Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4)

by H. Jane Harrington

  Xavien had cut his teeth on kaiyo claws. His rise to Guardianship had been no accident. Like his Arcadian brethren, battle was a way of life for him. He quickly discovered that brawn is not the only means of achieving victory. Creative intelligence could be a strength much more deadly than skill with a sword. Xavien long been teased for his slender frame and delicate hands. The teenage years amassed what bulk had been lacking in youth, but during that time, Xavien had also been keen to hone his superior intellect. Many a brawny warrior fell at his side, while Xavien endured through pure wit and conniving. He had outlived every one of the boys he had trained with. It was just as much through his brain that he had earned his Guardianship as it was his superior Offensives and swordsmanship.

  “I thought you had a purpose in bringing me here,” Ashkorai grumbled from his seat. He glanced distastefully through the smokey dim at the open, Barriered ring in the center of the chamber. “I know how you love your Arcadian vices, but we have more important things to be doing than pickling our livers and gambling away our lorans at a disreputable rumble ring.”

  “Stint your clack, Ash,” Xavien tutted with a wave of his hand. He watched the two rumblers in the ring going at each other with mace and dagger. The tankard drained down his throat before he spoke again. “There's more to my purpose than mere entertainment, but until that purpose makes himself known, why not enjoy the pleasures?”

  Arcadia had some of the best rumble rings in the kingdom, and not only for its superior breed of warriors. Many of the rumble rings throughout Septauria fit into one of two categories: incredibly boring or incredibly fixed. The boring variety pitted two fighters against each other to the win, with rules and protections. The fixed variety were pure spectacle, where two thespian warriors would have at each other with predetermined results. The fighters left the ring with their lives intact, the safeguards protecting them from certain death. There were many celebrity rumblers that came and went with the public's seasonal fancy. Both varieties brought in loads of lorans for the establishment owners, but they were not as genuine as the gritty, questionably legal, balls-to-the-wall houses that Arcadians preferred. The rules were lax here, if they existed at all. Arcadian warriors gambled more than just their reputations when they stepped into an underground rumble ring. Limb and life were up for the wagering, and a match to the death was not an unusual occurrence. These were not the rumble rings meant for a spectacle. They were meant for blood.

  The uglier of the two rumblers took a dagger to the calf and went to a knee. He was easily finished off by his opponent, to general applause and several jeers from those spectators whose bets had been placed on the wrong man.

  “I don't see why it must be a secret,” Ashkorai said when the roar of the audience had settled. He had always been such a killjoy.

  “Because I love a good surprise,” Xavien said.

  “I don't,” Ashkorai grumbled sourly.

  “You'll like this one, I wager. I've been seeking him for quite some time. Like yourself, he was not an easy man to track down.”

  Ashkorai opened his mouth to speak, but the barker made bold announcement of the next rumbler, returning champion Master Warrior Walleck, drowning out any argument before it was lodged. It was a false name, of course.

  “I would have gift wrapped him for you,” Xavien said, nodding to the ring. “Ribbons don't become him, I'm afraid.”

  Two servies were busy dragging the corpse of the last loser through the gate. The newcomer knocked them aside, stepping over the fallen man as he clomped into the ring on bold stride. He raised his right hand in greeting to the crowd, displaying the fine musculature of his chest and back. His forearms and long sleeves were covered by leather vambraces, one of which obscured a very important piece of armor.

  “I'll be sunk and barnacled. That's Tamlin.” Ashkorai's green eyes gleamed.

  “Happy now?”

  “How did you find him?”

  “You know me and my many eyes,” Xavien beamed.

  Theirs had been a glorious Guardian trinity, Ashkorai, Tamlin and Xavien. They had a mutual respect between them that had developed over the years. In their distinct personalities, they had come to tolerate and appreciate each other in a way that only those Bonded might otherwise understand. Their trinity had ended the evening of Tarnavarian's First Wedding, when Xavien's Guardianship had been abjured for his failure of duty. It left Tarnavarian with only two Guardians. Xavien always wondered why he had not been replaced in the years that had followed. The romantic in him hoped it was for the hole in Tarnavarian's heart that could never again be filled.

  “It's been over a year,” Ashkorai noted absently. He watched Tamlin keenly. “I haven't seen him since that night.” It was the moonless to which he referred.

  The opponent was a seasoned fighter, but he was no match for a Guardian's might. Tamlin dispatched him quickly and efficiently, without effort. The audience roared in delight, shouting for more.

  The barker coaxed them on, playing to their drunken urgency. “A boss you want?” A positive roar answered back. “They want a boss! Walleck? Will you take on this challenge?”

  Tamlin raised his bloody sword in affirmation. He looked dauntless and unaffected, just as he always did. Xavien admired him the ability to wear confidence on his sleeve so casually.

  There was no delay in the action. The metallic clanging of a secondary gate chuckled its way open, to the release of a snarling respillitan. They were dangerous kaiyo in the wild, and even moreso in close proximity, thanks to the blinding projectile venom they could squirt from their tear ducts.

  Ashkorai tensed in his seat, only enough to be noticed by Xavien's keen eye.

  The respillitan moved its scaly legs quickly, darting to one side. Tamlin took a knee and bowed his head. The crowd instantly began calling bets to the dealers. Xavien could only chuckle at their gullibility. This stance was anything but a sign of submission or surrender; it was an old favorite of Tamlin's.

  The creature recognized what it perceived as an opening in its prey's attentions. It arched its back and reared, ready to deliver its venom spray at the moment Tamlin's eyes were in sight.

  Tamlin turned his sword to face the point downward. He almost looked like he was praying. His head snapped up and at that moment, the kaiyo launched its venom. Tamlin's hand moved too fast to track, shifting the sword in front of his face. The venom congealed on the surface of the blade. The point was forced into the respillitan's open mouth, directing the flowing liquid into the depths of the creature's foul innards. The kaiyo screeched as the venom seemed to scorch it from the inside. It reared back in panic, then stumbled a few times, clearly in agony.

  The audience was astounded as Tamlin finished it off. Xavien was less so. Tamlin had been a hellion on the kaiyo-slay years before. Certainly a respillitan was no match for the likes of him. It was still an impressive speed of kill. He would love to see Tamlin facing off against a first or second class kaiyo, just for the entertainment value.

  The ring gate rumbled as it opened and Tamlin disappeared into the backrooms for attention. When he emerged, almost an hour later, the Guardian was clean of the splattered blood and kaiyo funk, and his scar-decorated chest was covered with a casual tunic. He made his way to the bar and accepted a few drinks from fans. Xavien waited until he seemed good and sloshed before sending summons by way of the barmaid. He wasn't exactly sure their presence would be well-received. Tamlin was always easier to deal with when there were a few rounds under his belt.

  Tamlin followed the barmaid back to the table where Ashkorai and Xavien were waiting. The moment his keen brown eyes spied them, there was instant recognition. He blinked once, just to be certain he was not seeing things. Xavien flipped a coin to the barmaid for dismissal, then pushed the empty chair out with his boot for invitation.

  “Impressive slay,” Ashkorai said calmly.

  “Not my best time, but it'll do,” Tamlin replied. He eased himself into the waiting chair
carefully. He wasn't yet sure what they were about. “Surprised you found me.”

  “It's not as though you were hiding in a cave, brother,” Xavien offered slyly, with a wink Ashkorai's way.

  “I've been on the move every few weeks for the past year, under more false names than I can even count. If you found me, you were looking,” Tamlin said. “You here for challenge? Or for proposition?”

  “The latter,” Xavien assured him. “The world grows dark of late, and we have devised a way to bring a little spark back into the dim, should you care to light the wick. We may find our spark becomes an Inferno.”

  “Damn you and your poetry, Xavien,” Tamlin huffed. His glower melted into a smirk, and he offered out an arm in greeting. “I've missed that sly tongue of yours, more than you know. The Brace was too quiet after you got the boot.”

  Xavien accepted it warmly. The blackened edge of a vambrace peeked out from Tamlin's left sleeve. The Guardian followed the trail of Xavien's eyes, then tugged the fabric forward to hide the vambrace from view.

  “You saw right. It's black as moonless,” Tamlin said, in answer to the unspoken question. He leaned toward Ashkorai slightly. “Yours, too?”

  Ashkorai nodded, but he said nothing.

  “Happened that night. You know. The night. I was off duty and the Brace was empty, just me. The Empyrean Elite came calling, expecting I had something to do with it all. They said he had been assassinated, and I suppose I was considered guilty by association. With my vambrace turning black, and with their swords expecting to make an example of me, I wasn't going to wait around for interrogations and beheadings. Figured we'd sort it later, but that never happened and I just stayed on the move.”

  “How did you know I didn't kill him?” Ashkorai asked.

  Tamlin blinked. “I didn't know one way or the other. Didn't seem possible, Guardian magic being what it is. But I figured there must have been more to the story than they were saying. You know how Soventine was always swirly with details. If you had cause and ability to carry something like that out despite the magic in place to prevent it, there must have been some epic reason. Being the moonless night, it wasn't hard to imagine what that reason might have been. Truthfully, I've just been trying to survive since then.”

  Ashkorai offered out his own arm in greeting and Tamlin accepted it readily. “You and I, both. Eskanna's blessings, brother. It's been too long.”

  Xavien raised an eyebrow. “Trying to survive? By placing yourself in the rumble ring?”

  “I'm still alive, aren't I?” Tamlin laughed. “So what's the proposition you've sought me out for? Must be a good one, for both of you to be here.”

  “Oh, it is,” Xavien promised. “That I can guarantee.”

  -29-

  Ghostly Echoes of Shadowed Guilt

  What layer is your reality? How varied is it from mine?

  What red is your red, what night is your night, Is this one I see also thine?

  - Excerpt from Perceptions, a poem by Toma Scilio, age fifteen

  When he seemed satisfied that Kir's terror was at its peak, Inagor's rigid stance changed and the grip of his anchor lifted. His hand closed around Kir's naked forearm, where the Guardian vambrace had once resided. He squeezed with an accusatory message, the jagged nails biting her skin.

  At the solid touch of his hand, Kir whimpered. She tried to call out, to alert anyone to her peril. Even with the Binding dropped, nothing would squeak past her immobile tongue. The breath was frozen in her lungs. As fast as a threatened viper, Inagor struck. He whipped her around by the shoulders and pressed her back against his chest tightly. Her throat was hooked in the vice of his palm. One quick snap and it would be over. Kir struggled weakly against his iron grip, then in a sudden inspiration, she let herself go limp as a boned fish. Inagor lost his hold as she slipped to the grass. He reached toward her as Kir shuffled backward in a haphazard crab-walk. In the disconnection, she scrounged for a thread of the courage that had abandoned her before.

  “Kionara!” Kir cried to herself, to the encampment and to Inagor. He hesitated, for the first time blinking in confusion. He had lost his dominance over her, and it was the first time she had read anything but menace in his eyes.

  Kir scrambled upright and bolted for the fires ahead, hoping to draw Inagor out to the party's awareness. In her emotional frenzy, there was no way she could face a Grand-Master Swordsman on par with Inagor Arrelius. She might as well be facing down Nomah himself.

  “To arms!” Kir croaked out, stumbling from the shadows of the tent alley.

  Ulivall, Malacar and Eshuen came barreling from somewhere nearby. They were alarmed at her bedraggled state.

  Kir pointed to the side alley. “He's there... attacked...” she managed in pants.

  Ulivall and Eshuen raced around the corner in pursuit. Malacar whisked Kir into the royal tent. Lyndal was parked as close to the flap as possible, concerned at the commotion but unable to address it in his confinement.

  Malacar guided Kir to the bedroll in her chamber, where he eased her down. Lyndal took guard at the doorway, sword ready.

  “Where are you injured?” Malacar asked, searching frantically for wounds.

  “I'm not,” Kir panted, awash with the jimjams. Her voice quivered to match her hands. She cursed them both for trembling.

  Malacar didn't believe her. He kept probing until Kir gripped his hands firmly in hers.

  “I'm fine,” she insisted, forcing herself calm. “He just spooked me is all.”

  Spooked and Kir did not seem to be two words that went together in any kind of a sentence. Malacar answered with a pinched brow and forced breath.

  “Did you get a look at him?” Lyndal asked from the doorway.

  Kir couldn't withhold the frustrating tear that spilled down her cheek. “It was Inagor,” she whispered to Malacar.

  He shook his head in disbelief and Kir understood. She couldn't believe herself, either.

  “Sweet Serafin,” Malacar said, taking her face in his palms as he pressed his forehead against hers. “I can't lose you to this, Kir. You cannot let yourself fall to delirium...”

  “Delirium? I'm not delusional,” Kir argued defensively, pulling back. “It was him...”

  There was a sudden flurry of activity around them. Lili and Melia rushed in, followed by Ulivall and several of the warriors. Orders were flying and chaos hummed in the background of Kir's veiled awareness. Was she really fabricating a false reality? Inagor couldn't possibly have been there in the flesh, digging his fingers into her forearm. She rubbed the spot, finding no evidence of his harsh grasp. Was it all a product of her overactive mind?

  “Kir?” Ulivall was saying. “Did you hear me?”

  Kir nodded absently, even though she hadn't. “Details. You need details.”

  “Fetch Bertrand,” Ulivall ordered and someone slipped away quickly to obey.

  “No, I'm fine,” Kir insisted, rousing from the depths of her trepidation. “Really. He didn't even draw his weapon.”

  Kir could hear Rendack's voice in the central chamber. He strode into her bedchamber briskly and pulled Ulivall to the far wall.

  “The encampment is in lockdown. Emergency procedures have been enacted.” Rendack kept his voice low. He glanced at Kir apologetically, then turned back to Ulivall. “I scouted the alley and surroundings thoroughly. There was no trace. At all. Not even a footprint.”

  “He never leaves one,” Kir called to Rendack. “You won't find physical evidence unless he wants you to.”

  Ulivall knelt before her. “Who? Was it Gensing?”

  Kir shook her head tightly and looked to Malacar's pinched face. The admission would earn her labels that were much worse than the wry crazy wench she often heard in her recklessness. Lili's hand rested on Kir's back and Melia slipped in to hold Kir's free hand in support.

  “It was Inagor,” Kir admitted aloud, tucking her chin.

  No one spoke. They stood there starin
g at her, figuring through the facts.

  “Kir, Guardian Arrelius is dead,” Ulivall said gently.

  “They never found his body,” Kir argued. “What if...”

  Rendack stepped forward. “I was a scout on the recovery team at the ferry wreckage. The impact was so catastrophic it splintered the trees and collapsed a side of the mountain. There wasn't much left, of anything. We found a piece of Guardian Arrelius' breastplate. He would not have shed his armor in battle. I'm sorry, Saiya Kunnai, but there's no way anyone survived that crash.”

  “Then how have I been seeing him for days? A ghost before, maybe, but not this time. This was real. I felt his breath on my neck. He grabbed my vambrace...” Kir held out her arm for proof, having forgotten there was no longer a Guardian vambrace covering it. Although Inagor had left no visual mark, Kir could still feel the heat of his fingers.

  Everyone exchanged looks that were loaded with a bunch of things Kir didn't want to see. She inhaled a shaky breath and forced it out smoothly.

  “I know how it sounds. Believe me, I do. He didn't even look like himself—all savage and war-painted and feral. So full of hate and blame, he could have staked me to the tent with it. He had me in a Binding spell, I think—I couldn't move or call out. If he'd drawn his weapon, I couldn't have even fought back...”

  Malacar pulled Kir to his chest and held her against his tabard.

  “Kir, listen to me,” his steady voice spoke in her ear. “Inagor Arrelius was my dear friend. And I can tell you that the man you saw is not him. If Inagor were alive, he would not be haunting you from the shadows. He would not be hovering over you in tent alleys and Binding you in spells. That's not Inagor Arrelius. I think maybe the burden and stress of what you are holding on your shoulders is so great that it is forcing you to confront it in the only way you know how. Inagor has been your crutch for a while now, to help you bear the weight. That's what his dagger represents, and why you find strength in sharing the load with a ghost of his memory. The guilt you carry is so heavy, it can drive you right to your knees. I know, because I carry something like it every day, too. You have to let it go, Kir. Palinora's death was not your fault. The Inagor I know would understand that.”