The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  Kaell wanted to sweep his palm over the majestic carvings. He turned to his guide. “What is this place?”

  “A gateway to a long-forgotten city, abandoned for centuries.”

  “How did you come to be here? Who are you? Who are all these men?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Sorry.” Carefully he laid Azenor down. “I am grateful you came along.”

  “Came along?” The man smiled. A satisfied smile, so guileless Kaell’s scalp crept. “No, no. We were searching for you. Just as the drums bid us do.”

  The meaning sank into him. Kaell took a step back. Air parted in a soft whoosh. Pain shot through his neck. “What—?” His clutching fingers closed around a feathered dart.

  “Stay calm,” the man said. “It will only hurt for a moment.”

  Kaell’s knees buckled. He hit the floor hard. The drums picked up. Their thump vibrated through the ground beneath his cheek, beating down the seconds until blackness closed in.

  Kaell woke in a small chamber carved into stone, an ache behind his brows, his wrists bound by prickling weed to the arms of a solid chair. He twisted his hands, only to yelp as the weed burned his skin.

  “Witch weed.” Their guide leaned a shoulder against a wall. Lamplight fell on shaggy, brown hair. Beneath unflattering, thick brows, his gaze was expressionless. “Poison to ghouls. So sit quietly.”

  Kaell strained against the bonds. The vine tightened and burned. Again he winced.

  “I only tried to help,” the man said. “But go ahead, be stupid. Find out for yourself.”

  “Khir take your help. Cut me loose.” Kaell yanked at the bonds again—more pain.

  “More you struggle. More it hurts.”

  Cursing, Kaell tugged until blood streamed down his arms. With an angry huff, he stilled. “Where’s the girl I was with?”

  “Safe enough.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Names are dangerous. You don’t need to know mine.”

  “What do you intend to do with us?”

  “Hear those drums?” The man looked towards a grilled door. “It’s a message. About you and that girl. That’s how we knew to find you. Now listen hard.”

  A second beat, the tone lower, resounded very near.

  His captor watched him. “That’s our answer. Know what it says?”

  Kaell’s belly dived. He knew. The drums called Lastenarron.

  “Says we have you. Safe and tight. Says: Come and collect.”

  “In return for what?”

  “Archanin’s good will.”

  “You’re Varee.” His shoulders sagged in defeat. “His people.”

  The man looked pleased. “You’re not so ignorant after all. Yes, we serve Archanin. He is our lord, our god. Soon lord and god of all this land.”

  Kaell rocked his head. “I’ll never serve him.”

  “Then you’ll suffer some.” With a disinterested shrug, the stranger grabbed the lamp and turned for the door.

  “Wait. The girl. Don’t surrender her to Archanin. Her father will pay if you ransom her.”

  The man paused to lift the lamp. Frowned. “You look ill.”

  He disappeared through the door, returning with a young woman. Smiling, she knelt before Kaell and cut her wrist over a cup.

  His spine slammed into the chair. “What’s she doing?”

  “Feed,” the man said. “We’re to care for you. Our lord expects it.”

  She put the cup to his lips. Pulse inflamed, giddy at the scent of her blood, Kaell whipped his head aside. He could taste that blood; ferrous on his tongue; hot and smooth.

  How repulsive, how disgusting, this need. Each time he drank he wore away the links to his humanity. Until the tether snapped, and he became a debased thing. A beast.

  “I will not drink. Why does she do this? Did you threaten her?”

  His captor waved the woman away. With a disappointed pout, she rose and backed out.

  “We all open our veins for them,” the man said. “Our masters take only what we can afford to give. Once a year Archanin demands a tribute. For the chosen, an ecstatic death.”

  Kaell recoiled in horror. “You just let him kill you?”

  “We serve him.”

  “You should fight.” Kaell tugged at the vine. Its knots seared his torn skin.

  The man carried the lamp to the door. “You know nothing of us. But you will learn.”

  Kaell yelled at the walls. He thumped his heels on stone. Thrashed until fire ringed his wrists. He had to get to his lord. Get Azenor to safety. Instead, he was helpless; a prisoner tormented by thoughts of what that poor woman’s blood might taste like.

  Just how sick was he? Only a monster thought like that.

  Monster, monster, monster. The drums pulsed. No, not drums. He sat up. Screams. Shouting. Iron scraping iron. Clashing swords.

  Unable to understand what was happening, he tore at the vine and violently rocked the chair until it toppled. His head struck the floor.

  The door creaked. Footsteps approached.

  “Who’s there?”

  A candle bobbed, its tallow overlaid by the odours of sweat and oil. Someone righted the chair. A man with a gleaming dome of a skull and sorrowful brown eyes studied him.

  “You found him?”

  The bald man nodded.

  A second stranger sauntered through flickering light. One of Azenor’s “swaggering dancers.” With that complacent, arrogant smile, his gloved hand thrust onto his hip, his prowling strides, he had to be.

  Where his companion was stocky with a brutishly powerful body, this man was tall, leanly muscled and fluidly elegant. Short-cut black hair bristled at the nape of his neck, but a thick fringe swept long and curling onto a haughty face.

  With an elaborate flourish, the swaggering dancer drove his sword into its scabbard. His polished boots squeaked as he knelt to touch the sigils on Kaell’s neck and shoulder.

  Kaell bristled. “Take your hands off me.”

  The man rose smoothly. “This is the one our lord seeks. Thank The Three we’re in time.”

  The Three? “You’re Isles men.” Kaell released a relieved breath. “Azenor Caelan. She’s here somewhere. Help her.”

  The stranger rattled a laugh. “Long while since I considered myself an Isles man, hey Joss.”

  “Nicky, those drums.” The bald man swiped a moist brow. “We must be quick.”

  “Cut him free. Bring him.”

  “He’s tied with witch vine for good reason.”

  “Keep the vine. But no chair. Unless you mean to carry him like that, chair and all?”

  Joss dropped his head. “No, Nicky.”

  No Nicky. Kaell mouthed the words.

  “Quickly.”

  “Yes, Nicky.”

  Yes, Nicky, Kaell silently jeered. No, Nicky. Go screw a goat, Nicky. He kicked the chair with his heel. “Curse it. Free me so I can find Azenor.”

  “But what will Joss do with all the lovely witch weed he collected?”

  Kaell shrugged. “Hang himself?”

  “And they say no one in these cursed hills has a sense of humour.” With a white-toothed grin, Nicky looped vine around Kaell’s neck and pulled it tight. “Pretty. Just your colour.”

  “Don’t you mean the colour of your blood? The blood I’m about to spill.”

  “I like you,” Nicky said. “You’re funny.” He scrunched the end of the vine in a fist and turned to his companion. “Release him, Joss. Now he’s leashed, our young warrior won’t struggle—too hard.”

  “Yes, Nicky. Whatever you say, Nicky,” Kaell taunted the bald man. “Do you tug your forelock, too, when you curtsey?”

  Scowling, Joss hacked through the bonds. Kaell surged up and knocked him aside.

  Nicky yanked. The vine sliced into Kaell’s throat. Choking, gasping, he clutched at the ligature. The Isles man threw a punch. The blow knocked him flat. Nicky kicked his belly.

  “Naughty.” He kicked Kaell agai
n. “Let’s be clear from the start, boy.” He stooped to tie Kaell’s wrists at his back with vine. “Joke away all you like. But disobey and you suffer.”

  Trussed like a beast, helpless, Kaell could only glare.

  Joss swayed to his feet. “Could have killed me, Nicky.”

  “You live a charmed life, friend.” He hurled Kaell up and shoved.

  He stumbled. It tore the vine from his captor’s hands. Hardly able to believe his luck, Kaell broke away into a white-washed passage. At his back, Nicky laughed.

  Thick, stale air blanketed. Torches smoked in brackets. Kaell’s bound hands threw off his balance as he staggered along the walls.

  Nicky’s laugh pursued. The tap, tap, of his steps echoed, unhurried, as though he knew Kaell had nowhere to go.

  In his haste, Kaell smacked into a wall. He shook off dizziness and twisted his hands in a frenzy. When the vine came off, blood oozed from deep ruts in his wrists. The pain didn’t matter. Azenor. Find Azenor. Get away.

  “Where are you going, Kaell?” Nicky taunted. “There’s no place to run.”

  Kaell lurched towards a fire’s glow. He passed beneath an arch, part of the stone façade.

  Silver-hued night beckoned at the mouth of the main cavern. But between him and escape, men prowled. Torchlight glistened on their swords, on dark stains on rock, on broken bodies and smashed weapons strewn about.

  One looked his way. He called to his companions. Kaell retreated fast. From the passage Nicky’s laugh floated. Kaell spun back. The men closed in, blocked him, snatched at him.

  Unarmed, desperate, Kaell lashed out with ghoul strength. He kicked, punched, swung his arms. His attackers reeled. Kaell belted a shin, drawing a howl. He threw a fist, heard a crunch as a collarbone shattered.

  Bodies fell on him, too many of them, forcing him down cheek to stone. Pinned by knees and elbows, he could not stop them tying his hands again with that cursed witch weed.

  Nicky emerged through the arch. He leaned a shoulder to the wall, watching with a serene smile as men hurled Kaell up. “Well that was stupid, don’t you think?”

  No, Nicky.

  “We’re not here to hurt you, fool. He demanded we bring you to him.”

  “Archanin.” Drained, weary to the bone, Kaell’s head drooped. All he had left he threw into fighting. They could do what they wanted with him. Beat him. Humiliate him. Kill him.

  “Who comes in empty night?” He mouthed an old Mountains saying. “No, not death. It is I, despair.”

  “Not Archanin.” Nicky pushed off the wall. He grasped Kaell’s jaw, his face close. Tiny lines pinched a vibrant mouth. A mass of wrinkles framed dark eyes. Not so young, then. And slender for a bladesman though his arms corded with muscle. “A lord of hope, not darkness.”

  Kaell cast a sneering look about. “You killed so many for your lord of hope?”

  “They’re Varee. Murderers and slavers. What do you care?” Nicky spun Kaell towards the moonlit entrance. “Let’s move. Bring torches. Those wretched wraiths will be about.”

  “Azenor,” Kaell said. “She’s here. If you’re from the Isles, please help her.”

  “Once an Isles man, always an Isles man, is that what you think?” Nicky turned to Joss. “Find the girl.”

  Joss protested. “Nicky, she’ll slow us down.”

  “You-know-who said bring them both. Besides, threaten her and this one behaves.”

  Men brought Azenor into the cavern. She struggled in their hold. “Kaell. Where’s Kaell?”

  “Azenor, I’m here. It’s all right.”

  “She’s safe for now.” Nicky patted Kaell’s cheek. “So be a good boy.”

  “Good?” Someone laughed. “He’s a wicked little blossom.”

  Bile shot into Kaell’s throat. He knew that voice, that laugh.

  Lastenarron strolled in, blade levelled, more ghouls at his back. Iron clattered as men ripped swords free.

  “Give me a sword,” Kaell said. A familiar, sweet ache kicked, beating down exhaustion.

  Nicky glared at Lastenarron. “Back off—thing!”

  “Not until I get my flower. I’m very grateful you rounded him and the girl up for me. So grateful I might let you live—if you hand them over now.”

  “He’s lying,” Kaell said. “Give me a sword.”

  “No chance.”

  Stubborn fool. “I’m your only hope. Give me a blade.”

  “What part of being my prisoner don’t you understand?”

  Stubborn, dead fool. “What part of dying don’t you understand?”

  The ghouls fanned out. Men packed closer, swords levelled. A pulse bloomed in Nicky’s temple. He swept his eyes over the number against them. With a grunt, he cut Kaell free.

  The ghouls charged, their yells bloodcurdling. Men ran to meet them.

  Kaell grabbed a discarded blade as the whirlpool caught him up, a chaos of howling, hacking, clattering metal, of groans and screams. Firelight blazed off hewing steel.

  He slashed and smote, bellowing in fury as he tore apart ghouls. At each stroke, not just battle fever but a terrible song of death rose in his throat. They would not take him. He would cut down every ghoul until none stood in his way.

  Nicky dismembered a ghoul with one stroke, whirled to fend off a swinging blade. Blood fountained as his riposte skewered a ribcage. A dancer, indeed.

  Men dropped Azenor and leapt into the vicious fray. She cowered, arms protecting her head as swords wrought bloody destruction around her.

  Kaell fought towards her, scything ghouls as he might wildflowers. That furious strength, that dread power burned through him. Archanin’s blood enhanced his skill and training. It pumped like rage, firing his sword arm, his muscles and his will.

  He decapitated two ghouls with a swish. Nicky paused for a heartbeat to stare. Then the Isles bladesman disappeared into a savage, bloody confusion of flesh and metal.

  More ghouls sprang at Kaell. He swatted them back then stalked after them, impaling their bodies into the ground before they could rise. Blood, gore exploded, the dirt a slick mire. Everywhere men and ghouls cursed and panted. Steel clanged and whirred.

  A ghoul cut at Kaell’s legs. He jumped, thrust with iron. Hot liquid spurted. He swiped his eyes.

  “Disarm him, lack wit.” Lastenarron. Somewhere in the tumult.

  A man spun into him, then spun down, thrashing in pain. Kaell cleaved his attacker in two then ripped another apart with a one-two slash.

  Heat from the fire pit walled at his back, its spitting flames gleaming on pooled blood and painting the walls with grotesque shapes. Sweat poured off his face. Clanking blades tolled in air silted with that stink of death.

  A voice lanced the din. “Kaell, I’ll kill her Kaell.”

  Lastenarron held Azenor against him, a knife to her throat.

  “Hold.” Nicky gestured. Combatants broke apart. Thundering steel quietened. Ghouls retreated towards Lastenarron. Weary, panting men lowered weapons.

  Lastenarron smirked at Kaell. “Put the sword down, little flower.”

  Nicky grabbed his arm, the fire’s reflection sparking in his dark eyes. “Don’t do it.”

  Kaell threw off his hand. He faced Lastenarron. “Only if she and these men go free.”

  “Done.” Lastenarron slid back his lips in a half smile. “What do I care about these fools?”

  “Don’t do it.” Nicky’s stare held Kaell’s. “You can’t trust him.”

  “Decide, bonded warrior.” Lastenarron pricked Azenor’s throat to draw blood. Cursing, she tried to force his arm down.

  “Stop.” Kaell dropped his sword onto his foot. Ghouls grabbed him.

  “No!” Nicky yelled. “They’ll kill you. You fool—” The words choked off. A dark stain burst on his chest. Mouth slack, he collapsed in a heap. A ghoul at his back yanked out his blade.

  As if she sensed Lastenarron’s distraction, Azenor bit his hand.

  He cried out and dropped her.

  Kaell kicked his
sword high, flung off ghouls and smashed into Lastenarron. The ghoul thumped into a wall. Two more attacked just as Kaell caught the somersaulting blade.

  He cut them down, grabbed Azenor and pulled her towards the entrance. The last moon dipped into a sky woven with pink and ivory.

  Lastenarron staggered after him. “Daylight won’t save you. I’ll always find you.”

  Kaell lifted Azenor into his aching arms. That strength fighting unleashed leached away. A flat numbness took its place. He had nothing left.

  “Who comes in empty night,” he whispered again. “No, not death.”

  “Kaell.” Azenor trembled against him. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

  “It’s all right. You’re with me. You’re safe.”

  Safe. He had to find something within, something beneath his exhaustion so he could defend her and get to his lord. Because Lastenarron would not give up. Kaell knew it.

  By late morning, they reached the Great Gorge, and crossed into the black-barked woodlands near the fortress.

  Soon, the stark, square keep at Vraymorg winked through trees in cloud-dappled sunlight. Ancient towers flanking sheer walls spawned shadows over circling ditches and the great gorge.

  Sadness squeezed Kaell’s ribs. When last he approached these gates, he was bone-tired, fingers cramped from gripping the reins, his tunic stained from a seeping wound. But returning in triumph, one of a brotherhood.

  Now he came upon the gates disgraced, an outcast, with footsteps as heavy as his heart.

  He dragged the hood over tousled, dirty hair. One last duty to do.

  “We’re close,” he said. “I see Vraymorg’s towers.”

  Azenor fisted her hands. Her voice, though, dealt the blows. “So now you can die? Well, go ahead. Just don’t expect me to stay and watch.”

  “I won’t ask you to do that, Azenor. Just as you can’t ask me to live like this.”

  He passed a hand over gritty eyes, his tone bleak and resigned. “You know what I am. If I’m dead, I can’t hurt you or anyone. In that dreadful castle when you flinched away, your instinct was right. What’s inside me is monstrous.”