Nightblade

by Jason Howard

  “You should mention the king.”

  “And it is ruled by the visionary, the legendary, the magnanimous but boar tough—”

  “Boar tough? You think it’s a good idea to compare King Lanthos to a kind of pig?”

  “I’m running out of adjectives!”

  “Try again.”

  “And ruled by the visionary, the legendary, the magnanimous but bear-tough king, King Lanthos! Hail!” They both turned and bowed toward the city.

  Zac bowed with them and said, “Hail!”

  The turned to face Zac again, and he said, “My sincerest gratitude for your warm welcome kind sirs!”

  “Whatever,” the younger guard grumbled.

  “Don’t mind him,” the older guard said. “He’s had a hard life ever since he was born a complete chulgar. I need to see your eyes.”

  “Gladly sir, you’ll find no purple glaze, I’m free of the horrid disease.”

  Zac let the older guard hold his eyes open.

  “Look up,” the guard said. “Now look down. Good. Now your beasts turn. Will he . . . remain still?”

  “Yes. Can beasts have Soulbane?”

  “No one has seen it yet, but we’re still checking the eyes of everything that comes into our fine city,” the older guard said.

  “Fair enough, sir. I can make my pet look up and down with a piece of meat, and he won’t protest if I command him not to.”

  Zac took a piece of jerky from a pocket sewn into his leather armor. They’d used some of the coins they’d stolen from Apollo to get supplies at a general store in a town along the way.

  Althos could understand the guard’s words, but Zac didn’t think it was wise that the guards know how intelligent Althos was.

  “Calm down, boy!” Zac said to Althos, like he was commanding a dog. The older guard reached out.

  ‘Let him see your eyes, like he did to me.’

  ‘Ahh, it’s weird, he’s holding them open!’

  ‘It’s okay boy, just relax, it’ll be over in a second.’

  “Well neither of you have Soulbane, that’s reason to celebrate.”

  Zac smiled and continued through the gate. The city was far different than the grandiose imaginings that Zac and Althos had come up with during their late night discussions. Firstly, it was far from the immaculate and gleaming vision they had of a city fit for the gods. Dirt, stench, and chaos greeted them. They could smell the droppings of horses. Dust rose as men battered new cobbles into place in a spot where the street was broken. It was different than he had imagined, but not disappointing. It was more alive with movement and sound than anything he had ever seen.

  On the crowded street before them, Zac picked out a couple of pale skinned men dressed raggedly, one of them with a shovel propped against his shoulder. He wondered if they were Northerners or Raezellians. He watched them until he could get a glimpse of their forearms. As they turned toward an approaching carriage he saw that they had brands. He was filled with an emotion he couldn’t describe, something between fascination and surprise. He had never seen a free Raezellian since he’d been taken to Ascadell.

  The city-state of Sal Zerone was the only place in Ascadell where such a thing was possible. But even here Raezellians were the lowest of the low class. Which was ironic because many northerners, who looked almost exactly the same as Raezellians, were part of the wealthy aristocracy, and were viewed almost as respectably as the native Sal Zeronians.

  His eyes roamed the crowd. There were dark skinned southerners, yellow, slit-eyed westerners, and even the pale blue skinned easterners. Through the window of a carriage he spotted an olive-complected Sal-Zeronian native.

  He broadened his gaze. A river cleaved the city in two but three enormous bridges reunited it. One of the bridges was so vast that a row of shops occupied its right side. There were two lanes for pedestrians and then two carriage lanes on the far left. Zac wondered how the huge pillars of stone blocks that held the bridge above the water had been constructed in the flow of the river—he imagined the feats of magic and scientific ingenuity involved and was breathless for a moment.

  His eyes wandered from the bridges to Sal Zerone’s tight network of buildings along straight cobblestone streets. Along these streets people moved in waves. Carts sold every manner of goods, food, knick-knacks, and oddities.

  “Would you like a fried eyeball?” asked a man with a scraggly beard standing behind a wooden cart.

  “An . . . eyeball? What kind of eyeball?”

  “What kind? Any kind!” the man slid a panel aside on his cart to reveal an icebox. Inside was an assortment of eyeballs.

  “Newt, bear, chicken, bloodbat, herema, tortoise, trout, cow—”

  “No thanks,” Zac said, feeling a little sick.

  “I can fry it right here for you—fresh!”

  Zac smiled but turned and walked away.

  “Can you spare some change?” a dirt-streaked beggar asked.

  Zac pulled a coin out of his pouch, which was in a hand-fashioned saddlebag he’d put on Althos. He stepped to the beggar to give him the coin.

  Althos screeched wildly (he was getting bigger now, so his screech was more of a scream).

  Then there was a human scream.

  Zac turned to see Althos biting a man’s hand.

  ‘Althos, what are you doing—’

  ‘He snatched your coin purse out of your saddlebag. The beggar was just a distraction.’

  Zac stepped up to the wincing thief.

  A crowd was gathering and city guardsman were coming to intervene.

  “Get it off me!” the thief screamed.

  “What is that freak?” someone yelled from the crowd. “Kill that lizard! Guards, kill that lizard, its owner can’t control it.”

  The guards unsheathed their swords.

  “Did you try and steal from me?” Zac asked.

  “No!” he yelled as he tried to wriggle free from Althos’s grip.

  ‘Althos, go for his balls.’

  Althos let go of the man’s hand and chomped onto the man’s groin.

  The thief’s eyes widened.

  “Alright! I stole, I stole, just let me go!” he begged, face turning red, knees buckling a little.

  The guards were all around now, and one grabbed Zac and slammed him to the street.

  “Show the guards,” Zac yelled.

  The thief looked hopelessly around. All eyes were on him. He produced Zac’s coin purse. A few coins fell out and clattered against the cobblestone street. The guards let Zac up and arrested the man.

  “Tell your beast that he can let go of the man now, we have this under control,” a guard with a long white scar that stretched from his temple all the way to his jaw said.

  Zac put his head in his hand and laughed softly.

  ‘Althos?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Althos finally let go. The thief let out a long whimper of relief. He limped away in handcuffs, taking wide steps so he wouldn’t aggravate his new injury.

  The scarred guard said, “It’ll be a while before he reaches for someone’s pockets!”

  They both laughed at this.

  The scarred guard sobered and said, “Now, I hate to do this, but we can’t have an exotic beast like this within city walls. Do you have a permit?”

  “Really? Althos would never hurt anybody that didn’t deserve it, I promise you that.’”

  The guard shook his head. “Now that there’s been a commotion, I can’t just let him pass.”

  “What if . . .” Zac’s mind whirred over possible compromises, and then he said, “What if I can give you some very valuable information?”

  “What information?” he said.

  “I’ve recently seen a wanted criminal—ever heard of Cera Winters?”

  His eyes lit up and he nodded. “When did you see her?”

  “In Lockridge, a town south of—”

  “I know the town. Why was she there?”

  Zac hesitated, but the guard’s c
old look told him that there was no way to avoid the question.

  He pulled up his sleeve and showed his brand.

  “You’re . . . you were a slave?”

  “Roen and his men, knights wearing black armor, destroyed my camp. I managed to get away. He was the one who hired her to hunt me down. She captured me but I escaped.”

  “You escaped?”

  Zac nodded.

  “That’s ridiculous. You would have never escaped her, she’s too smart for that.”

  “I think she’s still after me. Have some people follow me and when she catches up, make the arrest. Maybe she can tell you something about Roen’s whereabouts too.”

  The scarred guard gave him a skeptical look.

  “I’m offering to be bait. Are you really going to turn that down? What do I have to gain if I’m lying?”

  “Unless you can afford a permit, the beast stays outside the city.” His facial expression made it clear that the discussion was over.

  “I understand.”

  He turned to take Althos outside of the city gates.

  They passed by the eye seller again, who said, “Don’t be sad! A delicious cow’s eye will cheer you up, a soup of newt pupils, or perhaps a lizard eye—”

  Althos gave him a fearsome look, and the eye seller’s eyes widened. “Sorry—not lizard, never lizard eye. I mean, I do sell lizard eyes, but not your kind of lizard, not . . . whatever you are.”

  Althos growled, and it came out like knives grating stone. The eye seller jumped and splashed a soup of nasty newt pupils on himself. He groaned loudly as he looked down at his ruined shirt. Zac couldn’t help but laugh.

  ***

  Once in the woods, they found a small clearing where Althos and Hessia could stay.

  ‘How long are you going to be in the city?’ Althos asked.

  Zac read the pained look on his face.

  ‘I don’t know . . . but I’ll visit you out here every day at some point, or at night. I’ll be around.’

  ‘Okay,’ Althos replied.

  ‘You have Hessia to keep you company,’ Zac added.

  Althos glanced at Hessia’s bored expression. The horse leaned down and gnawed on some grass.

  Zac laughed. ‘Hey, I’ll be back!’

  Zac headed back for the city and turned to give Althos a good-bye wave. Althos waved back, his claw making a feeble ark.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “There are really two Sal Zerones. By day, he’s a strong, loud firebrand afraid of nothing, and willing to fight over less. He sweats and swings his hammer until the day’s work is done. By night, she’s a succubus in the shadows, beckoning you closer with a finger and a whispered, ‘come hither.’”

  –Lyle Hamlon, Bard and Bartender (excerpted from An Informal History of Ascadell, Volume III)

  Later that day, Artem hiked over a hilltop, his lungs burning from the thin air, his face itching from the scratch of pine needles that had groped him as he walked between the trees. Across a lush clearing caught his first glimpse of Sal Zerone.

  Artem had lived his entire life in the Ajaltan Jungle. On the journey he had seen small towns, but this was different. This was a forest made of stone. It was something he could not have imagined even if it had been described to him at length.

  He could hear the distant, vague hum of life inside the walls. But he couldn’t see anyone, just the massive towers reaching up for the clouds. It was like a graveyard for gods. He stood there for a long time staring. Finally he forced himself to move toward the fearsome beast called a city and its outstretched claws that sought to lacerate the heavens.

  After descending from the hill and crossing the grassy valley that led up to the city, Artem’s skin started to prickle with anticipation. When he approached the gate, the guards atop the wall just stared. Artem was dressed in a tribal robe embroidered with traditional designs. His halberd, nearly translucent, hung from the strap on his back. Artem ignored the attention. He had to get to the king.

  A portcullis rose when he neared and a pair of guards came out. One was older and one was younger.

  “Hold on a second dungskin,” the younger of the guards said. “Why are you wearing robes, like a priest?”

  “They are tribal robes,” the older guard said. “I read about these tribals once, they hark from a land far from here, and live deep in the jungle.”

  Artem knew common because his father had forced him to learn the language when he was very young. After having it drilled into his head his father had assigned him to be one of the tribe’s translators when they traded goods with traveling merchants from the cities of Ascadell. Four times per year Artem went with a few of the other men to a specific clearing near the edge of the rain forest. They met the traders there because the rain forest was too dangerous for the yellow- or pale-skinned merchants to travel through.

  Artem had hated the task, as well as his father’s insistence on holding frequent conversations with him in common to keep him sharp.

  Now, knowing the language turned out to be one of the most useful skills he had. It was also a painful reminder of his father.

  “That is correct, these are tribal robes. I am from the Windwalker Tribe of the Ajaltan Jungle.”

  “You smell like you’re from the Windbreaker Tribe of . . . my privy!” the younger guard said, laughing loudly at his own joke.

  The older guard gave him a withering look and shook his head slowly.

  “I have very important business. An army has attacked my village. I need a meeting with your king.”

  The younger guard started laughing and the older one said, “I’m afraid there’s no chance of that happening.”

  “He knows my father, Chieftain Rakala Remelda, they—”

  “Listen, savage, the king is busy.”

  “Savage?” Artem said.

  “That’s right. That’s what we call you jungle folk. Even though I’ve really never seen one of you before. Doesn’t matter. You’re not part of the kingdom, so if you have a personal problem, the king isn’t going to solve it anyway.”

  “My people have been murdered.”

  “Not surprising. You savages are always killing each other, right?”

  Artem’s halberd was out before the guards could blink.

  “It wasn’t one of the tribes,” Artem said.

  “You use that halberd on us you’re dead.”

  “I need to speak to someone who can get me an audience with the king.”

  “Get away from our gate, spear chucker!” an archer from a balcony above the gate yelled.

  Artem ignored this. “I will stay out here until you help me or I starve to death. My blood will be on your hands.”

  One of the two jeering guards said, “You’re crazy! Get moving or I’ll put an arrow through your heart, you rotten bilcher.”

  Artem walked away. As soon as he was outside the city, he wandered from the road and collapsed in the grass.

  ***

  The next day the sunlight slowed Artem’s shivering. The night had gnawed at him, sucking the energy out of his pores. His skin felt tight against him, like it had shriveled and frozen. He was a frost-covered leaf on an early winter morning.

  He had never been this cold before. They were still far from the frozen Northlands of Ascadell, but Artem’s hungry body couldn’t keep up with the wind—it seemed to cut right through his flesh and into his bones.

  Throughout the day the guards jeered at him. He heard the words savage and dungskin more times than he could remember.

  ***

  A new guard was atop the wall the following day, and Artem could see him gesticulate angrily. Artem could tell he was important, he wore shining bronze armor, and his posture indicated that he was a leader. Take away the armor and Artem could see his father standing like that commanding the warriors of the Windwalker Tribe with stern authority.

  The man in the bronze armor pointed at Artem and said something he couldn’t hear.

  Oh, thank mercy. Thank you
for finally—

  But they didn’t invite him inside.

  One of the guards rode horseback, approaching ahead of the man in the bronze armor who was now riding the largest steed Artem had ever seen. The young and old guard duo were not with this group.

  The guard on the smaller horse said, “Move your ass, dungskin. You can’t sit here, near the entrance. You’re scaring visitors to the city.”

  “I will not move.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  And then a boot tore into Artem’s head. Blood leapt, hot, from his mouth. He was lifted and then a punch sent sparks through his vision.

  “Enough!”

  “But Captain Ultimber—”

  Ultimber’s glare silenced the guard. “Just move him.”

  Artem was dragged to his feet by his armpits and then pushed.

  “Where is the closest I can wait?” Artem asked.

  “Wait for what? Nothing is going to happen for you.”

  “Where?”

  Ultimber gestured toward a single willow tree a couple hundred yards away. Artem turned and walked to it. By the time he got there Ultimber and the other guard had returned to the wall and were watching him. Near the willow tree was a ten-foot hillock that rose over a creek. He sat atop the hillock and faced toward the city gates. He was still visible to the guards, almost eye level with them. He stared toward them, jaw set, blood dripping from it. Ultimber shook his head and rubbed his face, then disappeared from the wall with a few quick strides.

  Artem passed the day by watching the travelers, carriages, carts, and riders, and as they approached the city gates. He tried to imagine what passengers they held and what journeys those passengers were finishing. The night was, again, cold.

  ***

  The blood on Artem’s face was a sticky grime. The merciful sun rose and he drank in its warmth. The hours passed. He saw Ultimber once, and then the man was gone. A little while later, Ultimber emerged, walking purposefully toward him.