The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  “He’s not a monster. The only monster in this castle is you!”

  The chair scraped as he surged to his feet. “You go too far, girl. How dare you judge me!”

  “You don’t go far enough.” Her anger sparked like lightning, a match for his. Yet he sensed something within it. Something she couldn’t face. As if it were easier to lash out at him, a stranger, than accept the truth.

  Guilt.

  “Why can’t you love him? Tell me that, my lord. Make me understand what is so wrong with you that you can’t love him?”

  “You—don’t—know,” he said. “It hurts. Gods, how it hurts to love. I can’t let myself. Not again. Never again.”

  “If you’re so afraid to love, it’s you who may as well be dead.”

  He sat down hard. Her words thrust like sharpened steel. Dully, he said, “You would not understand. How could you? You’re a child. A pampered Isles princess.” He rolled his wine cup in his hand. “You’re not strong enough to hear uncomfortable truths.”

  Azenor thrust out her chin. “I have courage and strength enough for any truth.”

  Did she? If not for this undercurrent, this sense she, too, hid from something she couldn’t accept, he might have believed her.

  Vraymorg drank quickly. Part of him wanted to storm out, to snatch up a sword, find one of his captains and sweat out his doubts. The other part needed to unload his burden, share a part of himself, to breathe with a lightness of spirit, if only for an hour.

  “Who are you, Azenor Caelan?” A woman of his blood. Who walked beyond the Enarae. Could such a woman understand his pain?

  “I am a woman who is not afraid to feel.”

  But he was. Afraid. “Then you have not known real pain. The sort that grinds your heart to dust. If I let myself feel deeply again, Azenor Caelan, it shall destroy me. And what of Kaell then? If I let myself love then how can I do my duty to him?”

  “Duty,” she muttered.

  “Yes, duty. Soon I must go to that prison and kill him. He trusts me to do that, this child I raised. No one else will do that for him.”

  “You speak as though death is the only answer.”

  “Life is crueller than death. I know this because—” He exhaled slowly. “Because Kaell isn’t the first bonded warrior I trained, nor the first I’ve seen die.”

  “You mock me with lies because I can’t see you. Your voice is a young man’s. You move like a young man. How many warriors could you have trained?”

  Vraymorg struck the table with his fist. She jumped.

  “You said you had courage enough for the truth!” He let the silence linger, let it build around them.

  “I do,” she whispered.

  “Then you will hear it all. But you will not tell Kaell what I’ve said.”

  Azenor passed a tongue over her lips. “Take me to him. Let me stay with him until dawn. That is when you will do it, isn’t it?”

  His voice caught. “Yes, dawn.” A sigh. A snatched breath. “I will take you to him. If you say nothing of what we speak of now.”

  “I give you my word.”

  Such a fragile quality to her. Like an orchid’s wondrous bloom that faded overnight. He guessed what befell her as Archanin’s captive. No king, no lord would want her now.

  “Then I’ll tell you a story, Azenor Caelan. I’ll tell you who I am. If you can bear to hear it.”

  The fire crackled. The wind outside smote bitter and cold, its harsh song for him alone. He half heard footsteps, a murmur of voices as though far away. Strangeness eddied. It sat about them. Nothing existed beyond it. Only them.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  Vraymorg gulped more wine. He longed to give voice to his darkness but feared memory’s perilous, bitter sting. “Then make what you will of this. I am cursed to train every bonded one. And watch every one of them die.”

  Cinders whipped up like crimson stardust as a charred log clunked in the hearth. A curl of smoke rose off torches. A lambent flame hissed.

  “I think I misheard you.” Her voice shook. Torchlight caught a flicker of fear in her eyes.

  “You heard.”

  “It can’t be true,” she said.

  Vraymorg grasped her wrist. “I smell the Enarae on you. You’ve walked close to the otherworld, yet you doubt what I say?”

  She paled, her eyes wide. “Go on.”

  Vraymorg released her. He sat back.

  “Centuries ago, Queen Devarsi let a banished god and his people into this realm to help her steal the throne from your ancestor, Ryol. He turned on her and she begged the ancient gods for help. Khir promised a bladesman of exceptional strength and skill to smite ghouls. The first bonded warrior. I raised him; taught him to fight. Survive.”

  His voice cracked. “I loved that boy. I saw him die. I loved the next. I saw him die as well. Each time, grief settled within me, layers upon layers of sorrow. Love means pain. I can’t love anymore.”

  And yet—Kaell. Oh gods, he tried to feel nothing. No. No. No. He would feel nothing. Through force of will alone.

  “Kaell was four, perhaps younger, when I took him—as Khir commanded—from his mother’s arms. I did not question Khir’s choice, only did my duty.”

  “Do you mean—” She closed a trembling hand about the glass stem. “Are you telling me you’re centuries old?”

  “Centuries old,” he laughed bitterly. “A wise description. If you said I’d lived for centuries, I might dispute your words. I don’t think I’ve been alive for years. Every time one of these young men died, I died with them. Or a part of me did—the best part. Sometimes I feel like a ghost, hardly able to care what happens to me anymore.”

  But for a breath of air cool in her hair, she did not move.

  His mouth was stale. He had no idea what she might say. Or if he even wanted her to speak. The need to flee boiled up in him again, to shove every memory down. Forget.

  The air thickened with smoke, with the aroma of their wine.

  Azenor groped across the table for his hand, then his arm. She lifted her fingertips to his face. As she slowly traced his brow, his cheekbones, his lips, he sat mesmerised.

  A curious intimacy webbed them. His breath, her warmth, the tenderness of her touch.

  “I don’t think I would have the courage to go on,” she said. “To be so alone.”

  The words sank into him. Roughly he pulled away. “I don’t want your pity, Azenor Caelan. I told you the truth only to show you why I must shield my heart.”

  “And yet,” she said softly. “Despite every shield you throw up, you love him.”

  You love him. His breath stripped away so fast it hurt. Vraymorg dragged taut fingers down his face.

  “You love him. You love Kaell.”

  “Stop saying that.” Vraymorg rose unsteadily. He gripped the chair back.

  “Take me to him,” she said. “Let me give him the comfort you won’t.”

  He seized his cup and drained the wine. “Will you first answer me something?”

  “If I can.”

  “Kaell told me Archanin took his blood. Is there more to know?”

  Azenor again fell silent for so long he thought she would refuse to speak. Then she nodded. “There is more to know.”

  “He tortured him.”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  The back of his neck dampened with unease. “What happened to him?”

  Azenor scraped a wounded noise in her throat. A shadow masked her brooding eyes. Gods, she was full of secrets. Strong but fragile. Fascinating.

  “I need to know,” he said, his voice hoarse with need. “Tell me only what you can bear to say.”

  Azenor clasped her hands tightly on the table. He knew her look from men on the battlefield seeking vengeance. However Archanin hurt her, she used it to sharpen her anger.

  “I shall tell you. Once said I will not say it again, not to my father, not to my brothers. So Kaell does not have to say it.” A pause. A sigh.

  “They chai
ned Kaell in their hall. Archanin drank from him. A spectacle.” She spat the words in disgust. “He told me how Kaell screamed, how he tasted. So smug. Pleased with his captive. Pleased he submitted.”

  “What do you mean submitted?”

  “Archanin is apparently unnaturally lovely. Blind, or nearly so, I could deny him all except what he took. But Kaell.” Another pause. She inhaled slowly as if to keep control. “He had no choice—”

  Vraymorg’s glass shattered in his grip.

  Azenor started. “What was that?”

  “I do not believe you.” His gut twisted. “Not with a ghoul god. Kaell wouldn’t—”

  He broke off. Why should she lie? He dropped his eyes to his scarred wrists. He, most of all, knew how powerless a captive was.

  Azenor grasped his arm. “Do not judge him. Kaell was alone. Helpless. With no prospect of rescue or death. And this fallen god, this hateful god, commands strong magic.”

  Like that sorcerer who held Vraymorg so many centuries ago. How quickly his thoughts scurried to the past, finding no protection, only barbed memories buried so deep they surfaced only in nightmares. Time healed nothing.

  “I beg you. If you will not spare him, then let me be with him until dawn, until he dies.”

  He took her to Kaell.

  Vraymorg slumped in his chair in the darkening hall. Embers glowed in the hearth. Wind hunted through towers. But beneath all sat his heart, thumping, hurting. He drank quickly to banish thought. Whatever else he did this night, he must not think.

  Where was Caelmarsh? The brute made a good drinking companion.

  With an unsteady hand, he emptied his glass. Cahirean wine. It filled his vaults. Enough to bathe in, as he once told that snake Paulin. Thanks to Rozenn. Payment. For use of his body.

  Despite the ill she did him, a ripple of desire heated his blood. So beautiful, Rozenn. But so cold compared to the Isles girl he left kneeling beside Kaell. A girl who fell against Vraymorg, weeping. A girl with deft fingers that groped for keys.

  “Take Kaell and run,” he could have said. But he was the king’s man, his duty clear. Execute Kaell. Deliver Azenor as a hostage to Cathmor.

  Yet he didn’t take the keys from her. Keys, or no keys, they could hardly walk through the gates. Fate set their paths.

  I could keep her here. The thought surprised him. Make an offer for her. A spoil of war.

  A cry of terror rose from the wall. Vraymorg rushed to the windows. Men roiled between the towers, gestures wild, a bustle of steel and alarm.

  Shapes dropped from the walls into the ward with a telltale flicker of torchlight on iron.

  Not warriors of this castle.

  Cold, hard fear speared him. How did strangers breach the walls? At dusk, the castle locked down, its enormous gates shut, sentries upon the walk.

  He scooped up his sword and ran from the hall, almost colliding with Philip on the steps. “How many?” Vraymorg said. “Who?”

  The young soldier panted. “Two hundred or more. My lord, they’re—”

  “How did they get into the castle?” Vraymorg already moved past him.

  “They appeared from nowhere. But my lord—”

  Vraymorg turned.

  “My lord,” his captain rasped. “They’re ghouls.”

  Shock numbed him. Too briefly. Then anger emptied his lungs.

  Kaell. All a trick, his surrender, his pleas for death. The traitor led ghouls here, told them how to take the castle. Fury nearly drove him back to the cell. One swing of that blade—

  “Get everyone into the tower. I’ll win you time.”

  Philip hastened away. Vraymorg raged down the stairs into the ward.

  Beneath a fat, low moon, torchlight distorted shapes hewing and hacking with steel. Archers upon the walls loosed fire arrows at ghouls surging through the gaping metal gates. Broken timber from a brattice burned where it crashed.

  The castle’s keeper took it all in as he sprang and decapitated a ghoul with a swing and a yell. Even as his blade swept a head from shoulders, he fell upon another. This one screeched and reeled away; the blow only wounding.

  No time to finish him. More ghouls attacked, hacking with axes and swords. Mercilessly, efficiently, he cut them down as he might lop off braids of hair. Blood spouted like dark, eerie fountains against moonlight.

  Hopeless. Too many invaders against just thirty defenders. Even with the ally of daylight in a few hours, none would be alive then.

  “To the old tower!” Vraymorg shoved a man towards the steps. “Get inside.”

  Despair fuelled his hatred and strength. Roaring, he slashed, thrust, his sword greedy for non-human blood. But still they came through the gates with trampling feet and hunting metal. More for him to slaughter.

  Bodies heaped, both wounded and dead. Vraymorg’s sword ripped and cleaved and scattered death, his shout of defiance rallying his outnumbered men.

  Blood and mashed innards splattered his hair, stained his clothes. All impulse shut down to one thing: kill.

  More ghouls circled. Then more still. Roaring, he leapt at them. Wild, useless thoughts flickered. Was Kaell safe? Philip? They were his last thoughts for a long while.

  His captors carried him into the hall amid a clamour of booted feet and raised voices. Dropped him on stone.

  “You hit him hard, Raggamirron.”

  “He is an excellent bladesman. It was only luck we took him alive.”

  Vraymorg struggled to care. Every part of him throbbed. An exhausted stupor clung not just to his body but his mind as though it could not take any more.

  “This man is surely too young to be the lord of this dread castle.”

  “This must be him. He fought with rare skill. I almost paused to watch.”

  “They all look young, I suppose.”

  The voices dimmed. Vraymorg drifted into blackness, thinly veiled, with sounds and shadows muffled through the ether. He surfaced with a groan. His head pounded.

  Ghouls hurled him into a chair, bound his wrists to its arms. Forcing open heavy lids, he blinked into irritating torchlight in the room where he’d last sat—and argued, curse her daring—with Azenor. The pieces of his glass, the carafe, their trenchers still lay on the table.

  A ghoul leaned over him. “He lives. I clearly didn’t hit him hard enough.” The ghoul moved aside, leaving Vraymorg staring at a creature so striking his breath fled.

  Torchlight tinted golden hair, polished the unearthly blue of almond-shaped eyes. Booted, with a cape draping heavy shoulders, he wore an emerald tunic, its silk embroidered with silver thread, a knife and sword at a belted waist.

  Anger burned away his exhaustion. Vraymorg knew who stood before him. Only Archanin could possess this repellent beauty and power.

  “You unnatural beast,” he shouted, tearing at his bonds. “I know what you did to Kaell. You’ll suffer for it. I swear it.”

  Archanin levelled ice pale eyes. “Where is Kaell?”

  Chained to a wall below this room. Easy to find. Vraymorg glared. “How should I know?”

  “You’re a better liar than the boy. But not good enough. You had Kaell in irons. I found your prison though he is gone. Tell me where you hid him. Azenor too.” The ghoul swept a hand at the table. “She sat there and not long ago. I know the perfume of her skin well.”

  Vraymorg hissed, “How did you take this castle?”

  “Far too easily.” Archanin fluttered a hand. “The king stripped most of your warriors from you so he can assault the Isles. So foolish. He leaves this vital castle vulnerable to settle some petty dispute with his cousin.”

  “What do you know about it, snake?”

  “Such an insolent tone for a man completely at my mercy. You should be afraid of what I intend to do to you.”

  Vraymorg shrugged.

  Archanin leaned over his captive. “Curious. I sense resentment, anger but not fear.”

  Vraymorg glared but said nothing.

  “Yes,” Archanin said softly. “You
are the man who trained Kaell. Who else but a man without fear? A man, my faithful Raggamirron declares a swordsman without equal.”

  “You like the sound of your own voice, I see.”

  “I like to be obeyed. I like my questions answered. I begin to have questions about you.”

  He released a soft breath in his captive’s face. An otherworldly scent swirled. Musky, thick as amber. It prickled Vraymorg’s nostrils, his thoughts thick, his body sluggish.

  Growling, he threw off the spell. “Keep out of my head.”

  Archanin stepped back. “Interesting. I sense you have no magic, yet you repel my spells. Tell me where Kaell is and while my warriors fetch him we’ll talk about who you might be.”

  “If you’re so sure he’s here, find him.” Vraymorg wrenched at the bonds. “This castle is yours. Open every door. Walk every passage.”

  “My warriors searched every crevice except the tower where your men cower with the women.”

  “And they call us craven dogs,” a ghoul sniggered. His lord gestured for silence. Again he menaced with a lean. “I followed Kaell here. I will have him back.”

  “To kill him? If he came here, I would do that for you.”

  That drew a harsh, unpleasant laugh. “Kaell is very willing to die. You taught him well. In that, if nothing else. However.” Archanin stroked a lip. “I do not want him dead.”

  “Then what will you do with him?”

  “I’ll chain him in darkness until he breaks. And he will. Break and bow.” The ghoul god sang the words. “Break and bow. Isn’t that what the prophecy says? That the 19th bonded warrior will break, bow and serve me in this coming war.”

  The prophecy. Vraymorg’s heart tightened like tuned strings. “You’re speaking nonsense.”

  “Surely your priests read the signs? The seer’s enchantments fade.” Archanin straightened with a sigh. “I sense torturing you for answers will take too long. So what to do with you?”

  “Lord’s blood,” the other ghoul jeered. “Too thin to drink.”

  “A lord.” Archanin rested a hand on the chair back. “A lord who looks too young to command this vile den of stone, a lord who stinks of the Enarae.”

  “If I knew to expect guests I’d have bathed in scented water. Roses perhaps?”