Blade Asunder Complete Series Box Set

by Jon Kiln

  “Well, I’m glad Artas is back with us.” Hendon’s voice broke Ganry's train of thought, and he looked at the boy grimly. Hendon continued, “But he is in no condition to fight beside us.”

  Ganry glanced back at the young man still sleeping on the cot. “He’s done his best.”

  Myriam was holding his hand, a tear running down her cheek. “And he will do so again, but not in this battle.”

  “What do you think, Ganry?” Hendon asked with a deep sigh. “About what Artas said.”

  “Yes, I heard him clear enough, but I can’t waste time thinking on a delirious ramble.”

  “He said the exact word?”

  “He said, dragon.”

  “What could that mean, especially when the way to Berghein Valley is not as guarded as we thought it would be?”

  “We will know when he awakens and can speak,” Ganry said. “Right now we carry on with our mission.”

  “But doesn’t this change things?” Hendon pressed. “If the Berghein Valley no longer interests Harald, won’t his army be recalled, while we waste precious time going the wrong way?”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “But Orcas told me that-”

  “Who is Orcas?”

  “The horse… that Artas was riding on…” Hendon said with some care. “It belonged to a soldier in the Palaran army. It told me that Castle Locke has been destroyed by a monster, and that the army had retreated back east.”

  “I believe in talking horses as much as I do in dragons, young forester.” Ganry laughed and walked outside. “Go and see to the princess. I must check up on the men. Leading an army to war is a heavy burden, even on these broad shoulders.”

  Ganry was right, through experience and logic. An army was at its best when it was well fed and strategically equipped. The collective wealth of the nobles sustained the needs of the three thousand men he led, and yet it was an exercise that required constant vigilance.

  Everyday the size of their army increased as more men joined the cause, mostly defectors of the regent’s army, and many whose farmlands were in peril from the unjust taxes imposed by the new regime. That meant more gold, food and resources had to be expended.

  Ganry chuckled, remembering this as one of the reasons why he had left such a life behind. It all came back to him, but he knew this time it was different. This time he felt a sense of righteousness. This time he was fighting an evil far greater than ever before.

  “My lord,” a deep voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “I am no lord,” he said angrily, glaring at one of the armsmen bearing the insignia of Ulmet Bay . “What is it?”

  “We have detained another rider, coming in from the east.”

  “Is he important? Someone from Harald’s court?” Hagar asked, sitting up.

  “He’s a foreigner,” the man replied with some concern. “He says he is a trader, but he doesn’t look anything like one. Not with that strange appearance and deadly weapons.”

  Bertrand, the steely eyed captain from Ulmet Bay, stepped up beside Ganry. “Bring him before us.”

  “Yes, captain.” The man bowed and left.

  “Now what new menace is this?” The tallest man there, Marston, joined them on the grassland overlooking the road to the west.

  The armsmen returned, guiding a towering, powerfully built man. The soldier's spear point almost prodding him along.

  “I come in peace,” the large man said, his voice deep and rich, hinting of a thick northern accent.

  “Who are you?” Ganry asked, never having seen anyone like him before.

  The huge man’s bald head gleamed in the morning sun. His dark skin and expensive clothing made him distinctly stand out.

  He bowed low. “I am Qutaybah, of Vandemland.”

  “And what are you doing in Palara, especially coming from the direction of Castle Villeroy?” Hagar inquired.

  Qutaybah grinned, anger briefly flashing across his dark eyes. “I am here on a mission.”

  “And what mission is that?” Marston stared at the dark giant in awe, who was almost taller than he was.

  “I can reveal it only to the princess.” The Vandemlander’s smile did not reach his eyes.

  “You will reveal that to us or die, slaver,” Ganry said with suspicion. “And how did you know you could find the princess here?”

  “I have my ways,” Qutaybah said slowly. “And you must be the famous guardian of the princess that everyone is talking about.”

  “Are they now?” Ganry grinned. “Then you must have also heard of how I deal with any and all threats to her.”

  “Oh, I assure you, kind sir,” Qutaybah grinned back, “I am no threat… to the princess.” He regarded the imposing Ganry cooly, sizing him up, naked challenge in his eyes.

  Marston smiled, leaning back. He had seen this kind of posturing many times before. These two were assessing each other like two bulls would, before the inevitable clash of horns. It would be interesting if they actually did draw swords on each other. They looked evenly matched, at least in stature and power. He glanced across at Bertrand and Hagar, and they gave him knowing smiles, thinking of the same thing.

  “There’s only one way you get to see the princess, slaver,” Ganry said, his hand griping Windstorm’s hilt. “And that is through me.”

  The dark man spread out his large arms. “But I am unarmed.”

  “Give him his weapon,” Ganry barked, as Windstorm leapt to his hands, singing sharply as it cut the air around him.

  “Is this wise?” Hagar was concerned.

  “Of course it is.” Marston grinned. “Two to one odds on Ganry.”

  “I’ll take that wager.” Bertrand grinned back as one of the men tossed Qutaybah his massive broadsword.

  The two giants circled each other like predatory lions assessing one another’s strengths and weaknesses. Their eyes grimly locked onto one another’s, their lips sealed in a tight line. These were men of war, and they knew each faced a worthy opponent.

  Suddenly Ganry lunged, holding Windstorm’s hilt close to his chest, the blade pointed at the giant Vandemlander. At the last instant of his lunge, he extended his arms with a rapid thrust. Qutaybah brought his broadsword up in a blocking arc, twisting the flat blade to make the razor sharp blade of the longsword slide up its surface. Sparks, blue and yellow, showered over their snarling faces.

  Qutaybah lunged forward, his thick neck flexing as he lowered his head to smash into Ganry’s approaching face. But the former mercenary ducked at the last moment, dropping low and helping the giant Vandemlander’s momentum flip him over his body and land hard on the ground behind him.

  The next instant, Ganry twisted and brought Windstorm down with a flashing arc over the fallen man, only to clash hard against his rising steel. The resonant sting from the clash made both men drop their swords. Qutaybah kicked out, his heavy boot sweeping Ganry off his feet.

  He fell hard beside the Vandemlander, and found large dark hands encircling his thick bull neck. Ganry's hands closed over his assailant’s neck with as much force too, as both bear-like men rolled about furiously on the grass covered ground.

  “What’s going on here? Ganry!” Myriam’s shrill voice made the men stop and look in her direction as she walked up from the little tent where Artas lay sleeping. “Who is this strange man you’re fighting?”

  “This is Qutaybah, a noble from Vandemland,” Hagar offered, as Ganry quickly rose to his feet and picked up Windstorm from where it had fallen. “He wishes an audience with you, my Queen.”

  “Princess Myriam, as lovely as I would have imagined.” Qutaybah bowed low, breathing heavily as he gathered his broadsword and sheathed it.

  “What is it that you wish to see me for?” Myriam sounded almost regal, like her mother, the late Queen Alissia.

  “A mission that I have been called upon,” the dark giant smiled. “By your grandmother, the Duchess D’Anjue.”

  Myriam gasped, as Ganry stepped up beside her
.

  “My gran…” she stammered. “Where is she? How is she?”

  “Alas, she is in the dungeons of Castle Villeroy, barely alive, so I have heard, three days ago. Though the last time I met her was at Castle Locke, a half a score days ago.”

  “What proofs have you to support such claims?” the steely eyed Bertrand inquired.

  “None, save this.” He reached into his expensive robes and produced a letter, handing it to Myriam.

  The princess took it and recognized her grandmother’s writing and the royal seal of D’Anjue on the scroll. She gasped as sudden images of the Duchess in pain flashed across her mind. She staggered back into Ganry’s waiting arms.

  “We must save her,” she whispered. “We must march upon Castle Villeroy immediately.”

  41

  “His name was Morel, and he was a loyal soldier of Palara for twenty years,” the small man said, looking up at the brooding regent.

  “Who cares for his name? He was the bearer of ill news, and now his head sits perched on a spike, as he deserves,” Harald said with disdain, reclining on the throne.

  “Far be it from me to tell you how to rule a kingdom, sire, I am but a humble monk.” The hooded little man standing before him had a smirk on his thin lips. “Yet if a man is to be put to death for bringing you news of how your army fares, it hardly does justice to the morale of the people.”

  “As you have rightly said, monk,” Harald waved at him dismissively. “You have no claim over how I should rule my kingdom. My armies are under constant attack, and it seems the princess has found allies in numbers. And add to that, I have lost my hold on the Berghein Valley and Castle Locke, and you admonish me for punishing the ones who failed to do their duty to the kingdom, to Palara, and to me.”

  “They hardly had the chance, sire. Their adversary greatly outmatched them.”

  Harald stood up and began pacing the room, his eyes red and his fists clenched. “Am I to believe in such nonsense as dragons, the stuff of fantasy and forgotten legends?”

  “And yet you do.”

  Harald abruptly stopped and pointed at the diminutive figure. “You know more than you have so far allowed, monk. I feel certain that you are somehow instigating all this.”

  “But my liege, surely you jest.” The monk bowed low. “I am a man of learning and peace.”

  “And where is this fabled Dragon Sword you spoke of?” Harald rounded on the man. “Where is the power of the Dragon Stones that will find the princess for me?”

  “Patience, sire. Everything comes in time, and with a price.”

  “Price?” Harald roared. “I have already paid with the Duchess.”

  “She was never yours to give.”

  “Would you like to have your head on a spike next?”

  “Patience, my liege. You will have the power soon.”

  “Get out,” Harald bellowed. “Get out! Get Out! And don’t come back until you have what I need.”

  The monk bowed low and slowly backed away.

  “Captain!” Harald yelled. “Fetch the captain of my armies… damn, I miss Henrickson.”

  The regent couldn’t have been in a more livid state. All these weeks the princess had eluded him, escaped his best hunters and trackers, and managed to stay just out of reach of his grasp. Even with his armies having taken the impregnable Castle Locke in a matter of days, he was unable to get his hands on the only thing that prevented him from crowning himself king, and continuing on with his grand plans of conquest.

  And now, that weak defenseless little girl had amassed an army all of her own, and was harrying his men all over the land. The south was overrun, and so were parts of the west. Only the north and the east remained completely under his rule. But news of raiding parties out of Cifenon Forest had been coming to his ears over the last few days, making it all the more aggravating.

  At least he had the satisfaction of arresting a few nobles that were foolish enough to try an assassination attempt on his life. He would take care of the infuriating little princess first, and then the insubordination of his nobles would be aptly dealt with, at leisure. A sharp knock on the door made him look up. The captain of his army was waiting patiently.

  “Come in, captain. What more sorry news do you bring this day?”

  “Sire, my apologies.” The thin man bowed. “We have lost more ground to the advancing armies of insurgents. Many of our soldiers are defecting to join the princess.”

  Harald inhaled deeply and sighed. “Where do we stand now?”

  “Our advance forces are amassed at the lands between the port of Brammanville and the mountains of the north. The main army is stationed at the camp a few hours ride from Castle Villeroy.”

  “Send messengers to recall all our advance patrols and garrisons. I want all of my armed forces to march as one to the plains of Palara.” Harald rubbed his temples, his eyes ablaze with hatred. “So, the princess wants to fight a war with a motley gathering of farmers and cowardly deserters against my trained elite. I will give her a war she will never forget, and then her pretty little head will adorn a spike on the highest tower of the castle.”

  “Recalling our advance forces may weaken our eastern and northern borders, my liege,” the captain said timidly. “There are reports of organized vandals from Cifenon attacking the eastern outposts. Some call them the Lake Men.”

  “Lake Men,” Harald laughed. “A mere myth, my captain. I have not built a navy and army for over a decade to have them fight against phantoms and shadows. The lowlife brigands and bandits grow bold with the advent of the princess’ defiance of me. Once I have her head on a pole, I will see that accursed forest burnt to the ground, with all its inhabitants in it.”

  “That would be most unwise, sire,” the monk said softly, as he walked into the throne room unannounced.

  Harald glared, infuriated at the audacity of the little man. He tolerated the stranger in the monkish robes only because of the warning he had given him about the assassination attempt the day before. He was also yet to keep the promise of the mythical weapon that he claimed to have.

  “You return so soon, and without what you offer,” Harald said coldly, his fist clenched tightly.

  “Oh, I have what you need, sire, but it is for your eyes only.”

  Harald turned to the captain of the guards. “Leave us!”

  The man sped away as if the devil himself was on his back. Harald scowled and returned his glare to the monk, questioningly.

  “We must travel, sire,” the monk said.

  “Where to?”

  “To the depths of Castle Villeroy.”

  “What, right here?”

  “Yes, it seems that the sacred Dragon Stones were hidden here under the castle by Terrick and the Druids to keep them safe, especially for a time like this.”

  “You mean the most powerful weapon ever heard of was buried here, under Castle Villeroy all along.” Harald was stupefied. “Then I needn’t have bothered with you at all.”

  “And you would have never found it at all either… my liege.” The short man pressed his palms together, as if in prayer.

  “Yes, well, that is true.” Harald studied the rings on his finger to hide his embarrassment. “What are we waiting for? Show me where it is.”

  “Indeed, your majesty. Come, we must go deep down below, under the castle’s dungeons and beyond.”

  “You had better not be taking me on a fool’s errand, monk. Or your bones will be found down there for the next generation of treasure seekers.”

  “I have no fear of death, my liege. I will embrace her when she comes.”

  Harald sneered. “Why, what are you, if not a man of flesh and blood like any other.”

  “Oh, I am a man, sire, just a mere mortal man. This way, my liege.”

  After many minutes of walking down the winding stairway that went under the castle, the monk stopped before what looked like a dead end. The large blocks of ancient stone were covered in slime and cobwebs. No one had ev
er come down so deep in the dungeons for centuries, it seemed.

  “There’s no where else to go,” Harald growled, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, ready to draw at the first sign of treachery. “The passage ends here.”

  “So it does.” The monk smiled, reaching for a small crack in the stone. “And so begins another.”

  His slender fingers pushed the crack inward, and the block of stone moved slowly. Then suddenly, the interlocking blocks split apart and receded, opening up to a passage leading further down.

  “How did you know of this?” Harald said breathlessly, pushing the torch into the opening. The flickering light illuminated the rough hewn stone stairs leading further under the castle.

  “As I did mention, sire, I am a man of learning.” The monk led him down to a small circular room. Musty dank air and thick swirls of cobwebs greeted them. “And there is much to be learned when you know where to find it.”

  “Where is the sword?” Harald whispered impatiently, brushing the thick overhanging cobwebs away from his face.

  “We’re almost there, sire.” The monk pointed with his slender hand. “There sits the guardian of the sacred Dragon Stones.”

  “What?” Harald’s eyes went wide and he drew his short flat-bladed sword, holding the torch up high. “Who is that?”

  To the far side of the circular room, seated on a large chest made of iron, were the skeletal remains of what was once a man dressed in robes similar to the Druids.

  “That is the guardian of the stones, my liege; he gave his life to protect them.”

  “What good is he dead?” Harald almost laughed, grabbing at the dust caked robe and yanking the rotted body off the chest. “The Dragon Sword, it is in here?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  The monk shielded his eyes as Harald’s sword made short work on the heavy rusted locks amidst a shower of blue and white sparks.

  42

  Bluebell’s hooves hit the ground hard as the horse thundered toward the encampment, with Ganry waving Windstorm in the air. The mercenary-turned-bodyguard had been riding relentlessly for more than an hour, and the horse was in dire need of rest. He leapt off the saddle and threw the reins at an approaching page.