The Last Swordsman

by Benjamin Corman

  Recognition seemed to dawn then. A single word was whispered under his breath, almost as if he dared not say it out loud. Treason. After he said it, Redin looked back at the boy, making him feel more uncomfortable than he ever before remembered. At first it seemed as though there was judgment in his eyes, but it soon became apparent that it was something worse – pity. The boy tried to hide from the look, but there was nowhere to go. The Brujo had a firm grasp on his shoulder, as he stood, scanning the assembled crowd.

  “We cannot decide matters of this magnitude on our own,” Redin said, after much conversing. “We wouldn’t want to make the improper decision, and invite unneeded intrusion into our simple, peaceful village.” There was sarcasm on his tongue. “Seaport is too far. Take him north, to Darry. There is a magistrate there, and a council, for what it’s worth.”

  The boy briefly recalled hearing that Redin had been a member of the council once, but then his thoughts were disrupted as he was pushed forward into the center of the group. The men and women of the village seemed to crowd in, cutting off any possible escape, surrounding him, staring at him, shaking their heads and then looking away, or frowning and eyeing him with suspicion.

  “We’ll need a volunteer to take the boy to Darry,” said Redin. “Someone with a cart and horse, preferably.”

  A man named Bradwark Finn stepped out from the crowd and started to talk with Longwin and Redin. “You’ll have to take the bodies as well,” Redin said, as he patted Finn on the arm. “They’ll want to see them, I’m sure, if there’s any hope of sorting this mess out.” Then he turned and said, “Boy, come here.”

  When the boy didn’t move, Redin said, “Bring him forward.” He was talking to the Brujo.

  The Brujo pushed the boy ahead until Redin, Finn, and Longwin, were all staring down at him. Discomfort sought to consume him, his mind racing with questions as to what was going on and what would become of him. Then the Brujo was kneeling down and looking into his eyes. “I cannot go with you, where you now go.”

  “No!” the boy cried. He didn’t want to hear any more. Those around him took a step back, shocked by his words. “No, you can’t…” He wrapped a hand around the Brujo’s thick forearm.

  “I am sorry. You must go. There is no avoiding it now.”

  Redin had him by the shoulders and was pulling him backward, so he grabbed onto the Brujo tighter. “Please,” he begged. “Please don’t…”

  Finn came around with a shaggy mare pulling a cart, and then the boy was lifted up into the seat. “No…” Tears lined his eyes.

  The Brujo suddenly seemed to be shrinking away. “Remember them,” he said. “Remember your mother. Remember your father. Remember who they were.” Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd around him.

  Behind the boy, Longwin and another man he did not know were loading the shroud-covered forms into the bed of the cart. “Better stop at Rime’s before you go,” Longwin said, wiping the back of his arm across his nose. “Get some salt.”

  When they were finished loading the cart, Finn climbed up into the seat beside him. He took the reins in hand, snapped the leather straps sharply, and sent the horse and cart bounding down the uneven dirt road. The low structures of the village began to shrink behind him and then they too were gone.

  Pathways crowded with trees soon gave way to open fields and rolling hills. Other carts, and men on horseback, passed by, but paid them little mind. Once a grand wagon passed by, painted red and yellow, and drawn by a team of horses. He imagined that a noble lord was inside, off on some important errand. Finn broke the silence though and, as if reading the boy’s mind, muttered that most like some stuffy lady was within, too good to be out in the sun.

  They camped that night by the road, Finn starting a small fire and passing the boy bits of dried meat that he couldn’t bring himself to eat. When the fire had died down to coals, Finn offered him a thin smile and an old blanket, then rolled over under one of his own.

  The boy lay back on the earth, staring up into the star-filled sky. As he sought to sleep, he imagined that perhaps, just maybe, what was happening to him was all a dream. That when he awoke in the morning, he would find himself back at the cabin by the woods, his mother and father alive and well. As he imagined his parents though, conjured their image in his mind, tears filled his eyes. When he closed them, trying to find the escape of sleep, the bear was there, massive and wild with anger, its claws extended, ready to fall on him and tear him limb from limb.

  When the sun crested the horizon the next morning, the boy was already awake. Sleep had been fitful at best. Finn passed him some hard bread, and then was leading him back to the cart. The horse was fed and watered, and they were on the road again. Days and sleepless nights passed in this manner, until the road grew wider, and more crowded, and then off in the distance tall, wooden walls emerged.

  “Darry,” said Finn, and then he snapped the reins and pushed the cart onward again.

  The roar of a crowd was clearly audible, a sound unlike any the boy had ever heard. They passed through a gate flanked by two men wearing rusting chainmail and conical helms, holding aloft tall spears and eyeing the passing throng with little interest. Finn navigated the cart down the twists and turns of rutted roads crowded with tall buildings of wood and stone. Strange smells filled the air, and hawkers could be seen selling spits of roasted meat or fanciful ironwork trinkets.

  Townsfolk were everywhere, a swarming sea of life passing this way and that, carrying loads in their arms, atop their shoulders, or on their heads. Finn stopped and tried to ask for directions from several of them, but they walked away from him without answering, suspicious looks on their faces. It wasn’t until they happened upon a young girl that they had any luck. She said her name was Manda Malloy and offered to guide them to the council hall in exchange for a ride to her master’s flat.

  It was another hour before they finally reached their destination, a wide, long building of pale plaster, with a carved wooden sign before it that read, “Magistrate of Darry” and “Council of Darry.”

  Finn helped the boy down from the cart, and they made their way into a dim-lit foyer. There a young page, of an age with the boy, stood directing petitioners. “The council is not in session today,” the page said, to the man in front of them “You’ll have to return on the morrow.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday!” the man yelled.

  “Don’t make me call the guard, sir!” the page shot back. “You’ll have to come back on the morrow.”

  The man grumbled and kicked at the floor, but eventually left. Finn stepped up to the page then and said, “I hear the council is not in session?”

  “Aye,” the page replied. “You’ll have to come back on the morrow.”

  “What about the magistrate? Is he in?”

  “Aye, but the line is long and he’s in a frightful mood.”

  “We’ve got to see him,” said Finn. “It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

  “Alright,” said the page. “Down the hall and to your left.”

  Finn nodded and hurried along, taking the boy by the shoulder. They found the chamber easily enough, a high-ceilinged hall with large windows between which were candles set in iron sconces. It was jammed from one end to the other with a swarm of petitioners who were seated on long benches, arms crossed.

  At the front of the room was a raised dais upon which sat an aging man in a long, crimson robe, a crown sewn at the breast. All that remained of his hair were gray curls above his ears, and his face was a mess of wrinkles. He was chastising the man before him, who had apparently come seeking grain from the royal reserves due to the fact that his village’s entire crop had been wiped out just months before the fall.

  “What was the town of Aller doing planting their crop so close to winter?” the magistrate barked, withered hands in fists on the desk in front of him. “Did you all take leave of your senses?’

  “No, sir,” said the man, placing hand in hand before his chest. �
��Our first crop got the mope and was wiped out entire. Then we–”

  “Still no reason to plant again so late. You should have saved your reserves, come to us when it happened.”

  “Well we did, sir,” said the man. “Another of my village went to the council, asked for assistance. It was they that told us to plant again.”

  “Bloody brilliant council we have here in Darry, isn’t it?” the magistrate barked. “When they manage to find their way out of recess, they make a royal mess of everything.”

  “Well, sir, I–”

  “Never mind that.” He withdrew a piece of parchment from his desk, dipped quill in inkpot and began to write. He threw sand over the letter when he was done, and then blew on it, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Here. Take this to the granary. They’ll supply what you need. But I don’t want to see you back here again next year.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man replied, taking the letter in hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  After that another man approached the bench over a land dispute with his neighbor, and a similar scene played out. Then a woman stepped forward, claiming to have been accosted by a man, who the local guard had brought along for the inquest. This was followed by a protest of undue levy that had the complainant yelling and red in the face before it was over. Men and women came and went, over and over again, in what seemed like an endless procession.

  When midday finally arrived, the magistrate left to break his fast. The remaining petitioners retrieved bread or pieces of fruit from paper wrappings and began to eat. They seemed well used to the waiting.

  The boy began to grow impatient sitting on the bench, but when it was finally their turn to approach the dais, he suddenly wished he was at the rear of the line. Finn stepped up to the magistrate with him and began to explain their situation. “My name is Bradwark Finn, sir. I come from the village of Lilton to seek your advice on a matter most concerning.”

  “Yes, Master Finn,” the magistrate replied. “Out with it.”

  “A man and woman have died, sir, and well–”

  “Surely that does happen,” the magistrate interrupted, “even in a village as remote as Lilton?”

  “Yes, sir, but you see, it was Edward Ledervane and his wife.”

  The magistrate ran a hand over his chin. “Edward Ledervane…a guard of Highkeep was he not? Went into amicable retirement, I thought?”

  Finn shook his head and prodded, “His wife, sir.” The magistrate still seemed unsure, so Finn stepped up to the podium, leaned in, and whispered. Though he attempted discretion, the boy heard what he said. Traitors.

  Realization must have struck at that, because for the first time the old man sat up in his seat and his eyes popped open. “Oh, yes. Yes, I see.”

  Finn then explained about the bear and the events that followed, how Redin Daros suggested they come to the town with the bodies. As each part of the story unfolded, the magistrate appeared to grow smaller and smaller behind his desk. “Well Master Finn,” he said when the tale was finished, “I shall write a report and send it along–”

  “There is also the matter of the child,” Finn put in.

  “Child?”

  “Yes, sir.” Finn turned and looked down at the boy.

  The magistrate had to sit up and look over his desk to see him, inspecting the boy from beneath bushy eyebrows. “I see. That does complicate things. He does have his father’s coloring, to be sure, but are you certain that–”

  Finn nodded. “Greta, a woman of our village, acted as midwife in the birthing some ten years back.”

  After that the magistrate sat in silence for many moments, looking the boy up and down. It was then that the boy once again started to wonder what would become of him. He had heard of orphans remanded to workhouses, or sent to work in inns, or to sweep shop floors. The idea of being in the home of some strange family he did not know made his stomach churn. If only he could go back…

  “It is clear that I cannot decide on a matter of this…sensitivity,” the magistrate finally said. “I must ask that you take the boy along to Highkeep and there seek the King’s own council.”

  “But I cannot take him, sir. I have already been away from my farm for so long.”

  “Master Finn, I am sure the crown with compensate you for your time.”

  Finn shook his head. “I am sorry, but Highkeep is too far. I cannot.”

  “I will take him to Highkeep.” The words came from someone at the back of the room. The boy turned and strained to see over the heads of those much taller than him. A tall, aged man stepped forward dressed in a grey coat with dark trim. He wore black pants and boots polished to an immaculate shine. Upon his breast was sewn a simple, triangular shield, and a short sword was belted at his waist. Only wisps of grey hair remained on his head, but he had kind eyes and was smiling, if only slightly.

  “Ah, Rowen Dunn,” said the magistrate, with a grin. “I thought you had already left.”

  “You owe me a letter, sir, so I delayed my departure.”

  “Very good, Master Dunn. You shall have your letter and will take the boy along with you as well.”

  “I would be glad to, sir.”

  The boy could only drop his head and fight back tears. Once again, he would be passed along. Once again, the only person left in this world that was familiar to him, would disappear. He had only known Finn for a few days, but he was amiable enough. The boy wrung the sword hilt he still held in his hands and held his breath.

  The next morning, he found himself seated on the back of a sturdy, brown gelding, behind Rowen Dunn. A cart and driver had been hired to bring the bodies along a few days behind them. Dunn for the most part didn’t speak, which suited the boy just fine, because he didn’t know what to say.

  Rolling hills came and went, and he even managed to spot a farmer or two far out, waving scythes back and forth amongst swaying stalks of grain. Other than that, the ride was fairly uneventful, boring even, at least until off in the distance he spotted it.

  Four grey towers of stone supporting massive walls of rock and mortar. Even from a distance the boy could make out banners of red trailing as a serpent’s tail in the wind. The town surrounding the castle soon came into view, a mass of one and two-story buildings of wood, or rock or brick, clinging to a rolling countryside.

  Sooner than he would have imagined, they were passing through a gate in the stone wall, on top of which stood a dozen guardsmen dressed in chainmail and crimson tabards, watching all who came and went.

  They made their way down dense cobblestone avenues, where men and women, carts and animals, all fought to get by. They passed beggars and dirty children laughing and playing. When they finally arrived at Highkeep castle the boy looked up to see the massive structure looming over them, reaching into the sky a distance unimaginable.

  Their horse was left behind, and they crossed a narrow bridge that spanned the murky water of a moat, making their way toward the wide castle gate.

  Dunn waved to the guards posted there, and they were soon passing under a massive portcullis. The boy looked up at the large, iron points and cringed, watching as they passed beneath the thick stone wall. He paused, imagining all of those gigantic bricks tumbling down and crushing him. But then Dunn was there prodding him along again, pushing him toward his fate.

  The air in the castle was stale and cold. Torches burned in iron sconces on the walls, and they passed several servants in dark livery, and guards dressed in chain and red tabards. They also came upon men dressed as Dunn, in fine coats of grey, triangular shields sewn at their breasts. One was dark of eyes and hair and paid them little mind; the other, with yellow hair and a neatly trimmed beard, smiled and nodded at Dunn as he went.

  They passed several magnificent tapestries that often reached from ceiling to floor and depicted various tales, their colors as vivid as their depictions. Wars, invasions, romances, and histories, appeared to be their subjects, from the quick glimpse the boy managed.

  After some time navig
ating the corridors, the boy’s legs began to tire. They passed several adjoining hallways, but rarely took them. Dunn certainly seemed to know where they were going, as he found no reason to stop or delay, but there were so many twists and turns that the boy soon had no idea from which direction they had come. Though he felt some curiosity at the things they passed, anticipation of what was to come, mixed with his utter unfamiliarity with his surroundings, was the thought of most concern on his mind. It made his legs ache all the more.

  After what seemed like the longest time, they finally came to a halt before two large wooden doors, banded in iron. Dunn greeted the two guards outside, attired as he was, and opened the door.

  They stepped into a wide room, much wider than that of the magistrate’s chambers in Darry, but with a low ceiling. The walls were stone, as all had been thus far, and on one long span several banners and tapestries hung. At the front of the room was a golden throne, behind which hung a large crimson banner bordered in gold, a golden crown emblazoned at its center. To each side of the throne there was a dark lacquered chair, with a high back and velvet cushion.

  On the throne sat an aged man with long white hair and beard. A golden crown with four long points rested on his brow. Two more guards in neat grey coats stood at either side of the throne, shields sewn on their breasts, swords at their waists. One of them was an older, portly fellow, with well-tanned skin and white beard and hair cropped close. The other was younger, though well past his fortieth year, and had brown hair and beard littered with tiny curls. Both stood tall and rigid, hands clasped behind their backs.

  An older gentleman in a blue velvet doublet occupied one of the two chairs beside the throne. The other was empty. A large audience of people stood about the chamber, chatting to one another. Most wore finery of various types; women dressed in silks and pearls, while men wore fine tunics or vests and had chains of office about their necks.

  “The Lakemen wish to make a message known to you, Your Grace,” a young, golden-haired man was saying. He wore a light blue coat, with a triangle on the breast that pointed toward his right bicep, and he seemed very serious. “They wish to beg you not to dam the White River.”