Reflections in the Void: Book Two of the Demon's Blade Saga

by Steven Drake

  Reflections in the Void

  Book 2 of The Demon’s Blade Saga

  By Steven Drake

  2/15/2017

  Copyright © 2017 by Steven Drake

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.

  Steven Drake

  76 Leigh Drive

  Benton, KY 42025

  www.aspiesteve.wordpress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Prologue: The Warrior Woman

  Five years ago

  Rana lived for these moments, the calm before the battle, the tension in her muscles, the heightened sense of awareness, the feeling of walking a razor’s edge. Before each battle, she thought of him, her enemy, the man who ruined her life, killed her family, and reduced her to this, fighting to survive in the arenas. Darien the Executioner, the name rattled around in her mind. Each time she fought, every massive barbarian, every trained beast, every smug swordsman, she imagined it was him. That always helped her focus. That was the reason she fought, and that was the reason she won.

  Iron doors creaked open and light flooded into the dark chamber where the young woman stood in her simple leather armor, with her long sword at her side. Her shoulder length, straight blond hair drifted lazily about her neck. The dust on the ground stirred slightly as the breeze blew through the opening doors. Rana walked forward confidently into the arena and felt the heat of the afternoon sun across her bronze skin. Gasps, huffs, hoots, and more than a few catcalls descended upon her, but she was unmoved. She had become well accustomed to this greeting, the disbelief, the skepticism, the lack of respect. That reaction would not be repeated. They would learn to respect her.

  The large stonework arena bustled with spectators of all types, old and young, rich and poor. Common folk filled the arena and filled themselves with cheap liquor. Wealthy patrons in fine garments sat in a finely decorated section, separated from the common rabble, conversing amongst themselves while their servants fanned them or served them drinks. The King of Mintaka sat upon a large chair above the nobility, surrounded by guests from all over his kingdom. Their eyes were fixed on Rana, likely the first woman they had ever seen fight in the arenas, certainly the youngest. Rana cared nothing for her age, nor for any of the things that she presumed must occupy the minds of most young women--fashionable dresses, attending parties, marrying well, acquiring pretty presents from eager suitors, or whatever else ordinary women were supposed to care about. She only knew how to fight, and become stronger. That was her purpose, and the only reason she lived.

  One in particular of the King’s guests drew the young fighter’s attention. He was a tall man, clean shaven save for a thick mustache, well groomed, with broad shoulders and dark brown eyes. He wore shining silver plates with mail underneath. Each piece of armor was marked with a golden kite shield set in a field of white. Rana recognized the emblem, the mark of the Order of the Golden Shield; he had to be one of their knights. Rana had fought enough to measure up her opponents just by looking, and even at a distance she could tell that this fighter was stronger than she. If she performed well, perhaps she would have the chance to face him. She relished a challenge, and there had been too few of those lately. Rana saluted the King and his guests, as was customary for competitors in the arena. The King saluted in return, an amused smile crossing his face as he did so. No matter. He too would learn respect.

  A moment later, the gates on the opposite end of the arena opened, and her opponent strode forward. He was a massive specimen of man, standing at least six feet high, broad shouldered, with long, gangly limbs. His head was bare but for the red and gold tattoo it bore. Many more tattoos graced his arms and chest. He wore no armor above his waist, probably in some attempt to impress or intimidate his opponents with his bulging muscled physique. In fact, the only clothing he wore was a pair of short fur pants, and matching fur boots, which left his legs bare from the middle of his calf to just above his knee. He had a light brown bushy beard, and a golden ring through his right nostril. He had pale skin, ill-suited to the strong sun. He carried a pair of short-handled battle ax in each hand. By all appearances, he was some sort of barbarian from the northlands.

  Rana smirked slightly, though she did not allow her opponent to see. She had fought such men before. Fearsome, courageous, impressive to look upon, strong as a bear, but far stupider. If this one was like the others, he was more frightening to look at than to actually fight. The barbarian saluted the King, and let out a guttural howl, a gesture meant to frighten opponents, utterly useless against the opponent he faced today. The crowd roared their approval, but Rana only bowed slightly, a gesture of respect and honor to her opponent, as had been the custom in her homeland. She never forgot the simple civilities. They reminded her who she really was. The tall warrior looked back smiling, seemingly amused at the young girl who stood in the place of his opponent. Then he laughed out loud.

  “Buggered bears, whas this wee kit doin’ here. Ye den expect me to fight this? No honor in dis, no challenge.” The man looked aside and spit on the ground, wetting the dry dust. “Git yerself back to wate’er brothel ye crulled outta, lil girl, and lev fightin’ to grown men.”

  “I am your opponent, duly recognized by the arena master. If your honor is so wounded, you are welcome to withdraw.” Rana smiled brightly as she delivered the insult speaking loudly enough for most of the arena to hear. A roar of laughter went up from the crowd, and the big man frowned, growling as he did so.

  “Waste o’ my time, but whate’er. If yer so eager to die, I’ll oblige ye.”

  The crowd roared again. The big man approached somewhat nonchalantly, clearly not taking this seriously. He will regret that. Rana poised herself, assuming her fighting pose. She drew her sword, a thin, sharp blade, curved in the eastern style, and nearly as long as she herself was tall. She held it up across her face, and positioned her feet far apart to steady herself. When the big man was a few steps away, he assumed his fighting stance, holding one axe out in front, with a second drawn back behind his head, ready to strike. Then Rana waited. Timing was everything. Suddenly, the man charged forward, taking two long strides and launching into a double strike. He struck first in a wide slashing horizontal arc with his front axe, then brought the second blow down over his head an instant later. The combined strikes left little room to dodge, and were meant to end the match quickly, but Rana had anticipated this tactic, and moved backwards just far enough to avoid the horizontal strike, while blocking the downward blow with her sword. The massive man then predictably tried to press the advantage of strength against Rana, pressing his axe into Rana’s sword and attempting to force her to the ground. But Rana twirled aside, pushing the axe away with her sword, allowing it to pass harmlessly a few inches to her right. Then using the oaf’s momentum against him, she pushed her sword down into the handle of the axe and sent the whole force of the blow crashing into the dusty ground.

  The huge man was now off balance, and Rana had darted forward to get behind him. She slashed cleanly and swiftly through both the man’s calves, not deep enough to seriously wound him, but deep enough to slow him, and ensure he wouldn’t be able to keep up if he managed to dodge her next attack. She thought he had a decent chance of prolonging the m
atch if he were quick to recover, but this barbarian simply wasn’t prepared for a real fight. He had made the error of judging her based on appearance, and would now pay the price. So surprised at being immediately wounded, and off balance to begin with, the man had fallen forward to his knees, while Rana never stopped moving. She spun fully around, conserved her momentum, and followed through on her initial attack. She completed her rotation and slammed the butt of her sword into the back of the man’s head. He fell forward on his face, unconscious. Puffs of dust flew up as the barbarian’s massive frame thudded upon the dry dirt, and just like that, it was over. Hopefully I’ll fight someone more challenging tomorrow, Rana sighed to herself.

  The crowd fell utterly silent for a moment, stunned at what they had witnessed. Rana bowed to the King and once again saluted.

  “Well fought,” a deep booming voice thundered out. It was the Golden Shield knight who had spoken. He stood and raised a fist to salute the performance, and the crowd was brought out of its shock, roaring in raucous approval. Rana acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod, then turned and headed back through the arena doors. Several warriors, those still preparing to fight, stared at her in the dim torchlight, all of them keeping a respectful distance, looks of shock and subtle fear upon their faces.

  #

  Several hours later, the matches were concluded, and the arena had mostly emptied. The afternoon had given way to evening, and Rana was alone in her private room, an unusual luxury for an arena fighter, but a practical one. Nearly all the combatants slept in the bunkhouse attached to the arena, but since it was thought a woman, no matter how capable she was, might cause problems in the midst of dozens of fighting men, Rana had been given this odd room, a cramped space that must have been used as a large closet used to store supplies or a very small office for some bookkeeper who counted the day’s profits.

  Rana passed the time in the tiny room by running over the day’s matches in her mind, and considering the possibilities for her match tomorrow. It didn’t matter. Most of the warriors were much like the one she’d fought today, massive brutes who had managed to win a few fights in some backwater arena where most of the fighters were nothing more than troublesome slaves who had proven too difficult to use for any other purpose. These opponents had probably gotten this far simply by being larger and stronger than their meager opponents. They looked impressive, and it made for a good show, but that was about the best that could be said of most of them. There were a few who might last a while, but none who were nearly fast enough, or focused enough, or skilled enough, to beat her.

  In the early evening, Rana’s silent mental preparation was interrupted by Banda, a short, balding, exceedingly fat gentleman who, unfortunately, served as Rana’s sponsor. In order to fight in the arenas, such men were a necessary evil, greedy profiteers who knew just enough about combat to tell which fighters could make them money; Banda was no exception. Nevertheless, when Rana was still a child, fighting in the street with boys three times her size over scraps of food, Banda had recognized her potential as a fighter. The ‘fighting spirit’, Banda had called it. He had taken her off the streets, given her food, and a chance to hone her fighting skills, and she was grateful.

  Rana possessed more than just a fighting spirit, if such a thing even existed. She had begun training with weapons almost as soon as she could walk, taught by her older brothers and sisters as well as the finest knights in her homeland of Geruda, a land left dead and empty by Darien the Executioner, the black mage and Demon King’s general, who led the army that razed her city to the ground. Rana often wondered if Banda realized that she was no simple street urchin with a gift for combat. She had never said anything to the man about her past, and he had never asked. This suited Rana quite well, and probably suited the fat promoter as well. Banda needed fighters who could win and increase his wealth and fame. Rana needed someone with connections, someone who could get her into the best arenas, to fight the best opponents. She needed to grow stronger, until one day she would be strong enough to face the man that had done this to her, the man who had destroyed her homeland, and reduced a princess to begging in the streets. Darien the Executioner would pay for all his crimes. She had sworn it to herself upon the memory of her family.

  Rana could tell Banda was on his way long before he knocked on her door. The fat man whistled as he walked down the corridor outside, not a very pretty sound, but a very happy sound. Banda always whistled or hummed one of a number of drunkard songs to show his good spirits whenever his fighters won matches, and Rana usually won, so she had heard all of them many times. Rana opened the door just as Banda was about to knock, startling the rotund fellow.

  “What is it?” Rana asked. Banda occasionally felt the need to congratulate her, or attempt to engage in small talk. She had no desire whatsoever to speak to Banda any more than was necessary. The short, curt, greeting was her usual attempt to get the man to say whatever it was he had to say and be on his way.

  “Nice fight today. Shame it was so miserably short. I thought there would be better fighters here in Mintaka. Too bad,” Banda finally spoke, in his dry, raspy voice. Rana said nothing. Banda paused expecting a response, but when he did not receive one, he simply moved on. “Well, ye’ve a visitor. Some feller in fancy armor. Dunno what he’s after. Says he ain’t after stealin’ you from me. Give me ten pieces o’ silver jest to see you. Mebbe wants to see if he can pay you for a night’s service, if you catch my meaning.” Rana shut her eyes and clenched her teeth. The thought sickened her, but she choked down the bile that rose up her throat. Banda quickly picked up on Rana’s reaction, and began explaining. “That’s no request from me mind ye. I pay ye to fight not to go beddin’ strangers. Fat lot of good it would be if ye turned up pregnant, though I know a mage or two as can take care of that. It’s yer business, if ye want to make a bit of coin on the side. I don’t reckon I mind either way, but see as I get my cut if ye do. Ye know better by now than to be cheatin’ me, and if he is after stealin’ you out from under me, then he’ll have hell to pay, and you too if you take him up on it.” Rana nodded. She had indeed seen several examples of what happened to those who Banda felt had ‘cheated’ him, and she had no reason to do so. Banda was scum, but far from the worst sort of scum, and Rana had no reason to risk his wrath. For better or worse, she had given this man her word as part of her arrangement, and that meant something to her, even if it meant nothing to anyone else in this dark underworld.

  Banda waddled out of the room, whistling another song and then saying something as he disappeared down the dark corridor and around a corner, presumably sending in the mysterious visitor. Rana prepared herself for an unpleasant encounter. Much to her surprise, it was the Golden Shield knight from the King’s box who appeared, still arrayed in his armor as if walking about in full plate and chain was perfectly normal. Perhaps for him it was. He walked to her door and turned to face her. As impressive as he had looked standing above her in the stands, still she had underestimated him. He was well proportioned from top to bottom, tall, with obvious strength and broad shoulders. His firm, square jaw and deep-set, piercing eyes gave him a look of honor that seemed to shine brighter than the silvery armor he wore. His arms and legs were thick as the trunks of small trees beneath the silver chain, lean and tough from practice, not bulging and awkward as the barbarian’s had been. His dark brown hair was neatly groomed, and perfectly set off his steely blue eyes. Rana felt an instant attraction to the man, but then she remembered what Banda had said. The man was certainly handsome, and in another place and time, she might have been persuaded to allow this man to take her to bed, but she could afford no distractions, not until her quest for vengeance was finished. She regained her composure, and prepared herself to give a stern refusal, and if necessary, to resist any attempt at force.

  She gave the visitor a blank, disinterested look. “What do you want?” she said quite bluntly.

  “No introductions? Not even polite enough to give me your name or ask
mine? Just ‘What do you want?” the knight asked equally bluntly. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect civilized behavior here, but I got the notion you didn’t quite belong with this rabble.”

  Rana was struck by the perceptiveness of the handsome knight, despite his insulting nature. Still, he hadn’t answered the question, and she was in no mood for pointless debate.

  “This isn’t the King’s court. My name’s Rana. I thought you would have already known that since they said it plainly enough when I was introduced before the fight this morning. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t really care,” she grumbled, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m a fighter. Did you come to fight me, or challenge me, or arrange a fight? You seem capable enough and I wouldn’t mind testing my skill against someone of your caliber, but you’ll have to arrange that with Banda. I don’t make my own fights.”

  The knight shook his head back and forth, tossing his thick brown hair about as he did so. “Such a waste. You have talent, but you’re worthless to me with a mouth like that. I knew this was a waste of time. That doddering old man is mad if he thinks any of these dregs can be turned into Knights of the Golden Shield. It takes more than fighting skill to make a knight,” the man remarked and turned to go.

  “Wait!” Rana suddenly cried at hearing the knight’s purpose. “What do you mean a knight of the Golden Shield?” The man in the shiny armor turned back toward her, still glaring and clearly irritated. With her curiosity piqued, and her fears about the man’s intentions allayed, Rana now wanted to hear more, but the man seemed ready to leave, so she had to say something to change his mind. “My apologies, sir Knight. My sponsor, the man who showed you in, intimated that you might have… impure intentions in seeking me out. I was, of course, mortified at the thought, and was being overly cautious. A woman in my unique position must be careful. I humbly apologize. Please, tell me your name and your purpose here.”