Son of the Black Sword - eARC

by Larry Correia

  “Things are different now, Ashok. Once you’re dead, the sword is mine.”

  “You may kill me, but Angruvadal will never accept you.”

  “It will have no choice. Why aren’t you afraid, Ashok? You know you should be. You know what you face, so you should be begging for a quick end…No, the rumors are true. You’re not brave at all. You’re nothing more than a wizard’s broken toy. You’re no hero. You’re a puppy tricked into thinking it’s a wolf.”

  “We’re both abominations, but unlike you, I had no choice.” They had the small bridge to themselves, but the Somsak troops were crowded around the base and the sides of the ditch, eager to watch the duel and struggling to hear their Thakoor’s whispers. Ashok ignored Nadan and loudly addressed his men instead. “I commend you, warriors. You’ve fought hard. I’ve travelled across all of Lok and I’ve never met anyone with more courage and dedication than you’ve shown here today.”

  They seemed confused at the compliment from a man who’d already struck down so many of them. There were angry murmurs as Ashok’s words were repeated and relayed through the assembled Somsak.

  “I wonder, with men so valiant, surely they must not know what kind of creature they’re serving? Your Thakoor’s speech is no miraculous healing—”

  “Silence,” Nadan Somsak demanded as he took a step forward.

  “Nadan Somsak’s blood mingles with corruption. He’s made a pact with demons.”

  There was no time to see the warriors’ reaction, because the executioner’s blade came crashing down. The attack was so incredibly fast that Ashok barely had time to move aside before it shattered ice and pulverized the stone beneath. Ashok lunged, driving Angruvadal toward the Somsak’s breastplate, but somehow the heavy shield was there in time, knocking his attack aside. The giant sword rose, far too quickly, bits of stone and dust raining from it, and then it was moving in a terrible sweeping arc. Ashok ducked beneath as it whistled overhead. Crouched, he hacked at Nadan’s legs, but the Thakoor lowered the shield and Angruvadal struck a gash in the steel instead. Nadan was able to step back unharmed.

  The Somsak Thakoor was moving with a demon’s speed, only he’d retained his warrior skill. Nadan launched another mighty overhand blow. Ashok intercepted it with his shield. There was a horrendous crack as wood splintered, leather split, and a terrible shock traveled down the bones of his arm. Strong as a demon too. Wasting no time, Ashok went after his opponent, striking repeatedly, thrusting and cutting, but Nadan wielded the heavy blade like it was a fencer’s toy and stifled his attacks.

  Ashok struck with all his might, bringing his indestructible sword down against Nadan’s blade, a move that might have bent or broken a normal sword, but all it did was chip it. That thing was more like a sharpened piece of farm equipment than a mortal’s weapon. Nadan intercepted Ashok’s following attacks, then slammed his shield forward. Ashok caught it with his own shield, but it was like hitting a brick wall, and Ashok slid back across the red ice.

  They parted and circled. Ashok watched his opponent, how he stood, how he put his weight down on the slippery bridge, how he held his shield and shifted his heavy sword, and could discern no weakness. Ashok took the initiative and made an aggressive move to the side, trying to strike over the top of the shield, but Nadan caught it, and then the two were trading blows back and forth. They broke apart again, with Ashok breathing hard and arms burning, but with nothing to show for it other than several new dents in Nadan’s shield.

  Nadan came at him, swinging high, trying to force him to the edge of the bridge. Ashok struck his flat with the edge of his own blade, disrupting the attack, and then he drove his body forward, crashing into the shield and trying to knock it out of the way. Nadan lifted an armored knee and struck Ashok in the side hard enough to lift him into the air. The helm dipped forward suddenly, and an antler struck him in the head, splitting open his scalp. Ashok accepted the hit and kept pushing. It took more than that to rattle a Protector’s brain. They were too close, neither could get their swords in, so instead Ashok swung his shield, turning it and slamming the edge into Nadan’s helmet. That staggered him. He kept swinging, hitting him over and over. A deer antler snapped off and flew into the air. The steel deformed, but with a hiss, Nadan brought his sword up and the flat caught Ashok in the chest.

  Ashok fell, sliding and rolling down the bridge, not stopping until he hit the warm softness of a corpse. The air filling his lungs tasted like fire and blood, but Ashok sprang right back up. His shield was nothing but useless splinters dangling from frayed straps, so he flung it away. Nadan was coming down the bridge toward him, massive sword cleaving downward, and at the last instant Ashok noticed that the right side of Nadan’s helmet had been so deformed by the repeated shield strikes that one eye slit had been crushed nearly closed.

  Ashok flung himself that way as the executioner’s blade cleaved the dead Somsak soldier in half. Nadan tried to turn, but Ashok was already circling on his blind side, looking for a vulnerable point. Finding a narrow gap at the waist, Ashok struck. Angruvadal hit cleanly between the plates and he pulled into the cut with all his might, letting the black steel edge eat its way through. Mail and quilting split and the ancestor blade bit deep into the flesh beneath. Nadan let out an inhuman shriek.

  The huge shield flew around and hit him. It was like being rammed by an elephant, and the blow knocked Ashok clear back to the bottom of the casteless side of the bridge. He lay there for just a moment, figuring out which muscles had torn and which bones had cracked, but knowing it was worth it since he’d struck a mortal blow. You couldn’t cut up as many men as Ashok had without gaining nearly a surgeon’s knowledge of anatomy. He was certain he’d just sliced Nadan Somsak’s kidney in half.

  But the warrior was still up and coming his way fast. He rolled out of the way as the giant sword smashed more of the bridge into dust. Nadan should have been dying, but he wasn’t even slowing. If anything he was moving even faster than before. Just as the Heart of the Mountain kept him alive, the demon’s tongue must have been doing the same for Nadan.

  Since Angruvadal had battered his shield into deformed scrap, the demon-man threw it down in disgust and took up his huge sword in both hands. Getting to his feet, Ashok was barely able to stay ahead of Nadan’s blade. Blood and something else was pouring out of the terrible wound in Nadan’s side. There were two streams, one red and the other white as milk, almost as if there were two separate beings living inside the Thakoor’s armor.

  Gritting his teeth, Ashok vowed to destroy them both.

  They were on the casteless side now. Ashok backed away slowly as Nadan stalked him. The warriors were following them across, eager to see their house regain its former greatness. Ashok hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d spoken of their courage and dedication. They may have been brutes, but they had honor of a sort. The Somsak deserved to know the truth before it was too late.

  “You want to claim Angruvadal?” Ashok spread his arms wide. “Then this duel must be legal.”

  “Insufficient,” Nadan hissed. “I grant you nothing.”

  “Not for me. This duel is unfair to you. Your vision is impaired. I’ll wait while you take your helmet off.”

  Nadan may have been a hotheaded fool, but he wasn’t stupid. Either he knew drawing on the demon’s power was twisting his body into something else, or he at least suspected it enough not to take the chance. Nadan leapt forward, covering far more ground than even a Protector could have at his best, and then the executioner’s blade was flashing back and forth again, nearly too fast to follow.

  The combined instincts of fifty generations were the only thing that kept him alive. Faster and faster the two foes moved, striking and countering, hitting with blows that would have snapped regular blades or left them bent and useless. Another mighty attack came flying downward. Unable to move in time, Ashok raised Angruvadal in both hands and intercepted it. The impact felt like it would rupture every joint in his body. They clashed and locked there,
with the far stronger demon pushing hard, sliding Ashok across the ice. The black steel blade was shoved inexorably downward. If he faltered, he would die.

  Angruvadal warned him of the incoming danger, but there was nothing he could have done, nowhere he could have moved to, so all he could do was grimace as the crossbow bolt embedded itself deep into his abdomen. Razor sharp steel pierced his stomach. Ashok gasped.

  Nadan saw it and laughed in his face. “Excellent!” Ashok had already killed too many of their brothers for all of the Somsak to be concerned about the sanctity of a duel. Several others launched their bolts as well. Most missed, but another flew cleanly through his calf, severing strands of muscle and exiting in a fat shower of blood. His leg collapsed useless beneath him and Ashok fell. Nadan’s sword embedded itself into the ground inches from his head.

  “Enough! The Black Heart’s mine to kill! Not yours!”

  Rolling over, Ashok had to stick Angruvadal into the ice so he could lever himself back to his feet. One knee kept buckling, so he balanced on one foot until the Heart of the Mountain forced the damaged muscles to work again. All of his strength was flowing out of his stomach. His extremities felt cold, clumsy, and dead. Nadan watched, mocking him, but Ashok couldn’t make out the words over the ringing in his ears.

  There was no crime greater than consorting with demons, and no army was that loyal to their champion. If he exposed Nadan’s transgression in time, then Jharlang might be spared from the Somsak’s further wrath. Desperate, Ashok made his decision. The sword warned him the risk was too great and that escape was still possible.

  Forgive me, Angruvadal. Let my death have some meaning at least. He would do this one last thing to uphold the Law and then go into the endless nothing, content.

  Are you certain?

  In all the years he had carried it, even in the times when it had been his only companion, the sword had never used words before.

  “I am,” Ashok whispered past the blood spilling from his lips.

  Ready to die, Ashok slowly limped toward Nadan Somsak, intent on removing that helmet. He sincerely hoped that Thera and Keta had escaped. Omand and the judges would be so disappointed to hear that he’d not perished like a criminal after all. Ashok peered into the black steel resting in his hand. My final hope is that your next bearer proves to be more worthy than I have been.

  Nadan Somsak saw him coming and laughed. They both knew this was the end. The army held its breath as their demonic champion lifted his sword in both hands. The executioner’s blade flashed, but rather than avoid it, Ashok suddenly stepped into the killing arc, driving Angruvadal upward, directly into his opponent’s helmet.

  Angruvadal exploded.

  Chapter 49

  Keta saw it all.

  Angruvadal shattered like a piece of glass.

  Only instead of falling, the pieces seemed to hang there, suspended between the two frozen combatants, but time stalled only briefly, because there was a blinding flash and a roar of thunder that filled the whole world.

  Keta had struggled up through the fists and boots of the angry villagers until he could watch. The Forgotten must have given him the strength to do so because it was his duty to be a witness. They’d still been trying to pull him down when the burning wind rolled through them and knocked the workers down.

  The entire village was plunged into a searing furnacelike heat. The ice immediately began to melt and run. Where Ashok had been standing, there was a black spot floating in the air, almost like a hole had been burned into the world, but then it slowly faded, leaving nothing but a painful sting in the eye.

  After the thunder, it was eerily still. A hushed silence fell over the entire village. The painful heat began to dissipate. Slowly, the Somsak warriors and terrified villagers lifted their heads, trying to figure out what had just happened.

  The two combatants had been flung apart. Ashok was lying there, unmoving. Their demonic champion had gone down as well.

  But slowly, the demon rose.

  His helmet had been swept away, revealing the evil beneath. That face may have belonged to a man once, covered in scars and intricate tattoos, but there was a new art drawn on it in corruption. Beneath the ink and skin was a map of twisting, pulsing veins, white and thick with pus. The horrible being turned toward his army, lifted his arms triumphantly and shouted, “I am victorious! Somsak!” He pumped his gauntlets in the air. “SOMSAK!”

  The warriors didn’t cheer. Instead they recoiled in horror when they saw the forked tongue roll past their champion’s jagged black teeth.

  Keta was more concerned for Ashok. Pushing through the stunned workers, Keta stumbled toward the bridge. The Somsak didn’t try to stop him. On the other side of the ditch, Ashok still wasn’t moving at all. He didn’t appear to be breathing.

  Then Keta heard the Voice.

  The path is set.

  The Voice was difficult to describe, and he’d already heard it many times. It wasn’t in your ear, but rather inside your head, crashing about the interior of your skull as subtle as a drum. When the prophet spoke to you with the Voice of the gods, there was no way not to hear it.

  My faithful servant has been sacrificed.

  And now the Voice was speaking to everyone in Jharlang. Most of the villagers were cowering and covering their ears, though Keta knew from experience that would do them no good. Nothing could keep out the Voice. Even the terrifying Somsak were confused and afraid.

  Heed this warning. Soon, the demons will rise from the sea.

  The rising clouds of steam began to coalesce into a gigantic man-shaped figure that loomed over the square. Warrior and worker alike recoiled in terror.

  The Sons of Ramrowan must defeat them.

  The Voice had never taken form before, yet beneath the glowing fog was a single person, tiny in comparison to the giant.

  Today’s testimony has been sealed in blood.

  The prophet stood inside the glowing giant, hooded head bowed, swaying and arms dangling, most certainly unaware of the cryptic words being channeled through her. Keta felt both envy and pity when the trance of the gods fell over her. She would remember nothing afterward. It was the Keeper’s job to record and remember.

  There will be much more before all the world remembers what has been forgotten.

  The glow faded. The fog collapsed and rolled away, leaving Thera standing there alone.

  Keta’s sense of duty told him to stop and write down the words, but he kept pushing toward the bridge instead. It had said the faithful servant had been sacrificed, and Ashok appeared to be dead. Keta looked back toward his prophet. Poor Thera was snapping out of her trance, looking around, bewildered, confused why she found herself with an entire village suddenly staring at her, shocked and afraid.

  Thera lifted her hands imploringly toward the cowering villagers. “Please, don’t be scared.”

  “Witchcraft!” a worker screamed.

  Thera seemed to shrink, instinctively making sure her hood was up, hiding the scar from where she’d been smote with the bolt from the heavens. The Voice had lived inside her ever since. Her house had been so terrified that they’d tried to hurl her into the sea. She’d spent most of her life running, constantly pursued by the Inquisition. It was Ratul who had recognized Thera for what she really was.

  “She is the prophet, the chosen of the Forgotten!” Keta shouted. Then something caught his eye. High above, vultures were circling. A few of them were descending, far too rapidly, growing larger and larger, until Keta realized each was as big as a man. They were heading straight for his prophet. “Thera, look out!” But as Keta watched, horrified, the unnatural things landed, encircled her, and attacked.

  Chapter 50

  The little casteless blood scrubber boy looked up from the red puddle. He was on his knees on the cold stone floor of the main hall of Great House Vadal. There were two objects lying before him. At different times both had been his most precious possession in life, mighty Angruvadal and a humble wash bucket.
He looked at his hands, a child’s hands, tiny, torn, and rubbed raw from pushing a rag and wringing it out hundreds of times. Then he looked up to see that there was a lone figure watching him, dressed in a suit of armor, far different than any he’d ever seen before, yet somehow still familiar.

  “There should be nothing after death. The Law promised nothing. This is not nothing.”

  “Your Law was an attempt to make things right, and in exchange it made many more things wrong,” the armored man said. “Besides, you’re not dead yet.”

  “Damn it.”

  The man walked over. His armor made no sound, because it was made of something not metal, but better. The puddle of blood rolled away from the man as if it were a living thing, afraid to stain his boots. He knelt next to Angruvadal and nonchalantly picked up the sword. Surprisingly, the sword didn’t punish him for it. The stranger was a handsome man, and as he examined the perfect weapon, a warm smile formed on his face. “Hello, old friend.”

  “Are you the next bearer?”

  He chuckled. “There is no one next. I was the first, and you are the last.”

  “The last? Have I dishonored it so?”

  “On the contrary, you have fulfilled the measure of its creation.” Now that he was closer, things seemed clearer. The armor was familiar because the design and color was similar to what the Protectors used, only this was far too smooth, too perfect to have come from the hand of man. It hadn’t been forged, but grown. The style of the Order’s armor was nothing but a poor copy based on this, and it had been that way since before the Age of Kings. “Do you know why Angruvadal picked you, Fall?”

  “No.”

  “Me either, but that’s what it was always meant to do. I suppose we’ll all have to find out together.”

  “Are you the Forgotten?”

  “I’ve been forgotten by most, but I’m not the Forgotten. I’m a ghost of a memory, recorded on a weapon. My name is Ramrowan and you must finish what I started.”