Nightblade (The Tales of Ascadell Book 1)

by Jason Howard

  Gremdin took a vial of glowing pink liquid and held it above Zac’s burn. Zac begged for it with his eyes, but Gremdin didn’t pour it. He stared down at Zac’s agonized expression, then at the worsening burn on his arm. The acid sizzled deeper and deeper. Finally, Gremdin poured the pink liquid on Zac’s arm. The pain intensified. Zac could smell burning skin.

  Gremdin got another vial, this one a thick, brown liquid. He poured it onto Zac’s arm and the sizzling acid dissipated. Zac was left breathing hard, but silent.

  “Chew this and you’ll get your voice back,” Gremdin said, presenting some crusty green leaves.

  Zac chewed on them and looked down at his arm. The skin was red and raw. There were spots of blood and boils where the burn had been worst.

  “Your skin will look like that for at least another pass,” Gremdin said. “But if you apply this salve each night and make sure it stays out in the air, it’ll be okay. No long sleeves though, and avoid touching and rubbing it. If you don’t let it alone to heal, it’ll become a scar—and then people will know you had a brand anyway.”

  Gremdin handed Elias a vial of orange cream. Zac was still adhered to the chair.

  Zac said, “Wait . . . no long sleeves? I have to wear long sleeves. People will see these burns and they might figure out that—”

  “It’ll be gone in a week if you let it breath. If you don’t, it’ll scar like that forever. I’m not going to repeat myself again, boy,” Gremdin said.

  “Fine. Get me out of this chair.”

  As they walked out, Elias asked Zac if he still wanted to enter First Blood. “You don’t have a brand now, you can do whatever you want.”

  “All I know is how to fight and how to do hard labor. I’ve had enough hard labor in my life. I want to be a fighter.”

  “Good. Let’s get you in this tournament so we can get you some money and a name for yourself,” Elias said. “You’ll be someone then . . . stick with me after First Blood we’ll make a career of this. You’ll be the most famous prizefighter in Ascadell.”

  Zac smiled. That night Zac dreamt of touring through all the cities of the kingdom with Elias. That particular dream never came true. A different kind of fighting lay ahead for him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cloudsaddle

  One of the richest provinces in Ascadell. It is ruled by the Laveanors, a family with noble lineage going back centuries. Fighting is a family tradition for the Laveanors, and they have produced some of the finest fighters in Ascadellian history.

  A week later, Zac stood in the center square of Sal Zerone. He wore a sleeveless shirt, and the skin of his arm was still vaguely red, but the evidence of his brand was almost gone. Althos was next to him, laying on his back to soak in the sun.

  They were waiting among warriors of every different shape and size. Lithe, wiry archers stretched and practiced balancing exercises. Enormous men who were probably proficient with all manner of weapons were there, some talking in small groups, some leaning against buildings in silence. The people sold and bought food from vendors, rushed to work, herded small groups of chickens and cattle, argued amongst each other, and drove horse teams pulling their carriages.

  Zac noticed that a group of warriors was flicking furtive glances his way and talking amongst themselves in hushed tones.

  What do those bilchers want? he wondered, but he acted like he hadn’t noticed them.

  There were four of them, big men, definitely the kind of warriors that used enormous war axes and claymores.

  Althos sensed Zac’s anxiety and got to his feet, following Zac’s gaze and studying the group. ‘I don’t like them,’ Althos thought to Zac. ‘And they’re definitely talking about you. They’re bad, every single one of them, but especially the shortest one. And he’s the leader.’

  The one Althos thought was the leader of the group had a mane of long brown hair and a look in his eyes like he owned the world. Zac had learned to trust Althos’s uncanny intuition. Perhaps it was Althos’s psychic abilities, or maybe it was just his empathetic nature—but Althos was a very good judge of character.

  The one with the long brown hair turned and started toward Zac, and the other three followed. When they stopped in front of Zac, he gave a simple and emotionless nod to the leader that said, state your business.

  “We’re of the Cloudsaddle militia, a town in the Northlands. My name is Ryder Laveanor,” he said, sticking a hand out.

  Zac shook it and gave his name, but nothing more.

  “Have you heard the name Laveanor?”

  Zac shook his head.

  “My Father is Duke Laveanor . . . he presides over Cloudsaddle.”

  Zac bowed his head slightly to show respect.

  “Where have you served?” Ryder asked.

  “I’ve trained under Elias Thurston, a former Captain of the City Guard.”

  “I didn’t ask you that. Where have you served? Or are you just one of the civilian fodder that enter First Blood to get torn apart in the first round?”

  “I have no military background,” Zac admitted.

  “That’s not the whole truth, is it my friend?”

  Some of the other warriors were watching the scene now. Zac didn’t like the stares and whispers closing in around him.

  “That’s quite a burn you got there,” Ryder continued.

  “I got it while I was using a forge to repair my armor,” he recited.

  “You got it from your brand being removed.”

  Zac shrugged. He tried to turn and walk away, but the other three encircled him.

  Zac stared hard at each of the big men towering over him.

  “You don’t deserve to be in this tournament with us, zell.”

  “Then let me fight. So you can beat me in the tournament in front of the whole city.”

  Ryder shook his head. “First Blood is for Ascadellians, zell. I don’t know why they let you register, but that’s fine. I’ll correct that mistake. Right now.”

  “In broad daylight? You’ll be arrested.”

  Ryder just smiled.

  Zac knew why.

  No one would punish Ryder when they saw that he was a zell. And no one would take his side if it was Zac’s word against Ryder’s. There were some good people out there, like Elias, but they were far outnumbered.

  Zac’s skin crawled with pre-fight adrenaline. Four against one. Zac took a deep breath and fell into his stance.

  “What are you doing?” an angry voice demanded.

  Zac turned to regard the newcomer. He was surprised to see a warrior with dark black skin and a simple tribal tunic.

  “None of your concern,” Ryder said.

  “Where is your honor? Four of you for this one?”

  Ryder turned to him with surprise and annoyance. “Listen dungskin, I’m going to give you about five seconds to walk away.”

  Artem shook his head calmly. “My name is Artem Remelda, not dungskin. I will not be going anywhere.”

  “Last chance.”

  “My path is set. Choose yours.”

  Zac stepped forward and said to Ryder, “No one needs to get hurt until First Blood starts.”

  As their gazes shifted over to Zac, and Ryder opened up his mouth to spew some foul string of insults, Artem’s hand became a blur. Ryder cried out. Artem had thrown a small stone—but the aim had been perfect. Ryder gagged, grabbing at his throat where it had been smashed. His three friends had not even seen the throwing motion, so they all wore wide-eyed expressions of confusion and fear.

  “Shut your droning mouth.” Artem turned his gaze to the other three. He still hadn’t drawn his halberd or they their swords. “Will you fight for him?”

  By now, Ryder’s face was turning bluish from gasping, and he had sunk to his knees.

  They encircled Zac and Artem, but didn’t make a move.

  “He’s one of your brethren and you would let him choke and gasp on his knees without vengeance?”

  Artem stepped forward, eyes wide and wild.
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  The three jerked back, staying out of Artem’s range.

  Their swords and battle-axes came out and they carefully circled, trying to get one person behind Zac and Artem. Zac turned until he was almost back-to-back with Artem.

  The sound of clopping hooves filled the air.

  “What’s going on here?” a loud voice demanded. A City Guardsman atop a white destrier owned the voice, and he stared down at the poised warriors with a creased brow. There were six other City Guardsman with him.

  “Just a bit of . . . we’re just messing around. We’re all friends here, sir,” one of Ryder’s men said.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the Guardsman atop the white destrier asked about Ryder.

  Ryder stood and smiled weakly. He rasped, “An accidental blow landed. Truly, we’re just having a little fun.”

  “You look familiar . . . are you a Laveanor?”

  Ryder nodded and smiled.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, young sir,” the City Guardman said.

  “You’re only doing your job, no harm meant, no offense taken. Carry on.”

  The Guardsman saluted Ryder and turned his majestic steed, leading his men back through the crowd.

  Ryder fixed Zac and then Artem with a cold stare. He returned his gaze to Zac’s and snapped, “Something tells me we might meet in one of the early rounds of the tourney. I’d prefer to eliminate you before you earn a single victory.”

  Zac said nothing, only smiled at Ryder and gave him a short wave.

  Ryder and his men disappeared into the crowd.

  Zac turned to Artem.

  “Thanks—but I feel like that doesn’t cover it. I really owe you one,” Zac said. “I’m Zac Querellson. You said your name was Artem . . .”

  “Remelda.”

  Zac stuck a hand out.

  Artem looked at Zac’s outstretched hand with curiosity.

  “Uh . . . you just shake it like this,” Zac said as he showed Artem how to shake hands.

  “In our tribe we always embrace,” Artem explained.

  Zac improvised, pulling him into a half hug while he was shaking his hand, and when he stepped back he said, “Thanks again, you didn’t need to do that.”

  “No thanks is necessary. It was my duty to prevent an unfair fight like that. It would have been dishonorable to even allow it to happen,” Artem said.

  Zac raised an eyebrow and was about to say something when a cacophony of furious galloping interrupted them. Ultimbe r led a squadron of cavalrymen toward them. He rode a huge, angel-white steed. “Get up and stand at attention, now! Everyone get in line, side by side.”

  After they had formed the line, Ultimber trotted his horse back and forth in front of them as he said, “There are seven hundred and twenty of you here. Only a hundred will be First Blooders. Some of you that don’t qualify may be great fighters, but you will never get to compete. You see, this is about more than just fighting. This is also about finding out who the best potential soldiers in Ascadell are.

  “You will qualify or go home. Some of you may even die. If you are not ready to take this risk, now is the time to step aside.”

  Ultimber waited for a few moments. No one left. Ultimber said, “You will be checked after each leg of the qualifiers to ensure that you or someone else didn’t channel a spell on you to improve your endurance, speed, strength, or anything else about you. You will be watched by channelers and well-placed spotters throughout the event to ensure that no cheating or foul play takes place. Some among you are not really competitors, they’re spotters that are in place to watch you. So don’t try and purposely maim your competitors and don’t enlist outside assistance. Not only will you be eliminated from First Blood qualification, but you will be punished as any criminal deserves. Is that understood?”

  A “Yes Sir!” boomed from them.

  “Now that we have that out of the way—the first task is to run to Agora Point. You will have further instructions there. The race just began, so get moving.”

  They sprang into motion, and their hundreds of boots hitting the ground sounded like a rockslide.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Many brag about how well they can do it, but when it actually comes time to do the deed most of them are sloppy and artless, out of breath and finished far too quick. You have to pay attention to the other person and feel them out. Start slow and observe their rhythm and how they move, then add the intensity. I’m talking about fighting, of course.”

  –Elias Thurston

  Zac scanned the people around him as he jogged and found Artem. “I don’t even know where Agora Point is!”

  Artem replied, “I know the way, stay with me.”

  Together they ran, pushing and kicking, out of the mob of warriors.

  They sprinted out of the town square, right into the foot traffic of midrise Sal Zerone.

  They zigged and zagged around people, goats, food carts, carriages, and wagons.

  “This way,” Artem said between breaths. “I passed it during my journey here.”

  “So we’ll be leaving the city by the east gate?” Zac asked.

  “That is the closest gate to the correct direction, but it is actually southeast if you move as God does.”

  What does he mean, as God does? Zac wondered. Then he realized that Artem’s tribal saying probably meant something similar to, “As the bird flies.”

  Zac could feel his sweat mingling with the links of his chainmail. He stepped in a huge horse pie and slipped, falling to a knee, but bouncing up to regain his balance.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Zac said, shooting into an alleyway.

  “What?”

  “We go up.”

  “Up?”

  They ran through the alley until they got to a fence blocking the way. Zac leapt up, grabbed the top of the fence, and hoisted himself onto it. He balanced precariously on top of the fence like poised cat preparing to kill a bird. With a risky jump he managed to grab the lip of the roof above the fence. He pulled himself up and got a leg on the roof, straining and struggling for a few moments to climb safely atop it.

  He stopped and helped Artem up.

  When Artem was safely up, and Zac looked out from the roof, his breath caught in his chest for a moment. From this vantage, the city was an ocean of rooftops flowing out in every direction. He had never seen or imagined a place like this, where human structures formed their own sense of wilderness.

  Zac exhaled—his pause had been less than a second—and then he was sprinting, trying to keep up with Artem. They ran and jumped from one rooftop to the next, Artem yelling out course corrections to keep them going toward Agora Point.

  “This way now!” Artem said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Magic guides me,” Artem replied. “I am a raw conduit.”

  Zac lengthened his strides. He leapt for the next building—but didn’t quite make it. He smashed into the wall, his armor absorbing enough of the impact that he didn’t break his ribs. He nearly bounced off, but managed to grab hold of the roof’s lip. He clung to it and pulled hard—the gutter ripped off the side of the roof. His fingers scrambled for something else to grab.

  “Help!” Zac yelled out.

  There was a creak as the gutter gave way even more, and a staccato of pops as nails ripped out.

  Artem ran back and dropped to his stomach, pulling Zac up.

  Zac thanked him, but Artem brushed this off and ran on.

  Rooftops blurred past as they sprinted and jumped. Some had chairs on them, even little tables. Some had rooftop gardens or storage bins. One had a creepy collection of dolls and sculptures. Must be for some kind of shop, Zac decided. It still looked weird though, all those little painted eyes, watching as they ran past.

  They reached the city wall. It towered above the rooftop abutting it. They jumped to and climbed a nearby tree. They were able to climb from that to the top of the city wall, where they hesitated for just a moment. They were a little more than fifteen f
eet up, lush grass beckoned below.

  “Roll when you hit the ground,” Artem offered.

  “This is a bad idea.”

  “Going up was your idea.”

  Zac chuckled. “True.”

  Zac took a deep breath, and then yelled wildly as he leapt from the city wall. All he could hear was the whoosh in his ears. All he could feel was the soft, fresh air. All he could see was the carpet of green rushing at him. He felt the jolt of his body thumping hard against the grass, and he tucked into a roll. The wind was knocked clean out of him. He had to lay on the grass for a few moments to recover.

  Artem, having landed and rolled gracefully, pulled Zac to his feet.

  Outside the city the terrain changed. The ground was soft. Fresh grass waved in the wind, but it also pulled, spongy, on their boots. It had rained recently.

  They jogged for a long time without talking. It was about an hour of running in the heavy armor. The ground started to get mucky. It started to pull, their feet thwomp-pucked every time they hit the ground.

  Occasionally Zac looked over his shoulder. It seemed they were the first ones that had gotten out of the city. Far back he could see others pursuing them, their armor glinting in the sunlight.

  They arrived at Agora’s Point—it was a thin peninsula that protruded far into the enormous river. A regiment of Ascadellian soldiers stood on its muddy ground. Zac’s side-stitch kept him hunched over as he walked.

  “Gods damn it,” Zac said. “Can somebody pull the knives out of my lungs, please?”

  Artem grunted his agreement with the sentiment.

  The beach stretched endlessly to their right and left. Ahead of them heatwaves shimmered off the sand. To Zac’s surprise, Ultimber was calmly riding his horse along the lines of soldiers. On a horse next to his was a tall wizard. Artem recognized Ivor immediately. He nodded to him, and Ivor nodded back.

  “How did Ultimber get here so fast?” Zac grumbled.