The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  “Why do you punish me with that again?” Her tone cut like a midwinter wind. “I no longer fear what’s inside you, Kaell. Nor should you. It makes you strong.”

  She didn’t see the danger. Or refused to recognise it.

  “I hear your blood,” he said quietly. “Smell it. All the time, Azenor. It awakens a terrible hunger. Like desire. Sometimes all I can think about is my lips on your throat, how your blood will taste.”

  He shuddered. Through sheer will he resisted. But will, even reason, would not always be enough.

  “So tell me, Azenor Caelan. Should I fear this darkness? Should you?”

  Her bottom lip trembled. Abruptly she turned away.

  Kaell sagged. Why didn’t she understand his torment? He wanted an end to his misery, the struggle of holding back his sick hunger for blood.

  His lord would do the right thing. The only thing he could. Kill him.

  But this close to the castle, to dutiful death, Kaell’s feet mired in reluctance.

  Once through those gates he must confront his lord. Tell him what he was. Look into his face, wanting only compassion, forgiveness, knowing that was impossible. Knowing if his lord looked upon him with disgust, he’d shrivel inside.

  Azenor stood as he left her, her shoulders tight. Kaell sighed. “Azenor—”

  She whipped up a palm, a barrier. Her eyes were wet.

  Thinking she feared for him, he muttered, “My lord will know what to do. It will be all right.”

  The girl swiped at tears. “I’m not crying for you. I’m crying because. Just because.” She shook her head.

  The road slashed the forest then meandered through fields of sun-bleached grass and wind-rippled sweet-box. Kaell looked for outriders but saw none. He frowned.

  Near the walls, still no challenge. Kaell’s unease grew. Crouching, he sought signs of a battle. No churned earth or flattened grass. No broken arrowheads.

  Azenor sensed his restlessness. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

  She held his arm, taking this last chance to throw stale words. He knew them so well he could mouth them with her. “Don’t do this, Kaell. At Tide’s End we’ll both be safe.”

  “Safe,” he muttered. “Ha. Will I be safe from myself?”

  The fortress gates gaped, the portcullis roped high. Only two guardsmen defended the gatehouse. One levelled his sword. “State your business.”

  “Surely you know me, Salwyn?”

  Nothing. Then a tremulous, “Kaell? It is you?” The grey-bearded soldier drew taller. “But we thought—it’s been months. They said you were dead.”

  If only. “Where is everyone?”

  Salwyn swept a puzzled frown to Azenor. “The king is marching on the Isles. Many of the fighting men have already joined him. The rest leave soon with Vraymorg.”

  “Where will I find my lord?”

  “In the great hall.” Kaell felt the guardsman follow them with his eyes as they crossed the near-empty ward.

  Leather groaned as a stableboy tended to two sweat-lathered horses. From the forge, a man he once wrestled into the dirt flung down tools and wiped grubby hands on a soot-stained apron. Only a handful of soldiers commanded the walls.

  The ward usually bustled with noise and movement, with shouts, laughter, the clip-clop of hooves, hammering iron, yapping dogs. A tumult of life overpowering the slow tolling bell in the well house. But now its ominous echo resonated through the earth.

  A stranger barred their way at the steps to the hall, barked: “You cannot enter.”

  Weary, impatient and sorrow-sick, Kaell didn’t argue. He flung the guard into the ward. The man lay groaning.

  Hand in Azenor’s, Kaell shouldered inside. At the sight of the hall, his heart splintered.

  So unchanged; from the guards lining hewed walls, to the roaring fire, to the odours of beeswax and ash, to the castle’s lord seated high, chin resting on his palm.

  A stoop-shouldered man addressing Vraymorg turned to stare. Him? Here? Caelmarsh, soon to witness his humiliation. Kaell nearly laughed, a mad cackle for the cruel gods.

  The wooden doors clanged shut at their backs. Guards rushed to surround them, swords drawn. Kaell squeezed Azenor’s shaking hand. “Everything’s fine. My lord will protect you.”

  He dropped his hood.

  Silence. It sank down into the hall like a prowling beast. It sank down into him.

  Faces turned inch by inch to him, every movement sluggish as though time stalled then only slowly released. Weighted hands lifted to cover gaping mouths.

  Kaell’s breaths beat in his skull, a laboured inhalation, a forced release. An endless, dismal thrumming. He was aware of Azenor’s fingers gripping his, that her lips formed words he didn’t hear.

  Then the spell lifted. Sound and movement exploded. Gasps, mutters, disbelieving stares, shuffled feet. But beneath, that tremolo of silence sang unbroken.

  “Kaell.” Azenor’s voice shrilled as guards grabbed her. “What’s happening?”

  Throat pinched, limbs like jelly, he could not answer. A pain burst in his heart. For at last, Kaell must lift his eyes to that chair. To his lord.

  Vraymorg surged to his feet. He stood stunned. For a heartbeat. For another beat. A third. Then, like an arrow loosed, he strode at Kaell with furious vigour.

  “Vraymorg,” Caelmarsh said. “Beware. His eyes are black.”

  His lord shuddered to a halt before Kaell. “No.” A single word, torn out. “No. Your eyes. Kaell, it can’t mean—it can’t—”

  Kaell hung his head. Shame blocked his throat. He swallowed hard. “Ghouls took my blood, my lord.”

  Shock stirred through the long hall; a whisper, a sigh that hit stone walls and fragmented into a cacophony of venomous murmurs. The sounds knifed Kaell’s back.

  He met his lord’s eyes. They thrust like blunted daggers, seeking to pierce his defences. Filled not just with anger. That he could bear. But misery? That he could not.

  “They took your blood.” Vraymorg carved words with disbelief. “And you live? How?”

  Because the gods play with me, he might answer. Because I failed you. He said nothing.

  “Who is this?” Vraymorg whirled on Azenor. “Is she cursed also?”

  “No, no, my lord,” Kaell said quickly. “This is Azenor of the Isles. Archanin’s prisoner, but free now. I beg you; return her safely to her father and brothers.”

  Muttering fell away into that boiling silence. Every breath held. Only the fire’s crackle and a rush of wind beyond the walls silted the hush.

  Vraymorg tapped fingers on his belt. “You are Azenor Caelan?”

  “I am. Tell these oafs to release me.”

  “My lady.” Vraymorg paused halfway into a bow as though noting her unseeing stare. “You are unharmed?”

  “I am unharmed, my lord.” She traced his voice. “Kaell freed me.”

  “Kaell freed you?”

  “Must I say it twice? Kaell freed me.”

  Caelmarsh bristled at Vraymorg’s side. “Look at him. He is a ghoul. Strike him down.”

  “I see what he is.”

  “He is a ghoul. Kill him.”

  “Curb your bloodthirsty impatience. I will do my duty.” Vraymorg gestured to a servant.

  “Take the lady to suitable chambers. Look after her.” He closed his hand about the hilt of a hip sword. “As for Kaell. Disarm him. Bind him—chain not rope.”

  “My lord.” A guardsman nervously levelled his sword. “Where shall we put him? In the tower?”

  “Take him below. Bring me the key.”

  His prison was a den of slippery stone below the hall. Cold and damp seeped through his clothes. Iron circled his wrists. The stench from a forgotten slop bucket tasted acidic at the back of his parched throat.

  Kaell’s shoulders ached. His belly growled with hunger. But he could wait. His lord would come. He had to come.

  Darkness absorbed a line of torchlight beneath the door. Back to th
e wall, legs stretched, Kaell fell into a shallow sleep where Archanin stroked his cheek. He fled in horror back to wakefulness and the chilled cell.

  Where was Vraymorg? Did he forget him? Leave him to rot in this black hole, alone?

  A tear strained. Ashamed, he wanted to brush it aside but could not. It ran down his cheek to his lips. Kaell gagged. Even his tears now tasted foul.

  A key turned. Air fanned as iron creaked. A brand flared in a sconce, splattering light on a man in the doorway.

  Shrouded in stillness, torchlight rimming his dark hair, he might be but a shadow except for a restless patter of fingers on steel and forced breaths that shattered the emptiness.

  Kaell almost sobbed with longing. If only this man knelt beside him, brushed hair from his brow and whispered it was all right, that he need no longer face this alone.

  Yet beneath that yearning, that splinter-thin hope, there was a voice, so soft and malicious, so relentless. He was everything his lord hated. There could be no comfort.

  Kaell turned his head aside, ashamed, wanting to hide from his lord’s gaze.

  “The guards shackled you tight, I see.” Vraymorg’s tone was as bleak as his dull-eyed stare, his grimly set mouth. “They fear you no doubt. Are you uncomfortable?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Do you need—have you fed?”

  “I’m all right, my lord.”

  The quiet lengthened. A clandestine murmur of wind crept from the passage. A rat skittered in the gloom. His lord’s fingers rapped, unnaturally loud.

  “I would lock you in the tower, but—”

  “No. I hate the tower. This is as good a place as any—for a monster.” Kaell forced a laugh. No matter the breaking in his breast; he must be strong. His lord hated weakness.

  Vraymorg crouched. With hesitant fingers he traced the scars on Kaell’s neck.

  A sob tried to push into Kaell’s throat. But a weight trapped it within, a weight upon his ribs.

  Those hands that touched the evidence of his shame once soothed his fears the night the priests cut him. Those same hands gripped a shoulder to encourage him when he fell or held him when he coughed with winter fevers. He trusted those hands to take up his sword and end this.

  A drumming began in his head. At first Kaell wondered if it ground through the earth. Then he knew it was only his breaths, too loud.

  Vraymorg dropped his hand. Slowly he rose, his body locked with an awful tension. He drew Kaell’s blade, its gleam sinister in torchlight.

  Light beat upon his dark hair, dark eyes. His shallow breaths rasped. His fingertips stole along the blade as they might along a lover’s body. The rest of him seemed very still.

  Then Vraymorg hurled the sword against the wall. The clank smashed the silence. The man began to yell, to shout out anger and frustration he could no longer contain.

  A storm raged, fierce but brief. When it passed, Vraymorg braced a palm against stone, drained, panting. Lost.

  Kaell watched in astonishment, uncomfortable at his lord’s unleashed despair. He did not understand it. In that moment, he wondered if he really knew this man at all.

  Do not flinch from what you must do. I am a monster. I want you to end this.

  His lord said: “You’ll die at first light tomorrow.” He dragged long fingers through his curling hair. He looked impossibly young, his face strained, all pretence at indifference gone.

  Kaell wanted to comfort him, tell him this was what he wanted. That death would end the nightmares, the guilt.

  “Kaell,” his lord muttered. “Kaell. Was I kind when I should have been crueller? Did I fail you? Did I not prepare you? What can I do?”

  “Your duty, my lord.”

  A skirring wind hunted the passage. Dense air prickled with damp. Vraymorg’s haunted gaze dwelled. “Why?” he said. “Kaell, why did you return?”

  When he made no answer, Vraymorg snatched up the torch and turned for the door.

  “My lord.” Chains jangled as Kaell pushed forward. “Don’t leave me in darkness. Not tonight.” He seized a breath. “Please stay. Just a while. I must tell you all—about what happened in Thom and everything I know about Archanin. Things you need to know.”

  “Is this why you returned?”

  “I wanted Azenor safe. And—” He jerked his chin up, keeping back sadness. “I knew you’d know what to do. That you’d help me.”

  A bitter laugh burst from his lord. “Help you? I must execute you with that cursed sword.”

  “You taught me never to fear death,” Kaell said.

  His lord said nothing.

  “I remember your words,” Kaell said. “‘There are far worse fates than death,’ you said. ‘And things beyond’.”

  Vraymorg stared where there was nothing to see. “And there are,” he said.

  Val Arques

  Vraymorg’s sword slapped his thigh as he strode away from that foul hole. He let it hit him, just as he let his anger and grief wash through him, not resisting it, not thinking on it. His body ached for combat against anyone who could hold a sword or throw a punch.

  No time. The Isles girl waited. With accusations? Questions? And his duty was what?

  Duty. It offered order when misery thought to strip his reason.

  He burst through the doors into the lesser hall. Azenor sat at a long table near the fire. The gown the servants had found for her tightly clung to her slim-waisted, full bosomed figure. Her brushed hair fell in curls about bare shoulders. A generous mouth carved an impatient grimace as she traced his footsteps.

  Surprised at what the dirt had hidden, Vraymorg could not help but stare. She wasn’t beautiful, at least not in the elegant way Rozenn was. Her wide mouth was too obstinate, the ridges of her Isles cheekbones too stark.

  But there was something wild and fascinating about her. Beneath level brows, her eyes were like storm clouds, the candlelight gleaming upon their dark brilliance, her untamed hair black and lush.

  He was about to tear his gaze away when fine hairs on his arms lifted. The Enarae. It clung to this woman. He could smell it.

  “Forgive my delay.” He found his voice. “Caelmarsh will join us shortly. As the king’s grand constable he has questions. I cannot put him off.”

  “You were with Kaell.”

  “Yes.” Vraymorg waved the servants away and slid into a chair opposite her.

  “I know what he wants, the stupid oaf. He wants you to kill him.” Her voice rose as relentless and brittle as worn iron. “You won’t. I know you won’t. Not if you love him. And I think you love him.”

  Vraymorg drew a startled breath. Confronting words from a stranger. Few challenged him so forcefully. And usually only when they wielded steel.

  He poured wine, refusing to think about her words, placing a glass by her hand.

  “Wine, my lady?”

  “Save him.” Azenor groped for the glass. “If you love him, find a way.”

  Vraymorg gulped a mouthful. His gut swooped with sick despair at the memory of Kaell’s sword on the floor in that damp prison. Too few hours until dawn.

  “Kaell must die.”

  “Why? He hasn’t killed. Not like a ghoul, at least. He’s strong enough not to.” Her eyes fixed on his face but looked beyond. Disconcerting.

  Vraymorg pushed away her words, would not let them dwell in his heart. Could not. “You speak directly, my lady, so I will do the same.”

  Duty. Focus on duty. “I cannot return you to your father. He and the king, my liege lord, are at war. I am sorry, but Caelmarsh will question you and then deliver you to Cathmor.”

  “You’re not sorry,” she said. “You’re like my brothers, my father. All of them dutiful. Just as Kaell thinks his duty is to die. Why? If he hasn’t killed, then why?”

  He pressed his palms into the table. “I can’t talk about this. About Kaell.”

  “Tell me why he must die?”

  Vraymorg briefly closed his eyes. “Why won’t you let this rest, girl? You know why. He is
tainted, an abomination. A bonded warrior with ghoul blood. Unthinkable.”

  “It isn’t his fault. He should not pay with his life.”

  “And if I let him live? What will he become? Not now, but in a year, a lifetime, a century? Sooner or later, he’ll succumb to his appetites just as Archanin intends.”

  Her fingers tightened about the wineglass. “You don’t know that. You don’t. By what right do you judge him? Who are these vicious Mountains gods who say he must die?”

  “Who are you to decide what’s best for Kaell?”

  Had she paced by his bed when Kaell tossed with fever? Had she comforted him with stories when he woke screaming? Had she, knowing the hard task ahead, disciplined the boy when instinct shouted to ruffle his hair, smile and shield him in his arms?

  And yet, he could not forget how Kaell gazed fondly at her in the hall. Or her anger and fear when he surrendered. Something bound them.

  “To spare him is cruel—to Kaell. He does not wish to become a monster.”

  “So you’d kill a boy you raised like a son?” Her voice whipped with contempt. If she were a man, I’d look to my sword, he thought. “A boy you love. You love him. I know it.”

  A rising wind moaned through a tower. Bells in the well house jangled softly.

  Again he lowered his lids to shut out the room, her words. Except they would not retreat, only sat between them. An accusation.

  He said, “I cannot love him.”

  A cold, sharp ache tore at his breast, his belly hollow, his shoulders so rigid they hurt. The tolling bells like splinters in his temples. Her hand frozen on the wineglass. Her lips pressed into a disbelieving sneer.

  In a low voice, she said, “You sit there and say that? Just like that?”

  He did not reply. What was there to say?

  “He loves you like a father. I hear it every time he says your name. My lord this, my lord that. He’s about to die, miserable because he thinks he failed you. And all you can do is sit there and say you can’t love him. Can’t? Can’t!”

  “You don’t understand.”