House of Blades

by Wight, Will

  The blade skittered off the serpent’s head. It didn’t even notice. Another pulse of lightning flashed down its fangs, and Simon’s mother shook again.

  A gold light poured forth from the center of the cave.

  “Call it off,” Alin said, his voice once more grim and resonant. Simon didn’t turn, still hammering his blade against the creature. He had to protect her this time. He had to.

  Cormac shouted and thrust both hands at the serpent, the storm boiling in his palm. His serpent turned and hissed at him, its mouth sticky and dark with blood.

  “Fine,” Alin said. His hands were shrouded in misty white-gold light. “If you won’t do it, I will.”

  He hurled golden light at the snake, not in a ball this time, but in a tight circle. The loop of light wrapped itself around the snake’s neck, just beneath the skull, in a shining golden collar. The serpent writhed and flapped below Simon, trying to escape the binding. Its heavy head smacked into Simon’s gut, knocking the breath from him and driving him to his knees. He barely managed to hang on to his sword.

  Alin raised a glowing hand and clenched his fist. The collar tightened, and the snake had time to let out one inhuman shriek before the collar did what Simon’s blade couldn’t: it sliced the monster in half.

  Two smoking pieces of snake fell to the cave floor and dissolved into rolling black clouds, which vanished instantly. Nothing was left of the serpent but corpses and wounds.

  Cormac screamed, a sound of pure frustration, and thrust his hands in front of him as if he were trying to push down a tree. Lightning blasted forth from Cormac’s storm cloud, lighting the sandy cave like a newborn star. Thunder rocked Simon’s ears.

  Halfway through the shallow cave, only a few feet in front of Cormac, the lightning slammed into a golden blast from Alin.

  The lightning bolt shattered into pieces that turned back upon its summoner, scourging Cormac’s flesh and singeing the edges of his cloak. Some of the Damascan soldiers ran, and those remaining looked ready to flee at any time. Among them, the captives cowered helplessly, hoping to avoid the deadly bolts.

  Cormac, breathing heavily, said something that Simon didn’t catch through the ringing in his ears.

  Alin evidently did, though, because as Simon’s hearing returned he heard the young Traveler say, “...so it seems judgment is mine to pass.” Alin extended his right hand, and light gathered in it, resolving into the shining shape of a translucent sword. It looked like the golden ghost of a magnificent blade, and Alin swung it twice through the air as if it had no weight.

  Cormac moved the storm toward the ground, and thorned vines spun up from it, crackling with blue sparks. Alin’s sword flashed down one, two, three, four times, rhythmically, as though he were chopping wood. The vines fell to the ground in pieces, and Alin advanced.

  They had moved out of the cave entirely now, standing on the sandy earth beneath the stars. Cormac retreated into his soldiers and Alin steadily moved forward, driving the other man backwards. The Damascan soldiers clutched their weapons uncertainly, clearly not sure whether to interfere.

  “Loose!” Cormac screamed, moving back and bringing the storm up. “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

  One of the archers had his bow ready, and an arrow blurred towards Alin. His sword flashed out of existence, a ball of gold light blasted the arrow from the air. Cormac summoned up more vines around Alin’s feet as more arrows whizzed around him.

  Simon saw the dilemma instantly. If Alin summoned the sword to destroy Cormac’s vines, he would be filled with arrows. If he continued to defend himself from the arrows, the vines would turn him into another burned-out corpse on the cave floor.

  Alin struck arrows from the air with one glowing hand and moved the other down to point at the vines. His muscles tightened, as though he were gathering his strength.

  Then the vines burst into flames.

  At first Simon thought Alin had set the vines on fire himself, but he and Cormac both started and looked around at the interruption. Not in time.

  A swirling white hole in the world, the size of a barn door, floated in the air outside of the cave. Two figures stepped out, both wearing heavy coats: a young man, barely older than Simon, and an older woman who looked as though she could chew nails and spit horseshoes. They were both covered in snowflakes, and Simon realized with a start that the portal led straight into a blizzard.

  Two more Travelers had arrived.

  Simon set his mother to one side and scrambled to his feet, snatching up his sword. His heart hammered in his chest, and his hands grew slick on the sword’s grip. He knew, with a sick feeling in his gut, that they were all about to die.

  The young man stepped from the portal, his eyes squeezed shut. His hand had been moving the whole time, a red symbol on his palm leaving streaks of light in the air as it passed. It had been eight years since Simon had seen a mark like that, but the sight of it made his hands shake. This was how his father had died.

  At least I won’t go out alone, Simon thought. The thought shouldn’t have comforted him, but it did. His hands steadied. He moved forward.

  Then the new Traveler thrust out his red-marked hand, and fire poured from the night sky down onto Cormac. Cormac threw up the storm in his hand as a shield, and wind met fire. The heat scorched Simon’s face, and savage air tore at his eyes.

  A pair of Damascan soldiers charged at the new Travelers from behind, drawn steel in their hands. The woman flicked something small and silver into her hand—maybe a key?—and held it in front of her, twisting it as though unlocking a door.

  A spinning silver disc the size of a cartwheel blasted out of thin air, rushing forward and slicing the two soldiers in two like an enormous razor. A splatter of red sprayed off into the night. The spinning razor blinked away a second later, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.

  Her partner, the young man with the red palm, didn’t open his eyes or stop moving his right hand. He simply gestured with his left hand, as though shooing away a fly, and spoke a word Simon couldn’t hear.

  Nothing happened for a second, and then a clump of snow leaped out of the blizzard and through the portal. To Simon, it looked like a poorly formed snowball the size of a barrel. The snow stuck to the ground, quivering and snarling like a horde of badgers. Simon was still trying to decide whether there was some living creature inside the snow or whether the snow itself was alive when the mound of snow jumped into the air and latched onto the next Damascan soldier in line.

  The snow clung to the man, shaking back and forth as it worried at the soldier’s breastplate like a dog shaking a rabbit. Blood sprayed up from his chest, and he screamed wordlessly. Was the snow...eating him?

  Simon shivered and lowered his sword, backing up a step. Maybe these two Travelers would take care of the Damascans on their own, and maybe they would decide that the villagers deserved the same treatment. Simon would wait to act until they had taken care of Cormac.

  Not that he could really make a difference, anyway. He couldn’t shake the image of a spinning razor slicing two armored men in half in a blink, their bodies falling to the ground as just so many pieces of meat. How was his sword supposed to protect anyone?

  One of the other soldiers had a bow prepared, and they loosed an arrow at the carnivorous snow. The arrow landed in the snow bank and stuck there, to no apparent effect. Black fletching stuck out at an angle from the pristine white. The soldier stopped screaming and fell over, a gurgle escaping his mouth as he died. The snow growled again and leaped at another soldier. The rest of them finally got the hint and fled, some throwing down weapons as they ran.

  The young Traveler kept his eyes shut and his right arm moving, palm flaring with red light. The fire from heaven, raining down from nowhere onto Cormac, never slowed. Cormac shouted, straining to keep the fire off of him.

  Seeing his enemy distracted, Alin brought both hands up. A golden, shining tear in reality appeared before him, and it spewed forth a
ragged wave of solid light that slammed into Cormac like a hammer. Blue light flared from his back, blending with the red light from above and gold from behind in a confusing rainbow that left Simon blinded.

  When his eyes cleared, Cormac lay on his back. The thunderstorm hung in the air underneath the stream of falling fire, still keeping the fire off of him. It was almost the size of a pony now, and it floated five feet off the ground. Lightning crackled and black clouds swirled, silently consuming the torrent of fire from above.

  Cormac stirred, groaning. When he saw the thunderstorm above him, his eyes widened, and he reached out as if to pluck the storm from midair. For a moment, nothing else happened. The cave fell into an eerie silence.

  Then the floating storm, out of Cormac’s control, exploded into a thousand screaming bolts of lightning. The fire, with nothing left to stop it, poured in a waterfall down on Cormac’s head. Lightning and fire crashed into him.

  Simon expected to hear him shriek, or scream, or call for help, but the thunderous detonation of power swallowed anything the Traveler might have said. A sound like trapped thunder rocked the cave, and a searing wind blew Simon off his feet, along with most of his fellow villagers. Only Alin and the two strange Travelers remained standing, and only barely.

  When the smoke, dust, and light cleared, no sign of Cormac remained. The ground outside the cavern was littered with abandoned spears, swords, and body parts belonging to the soldiers. Simon saw a few in the distance, still running.

  Fire still fell in an endless torrent, blackening the ground. The younger Traveler made a slashing gesture with his red-branded right hand, and the fire vanished. Then he clenched his left fist and spoke a word, and the living snow died—releasing one still-breathing Damascan soldier who stumbled uncertainly away. The snow crawled away from the cavern and back into the snowy portal, purring contentedly. One black arrow still stuck up from its otherwise-pristine back. Once it crossed the threshold of the blizzard, the portal vanished.

  When both ice and fire vanished, the new Traveler opened his eyes and blinked.

  “Uh...is everybody okay?” he asked. Orlina’s mother began to weep. Simon looked down at the corpse of his mother, bundled at his feet, and had to choke back a sob himself.

  The older woman sighed loudly and patted him on the shoulder. “You did well, Gilad. Now let me take it from here.”

  The young Traveler—Gilad—nodded, and sat down against a rock. His face showed exhaustion, but he also just looked relieved to be done with the fighting.

  The woman faced Alin, who still glowed like a sunrise. He had an arm half-raised, and light drifted up from it like luminescent smoke. “My name is Miram, and I speak for myself and my companion Gilad. We are Travelers, from the free city of Enosh. Who are you?”

  Alin’s eyes held steady on her for a moment before he spoke. “The last time I gave someone my name,” he said, “his head burst like a dropped fruit. I’m not sure you want me to answer.”

  Miram had her small silver key up in an instant. “Is that a threat?” she asked.

  Sheepishly Alin smiled, but he didn’t lower his arm. Wisps of light drifted up from his hand. “No, I’m sorry, it was a poor joke. I am Alin, son of Torin, born in Myria village inside the realm of Overlord Malachi. If you are truly from Enosh, we are not enemies.”

  Oh sweet Maker, Alin was trying to make a speech. Nurita was the only one in the village who would talk like that, and everyone knew she was too pompous by half. Alin sounded ridiculous trying it, as though his new powers made him the equal of some lord or lady from the stories. Then again, he was a Traveler now. Maybe that was how he was supposed to talk.

  Simon knelt down, adjusting his mother so she looked more comfortable. She was beyond caring, of course, but he couldn’t stand to see her like that, with her neck twisted at almost a right angle.

  He almost wept, but he had to pay attention. This was likely one of the most important exchanges he would ever witness. His mother—the one he remembered from her few lucid periods when she was both sober and sane—would have wanted him to pay attention.

  “I am Miram, Master Traveler of Tartarus,” the woman said. “This is my companion, Gilad.” Gilad looked up at the sound of his name, blinked, and gave a startled wave.

  “We will give you whatever help you need,” Miram continued, “and we are willing to transport the surviving people of Myria to Enosh for medical care and supplies. But first”—and here her voice sharpened— “I must know, Alin son of Torin, what Territory have you summoned?”

  Alin hesitated. “Territory?”

  “The power you’re using right now,” Miram said impatiently. “It comes from somewhere. Where?”

  “I...I don’t know.”

  “Could you show us?” Gilad asked. “Just do whatever you did before.”

  Alin took a deep breath. “Okay. I think I can...” his voice trailed off. His hand moved uncertainly in front of him, questing, until his fingers seemed to find something in empty air.

  His eyes blazed, the glow around him intensified, and a golden sword appeared in his hand. Translucent and softly golden, it looked like the shining ghost of a real weapon.

  “And a little more,” Alin murmured. Light poured up from his left hand again, and he released it to hang in midair. It hung in a golden globe, lighting the cave and the surrounding area up like midday.

  The battle with Cormac had made it clear, but somehow it only really sank in now. Alin was a Traveler. Alin was a Traveler, and Simon wasn’t.

  His mother’s sightless eyes were bloodshot. Simon slid them closed with a gentle hand.

  Miram dropped to her knees in front of Alin, and her face softened. “I greet you, Eliadel, the Rising Sun, and I bid you welcome to the gates of Enosh.” She bowed until her head rested against the stone floor, and when she next spoke, her voice sounded of unshed tears. “You have not come too soon.”

  Gilad joined her, mirroring her position more awkwardly.

  The other villagers stared at Alin with open mouths. Some of them bowed, though Simon was sure they had no more idea what was going on than he did. One woman wept with joy and relief, reaching out as though to touch him.

  Simon glanced over to see how Leah was taking it, and fear jolted through him. He slid away from his mother’s body, rose unsteadily to his feet, and walked over to tug on Alin’s sleeve.

  “Alin,” Simon said. “Where’s Leah?”

  ***

  Since they had been tied together, of course, all of the prisoners had vanished.

  The golden glow had faded from Alin seconds after he had realized Leah was missing, but the Travelers all obeyed him when he ordered a search. For that matter, so did the villagers. But after two hours of exhaustive searching, aided by the powers of three Travelers, no one had found a trace.

  “Enough,” Miram finally called. “Gilad, signal everyone to return.”

  Gilad raised a hand and launched three orange sparks into the air. Three flares: the signal for all those searching to return.

  “We just need to spread out farther,” Simon insisted. “They could still be out here.”

  Alin looked troubled, but he didn’t say anything to agree.

  Miram walked over and put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your friends. Or perhaps your family?” When Simon glanced over at his mother’s body instead of responding, Miram went on. Her voice sounded a touch more sympathetic. “It looks like Cormac stowed the prisoners away in a Gate when no one was paying attention. He probably didn’t want to keep watching them. Or maybe there was a second Traveler among the soldiers; who knows? But there are no tracks. I assure you, we would have found them. Your friends are on their way to Malachi by now.”

  “Alin, we shouldn’t—” Simon began, but his friend cut him off by shaking his head. Simon was too startled to be offended. At first.

  “She’s right, Simon,” Alin said. “They’re with Malachi. The only way we
’re going to get them back is by force.”

  How would you know that? Simon wondered.

  “But first we must return to Enosh,” Miram said, “and gather our forces. Alin, you should come with us, along with any wounded. Everyone else should return to your village and wait for word and supplies.”

  “But why do you need me?” Alin asked. “My people are in need, and I would not abandon them lightly.” Again, he spoke as if he had real authority. Or a swollen head.

  Miram smiled a bitter smile. “There is a bigger picture here than just your family and friends, Alin. Even if we bring them back from Malachi, they will never be safe. Not until King Zakareth is no longer in control.”

  “We have a prophecy, Alin, uh, I mean, Eliadel,” Gilad said. “It is prophesied that a Traveler of Elysium, the City of Light, will return and lead the free city of Enosh against the King of Damasca and bring him down.”

  “And that’s me?” Alin asked. He sounded a little excited.

  Gilad shrugged. “It seems like it.”

  Miram nodded. “Please come with us, Alin. We will treat you as royalty, and teach you. You will become powerful, so that you will be able to protect your friends, your home...and ours.”

  Alin straightened his shoulders and met Miram’s eyes. “I will join you for now,” he said. “So that I can see if you are telling the truth.” Alin sounded serious, but Simon thought he still looked childishly eager.

  Miram almost smiled. “Good enough. Gilad, open a Gate. Take us through Helgard to the nearest Naraka waypoint; we need the fast route home.”

  Simon hesitated to speak, but he felt like he had to say something. “Do you think I have time to bury my mother?” he said. “I want to make sure she’s taken care of before we leave.”

  Alin and Miram exchanged glances, and Simon got the impression that his friend was years older instead of only a few months.

  Alin took him by both shoulders and looked at him compassionately. “Simon, I think you should stay with the village. They will need your help in rebuilding.”