by Walter Rhein
For some reason he had let his mind fall into an endless loop of studying Oberon only through the failure of his opponents.
That had been his perspective back in his time at Camden.
He watched the students Oberon trained and grew with them.
It had never even occurred to him to watch Oberon himself.
Yet, even as he thought it, he realized the memories were there. He needed only to shift focus, to watch the great man at work.
And he had more than a decade of memories to draw information from.
Oberon dove forward again, his sword whistling through the air with tremendous speed and skill. But the Captain was furious and he wasn’t fighting with the required thought to beat an opponent of Malik’s experience. Malik blocked his advances easily, buying time and flowing into the rhythm of the fight as well as the rhythm of his memories.
His breathing evened out as he concentrated, and his eyelids flickered as his state became something close to hypnotic.
They settled into a dance, the two of them. Master and student. Father and child. Aristocrat and orphan. It was a shame there was nobody there to watch since they dueled in a fashion that had few times been equaled.
Every movement Oberon made, Malik mirrored. He stepped backwards, anticipating aggressive assaults. He sidestepped and ducked under slashes. He advanced when he saw Oberon had overbalanced a thrust.
The image amazed him, for he saw it both in his memories and in the present.
The great swordsman got overbalanced, not just occasionally but frequently.
The realization took Malik’s breath because it indicated something monumental.
The great swordsman was a fraud!
Malik could defeat him.
Malik was superior.
But the second the thought occurred to him, his defeat sounded in the form of the thwang of a crossbow string.
Searing heat ripped through Malik’s leg as the bolt knocked him fiercely to the ground.
He looked through the pain of his throbbing leg to see Oberon slipping a small handheld crossbow into a holster in the middle of his back.
“It doesn’t have a lot of force, that little toy,” Oberon said with a smile, “but the poison on the dart is quite deadly. I’m not sure even your precious queen will be able to save you.”
As Malik struggled in the grass, Oberon walked forward slowly, ominously. His sword dangled in his hand almost as an afterthought. Malik tried to focus, but his vision grew blurry. The image of Oberon elongated unnaturally. Malik’s fingers didn’t obey his commands.
“Yes, it’s a paralyzing agent,” Oberon said with a smirk. “Soon it will stop your heart. Although even that’s not enough for me. I’m quite sure your queen whore can start a stopped heart. But I doubt that even she has the strength to restore a head that has been removed from its shoulders.”
Oberon lifted his bone sword.
The same sword that Malik held in his rapidly weakening hand.
The same sword he had dreamed of carrying for so long.
But no longer.
Oberon’s sword descended.
Denz saw the charge coming from the gate and stepped into the light. He put up his hands and gestured to his tabard, hoping, praying that Noah and the others would understand.
“Green! Green tabards are with us, all others are the enemy!”
Gerard took his place across from him, gesturing at his tabard and taking up the call.
“Green are with us!”
In a desperate, short moment, Noah and the others thundered by. As he passed, Denz thought his eyes met those of the young healer, and he hoped that understanding passed between them, but he couldn’t be sure.
In a split second, they were gone, and Denz and Gerard were left to face each other in the silent and forgotten portal to the city.
“Do you think they got the message about the tabards?” Gerard asked.
Denz hefted his sword.
“Let’s go make sure!”
Noah’s steed carried him into the city. He flashed by Denz, who was manning the gate in a green tabard, and noted the uniform may be friendly.
In truth, Noah wasn’t eager to kill guardsmen. As far as he was concerned, the guardsmen of Miscony were his kinsmen. It was the Nightshades he worried about.
His horse’s hooves slipped upon the castle’s stone as Noah guided the animal through the winding corridors of the structure.
He must go up if he were to get to the relevant fighting.
That morning, he had seen the troop of Nightshades manning the walls. They stood like a black stain upon the dawn. Their leader seemed to mock them in his nonchalance before the battle.
Svelve.
That was the name he had given to Malik the previous day. That was the target Noah sought.
With every pounding step, the roar of battle drew louder. In his excitement, Noah left his companions behind. A gap formed between him and the others. He paid it no mind.
A portcullis dropped down to seal off a passageway he had just ridden through.
Noah pulled on the reins and his horse skidded to a halt. He turned to look behind him and was blindsided by a pocket of night that detached itself from the wall and hurtled into him, knocking him from his horse.
The young man found himself on the ground, nauseous from a blow to the head.
Straddling him was the one in question.
“Hello, boy. I’m the one they call Svelve, leader of the Nightshades. Perhaps you were looking for me?”
He drove his dagger straight down into Noah’s heart.
“No!” came the cries from Michael and Alec from beyond the portcullis.
Svelve glanced up and them and laughed. His laughter was thick and deep and a strange fire glinted in his eyes.
“Too late,” he cried.
Noah gasped at the horrible sensation of the cold metal in his breast. Already he could feel his own hot blood boiling up around the wound and soaking through the tunic on his back. In a horrified daze, his hands reached up to clasp the black gauntlets that held the weapon in his heart. The heat came to him suddenly, the tremendous, divine heat that Jasmine commanded.
It came to heal Noah, but it couldn’t. The wound was still open.
The damage couldn’t be sealed until the weapon had been withdrawn, and Noah held it in. He held it in with all his force so that the heat gathered and gathered and gathered. And when it had gathered enough, Noah directed it out and upward, into the blade, through the gauntlet and up through Svelve’s foul black armor.
Svelve’s laughter turned to a squawk of concern and he began to struggle upon his victorious perch, but he lacked the strength to submit his opponent, at least not when the divine touch was upon him.
The heat built until the blackness of Svelve’s armor began to glow red at the edges. Svelve’s thrashing became more frantic as the heat crept inward and began to glow a blinding white. Before long, the Nightshade was too bright for the onlookers to even glimpse. He shone with a brilliant radiance that seemed to absorb all the sounds and lust for battle within the castle.
It reached a fevered pitch.
And it was gone.
The castle was silent.
Noah lay whole in the passage where he had been felled.
Half of his tunic had been charred away, but his flesh had been mended.
In some distant corners, the sounds of clashing swords still rang out.
But as the farmers from the tree line poured into the castle with their scythes and pitchforks, Alec and Michael knew the battle was over.
The blade descended, and Malik watched it. The poison should have paralyzed him. It should have stopped him forever. Yet Malik still felt something. Deep in the pit of his belly, there was a warmth. It was the warmth Jasmine had given him before the battle.
The healing power was there, lying in wait to be activated.
As the bone sword that would be his death twinkled in the air, the heat of Jasmine’s touc
h rose through his body.
He found an ounce of strength, enough for one final act of defiance.
He kicked out with his legs and flew upward so that the blade, instead of severing his neck, dug deeply into his torso below the arm.
The lean swordsman coughed up a spatter of blood that flew into Oberon’s face. Oberon coughed in disgust and stared at Malik in utter shock. Yet even in that moment of absolute surprise, he would not admit that Malik had exceeded his expectations.
With Oberon, there was only criticism.
“A foolish act, you have only prolonged your agony,” he spat.
But Malik had a purpose.
He had one chance.
One strike.
And he was close enough now to make it count.
Through the blood, through the agony, through the shame of his near-defeat, Malik responded.
“You forget one thing, master,” he said in a tight whisper. “I … have friends who can make me whole again.”
Malik reached across his chest and clamped his left hand upon Oberon’s sword arm, which still clutched the blade lodged in Malik’s body. The grip held Oberon close enough that Malik could feel the leader of the Camden Guard’s breath on his cheek. He pushed his right elbow—his own sword arm—under Oberon’s chin. The motion placed Malik’s gleaming bone sword in an attack position well within the lean and cruel warrior’s defenses.
“Keels,” Malik whispered, “you have lost.”
Oberon Keels’ eyes widened in fear. He struggled like a beast.
But it was all for naught.
Malik pulled his arm across his body and the sword followed. When it reached Keels’ neck, it bit and continued to bite until there was nothing more to consume. Oberon’s head dropped to the ground with a thud.
Blood sprayed into the air.
Malik collapsed.
The agony in his torso was almost too much to bear, but through the anguish and the pain, he wore a smile. A smile that was half-grimace, half-joyous triumph. The poison still lingered in his bloodstream and threatened to take him, but it mattered little now. The only thing Malik could feel was pride in his companions.
They attacked! By the gods they attacked! They’re free men! They’ll be free of their shackles forever now! By the gods, we have a chance!
And with that, darkness took him.
Chapter 43
The Final Cost
Gerard surveyed the scene. It was a few days after the battle. A grizzly pile of bodies was stacked in the greensward. Men were chopping trees and dragging bundles of sticks to the open area to burn the corpses. Summer was coming and to leave so much flesh and blood out to rot was an open invitation to pestilence.
Principally among the bodies were those of the Nightshades. Even with the fight lost and their commander dead, the Nightshades had fought to the last man. Their stubborn resistance had been hard for Jasmine to deal with, but Denz had eventually put it into perspective.
“They have caused too much anguish in these lands,” Denz said. “It is better that they have fallen like this.”
Most of the guards of Miscony had surrendered at the appearance of Denz, who was the closest thing they had to a chain of command. When Jasmine had announced they could win a pardon by swearing fealty to her, every man had kneeled and kissed the ground at her feet.
Gerard came to Jasmine now. She was standing on the wall, looking at the peasants perform their tasks. The castle needed to be repaired, rebuilt. Order needed to be re-established.
Jasmine didn’t look up as Gerard approached, but he noticed a profound change in the young woman. The quick smiles that had lit up her face before were slow to come now. It was the weight of leadership, he knew, the knowledge that no matter what you did, some would be sacrificed and some would survive and very few would deserve the fate they received.
“You have saved many lives,” Gerard said by way of greeting. Jasmine only laughed dully.
“I regret the loss of so many lives.”
“It was the only way it could be,” Gerard said. “It is, as Malik said, because we had to win our freedom, otherwise it would have been nothing more than a lie.”
“I understand that,” Jasmine snapped, and Gerard was somewhat taken aback by her tone. “But it is still something I regret! Can a person not regret a needed thing?”
“A person can,” Gerard admitted, “but it may be that a queen cannot.”
Jasmine sighed and turned her attention to the peasants.
“Look at them,” she said, “watch as they do the heavy lifting, maintain the realm, toil in squalor and anonymity. What has changed? Denz has returned to his post as weapons-master, the infantrymen have retained their positions guarding the castle, and the peasants remain peasants. Gerard, you tell me, what is different?”
“You are different, my queen.”
“I don’t like the way that word sounds, I haven’t gotten used to it.”
“You’d better.” Now it was Gerard whose tone carried the edge. “You’re their leader now. If you want to improve their lives, you’ll have to make supreme sacrifices.”
Jasmine sighed again and passed her hand through her hair. In the morning light, she was beautiful as she stood thoughtfully upon the wall.
“It’s not like they tell it in the tales, is it? The tales always end when the battle is won, but they make no mention of the burdens that come with victory.”
“No, they don’t.”
Jasmine glanced down into the courtyard and sighed a final time, then she spun away.
“Come,” she said, “I wish to check on him.”
Gerard blanched slightly and nodded.
Jasmine walked down the roughly hewn steps of Miscony Castle. Catching a glimpse of her below, the peasants let out a happy cheer. Jasmine smiled at their exuberance and waved.
She came to a door and entered, then made her way down a long passageway to a simple room that contained nothing but a large bed.
Her brother sat alone beside the bed. At Jasmine’s approach, he stood.
“How is he?” Jasmine said.
“He sleeps,” Noah responded, his face drawn in exhaustion and concern.
“Has he awakened yet?”
“No.”
Jasmine looked at the figure. His skin was pale and hot to the touch.
“I don’t understand why I couldn’t cure him.”
“You sealed the wound, my queen,” Gerard said.
“Yet he sleeps.”
“The wound was deep and he was not found until the following morning. He lost a lot of blood in the night, and there was poison in the dart we pulled from his leg. Perhaps Lightbringer has decided he’s done enough. His sacrifice may have won us the war.”
“His sacrifice is too steep a price to pay,” Jasmine said sternly.
Gerard fell silent.
“Leave us for a moment,” Jasmine said.
Noah gave Jasmine a questioning look, then shrugged and went for the door. Gerard followed him at once.
Jasmine sat on the bed.
There, in the still quiet of the room, there was nothing but the sound of breathing.
Her breaths, deep and strong.
And Malik’s, shallow and weak.
She took the lean warrior’s hand and held it tenderly.
“We’ve won, Malik,” she whispered. “But there is so much more to do. I…I need you here. I need you to guide me…”
Jasmine found there were tears on her cheeks. The last twenty-four hours had been such a rush that there had been no time to process all of the events. But now, the pain overwhelmed her, the pain and the confusion and the regret. Now, where she had been blocked before, the tears welled up, and suddenly they were pouring out of her heavy soul and onto the body of her savior, her protector, her friend.
“Malik,” she cried, “you can’t leave us now, not now, not when we’ve won!”
And her sobs became so violent, and her shudders became so great, that at first she didn’
t even feel the comforting hand on her back patting her gently. But when she did, she leaped back in astonishment.
“Malik!” she cried excitedly.
The lean warrior’s eyes were open now, and he regarded her with a slight smile and a mischievous twinkle.
“We won, did we?” he said weakly.
“Yes, yes we won!” Jasmine replied, leaning forward for a hug, “Oh Malik, I thought we’d lost you.”
“I told you,” he said, clasping her arms so he could look her in the face as he replied, “I don’t die easily.”
The End
Author Biography
Walter Rhein was born in northern Wisconsin. After earning a degree in English literature, he began traveling and teaching English in various parts of the world. He currently splits his time between South America and Wisconsin and may be contacted at: [email protected]. Be sure to check out his blog at www.swordreaver.com.
Notable Novels:
The Reader of Acheron (Perseid Press, 2014)
Beyond Birkie Fever (Stencil Press 2013)
Stories Featured:
Nine Heroes (Stencil Press, 2014)
Dormancy of Harren (Harren Press, 2014)
The Battle of Ebulon (Shared World Antho, 2013)