The 19th Bladesman

by S J Hartland

  Archanin smiled, genuinely amused. “I recognise your black humour in Kaell. It hides much.”

  He tore out a knife and slashed away ropes on Vraymorg’s left wrist. With a gloved finger he traced the white scars. “What sort of despair makes a young lord do that?”

  Vraymorg laughed coldly.

  The blue gaze steadied on his face. “You’re really not afraid of me, are you?”

  “Not especially. You’ll kill me. So what?”

  “So what.” Archanin tapped the chair arm. “It’s not feigned either, this lack of fear. It makes you singular.” He paused. “What might frighten you, I wonder?”

  Thoughtful, he removed his glove, circled the chair and trailed a hand over his captive’s shoulders.

  Beneath his touch Vraymorg’s skin crept. He forced himself to sit still.

  “You’re tense. Interesting.”

  “Your hand is cold.”

  The ghoul god strained a lock of hair through fingers. “So dark and thick. You cut it too short, like a brute warrior’s. It should fall softly about your face, caress your neck, flow about these fine, muscular shoulders. If you were mine—”

  Vraymorg jerked so hard the chair rocked.

  Archanin laughed. “Now you’re afraid. I think the chink in your armour shows, my lord.” He grasped Vraymorg’s scarred wrist and drew it to his lips, tonguing damp skin.

  Vraymorg fought for indifference. His jaw tightened in disgust.

  “Even more afraid. And now?” Yanking his head back, Archanin kissed his lips.

  Rigid, he did not resist.

  Archanin broke off. “As lifeless as marble. I admire your control, but I’ll force a reaction from you. We have a little time while my warriors search the grounds.”

  He kissed Vraymorg harder, his tongue forcing its way through clenched lips.

  A ghoul burst in, breathless. Archanin turned. “Well, do you have him?”

  “Raggamirron tracked Kaell to a passage beneath the walls,” the ghoul panted. “He also bid me tell you three warriors collapsed, sick.”

  Archanin drummed fingers on the chair back. “Time to abandon this dread fortress with walls reeking of enchantment.”

  Vraymorg knew the castle had hidden defences. Roaran’s magic was why ghouls had never dared breach the fortress before.

  Archanin spoke rapidly to the messenger in the ghoul tongue then bent over his prisoner again. “This passage. Kaell knows of it?”

  “Kaell is as familiar with this castle as I am.”

  Archanin touched fingertips to Vraymorg’s cheek. “You guard your words as carefully as you guard your emotions. How I would like to break you down, lay bare—shall we say—every hidden desire.”

  Another ghoul entered. “My lord.” He bowed. “We cannot smash into that warded tower. More warriors complain of dizziness.”

  “That cursed Roaran Caelan and his nasty, sorcerous ways.” Archanin pulled on a glove. “Put the word about: We leave at once.”

  Pausing, gloved hand on his sword hilt, he considered his captive.

  “You flinched before. You knew Kaell was the 19th bonded warrior. But you arrogantly believed you could save him. You should have killed him.”

  Vraymorg wet his lips, remembering the awful words in Rozenn’s book. “I could say the same of you.”

  “Nonsense prophecies about three bloodlines together? That a warrior with my blood, Seithin blood and true Caelan blood will kill me?”

  “One can only hope.”

  Archanin peeled back a lip. “You don’t believe your own words. You want me to fear Kaell and kill him. You seek to provoke me to kill you.”

  “My lord.” The other ghoul shifted his weight. “Raggamirron says—”

  His lord stopped him with a gesture. He did not shift his blue eyes from Vraymorg.

  “I would like to take you with us and explore what we began to uncover. But it is self-indulgent to drag prisoners around simply because they fascinate me.”

  He drew his knife. Sighed. “Ah well. You must take your secrets to the grave. A pity. I might enjoy breaking a man with no fear. Forgive the lack of artistry, my lord, but time defeats me.”

  He stabbed Vraymorg in the heart.

  Kaell

  The tunnel’s chill pawed his bare skin, its air stale and thick. The low roof and narrow walls trapped odours of damp earth and moss. Water trickled down slimy stone, green glowing when Kaell’s pitiful torch flamed past, barely licking the darkness.

  Azenor held his arm but neither spoke. Kaell’s steps fell into a dazed staccato. His body tight, his throat constricted, he struggled to grasp how his fate had turned. He had been ready to die. Time, immeasurable in the blackness of that cell, led only to an end.

  Until she came. Until his lord brought her to that prison. Until she unlocked his shackles, cruelly insisting he lived a little longer and returned her to the Isles.

  “You shouldn’t have freed me,” he blurted at last. “I could have broken the chains. I chose not to. I accepted my fate, Azenor. Once I knew you were safe, I was ready to die.”

  She scoffed. “Safe? Your precious lord intended to give me to Cathmor.”

  “My lord would not do that.” Kaell tapped his sword hilt with stiff fingers. “He’ll protect you, Azenor. He knows his duty.”

  “His duty? Oh yes, his duty to bend and scrape to his vicious king. To kill you.”

  “Yes, his duty to kill me,” Kaell snapped. “Why don’t you understand?” He seized a frustrated breath. “All right. I’ll get you to the Isles. But then I’ll return to my lord. I know my duty, too.”

  Azenor drew up so abruptly he nearly fell against her. “What is it?” Kaell swung the torch.

  “Duty.” She bunted air with a palm. “I’m so sick of that word. I hear it constantly from Aric. Now for days and days it’s all I hear from you. You’ll live and die for duty. Is there nothing more, Kaell?”

  “How can there be?” His mouth tasted acrid. “You know what I am. I don’t get a fairy-tale ending, Azenor. No bonded warrior does. My lord will do what’s right.”

  “You thick-headed fool.” She slapped her thigh. “Why don’t you see it? I don’t want him to do what’s right. I don’t want—”

  Her voice fell away into a vacuum. He shone the torch. Revealed in its bleak light Azenor seemed altered. Shoulders rigid, her brows drew down as if her outburst, her feelings surprised and frightened her. She clamped a palm over her mouth, holding in words.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—” She took a breath. “I don’t want you to die.”

  She cared. Kaell smothered a giddy roar of lightness. She spoke as his friend, that was all. Why torment his heart with dreams of tenderness?

  Azenor stood so close he glimpsed moisture beading her brow. She lifted a hand, hesitant. Then she touched his cheek. A spell fell upon him. Kaell could not move. Her fingertips stole to his lips. As she leaned to kiss him, her breath smelt of wine.

  The dream.

  Dank water streamed down jutting rocks. The scent of her hair and skin, the taste and touch of lips banished the mud and rotting moss. The weight of his body pressed down through feet rooted in stone, his mind emptied of everything but her.

  She pulled away, a palm on his breast.

  Kaell had no words. The stillness in his mind imploded into a confused chaos he could not unravel. He badly wanted to run his fingers through Azenor’s hair. To kiss her again, let their hips and thighs melt together. She haunted his dreams. Why?

  If only there were hours, days, years where he and Azenor could break down that mystery of friendship; the vulnerability of it, its unspoken bonds of joy and pain and belonging.

  With time, friendship could become something more. Couldn’t it?

  But time was like the sea; dark and silent and cold as it ebbed away. For a man no longer human, there were no days or years. No love. Only duty. Clear duty: Take her to the Isles then return to his lord.

 
; Almost timidly Kaell placed her hand on his arm to lead her forward. They spoke little. When their shoulders rubbed, she flinched.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “For what? One kiss and you’re afraid to touch me?”

  “Because I’m an oaf.”

  “Because you’re a man, more like. Though the two go together.”

  “Oafs, too, may learn to swagger,” Kaell broke into song to break the tension. “To dance with swords or even daggers.”

  Azenor tugged at her hair. “I’m stuck in a mud tunnel with a failed poet. Is this death?”

  “Sadly, no.” He trudged on, too aware of her fingers entwined with his; this small touch as intimate as if their bodies pressed skin to skin. “How did you free me?”

  “I stole the key to your chains when I fell against your lord—accidentally, of course.”

  At her smirk, Kaell grinned. The powerful Lord of the Pass deceived.

  His smile died. What would Vraymorg think when he found them gone? That Kaell cowardly fled death? Nausea churned in his belly. His duty to Azenor done, he’d return. Explain. He could not bear it if his lord thought less of him then he must already.

  Wan light blinked ahead. The last moon sank below a flushed horizon as the tunnel opened into a wild spray of trees and dew-wet bushes, their deep green foliage haloed by dawn. Birds chirruped. The rustling breeze carried a cool, sharp blast of mint mingled with soft gardenia.

  “Where are we?” Azenor said.

  “We’re on the other side of the lake below the castle. Near the drowned forest.”

  “Drowned forest?”

  “That’s what they call it. The story goes that in the days of King Caelan, Venivan raiders landed in the Isles and marched to this place, plundering villages along the way. Caelan intercepted them. His men outnumbered, he spoke terrible words of magic, commanding the lake to flood its banks. A torrent of water cascaded upon the forest, drowning every raider.”

  “The gormel slayer is my ancestor, yet I don’t know this awful tale.” Azenor shivered.

  Kaell instinctively reached for his cloak. No cloak. He had only Fortitude, left by his lord in that cell. Its dark whisper comforted. Did it hold a warning? His dreams did. And he dreamt often of Azenor. But what could be wrong about a wondrous kiss?

  They walked until the sun peaked above the roof of leaves, then slept beside a bubbling stream. Dusk’s chill woke them. The forest bowled with shadows and soft rustles as they trudged on. Moonlight fell fitfully but Kaell’s gaze easily pierced the rising darkness.

  By dawn, they reached a lake, drooping trees mirrored in its rippling surface. On its quiet banks both plunged into sleep. A dream snatched at Kaell. He woke in a cold sweat, yelling.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Azenor’s face was drawn. “Archanin.”

  “He calls to me.”

  She trembled. “I also dreamt of him.”

  The land curved and climbed into knotted woods, thick and lush with vines and towering trunks sunk deep in cinnamon-scented soil. They walked in silence; her steps fearless, confident he’d catch her if she stumbled. Comfortable now, like comrades in battle.

  Azenor rarely complained, no matter how hard he pushed her. “I am the perfect companion to a changeling almost-ghoul,” she said. “It means little to me whether it is day or night.”

  Despite their danger, his edginess, he laughed.

  She groped for his hand and drew it to her lips. “I like your laugh. It’s a good sound.”

  Kaell ached at her nearness. “How can you bear to touch me? Can’t you see what I am?”

  “Lack-wit. I see nothing.”

  “Well, I deserve that.”

  “But I feel your courage and gentleness.”

  “Gentle! I’m a hunter, Azenor. I slaughtered my first ghoul at twelve. I only know how to fight.”

  A memory stirred of the Thom elder who called him a killer. Let down his defences and he’d become just that. Kaell shuddered. He must never give in to his bloodlust.

  “My brother Aric is a warrior,” Azenor said. “Some men in Dal-Kanu, the false king among them, call him a killer. I don’t love him any less for it.”

  “Your brother Aric is a splendid swordsman.” A craftsman with a blade. Smooth-tongued, true, but Aric’s deception offered a lesson. One he learnt too late.

  “Tell me of your fight,” Azenor begged. “Tell me again everything Aric said, everything that happened. Oh, how I miss him. How did he return to the Isles?”

  Kaell told her of potions that weren’t drunk and daring rescues from towers. His cheeks flushed when he recounted finding Aric “not alone.”

  Azenor only laughed. “Another sweet dance, as Pairas might say. And how did Aric trick you into fighting?”

  “Your brother’s tongue is honeyed—”

  “A swaggerer’s tongue, in fact.”

  “But I badly wanted to test my skill against the Isles champion. I recognised the game he played, with the blade, at least.” Kaell described their fight blow-by-blow.

  Astonished, she said: “How can you remember in such detail?”

  “My lord taught me to analyse every attack, every parry. It stood me well.” Until Aric. Though that taught him something too. Not about beats or lunges, but about trust.

  Another dawn broke as they followed an overgrown trail through trees buttressed as close as warriors’ shields in battle. Vines gnarled.

  Ferns sprayed in muddy gullies; bluebells rugged every tiny clearing. Pungent, earthy scents mingled with creamy moss and the fresh tang of rain.

  A twig snapped. Kaell clamped a hand over Azenor’s mouth as he dragged her behind a fallen log, its rotting wood home to bright blue orchids.

  Two shapes moved through dark trunks. From their blond hair, their tall, elegant bodies, no mistaking what they were. Ghouls. Armed.

  Kaell gripped his sword hilt, fighting down panic. He could kill two. But if others followed, how could he keep Azenor safe?

  The ghouls edged closer, their menace, their intent revealed in how their heads shifted left and right. Searching. For them? With a shiver, Kaell waited. And waited.

  A hush prowled. Kaell didn’t trust it. Cautiously he lifted his head. No one. The woods empty. Rising, he reached for Azenor to lead her further into the trees.

  “Kaell,” she said at last. “Can’t we rest?”

  “Soon. We’re near Dal-Gorma. I think.”

  “Dal-Gorma?” Her face brightened. “Then we’ve reached the Isles.”

  They scrambled up a wooded copse, then along a bleak, hushed valley before the land rose again. A road at the top wound through huddled trees, leaves sprinkled by raindrops. Kaell intended only to cross it. It offered too many dangers; not just ghouls but thieves and soldiers.

  The rumble of fast-ridden horses cut the stillness, the sound lifting hairs on his arms.

  In a storm of splayed mud, with thundering hooves striking loose stones, riders rounded the bend, their pace urgent. Kaell snatched a look as he pulled Azenor into the grass. Nine or ten men on horseback, bunched in twos or threes, their swords in shoulder holsters.

  Breath held, he willed the riders to roar past. To his dismay a man shouted “halt.” With a creak of leather, his companions reined in. The same man said, “I saw someone.”

  “You’re still drunk from last night; imagining things.”

  “I’m no more hung-over than usual. You in the grass, show yourself. I see you.”

  “Stay down,” Kaell whispered to Azenor. Sword drawn, he rose. Barely a few paces from him, horsemen blocked the road, the forest at their backs. They whipped out blades. A horse whinnied. “I mean you no trouble,” Kaell said. “Just ride on.”

  A man at the front spat at the ground. Darkly handsome, he sat tall in the saddle despite the mail beneath his dark-blue surcoat. “We’ll ride on once you’re dead, ghoul. Kill him.”

  “No!” Azenor stumbled out. “No, don’t kill him. You can’t.”

  Kaell’s hear
t plunged. “Azenor, what are you doing?”

  “Saving your life, lack-wit.”

  “Azenor?” The dark-haired lead rider frowned in surprise.

  “Pairas. Thank The Three.”

  “My lady, Azenor. How? We heard you were dead.”

  “Lack-wit. Do I look dead? I’m alive and spitting, thanks to this warrior. So don’t you dare hurt him. Do you hear?”

  Pairas took off his helm. At his nod, a man dismounted, sword drawn. “Azenor, he’s a—”

  She stamped a foot. “You know nothing, thickhead.”

  Another thickhead? His kin under the skin, perhaps? Kaell remembered this man now, how he insolently argued with his lord at a tournament.

  “He rescued me. Where ever you’re heading, turnabout and take us to my father.”

  “My lady, Aric ordered us to Dal-Gorma. The false king is on the move.”

  “The false king will wait.”

  The captain exchanged glances with the thick-bodied man moving in to menace Kaell with steel. “As you say, my lady. Aiden, take half the men and escort them to Tide’s End. I’ll ride with you to the crossroads then press on with the others to Dal-Gorma.”

  Azenor stretched out her hand. “Kaell?”

  He moved to her side. “I’m here.”

  “These are Aric’s men. They’ll take care of us.”

  Kaell caught Pairas’ scowl. He knew the sort of care the captain intended. Tensing muscles, he slid a look at the trees. Azenor was safe. Time to run.

  At a sound behind, he half turned. Pain burst in his skull. The blow knocked him to his knees. Fast moving, blurred figures surrounded him.

  Azenor whipped her head around. “What’s happening?”

  “My lady, he has a ghoul’s black eyes.” Pairas sprang down. “We must bind him.”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t want him—” She broke off. Dazed, Kaell braced a hand against the ground as he tried to focus. Azenor was frowning. “Oh gods,” she whispered, her voice fractured in surprise. “I really don’t want him hurt. Pairas, don’t—hurt—him.”

  “My lady, I must take precautions.” At his gesture, his companions lashed Kaell’s wrists. Azenor cursed Pairas colourfully. The man grinned.