The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  Wind whipped hair about their faces as they walked through pavilions circling a gated field. Voices rumbled behind canvas, mingling with groaning leather, the scrape of iron and scattered laughter. Banners fluttered from poles.

  Cold scents swirled, edged with damp and a feculent stink from a stray dog wandering unnoticed through the crowd.

  For a bronze coin each, they bought seats in a wooden stand overlooking a platform in the field’s centre. Robed officials watched the gate. Azenor knew from Isles tournaments they would judge the winner if neither combatant yielded nor wounded the other.

  “Good enough?” Ethne raised an eyebrow.

  Azenor could only nod, her mouth dry. She’d see him soon. Kaell. From what Roaran told her, when next they met, she would be nearly blind. I must remember all I can. His face; eyes, expressions. How he moves. She owed him that respect.

  Laughter and the chime of clinked glass carried from a raised, covered stand brightly decorated in swirling flags. Richly clad men and women found cushioned seats. Servants moved among them, filling goblets from silver carafes.

  A cheer lifted as a man and a girl climbed stairs to the stand. He wore a damask cloak and lawn tunic. A circlet of silver banded a forehead below greying hair. Jewelled rings glittered from fingers. The girl held her head proudly, combs capturing dark-brown hair in a knot.

  Ethne nudged Azenor. “Caelmarsh. Very unlordly. The daughter Annatise, though, has all the grace her father lacks. Thanks to her Damadar mother. Did you hear? She’s to wed Cathmor next month. It’s decided.”

  She broke off at a roar from spectators. Heralds carried banners and swords onto the field. Behind strode two men wearing helmets, their tunics emblazoned with the insignia and colours of their lords. Neither wore expensive body armour or mail.

  The heralds proclaimed the warriors’ names and achievements. It meant little to Azenor though the crowd cheered and whistled. Everyone sat or pressed forward.

  No tournament event equalled the contest of swords. Men might win silver in the melee where a warrior could wield any weapon, but Telorians valued bladesmen above all else.

  “Who are these two? I don’t know their houses.”

  Ethne squinted as the warriors clambered onto the platform. “A silver dog and a tower. The House of May. Minor Downs family. I can’t make out the other man’s heraldry.”

  An official stood between the combatants, speaking rapidly. Both nodded. He raised his arm, dropped it and backed away.

  A tense hush fell. The fighters circled. At the first clash of steel, the crowd screamed as though woken from a trance. Their yelling nearly drowned the shriek of cutting blades as a fierce dance unfolded.

  “Our silver dog is the favourite,” Ethne said. “The crowd roars every time he lands a blow.”

  Azenor could not concentrate on the fight. Her gaze strayed into the crowd. He’s here. Somewhere. What might he look like?

  That ache started again behind the bridge of her nose. Her vision broke up, the tents, the pennants, the spectators dissolving in a murky blur of grey and black.

  Panicked she rubbed her eyes. Not yet. Please, not yet. The web fell away, the tournament field and its two combatants again clear.

  A cry rose from the crowd as Ethne’s silver dog thrust deep to wound his opponent in the side. As the warrior slumped, the dog whipped off his helm and lifted his sword to a ruckus of applause. Attendants carried the injured man to a physician’s tent.

  More heralds and bladesmen took their places. Azenor sat through the next few fights with little interest. Her thoughts whirled; her palms damp, her pulse jittery.

  It wasn’t just knowing Kaell was here, somewhere; she knew her vision must soon cloud. She could not imagine her life then.

  Ethne watched every fight from the edge of her seat, gasping at blows or sighing if a quickly found favourite lost. Then she seized Azenor’s hand.

  “By The Three, did you hear that?”

  Azenor had not. “What?”

  “That herald named his fighter as Griffin Damadar.”

  “A Damadar? Here?”

  A young man accepted a sword with an embellished enamel hilt from his herald. A distinctive shard of ice splashed a too-neat tunic.

  “The Damadar pup, if I recall. Griffin has two older brothers, Velleran and Heath. Few expectations, then. He’s probably here for the gold.”

  “Who’s he fighting?”

  His opponent only now wandered leisurely onto the field, staging an entrance. With wavy black hair sweeping broad shoulders beneath a flowing, crimson cape, the swaggering newcomer cut a romantic figure.

  When the herald shouted his name, another expectant muttering spread. An Isles man. Onlookers nodded knowingly. Likely a good bladesman, then. Both women giggled.

  “My intended.” Azenor thrust a hand to breast. “The Stone Knight himself.”

  “Not who you came to see?”

  “No.” But Azenor watched this bout, at least, with unwavering attention. When Sherrin Cross thrust steel to the young Ice lord’s throat, she nodded. A man who knew the language of swords. The delighted mob cheered when he tore off his helmet and gracefully bowed.

  Three more bouts followed, quickly decided. Winners’ names filled a wooden board.

  Then a ripple stirred through the crowd. Chatter faltered. Other warriors waiting at the gates to compete turned to gape.

  A young man strode onto the field, his chin thrust forward as if daring anyone to judge him. A sword swung against his thigh, his hair escaping a capped helm like waves of honey.

  The silence deepened. Then an undercurrent of whispers rose to a low murmur. For no reason that made sense, Azenor’s gaze tore to the stand and its finely dressed spectators.

  Nate Caelmarsh sat up, fingers strangling his chair arm, his shoulders stiff with outrage.

  “Made quick work of it in the first round,” a nearby spectator whispered to a companion. “Too quick. Crowd likes more drama.”

  “Can’t be more than seventeen,” the other man muttered. “Not natural that. Saw his lord fight once, years ago. Never forgot it. Such a controlled display of skill.”

  Azenor rose as though her heart’s momentum threw her frontward. Ethne grasped her sleeve. “This one? Him? By all our gods, no. There’s too much doom and mystery about these warriors of Khir, Azenor.”

  Quickly Azenor sat down. Her breath locked in her lungs, her gaze locked on the bladesman. He boldly wore Vraymorg’s insignia on his tunic and held his fair head fearlessly high. Khir’s warrior; blessed by the God of Battles. Trained to fight. Expected to die young.

  Look at me Kaell, Azenor willed. Know I am sorry for it.

  Kaell turned his head then, though only to watch his opponent enter the field to a burst of shouting from a fast-swelling mob.

  “The Bastard of Bearclaw,” Ethne muttered. “Michael Bearclaw. A Downs man who wins often, so popular here. Aric once put him in the dirt but only after a fierce struggle.”

  A herald carried not only his master’s sword but a banner displaying four claws and a solitary star, symbolising the warrior’s bastardry. Little shame in that, but men rarely celebrated it as he did.

  “Champion of the Downs,” the herald proclaimed to a roar. “Champion of the Melee.”

  “Where was Pairas when this fool won the melee? Drunk probably,” Ethne said. “Still, your young Mountains warrior can’t win. The bastard is a head taller and thicker.”

  “I’ll bet a gold coin the bastard only claws the dirt.”

  The young priestess laughed. “I’ll take your money.”

  Both women leaned. The crowd also packed close, straining to see. Warriors, physicians and servants emerged from tents, forcing their way to the field’s edge.

  Voices faded. Scattered laughter died. The emptiness filled with a slap of cloth in gusting wind and swilling nervous excitement as tangible as tendrils of mist.

  “Shouldn’t allow it,” a man muttered behind his hand to another. “Liste
n to the stories, these bonded warriors aren’t human.”

  “Want to bet on it then?”

  The first man shook his head. “Nah. Blondie’s just a boy. Got lucky yesterday. The Claw will sort him out with a few well-placed blows.”

  The Claw did trade, if not land, a few blows with the young man. But then, too soon, he rolled in the dirt and Kaell stood over him, sword tip at his breast.

  “I think you cheated,” Ethne complained as she pressed a coin into Azenor’s palm, the sound of the Claw’s “I yield,” ringing in their ears.

  “You knew what he was.”

  “I didn’t know how well he fights.”

  Azenor grinned as Kaell raised his sword to hesitant applause. A muttering tore about the field. Onlookers uneasily shuffled their feet. He frightens them, she thought.

  Kaell shoved his blade into his belt and turned for the gate.

  “If we hurry, we can get close.” Ethne grabbed Azenor’s hand. “Come on. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Is it? Her belly churned with nerves.

  She pulled her hood over her head and let Ethne drag her through knotted men and women. Wind drove a few splatters of rain, but sun also pierced scattering clouds. Peat scents swirled above the odour of mud.

  “Azenor?” Pairas pushed off the fence. “And Ethne?” He peered about. “Priestess are you witless bringing her here with no escort?”

  Azenor thrust her fists to her hips. “No one brings me anywhere.”

  “We’re on an adventure,” Ethne said. “Thought we’d watch you fight.”

  Pairas’ dark glance leapt hopefully towards Azenor. “You came to see me?”

  She winced, hardly able to remember waking beside him, limbs and bedclothes tangled, in effect only days ago. Pairas did not reproach her for her sudden coldness, but there was an edge to his shrug and smile.

  Perhaps she might have loved him; perhaps she might in time have loved Sherrin.

  Except for Roaran. He consumed her. Everything else before—there could be nothing after—felt like childish infatuation. Tender perhaps, but shallow.

  “Forgive me.” Pairas offered her a flamboyant bow. “Isles princesses do not waste their time on men with few prospects. Unless they’re bored. You came to watch Sherrin.”

  That stung. Clearly she had hurt him. Kaell reached the gate, saving her the need to reply.

  Pairas turned. “Nicely fought. You’re quick. I hope we meet in the final.”

  Azenor hung back. She let the hood shadow her face. She hadn’t told Roaran she intended to seek Kaell out. Perhaps there was a reason she shouldn’t.

  The young man dragged gloved fingers through damp, darkly golden hair. His eyes, too, were singular; the dappled green of a deep, rolling sea. He said something to Pairas but Azenor couldn’t understand his Mountains accent.

  She exchanged a puzzled look with Ethne.

  Pairas frowned. “What’s that you say?”

  “Kaell!”

  A man forced his way through a grumbling crowd, a powerful, dark-haired man moving with a warrior’s speed and balance. He reached the boy and grabbed his arm.

  Pairas moved between the women and the newcomer, his hand falling to his blade hilt. “The Lord of Vraymorg,” he muttered to Azenor. “Careful.”

  “By Khir.” The man shook Kaell by the shoulders. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Voices and laughter hushed. Men and women turned to stare. Spectators at the fence and in stands craned necks, distracted from swordplay.

  Azenor, too, gaped, fascinated. With those eyes of polished ebony, that burnished hair, surely Vraymorg must be an Isles man.

  But a shadow clung to him, an unworldly, invisible shimmer like a chord of sorrowful melody in still air.

  She resisted an urge to step back, as if drawing too near this man would rip her into a maelstrom, a violent world with rules and expectations far beyond the Isles.

  “My lord,” Kaell stammered. “I wanted to know—”

  “If you could kill? Gods help you Kaell if you did.”

  “No, not kill.” The boy irritably shoved off his lord’s grasp. “I need to test myself. To see if I’m ready.”

  “You’re ready when I say so.”

  “You say I’m never ready. It’s always when I’m older.”

  The Mountains lord knuckled a fist. “You don’t answer me back, Kaell.”

  “My lord,” Pairas interjected boldly. “This young man fought well. Both yesterday and today. Fairly, too. He’s more than ready to be unleashed in battle.”

  Vraymorg threw him a look that would make most men quiver.

  “Who are you? Some pretty bauble from the Isles? Butt out.”

  Pairas blinked, his jaw tightening in a way Azenor recognised. No, no, no, she thought. Do not erupt. This Mountains lord is too dangerous to rouse. I feel it.

  Pairas this time fought down his anger. Curtly, he said: “I thought you should know.”

  “Well now I do. It changes nothing. The boy disobeyed me. Not that it is your business.”

  “My business is warfare,” Pairas said. “As captain at Tide’s End, I know swordsmen. If you won’t let him fight, I’ll take him. We can use him in the Isles.”

  Azenor sucked in a breath at his daring. This man, Vraymorg, was Lord of the Mountains. The force of his will, his power, blazed off him; just his stare enough to cut a man down. But Pairas stood his ground.

  “Do you still yabber at me?” Vraymorg’s hand slipped to his sword. “Back away. Captain or not, you know nothing about what a bonded warrior is. Not that it is your concern, but Kaell has no right to be here. He once again disobeyed me. Deliberately.”

  Vraymorg shot him a final, threatening glare then shoved Kaell. “We’re leaving.”

  The young man bristled, his embarrassed gaze sweeping from Pairas to Azenor and Ethne to the mob fast gathering to watch the fun.

  “I want to fight,” he said. “I can win this tournament, my lord.”

  “Enough,” Vraymorg stopped him. “Give me your sword. A bonded one does not waste his skills playing at tournaments.”

  “He serves the gods. Yes, yes, yes.” With an angry mutter, Kaell surrendered his blade.

  Vraymorg thrust it into his belt beside his own and stalked off. Kaell scuffed dirt with a boot. Head down, he followed.

  “Now that one,” said Pairas, as they disappeared into a sea of surging bodies and clashing colours. “Knows the meaning of obedience.”

  “Let’s see where they go.” Ethne shot Azenor a mischievous grin.

  Pairas glowered. “Let’s not, priestess. That man Vraymorg is dangerous. The boy too. No need to seek trouble.”

  “I think we should.”

  “Should?”

  Ethne adopted her serious priestess expression. Azenor coughed to cover a giggle.

  “I feel something, Pairas. They might need your help.”

  Pairas nibbled his bottom lip. “Do you mean some witch-sense thing?”

  “Crude, but accurate. That sums you up, actually.”

  Azenor sighed. She had forgotten how these two always argued. Ethne thought the Isles captain a libertine. Pairas once called the sorceress a meddling schemer.

  “They went this way,” she said.

  Pairas led them through rows of silken and canvas pavilions. From one, a man shrieked and a calm voice urged, “Hold him.”

  The tournament’s sounds seeped away to a distant rumble, though every so often voices rose to a clashing roar and hewing metal clanged. The earth drummed as onlookers stomped feet to salute a lusty blow.

  Vraymorg strode towards a man waiting with horses beyond the pavilions, Kaell close behind. A figure slid from lengthening shadows to go after them.

  Azenor grabbed Pairas’ arm. “Someone’s following them.”

  “That’s one of those Cahireans,” Ethne said. “From the tavern.”

  Steel scraped leather. The servant with the horses shouted a warning as the armed man mov
ed in fast with a swinging blade. Vraymorg whipped out his sword as he whirled. He shoved Kaell behind him. Braced.

  The man thrust. Iron rang in a mighty crash as the Mountains lord deflected the blow.

  Weak sunlight flashed on metal. A second assailant sprang from nowhere at Kaell. Unarmed, Kaell dodged a lethal cut. Pairas cursed and broke into a run.

  Like trying to watch different combatants in the melee, Azenor struggled to follow what happened. The two Cahireans, Vraymorg, Kaell, Pairas all blurred into a flurry of straining figures, a storm of streaking metal, of shouts, curses and ringing steel.

  The first bladesman hacked hard at Vraymorg. The second forced Kaell back, step by step. Trapped within hemming pavilions, Kaell flung up his arms as his assailant lifted his weapon.

  Pairas shouted a challenge. He leapt in, slashing. The man spun and ripped up a parry that ground blades together in a cloud of blue sparks. A dagger glinted in his other hand. He stabbed. Blood burst on Pairas’ tunic. Azenor cried out in dismay as the Isles warrior reeled.

  The Cahirean turned on Kaell. He cut high. The boy dropped beneath steel a whisker from his head, rolled to his feet and crouched. The man chopped at him. Kaell weaved aside. The sword followed. Dirt puffed as he dived.

  Grinning, his attacker stomped after him. Kaell scrambled back on his hands. Vraymorg shouted, “Kaell!” Just one word but Azenor heard his desperate, gut-wrenching fear.

  Her mouth stale with panic, she could hardly separate what happened next.

  Pairas staggered up, yelling. The Cahirean wheeled from Kaell. Pairas thrust at his midriff, little strength in the stroke. The man easily swept the blade aside. “Prancing Isles peacock,” he taunted. “I’ll kill you, then him.”

  Kaell launched at him. The Cahirean crashed into trampled grass. He elbowed the boy off and clawed at his spilt weapon.

  Pairas stumbled in. His sword rose. He drove it shuddering into the man’s ribs. The Cahirean jerked like a puppet. Blood and entails sprayed. The air thickened with the nauseating odour of death.

  Kaell safe, Azenor’s panicked glance flew to Vraymorg in time to see him cut down the first bladesman. The force of his terrible stroke spun the Cahirean about and then into a bloody, twitching heap.