Blade Kin

by David Farland

  “He is one of us, as I said,” an old man whispered behind Mahkawn. Tull looked at the fellow for the first time, an ancient Neanderthal only slightly bent with age, a man with sagging pale skin, a blank emotionless face, like Mahkawn’s, yet somehow more cruel. He wore a black robe with crimson trim, and he wore no armor.

  The old man stared at Tull, then closed his eyes. A lance of ice pierced Tull, the touch of a Spirit Walker, and Tull realized it was some form of attack, even though he had never heard of a Spirit Walker who could use such power while still conscious.

  Tull immediately sought to hide. He imagined himself to be far away, thought of a field of daisies where he had played as a child, a place where many badgers had burrowed.

  The icy touch dissipated, and the old man opened his eyes, glared at Tull. “Kill him, Omnipotent,” the old man urged. “He turned away my probe, easily.”

  Mahkawn whipped out his blade, a long straight blade unlike the curved scimitars that most of his kind wore. He swung it once, past Tull’s neck, and Tull did not blink.

  If I die, I will at least retain a little dignity, Tull thought. Tull held Mahkawn’s one good eye with his own. Mahkawn stuck the blade against Tull’s eye and pushed slightly, as if testing to see when the Blade would pierce the eyelid.

  The weight of the sword forced Tull’s head back, and Mahkawn studied the movement. Tull’s heart beat a little faster, but he did not sweat, and he resisted the impulse to lick his dry lips.

  Instead, he looked into Mahkawn’s eye. Tull saw no cruelty there, no joy in torture, yet Mahkawn showed no guilt, no recognition that he was harming another man like himself.

  No, the Omnipotent is studying me, Tull realized, and he saw glimmer of admiration in the soldier’s eye.

  “One of the men you killed, the Crimson Knight, he was like a son to me,” Mahkawn said. “Did you know that? I feel a tremendous loss. I want you to apologize before you die. If you apologize, I will give you a clean death, a brisk one. Otherwise, we can drag it out for months.”

  Tull considered. If Mahkawn felt tremendous loss, his voice denied it. His voice was cold, heartless, only mimicking the passion he claimed. Because of their enlarged hypothalamus, the Pwi loved more strongly, and their fear was keener.

  Yet the Omnipotent spoke like one empty of emotion, a liar. Tull thought, he is only studying me; he is testing me, and Tull had no idea how to pass the test.

  He chose an answer that perhaps Mahkawn would not expect. “You will have to rend me,” Tull said, keeping his voice neutral. Mahkawn pushed the sword deeper, splitting the skin under Tull’s eye. “I’m proud to have killed your Crimson Knight. Perhaps if he had been a better fighter, I’d feel sorrow at wasting a good warrior. But he was nothing.”

  The Omnipotent pulled the sword back a bit, open admiration shining from his eye. He rested the sword tip above Tull’s right ear, as if he would slice it off.

  Tull knew little of the Blade Kin’s customs, but the right ear was the one a soldier gave to his first commander, and Tull’s heart suddenly leapt. A moment ago, he had been facing a death penalty, but now he realized that this Omnipotent wanted him. If he were made Blade Kin, it would be easy to escape.

  Tull leaned his head to the side, exposing his ear. “Take it, if you want. I give it to you.”

  Mahkawn hesitated, studied Tull. “You talk like a Blade Kin, but you live like a Thrall? You intrigue me. If nothing else, your courage has bought you a little time.”

  He thoughtfully sheathed his sword, ordered his men, “Take him to the ship,” Mahkawn said, then turned to his men, “and cull the rest. We sail in half an hour.”

  Two men grabbed Tull, yanked him to his feet, and he took tiny steps with the leg irons as they ushered him to a small boat filled with forty other prisoners.

  He turned to look at Mahkawn, but the Omnipotent and his retinue were walking away, over the redwood bridge into Pwi Town.

  Tull considered the words, Blade Kin and Thrall. He had always considered the Blade Kin to be Thralls, just Thralls trained as soldiers, but he realized that Mahkawn saw them as being vastly different.

  Tull knew little about them. The Blade Kin served their Lord, and a Cyclops like Mahkawn led each legion of warriors.

  The Cyclops organized his men into “Brotherhoods” with dozens of “arms,” each of which performed its own function—spies made up the Invisible Arm, foot soldiers the Blood Arm, cavalry formed the Mammoth Arm, while the Carnadine Sorcerers somehow served all the arms.

  Tull did not know specifics about the various organizations, but he knew that Blade Kin received special privileges. As a sign of status, they gave their ears when they swore an oath of loyalty to their commander.

  In return, the lords paid them and granted the Blade Kin breeding rights with the women of their choice. To Tull the privileges had always seemed minor, an inconsequential reward for those willing to be cruel.

  But he suspected that to the Thralls, to people who had been robbed of wealth and freedom and dignity, the benefits would seem enormous.

  As he reached the boat, a young blond Pwi girl walked in front of Tull. She wore a red cotton dress with many-colored beads sewn into it, silver necklaces, and she carried an infant in her arms.

  Tull imagined that she had been trying to make herself beautiful for her husband when the slavers came. The girl was younger than Fava, perhaps only sixteen. She kept saying over and over again, “Adja, adja, adja,” I’m afraid, I’m afraid, I’m afraid. Her jaw trembled and her eyes were wild. She clutched her child roughly, and Tull worried that she would suffocate the baby.

  She was no one he had ever seen, probably from the wilds beyond Finger Mountain. The Blade Kin were clearing the whole countryside, perhaps scouring the whole Rough. Tull had imagined someday fighting the Blade Kin in battles near here, but the slavers were sweeping them up before the men of the Rough could offer resistance.

  The woman stopped at the boat, would not get in. She glanced at the water to either side as if she would leap. The boat had nearly filled, and forty mournful people, some human, some Pwi—all with pasty faces—watched this woman.

  Tull whispered, “Get in the boat. Get in. You must live for your child now.”

  The girl glanced back at him, staggered in dismay. “Tears of blood,” she said.

  Tull realized that the cut under his eye was dripping, making it look as if he cried tears of blood. He nudged her forward. Her knees shook, but somehow she managed to work her legs, clumsily leaping into the boat. Tull looked up for one last second, out over the town, hoping for any sign of Fava.

  The Blade Kin filled the shore, and they had begun packing their black robes, switching into robes of forest-green and tan. Tull guessed that at least five thousand of them filled the streets, and as he took a seat in the boat, the Blade Kin began to lope away to the south.

  Twelve miles by land to Muskrat Bay, Tull mused. A small town, hardly defended. The people there would not have a chance.

  Four strong oarsmen pushed the boat from the docks. They were all Neanderthals, but they had not cut off their right ears, and they didn’t wear Blade Kin uniforms. Mere slaves, Thralls.

  As the oarsmen rowed toward the ship, several older women began whispering to the Thralls, “Friends, save us! Hide us! Let us jump over the side and swim away!”

  The thralls ignored the pleas, until at last one whispered, “Keep quiet! Your chains are too heavy. If you try to swim, you will drown!”

  And they kept rowing. The rocking of the boat, the smell of ocean spray, the city of Smilodon Bay, the cry of the gulls above him, Tull had known these things all his life.

  He sat back, watched the town finish burning as they floated past. Even if I return, Tull thought, in ten years this town will only be charred ruins, covered with blackberry vines. Perhaps it will be a good place to hunt pig or bear, not a place to live.

  But in his mind’s eye, he saw much further than ten years, saw that someday buildings might fill thi
s shore again, but in the future it would only be filled with Thralls.

  At the front of the boat, some captives cried out, and they looked with horror at the shore behind. Tull turned his head away. He did not need to see what was happening. The Blade Kin were slitting the throats of the old and lame, killing the culls that they had no use for.

  Tull looked around the boat at the frightened faces of those nearby. Jenks was on the far side, watching the old folks get culled, undisguised relief in his face.

  The young mother beside Tull was nearly mindless with fear, and Tull whispered to her, trying to soothe her. Two twin boys at the prow seemed as frightened. Their roving eyes did not focus on anything nearby, only upon the horrors of their imagination.

  Tull resolved to be a good example, show no fear, but as they neared the great iron ship, they heard screams from those aboard. Tull looked up, saw that up on deck was a kettle filled with fire. The Blade Kin were branding the prisoners as they climbed aboard.

  A Thrall oarsman said, “Do not worry, the brands stop burning after a few days. You are all the property of Lord Tantos now. If you work well, you will gain privileges.”

  Tull looked at the floor of the boat. He knew the privileges. Tonight, he was sure, some Blade Kin would take the woman beside him and rape her; tomorrow would be another, and another, an endless succession of small rapes. The same might happen to the boys. Perhaps, the same will even happen to me, Tull mused. The Blade Kin would want vengeance on Tull for those he’d killed. Some might try to take it in bed.

  He recalled a song he learned as a child, a song that slaves sang as they rowed.

  Threads of iron, bind me to this world,

  Threads of iron, bind me to this sea,

  Threads of iron, bind me to this boat …

  The words could change to fit the circumstances of the singer, but always they wound down, coming closer and closer to home, until the song ended:

  Threads of iron, bind me to this oar.

  And threads of iron, bind me evermore.

  One of the twins gazed long at the white faces of those around him, and then threw himself over the side. The boy hardly splashed as he hit the water, just made a burping sound. The closest oarsman dropped his oar, grabbed for the boy, but the child sank too fast, dragged down by the weight of his irons. None of the prisoners could try to rescue him, chained as they were.

  Tull looked over the side of the boat, saw the boy wriggling in the clear water, sinking down, down into the darkness.

  The young woman next to Tull dropped her baby, just let it fall into the water at the bottom of the boat, and she leapt over too. The oarsman behind grabbed for her, pulled away part of her dress, but the mother hit the water and kept sinking.

  The oarsman grabbed the infant and set it on Tull’s lap, grunted, “Hold that,” and picked up his oar.

  Tull looked at the faces of the others, at the horror and shock and stark fear etched there, and he remembered Mahkawn and his sorcerer, so empty, so passionless, and Tull saw the difference between Thralls and Blade Kin: Passion.

  The Blade Kin have trained out their passion, and Mahkawn admires me because I do not fear, Tull realized.

  As a Pwi, training out emotions was nearly impossible. A comb once worn by a lover seemed to radiate love. If a dog nipped at a Pwi child, forever after that dog would seem to radiate terror.

  At times when he was younger, when great fear came upon him, Tull had even imagined that Adjonai, the God of Fear, towered above him wielding his kutow of terror and his shield of despair.

  Training out such fear had been the crowning achievement of Tull’s life.

  Apparently, the Blade Kin felt the same.

  I am halfway to being a Blade Kin already, Tull thought.

  When the rowboat reached the ship, Tull did not have to climb out. A platform lowered from above, and several Blade Kin dragged Tull and twenty others onto the platform, and then above them, sailors raised the platform with pulleys.

  When they reached the top, they stood on a large deck covered with iron. Tull could not imagine such a ship ever being defeated in battle, did not even understand how such a monstrosity could float.

  He looked around topside, surprised to see very few Blade Kin. He imagined that they must have all gone onto the land to fight.

  Tull let a calmness settle over him, tried to adopt the unfeeling aspect of the Blade Kin. He held the child loosely.

  Though others screamed in pain, Tull didn’t flinch as the Blade Kin branded him with hot irons, burning the letter T on both the top and bottom of his left wrist.

  “The T is for Tantos,” the Blade Kin explained. “You’re his now. You’ll follow any orders we give you.”

  Tull held the baby, and the Blade Kin did not try to brand it. As they formed a line and marched into the hold, Tull thought, T also stands for Tull.

  ***

  Chapter 21: An Ear for Battle

  Fava slid on her belly through the brush, wiped some spider webs from her face, and looked up carefully. She was in a patch of tall ferns near the hilltop, in a V formed by two fallen trees. She could not see uphill, but as long as she kept her head down, she would stay in the shadows.

  She heard a Blade Kin cough in the dark nearby—just beyond a fallen redwood, and dared not move. Instead, Fava held her hands over Wayan’s mouth, and just hugged him in the deep ferns. From the direction of town, she heard screams and gunshots, and a house seemed to be burning. She could see leaping flames even here in the woods.

  Uphill she heard branches cracking, feet shuffling through ferns. The Blade Kin were everywhere, and they had the town surrounded.

  She waited, heart pumping, while fear made sweat dimple her forehead. She thought hard.

  There was nowhere to run. No escape. The Blade Kin were everywhere in the dark.

  She heard a dull crack nearby, muffled gunfire coming from a cabin downhill. That would be Big Theth’s house, a Pwi freedom fighter with a wife and four children.

  There were shouts from the house, Theth’s wife crying out in fear. The sound of sword’s rang out as Theth charged a Blade Kin.

  A dozen Blade Kin rushed past her toward the cabin, tightening their circle on the town.

  For an instant, Fava dared hope that they had tightened the noose on town enough so that she could escape.

  She waited twenty seconds, till she heard no more footsteps coming, then leapt over a redwood log and ran.

  Her feet were light, her moccasins soft. She knew the winding pig trail here well, and veered through it with precision, though the faint fire lit smoke overhead showed little of the way. Still, she kept fairly silent.

  The screams of battle, of Theth’s death and his wife’s mourning, filled the woods behind her.

  At the lip of the hill, she stopped beside a standing tree, fearing to cross into the valley beyond. The valley was dark and filled with shadows. The firelight from town would not guide her, and she feared that Blade Kin might be hiding there in the dark.

  She glanced back. On the hill on the far side of the bay, the Blade Kin began shouting, their voices a soft roar, and the city exploded in a cloud of fire.

  Something in Fava’s mind seemed to break.

  She scooped up Wayan and ran blindly, heedless of whether Blade Kin might be chasing her, unsure of any destination, and minutes later she found herself tired and aching in the shadows of the great fallen redwood.

  She found a twisted root where she had once hidden while playing hide-and-seek as a child. The game had lasted for hours. She crawled back into the old crevice—trying to force herself into an opening that had fit her as a ten-year-old, and lay still, her heart thumping so wildly she feared she would die.

  Then she heard the Blade Kin nearby cracking redwood needles under heavy boots, their sheathed swords softly clacking against their leather armor.

  Fava held still and silently berated herself. All her plans at stealth she had thrown away, and in the end she had lunged, running b
lind with fear, just as a stupid cottontail, when cornered, will leap into the jaws of hunting dogs.

  She held still, waited for an hour, till the Blade Kin all seemed to be gone. She suddenly realized that she still had her hand locked over Wayan’s mouth. He was rigid in her arms, so frightened he would not move. She took her hand away, stroked his forehead.

  A twig cracked nearby, and someone came to the log, placed a hand on top of it. For one wild moment, Fava thought Tull had come, for suddenly she recalled that it was Tull who had found her here all those years ago, and she hoped deliriously that he had found her again.

  Someone stood quietly, not more than five feet away from her, panting. Fava froze.

  It could be a Blade Kin hunting me by scent, she realized. Some Pwi could hunt that way. Or someone from town trying to escape.

  Whoever it was, the person moved off. Two minutes later, she heard screams nearby and the sound of a scuffle as some woman was dragged back toward Smilodon Bay.

  All through this, Wayan lay clutching Fava, not daring to speak, hardly daring to breathe. The small boy just hugged her and trembled in fear.

  Toward dawn Fava almost slept, when she heard another scuffling sound nearby, someone walking on top of the log above her, using the fallen redwood as a bridge through the ferns. She heard the snuffling of some Neanderthal Blade Kin.

  Fava remained still, stifled the urge to scream, or to flee. The odor of mildewing redwood was strong, and she prayed that the turbines would be powerful enough to cover her.

  The man paced up and down the length of the tree, testing the air and sniffing loudly, and then he sat, waiting.

  Fava felt sure the Blade Kin had caught her scent, was waiting, hoping that she would bolt from her hiding place.

  She heard him quietly unsheathe his sword. Wayan nuzzled close, burying his head between her breasts, and cleared his throat.

  Fava froze.

  Someone shouted nearby, not more than a hundred yards away, and swords rang. The prowler leapt from the tree and bounded off through the ferns and deep brush, crashing as he went, and Fava lay still, sweat pouring from her.