A Glimmer on the Blade

by Rachel E. Baddorf

  A GLIMMER ON THE BLADE

  By

  Rachel E. Baddorf

  A GLIMMER ON THE BLADE

  A Pro Se Productions Publication

  All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Written by Rachel E. Baddorf

  Editing by Rachel Schmidt and MJ Hendry Amanda Berthault

  Cover by Antonino Lo Iacono & Marzia Marina

  Book Design by Antonino Lo Iacono & Marzia Marina

  New Pulp Logo Design by Sean E. Ali

  New Pulp Seal Design by Cari Reese

  www.prose-press.com

  A GLIMMER ON THE BLADE

  Copyright © 2018 Rachel E. Baddorf

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  People of Terastai

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dedicated to Sarita Baddorf, who always supported my writing. I miss you Mom

  PROLOGUE

  Empire of Terastai, City of Aquillion, Imperial Palace

  There were many women at Leben Arctuan’s funeral. Cicadas buzzed in the heat, the mourners idly fanning themselves as the gray-robed priestess chanted and waved incense over the corpse. Among the expected family, comrades, soldiers, and officials, there were merchants’ daughters, noble ladies, a few actresses, and a sprinkling of officers’ women, in various states of mourning. Arctuan was known as a hero, the second in command of the Imperial Bodyguard Corps under Commander Franco. As a hero, he had been known throughout the palace as a man with great prospects, great personality, and great stamina. There were bards at the funeral, composing new songs to be sung about him in the lower wards. Mizrahi noticed all these things as he took the shortcut through the court. When his hobnail boots sounded on the cobbles, the priestess looked up and glared at him. It was a funeral he should be attending. He ducked into the corridor to the palace temple. The splash echoed off the marble walls as what was left of Arctuan sank into the old, wide stone aqueduct. He would be washed and carried through the duct and down into one of the sacred wells under the palace. Time had run dry for Arctuan. He was not the only one. Mizrahi turned the last corner and stumbled with a curse on a corner of his cloak. He fetched up against the base of a statue. Deeply hewn words dragged roughly on his palm, as he pushed off back into a run. In two strides he was past the stone statue of the first Emperor Ardmore Miliarnes, and speeding up despite his exhaustion. Unbidden, the words of the inscription ran back through his mind: Under the cover of Her darkness, She guides us as we write our names through time in movements of stars. The words matched the cadence of his steps on the tile. Feeling suffocated, he tore with one hand at the cloak ties and let it fall behind. Balled up under his arm was his black uniform surcoat and the shirt he wore was wet with sweat and blood. His thoughts jumbled like dice in a cup.

  A few heartbeats later, he entered the immense arched chamber of the palace temple. A boy in green robes lighting incense on the central altar saw him and dashed for the passage leading to the temple cells. Mizrahi staggered up the aisle, dumping the surcoat on the front pew. He tried to control his breathing while his trembling hands had trouble unbuckling his sword belt. He laid the belt on the pew, folded carefully with the sword and the two long daggers on the inside. The ruby in the hilt of the sword caught light from a stained-glass window of the sleeping Goddess. He wanted to turn away, but temptation got the best of him. It might be the last time he touched the sword. He drew it with a faint ring of steel. He knew this sword like he knew the lines of his palms. Seven months ago, Commander Franco had called him into his office. The commander had broken into a stony smile and revealed his scores on the last test. Mizrahi had been named Red Dragon, new leader of the emperor’s personal bodyguards. A squat old man had been there, a Tehana smith with many freckles and a knowing smile. He had taken measurements, his calloused hands dry and warm against Mizrahi’s. The old man accompanied them to one of the practice rooms and watched Mizrahi run through a couple of bouts with the commander. The old man had bowed and left. Two months later, the sword had arrived in the palace by special courier from the mountains.

  The sword was a hybrid, light enough for grace, heavy enough for stopping power against some of the western two-handed blades out there. The steel was only folded thirteen times, but it created thousands of layers. The core was soft low-carbon steel jacketed in hard high-carbon steel. A groove was ground into the blade, mirror bright, and a dragon was engraved in the blade near the guard. The pommel held the inset ruby. The date, smith, and Mizrahi’s name and rank were engraved on the tang, the part of the blade hidden by the hilt. It would always belong to the Red Dragon. Sheathing it, he returned it to the pile, fussing with the surcoat made stiff from a fine lining of mail. They might try him for treason again, but they would never say he was not a proper soldier, a proper guard. He folded the coat with the red Dragon badge on the top.

  “Mizrahi? Why aren’t you preparing for your journey?” A tall, skinny old woman whose shorn silver hair stuck out in all angles, strode up the aisle. At first glance, she put most in mind of a heron spat from a hurricane. On second glance, the wise noticed the silver robes she wore as the Sybil of the Imperial Moon Temple and silver metal casters encasing her hands. The wise, at this point, backed up carefully.

  “Alcyenne, they’re—they’ll be coming for me. The Introduction Ceremony was totally torched. Vansainté was wounded and I fought the prince.” He pulled a garment off from under his shirt with a sound of clashing metal rings.

  “I was there when you taught Vansainté the steps. He volunteered to step in for you when you said you couldn’t fight the prince. How can a ceremonial duel go wrong?”

  “Take this. I can’t be found with it,” Mizrahi said and held out the garment. It was tinkled merrily, a mail shirt comprised of moonpearls with silver rings connecting them. His hands shook with anger. “The prince failed at one of the steps. I should’ve been the one...It was my place to fight the prince and I couldn’t do it, and now the healers are trying to save Vansainté’s sword arm. The rest of the moonpearls are already packed with the supply wagon ready for the quest tomorrow. Send a novice to get them before the guards come.”

  The Sybil cut him off with a hand. “Calm yourself. You are the anchor for the spell anyway. Resetting the stones takes precision and much time. Perhaps it is time for you to drop your disguise. If Ryelis Mizrahi is a hunted man, then drop the spell and enter the temple. They will never look for you among my clergy. A place has been prepared...” The old woman folded her hands together, the silver metal pins-and-rings constructs of her casters flashing. He knew the gesture was the old woman’s way of trying to be subtle.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I chose this. Franco’s an honorable man. He deserves an explanation.” He
put the stone-set mail under the pew, out of sight, and sat on the pew to unlace his boots. He was down to the stained white shirt, black breeches, and a single moonpearl pendant around his neck. The guards would think it was simply a symbol of Mizrahi’s faith in the Goddess.

  “How bad was the fight?” She paced. “And what in the Goddess are you doing?” The Sybil crossed her arms.

  The boots were set on the pew, next to the garrote and the two boot knives they had concealed. “They know I’m a graduate of Oruno Warcollege. Any move I make will be construed as an attack. If I’m going to salvage this, I need to keep from getting shot. The easier it is to see that I’m not armed, the more relaxed the guards will be. As to the fight...” Mizrahi rubbed his face, covering his eyes for a long moment as if to block out the memories. “The prince didn’t call the guards.” Mizrahi nervously fiddled with the lioness head buckle on the sword belt. “It was fast. I challenged him, we dueled and I almost slit him hips to gullet.” He swallowed convulsively. “A slip of a finger’s width and he...I...knew I couldn’t face him. I haven’t been that close to him in seven years.”

  “I know this is important to you, but think.” The Sybil studied him with the cold calculation of a heron hunting fish. “They need not ever find Ryelis Mizrahi. After seven years work would you prefer to give the Highlords a second chance to behead you?”

  The clack of hobnail boots on the tiles came from the passage outside. Mizrahi’s head snapped up and his amber eyes locked with the Sybil’s angry glare. “Let them take me.” Mizrahi stood and stepped away from his weapons.

  “Would you leave the prince to Shaiso and his flock of vultures? What of Miliarnes House? What of the Empire? You are the Scion of my temple.”

  “No, the only reason the prince has survived this long is because Franco was at his back. That bastard Arctuan was supposed to be our agent here but he got himself killed. We need an ally in the guard.”

  “We agreed not to contact him. He’s just as likely Shaiso’s puppet.”

  “No Alcyenne, you agreed. Now we find out whose side Commander Franco’s on.”

  “He has no sigil and I don’t have the power to make one...Stop being a stupid child.” The Sybil grasped Mizrahi’s hand tightly, her casters grinding his finger bones together. Magical heat pulsed through the casters, pounding with the rhythm of the ocean on the beach. “For your own good, take off the pendant!”

  Mizrahi clenched his jaw. “Get off me, Alcyenne. I have to try.”

  Dark gray-clad guards entered the temple, swiftly fanning out to surround Mizrahi, swords and crossbows drawn. The Sybil stepped back and Mizrahi straightened, stilling the last tremors of panic and trying to put the buzz of the magic out of his mind.

  “Ryelis Mizrahi? Sir, you are to come with us,” said Captain Hager. He approached with caution, moving between the pew with the weapons and Mizrahi. “Step away from the Sibyl. Hands up.”

  Mizrahi lifted his hands carefully and turned around, sizing up the taller man in a dismissive glance. “Captain Hager, I’m unarmed. I bet you were pleased when they chose you to carry out the warrant.”

  Captain Hager swallowed, motioning for the men to close in. He was young and fear made his eyes wet. “Commander Franco just wants to have a quiet talk with you sir.”

  “I don’t want any bloodshed,” said Mizrahi as he stepped forward, the marble cold under his feet. The guards fell in around him. “You don’t need your weapons.”

  “Your pardon, but I’ve seen you in the practice yard. Search him,” Captain Hager ordered. One of the guards swiftly ascertained Mizrahi was weaponless. “Please sir, put your hands together,” Captain Hager said with painful courtesy.

  Mizrahi’s face was impassive, but he gritted his teeth as he did as he was told. One of the guards held a crossbow aimed at his chest while another fastened manacles around his wrists. Captain Hager took up the black surcoat and draped it over Mizrahi’s hands to conceal the binding. Mizrahi couldn’t keep from testing the three big links of chain that joined the cuffs. Captain Hager signaled a guard to gather up the rest of the weapons and clothes.

  “I’ll do that.” The Sybil twitched, making a fuss about gathering up the boots and weapons and bundling them in a corner of her robe. She turned back to face Captain Hager. “You have violated the sanctity of this temple, Captain. I should like to speak to your superior about this.”

  “Lady, Commander Franco just wants to see...”

  “And I am positive he does not want to be left waiting, Hager.”

  Captain Hager looked helplessly on as the Sybil swept past him and took the lead in the procession. “Lady, I must insist you go through the proper channels...”

  The Sybil ignored him. The procession passed from the temple tower to the military wing of the palace, going down several levels. Mizrahi could tell the Sybil was navigating their way through the passages least used by servants, probably to keep rumors to a minimum. They were soon on the bodyguard corps level and in front of Commander Franco’s door. The Sybil allowed Hager to knock, all the while embodying the image of injured nobility. Commander Franco opened the door, ushering them into his office with a jerk of his head. He was a short, barrel-chested man, with curly black hair and a long mustache laced with gray. He glared through iron-hard eyes, his swarthy pox-scarred face drawn into a grimace. Over the last two years of training with him, Mizrahi had never seen Horacio Franco, Imperial Armsmaster and Commander of the Imperial Guard Corps, so angry.

  “Sybil Alcyenne, I have matters to attend to with this guard. Please wait outside.” Franco’s voice was like the grinding of millstones.

  “Commander, this guard is a faithful member of my congregation. I’ve matters of my own.” She uncovered Mizrahi’s bound hands and dumped the surcoat and weapons in a pile on an armchair.

  Franco looked like he would start growling like a dog at any moment. “If you insist. Hager, leave us.”

  Captain Hager pushed Mizrahi to his knees and closed the door behind him. Franco began to pace in front of his desk. His slow but unpredictable temper was legendary in the corps. Mizrahi stared at the bookshelves behind the desk, waiting for the tide to break. Mid-pace, Franco turned, seizing Mizrahi by his messy dark hair and dragging his head back.

  “I took you in and gave you a place of honor in the guard. I would have sworn on my own soul you were dedicated and ready to lead the emperor’s personal bodyguards. Even though you were a foreigner.” He pushed Mizrahi’s face down, a hand parting the hair at his neck. There was a complicated blue and green tattoo. “Your warcollege has guaranteed your honor. Should you forsake it, your teachers and fellow graduates will hunt you. How could you break the ceremony and attack the prince?”

  “I didn’t—” Mizrahi winced as Commander Franco’s heavy backhand knocked him to the ground.

  “Don’t fence with me, Mizrahi. I saw you. When Vansainté was hurt, you leapt into the fray, ready to kill. Though I cannot conceive why he was wearing your uniform and taking your place in the ceremony.”

  Mizrahi climbed back to his knees, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. “I was mindless in defense of a sword-brother. The prince is unharmed.”

  “Ha!” The commander clenched his fist, seeming barely able to hold back another blow. “Through no act of your own! Goddess knows why he didn’t call the guard. He was forced to use a hand-to-hand combat move like a brawling farmer in front of the court! Why didn’t you just run?”

  Weary, the only words that would come to Mizrahi were the truth, for all that they sounded pathetic. “It wouldn’t have been so close if he had just stayed still. I wasn’t prepared for him to move.”

  “You maintain your aim was not to hurt him?” asked Commander Franco.

  Mizrahi stared at the Commander’s shoes, a little unsteady. “I know swords, sir. If I wanted him dead, he’d be dead.”

  The quiet slither of steel being unsheathed filled the office. The commander’s sword was clenched in his hand. “In the
old days, the guard would have the life of any man who came so close. The Highlords should be clamoring for your head by now.”

  “You know why they aren’t.” Mizrahi’s head came up, amber eyes locked with the commander’s. “You’re from Cavanii Province aren’t you?”

  “I ask the questions.” The commander’s sword flashed, the sword butt connecting with Mizrahi’s skull almost softly.

  “Commander, let him speak,” the Sybil interjected. Mizrahi’s vision blurred and cleared with effort in the painful moments it took to get up again. Had the commander wanted to, his skull would have caved under the hilt.

  “Stay out of this,” Franco growled, looking ready to turn the sword on the old woman.

  “Cavanii Province is Highlord Shaiso’s domain. Your wife and children still live in the keep there. That’s why you were chosen as armsmaster when Emperor Ventirus became sick. Shaiso brought you here to train the prince, so he could tell you what to teach him. And what not to let him know.” The words were coming faster and faster from Mizrahi. He knew now a simple explanation would not work on the commander. “Shaiso wanted a disreputable candidate to make Red Dragon. Someone who seems lax and undisciplined. Easier to manipulate or kill. I saw the reports they had on me. One of the Highlords summed it up nicely with unpredictable, untrustworthy heritage, and a drunk. I had to work very hard to pass all the imperial tests while creating an image of someone they could bribe.”

  The commander’s eyes grew steely as he raised his sword again. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  The Sybil darted to the young man’s side, lending him a shoulder to stand. “By the Goddess, Franco, listen!” She backed off a pace when the sword blade came to rest on Mizrahi’s shoulder, the commander’s eyes narrowed to a squint.

  “Prince Corinado is the last in the Miliarnes line,” Mizrahi said. “When the Dragon squad leaves to gather Corinado’s Goddess offering, and he’s sequestered in the Prince’s Ordeal, the only thing between him and the Highlords will be a few old clergy. By stopping either the ceremony or the quest, they can break the dynasty in one move, and say the Goddess has revoked divine legitimacy. You’ve got to know this. When Shaiso says the word, Commander, are you going to slit the prince’s throat?”