The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  Why? What had he surrendered? Just words. Just a story.

  “Please,” he gasped, his tongue thick. “Tell me about the sword.”

  “Shhh. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter I’m sorry. Not now.”

  What did matter? He tried to remember. But his head hurt. “Why sorry?”

  Rozenn watched him. Expectantly. Waiting. “It gives me no pleasure to see you in pain, Val.” She stroked his cheek. “Especially as you gave me a precious gift. But I must fulfil my part of the bargain.”

  Her words made no sense. All he knew was he hurt and somehow she’d tricked him.

  “You poisoned me.” He tried to roll. His body was as heavy as lead.

  A shadow shifted at the back of the room. Someone else was here.

  “Who’s there?” His breath rasped.

  Rozenn mopped his brow with a cloth. “Only Tarvan. Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you. No one will. They’ll take good care of you. You’re precious to them, Val.”

  They? Vraymorg licked cracked lips. “Who?”

  Rozenn sighed. “I didn’t expect it to be this hard. But I cannot turn back. Not when you’re worth so much gold. Gold my son can use to buy an army, to take the Telorian throne. Restore Cahir to its former greatness.”

  He groaned. “You sold me to the Quisnaf. And before—that was you, too. You told them how to find me. Why this lie about the sword freeing me of sorrow? Why not just drug me?”

  “That was the intent. Until you foolishly brought the sword. They didn’t expect that. But they told me what to do just in case. With this blade, the Quisnaf can control you.”

  She trailed a hand down his breast. “They fear you, Val.”

  “Why do this?” Neither ever spoke of what bound them, but affection surely. “I could have loved you, Rozenn. If both of us had been honest—not afraid.”

  Rozenn made no reply, only rose to talk to her captain.

  “What do we do with him?” Tarvan’s voice rumbled.

  “When he passes out, tie him up then leave him here. I sent word. The Quisnaf are coming for him. No need for us to wait. The king expects us in Dal-Kanu. We need to leave at dawn.”

  “We should kill him. What if he comes after you? He’s dangerous.”

  “He won’t ever come after me. You know why. Besides, once they take him, he’ll never be free again. I’ll speak to Alfreda about our preparations to leave.” Light footsteps tramped to the door.

  Someone stood over him. A guttering candle flared its last light upon Tarvan’s face, his expression remote as though bewitched.

  The man lifted his sword. “This is because of what you had of my queen.”

  Running steps. Rozenn screamed, “No!” But her captain drove steel into Vraymorg’s chest.

  Coldness numbed, its gentle cocoon protecting him from feeling, thinking or remembering.

  Into this comfortable void, sounds intruded. Branches soughed in a harassing wind. Grass rustled as if fingers sifted downy tips.

  Vraymorg opened his eyes. A fox sat on his ankle, its eyes gleaming in the darkness. At his twitch, it slinked off.

  He sat up in a shallow grave, his naked limbs splattered with mud and wet leaves. Icy rain slivered down his goose-fleshed skin.

  Like the rain falling around Paulin’s body, washing blood into tiny rivets in the dirt.

  A man bent over Kaell’s bed, his face shadowed.

  “Arn?”

  Arn thrust something beneath his tunic and turned. “He wounded him. Caelmarsh’s sword. A man who should protect this boy.”

  So Arn killed him?

  Vraymorg wrapped his arms across his breast. Nearly dawn. He ached with weariness.

  “Paulin was a pig. No one will mourn him.”

  Arn set his lips in a hard line. “No one.”

  In silence, they watched Kaell sleep.

  “The physician said the ankle might not heal right,” Arn said.

  “It will heal just fine.”

  “And if he’s crippled?”

  “A good swordsman can compensate for a weak ankle.”

  “I hope you’re right, my lord. Well, I should—I just came to make sure he’s all right.”

  Arn left him. Vraymorg wondered at his lie. A warrior used not only his strengths but his weaknesses. But a bladesman wouldn’t afford physical defects.

  “Vraymorg!” Caelmarsh burst into the room. “You killed him. The king will hear of this.”

  Vraymorg scoffed. “Killed him? Paulin fell.”

  The grand constable accused with a stabbing finger. “You killed him because he shot that hot-headed bastard of yours.”

  “I was with the physician.” Vraymorg tired of accusations and games. He longed for his bed. “My captain Arn Tranter saw the drunken fool fall.”

  “Tranter. The man with the scar. He’s your creature. He’ll lie for you.”

  “The physician and I both heard the cry. No one pushed Paulin. He fell.”

  “More lies. You murdered him. I knew you were ruthless, Vraymorg. Cold. Like your father. You wouldn’t hesitate to kill because of a grudge.”

  True. But Arn dealt with Paulin first. “I was with Kaell. Not at the top of the tower.” He frowned. No reason for Paulin to be there. Or Arn.

  Caelmarsh jabbed a finger again. “You can’t fool me. And you won’t fool the king. He’ll have your head for this. He has a penchant for heads.”

  Vraymorg grimaced. The stories of Cathmor’s gruesome “head house” appalled him.

  “The king will learn what you did. I intend to tell him everything that happened here.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Then he’ll have your head too, Caelmarsh.”

  “What?”

  “You’re right; the king should know—everything. I’m sure you told him your daughter is innocent, unblemished. Just as Cathmor’s queen must be.” Vraymorg clucked his tongue to his teeth. “What will he say when he learns how we found them—Kaell and your daughter?”

  A muscle in Caelmarsh’s cheek twitched.

  “A pity.” He had the other man’s measure now. Just reel him in and Caelmarsh would agree to whatever he proposed. “She is lovely. But the king will put her aside. He might decide you sought to mislead him, to trick—”

  “Stop.” Caelmarsh threw up a hand. “You can’t tell him. Why, you even said they are just children. Nothing happened. Annatise swore it was a few kisses.”

  “I’m sure the king will accept that when he hears about it.”

  Caelmarsh’s face bloomed rosebud pink. “He can’t hear. Vraymorg, listen. He must marry Annatise. For the good of the realm. Imagine if he turned his gaze to that Isles girl? What happens then? Isles princes at Dal-Kanu, in the king’s ear. Unthinkable.”

  Vraymorg stroked his chin, pretending to consider. “As you say. But the king surely has a right to know—everything.”

  Caelmarsh fidgeted with those ugly hands. “You’ll say nothing, do you hear?”

  “My good grand constable. Are you asking me to lie to the king?”

  “I’m asking you to be circumspect in what you say.”

  “And in return?”

  The other man’s knuckles paled. “Curse you, Vraymorg. Curse you. I shall tell the king Paulin fell. He drank too much and fell. The king need not hear everything.”

  “He does not,” Vraymorg agreed, hiding a satisfied smile.

  The night forest flowed about him: Scampering paws, an owl’s hoot; the sky a discord of black and grey curving into the horizon. The earth gritty and moist on his bare skin, the indistinct buds on a drooping autumn vine, their milky perfume lyric in the air.

  Vraymorg wanted to hide in this darkness, in the past.

  But Rozenn had poisoned him. Her captain had tried to kill him. They must answer for it. Then he’d grab Kaell’s sword and run—fast—before Quisnaf warriors arrived to take him.

  He rose and staggered towards chinked light. Clouds whipped overhead.
Icy rain beat at his face. Blinded, he tripped on a loose stone, straightened, stumbled to a window. A doused fire smoked in an empty room.

  A door stood ajar. Sounds of jangling harnesses, voices, rushed steps carried. On unsteady legs, he crept inside, teeth rattling like coins in a merchant’s purse.

  Kaell’s sword lay beside pooled blood, its trail a crimson ribbon across the floor to the door. Like the blood in Kaell’s bedchamber the night a ghoul assassin came for the boy.

  Woken by Kaell’s cries, Vraymorg had rushed in to cut the ghoul’s head off.

  Kaell huddled on the bed, a stained knife clutched tight. “I saw a shape by the window,” he whispered. “They must badly want me dead to risk coming here.”

  Vraymorg threw an arm about his trembling shoulders. “There now.” It was what he said when he couldn’t find the right words. “There now. You’re safe.”

  Safe. He could not keep Kaell safe. Nor any of these young men the gods chose to fight and die young. The weight of it, of their deaths, fell on his shoulders, a wretched burden.

  He pressed a palm to the stone wall. So cold, this room. Yet a short time ago that fire had blazed and Rozenn stroked his hair, whispering that soon he’d feel no pain.

  Vraymorg lifted Kaell’s sword. So how did this work? How did this blade and his story give others power over him?

  A boot scuffed a floorboard. A man called to someone.

  Vraymorg shoved the weapon up the chimney. He brushed telltale ash and soot from his arms, grabbed his own discarded sword and flung it beside his blood.

  Tarvan Blackstone trod inside. He stilled in shock. “You. But you’re dead. I killed you.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Then I’ll make sure this time.” Fisting his sword, the Cahirean captain rushed him.

  Vraymorg let him come. At the last moment, he jerked sideways. Steel swished air as Tarvan cut at nothing.

  The man yanked the sword back and spun. Vraymorg leapt in to grasp his wrist, forcing the tip down. He drove his knee into the man’s gut. The Cahirean doubled over. His sword clattered on stone. Vraymorg slugged him in the jaw. The punch felt right. He didn’t need to see Tarvan go down.

  “It’s true then. You can’t die.”

  Rozenn watched from the doorway. Her cool smile told him nothing.

  Vraymorg scooped up Tarvan’s blade. “It’s true.”

  “I heard whispers through the Enarae but didn’t quite understand how your immortality worked. Whether you didn’t age or whether no one could kill you. Tell me your story.”

  “I’m done with stories.”

  “Stories show us who we are. They show us who we can trust, who we cannot. There is no surer way to know another person than listening to their stories.” Her gaze fell on his pooled blood. “I’m sorry Tarvan did that. Because I took you into my bed, he was jealous.”

  “Oh I’m sure you inspire that a lot. Your Grace.”

  Rozenn tilted her head. “Is that how it will be between us? Politely formal. How sad.”

  She crouched beside Tarvan. “I’m grateful you didn’t kill him. Easy for you to do that. A prince of the Isles. A bladesman trained by the legendary Serravan.”

  Vraymorg put the sword to her breast to force her up. “Tell me about Kaell’s blade. The truth.” He knew how he must look, his naked body splattered with mud and blood, his eyes terrible. Yet she did not look afraid, only thoughtful.

  “No.”

  He pressed steel into her ribs. “You betrayed me. For gold.”

  “For a lot of gold. For an army.”

  “I almost pity you.”

  Rozenn smiled that secret smile he foolishly thought was just for him. “Why? Because I’m as ruthless as you?”

  “I might be ruthless, but I’m never intentionally cruel.”

  “Cruel—” She touched cool fingertips to his cheek. “Did you ever think you might belong in Quisnaf? That a man like you will always be sought, desired, held?”

  When he said nothing, she sighed and drew back her hand. “I’m leaving with the sword. If you quickly go too, you’ll evade the Quisnaf—this time. But they won’t give up.”

  “You’re not leaving. Tell me the truth about Kaell’s sword.”

  Rozenn’s clear blue eyes dwelled on his face. Though anger squeezed his heart, her beauty still moved him. “Kaell’s dead, Val.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, he’s not. He can’t be.”

  She shrugged. “It’s for the best. I warned you. The 19th bladesman. You did nothing.”

  “That foul book with its foolish prophecies? You cursed me, Rozenn. Try as I might, I could not stop looking for signs, wondering if it were true. Even if the book referred to Kaell, if that was his destiny, how could I kill him?”

  “We all do what we must, Val. You of all people know that.” She dropped her eyes to his wrists. “Though you didn’t do enough, did you? Didn’t turn to magic, dangerous blood magic to save yourself. What happened to you all those centuries ago is your fault.”

  Vraymorg drew down a laboured breath, pushing away her cruel words. “Tell me about the sword.”

  “If I tell you, will you let me live?”

  “Yes.” No. She had betrayed him, poisoned him, buried him.

  “You lie. You intend to kill me.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  A smile curled the edges of her soft, soft mouth. “Kill the mother of your son?”

  “Wh—what?” he stammered, throat tight, heart rioting.

  A bird cawed from the roof, took flight with flapping wings. The rising wind hunted through the ill-fitting door, rattling dead leaves into corners. But beneath the sounds, an unbroken stillness brooded.

  “I wondered. Until Gendrick Caelan claimed Alecc as his son.”

  His sword drooped. A bewilderment of thoughts assaulted him. A son. Did he believe her? Maybe she was lying to save her life? But if it were true—that meant another child he would one day mourn. He could not open himself up to that pain.

  Rozenn challenged his bemused stare. “You didn’t think I might have reasons to let Gendrick think Alecc is his?”

  A shadow rose at his back. Vraymorg whirled in time to see Tarvan, blood streaming from his gashed face. In time to see Tarvan’s snarl as he threw a fist. It crunched into his jaw. He sank to the floor and into blackness.

  Vraymorg rode hard from the forest towards the dawn. In the castle ward he left his horse with a groom. He hurled Kaell’s blade down in the hall. But his anger, his sorrow he carried to the boy’s room. The door fell open at his touch.

  “Is someone there?” He stepped inside.

  A young woman sat in pale sunlight by the window, her dark head bowed, her hands clasped across the book in her lap.

  “Alyssa?”

  The woman staggered clumsily to her feet and stood holding her swollen belly. “My lord.”

  “You’re with child?”

  “I’m close to my time, lord. Will is taking me to his mother’s house in the valley town. The road passes the castle. I wanted to greet my aunt, to see—”

  She choked a sound. Then words rushed out. “Kaell. Oh, by all the old gods. Kaell. I didn’t know. Our home is so remote. We don’t hear from anyone for months.”

  Her dismay struck like a blow. He almost reeled.

  “You loved him.”

  Alyssa managed a sad smile. “Always, my lord. But not as Kaell wanted. Never like that. Then I met Will.”

  Vraymorg looked at the book spilled on Kaell’s bed.

  “You knew he kept that?”

  “Yes.” Another sad smile. “I suppose you think I’m wrong to read it.” Her voice cracked. She turned to hide her tears.

  “No. I understand.”

  “I’d see him scribbling but when I asked what he wrote he smiled in that way of his and said it was thoughts. Thoughts.” She paused. “Perhaps that’s why he was so right in his head.” Her glance challenged. “He was, wasn’t he? Steady in the head. For a bonded
warrior. My nan as a child knew a hunter who muttered to himself and saw things not there.”

  Vraymorg remembered the young man, how his mind had fractured when ghouls slaughtered men he led, how he wandered about the castle like a ghost, dishevelled, barefoot. Lost. Until he hanged himself in the ruins near the orchard.

  “But that wasn’t Kaell,” Alyssa said. “He was steady, too cheerful sometimes, given what happens to bonded ones. The only time he wasn’t—” She bit her lip.

  “He missed you, but he was glad William made you happy,” Vraymorg said kindly.

  “Was he?” Alyssa brushed fingers over the book. “I didn’t mean to read this. But I wanted something of Kaell’s.”

  She threw Vraymorg an embarrassed look. “My lord, may I sit? It’s just the child—”

  His grief made him thoughtless. “I’m sorry. Sit. Please.”

  Alyssa gathered her skirts and eased into the chair. Vraymorg turned away. The room seemed unchanged. A carelessly flung cape draped a chair. Books piled beside the bed. Kaell often read by candlelight. Sometimes he fell asleep in a chair, head thrown back, mouth open.

  A prowling Vraymorg, unable to escape dreams, always shook Kaell awake, ordered him to bed, snuffed out the candle and paused at the door, listening to his breaths.

  “He thought I didn’t know about this book,” he said. “I found it soon after that Downs man fell from the wall.”

  “I remember that night. I cried for hours. I thought Kaell might die. My aunt told me bonded warriors are strong, but I didn’t believe her.” She swept a gaze about the chamber. “Only a few things. Yet I feel him here.”

  Vraymorg wished the room felt long abandoned, empty of ghosts and memories. When he looked back, Alyssa was quietly sobbing into her hands. “Alyssa—”

  She pushed to her feet. “I can’t be here, my lord. Forgive me. I should not have come.”

  He did not know how long he sat in that room after she left. Too many thoughts slammed into his mind. A bewildering jumble of disbelief, of anger and sorrow.

  Alecc, his son. A boy already ten, and he, oblivious. Just as he was about Philip. Ewen was right: there could be wonder and joy in fatherhood, even with its struggle. But there was something dark beneath.