The Knife's Edge

by Matthew Wolf

  He took another step. Still, the guard’s eyes never shifted. He ducked beneath the crossed halberds of two tall guards, crossing the threshold of the gates and something deep hit him. He turned and looked at the city for a moment, but that tie fled too and he turned away once more. Kirin continued. He felt something in the pit of his stomach, as if he was losing something important and long held with each step.

  With the next step, he forgot his name, but even that worry and strangeness passed away like a desert breeze, as if it was just a trifling memory. As he walked, the young man watched the giant sand and stone archway overhead, and then before he knew it, he was beyond, and looking into the blustery, cold winds of the Reliahs Desert. Behind him, there was a thud as the huge gates slammed shut.

  As if standing in another’s feet, the young man took one step and then another into the harsh desert, protecting his face from the fierce sand flurries, with the cloth of his tattered cloak. Moving, always moving, into the south and to another world, to the world of Daerval.

  Awakening

  GRAY AWOKE WITH A STRANGE, BUT familiar sensation.

  It was like many mornings, but this time he felt the pressure of eyes on him so heavy it ripped him awake, tearing him from a pleasant dream. Normally the sensation was reassuring like being tucked inside a blanket, almost as if he were being watched over. But today the blanket no longer felt sheltering, but suffocating. He tried to shift his mind from it.

  He looked around the dawn-lit chamber, reassuring himself with the familiar image. His room was small and simply furnished. Each piece of furniture was a rich brown, burnished from time and carved from Silveroots, the long-standing monarchs of the Lost Woods. His bed was tucked against the wall farthest from the door. Beside his bed was a small stand, his creation. A heavy bookcase lined the wall opposite. It was filled with tomes of Mura’s, most of which Gray had already read. His favorite book sat on his bedside stand, the pages heavily worn. He glanced to its leather cover, eyeing the gold lettering: Tales of the Ronin.

  He sat up, letting the covers tumble, and then groaned in pain, noticing the welts on his body like purple snakes—outlines from Mura’s training staff. Suddenly, the door to his room burst open.

  Mura stood in the doorway, garbed in forest hues, with soft leather boots suitable for stealth. A grimace lined his weathered face. “Still in bed?” In his right hand, Mura gripped a polished quarterstaff.

  “Still? What are you talking about? The sun’s barely up.”

  Mura grunted. “Barely and is are not barely different.”

  “What? I don’t even think you know what that means,” Gray grumbled. “You should know better. Wine ought to be drunk at night Mura.”

  “It means if you don’t get out of bed now, I’m going to take that bed out from beneath you, and your feistiness with it.” Mura thumped his staff on the floor for emphasis.

  “All right, hold on,” he slowly pushed back the covers and—

  In his periphery, he saw Mura heft his staff. Not good. He scrambled out of bed landing in a crouch balanced on the balls of his feet. His blood pumped and his covers were haphazardly draped across his half-naked body.

  “I see you can move when you need to.”

  “Now that you got me up, mind helping me out? Toss me those,” he said, pointing to the pair of britches next to Mura who glanced down, grimace deepening, then wordlessly used his staff and tossed the pants.

  Gray snagged them from the air, and sat back on the bed slipping them on. Soft and worn, though fitted enough for hunting or stealth, his pants were one of the few articles that remained from his past, along with his much-treasured worn gray cloak. It hung from a hook upon the wall. He eyed its emblem of twin-crossed swords and wondered again, guessing at their significance. He often conjured stories about the mysterious insignia, imagining faraway lands.

  The thought reminded him of the other item of his past. He pointedly avoided looking to the cubbyhole behind the bookcase, not wanting to attract Mura’s keen eye. He had not touched the blade for two years, but he still felt it. Its casing of cloth did nothing to dampen the fear that turned his stomach when thinking about it. It pulled at him, even now, like a moth to a flame.

  “More training today?” he questioned.

  Mura grumbled. “I’m not sure how to answer you when you ask foolish questions. Of course we train today. Now finish dressing,” then the hermit paused, revealing a devious smile. “Oh, and bring your sword. I want to see it now.”

  The door shut behind him.

  For two years, the man had known all along. Gray dove towards the bookcase and hauled it away from the wall. There sat an unassuming bundle of white cloth. It was more than twice the length of his forearm. He carefully examined the bundle’s surface. There it was. A single strand of his brown hair rested on the white fabric. It was just as he’d left it long ago, as if not a day had gone by.

  “Tricky old man,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Grabbing the bundle, he unwrapped the sword. The bright steel glinted, dangerous and beautiful. Dried blood, a blackish red, caked its keen edge—just as the day he found it. Its silver hue glowed beneath the blood

  His grip tightened, loathing the blade. With water from the washbasin, he scrubbed the blade with his bare hands, turning the bowl a dark scarlet, then inspected it under the light of the window. It gleamed as if brand new. He quickly wrapped the sword, running out of the hut.

  An early morning fog was fading, unveiling the clearing. The hut sat in the center of a glade, surrounded by the dense Lost Woods. Mura stood near an old stump used for chopping firewood, where a stubborn piece of oak sat which Gray had been unable to hew.

  Wordlessly, he handed the blade to Mura. The hermit assessed the blade, scrutinizing it with a careful eye. If Mura knew the origin of the blade, he might uncover more of his past. “Does it look familiar?” he asked.

  Mura’s peppered hair swayed. “I’m afraid not. Where’d you get it, boy?”

  Such a simple question, but when Gray reached into his mind to answer, he saw nothing of his past. As if it was shut behind a door that he didn’t have the key to. “I don’t know,” he replied.

  Running a finger along the blade’s edge, Mura shrugged. “Your past is your own, lad. I’ve never asked, and I never will.”

  Gray gripped the hermit’s arm, stopping him before he continued, “I wish I knew. I have nothing to hide from you, but I simply can’t remember. My last memory is holding the blade when I entered the woods. Other than that…”

  Mura rubbed his jaw. “Sometimes things are forgotten for a reason. Now put your sword away. We won’t need it today.”

  “I doubt it’s much good anyway,” Gray agreed.

  Mura twisted and the blade arced faster than light. It cleaved the stubborn hunk of firewood, slicing like molten iron through paper. The two halves tumbled to the forest floor. “It can cut well enough, but this is a weapon of death, and it has seen much blood. I’m afraid it would not suit for our practice today.”

  Gray tried to hide his surprise. “Then we’ll train with staffs?”

  Mura winked, handing back his sword, disappearing into the hut. He came back with two strange looking blades, constructed from light wood. Mura handed him a blade. “Today I want to test your skill and limits with a sword. These are made of yen boughs, so they should only smart a bit. It won’t do to be slicing each other to ribbons just yet.” Mura turned, walking away.

  “Wait, where are you going?” he asked. “Aren’t we sparring here?”

  Mura looked back with a wink. “I have something else in mind. Today, we’ll train like never before.”

  Kail’s Tree

  KAIL WAS A STATUE OF CALM, sitting cross-legged beneath the shelter of a yen tree. The blades of grass leaned away from the wanderer, but the shadows drew nearer.

  A tiny speck shot into the night sky like an arrow. It slowed to a stop, as if stuck in the starry web, and then suddenly it burst into golden rain. A c
horus of good cheer erupted. Eyes closed, he listened to the sound of laughter as if hearing it for the first time. How long has it been since I’ve felt the warmth of an inn, the taste of wine, or even shared the company of another? Ages, he knew. The chill darkness was his only comfort now.

  Shunning the thoughts, he closed his eyes and sought relentlessly. Not with his eyes, but with an entirely different sense. Outside his mind, the shadows from the ground and tree inched closer. The black tendrils reached for his limbs.

  As he had done many times, he stalked closer to the nexus within his mind. Others had reached for the flow before and been less than lucky—grasping the power too quickly could incinerate one’s body, like a burning ember to dry tinder. Once he embraced the nexus, he was gone.

  His vision flew forward, over the green fields. He raced toward the Eastern Kingdoms. The grass turned to sandy plains, and then to the rocky Crags. It was an impenetrable terrain of rock and towering boulders. In its center was a deep chasm called The Rift where it was said the world split thousands of years ago, before even Kail was alive, and now tiny Crag beasts dwelled. Somewhere in that land, the ancient Kingdom of Stone, Dun Varis, still existed. Kail had heard the rumors. A whole city and its people, resurrected from the ashes of the Lieon, but even his eye could not attest to the truth of it.

  To the north, the land was just as pitiless. The rocky Crags became the white plains of the Merkal Desert. There, the cruel sun took out its aggression on the sunbaked people, the foul-mouthed traders of the east. Still, there was nothing. No sign of what he sought and time was wearing thin, for he could only hold the vision for so long. Where are you?

  Back under the tree where his body sat unaware, the groping shadows turned black as fetid oil. They encircled him.

  Within his mind, Kail pushed forward, flying north. His vision swooped down into a wide basin. There sat the jewel of the Eastern Kingdoms, Rimdel. A trader’s paradise. It was a capital with no central rule, inhabited by only thieves, ruffians, and traders as hard as stone. But where once was a sprawling city, teeming with life, now sat a ruined and ashy pit that sprawled for miles. Far and wide, the land was dyed a soul-sucking black. The Eastern Kingdoms are done. Still it was not what he was looking for. Time was closing around him like a noose.

  Back beneath the yen tree, his nails sunk into his palms, creating a thin stream of blood. The oozing black crept up his clothes, sucking in the moon’s sickly yellow glow as it moved. It inched higher up his thick neck, like liquid crawlers, approaching his mouth. It left behind a trail of blood and red bruises. It reached his closed mouth and found his flaring nostrils. Slowly, it seeped inside, stealing his breath. The bulk of the shadow struck, constricting around his torso like a monstrous snake with the power to shatter bones. At the same time, the shadows inside expanded, pressing fine poisonous fangs into the soft skin of his throat.

  However, he was far away, unaware that his body was dying. He traveled even faster. The world was a blur beneath him. His head swam, and he felt his mind ripping into two parts from the heat of the power. Finally, he smelled it. Their scent was on the wind—ancient yet new. He followed it and snowy plains coated with blood filled his vision. His eyes caught a trailing fleet of hulking beasts and at their head nine men upon tall deathless steeds. His eyes fell upon one of the dark figures with a huge spike upon his shoulder. The figure twisted, as if looking straight into Kail’s soul. Despite the distance, for a fleeting moment, he saw a flash of red. Then, like a cudgel to the side of his head, the vision shattered.

  He sucked in the black liquid as his vision broke and he rushed back to his body like a tempest. His eyes bulged as the last drops of air were expelled from his lungs. With the darkness crushing him from every angle, he slowly rose, and shut his eyes. A maelstrom of wind pulsed out from his center, streaming out of every pore. He crushed the heavy black shadows like the sun’s light on the last vestiges of night.

  His shoulders rolled in a stretch. Even while holding my power they came. Which means they are either getting braver, or more desperate. He hoped it was the latter, but knew better. Wind flurries died at his feet and in the moon’s pallid light, he watched the last of the black liquid slink along his hand. He brushed it off without looking. Then, with a touch of his power, he ignited it. The darkness cracked and hissed like water upon hot coals, and then disappeared as if it were never there.

  He looked north and east. A cold settled over him that was not from the chill night. He had found them. And they were coming. He felt an all-too familiar regret, eyeing Lakewood.

  At his back, he felt the presence of a shrouded forest—the ancient woods whose canopy was too thick for even his vision to penetrate. Kail’s scarlet eyes hardened. His gray cloak emblazoned with crossed swords wavered in the wind. He knew what he had to do. At last he turned, and stalked into the night. Into the Lost Woods. What the boy carries must not fall into their hands, he vowed. He had worked too hard to prevent that—even become the traitor to keep the blade upon its destined path.

  And if he failed, Kail knew, Daerval would be the first to fall before the entire world crumbled.

  A Hymn to an Ancient Forest

  GRAY WATCHED THE HIDDEN POCKETS OF darkness.

  The Lost Woods possessed a haunting beauty. As he followed the hermit, he admired the mammoth tree trunks and knotted branches that twisted up to form a canopy. He inhaled the musky smell of decaying wood.

  Before him, Mura hummed a pleasant melody,

  Oh’, Ancient trees and forest sullen,

  Those who do not, will not, see.

  Yet, dull wits, will not hinder thee!

  As I bask beneath the great yen trees.

  Oh, I have seen battles great!

  Fate that has seen the end of love,

  But truth have I seen, so great.

  And hate, that blinds

  Of all great minds,

  Since sadness follows me.

  Late has come my death,

  But I have seen Kailith topple kings,

  And Omni battle giants,

  When Seth screams defiant.

  Ancient trees and forest sullen

  Those who do not, will not, see.

  So who am I, to sing of sorrow?

  When there is always ‘morrow.

  After a while, the canopy thinned and the trees turned to saplings. The terrain rose steadily. Gray saw teeth marks gnawed into the base of one of the aspens, a beaver’s missive, and suspected Mura must have been leading him to a body of water.

  His mind strayed as they walked, thinking of his favorite stories, fantasizing about the legends and their heroic deeds.

  “Mura, I’ve never heard that song before. How do you know it?”

  “Are you curious about the song, or about Kail?” Gray missed a step. “I saw your face when I sang his name, you’d be hard pressed to hide a look like that.”

  He rubbed a hand through his hair. “Kail and the song then. Both.”

  Mura waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, the song is just something I picked up in my travels, either in the taverns of Lakewood, or the eastern trading provinces. As for Kail… seeing as you’ve read most of the tales, I suppose you want to know more than the average stories tell.”

  “I do.”

  Mura thumped his staff and gave a wink. “Lucky you, for I always find the stories of Kail the most interesting as well! So, how about the rumored legends of how he can never die? Or the tale of the fabled Vaults in the Hall of Wind, where they say he stashed the most precious of weapons. A weapon crafted by the gods.”

  “What about the other Ronin? Together they could take him right?”

  “Well, each of the Ronin had powers beyond any mortal. They were capable of vanquishing whole legions. Baro the Bull, slayer of giants, led the vanguard. Maris, the Trickster, had a tongue that was quick and sharp, and only his sword was quicker. Hiron, the Shadow, the voice of wisdom moved like water. Dared, the King-Slayer, never spoke, though always dealt the final bl
ow. Aurelious, the Confessor, guided by truth, always took the final verdict. Aundevoriä, the Protector, viewed life tantamount to all else. And finally, Omni, the Deceiver, who was Kail’s right-hand and dealt death like the seven winds.” He paused for emphasis. “It was said the last thing his enemies saw was always and inevitably his frozen-blue eyes beneath his shrouded mask. All of them powerful, all of them legends. But Kail was the strongest of all.

  “They say his attacks could never be seen, even by the Ronin, that his blade was so quick it had never been seen out of its sheath. That he moved faster than light itself!” Mura exclaimed. With each word Gray’s pulse beat faster, and with the last words Mura suddenly pivoted, his staff flashed, racing towards him.

  Gray tensed, backpedaling, though raising his yen sword in the last moment and the two collided.

  “Ha! Guess I’m not as fast as the fabled Kail, or perhaps you are,” Mura said with a wink.

  Gray shook his head with an exasperated laugh. “You really are unpredictable sometimes.”

  “Only sometimes?” asked the hermit, sounding disappointed, and flashed another wink, before turning and heading back down the trail, whistling as if nothing had happened. Gray’s blood cooled, but the stories still swirled in his head until the hermit announced at last, “We’re here.”

  A Sight to Behold

  THE SOUND OF RAGING WATER FILLED Gray’s ears. Beyond a stand of trees he saw glimpses of rushing water. Mura quickly turned and headed towards it, and Gray dashed to catch up. He wound through the last few trees, ducked beneath a low branch and as he left the shelter of the woods, his right foot stepped out. But there was no ground to catch it. His step extended out over an abrupt ledge that spiraled down to a misty pool far below. He threw his weight backwards, groping when a strong arm clasped his own.