink. I heard you have enough Cahirean wine to bathe in.”

  “When they bathe at all,” Paulin muttered.

  “Mountains men bathe in blood, or nothing,” Vraymorg said. “Blood from the Downs won’t do, though. Too thin.”

  Paulin laughed. But his fingers slipped to his dagger. “Harder to spill than Mountains blood.”

  “Shall we test that?”

  “Oh, enough,” Caelmarsh interjected pleasantly. “Paulin. Vraymorg. Stop this nonsense.”

  “My lord, he—”

  Caelmarsh held up a hand. “Enough. I did not make this journey through foul weather and equally foul country to watch you two gut each other. No, Vraymorg. Say nothing. Unless it is about Cahirean reds.”

  “We have enough wine to flood the Downs.”

  “Then bring on the wine.”

  Vraymorg gestured to the door. He didn’t trust Caelmarsh’s sudden good humour. The man let Paulin spit out his bile before. Why stop him now? “I ordered a barrel opened. A spicy red. We serve it warm in the Mountains.”

  “And does the boy like spicy reds?” Paulin said. “Served warm.”

  “Kaell rarely touches wine, so it hardly matters what he likes.”

  “Surely it matters a lot.” Paulin offered Vraymorg a sickly sweet smile. “From what I saw today, this young bastard has a taste for things above his position.”

  The red-ember fire in the hall warmed his back. The Cahirean wine warmed his blood. Nothing soothed his unease.

  This young bastard has a taste for things above his position.

  What did Paulin mean? Vraymorg tasted his disquiet as though Paulin’s bile slipped down his throat. I should have gutted him. Right there. Grand constable or not.

  Wind banged a far-away shutter. Flames atop the walls jigged black silhouettes through window cracks. Vraymorg’s flesh prickled. The Lost walked. No, not the Lost. Someone near oozed hatred as tangible as a knife prick. Who?

  Moodily, he stared about. Trestle tables and benches, tightly packed with men and women, filled the usually stark hall of hewed stone, smoke and shadows. Servants tended a roaring fire in the hearth, but the draught forced its way through arrow loops and beneath doors.

  From a lower table, Paulin caught his eye. He lifted his cup in a mocking salute.

  Him?

  A shutter crashed again. Vraymorg jerked.

  Caelmarsh patted his arm with fingers like scalloped claws. “This wind rips through a man like a sword cut. And not yet winter. No wonder only wolf’s heads and fools live in these cursed hills.”

  Down the table, Goffren puffed out his cheeks. “What does that make you, Vraymorg?” His burst of laugher broke into talk and drew stares.

  “I am no doubt a fool.�
�� A fool who warned Kaell to bite his tongue, then almost drew steel over a foolish taunt. A fool who knew something played out but could not stop it.

  A serving woman with sweat-drenched brown hair weaved past Goffren’s outstretched hands to slide a tray of steaming bread onto the table.

  Goffren tried again to grab her. She dodged. Bellowing in disappointment, he turned to shake his spoon at a man across the table.

  Drunk. Vraymorg held up his cup to a servant carrying a jug. Let’s hope Goffren passes out before he starts a fight.

  “And for the lady.” He nodded towards Annatise seated between Caelmarsh and Arn.

  “No more wine.” Her father nudged her cup away.

  The girl pouted prettily. Her brown eyes drifted to rising moons beyond the windows.

  Caelmarsh bent his head. “You’re far from a fool, Vraymorg. You keep your own counsel, avoid the intrigues of Dal-Kanu. But you still need friends.”

  Not friends like you. “I am loyal to the king. Why would I need other friends?”

  The man flashed stained teeth. Vraymorg did his best not to recoil from the stench of his mouth. “Who knows when we might need friends, Vraymorg?” He leaned closer. “The king is capricious. Young. I need not tell you that.”

  “Maybe. But do not underestimate him. His is what singers call a harsh blood line.”

  Caelmarsh rasped a guttural sound. “You mean his father?” He threw off a laugh. “Cathmor is not his father. He wishes he were, but he’ll never live up to the old king.”

  “Yet you’re eager this young, capricious king weds your daughter?”

  “The king must marry suitably. He needs, hmm, guidance.”

  And you need to drink less, say less, Vraymorg thought.

  “There’s talk.” Caelmarsh dropped his voice. “That girl from the Isles. Azenor Caelan. Cathmor sent his uncle to look at her. We can’t let it happen.”

  We? “I heard the Isles girl is wanton. Surely you have nothing to worry about there.”

  Servants brought the fish course. Vraymorg tried it, nodded, and bid him serve his guest.

  “She’s quite wild,” Caelmarsh said. “Her father and brothers let her do as she wishes. Word is she has a string of lovers. Even her brother’s captain. No, once the king sees Annatise—” He turned his head. Frowned. “Annatise?”

  A plate shattered on stone. A cursing Goffren surged up, kicked his chair away and waved a knife. Vraymorg nodded to Arn.

  “Son of a sooka. You’ll regret those words.” Goffren lunged. Those closest scattered, knocking benches over in their haste.

  A man huddled, arms protecting his head against flailing fists. Goffren swung a kick, overbalanced, fell over his target with a stifled yell.

  Arn grabbed his arms, tore the knife from him. Goffren yelped a protest.

  “My daughter.” Caelmarsh thumped his fist on the table. “Where is my daughter?”

  Into the silence, Paulin lumbered to his feet. “I know where she is. I know who’s with her.” His gaze slid to Vraymorg.

  And coldness fanged Vraymorg’s scalp, knowing Paulin played the game’s next move.

  Hinges screamed a protest as Paulin flung back the sept door.

  Vraymorg shouldered through ahead of Caelmarsh. Light from his burning torch spilled on tangled arms and legs just before the boy and girl broke apart. Annatise wore only undergarments, her blouse and skirt discarded. Kaell was bare-chested, bare-buttocked.

  Paulin laughed.

  Vraymorg shoved the torch into a sconce, sickness balling in his belly.

  “Annatise!”

  The girl whipped a startled look at her father. She scrambled up, torchlight and moonlight gleaming on unruly hair.

  “You shame me.” Caelmarsh took one step and slapped her mouth.

  Glaring, Annatise stood her ground. “Don’t you dare strike me. Don’t you—” She dropped her head in her hands to sob.

  “Annatise.” Kaell staggered to his feet, arms stretched to comfort her.

  Vraymorg grasped his shoulder. “You young fool. I warned you. Get dressed.”

  “My lord.” Hastily Kaell yanked up his pants. “It’s not—nothing happened.”

  “You!” Caelmarsh rounded on him. “You!” He whipped the knife from his belt.

  Vraymorg moved between them, arms raised. “Caelmarsh, stop. It’s not what it seems.”

  “Get out of my way.” The grand constable tried to dart around.

  Vraymorg blocked him. “Calm down. This is wrong, I grant you. But they’re children.”

  Caelmarsh’s mouth twisted to a snarl. “Children?” He shook the knife at Kaell. “How dare this bastard touch my daughter! He’ll pay for it. Get out of my way.”

  “Father, no.” Annatise clasped her hands together in a plea. “Please.”

  In the doorway, Paulin rocked with laughter, his lips thin as a sword slash. The sound rippled gooseflesh down Vraymorg’s arms.

  “I said: move aside.” Caelmarsh lunged at Kaell. Vraymorg grabbed his wrist.

  The grand constable swung his other arm. The blow struck Vraymorg’s shoulder but did not break his hold. He twisted harder. At last Caelmarsh yelped and dropped the knife. It clunked to the floor. Vraymorg kicked it away.

  “Curse you,” Caelmarsh muttered. “Curse you. Who do you think you are?”

  Vraymorg released him and backed towards Kaell. The boy rocked from foot to foot, arms shielding his shivering, half-naked body. He looked young and too vulnerable.

  “Nothing happened, my lord. We kissed. That’s all.”

  “It’s true.” Annatise tugged her father’s arm. “That’s all. A few kisses.”

  Caelmarsh rubbed his wrist. “Cover yourself, girl.” He thrust his cloak at her. Then his glower swung to Paulin. “You knew. You knew they were here.”

  The warrior shrugged brutish shoulders. “Hardly that.”

  “I said: ‘where is my daughter’. You said you knew.”

  “I guessed.” Another shrug. “Because of how he looked at her when we arrived. You saw that look too.”

  A silence, then Caelmarsh brushed off Annatise’s hands. He jabbed a finger at Kaell. “I want him punished, Vraymorg. Do you hear me?”

  “He will be punished.”

  “Hanged by the neck. He has humiliated me.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  Caelmarsh breathed hard. “Whipped. My daughter is not some tavern slattern. She is well-born and intended for the king. It’s treason for this bastard to touch not only a lady but his future queen. I want him publicly whipped, then he’ll answer to the king.”

  Kaell recoiled. “That’s not fair.” He turned to Vraymorg. “My lord, nothing happened.”

  Vraymorg struck him with the back of his hand. The boy stumbled.

  “I don’t like that tone. No,” he said, silencing a protest. “Say nothing. You disobeyed me.” He grabbed Kaell’s shoulder again and dragged him to the door.

  The second moon pierced veiled clouds. The wind chipped and roared, its breath damp on his skin. Arn waited outside, shoulders hunched against the cold. Vraymorg shoved Kaell at him. “Find him some clothes and lock him up.”

  Vraymorg snatched slow breaths, fighting for calm. He badly wanted to pound his fist against a wall, to shout. Caelmarsh would not let this go.

  Kaell panted slightly, his shivers violent. Vraymorg placed his cloak over the boy’s shoulders. “Lock him up,” he said again.

  Paulin emerged from the crypt. Again he laughed.

  His limbs numbed. So cold. The fire’s heat no longer touched him.

  “What’s happening to me, Rozenn? I can’t feel my legs.”

  “Finish this. Then everything will be all right.”

  “I can’t. Not this. I’ve said enough.”

  Rozenn threw a blanket over him. “There now,” she said. “There now.”

  There now. That’s what he said to Kaell that night. Knowing the words were meaningless but needing to say something. Anything.
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  “I think, I think, I want to forget the rest, Rozenn.”

  “Be brave, Val.” She touched fingertips to his jaw. “I promise you’ll know no pain when this is done.”

  No pain. He desperately wanted to believe her. With a deep sigh, he said, “Then—the next—this is what Kaell wrote in his book.” That cursed book. If only he never read it.

  Kaell

  The door above Kaell’s head creaked. He shaded slitted eyes as a lantern bobbed. A ladder dropped into the hole.

  “Out.”

  Kaell didn’t recognise the voice. Stubbornly he folded his arms over his chest.

  “Out. Your lord wants you.”

  At last. Vraymorg wouldn’t leave him in the dark.

  Kaell climbed. A figure edged back to let him stand. “Who are—?”

  The lantern flew like a fist. Pain lanced his temple. Groaning, Kaell collapsed to his hands and knees. The lantern swung again. He blacked out.

  Stone crushed his back, cold and hard. Rope welted his wrists. Hot breath pawed his face. He gagged at a pungent odour of sweat and unwashed flesh.

  A man laughed. Slowly Kaell’s blurred gaze cleared.

  “Paulin?” His head spun. A dream. Let it be a dream.

  “Paulin, what is this?”

  “Caelmarsh will force Vraymorg to give you up.” The man’s rank breaths, sharp and almost pained, steamed Kaell’s cheek. No dream. “The king wants you brought to Dal-Kanu. If Cathmor thinks you’re too dangerous, he’ll sell you. Maybe to the Quisnaf.”

  Kaell’s skull thumped. Blood dripped from his forehead to stone. “I don’t understand.”

  Paulin waved a knife. Kaell squirmed back on his elbows.

  “Stay still,” Paulin said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to do this.” He slashed at his own breast. The blade cut through his tunic and into flesh. Blood spilled from a long cut.

  “What are you doing? You’re mad.”

  “I’m not doing anything. You did this.” He dug his knee hard into Kaell’s hip. “You were escaping. When I tried to stop you, you came at me with a knife. I sought to reason with you, but you were crazed, like a beast.”