Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  The ready-tent was stifling inside, the high heat of the day baking through the thick canvas like a brick oven. Outside the tent, calls were going around, a susurration of voices raised in betting, wagering, drunk with liquor and anticipation. Grump was somewhere out in the rabble beyond, pushing men into wagering more, doing his regular, capable wheedling one last time for their trio today. Inside, Dherran could practically feel Khenria’s nervous tension flooding the space. She rolled out her shoulders stiffly, wearing her training halter, midriff bare. Her loose cotton pants bared most of her lean thighs, showing how skinny she was. Khenria was fighting at the strike of noon, and the day was sweltering already. Dherran’s own fight wasn’t for hours yet, fourth bell in the afternoon, but sweat had begun to glisten them both in the thick humidity of the tent.

  “Remember.” Dherran stepped over with a dipper of water, noting with a twinge how lovely Khenria’s skin was and how much it was about to get bloodied and bruised. “No nasty tricks. If you do, you’ll be disqualified. Fight fair, but fight for your life if you have to. Sip. Hold it in your mouth and let it soak in. If you get hit, you’ll regret having a bellyful of water.”

  She nodded, doing as told, fear widening her eyes.

  “Have another.” She did, as Dherran continued his last-moment speech. “You’ll have this tent again if you win, to rest before the next bout as the other contenders take the ring to see who you’ll fight next. Second bout is twenty minutes after the first. First bout is easy. Second bout is hard. Your energy is sapped, you’ve had too much to drink, you’re heady from winning, and you’re hungry after your jitters have worn off. Second bout is where it counts, if you get there. One more sip.”

  She did. The bell sounded, calling the women to the field. Khenria looked ready to jump out of her skin, terrified.

  Dherran seized her by the shoulders, roughly. “Focus! You’ve done this a hundred times! Let her move first. Watch how she does it, even a footstep is enough to go by. Watch her balance.” He seized Khenria’s chin, shaking it, making her bristle. “Find her weakness and rip her apart, Hawk-Talon.”

  That calmed her. Something about the name made her courage rise, every bit the little hawk, ready to fight. The bell rang again for the fighters to take the field. Khenria turned towards the tent-flap and Dherran slapped her on the ass, hard. She yelped, turning a fierce glower upon him.

  “Go sink your talons in.” He shoved her towards the tent-flap.

  “You bastard!”

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  “Fuck you.” Ferocious at last, she stood tall, stalking to the exit and ripping the tent flap back viciously. Dherran followed her out, but through another panel, trailing her along the spears, knowing she could feel his support even though her concentration was fixed upon the ring where it should be. Dherran shoved forward, pushing his way through men who cursed drunkenly until they saw Dherran’s brute size and his scowl.

  Through the spears, he saw the two women face off, slight Khenria with an older blonde opponent. The bell rang. Khenria waited, watching the blonde carefully. The woman took a step, and Dherran saw Khenria note it, heavy, sluggish. And Khenria was as spry as they came. She took the blonde down with one swift unbalancing, letting the blonde’s own momentum carry her to the ground. The blonde didn’t know how to roll, and hit the hard-packed dirt of the fairway with a sickening thud. She scrabbled hard on the ground, trying to use her weight and muscle to her advantage, but Khenria had her trussed up neatly into a choke-out in moments. In thirty-eight seconds, it was over.

  Khenria was all elation when she returned to the tent. Dherran massaged her out for a few minutes, as they listened in silence to the fight happening in the ring to decide her next opponent. There was cheering, then booing, then cheering again, and suddenly, a painful scream and the bell rang. Khenria startled, rattled.

  “Breathe,” Dherran murmured. “Second bout is harder. Remember that.”

  Khenria nodded, just as the bell rang again, calling the next match. She wasn’t as steady as she exited this time, but her head was high, proud. And just as Dherran had anticipated from that scream, the second bout was vicious. Khenria got hit four times right away, testing punches from a quick redhead who was all muscle. The redhead was fierce, and Khenria was resting on her laurels. A black eye and a nasty punch to her right jaw cured that, then another on her left ear that Dherran knew had rung her bell. Her eyes dazed. And then Dherran saw her rage rise. It surfaced like a demon, tearing through Khenria's limbs, making them rattle and shake. She roared like an animal, making her opponent take a quick step back. And here it was. Khenria was about to make her worst mistake, about to step in close and let her rage best her.

  About to get the shit beat out of her.

  “Khenria! Focus!” Dherran roared from beyond the planted spears of the summer-ring. Others shrank back from him, cursing. His roars were famous, but this town hadn’t heard them in a year and some.

  It had the intended effect. Khenria blinked, shivered like a horse in battle, then settled. The redhead stepped in. Khenria waited. The redhead threw another punch towards Khenria’s face. Like a hawk in mid-dive, Khenria feathered to the side, putting her weight behind a vicious uppercut that cracked the redhead’s teeth, then an elbow to the head. The redhead crumpled. Cheers rang through the crowd. Khenria’s face was all triumph as she thrust her hands high.

  But Dherran was watching the woman on the ground. She was faking, taking a moment to rest, to gather herself. And before Khenria knew it, she was swept from her feet, hitting the ground hard. The redhead was on her, pinning, forearm to the throat, choking her out. Khenria panicked, beginning to kick, losing her coordination. But then Dherran saw her get control, tangling her legs in the other woman’s, twisting her hips, rolling the redhead off and to her front, getting her in a headlock. The redhead panicked, throwing a fistful of dirt up into Khenria’s eyes. Khenria shrieked like a falcon during the kill, but only locked her talons down harder.

  The redhead choked out.

  Khenria hardly waited to be named the victor. She strode from the ring, wiping angrily at her eyes, feeling her way out along the line of spears. Dherran met her at the tent flap, hastily leading her inside after hearing the verdict from the judges.

  “Easy, Khenria! Sit here. Yeah, here, there's the bench.”

  “My eyes feel like glass! Fuck that bitch!!” Khenria hissed.

  Dherran picked up a ceramic wash-basin and set it on the bench, guiding her hands to it. “Rinse them out.” She started to rinse at the ceramic wash-basin, winced and pouted at Dherran. Something about it was adorable and delicious, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Keep going. Rinse it out. It’ll be better by the time you do the next bout. You almost lost your temper on that one. Lose your temper, lose your First Seal.”

  “Fuck her! She had all sorts of dirty tricks.”

  “Some do. You have to fight them anyway, be the better woman. Not everyone is trained by a Kingsman.”

  Khenria looked up at that, red eyes calming, thoughtful. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “She was disqualified for it.”

  “What?” Khenria rinsed her mouth with some of the water, spat, and winced when Dherran touched her cheekbone, then her jaw.

  “Open your mouth. Any clicking in the joint? Blink hard. Ok, nothing broken. I heard the judges. Your opponent was disqualified for throwing sand.”

  “Good. I would have torn that bitch limb from limb for it if the match hadn't ended.”

  Dherran moved to her shoulders, massaging them out. “Remember, Hawk-Talon. Fighting is only a part of what we do. Sometimes you have to negotiate. Study, learn, find their weaknesses and use them in the ring. Use the crowd to break them. Ready?”

  She nodded, and the bell rang. Khenria had another sip of water, but they had no words for each other now. Dherran sent her out the tent with a nod. Her third bout was well-matched. The woman was of average stature, muscled but not thick
, with a calm demeanor and a tight bun to hold back her hair. From his place outside the spears, Dherran could see that she was cool and calculating, and it actually brought out the best in Khenria. A number of test punches were thrown in both directions this time, some landing, some glancing, some missing. Their footwork was agile and challenging in the dust, both women breathing steadily to keep cool as the sun scorched down. But then, Khenria missed a punch. The woman landed one on Khenria’s already-damaged left ear. Khenria winced, dropping into a backwards roll to get some space.

  The crowd booed.

  Khenria’s eyes snapped wide, noticing the crowd for the first time. A rotten head of lettuce was thrown at her, then another. Dherran saw her hiss, then approach the brown-eyed woman again. This time, she let a punch land, a jab to the gut. She allowed her breath to flow as Dherran had taught her, and soon had the woman pummeled with a tight combination of punches. The brunette staggered backwards, rolled away out of reach.

  The crowd booed the brunette now. Rotten pears were thrown. Khenria wasted no time. She rushed into her strike, surging on the momentum of the crowd, breaking the woman with a tidy collection of strikes. A last punch to her neck, and it was over. Khenria did not celebrate as the crowd cheered her, merely nodded to either side, spine straight and head high, glorious like a fucking Queen.

  The crowd cheered harder. She nodded at Dherran, smirking at last.

  He nodded back.

  Khenria stalked off towards the ready-tent with a swagger, and it set Dherran's loins pulsing. But he saw the scoreman beckoning, marking Dherran as Khenria's trainer. He went to the scoreman, had a few low words, and finally made for Khenria’s tent.

  He thrust the tent-flap aside, clapping, his heart expansive with pride. “That’s it. You’re done.”

  “What?!” She was livid, snarling as she surged up from the wooden rest-bench. “What do you mean? I'm supposed to fight one more! That fight was clean! I didn’t use a single dirty trick! I can't be disqualified!”

  Dherran laughed. She was gorgeous, all beaten up, sweat-streaked, and vicious as they came. And suddenly, Dherran didn't want to try so hard to resist her. She was a warrior, every bit as fierce as Suchinne had been, the kind of woman that made him hard, that made his heart swell. He surged forward and gathered her up, kissing her hard. She struggled with a muffled squeak, then relaxed into it, sagging in his arms.

  She pulled away, flushed. “I have to focus… damn you… I’ve got one more fight…”

  Dherran kissed her again, long and deep, and she melted into him, kissing him back until they were both breathless. “You’re done.” Dherran finally managed. “I told you. Your final opponent resigned.”

  Khenria’s eyebrows shot up and she pulled back. “Resigned? I don’t get to finish it?”

  “She’s got a broken foot, love. Finished her last bout, but that was all she could do. She’s out. You got the purse.”

  Khenria blinked, cocked her head. “Do I get my First Seal?”

  Dherran smoothed her sweaty ruff of curls back. “You do. Congratulations, Khenria den’Bhaelen, Hawk-Talon of the Bhaelen Alrashemni. Your First Seal is complete.”

  And then he kissed her again, hard.

  Grump swooped into the tent not a minute later, breaking up their kissing with purses rattling full of coins, both from his wagering and from Khenria’s winnings. The women’s bouts were profitable, it seemed, apparently moreso than the men’s.

  Khenria was all elation as they tromped back to their inn for the midday break. It was packed to the rafters for the festival, but a hearty cheer sounded as Khenria entered. She’d been recognized. The beaming innkeeper’s wife showed them to a table that was quickly cleared of its other guests by the rotund innkeeper, whose jowls wiggled as he blustered and smiled, all for Khenria. A late-noon repast was on the house, and they ate like kings, roast guinea-fowl with a sauce of aged dark vinegar and summer strawberries, not to mention as many ales as they could drink. Khenria wolfed it all down like the skinny girl she still was.

  A parade of townsmen came by, and a few women also, to congratulate her as she ate. Surrounded by ogling men, Khenria soaked up the attention, giggling and grinning, flirting ferociously. Dherran found himself scowling at them all, a hot jealousy simmering in his chest.

  But suddenly, Grump, drunk as bats, lurched up out of his seat. “Got to see to the horses, Dherran! Back in a trice!” Grump stumbled quickly to the rear door of the inn, out towards the stables.

  And in that moment, a clarion baritone called out, clipped with the precise, elegant tones of the aristocracy. “The dark beauty of the day!”

  Khenria’s circle of admirers was interrupted by a sword-thin older man with iron-streaked blonde hair. Other men noted him, stepped back quickly, removed hats from their heads. Dressed in a richly-tailored russet leather jerkin with gold embroidery and an immaculate white shirt of what looked to be fine silk, the lord who had addressed Khenria was especially solicitous, bowing over Khenria’s hand and kissing it with perfect manners. His pale blue gaze was appreciative, sliding over Khenria's curves in just the sort of way that made women wilt rather than fume. Handsome in the extreme, the lord was still in his prime years. And he knew exactly how to use what Aeon had given him, his perfection of manners and poise only accentuating his exquisite leanness.

  “Khenria den’Bhaelen, was it?” He murmured smoothly in a level baritone, neither unctuous nor swooning, his blue eyes arctic and piercing. Khenria was already melting for him, her hand still in his, swooning into a puddle to his fine manners. The lord arched one ash-blonde eyebrow, a battle-hard glint in his eyes, even though his lips held a slight smile. “You had your opponents on the run. Well-fought, milady.”

  “Thank you.” Khenria breathed, impressed.

  The man was still lingering over her hand. Dherran didn't like it one bit. The fellow reminded him of a raptor, calculating and skilled, and Dherran was certain the man had a reputation with women. He leaned back, crossing his arms menacingly over his broad chest. The lord's pale blue eyes flicked over. They roved over Dherran’s hair, his skin, landing briefly at the center of his chest, where Dherran’s Inkings were well-hidden. And Dherran had the creeping sensation that his measure was being taken, in every way. Almost as if the man wished to fight him.

  “Are you her trainer?” The lord murmured.

  “I am.” Dherran was not solicitous, his tone blunt. “I didn’t get your name. Sir.”

  The lord inclined his head, but his pale gaze never left Dherran's, challenging. Angry. “I am the Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir. The lands in and around Vennet are mine to caretake. But I offer my congratulations to you, sirrah. The lady is a very fine fighter. I recall seeing moves like that in the Khessian Hills, when the Kingsmen came to settle a dispute among the border lords. It was done by individual combat, as the leader of the Khessian Rebels was a haughty man. He didn’t last long. But that is all ancient history, as they say.”

  He leaned down, lifting Khenria’s hand to his lips again, letting them linger, his eyes pinning her. Dherran saw that she flushed, falling easy prey to the man’s perfect, subtle manners.

  “My lady. Congratulations again to you. If you are lingering in Vennet for the entirety of the festival, you must come stay at my manor. You and your trainer, and your servingman whom I noticed leave to tend your beasts. My title is Vicoute, but you, my lady, may simply call me Arlen.”

  Khenria’s eyebrow quirked as she made a moue with her mouth, and Dherran realized she was trying to play the man, and trying too hard. “My trainer fights five days from now, at fourth bell in the afternoon, Vicoute Arlen. You may wish to see the impetus of my genius.”

  “Does he?” The lord's cool blue eyes showed no amusement, roving over Dherran. And again, Dherran had a feeling of anger from the man, as if Dherran had personally wronged him. “I will attend. I must see the origin of this maelstrom. Until then.” He bowed regally, then turned away, men of lower birth parting before h
is fine red leather like water, his two brawny retainers in tow.

  Dherran turned to Khenria, fuming. “What was that?”

  “What?” She pouted fiercely.

  “You did everything but flash your breasts at him!”

  “Gods, Dherran!” Khenria threw up her hands. “We were only talking!”

  “You’ll have all the lords scraping and bowing, Khenria.” His words were sour. So was his mood, his hot jealousy raising to ferocious heights, churning his stomach with bitter gall. So quickly he had gone from elation of her winning to love for her passion, and now to this. Rage. Wrapped around her littlest talon, he felt strung on a line, hooked.

  Caught in love, once again. And how it burned.

  “Fuck you, Dherran,” she hissed fiercely, taking a large swig of her ale.

  “Why don’t you just go fuck him?” Dherran barked back. He saw her face crumble. He saw how he’d hurt her as her eyebrows drew up in a line, astonished. He saw as she shrank back how much of a callous brute he was being. But he couldn’t help it. Like it or not, her talons had sunk into him deep, and now they both had to deal with the outcome.

  Dherran pushed up out of his seat. He turned his back, making for the stairs up to his room, ignoring Khenria calling out behind him at the table.

  CHAPTER 20 – THEROUN