Blade Kin

by David Farland

  Twenty-three years, Atherkula thought. For twenty-three years I’ve known you were my daughter. I loved you, and could not tell you.

  Among the Blade Kin, no man acknowledged his children, lest rivals use his offspring as targets.

  Atherkula stood, arms stretched wide as if to encompass the girl, and the sleeves of his great red robe draped over her corpse so that Atherkula felt like some great red crab, staking claim to its prey, then he stretched out on the cot beside her, hugging her gently. He held his breath.

  Where many another sorcerer would have needed to pour out his life’s blood until he stood at the gates of death in order to unleash his spirit and walk free in the Land of Shapes, Atherkula could feel something of it at all times.

  Unlike other men, he was not bound to concepts of near and far, past or future, life or death.

  In a small vial chained to his neck, he kept a mild poison, the Wine of Dreams, a liquid often used by his Neanderthal ancestors. Atherkula uncorked the crystal bottle, sipped. The dark-green liquid left only a musty aftertaste, yet the room immediately began to spin.

  Atherkula cleared his mind.

  The Land of Shapes opened to him, a world where the steel walls of the ship seemed but thin vapors. A world where six dolphins leaping through the ship’s wake glowed like fiery coals in a blacksmith’s forge, their spirits vibrant, while corals and starfish and anemones on the ocean floor below shone with a flickering light.

  The black ocean waters became invisible, as colorless as the air, yet the ocean’s surface showed as a dark plain.

  Upon this plain he felt Chulata. The shadow of her soul yawned dark; the pale fronds of soul-lighting danced in dismay.

  One of those fronds appeared as a rope that seemed woven of starlight, and it formed a noose. She cast this spirit weapon far and wide, hoping to snare something.

  Atherkula waited for his poison to take full effect, until his body seemed to drop away, then sent a thought to young Chulata. “Do you search for Tull?”

  Chulata was not surprised by Atherkula’s presence. Having been cut off from her body, she no longer felt surprise. “He eludes me. Perhaps he is dead. He has disappeared.”

  “That is impossible,” Atherkula said. “His spirit exists beyond death. Even if he were dead, you would find him.” He considered a moment. “Let’s hunt together.”

  Atherkula imagined a hook, like the ones that slaves at the docks in Bashevgo used for gaffing large halibut as they unloaded them from ships.

  Atherkula concentrated until one pale tendril of lightning emerged from the shadow of his soul, curved into a hook and glowed like an ember. His spirit weapon.

  He swung it through the air, once, twice, listening to it whistle, then joined his own power with Chulata’s.

  “Imagine Tull for me, since you know him best,” Atherkula whispered, and he found himself standing in a world of twilight looking over an alpine meadow.

  Yellow buttercups dotted a field that extended to the forest. Chulata envisioned Tull—and Atherkula saw in his mind’s eye the young man with long dark-red hair and angry eyes.

  Chulata cast her silver rope, and Atherkula swung his fiery hook, and for a brief moment they hurtled through the twilight toward the apparition, and then they seemed to slow.

  Young Tull raised a fist, pushing them back, and Atherkula swung his gaff and caught Tull in the ribs.

  Briefly, Atherkula saw from Tull’s eyes, felt the young man fleeing through a green countryside of gum trees and orange orchards.

  But at that moment the world seemed to twist, and Atherkula found himself hurled back into the valley of buttercups. Chulata landed beside him.

  Atherkula looked at the valley. The grass was lush, the buttercups in bloom. They were viewing a scene from the past, an illusion dredged from Tull’s mind.

  Atherkula whispered. “He felt us hunting him, and he cast us here.”

  “You see,” Chulata said. “He is powerful. Should we seek him again?”

  Atherkula considered. “I’ve hunted other sorcerers, renegades who tried to elude the Brotherhood. None turned me as he did.

  “Yet I know the country Tull is in. I know where to search. Gather our dead comrades. I will call you again, and we shall hunt him in a pack.”

  Atherkula withdrew from Chulata and breathed slowly, moved back into his body.

  For a long moment he lay, envisioning his arms, connecting himself to his arms. Imagining that he had fingers and toes, connecting himself to his toes.

  The walls around him solidified, becoming ivory once again. The electric lights glared, casting emerald shadows. Atherkula shivered.

  While separated from his body, he had felt no emotions. But now he felt a gnawing fear. Tull had thrown him off so easily. And he felt a yawning emptiness at the loss of Chulata. Atherkula separated himself from his daughter’s corpse for the last time.

  He unbarred the cabin door, weak and dizzy from the Wine of Dreams, and struggled to the deck.

  The body servants, guards and acolytes waited on their knees, the cowls of their robes pulled low. It was near dawn, and from the deck Atherkula could see the gleaming lights of Bashevgo’s fleet out over the ocean. Over sixty thousand slaves taken in the Rough, a whole new country opened, and it all belonged to Tantos.

  It made Atherkula proud to be Blade Kin. It was a sacred trust. He looked at the young guard who had found Chulata’s body. The man struggled to keep his thoughts veiled.

  “No more secrets,” Atherkula said. “I won’t let you hide. You did not know that she had died and grown cold, for you were not watching her as you should have!”

  Guilt was etched on the young guard’s face. Though he had been blocking his thoughts, his concentration snapped and he could shield himself no more. Atherkula felt the man’s guilt.

  “You were not even near the door. You were sleeping with someone else. A lover!” The other guards and acolytes separated from the young man.

  The accused arose in shock, not knowing how to defend himself. “You are not worthy to be Blade Kin,” Atherkula growled. “You are not even worthy to be a Thrall. You are not worthy to live!”

  The young man fell to the deck, whining like some animal, begging forgiveness. A rage took Atherkula, and he felt his power, raw and unyielding.

  The Wine of Dreams still flowed in his blood. He was still half in the Land of Shapes, lightly clinging to his body.

  The ghost out on the water felt Atherkula’s wrath and fled. The dolphins leapt away from the ship, and a wind began swirling in long lazy circles around him, picking up salt rime and debris.

  “I shall rend you, body and spirit,” Atherkula said. “When you die, you shall not dwell in peace in the House of Dust! In the Land of Shapes are many terrors, and you shall meet them all.”

  Atherkula reached out with his mind until he felt the shape of the beast, a massive dark creature that appeared to Atherkula as if made only from shadows.

  He could not see the beast, wrapped in night, only feel the force of its malevolence.

  Strengthen me, Adjonai, the old sorcerer demanded, and he felt the beast take notice.

  A wave of despair struck Atherkula, for he could not withstand the beast’s gaze, and Atherkula begged again, Strengthen me.

  The dark beast divined Atherkula’s intent, and a powerful wind rose from the creature, blowing tatters of night to circle Atherkula.

  The old sorcerer stood in the maelstrom, and the beast’s power swelled like a flood around him, surging through him. Atherkula reached out with the shadow of his soul, grasped the lightning of his victim.

  Atherkula was a Neanderthal of the old blood. Like some Talent Warrior he felt the power unleash and shouted, “Stand!”

  With the snapping of bones the guard jerked into the air, where he hung upright as if skewered on an invisible pole.

  The others on deck shrieked and tried to cower away, but Atherkula shouted, “Stay, all of you!” He used his power to wrench their heads forward
and open their eyes, forcing them to watch.

  The guard screamed and tried to twist away. He could not protect himself.

  “Body and spirit, body and spirit,” Atherkula hissed, and he channeled his rage. The guard twisted in the air, gagging.

  His chest heaved and his eyes bulged as a horrible ripping sound rose from deep within. Blood trickled from his nose and sweat streamed down his face. Suddenly, his whole body quivered as something inside tore free, and his eyes went vacant.

  “Body and spirit,” Atherkula hissed, and he held his hand in front of the guard’s chin in a beggar’s gesture.

  Though dead, the guard continued to twist and his feet did a little dance as they kicked, running, running from death.

  The guard’s throat swelled huge, and his own bloody heart wriggled from his mouth like some animal and fell, plopping to Atherkula’s open palm.

  Atherkula raised the warm, dripping heart, waved it overhead. He felt a rage unlike anything before at losing his daughter.

  He felt a power like never before stirring within.

  Killing the guard had not satisfied him. Chulata was dead, his only child. The peons on the ground backed away, ran to hide.

  He let them go, but Atherkula was not finished. The guard’s body was dead, but only the body.

  The others could not see the spirit, still fluttering in Atherkula’s grasp in the Land of Shapes, a globe of lightning, green with fear.

  “Body and spirit,” Atherkula hissed, calling the beast. Darkness swirled around him, around the soul in his hand, and he heard a snarling, as if jackals lurked in these tatters of darkness.

  The beast stalked in to feed. Across the Land of Shapes a cry of horror went out, the piercing shriek of a spirit being ripped to pieces.

  Atherkula listened to the lonesome cry, amused. He watched the green fearful light flutter in his hand as the darkness circled, watched the light falter and fade.

  For one brief moment, Atherkula imagined Tull smirking somewhere out in the Rough, thinking himself secure. Ah, but you will not hide from me. Atherkula bundled his energy as if it were a great fist and sent the image of the bloody heart hurtling through space toward Tull, and with the image, he sent the words, “Tull, I will crush your heart also!”

  ***

  Chapter 27: A Humbling Darkness

  For most of the day, Fava and Darrissea raced through the forest above Smilodon Bay, gaining altitude. The snow here was deeper, and no rains had come to melt it, but new snow was falling, covering their tracks.

  Twice they came upon the tracks of Blade Kin, parties of half a dozen each, heading south. Both women feared walking on any established road after a few hours, so they set off through the forest, slogging through the deep redwoods, where the forest floor was not packed with snow.

  They set camp in early afternoon, in a thicket of chest-high swordtail ferns. A redwood had fallen, leaving its torn roots standing fifty feet in the air. The roots provided shelter, creating something of a cave, while a slab of bark served as a roof.

  Fava woke in the morning to the sound of Darrissea snoring in her ear. It was an odd sound, one she’d seldom heard so close before, having been raised in a household of Pwi.

  She thought it odd that humans snorted like pigs in their sleep. But then humans were strange. They got rich, while the Pwi remained poor. They had clever little hands that could sew and build machines, while the Pwi had big paws that could dig holes and swing an ax. Their ancestors had lived among the stars, and even if they were a fallen people and could not battle the red drones that orbited above, they had achieved far more than the Neanderthals. But how much had they really achieved? They still snorted like pigs in their sleep.

  Fava studied a movement uphill, snow dropping from a vine maple. The world consisted of dark stripes of redwood boles against the stark white of snow. Where the trees were thin, snow lay everywhere, yet it was melting even as she watched. The kwea of the day reminded her of times frolicking in the snow with her father and brothers during the winter moose hunt.

  Darrissea woke and sat next to Fava, and Darrissea decided to comb her hair.

  Uphill, a jay flew from its maple leaf, squawking. “Don’t move,” Fava said.

  A bull elk whistled someplace nearby, the frantic call of the rut. Then Fava heard men—creeping through the thick brush. She lowered her head slowly, to keep from arousing attention, and watched six Blade Kin pass fifty yards to the west. They were all searching the ground, looking for footprints. Fava waited for them to pass.

  Half an hour after they were gone, Fava whispered. “While we are in the woods, don’t brush your hair. If anyone comes near, they will spot your movements instantly. If you want to care for your hair, do so at night.

  “Make sure to tie a green cloth around your hair when you are done, so that its color does not betray you in the woods.”

  Darrissea nodded.

  Fava whispered, “We keep seeing Blade Kin. Do you think those men are hunting for us?”

  “No,” Darrissea said after a moment. “I think they were just hunting refugees, anyone. At the loft, I covered the Blade Kin I killed with hay. I suspect that the bodies won’t be found for a few days.”

  Fava moved only her eyes as she watched the forest. When she had to turn her head, she did so slowly. No sudden moves, nothing to attract attention.

  Fava had hunted giant elk in the forest, the megalodon’s. She’d watched the way they flicked their tails or ears to communicate.

  When she had hunted with her brothers, such movements gave them away.

  Darrissea mimicked Fava, moved slowly.

  “Those Blade Kin may have come from Gate of the Gods.” Darrissea said. “I suspect that they’ll have the gate well guarded. We will have to go over the wall.”

  “Hmmm …” Fava said, without nodding.

  “I have to say, I admire the way you are handling this,” Darrissea said. “By the time we get to Bashevgo, your ear will be healed. You will look the part of a Blade Kin, though that will not be enough to pass among them. I can teach you some of their ways.

  “Blade Kin use the same tactics, over and over. I suspected they would pass through town again a couple days after the attack, just as I suspect that they will come through about two weeks from now, and then again near the end of summer.

  “As for these woods, they will scour them for another day, always following a north-south pattern. The men we saw will come back this evening, following the same path, searching for footprints of travelers going east or west—any such tracks will not be from Blade Kin.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Darrissea answered, “My father lived among the Blade Kin for years before they killed him. He said that ‘You cannot conquer an enemy that you do not know.’

  “He used to tell me these things on his trips home. I thought they were just stories as a kid, but when I grew older, I recognized the value of what he told me. I guess—perhaps he was preparing me. I think he knew this day would come.” Darrissea wrinkled her brow.

  She thought a moment, then continued, “In their camps at night, a Blade Kin party of sixteen or more men will always post four guards, one at each corner, about a hundred yards out. Smaller parties, if they camp in the open, will post two guards. If they camp in a building, they will post only one watchman at the open door. They will always bar any extra doors from inside rather than post a second guard.”

  “That seems stupid,” Fava said. “They are so predictable.”

  “No more or less predictable than we are,” Darrissea said. “They come back to towns after an attack because they know that refugees will congregate there. Even if a whole town is wiped out down to the last man, any escapee will return.

  “First he will grab a few necessities, cart them off, and try to survive in the hills. Then he will come back a few weeks later to slaughter and farm animals left behind, and he will think he is safe because the town seems empty. Eventually, he will plant a garden bac
k in town where the land has been cleared and tilled, where the soil is proven, someplace where a comfortable house has been left standing after the attack.”

  Fava raised her eyebrows. “Like my house?”

  “Yes, yours was the trap house. It was off the road, in the brush. The Blade Kin knew that any refugees from town would want it because it is out of the way, because it offers a good view of the bay.

  “In the same way, the Blade Kin know that a scared Pwi will usually not run on the road. He will sneak through the brush on one side of the road, perhaps a hundred yards out, the way a deer or a bear skirts a road. So the Blade Kin march north and south, paying particular attention to tracks just off the roadside.

  “Now that the Blade Kin have passed us heading south, we should leave soon, walk parallel to their trail and head north. They may not see our tracks.”

  Darrissea fell silent, and Fava wished that she would continue speaking, tell her everything that there was to know about the Blade Kin. Fava felt safe with the girl. Yet there was tension in Darrissea’s voice, the sound of words unsaid. “What more should I know of the Blade Kin?”

  A crow called in the distance, and Darrissea said, “You may look like the Blade Kin, and you can learn to follow their tactics, but in order to pass for one, you must act like them.

  “Among their own, they strut and hold their heads up. The Blade Kin flaunt their sexual prowess and sleep with each other or with Thralls, raping Thralls if they must.

  “But because they will think you are one of them, they must ask for your service. To refuse to mate or to pretend you are not interested is a breach of manners. I know that the idea of mating with them is abominable, but you must never let them see the disgust in your eyes or hear it in your voice.”

  “Your father told you about this?” Fava asked, shocked.

  “He told me a lot of unpleasant things,” Darrissea answered. “As I said, I guess maybe he was trying to prepare me. Some Blade Kin work extra hard to impress their superiors in bed. To appear unwilling to do the same, I think, would be a mistake.”

  “I … I could never sleep with one of them.”