Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  Nearby, the Nix tore huge frozen swaths from the ground

  The body of Audeph Klestmark lay just beyond him, untouched by violence.

  It wasn’t until Rosenwyn realized the gargoyle lay fixated on someone else that she saw the old crone. The woman fled upon her own mount, trying to gain the safety of the forest through the meadow. A black speck flew at her side.

  The fairy Bazltrix.

  “Go after her!” Rosenwyn screamed at the stone monolith.

  “I cannot go beyond the boundaries of Caer Dathal,” the grotesque roared, voice thick with rage. “I am chained and cannot go after the witch.”

  “A witch?”

  “Yes, Rosenwyn Whyte,” the Nix grated. “A witch.”

  Rosenwyn watched as sunlight punctuated the hills, the snow-cover blinding as it reflected the sun. She then looked to the body. If Audeph Klestmark laid dead and not the thief, who did Bazltrix accompany in flight?

  Her own rage replied to her question.

  “If I help you, will that be proof this was not my intention?”

  The Nix nodded with bearish ferocity. Rosenwyn dismounted. She sent Wennyl back into the forest and then walked in front of the gargoyle, throwing off her fur-lined cloak. The icy air bit her but she did not feel it, her thoughts elsewhere.

  Instead, she removed her gloves and pushed up her sleeves.

  Exposing her skin.

  The moment she did that, the day darkened, the countryside become draped in pervasive shadow even as she began to brighten, her fair skin flaring with light. Closing her eyes, Rosenwyn focused. The magic in her blood illuminated the countryside and all within it, the power that she kept hidden as a secret now fully exposed to the world and its elements. The light built until her skin writhed with it, power that filled her with dread and euphoria. Dark memories flooded her, of a time, as a child, when she stood at her window in a cloudless night—and moonlight bringing to terrible life the magic that would change her life forever.

  Older now and having learned more about her curse, Rosenwyn still barely controlled it. It grew inside, a caged beast, and before it consumed her, she unleashed lightning upon the air, a swollen flood thundering through an obstinate dam. It blasted from her, into the earth, into the sky, into the morning. She sensed the Nix thrown away like a rag doll. The air sizzled and Rosenwyn concentrated on what her body had become, a gathering rod of sorts, capturing the sunlight and changing it into violence. The lightning arced and she sent it as best she could toward the fleeing woman and her fairy companion. As the lightning met the witch, a bright burst of wicked green flared, one not of Rosenwyn’s making.

  The crone vanished in an eruption of Everwinter elements.

  When using her magic began to overwhelm her, Rosenwyn covered her skin anew, darkness swimming in her vision.

  And collapsed, drained.

  Silence more hollow than a graveyard followed, stillness so intense it rang in her ears. She breathed hard, fighting faintness. When she had recovered enough, she pushed up off the ground and focused on what she had done.

  In the distance, the horse the witch had been riding lay unmoving.

  Of the witch and the fairy, there was no sign.

  The Nix untangled his stone body from crushed trees where the lightning had thrown him. “Woman of Many Talents,” the stone behemoth growled a laugh, striding up to her. “I sensed your magic but I was not prepared for it.”

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “No,” the Nix rumbled. “I have been struck by lightning more times than I can recount. It is nothing to me.” He looked deeper into the meadow where the horse smoked. “You will have to approach with utmost caution. I cannot go with you. Be wary. The witch has guile and all too surely hates you for what just transpired.”

  Exhausted but determined, Rosenwyn nodded and mounted Wennyl. Both made their way to the horse’s remains. The lightning had torn a hole in the mount’s side, killing the mare instantly.

  Having searched the area, Rosenwyn returned to the Nix.

  “What did you find?” the gargoyle asked. “The grimoires?”

  “No,” she said, frustrated. She dismounted and went to the side of Audeph Klestmark. “The fairy is dead, reduced to black ash on the snow. The witch vanished though. The lightning threw her free of her mount but she regained her feet. The tracks led about twenty paces before they disappeared, like she never existed.”

  “Magic protected her and then concealed her passage. She will not be easily found,” the Nix said, gently picking up the body of Audeph Klestmark with his remaining massive fist. “Come.”

  Rosenwyn nodded, the defeat like poison in her mouth and followed the great stone behemoth back toward his home. She first made certain the man from the Raging Drunk was dead. Aron McManus couldn’t be more so. One eye stared up through the trees, the rest of his skull crushed beyond identification. Rosenwyn then went to the body of Audeph Klestmark where the Nix had laid her just outside the entrance to his lair. The wealthy woman stared to the side, her mouth agape. The thief checked over the body. She could not find a cause for the woman’s death.

  “You were attacked by this man here?” the Nix said, observing the remains.

  “Wennyl finished him,” she said.

  “A fine Rhedewyr, a finer friend.” The grotesque examined Audeph Klestmark then. “She was a vessel. And this was a plot,” he growled.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Look upon her. Note what can be seen.”

  Rosenwyn did so. It did not take long to compare the difference from their previous meeting in Mur Castell—discarded gloves revealing fingers devoid of rings.

  “Her rings are gone yet necklace and earrings remain,” Rosenwyn observed.

  “It means the rings held more worth,” the Nix said. “And when it comes to magic and power, gems are priceless in the province of the witch.”

  “And the vessel?”

  “This woman did not die, not by another’s hand. No wounds. No bruising,” the Nix said, inspecting the body. “An innocent. Housing a very rare evil. That evil overtook the body of this woman, similar to how a shadow infiltrates another shadow. Unseen. A witch, ancient, one whose body has long since decayed to dust yet the spirit lives on in a different body. One such witch even courted one of the rebel Druids of Caer Dathal. It is said she fled while my home—and her Druid partner—fell.” The Nix looked into the forest as if the witch would be there. “And she would want the grimoires back. For their power…or something far more grave for Annwn.”

  “The grimoires of her fallen brethren,” Rosenwyn said. “What have I done?”

  “A terrible omen. No good can come of this.”

  Rosenwyn hated that she had aided the witch. More than she hated even herself.

  “Tell me your role in this,” the Nix rumbled. “With detail.”

  Rosenwyn did. She had no reason not to. She started with her childhood and the magic that she possessed—the same magic that had killed her family and plagued her life since that dark day. Talking briefly about becoming a Lleidr Corryn, she instead related her time as a musician—until the night when the man at the Raging Drunk had offered his company and the fairy intervened, leading to a clandestine meeting with Lady Audeph Klestmark and her promise to help rid Rosenwyn of her debilitating curse in exchange for the Grimoires of the rebel Druids.

  “The man who tried to kill you,” the gargoyle said. “He aided the witch. He was hired, under the supervision of the witch, to help deliver another vessel body. In killing this Lady Audeph Klestmark, you now have no lead to follow. This witch is devious. And she has her freedom.” The Nix punched the ground, making Rosenwyn jump. He ignored her discomfort. “She stole dangerous knowledge,” he said. “Quite possibly, the most dangerous books under my care.”

  “What makes them so dangerous?” she asked. “How can a set of books be that worrisome? They are only bound paper and ink.”

  “Books are quite possibly the most powerfu
l items in the world, Rosenwyn Whyte,” Nicodemys Rothyn argued. “These particular grimoires especially. They possess dark magic. That knowledge, in evil hands, could be a terrible bane on Annwn.” The gargoyle turned to her, his dark eyes penetrating. “You were a part of this. I wish it were otherwise. I rather like you.”

  Rosenwyn thought the gargoyle about to attack. There would be no surviving.

  “I did not sense the witch’s magic,” the Nix growled. “Because of you.”

  “My magic masked her magic.”

  The Nix nodded, still angry. “Do you wish to make amends?”

  She realized she did. Nobody made a fool of her and lived to tell it. “I do,” she admitted honestly. “Very much.”

  “Very well,” the Nix said. “You start now.”

  “Start what?”

  “You have power, Woman of Many Talents,” the behemoth rumbled, his voice reverberating through the chill air. “It is powerful. You can also go where I cannot. You will become an extension of my will, for a time, until you have paid back the debt of your involvement. A Lleidr Corryn will become the White Rose.” Rosenwyn was about to protest when the Nix raised his fist for silence. “Once, after the fall of Caer Llion, I had one such as you retrieve those lost grimoires from the private collection of the High King. In time, you will discover this witch. And regain what she stole.”

  “Where is that thief who stole the books from Caer Llion?” she questioned.

  “Death comes all too soon in my presence, it seems.”

  Rosenwyn did not know what that meant. But if anyone could steal the grimoires back, it would be her.

  “Do you accept this proposal?” the Nix asked finally.

  “There may be a time when I am discovered. By those who would see me dead for abdicating my role as Lleidr Corryn,” Rosenwyn said, hating the thought of confronting that part of her life. “In the past, I avoided Vrace Erryn and Rol Macleod by playing in a different town almost every night.”

  “Like the wind,” the Nix said. “Constantly moving.”

  “Very much so,” she said. “I can not guarantee others will not search for me here—and find you in the process. And all you possess. My life is tied to the master thief’s token. They will come for me.”

  “The two other master thieves,” the Nix grunted. “We will worry about them when the day of their reckoning comes.”

  The gargoyle said it so nonchalant she actually believed him.

  The Nix gazed at the dark clouds roaming their blue sky:

  “Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud

  Turn forth her silver lining on the night?

  I did not err; there does a sable cloud

  Turn forth her silver lining on the night,

  And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.”

  “What does that mean?” Rosenwyn asked.

  “That is a verse from a John Milton poem, my White Rose thief,” the Nix said. “Another poet from the world beyond Annwn. The passage means not every evil turn is for ill if one is capable of perceiving it.”

  “That is quite appropriate, I guess,” she admitted. “The sable cloud has entered our lives. But that same cloud has brought us together.” She patted Wennyl who nuzzled her back. “Time to find the witch and end her own silver lining.”

  “I could not agree more,” Nicodemys Rothyn growled.

  Life had a way of changing course, like a swollen river escaping its original banks. It could not be fought, only accepted. Rosenwyn went to gather her things. If the Nix could endure the change in his role from gargoyle atop Caer Dathal of Old to living in its ruins, she could adapt and become something more.

  She breathed in the chill and returned to the ruins.

  And her new home of Saith yn Col.

  A Length of Cherrywood

  Peter Orullian

  In some ways, this is an origin story for Jastail J’Vache, a character from my series, The Vault of Heaven. But you don’t need to have read any of that to dive into “A Length of Cherrywood.” You’ll see Jastail do some dastardly stuff. You’ll meet a few of his associates who are altogether not nice. You’ll also see that just maybe there are reasons Jastail is the way he is.

  I have to admit that this isn’t a romp. This isn’t charming villainy. Or a clever heist. Or a bloodbath. The ending surprised me. It’s the kind where suffering stares back at you from the page. Probably my horror roots showing through. But there is one moment that shines. And maybe a bit brighter for the darkness around it.

  ~

  Jastail J’Vache crouched behind a thick patch of scrub oak and watched the woman washing clothes in the river. She hummed a tune as she worked, alone, unaware of him or his highwaymen hiding in a rough circle around her. Beyond the thinning trees stood a wagon, a hundred paces away. Too far for anyone to be of immediate aid. Jastail put a hand in his pocket, running his fingers over grooves in a short length of cherrywood. A reminder. Then, quite casually, he stood, revealing himself. “Greetings, my lady.”

  The woman’s head snapped up. Her eyes wide.

  “I’ve alarmed you.” Jastail began to skirt the low brush, moving toward her. “My apologies. It’s something of a hazard in my line of work, I’m afraid.”

  Insensibly, the woman gathered in the wet clothes and got to her feet. Jastail offered a wan smile at that. Such value for clothes belonged to the exceptionally poor. She began to back away from him, in the direction of her wagon.

  “Come, don’t fret yourself. This needn’t go hard between us.” He stepped into the shallow river, crossing directly toward her.

  Just as she turned to run, he raised a hand and his men stepped from their concealments. The woman skidded to a stop, fell, and dropped the wet clothes.

  Jastail reached the other side of the river as she scrambled to her feet and turned to face him.

  “There, much better.” He put on a smile of reassuring approval. “I think we have an understanding.”

  The woman glanced down at the clothes between them. He followed her gaze. The clothes . . . belonged to children.

  Lawry, his newest man, laughed. “A neat prize. The lady and her loinfruits, besides.” He nodded in the direction of the wagon.

  Panic entered her eyes, and she shook her head. “No. No! Marcus! Highwaymen!”

  The alarm echoed through the woods around them. And a moment later the sound of hurried feet came pounding through the brush.

  “Oh, my lady.” Jastail sighed. “If you’d only had a bit of patience. Now we’ve a hero to deal with. Let’s hope he’s sensible.”

  Jastail maneuvered around her, putting himself between the woman and her would-be rescuer. He drew his sword, holding it at an unthreatening angle. This Marcus came into view, and caught sight of the woman surrounded by Jastail’s men.

  The man held a smith hammer and a shoeing knife—he’d probably been tending his horse—and slowed as he surveyed the odds.

  Good, at least he can do math. “Let me explain what you’re seeing,” Jastail began, planting his sword’s tip in the dirt and leaning on it. “Your lady here was washing clothes in the river. Not usually a dangerous task, I’ll admit. But today, it’s bad fortune for you that we are here.” He gestured with his other hand at his men.

  “You won’t be taking her.” Marcus flipped his knife into a backhand grip—a pit fighter’s grip.

  Why couldn’t I, just once, meet a man who sews or bakes?

  Jastail bent and lifted a pair of trousers from the pile of wet clothes. “And who’s going to watch the owner of these while you fight for your woman’s honor?”

  Worry crossed the man’s face, and he cast a glance back toward the wagon.

  “Dead gods,” said Lawry, “let’s get on with it.”

  Jastail’s new man—first time on the road—started off to gather the little ones.

  “Hold there,” Jastail ordered, then fixed his attention back on the woman. “I need your help,” he said with endless patience. “Marcus here is about to do an
honorable thing. He wants to protect you from us. Perfectly understandable. In his place, I’d want to do the same. Love makes fools of us all. It blinds us to our real chances. It blinds us to the harm our heroism might do to others.” He shook the wet trousers in emphasis.

  “You want me to tell Marcus to let you take me.” The woman’s voice came with the monotone of the beaten. “You want me to tell him not to fight. Then you’ll leave my family alone.”

  “Jastail?” It was Lawry, incredulous at the suggestion being made.

  “I don’t take more than I need,” Jastail replied, and dropped the pants. “And remember we have a specialty.” Women—“wombs”—who can breed. The little ones were both boys. He knew it by the clothes at his feet.

  “The hell with that,” Lawry exclaimed. “There’s thirty full marks a head sitting back there. Easy pickings. If you won’t take them, I will.”

  “Excuse me,” Jastail said, raising a finger to the woman as he slid past her toward his new man.

  He gestured for Lawry to join him in a short walk away from the others. Twenty paces removed from the rest, he turned to face the man. “It’s your first time on the roads.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do—”

  Jastail put his knife into the man’s stomach with a short powerful stab, and yanked up, severing several internal organs. Lawry’s eyes widened in surprise and pain before he dropped into the brush. Jastail wiped his blade clean on the man’s shirt. Men who argue don’t ever stop arguing. And they don’t obey. With such men, he’d learned long ago to cut quick. Saved lots of pain later on.

  Still, he paused long enough to offer over the body a line from one of the dark poets he’d learned to appreciate as a boy. “Each of us is walking earth, upright dust, consuming breath in ignorance.”

  Black verse. Like a good cool wine.

  Jastail nodded a goodbye, and returned to the others, wearing his casual smile.

  “Now,” he said, taking a deep breath, “what will it be, Marcus? Can we be done with threats and heroism today? I’d really like to be on my way.”