A Demon in Silver

by R. S. Ford

  Outside was a vast circular courtyard. There must have been hundreds of boys arranged in ranks from the youngest at the front to older youths in their teens towards the rear.

  Surrounding them on all sides were high buildings built from the same smooth white stone as the rest of the city. Carvings had been cut into the surface of each, creating friezes that seemed to rise up in the shape of vast animals and beasts of legend. Kaleb could barely comprehend how long it must have taken to hew such things.

  No words were spoken as the brute with the whip stood in front of them, regarding them from beneath heavy brows. With a crack of that vicious scourge, they began.

  The boys surrounding Kaleb and his fellows moved into a strange stance, their legs spread wide, hands placed in front of them, in a similar manner to how a pugilist might stand before a fight. Beside him, Kaleb saw Dantar adopt the stance almost exactly, and quickly he did likewise. Tem and Rulf weren’t so fast to catch on, and he heard one of them yelp. An older boy with a stick had struck one of them on the arm to raise it to the right position. With another quick crack of the cane he struck his thigh to move him into the correct posture.

  As soon as the boys had mastered the first stance it suddenly changed. This time it was Kaleb’s turn to make a mistake, his body clearly too far forward, and without any words spoken he was struck in the back, straightening his stance, the cane then nudging his chin upwards.

  This went for most of the morning, with Kaleb’s legs shaking more violently from the strain every passing moment. It wasn’t just the newcomers who were subjected to the lash. Further back the older boys were put through more complicated and strenuous routines, their punishments all the more harsh if they made an error. Kaleb noted more masters wandering the rows of boys, none too shy about using their whips.

  When he thought he could take no more, the silent signal was given for them to finish, and the boys filed back inside for food. Kaleb realised what Gerval had meant by them earning the right to eat.

  As they sat in silence, Kaleb leaned in close to one of the older boys.

  ‘Is it like this every day?’ he whispered.

  The boy shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘No,’ he whispered back. ‘Most days it is worse.’

  That night Kaleb stared at Jodeth’s empty bed until exhaustion took him.

  * * *

  The next weeks and months were an endless routine of sleeping, eating and exercising in the Circle. Every morning they were awakened in the same way by their grim taskmaster, by the man Kaleb came to know as Dominus Morghil. He was one of many such men set to training and disciplining the younger recruits.

  Had Kaleb known what this place was months earlier perhaps he would have accepted Gerval’s offer of the desert. Now he had no choice but to stay.

  Other than the harsh physical discipline they endured, the recruits were quickly indoctrinated in the ways of their order. Every third morning was dedicated to prayer in the temple. The boys would sit in silent reverence before being lectured in the doctrines of their new master – Blood Regent Seferius.

  They never saw him, but they learned enough to be afraid. Every one of their masters, even Gerval, seemed to hold the man in reverence, fear even, and that was enough to instil the same respect in Kaleb.

  He learned that Seferius ruled in the stead of the Blood Lord, who himself was an avatar of Qeltine, a being of sorcerous might who had perished almost a century before when magic had been excised from the lands of men. Kaleb was taught to observe the rites and sacraments of the Brotherhood, and soon he began to accept the dogma as though it were a part of his own soul.

  Not only were these rituals designed to praise the Regent Seferius, but they also taught the boys the honoured history of the Qeltine Brotherhood. It was an ancient order, steeped in war and death and valiant deeds. He learned that the Brotherhood was ancient and powerful, until that power was stripped away during the Fall. Now it served to uphold the tenets of Qeltine until such a time as its followers could bring back magic to the world and serve their god once more.

  * * *

  After more weeks than Kaleb could count, he and the other boys – Tem, Rulf and Dantar – were brought to the main temple alone. It was a vast white tower, its walls adorned with carvings of snarling demons and ancient wyrms. Gerval awaited them, surrounded by several other priests, their dark robes hiding any detail of the men beneath.

  The four boys were made to kneel in the centre of the temple. On the floor beneath them Kaleb could see sigils carved into the marble, each groove encrusted with something he couldn’t identify.

  The priests surrounding them were chanting in low voices in a language that Kaleb could not comprehend. Weeks earlier this whole scene would have unnerved him, but not anymore. This seemed normal to him now – despite what he had been put through since his arrival he had learned to trust his mentors, no matter how harsh his treatment.

  As the priests chanted, Gerval came to stand before each of them, holding a chalice.

  ‘You have all proven yourselves worthy. Once anointed you will stand a Brother of the Qeltine, granted a new name and a new life.’

  Gerval came to stand before Tem and dipped his thumb into the chalice. It came out slick and red. As Tem looked up, his eyes closed, Gerval wiped the blood across his eyelids leaving a crimson line.

  ‘Rise, Tem Kol,’ he said.

  Tem obeyed silently, and Gerval repeated the process until the boys stood as brothers – Rulf Hark, Dantar Rus. When finally Gerval came to the end of the line Kaleb could feel his heart fluttering. For the first time since he had come to this place he now truly felt like he belonged.

  The blood Gerval spread across his eyelids was warm.

  ‘Rise, Kaleb Kharn.’

  Kaleb rose to stand alongside his brothers and the chanting of the priests stopped.

  Now they truly belonged to the Qeltine.

  33

  There was a comfort he took from feeling that sword in his hand. Four feet of honed and tempered steel. Leather binding at the grip that had left calluses on his palm from years of use. The sword felt like it belonged. It was a part of him, and he was naked without it.

  Kaleb Kharn had excelled. While still a neophyte he had mastered all forms – Mantis, Spider and Scorpion. Had learned how to overcome the defences of the fighting styles practised by other cults – Raven, Bear, Wolf, Falcon, Viper, Lion.

  But even after becoming a formidable swordsman, Kaleb still tried to cling onto some semblance of compassion. Despite the ministrations of Kragenskûl’s priests, he was still the Kaleb of old; only he buried it deep, keeping his humanity protected like a taper in a storm.

  On the outside no one would ever have suspected.

  In the Circle there were few who could stand against him, and certainly no other sword brother. None other than his brother Dantar. It seemed inevitable that they would rise to become Sword Saints. Nothing could stop them.

  Of the thirty he had trained alongside in his first year, only four remained. The others had fallen during training or been sent to other parts of Kragenskûl to become priests, Bloodguard, or Silent Sons, if their failure in duty was deemed ignominious enough.

  Soon the last four would find out whether they were worthy. Soon they would be put to trial as never before. Though Kaleb didn’t know the nature of that trial he was sure he would be worthy. Neither he nor Dantar had reached their place by doubting their abilities. The only question was when that trial would come.

  The histories of the Sword Saints had been written in blood and martyrdom. There had been a hundred wars fought for the glory of the Blood Lord and for Qeltine. With each escalation came fables of the bravest and most deadly warriors.

  Faergan Ap’Ra was said to have single-handedly held back one thousand Maidens of Mandrithar at the Battle of Black Tarn Pass. During the Age of Penitence, Dulchus Ap’Krul cleaved the head from the Blood Lord of Katamaru, sending him back to his hellish plane for a thousand years. After the Fa
ll, Cestius Ap’Gral travelled alone into the heart of the Gargamere, defeating the Bone Chieftain and returning with his rotting head.

  The Sword Saints had always been an order of renown. Always balancing its reputation on the edge of a silver blade. For that reason only the most dedicated, only the most stalwart, could ever pass into their ranks. It was with sacrifice that the Sword Saints would carve their names in history. And so it was with sacrifice they would begin their lives.

  Brother on brother was the ultimate test. Men who had trained together as boys now had to prove their devotion to an eidolon they had never seen by slaying one of their own. It was seen as the last sacrifice for men who were to become avatars of death. If Kaleb was worthy, he would survive. If Qeltine smiled down upon him he would advance into the most trusted and respected sect in the Ramadi Wastes. If not he would be buried out in the wilderness, no marker on his grave, never mourned, merely forgotten.

  The day of the trial was one they had come to fear, to yearn for. When the trial was upon them, each brother would face it with solemn reserve. Expecting victory but accepting defeat if it came. For such was the will of the Blood Lord. The will of the Qeltine Brotherhood.

  The Ramadi Wastes, 102 years after the Fall

  KALEB stood in the courtyard. Dantar was to his left, then Tem and Hocka. Dominus Morghil paced impatiently, his hands gripped behind him, knuckles white, the muscles of his arms tensed and bulging. His jaw was set as he walked up and down as though he loathed the wait, but he suffered it in silence.

  Each brother held his steel in his hand. Soon that steel would be stained red and four would become two. Kaleb gripped his sword loosely, feeling its reassuring weight. As confident as he was with the blade, he knew not to be too sure of victory or to underestimate his brothers. If he was picked to fight opposite Dantar he knew his life would be in the balance, his chance of victory small. Still, he would not let doubt turn to fear. If he was to die it was the Blood Lord’s will.

  There was movement across the courtyard. A figure appeared in the distance and Morghil ceased his pacing. He let out an impatient breath as he waited for the figure to approach.

  Kaleb could see the man was of average height. Though physically he looked nothing special, his gait told the tale of a warrior: tread light and balanced, shoulders set. As he drew closer Kaleb recognised the black robe of a Sword Saint. His hair was dark, falling about his shoulders, and his face bore two deep scars: one across the forehead, one from cheek to chin.

  The Sword Saint stood before them, ignoring Morghil as he addressed them.

  ‘I am Jaegor Ap’Han,’ he said. ‘And I am here to preside over your final assessment.’ From within the red sash at his waist he produced a black felt bag. ‘Within are four stones: two white, two black. They will determine who you will face in this last test.’

  Kaleb drew in a breath as Jaegor walked forward, approaching him first. The Sword Saint held out the bag and Kaleb reached within, feeling the stones against his fingertips. He picked one and held it tight within his palm. Jaegor moved along the row and Kaleb’s brothers took their own stones.

  ‘Show them,’ said Jaegor.

  Each of the brothers held out his palm. Kaleb’s stone was shining black and he saw, with some relief, that Dantar’s was white. Hocka held out his hand showing white. Kaleb glanced across, first at the black stone on Tem’s palm, then at the look of reservation in his eyes. They glanced at one another for the merest moment but both knew their fates were entwined.

  ‘Very well,’ said Jaegor, taking a step back. ‘Whites, begin.’

  Dantar and Hocka stepped forward to face one another. Dantar slid a foot backwards, bending his front knee, sword held high, point down in the Mantis stance. Hocka spread his legs wide, resting his weight on his thighs, sword held to his side, blade down in the Spider.

  Kaleb watched, feeling the tension mount as they stood facing one another. He was keen for this to be over, but neither Dantar nor Hocka seemed ready to begin.

  Morghil seemed even more impatient, glaring at Dantar as though he had failed in some task, but the dominus said nothing. Jaegor Ap’Han watched in silence and Kaleb began to get a sense that Morghil was cowed by the Sword Saint.

  As Kaleb pondered the power Jaegor held, Hocka made his move. Kaleb barely saw Hocka’s attack, his blade moved so blindingly fast. But Dantar was swifter, stepping forward into Hocka’s attack, his own sword cutting the air faster than Kaleb could see it. One attack, one counter and Hocka shuffled forward, the blade dropping from his fingers. Crimson spilled from his neck across his white tunic. He made no motion to stem the tide.

  Dantar stood, sweeping his sword in an arc to flick the blood from the blade then wiping it on the sash at his waist before sheathing it. Hocka fell forward as blood pooled around him.

  Before Kaleb had even had a chance to acknowledge the loss of his brother, Jaegor said, ‘Blacks, begin.’

  Kaleb and Tem silently took their positions facing one another. Tem adopted the Mantis – after all it had been successful for Dantar. Kaleb shifted his stance to stand square, sword back and wide over his head in the Scorpion.

  This was it, Kaleb’s final test, but as he looked at Tem’s determined expression he felt doubt creep into his thoughts. He and Tem were brothers. They had travelled here together from Farcove, trained together, suffered every trial side by side and now, in this courtyard, one would be forced to kill the other. There was no justice in this, but justice did not matter here in the Circle. Only the will of the Blood Lord. Only obedience.

  As Tem raced forward, sword ready to strike, Kaleb expelled any doubt. It almost cost him, as he brought his blade down to parry and Tem anticipated it, sweeping upwards to score a strike at Kaleb’s shoulder. The blade was so keen Kaleb suffered no pain, but he could feel the sleeve of his tunic split and the warm spread of blood on his flesh.

  He turned, stepping back, sword rising to counter the next strike of Tem’s Mantis, but his brother had already adjusted his stance to the Spider.

  Despite his brother’s change of strategy, Kaleb advanced. Tem’s blade thrust forward, but Kaleb made no attempt to parry. Instead he allowed the blade to strike, tearing at his tunic again and scoring a flesh wound at the hip. Kaleb did not step away, letting the strike pierce his flesh so he could gain the advantage.

  His own blade struck forward – the Sting of the Scorpion – taking Tem above the hip and into his innards.

  Tem stopped, realising he had already lost. As Kaleb swiftly pulled his blade from his brother’s body, Tem fell to his knees. He stared up at Kaleb, resigned to his fate as blood spilled across his groin and thighs, turning his white tunic red.

  This was the time for the killing blow. It was a mercy – Tem must have been in agony though his face did not show it. Kaleb lifted his blade to strike but paused. Though their fight had been brief, Tem had fought well. He deserved better than this.

  But Kaleb had no choice.

  His final blow was swift, piercing Tem’s heart and halting his last breath. In a single motion Kaleb slid the sword free and cleaned it on the sash at his waist. After sheathing his blade he walked back to stand beside Dantar.

  ‘Kneel,’ Jaegor commanded.

  Kaleb and Dantar immediately dropped to one knee. Kaleb felt the sudden sting of his wounds but gave no complaint.

  ‘You have both been chosen, by the grace of the Blood Lord. From this day, until you die in service to the Qeltine Brotherhood, you are Sword Saints. You will bear the title without pride, but so that others might fear your name. Stand Dantar Ap’Rus. Rise Kaleb Ap’Kharn.’

  They stood, facing Jaegor. No emotion was shown, despite the thrill filling Kaleb like an elixir.

  Jaegor made to speak, but Dantar stepped forward before he could. ‘Him,’ he said, sword raised, pointing at Morghil. ‘I want him.’

  A grim smile crossed Morghil’s face at the same time a frown creased Jaegor’s brow. ‘Brother?’ said Jaegor. ‘This is not—’ />
  ‘I have waited long enough.’ Dantar stepped forward.

  Morghil picked up Tem’s fallen blade, testing its weight in his right hand as he unfurled the whip from his belt.

  ‘Fear not, Jaegor,’ Morghil said. ‘This pup has wanted to test his mettle against me for a decade. It’s just a shame you’ll only have one new brother to take to war.’

  Before Dantar could adopt a stance, Morghil’s whip flashed through the air, catching Dantar about the neck. Morghil pulled Dantar towards him, sword raised. Dantar’s blade flashed, slicing the whip in two before coming up to parry. Another swift strike and he hacked a furrow in Morghil’s bicep. The sword fell from the dominus’s hand and Kaleb saw his confidence fade.

  Dantar stepped to the side, his swift blade hacking off Morghil’s whip arm at the elbow. The dominus gritted his teeth in pain, but he was not as accepting of defeat as Kaleb’s brothers had been. He opened his mouth to bellow one last time, just as Dantar swept the head from his shoulders.

  Dantar cleaned his blade and turned back to Jaegor. Kaleb could see his face was impassive as he pulled the whip from about his neck, letting it drop to the ground. Jaegor seemed unperturbed by the dominus’s demise.

  ‘Brothers,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’

  With that, he led the Sword Saints from the Circle.

  34

  The Ramadi cults had been in a perpetual state of war for centuries. Even before the Fall they had battled one another for every last league of territory, sacrificing teeming hordes to their dark gods, turning the once verdant lands into a wasteland. Heroes had fought and died and been committed to the histories over those centuries, their deeds becoming legend. And now, gods be willing, Kaleb Ap’Kharn’s would be among those hallowed names.

  As was tradition, Kaleb, like all fledgling Sword Saints, had been apprenticed to a veteran. Having known nothing but Kragenskûl and its surroundings since he was a child it was only practical that he have someone to follow, to aspire to. Someone to teach him the way beyond the cloistered shelter of the great city in the desert. It was Avenor Ap’Wroch who had been given that task.