Book of Kayal: Houses of Light

by S. Nileson

  “Strange. I could swear there was no such thing.”

  “House boats? I assure you they are. My cousin Corvus told me about it just last month.”

  “Your cousin Corvus says a lot of things, of which few are true.”

  The Peacekeeper with the halberd scratched his head. “I really wish he wasn’t lying about this. It got my hopes us.”

  Khatar had had enough and gestured to Kavis to stay hidden and ready himself for a skirmish. He silently and carefully took a few steps to the side so that he would not emerge from where Kavis was hidden, and announced himself as he slowly appeared from the dense brush. “Peacekeepers! I mean no harm.” Before they had been alerted, Khatar made sure to have his hands raised above his head and his cloak pushed behind his back, revealing his armor and sheathed weapons, a scimitar fastened on his belt to the left and three daggers opposing it.

  The Peacekeepers steeled themselves, the one with the halberd had it lowered and aimed at Khatar, a stance he could not hold for long by virtue of his weapon’s weight, and the other had his sword drawn and his knees bent, eyes following Khatar’s every move. They had seen battle before.

  “What is your business, Varangian?” The one with the sword asked. It was easy to identify Khatar once his bronze armor was exposed and the shape of his blade identified.

  “I believe we have mutual interests, you and I, and am interested in pooling our efforts. We both seek the same man, the one with the inked face.”

  The Peacekeeper with the blade eased his stance and sheathed his sword, saying, “You can lower this thing.” He waved at his companion who eagerly raised his halberd and rested its butt on the ground. “We were sent after the fugitives by Commander Chordus just before he joined Pax. I believe our captain could help you more than we can.”

  That was easy, Khatar thought. “I would be grateful if I could meet him.”

  “Follow me,” the Peacekeeper said and turned around to enter the cave. Khatar obliged, giving Kavis no sign for any action.

  A few steps later, after turning left once and right twice, Khatar was led to a small clearing within the cave where the Peacekeeper captain was sitting in a corner and reading. “We have a guest,” the guard announced before entering and moved away to allow Khatar’s massive body entry.

  After glancing at Khatar quickly the captain said, “To what do I owe the honor?” He extended his open palm to the Varangian and said, “I’m Captain Hayn, formerly of the Peacekeepers.”

  Khatar shook his hand and asked, “Formerly?”

  “Yes,” Hayn said once their hands were no longer coupled. “With Commander Chordus’ death the Peacekeeper is no longer a suitable force for our service. It’s being absorbed into the Gallecian army and my men and I want no part of this.”

  It was new news for Khatar, but not entirely unexpected. “I take it finding the man you were following was your commander’s last order?”

  “Yes, but we decided not to pursue it.”

  “Why?” It did not please Khatar to hear of the Peacekeeper’s decision. His tone became dry and his fists clenched, the veins crawling down his shoulders, towards his fingers, straining against the pressure and popping up from beneath his skin.

  “No need to worry, Varangian. It’s just that Commander Chordus was not honest about what we were really asked to do.” Hayn went back to the corner where he was sitting, reading a book, when Khatar first entered, and grabbed a covered sword. He removed the grey cloth and revealed a masterwork leather scabbard with vines etched on its sides. “His last mission for us was to deliver a gift, or a bribe, to Prince Iolcus on behalf of the Peacekeeper Core. That and to capture Archer, your inked man, and deliver him to the Parthan authorities.” He took a deep breath and said, smiling, “We’re not like you Kolians, serving our Warchief because he represents our community. We’re just common folk from all over Nosgard seeking to make a living. Both have been taken from us when Emperor Malus decided to execute Commander Chordus. Now we must make do with what we have, and as of this morning we got to know that we carry a precious gift here which would fetch a handsome price, one good enough to guarantee a lifetime of luxury for all of us.” He revealed the weapon.

  Khatar’s eyes grew in amazement as he saw, for the very first time, one of the notorious Unnamed Blades. It was a blade with a soul of a warrior. “You have in your possession an Unnamed Blade?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you know whose name it carries?”

  Hayn shook his head sideways, smiling. “One of my men dropped it and it came right out of its sheath. It was just this morning that we made this incredible discovery.”

  “You must deliver it to Prince Iolcus,” Khatar pleaded. It was not his nature to do so, but something within him stirred and told him that the blade was paramount to the future of Nosgard.

  “One does not spit on the hand of Fate when it’s given to you. We will go to Salvation and auction it to the highest bidder. It ought to fetch a great price.” Hayn looked at the blade, eyes glistering with greed, and smiled.

  “I cannot let you do that,” Khatar said.

  “You’re in no position to tell me what to do. Guards!” He called out and at his command a dozen Peacekeepers entered behind Khatar, hands falling on their blades. “You’ve overextended your welcome.”

  “Give me the blade. You do not know whose will it bears. It must be delivered to the Prince.”

  “Escort him out, violently if he resists.”

  One of the Peacekeepers placed his hand on Khatar’s shoulder, an uncomfortable motion given the vast difference in height, only to hear the sound of a loud crack traveling through his body. Pain followed shortly when his mind registered the broken arm.

  “Kill him,” Hayn commanded. “Kol will not miss one Varangian.”

  The Peacekeepers unsheathed their weapons and for the next fifteen minutes the cave had turned into a bloodbath, only Khatar emerging from it when the screaming ceased. He had an arrow dug in his shoulder, plenty of small slashes on his body and two deep wounds, one in his right thigh and one diagonally on his chest.

  When Kavis saw him, bloodied and breathing heavily, he rushed towards the Varangian, helping him on his feet, and said, “What the hell happened in there?”

  “I was just getting something,” Khatar said, breath escaping him as his lungs struggled. He raised his right hand securely gripping the scabbard with the Unnamed Blade in it. “This must be kept safe.” After those last words Khatar collapsed.

  4

  “What happened in there?” Kavis asked of Khatar as the Varangian rubbed his eyes, grimacing at the pain from the wound in his side.

  Khatar raised his right arm and looked at his side, finding himself decently treated with some green paste smelling of herbs covering his wound. He knew not what it was made of, but trusted that Kavis, being fate-strung to him, would not do anything to harm the Varangian. Then again, the haze on his mind lifted and he became truly aware that regardless of how careful he was, there was still a chance that Kavis might not be acting with the Varangian’s interest in mind.

  “Where are we?” Khatar asked.

  “A safe distance away from where you had your frenzy. You killed some two dozen Peacekeepers, you know, and emerged with just a few scratches. I knew Varangians were something to be feared, but never did I imagine you could do that which you did.” He produced a wooden cup filled with a hot tea and offered it to Khatar. “I brewed this just now. Drink. It’s good for you.”

  Khatar took the cup, smelled it and only drank when he was satisfied with his brief examination of its contents. The tea was bitter and the taste of most of its ingredients familiar to him. He did not question Kavis and once again chose to trust in his luck and judgement of Kavis’ intentions.

  “Again, friend, I’m very curious about what happened in there.”

  “Dishonor.” Khatar looked around alarmingly in search for the Unnamed Blade he had rescued from the Peacekeepers.

  “Looking for this?” Kavis
handed the sheathed blade over, rapped in its eloquent scabbard. “I know of these weapons. I want no part of this.” A sense of relief surged through his body once Khatar took the blade from him. “I hope that one day whoever dwells in there finds peace.”

  “That is precisely why the Peacekeepers lay dead,” Khatar growled in a low voice, hatred spewing from his lips at the carelessness of Hayn and his men. “They intended to sell this blade.”

  “It would have fetched a good price, I’m sure.” Relieved by knowing that Khatar shared his beliefs about the weapon, he breathed deeply. “You did well to take it from them. Belua and I would’ve helped if you asked.” He eased back on a tree behind him. “You know that changes things.”

  “I do. Do you think it might have something to do with Archer? There have been far too many unusual incidences since I started my quest to dismiss the possibility that they all are related.”

  “Perhaps they are. Have you any idea how to discover who it belonged to?” Kavis asked.

  “No, but I know it was intended to Prince Iolcus of Partha.”

  Kavis smiled. “It seems now you have a valid cover to enter Partha. I’m sure the Prince will not mind a Varangian coming in to deliver such a gift. Sends a strong message, don’t you think?”

  Khatar hummed. He tried to get up, testing how his feet would carry him, and discovered that his body was far to taxed to move, let alone travel. The pain he could resist for a time, but there was a limit to how much punishment his body could take, and it would be terrible if said limit was reached in combat. “Kari will have to go on without us for now. We will rejoin her soon.”

  Part III: And Always Leads

  Chapter 11: An Exiled People

  ‘The Duke will send you a curious visitor, he will be a version of my son estranged to his past. Tell him everything and guide him to the throne. That is my will.’ Letters of Sol: to Prince.

  1

  It has been five weeks since Ascilla had made her decision to set aside her duties towards the Ichneumon Order for other more pressing matters. With Commander Chordus’ meeting it was made clear to her that the Order had long considered her dead. Little was expected from the dead.

  Fate assured her that she acted well to return to Archer when she did, for he was being followed then and even if she had tarried for but a single moment it would have been too late. Archer was once again rescued by the Walkyrien; and this time it mattered even more. The decision, and credit, was entirely hers. She never told him about her real reason for returning. She never declared her love.

  Instead, she said that it was her duty to see her quest done, and that her place had been decided by Fate herself when she came across an old shrine of Pax with the words ‘And with unity Pax brings you closer to one another and to the ultimate peace’ carved on a pedestal on which the shrine was built. There was no shrine in her path, just a vivid image she carried from one of her earliest memories.

  Archer was convinced by Ascilla that seeking refuge in Partha would protect him from his pursuers. As for why the Watcher Hounds have not caught their scent yet, Ascilla had no answers.

  In the Lonely Road, a tavern in Partha, noise stirred and the conversation between the two outlaws was well disguised. No eavesdroppers, Ascilla judged, could spy on them, no matter how keen their ears were.

  “Here we are, sitting in the Lonely Road, having some Parthan ale too bland to earn its name,” Ascilla said, taking a forced sip from her bitter drink. “I didn’t even know there was ale so bitter.”

  “And there is no sign of Keteus or Balta.”

  “Well, we don’t know for sure if Balta isn’t here, but I don’t think it would be wise to ask for his name. I wouldn’t trust that our curiosity would escape the Silver Stags for long.”

  “I thought we were safe here.”

  “You’re never too safe when hunted by Silver Stags.”

  A waitress brought them two bowls of onion soup with some stale bread dipped in it. A familiar sight. Archer sighed while picking up his spoon in preparation. “There is one man we can ask without consequence.”

  “Prince Iolcus,” Ascilla agreed. She grabbed her spoon and filled it with hot soup, blowing on it twice before carefully sipping. With that manner she continued to drink the soup whenever Archer spoke, earning herself brief moments of silence before speaking.

  “I really wished this would be the end of it,” Archer gasped. “It seems no matter how hard I try to abandon Keshish’s will I’m always dragged right back into the midst of the chaos it brings.”

  “Yet you draw a line whenever Balta is concerned.”

  “As do you, Ascilla.” He took a bite from his bread and wolfed it down. “As do you,” he repeated after swallowing.

  “Are you finally ready to heed my advice? Are you finally willing to meet the Prince?”

  “You’ve asked around in all the taverns and inns in Partha. I see no other choice.” He looked around and saw a suspicious-looking man enter the tavern. He was cloaked and hooded, an odd combination to see in a dry day within the purple city. Archer watched intently as the man approached the innkeeper and handed him a leather pouch, uttering a few more words after the exchange was complete and before he left.

  “Just give me a moment to finish and I’ll see what I can do to.”

  “I have to say it’s very convenient to belong to your order,” Archer said, sipping the last of his small bowl of soup.

  2

  “Prince Iolcus will arrive shortly,” A Parthan guard said. He was clad in plated steel armor smelted with a hint of purple in it which made the shiny Gallecian armor pale in comparison. The steel’s make was impeccable and the designs engraved on it were made with such diligence that it was difficult to perceive more than a few such outfits were ever made. There was no emblem on his purple tabard extending to his knees, nor on his purple cloak dragging behind him.

  “Will it be rude if we sit?” Archer asked, earning him a frightful stare from Ascilla.

  “Do as you wish,” the guard responded coldly and with no change in his mannerism, just before he closed the thick wooden door behind him.

  “Will it be rude if we sit?” Archer repeated sarcastically.

  “You’re clearly not accustomed to the manner of the court.”

  “Even if I was, Ascilla, I’m long past the point of caring.”

  While Archer was deciding where to sit, the same wooden door used by the purple guard opened and two figures entered. The first, an aging woman, neither in her youth nor beyond her years of service, but well beyond her years of childbirth. She wore a red plate steel armor, a hint of blue reflecting from it whenever the light fell on it from a certain angle. It was the infamous Parthan Eitr-plated Orichalcum armor offered to only the most elite and valuable of their troop. The brunette wore her armor well which fit both her stature and demeanor perfectly. Behind her came the Prince, a man wearing a purple robe fastened at the waist with a black leather belt. The Prince had no cloak which dragged behind him, as the guards and his red-clad bodyguard, and walked lightly on his feet, wearing his smile bringing youth to his wrinkly face and dense white hair.

  “May I test him?” Lyra asked of the Prince. He nodded and she unsheathed her weapon, a long sword with the blade colored exactly as her armor was. A single pattern of a long snake was etched in its center and faded away an inch before the tip, covering no sharp edges. “Steel yourself, Archer,” she said.

  “At least tell me your name,” Archer said. His voice quivered with concern as he drew his far less impressive blade.

  “Lyra. Are you ready?” At Archer’s nod she lunged at him, swinging aggressively and forcing him to an inescapable defensive stance. She was fast for a woman her age and agile for someone wearing such heavy armor. The Disciple of Katabasis had no chance.

  When Ascilla, seeing no good end to the duel, decided to interfere, she removed her cloak with one fluid motion and spread her wings as she jumped across the room, kicking Lyra when she landed and po
sitioning herself between both contenders, facing her foe with readied weapon and grinning teeth. “Enough.” Her tone was calm, unfitting for one so ready for battle.

  Lyra sheathed her blade, her breath as steady as it was before the duel’s exertion. “He is not ready. Ganis trains her pupils far better. I’ve seen many and most stand on equal footing with me.”

  “That is not true,” Prince Iolcus said. “You forget how many of them you’ve beaten.”

  “Only because they respected an old woman. The Disciples are as proficient with diplomacy as they are with steel.”

  “Remember the difference between him and the others. He didn’t have a lifetime to spend in the keep. He didn’t have the luxury of being expendable.”

  “There is another,” Lyra said. “No matter how far gone you think he is, he still is.” She gasped. “It is no longer of consequence. I already see you have decided.”

  Prince Iolcus simply nodded at Lyra’s response and shifted his attention to Archer, “Do you know what brings you here, boy?”

  “Prince Iolcus,” Archer said with a winded voice as he tried to catch his breath, “The reason I’m here is my own and mine alone.”

  “What he means to say, Lord Prince, is that he’s abandoned the path Keshish had intended for him.”

  “Keshish?”

  “The hermit.” Ascilla took note that she still held her blade while addressing the noble, a feat she would have lectured Archer on had he been the one in her stead. She blushed after realizing the offense and quickly stowed the weapon away, apologizing. “I meant no offence, Lord Prince.”

  “None taken. Now, who is this hermit you speak of?”

  “The one who sent us to you.”

  “What is your name again, Walkyrien?”

  “I’m Ascilla, Lord Prince, at your service.” She bowed down on one knee, her wings folding behind her gloriously and sending a gentle gust of wind across the room. She stood up only when the Prince commanded her to do so.