An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1)

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  “Good sister,” Drakanes said solemnly. “Before I took up the cloth, I was filled with great sin. I killed in my past life, men not animals. Though I can hardly tell the difference between the two.” Drakanes closed her eyes and sighed deeply as she recalled those memories. “I knew how to wield a blade; how to fend for myself. The first time I took a life, I didn’t do it with skillful elegance. I did it with pure instinct and with luck.”

  “Heaven help us,” Pollova said in a frightened tone.

  And Drakanes continued. “An old man, a master at arms witnessed my first kill. I was attacked by a drunkard. He wanted to rape me.” She spoke without betraying any real emotion. She didn’t want to, for that would have served no purpose.

  “I managed to take hold of a thin knife and use the thing. I shoved the blade from under the man’s chin, upwards, all the way to the inside of his skull – as hard as I could. And when the knife had ceased to enter any deeper, I still found myself… pushing, pushing. I couldn’t stop. I only did when an old man came about, and rolled away the corpse from me. He was Creedhold’s master at arms. He was searching the village for sir Brandon Weimar’s bastard; one of the bastards, for the great knight had many others. It turned out that the man I killed was that very one he’d been searching for. I’ve forgotten the scum’s name.”

  At that memory, her lip curled. And all the while Pollova was sobbing silent tears. “Don’t cry, sister,” Drakanes smiled. “I didn’t let that drunken wretch touch me with his foul member. And I won’t let this hedge knight touch me with his sword.”

  “Did the master at arms tell on you?”

  “No, he didn’t. Instead, he offered to teach me how to fight. He said that the greatest shame of all was to let apart skill from fire and spirit. I squired for him, posing as a lad. He taught me much; and you better pray I remember those martial lessons. Else, you’ll have to share the account of this trial to our fellow sisters alone.”

  Pollova knocked on wood. “I’ll pray,” she said – squeezing her hands into each other and resting her brow on them. “I’ll pray. I’ll pray...” The sister of Greengrove murmured words, words of mercy; hoping that the heavens would answer them.

  Drakanes looked over her shoulder. The light that had previously filled the temple’s hall was now fading. The clouds have gathered, she realized, imagining that the gods would pierce through them and grant her their divine favor. For her cause was just, and that of the grand burgher was not. She pushed herself to her feet and left sister Pollova to pray in silence. All that was required now was proper battle attire – a shirt, breeches, armor, and sword. Drakanes decided to borrow them from the local blacksmith and tailor. By now, the news of the trial had spread amongst all the townsfolk of Bernn.

  It was an uneasy feeling. Once, the hilt of a blade was the greatest friend her hands could grasp. Drakanes remembered the weight of her former practice longsword – blunted, heavier than normal, to make her arms stronger and her swings faster. It had been several years since she had last held a blade. Several years since her teacher had died, leaving her without roof or service. The old man had left her nothing, not even one copper… Not one copper for his squire, for my loyalty and friendship. Thus, she had renounced the uncertainties of laic life, her dreams of battle and adventure, for the shelter of the Holy Temple.

  But now she didn’t require copper pennies. Drakanes required the knowledge Creedhold’s master at arms had given her. The craft of death is a two-edged blade, she reflected. One edge kills for justice, the other for malefaction. So different, yet so alike… part of the same steel, of the same arm. I killed twice in my life’s years. I can do it again; and with this one it will be three. Three deaths. Three aspects of the one god. The figure in her head seemed a good omen. Drakanes didn’t tell Pollova of the second time she had taken a life. And though she did want to share that tale, there was little time to waste speaking of the past. That story will just have to remain with me.

  On the way to the blacksmith, the townsfolk cheered, applauded, called her brave, and prayed for her to win the trial by combat. One man even drove a hand across her shaven skull for good luck. Drakanes had never felt so many eyes upon her – eyes without contempt and honest voices of goodwill. When she reached the forge, the smith and tailor were already there with proper cloth and armor.

  “It’s good steel, sister,” Aaron the smith said in a low voice, as if sharing a secret. “Made by mine own hands. Look here. You see? The mail is double ringed – sturdy. As for my breastplate, a flawless piece of craft. But it does have its weak spots. Your opponent will strike at the joints. I truly hope you know how to use a sword, and that you’re strong enough to move while wearing all this metal. The mail shirt will fit you well, to be sure. I’ve chosen the smallest size hauberk I could find in my armory. It’s meant for young men, boys even, squires. However, the breastplate might not fit your frame properly. In the end, you’ll have to choose between it and the hauberk.”

  Then the tailor stepped forth with the garb that would replace her robe. “Here, brave sister,” Thomas Dolsey said in a thin voice. “Clothes worthy of any follower of the chivalric code… in the right colour for your order also. See? Black breeches, black leather boots, simple black cloth shirt – the colour of humility, no? And I’ve got something else.” He held it over himself to show her. “It’s fine work, don’t you agree?”

  Indeed it was. The short surcoat was of a faded orange, its edges trimmed with lines of crimson thread, and on its chest was embroidered a sunflower. “I do hope you’ll survive the trial, brave sister. Oh, try not to stain the surcoat with blood… yours or your enemy’s.” Dolsey giggled at that, and she found herself doing the same. It was often said that laughter in a black day was a godsend.

  And once Drakanes took hold over the longsword and sliced the air before her eyes, she felt old sentiments returning to her head and limbs. She had not forgotten the taste of arms; the exhilarating rush of sentiments brought on by a blade of forged steel. The quiet sound of a keen edge parting air in bold strokes, the consequence of mind over matter. Her lips turned into a grin, one of remembrance as well as mirth. There was no sensation in the world like that of killing. And I am to appreciate it once more.

  The crowds helped her with the things as she returned to the temple. She left the sword outside the holy place – its tip buried in the soft ground. Drakanes took the clothes and the armor, and went inside. There she slipped out of her sandals and robe, and put on the black shirt and black breeches. The leather boots fitted her surprisingly well. Then she put on the mail hauberk, and moved around the hall to assess the weight and size. It feels good enough, she thought. Now it was time to try out the breastplate. Sister Pollova helped her fasten it. But she felt quite burdened already, unbalanced, without the extra weight of the sword.

  “I’ll be sluggish,” Drakanes said, frowning at the thing. “It’s no good. Take it off.” The sister did as she bid. “I’ll move more easily wearing the hauberk.”

  After a moment or two, she was finally ready.

  “May the gods keep you safe, sister… brave sister. May you do justice this day.” Pollova sobbed the words, and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Thank you,” Drakanes replied solemnly. Then she grabbed the breastplate and went outside.

  Smith Aaron was first in the crowd. His eyes, like so many others, regarded her with disbelief; a sister of the temple bearing the likeness of a man, of a fighter. She wasn’t fiendish eyes. She wasn’t a shit shoveller. She wasn’t a sister of the temple. No. I’m neither of those things. I’m a woman against a man. No. I’m not that either. I’m a sword against a sword. She gave the smith his breastplate. “I’m too skinny for it, good sir. Your mail shirt will serve me well enough.”

  “Gods favor you, brave sister,” he replied.

  “Gods favor you,” Thomas Dolsey echoed smith Aaron in a voice half filled with…

  With grief, she thought, but that remained to be seen. She gave each of t
hem the promise that they will have their wares back as clean as possible. Then Drakanes turned and grasped the sword’s hilt, and pulled the blade out of the ground.

  The time had come for the trial...

  Grand burgher Wholeheart and the rabble awaited her in the town square; so did poor Jon Gallard. As she walked, contemplating the task at hand, Drakanes heard peculiar words from the gathered souls – queer words in an outlandish accent. Someone from within the crowd muttered a prayer. And although it was hard, she managed to discern him in the rabble. The man’s features appeared foreign. His lips were wrinkled, his eyebrows thick and long, his beard dyed in gold and white. A scar trailed from his right cheek all the way to his upper lip. His skin was fair, though, somewhat tanned; and his grey cloak masked him in the crowd.

  She shouldn’t have been able to discern him with all the animation about her, much less hear the words of his silent prayer. But she did, and it was like a spell. Ever since Drakanes could remember, she had been of a curious nature. Enjoying to listen and learn, to remember smells, to see shapes in the clouds, to spot familiarities and differences in both humans and beasts. And to ponder on how the elements worked and why. Through all the mutterings about her ears, Drakanes distinguished the man’s words… a voice of sheer fire, clear and strong inside her very mind.

  “When you go to war against your enemies, and see horses and chariots, and greater numbers than your own – do not fear, do not falter. For the lord of hosts, the warrior god, the god of struggle, of courage and honor, him that is your lord, who brought you from the endless night, who raised you from the dirt… Allahr is with you – in you – the fire, the sword, the arm.”

  When the man opened his eyes, he stared at her. Those eyes were chips of cold flint and sharp as well. His eyes peered deep, deep into her soul; as if searching through all sins, joys, and falsehoods. Drakanes turned her head to avert his baleful sight. And all of a sudden, she felt afraid, naked... left without purpose or direction. But when she turned again, the strange man was no longer there. He had disappeared in the rabble, and with him the strange spell had vanished also.

  Now, she was left bewildered, unable to understand what had happened. But when Drakanes looked straight, all uncertainties melted away from her shoulders like snow under the bright warm sun. She saw Jon Gallard – skinny, chained, alone, without justice, without hope… I am his hope; I am his salvation. She had killed before once, clumsily with a knife to protect herself. And once more for vengeance... skillfully, longsword in hand. The third time would be for justice.

  In the end, that god, this god, the other… it did not matter. It all came down to the living… To us – flesh, and blood, and metal. The better fighter will win this day. After all, it’s called trial by combat. The eye of the gods is upon me.

  The rabble was shouting, clapping, and muttering, as the guards cleared the fighting ground. Then the grand burgher called for silence. “Good people of Bernn, we’re gathered here this day to witness the judgement of the Three. The gods will decide where justice is due… to me, or to the accused… To sir Godefroy, or to the sister.” Upon those words, the crowd turned more restless. “Silence!” He yelled. “We shall have silence – so the gods might better hear the clash of arms.”

  Drakanes looked at sir Godefroy, the hedge knight, the grand burgher’s creature. She fixed him with her gaze; making good use of her mismatched eyes of pale grey and brown. That always unnerved folk, but if it unnerved this hedge knight, he made no sign to show it. Her jaw was clenched in anticipation, just like her fist around the sword’s hilt. Drakanes flexed her neck and shoulders. The crackling sounds were pleasant on the ear. It felt good to release the tension in her muscles and bones.

  Though Drakanes had renounced her former life to join the cloth, she had not abandoned entirely her sword practice and training. In the few moments of privacy she could steal from her chores, Drakanes exercised her stance and moves, using sticks. And from time to time, she did her squats and push-ups to stay fit. But here and now, she was nervous – and did her best to conceal that. In contrast, sir Godefroy betrayed nothing outside an evil grin. He won’t expect a challenge from a woman, most especially a woman of the cloth. I have to lure him into a false confidence; then I’ll make short work of him. If only Drakanes believed half of what she thought… She didn’t.

  The opponent, unlike her, had equipped himself with a breastplate. Last time she had seen him, the man had donned only mail. But besides that, there was no difference in battle gear. Sir Godefroy still smiled his evil smile.

  “Fight!” Shouted the grand burgher, and then the world fell silent to her ears.

  In an instant, the hedge knight came upon her with a vicious swing. She reacted quickly, backing away from the attack. Drakanes moved left, then right, and crossed blades only when she felt his swing a little slower. He attacked again – from one side, from the other, arcs and thrusts – every crackle of steel, every wave of force going into her arms. But with every parry she grew confident, remembering the old feel of a sword fight, the moves, and the sentiments which tried her. Drakanes had not forgotten how to wield a blade, but she was losing.

  What was I thinking? I have but the strength of a frail woman against that of a man’s. The hedge knight was vicious, relentless. He displayed no shyness for a woman adversary. If she didn’t do something quickly, she’d tire and miss a swing. One miss was all the hedge knight needed to deliver effectual blows… and any one of them could prove fatal. Drakanes backed away, letting the man’s blade cut air. She dodged and moved circles and circles; hoping he would let up.

  “Stand still, good sister,” said sir Godefroy, his tone evil and sharp. “Stand still so we can end this quickly. I’ll give you a clean death – on my honor as a knight.”

  “You are no knight. You have no honor.”

  Once again he lunged at her, his eyes cold and murderous. But then Drakanes caught his swing and pushed him back, unleashing a flurry of her own. Backslash, slash, thrust, slash, slash, slash. Again and again, as fast as she could – jaw clenched and her heart beating drums inside her breast, pulsing the deaf noise of rushing blood.

  But for two successful attacks upon his breastplate, the hedge knight caught all of her blows and ended the flurry with a counter. His blade landed on her left shoulder, and his elbow smacked her hard in the mouth. The pain bit into her and she retreated a few paces. Her lip burned and her mouth tasted iron as she spat the blood. Son of a whore... Drakanes was now so weak, so exposed. It was obvious to all, but for some reason her foe did not attack. Instead, he dragged on, studying her – still grinning.

  “You fight well, good sister,” Godefroy said with a tilted head. “Very well indeed, but you lack form… a man’s form.”

  That only served to anger her womanly pride, she knew. But forgetting herself, Drakanes went for another attack. Their swords crackled and shrieked… steel clawing against steel. But he managed to counter, and struck at her ribs. She was now on one knee, tired and in pain. A strong swing made her sword fall from her hands and onto the ground. The blade was so close to her, but the hedge knight was closer.

  “What are you going to do now, frail woman?” He said with a crude smile. “You couldn’t leave justice well enough alone in the hands of your betters. Now, you and that murderer will both breathe earth. I will, however, give you time to say the proper words for the dead, before I take your life.”

  As she looked up at him, Drakanes saw only a low creature filled with malice, a tool, an empty heart and cruel mind; but she saw something else. His sin, my salvation. Drakanes looked at the crowd to her right. “Sword!” She yelled out. No weapon came, only the ghostly stares of the rabble. She turned to her left. “Sword!” She yelled again, then turned to him. “My cunt for a sword!”

  The rabble burst into laughter, and so did sir Godefroy. In that opportune moment of derision, she rose in a heartbeat and kicked him between the legs as hard as she could. Aching, the man lowered himself to a
squat – and she planted a mailed fist good in his face. His sword slipped from his grasp and into hers. Drakanes wasted no time, putting all of her weight behind the blade. It landed straight into the hedge knight’s neck. Even with victory’s relief, was she still a frail woman in the mind of sir Godefroy?

  “As frail as rock,” she hissed in smile – her fiendish gaze drinking the hedge knight’s failure. The sight of her opponent was a scarlet gruesome; raw steel beneath his chin, the cold blade inside the man’s ruined throat. Her mailed fingers were clenched around the sword hilt tight as a gargoyle’s toes clinging onto the stony edge of a rooftop. The taste of victory had never been so ambrosial upon her tongue. Drakanes could see it; she could see the life fading away from his eyes... leaving behind black and empty dots.

  Pride had been the hedge knight’s sin. His pride, her salvation… that and her quick wit. Even the greatest warriors needed luck, else they’d never live to become great. Despite her aching muscles and tired bones, that notion made her chuckle. This day, this trial, Drakanes had been fortunate; and fortune was the province of the gods.

  In the end, sir Godefroy had died grinning, but his grin was no longer contemptible. It was… Pitiful, she thought, as the man’s blood flowed from his open neck.

  Grand burgher Wholeheart was left speechless at the sight of his corpse minion and with the lively rabble cheering at his defeat, at her victory. All manner of doubt had been chased away from the minds of the small. The trial’s conclusion, the loud voice of their throats had freed Jon Gallard from chains and shackles. The poor craftsman, however, was not left without words. He seemed in high spirits.

  “Sweet daughter of the Moons… you’ve won my freedom. You’ve won it against such cruel an adversary. The gods made it all possible; they wanted justice to prevail, not falsehood. And so their will was done.”