Nightblade

by Jason Howard

  Lanthos nodded at this and said, “Roen’s Raiders may have already left your jungle, there is no guarantee he is staying to attack other tribes. My forces are stretched too thin as it is, and for every coin I spend helping your people, I am hurting my own. People are scared here. On top of the disease there is a drought. Many are starving. I barely have enough resources to keep the troops patrolling my kingdom supplied.” Lanthos stopped talking. He looked down at his half empty wine glass before finishing the rest of it in a gulp. “There is one other option for you . . . it won’t be immediate, but it will get you your vengeance. In time.”

  Artem waited intently.

  “I’m assembling a team of the best soldiers in my army—as well as the First Blood Tournament’s top-placing fighters. This talented fighting force will be called the Nightblades, and will be dispatched on only the most important missions.

  “I can’t tell you much. I will say that the Nightblades will be given two important missions immediately upon their induction. The first one I can tell you nothing about, and it won’t directly impact Roen’s Raiders. The second one will be a straightforward search and destroy mission. The Nightblades will find and kill all the Raiders. Roen will be captured if possible so we can get some answers about Soulbane out of him. Then he will be publicly executed. Maybe that can be your job.”

  “Gladly.”

  “You can apply for entry and get more information about First Blood from any of the guard captains posted around the city. If you make the cut, then you’ll have your vengeance. Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” Artem said.

  Lanthos waved a hand and Ivor stood. Artem realized he should stand too.

  Artem and Ivor left Lanthos behind, and as the door shut, Artem caught a glimpse of Lanthos sinking into his chair.

  When Artem got back to The Windy Dewdrop and plopped onto the bed, he felt overwhelmed. He thought about Roen and replayed the moment of his father’s death, let the hate simmer through him, as he did before he went to bed every night. He’d find a way to get Roen. It was only a matter of time before the demons in him were slaked, and the burning need for vengeance was doused. Artem went to sleep with his demons. F0r now they were just whispering their hunger, their voices like the sound of water tossed onto the coals of a dying fire.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fetcher (slang)

  –noun

  1. a minor insult that refers to someone who is meek and/or prone to excessive flattery.

  Zac didn’t know where the First Blood Tournament was, how to apply, or what the requirements were.

  So he went to the first bar he saw. It was a ratty looking bar that tried to hide its shabbiness with a big, ornate sign that read, The Maiden’s Sigh.

  Stupid name, Zac thought.

  Inside, he was asked by a tall, muscular man to remove all of his weapons. Zac did so and the man put the weapons away in a closet and told him he could enter the bar. At the bar Zac asked for something strong that didn’t taste like liver oil. The bartender smirked and said he would do his best.

  Zac looked sidelong at the other people in the bar. He got his drink and walked across the creaking floorboards until he was at the far end of the bar. A man sat there who seemed to soak the darkness in through his pores. He sat just outside the edges of the lamplight. But Zac had seen his eyes. He was the right person to ask.

  Zac said nothing at first, just sat a few stools away from him drinking his liquor in the imperfect silence—the drone of voices from the other end of the bar was an afterthought. Time drained away, but he waited.

  Finally, he turned to the man and said, “This can’t be the best drink they have.” Zac nodded to the mug he held. “What should I be ordering?”

  “The best brew they have is Yewpetal Ale.”

  Zac ordered it and drank it appreciatively. After a pause, Zac asked the man what he did, and the man told him he used to be one of the City Guard.

  “Used to be?”

  The man nodded, threw back some of his ale, then cleared his throat. Zac waited for the story.

  “I killed an innocent man,” he said. “I’m Elias Thurston. You probably recognize the name.”

  “Uh . . . no actually. I’m Zac.”

  “You’ve never heard of me?”

  Zac shook his head.

  “Oh . . . well, good then .”

  He took a gulp of his drink.

  “Why would I have heard of you?”

  “It’s a long story.” Elias drained the last of his mug. “But all you need to know is that I quit the City Guard. Now I sweep the floors here and clean this place up after we close. Sometimes I work a shift at the docks if I need a little extra coin.”

  “And you drown in your self pity,” the bartender said. “And you are the best fighter in the city and you sit here and try to make yourself a beer gut. Ain’t that the end of the story Elias, you pathetic fetcher?”

  Elias smiled. “Shut yer mouth or I might have to shut it for you.”

  “You’re a fighter?” Zac asked.

  Elias shook his head. “I’m a sweeper and a table wiper. Are you deaf or something?”

  Zac shook his head and said, “Okay, so you were a fighter. Don’t bust my chops, or I’ll see for myself.”

  “Whoa, we’ve got a live one here,” Elias said. “Get me my sword, I might need it.”

  The bartender wordlessly handed Elias a broom from behind the counter. “Thank you,” Elias deadpanned.

  “I was a fighter. As you can see, now I’m just a hand around the bar.”

  “I’m a fighter too,” Zac said.

  Elias looked bored at this. “And the truth comes out. You have heard of me, haven’t you?”

  Zac blinked.

  Elias studied his expression. “You didn’t know I used to be a trainer?”

  Zac shook his head.

  “Don’t play with me, kid.”

  “Serious!”

  “Alright . . . so you’re a fighter and you’ve never heard of me. Where are you from?”

  Zac said nothing. Then he cursed himself for pausing. He tried to play it off by taking a swig of his drink.

  “I’m not going to arrest you. I’m retired, remember?” Elias offered Zac a smile.

  Zac looked at him, sitting in that stool as if he had been born there and never left it. He won’t give a damn that I was a slave, Zac decided.

  He pulled up his sleeve so Elias could see the brand.

  Elias raised his eyebrows.

  “I worked in a mining town called Detren since I was young,” Zac said.

  “And now you’re here? And you want to be a fighter?”

  Zac nodded.

  Elias motioned for a refill. “Tell me your story. From the beginning.”

  “It’s a long one,” Zac said.

  Elias shrugged and took a gulp as soon as the bartender set his cup back down. “I ain’t going anywhere.”

  Zac finished off his drink and launched into it, happy that he’d found someone who really didn’t care that he was a Raezellian. He described the horrible conditions of the mines, and how his mother had sold him into slavery to pay for skume, a drug she fancied more than anything else in the world.

  “Gotta love this fine country we have,” Elias said with a swig of his drink and a shake of his head. “Parents are allowed to sell their children into slavery, but if you don’t bow and kiss a noble’s ring you’ll get your head chopped off. At least in this city-state slaves aren’t allowed. But Lanthos wasn’t willing to start a civil war to keep the other districts from having them. Lanthos hates slavery though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He’s a decent king. Sort of a hardass, but you can’t have a weak-hearted king. I met him you know.”

  “Yeah?” Zac asked.

  “Uh-huh. He gave me a medal for my peerless arrest record, and my dutiful and brave service. I think I lost it somewhere.”

  Zac laughed and shook his head. Then he told Elias about escapi
ng from Detren, and how he hoped to place highly in the First Blood Tournament so he could be legally granted full citizenship and freedom.

  Elias clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’ll train you. All that fun you had in the mines—you’re probably a tough little chulgar, aren’t you?”

  Zac’s elation simmered as it filled his chest. This was just what he needed, and what he hadn’t even thought to hope for—a trainer!

  A man staggered into the bar. Elias turned and yelled out an enthusiastic greeting. The man awkwardly shook his hand and collapsed at the bar. He reeked of alcohol.

  “Looks like you’ve got a little head start on us.”

  The man nodded, not looking at Elias.

  Elias gave Zac a look that said, what the heck is wrong with him?

  Zac shrugged.

  “Tristan, what’s going on? Did your hag of a wife finally leave you?”

  Tristan shook his head, ignoring the joke with a horrible silence that stretched on as Elias waited for him to speak.

  “Well if you want to tell me, then go on ahead. But your drinks are on me tonight either way. As many glasses of water as you want. Okay?”

  Tristan nodded.

  Elias reached to clap him on the shoulder, but Tristan pulled away, nearly falling from his stool. “Don’t touch me,” he said, but he didn’t sound angry.

  “Tristan, look at me again,” Elias said.

  Tristan shook his head.

  “Look at me,” Elias said, his voice low.

  Tristan’s shoulders slumped. He slowly looked up at Elias. His eyes were glazed purple.

  “Oh, Mother God,” Elias said.

  Tristan looked down at the bar.

  Elias asked, “How many?”

  “I’ve had two dreams,” Tristan said.

  Zac pulled away a bit, scared that he might get Soulbane.

  “I’m so tired,” Tristan said, a tear leaking from his eye. “But I don’t want to . . . go to the woods. I don’t want to forget my wife. I can’t fall asleep . . . I can’t let myself . . . but I’m so tired!”

  He smashed a fist into the bar and the glasses clattered. Everyone was looking now. The bartender had an arm under the bar, probably reaching for a crossbow.

  “I’m so sorry,” Elias said. “Maybe we should go somewhere a little quieter—”

  “What about my kids? I can’t go home, what if I fall asleep there?”

  The dim lighting, low din of conversation, and clink of glasses had made the bar seem cozy before. But now, with the silence only broken by Tristan’s panicked voice, the bar seemed smaller, and the shadows were suddenly sinister.

  Elias said, “I . . . don’t know what to tell you. Let’s go somewhere a little more private—”

  “No . . . there has to be witnesses . . . everyone has to hear that I asked you, so that there’s no way you can get in trouble.”

  “In trouble for what?”

  “Listen, I don’t have much time! I’m falling apart, I’m seeing things, the dreams are melting into the world, I’m . . . what if I fall asleep somewhere, and go back home and kill them? I can’t . . . Father God help me, I can’t risk it. I knew you’d be here, but I had to get a little drunk first before I could see you.”

  Tristan looked at him with pleading eyes. They were glazed purple and welling with tears. Others were moving away. One person left the bar.

  Zac watched Elias’s face as he realized what this was all about.

  Elias stammered, “I can’t . . . I . . .”

  “Please,” Tristan said. “I don’t have the courage to do it myself.”

  Elias hesitated. Finally, he said, “Okay. Let’s get out of here . . .”

  Elias turned to Zac and said, “You can wait here if you want . . . after this I’ll need someone to drink with.”

  Zac nodded, trying to keep the horror off his face. Everyone at the bar was doing the same—and failing miserably.

  Elias left with Tristan.

  A half hour later he came back alone.

  He nodded to Zac. They drank in silence.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gemstones

  Conduits use them to stockpile magic for intense, powerful spells, like the creation of permanent magic. Vast amounts of energy can be stored in gemstones, but any conduit who accesses too much energy at once can die.

  The next day, sweat blurred Zac’s vision as he swung his hammer at Elias. Elias dipped out of the way again. He threw a knife at Zac, who side-stepped and pivoted. The edge of the knife glowed white with cushioning magic. He ran a few steps and leapt at Elias. Elias kicked Zac in the side of the leg, then dodged his overbalanced hammer swing. Zac whipped a jab at Elias with his free hand. Zac’s gauntlets were on, but they glowed white from a cushioning spell. The spell was also on Zac’s hammer and Elias’s sabre. The spell made their strikes bruise rather than kill. The same spell would be put on their weapons during First Blood.

  Zac felt a poke in his ribs as Elias scored a hit. He hesitated.

  “Keep fighting!” Elias yelled. “You might have survived a glancing blow like that.”

  He’s lying. I’d be dead as a rat in a beartrap. I’m no match for him.

  “That would have killed me,” Zac said.

  “Keep fighting.”

  “But I’m dead!” Zac yelled. He pounded the ground with his hammer. “How do you move so fast?”

  “It’s not just speed—I’ve honed my technique for many years. There are ways to beat speed. You have to work on timing and counters—then all the speed in the world is nothing.”

  “I think I’d prefer speed,” Zac said.

  “You have speed. You’re just as fast as me, but you’re using it all wrong. Speed is flashy and beautiful—but it can be turned against itself. All you need is one accurate hit to throw me off balance and set up the killing strike. Not only are you as fast as me, but you’re stronger and have much better endurance. I’m preventing you from using your advantages by controlling the distance between us and pre-empting your attacks. Some of my attacks and movements are designed to distract you or make you react in a specific way. Also, counterattacks are key. Let me show you a few good ones.”

  They spent hours in the sun going through different movements and drills.

  “You don’t always have to commit to a strike. Use feints. Use half-moves, give me fake openings, and intentionally miss me with attacks so that you can predict my next move. But when you do strike, strike hard. Make me respect your strikes so that I have to respect your feints.”

  Zac nodded.

  “Okay. Now it’s time for you to learn how to throw a knife. You see that tree trunk?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  Elias threw one of his knives at it. The knife streaked to the target and trembled gently in the trunk.

  “Your turn,” Elias said, offering him a knife.

  “No problem at all,” Zac said sarcastically. He took another look at the tree and laughed. No damn way he was going to hit it.

  “Here’s how you do it,” Elias said.

  ***

  Zac stared down at his brand. It had been a part of him for almost his whole life. It was strange to think that soon it would be gone.

  “It’s gonna hurt,” Elias reminded him.

  “Let’s get it over with then,” Zac replied.

  They stepped into the alchemist’s shop. The alchemist was smoking a pipe, and the cloud of bluish-green smoke above him didn’t smell at all like tobacco. The alchemist’s eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and his hair was in complete disarray. He wore a cloak stained in so many places that it looked like a purposeful design.

  Zac immediately wondered if this was a good idea.

  “Ahh, Elias,” the alchemist said.

  “Gremdin. We need some brand removal for my friend here.”

  “What sort of . . .”

  Zac bared his arm, and Gremdin nodded.

  “Strong enchantments on those zell brands—it’ll cost you.”

/>   “If you say the word zell again, I’ll set fire to that filthy cloak of yours and beat you to death while you burn in it,” Elias said evenly.

  Gremdin nodded. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Not for you.”

  Gremdin said, “Alright. Four hundred kings.”

  Elias raised both eyebrows and fixed a cold stare on Gremdin.

  Gremdin sighed and said, “Three-fifty.”

  Zac handed over three hundred and fifty kings worth of gold coins. It was most of the money he had gotten from selling the circlet, dagger, and buckler he’d stolen from Apollo.

  “Alright. Sit here.”

  Zac sat at a tall, straightbacked wooden chair with intricate carvings on it. The designs were made up of swooshing swirls and gnarls. Gremdin waved a hand over the the chair. Zac felt a strange sensation in the backs of his thighs, his calves, his back, even his neck. It was warm, like hot syrup was being poured onto him. Zac heard four pops. Zac tried to look down but he couldn’t move. He was glued to the chair somehow.

  “What in the name of the Gods is going—”

  “The chair will hold you in place so that you don’t squirm. We wouldn’t want you to move and knock a vial of acid out of my hands, possibly splashing both of us and burning our faces off. Right?”

  Zac nodded—or tried to, but his neck was stuck to the chair.

  Gremdin put a hand on Zac’s mouth and a coolness chilled his lips. The coolness extended into Zac’s throat.

  Zac tried to ask what that was for. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “Good,” Gremdin said. “That was a silence spell. I hate to hear the screams, it throws me off.”

  Zac’s eyes widened.

  “It’s also a numbing spell. It will take away some of the pain.”

  Gremdin walked across the room where he started fiddling with a plethora of beakers and vials, combining different chemicals, some glowing, some putrid and fecal. Finally, he ran to Zac, a fizzing concoction in hand, and poured it onto Zac’s arm. The acid sizzled and popped. Zac opened his mouth and screamed but no sound came out. He quivered in the chair, body convulsing.