It had not taken long for the sword to begin killing whole men. That last Thakoor’s ashes were still warm when the first of the warrior caste tried to take up the sword. A few minutes later the overseer had arrived in the casteless quarter looking for help to remove the body parts.
* * *
“Why take the boy?” his mother asked.
The overseer frowned. “Why not?”
“He’s weak. He’ll just be in the house slaves’ way.”
The overseer was casteless as well, but even amongst the non-people, there was order, and questioning his commands could lead to a beating or worse. The overseer seemed like a huge, muscled beast to the small child, especially when he roughly grabbed the boy by the wrist. “I got strong men for lifting bodies. He’s got small fingers to get into the cracks. I don’t want no stained mortar and I don’t want the main chamber stinking of death. Got it?”
His mother had lowered her head in submission. The casteless did as they were told. They worked and they died at the pleasure of their betters. That’s how it always had been and how it always would be. Such was the way of the non-people.
The overseer had given him a rag and a bucket. They were his most prized possessions.
* * *
The first time he had entered the main chamber, he had tried to heed the elder’s warning, but he had been too tempted, and had lifted his head to see. The inside of the great house was truly as amazing as the house slaves proclaimed it to be. The floors were flat stone, not dirt. The walls did not have holes in them, and in fact, they were covered in carvings and paintings of animals and birds, mountains and trees, and heroic scenes of warriors defeating demons. There was food everywhere. This one room was big enough to hold ten casteless barracks. It was more than he could comprehend. But it wasn’t the vastness of the great house that intimidated him, it was the sword.
There was no ceremony to it. The sword was just lying there on the floor where the last warrior had flung it after severing his own legs. Though there was blood on the walls and the floor and in every crook and crevice and joint, there wasn’t a drop on the sword or anywhere close to it. In time, he would learn that this was normal for the ancestor blade, as it did not want to stain itself with unworthy life, which was good, because the boy was scared to get close to the sword.
He’d overheard the warrior caste speak of the dead Thakoor’s sword. It was said whoever carried it could defeat entire armies by himself. Only this kind of sword could easily kill a demon from the distant and terrifying ocean. Even the mightiest heroes were scared of the ancestor blade. The boy took their fear and made it his own. He was casteless. The Law declared that his kind were not even allowed to touch a weapon. His experience with swords consisted of seeing them in the hands of warriors when it was time to intimidate or execute.
This sword was not like those. This one was . . . beautiful. It hurt his eyes, but he couldn’t help but look anyway. Realizing that he’d been staring, he’d quickly averted his eyes. There were still warriors present. If a whole man saw a casteless looking at the sacred ancestor blade of House Vadal, he’d surely be killed. In this room, his life was worth absolutely nothing.
Only the warrior caste did not see him. The casteless were typically beneath notice. They were simply there to do the things whole men should not have to. They wrapped the body parts in old blankets and carried them down the stairs to the furnace. He was so small that it was a real struggle to carry just the man’s leg, and this one had been cut off at the knee.
Then he’d been put to work pushing thick blood around with a rag and carrying buckets of water up and down the stairs until the main chamber was spotless. The overseer had inspected it carefully. If any blood got into a gap and began to rot, he’d have to smoke the smell out with hot coals, and the smoke might upset the great house family. The pale stones took the most scrubbing to keep from staining. It was hard, but it was better than the typical unclean duties of tending swine, cleaning sewers, or burning corpses.
The first few weeks were very busy, as members of the warrior caste from across all of the lands of house Vadal tried to take up the sword. There was so much blood to clean up that the child found himself working in the main chamber more often than not. The overseer allowed him to stay hidden in there during the day, so he didn’t have to walk back and forth to the casteless quarter to fetch laborers.
The boy was able to watch many of the warriors’ attempts to wield the sword. Few ended in crippling injury or death, but all ended with blood.
* * *
There was a shadowed alcove in one corner of the main chamber, well hidden behind a few hanging tapestries. The boy squatted there, waiting, his precious rag clean and his bucket filled to the brim with soapy water. He liked his alcove. It was cool out of the sun, there were no biting insects, and best of all, the whole men could not see him, but he could see them. The overseer had dumped a few buckets of wash water over the boy first, so his betters wouldn’t detect the pig, ash, and dung smell of the casteless.
It was the first time he’d observed whole men. The Law declared that they were separate and better, but outside their armor shells the warriors didn’t seem so different from the non-people. They were strong and proud until the sword opened them up, then they screamed and bled the same color as a casteless. Above the warriors were the members of the great house. They didn’t look so different than his family, only they were far better fed, wearing real clothing, and carrying themselves without constant fear. But the Law said they were superior, so that was the way of things.
The house slaves began preparing the chamber by lighting lanterns. That meant that it was time for another attempt. Men in uniform, their station far beyond his understanding, arrived to serve as witnesses. The sword ended up in a different place every time, depending on where the last user had dropped it after it cut him, but the witnesses always stood as far from it as possible, as if it might become angry and cut them as well. They boy knew that was foolish. The sword only judged those who tried to wield it. He was only a casteless blood scrubber, and he already understood the sword better than the whole men in the fancy robes.
Someone stopped directly in front of his alcove so he could no longer see the proceedings through the gap in the tapestries. He stood up to try and see past them, but his view was being blocked by two people. He didn’t dare move the fabric or risk moving enough to slosh any water from his bucket.
“Who is it this time?” one of them asked.
“A pair of havildars from the coast,” a woman answered.
The young man chuckled. “Has our house grown that desperate?”
“What do you know of desperate? Sixty of our best soldiers have tried and failed. Ten of our own caste have been carried from this hall cut or missing limbs.” The woman sounded very angry, so the boy squished as far back into the corner as possible. Though he understood everything she said, her words were different than casteless speech, clear and not nearly so rough. These two were of the first caste. The angry woman continued. “We’ve been without our ancestor blade for nearly a month. The other houses are circling like vultures, and there are open discussions in the Capitol about our shame. If the sword does not choose soon, it will be seen as a sign of weakness.”
“My apologies, mother . . . But a mere havildar? That’s a nothing rank. Normally it would choose our greatest. For it to pick someone so low would be unseemly.”
“They are both young, but accomplished enough. Regardless, we are far beyond courtly matters now. The warrior caste is troubled. There are whispers that perhaps Angruvadal will not deem anyone worthy to wield it. If no one is chosen, then its magic will die. Other houses’ ancestor blades have died before, usually from treachery or dishonor, but whatever the reason, those great houses have perished soon after their swords. Perhaps you should try to take Angruvadal up yourself, firstborn.”
“I’m not the soldier father was.”
“Of course you’re not, Harta. And we’d ha
te for it to mark up that pretty face of yours. Now be silent. The warriors are here.”
He couldn’t see, but he could still hear. He’d already watched the sword maim dozens of others, and he figured that this wouldn’t be any different. The men in the robes announced the warriors by name, and their father’s name, and their father’s father. The boy still found that most curious. Casteless were not allowed to have a family name. Next the announcer listed their offices and exploits. That part normally took far longer than the test itself, only these introductions were shorter than normal. It sounded as if these warriors hadn’t dueled much or attended very many battles. Now the boy really wanted to see if the sword would treat them any differently from the proud ones it had already flayed.
“My lady, you do us all a great honor by attending this event. I will take up Angruvadal and serve with distinction, as your husband did before.”
“Proceed, Havildar,” the angry woman in front of the tapestries commanded.
A hushed silence fell over the main chamber. There were footsteps as the first man approached the sword. He must have been very brave, because there was no hesitation, just the scraping of metal on stone as the sword was lifted. The boy could feel the tension. All of the observers were holding their breath. Could this be the one?
Then the screaming began.
Nope.
The screaming abruptly stopped. The sword must have really disapproved of this warrior, because it had not taken long to make its decision. From the noise and the gasps of the crowd, it had been a particularly violent death. The woman of the first caste swore beneath her breath, but the boy was close enough that he was surprised to learn that even the highest of the high used the same profanity as the lowest of the low.
“Next,” she snapped.
This warrior sounded much younger and not nearly so cocky. “I will do my best, my lady.”
Luckily the man in front of the alcove had stepped to the side so the boy could peek out again. The first warrior had stabbed himself through the chest and it looked like he’d done a messy job yanking it back out through his guts. This one was going to be at least a five-bucket job. Sadly, he was bleeding out right on top of the palest stone in the entire floor. The boy would be scrubbing until his hands were raw tonight.
The second warrior was standing by the sword, looking flushed and timid. As usual, the dying man had flung the sword clear across the main chamber. Maybe that was why the witnesses tried to stand so far away, so as to not be sliced by accident as a disemboweled warrior flailed about. Despite just ripping a man in half, the gleaming black sword was clean. Wearing an expression like he was about to pet a cobra, he knelt down and extended one hand, but hesitated.
“Do it,” the lady of the house ordered.
He did. The warrior slowly lifted the sword from the floor. He grimaced when the handle bit into his hand. The boy didn’t know why the sword did that, maybe it wanted to taste them first? He stood up straight, held the sword pointed at nothing, and waited for its decision. This one had an honest face, so the boy hoped that the sword wouldn’t be too hard on him.
Several seconds passed. The crowd was growing hopeful. They began to whisper excitedly, but the boy could already tell this wasn’t right. The man was concentrating so hard that he was red-faced and sweating. Veins were standing out in his forehead and neck. This warrior was the strongest one yet, and he was most certainly a good man, but he wasn’t the right man.
Then it was as if the warrior’s limbs moved on their own. The muscles in his arm twitched and contracted. The dark blade flashed and he gasped as it parted his flesh. The sword clattered back to the stone at his feet. He stepped back, one hand pressed to the long weeping cut on his other arm.
It wasn’t even deep enough to sever any tendons. It had only cut him enough to teach him a lesson. The sword must have really liked this particular warrior.
“Forgive me,” the young man said through gritted teeth. “I was found wanting.”
“What did you see?” the woman demanded.
“So much . . .” It was as if he didn’t know how to put it into words. “It was as if the eyes of every warrior who has carried this blade before were upon me. There’s a thousand years of courage stored within, waiting for . . . something.” The warrior stumbled, then fell over on his backside. The men in uniform went to him to staunch the bleeding. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m becoming a bit faint.”
“Get out,” she snapped. “All of you, be gone from my house. Come back when you have someone worth a damn.”
The boy was glad the sword hadn’t chosen yet, because when it finally did he’d have to give up his comfy job of blood scrubber.
* * *
It would be dawn soon. He’d spent the entire night cleaning the pale stones. He’d scrubbed until his fingers had grown soft and his calluses had begun peeling off. He had to be careful not to add his own blood to the mess, so he’d torn scraps from the bottom of his shirt and wrapped his fingers so he could continue.
Up and down the stairs, he’d carried that bucket so many times. Down red, up clean, over and over, until he was satisfied that the main chamber was perfect. The house slaves told him that this big room was normally only used for parties, where members of the first caste and the highest-ranking warriors and richest workers would gather to dance and eat more meat than the entire casteless quarter would consume in a season. He suspected they were teasing him.
The boy had not seen the other casteless since they’d taken the warrior’s body to the furnace. There were guards patrolling inside the great house, but they didn’t pay any attention to him. He’d be inspected by the overseer when he was dismissed to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything. It was just the boy and the sword in the main chamber, so there was no one to punish him for speaking. He had been alone with the sword so many times over the last few weeks that it had become his only friend.
“Why did you spare the last warrior?” the boy asked the sword as he inspected the seams for any errant spatter. Of course, the sword did not answer. The only time it made any sound was when it was whistling through the air or hacking through bone. “Why do you only hurt some but kill others? I think it is because you like them better. The whole men think they know you, but I don’t think they do.”
The sword lay there, as long as he was tall, and made out of some dark metal that he’d never seen before. The boy walked around it carefully. “You don’t have ears so you probably can’t hear me, but mother says I talk just to hear myself anyway. You don’t have a mouth to talk, but you still let everybody know what you think!”
It was hard to find tiny specks of blood by lantern light alone, and a few times he found himself picking at something that was actually a brown spot on the rock itself. Even though he’d practically memorized every single stone set in the floor, he scrubbed at them just in case. “I probably shouldn’t talk to you because I’m not a real person, but you’re not a person either. I don’t know what the Law says about that.”
Then he noticed a fat drop of blood that he’d somehow missed, but only because it was beneath the sword.
The boy was suddenly very afraid. That had never happened before.
“I mop around you every night, but I can’t mop under you,” the boy said. “I could slosh some water on you. . . .” The tools the older casteless were issued sometimes rusted. Could this sword rust? If the whole men would have him severely beaten for missing a drop of blood, they’d surely murder him for making their magic sword rust.
Very carefully, he reached for the drop with his rag-wrapped fingertips. He didn’t know what the parts of the sword were called, but the part that protected the fingers was resting on the floor and lifted up the part the warriors tried to handle. If he was careful, he could sneak under that without touching anything.
He bumped it with one shaking knuckle. “I mean no disrespect.” The sword didn’t answer, but since it didn’t remove his fingers, it didn’t seem to mind. He wiped away the dro
p with a fingertip, but there was still a stain there on the stone. If he let it sit it would become a permanent blemish on House Vadal and he’d be beaten to death for it.
There had to be a way to move the sword without offending it . . . They’d put it here somehow after the Thakoor had died, after all, but he was not a trained warrior. He was a child of the non-people. He didn’t know any other way. “Forgive me, sword, but I have to fulfill my duty.”
The boy looked at the filthy rags wrapped around his hands. That would not do. It would be wrong to touch the sword with something dirty, so he unwound them until it was just raw, clean skin. Then he took a deep breath, reached out, and took hold of the handle.
It was far lighter than it looked.
The sword bit into his palm.
* * *
The guards found him some time later, lying on the floor, barely conscious, and raised the alarm.
Weak, confused, it was like waking up from a bad nightmare, and when the boy realized he was still holding onto the sword he began to panic. “I’m sorry!” Hot tears began to stream down his cheeks. “Please don’t kill me.”
But the intimidating guards seemed more terrified by this development than he was. Most of them seemed too stunned to react and stood there clutching nervously at their swords. One ran for help. Another even dropped to his knees, bowing to the boy as if he was of the highest caste.
Son of the Black Sword Page 11