Nightblade (The Tales of Ascadell Book 1)

by Jason Howard

  “I see. And Soulbane . . .”

  “It’s a horrible, horrible ailment. And horrifying, I might add. It starts with a bad dream. Usually, the dream involves this deep and terrible voice, and often the victims mention something about Bareloth who—”

  “He’s a character from folklore.”

  “Right. Well, I think it’s some mage’s doing, you know, a disease like this. It doesn’t seem natural. Perhaps I’m not being clear . . . it doesn’t seem like something nature would be capable of. Can you imagine though—an enchanted disease? That begs the question, why would someone do something so horrible with magic. But anyway, the victims have terrible dreams.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Fire, pain, chains, corpses, terrible screaming noises, and death. All sorts of things. Hellish things. They always wake up hungry, which is strange. My cousin, he had Soulbane. He’s gone now.” He shuddered.

  Suddenly the sun felt very hot. Zac wiped sweat from his brow.

  “I’m sorry that he passed.”

  “He didn’t pass . . .”

  The man looked off for a while and shook his head. “You see . . . there are always three dreams. On the last one, the victim doesn’t wake up . . . the same. You see, each dream drives them a little crazier, and each dream is a little longer and more horrific. And then they wake up . . . sometimes they go crazy, and try and kill everyone they see. One man ate his daughter.”

  “Like the walking dead in the fables?”

  “No, not exactly. In those stories, the walking dead can’t think. They’re mindless, moaning beasts. This man cooked his daughter before he ate her.”

  “What?”

  “He cooked her. He skinned her and seasoned her meat in spices, marinated her with oils, then grilled it. He ate her with silverware, he even drank mead from his favorite flagon as he did so.”

  “It sounds like some bilcher made up this story at a bar somewhere,” Zac said.

  “No, this story was told by the man’s wife. You see, he didn’t kill her, the poor woman, he told her that their daughter was a sacrifice and that it was all for the good of Bareloth. She was bound and helpless as her husband dined on their daughter’s flesh. But her screams were heard and soon soldiers broke through the door. They killed him.”

  Zac had felt hot just moments before, but now a chill went through him. His clothes didn’t seem stuck to his skin anymore. Now they seemed frozen to it. Birds were chittering happily as they perched on the edge of a roof. After what he’d just heard their cheeriness seemed ridiculous.

  “Why didn’t they just kill him in the village?”

  “No one wanted to risk helping his disease spread . . . we don’t exactly know how Soulbane works. There are a million theories. Some people pretend to know exactly what it is, and they sell herbal remedies that they promise will make you immune. Some people say the Gods are choosing the victims because our generation must pay for the sins of our fathers, the butchery of the war. Some say Bareloth is real—people say the banes chant his name and pray to him.”

  “These banes . . . are they all cannibals?”

  “The victims aren’t always violent. Some just quietly slink away, unnoticed. They always head for the woods. The banes . . . they’ve been found sometimes. Not often, but every now and then a little clan of them turn up in the woods. They’re usually naked, living like animals. I’ve heard rumors that people have been gutted and cooked by them. Some say they don’t feel pain or fear. All I know is that my cousin left for the woods, and no one could stop him.”

  Zac cleared his throat nervously. “I’m sorry that you lost your cousin like that.”

  The man nodded. “Maybe they’ll find a cure. I’m sure that King Lanthos has his best flesh mages working on it. Probably his best mind mages too actually. No one is sure if the disease starts in the body or the mind.”

  Zac nodded.

  “Anyway, I don’t want to hold you up.”

  “Not at all,” Zac said. “Thanks.”

  The man started to walk away and Zac said, “Hey, is there any work to be had in this town? I’ve had a run of hard luck and don’t have any coin to purchase supplies with.”

  “Well . . . I can’t say for sure, but I would try Apollo’s. His apprentice started a shop in the neighboring town, so he may need a hand at the forge. Or in the shop while he mans the forge. Or getting firewood perhaps. Or doing whatever it is that he does, I am not exactly an expert on the subject, but you—”

  “Yes, I get the point.”

  “It’s that way,” the man said. “Oh, but you shouldn’t let him see that brand if you’re asking for work. My undershirt!”

  The man took off his coat, then unbuttoned and took off his white undershirt and handed it to Zac.

  “I’m a bit fatter than you, so it’ll hang loose. Oh, I really should mind my diet.”

  “Are you sure about this? I mean, you don’t have to give me your shirt!”

  “I’m quite rich. Oh dear, that is in bad taste to mention. But it’s true. I’m quite rich, and you seem like a nice young man. They put that dreadful brand on you, but you’re a nice young man. I’ve never met a zell before, but you were more polite and engaging, with eye contact and a pleasant demeanor, than most of the young men I’ve met in this little town. So take the shirt.” He smoothed his mustache with a finger as he stared off in thought. “I’ll wear my coat until I get home, then I’ll have access to my extensive wardrobe. More shirts than you’ve probably seen in your life. I guess I’m presuming, but I assume you have. Wow, I’m talking too much, I always do ramble on, why haven’t you told me to shut my mouth!”

  “You just gave me the shirt off your back and said I was polite, I figured interrupting you would be in poor taste,” Zac said with a smile.

  The man with the green mustache laughed. “I wish you the best of luck!”

  “Thank you, sir,” Zac said as he took off the ragged, sleeveless shirt he’d been wearing and put on the man’s white long sleeve undershirt. The man with the green mustache turned and strode away. He walked almost as fast as he talked.

  As Zac approached Apollo’s, he stopped at a lamppost and looked at a poster that had been nailed to it. It was a wanted poster, and at the bottom it mentioned a ten thousand crown reward, dead or alive. Zac saw the words, but he didn’t really notice it. His full attention was focused on the picture. She wore a scowl, and to him it seemed out of place because it contradicted her soft skin and flowing hair. But then again, she wore the scowl easily, like she’d been born with it. He read the caption below her face: Cera Winters, bounty hunter, assassin, thief. Wanted for crimes against the citizens and crown of Ascadell.

  Zac took another long look at her face. She was a criminal. That intrigued him even more. He tore his gaze away from the poster and headed into Apollo’s.

  Inside the store there were glass display cases with exquisite weapons bathed in the crackling firelight of the torches lining the walls. At the far end of the store stood an enormous, muscular man behind a counter. He was sharpening the edge of a claymore with a ruby studded hilt. The place smelled like oiled metal and sawdust.

  “You lookin’ for anything in particular?” the man said without looking up. His voice was deep and rough. But the abrasiveness wasn’t off-putting, it was as inviting as warm sand. The man also had a smooth, unlined face and kind eyes.

  “Uh . . . I don’t know . . . I’ve never held a real weapon,” Zac said, and then felt immediately stupid for saying it.

  The man looked up. “Really? You have the look of a fighter.”

  “Well . . . I’ve done some boxing . . . and a lot of labor. Hammering . . . and such.”

  I shouldn’t tell him I work in mines, or he’ll know I’m a slave . . . no, he couldn’t know that just by—

  “Boxing eh? Well I have a pair of gauntlets I think you might like. I suppose you already guessed my name, what’s yours?”

  “I’m . . . Eric.”

  Apollo
looked at Zac with a raised eyebrow, but looked away a moment later and pulled out a pair of leather gauntlets that were long enough to cover Zac’s arm all the way to the elbow.

  “Try these on,” Apollo said.

  Zac put them on.

  “See the steel studs at the knuckles? Make a fist.”

  Zac did, and he noticed that his knuckles bulged out. The studs came to sharp points.

  “Whoa—”

  “You’ll be able to do some serious damage with those. Also, those and the matching set of armor have an interesting enchantment. The armor looks like reg’lar leather armor, but it has thin steel plates encased in the leather to defend vital areas. The enchantment makes the plates extra strong, and it also lets the armor repair itself over time. If the leather gets slashed open during battle, give it a few days and it’ll look good as new. One of the plates gets dented and it should re-form and repair itself within a week.”

  “Really? How is that possible?”

  “I think it was a combination of alchemy and flesh magic. Very complex stuff, my eyes glazed over when the mage was explaining it to me. It’s a one of a kind enchantment, I had to supply the mage with hundreds of pieces of armor before he got it right. And he may never get it right again. Trial and error. Such are the limitations of enchantment magic, only the very best enchanters can duplicate their work.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Light and durable. Protective and mobile. The perfect armor. And those gauntlets are wicked.”

  Zac flexed his hands into fists again, staring down at the dark brown leather of the gauntlets and the slight gleam of their sharpened steel studs and their wicked points. He remembered a combination Gemin had taught him, a jab, straight right, left hook, straight right. He remembered using the combination as he sparred with some of his brothers. Zac’s hands flashed through the air. He stayed perfectly on balance with his chin tucked in and took small steps so he could shift his body weight into the punches, fists twisting and snapping.

  Apollo watched with raised eyebrows. Then he nodded slowly as Zac finished the combo. “Do you want them?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t have enough money.

  “Now, about this weapon situation—you must have held a weapon at some point.”

  “Well . . . like I said, just hammers and axes . . . for working.”

  “What type of work?”

  “Hammering railway spikes, clearing trees, making cabins, pounding mineral, putting up levees, dams, and . . . well, a lot of things.”

  “Ahh, I’ve got the perfect fit for you then—meet Razriel,” Apollo said, nodding to a shelf behind Zac. “These are unorthodox weapons. Since you don’t have training, you might as well learn how to use them and avoid a traditional style.”

  Zac turned to see a set of two weapons—a small warhammer and a handaxe. Both were jet black with thin silver lines inlaid into the steel to make jagged designs. They were simple and cruel. Zac liked them.

  “Razriel was made for speed and precision rather than power. Also, they react well to mind magic. If you can channel a simple communication spell, you can use it to recall them after they’re thrown. If you get good enough with them, that is. They need time to mark and accept you.”

  Zac was in silent awe.

  “Do you want to buy them?”

  Zac shook his head, and replied that he was only admiring.

  “Just go with the gauntlets—only two-fifty. And when you get the money to buy Razriel they’ll go together. I forged them to be used with Razriel.”

  “How so?”

  Apollo took Razriel down from the shelf. He reached behind the counter and pulled a leather harness out.

  “Put that on your shoulders.”

  There were two gleaming metal clips on the harness that rested on the back of his shoulders when he was done strapping it on.

  “The shafts snap into place there. You can remove it with a quick motion, way faster than unsheathing a sword. And if you’re wearing the gauntlets, you’re already in a defensive position when you reach for them, you can deflect attacks with the diamond-steel that goes all way up to your elbow.

  Zac reached back for Razriel’s handles, his forearms crossing in an “X” in front of his face.

  Razriel snicked crisply from the metal clips on the harness and Zac swung them through the air as if an invisible enemy stood in front of him. They were light and well-balanced, blurring through the air.

  “And with weapons that well-balanced and light, you can punch with them in your hands. It’ll be like holding a roll of coins, actually improving your impact. And with the gauntlets on, that impact will mean you’re hitting them with the diamond-steel. I thought of everything,” Apollo bragged. “Some would hate to wield a weapon with such a short range. And they’d say it was too light. But power is over-estimated. You cleave a skull in two with an enormous claymore—but it’s easier to nick someone’s neck with a fast swipe and then let their lifeblood spill out. Speed, paired with accuracy, can be just as deadly, especially when fighting at close quarters. Big weapons can be unwieldy when fighting in close.”

  Zac was staring at Razriel, only half listening. It was such a beautiful weapon.

  “But why a handaxe and a small warhammer?” Zac said distantly as his mesmerized eyes traces the flowing, smooth designs inlaid into the steel.

  “I’ll admit that it’s a strange combination, but if you can get used to using them, you can be sure that your enemies will be perplexed. Most fights involve swords of varying sizes. After that, there are full-sized warhammers, spears, or huge battle-axes. And most soldiers or serious fighters are trained in the nuances of attacking with and defending against daggers as well. But Razriel is unique. And I have a feeling that Razriel was made for you.”

  “I really don’t have any money,” Zac said. “Or I would definitely get them. They’re perfect. I actually came here because someone said you might need a hired hand.”

  “Hell of a sunburn you’ve got there.”

  Zac was taken aback by the sudden change in conversation.

  “Wasn’t there a bunch of Raezellians working in that mine near that town . . . what was it called?”

  Zac shrugged, trying to hide the panic welling up inside him.

  “Detren, right? I heard the town got destroyed, but one of the slaves escaped. And that there’s a bounty on his head.”

  Apollo smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile.

  Chapter Ten

  The baker’s boy, fair of face and far too kind

  Very strong, but not so wise

  Grew up and one day and did decide

  To leave that small town behind

  In the wider world he did divine

  That people behind big smiles lie

  They looked into his fair, honest eyes

  And saw ways to trick and ply

  To rob and poison their tricks belied

  By jolly laughs and gleaming canines

  And one day he did decide

  To leave the sly city behind

  Oh, he left that sly city behind

  But he was never again quite so kind

  –Bard’s Tavern Ode, original author unknown

  Zac felt his mouth drying. He would have to knock Apollo out and make a run for it.

  Zac took a quick stride toward him—but Apollo pulled a crossbow from under his counter.

  “Poison tipped darts. You’ll be asleep before you hit the floor. The poison will kill you after that, unless I feel generous and give you some of the antidote. Either way I’ll turn you in.”

  Apollo stepped out from behind the counter. He was still a little too far away for Zac to lunge for him.

  Apollo continued, “That was good shadowboxing you did. Really good. You zells know how to fight, so the shadowboxing was a dead giveaway.”

  Zac smiled, ignoring the word zell. He wanted to punch Apollo in the face for saying it, but the crossbow, and the implied promise that Apollo would report him—no, he�
�d have to smooth talk his way out of this.

  He said, “Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you, I just thought your shop looked really nice. Obviously I’ve had a hard run of luck, but if you show me mercy, I promise to make it worth your while. When I find a job I’ll come back and give you every penny of that bounty on my head, and more. You have my word.”

  “I have a better idea. A way we can both be happy. You’ll be free, and I’ll be rich.”

  Zac was surprised by this little turn. “Ahh . . . that sounds perfect. What do you have in mind?”

  Apollo crossed his arms over his chest. “Be my fighter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But Apollo didn’t hear Zac, he had a greedy look on his face, and a faraway look in his eyes. Zac didn’t like it. He’d heard stories about this happening before. The slavemasters would enter their slaves in tournaments to win them money. It was like dogfighting—and Zac didn’t want to be the dog.

  Apollo walked across the shop and locked his door. “If you sign a contract . . . let’s say it’s a three-year commitment, then I’ll let you free after that. I’ll save you five percent of the purse from every fight you win and give you the total sum after you fight for me for three years. It’ll be more than enough so you can pay for passage to one of the city-states where they let your kind walk free.”

  Zac had heard of these deals before. Some slaves jumped at the chance to be a prizefighter. It wasn’t the worst life. The problem was that if he was on contract, Apollo would make him fight as much as possible. He wouldn’t give Zac a chance to recover, he would have him fighting bareknuckle brawls each week until his body was worn out.

  Zac’s face would turn to mush over time, his knuckles would break and his wrists and back would become arthritic. He’d probably end up with an eye that didn’t work, blown out knees, a flattened nose he couldn’t breath through, and a host of other injuries. His mind itself might even deteriorate. He had heard of fighters whose hands shook and speech became slurred. Their grip on reality weakened and couldn’t hold onto many new memories.