The Last Swordsman

by Benjamin Corman

  Good Lyam rode out, from Redstone of yore

  His armor a-glittering, his sword at the fore

  To save the old kingdom from a villainous band

  Led by a Rhaynori scourge who was pillaging

  the land

  After a verse or two, everyone in the room would raise their glasses and join in for the chorus. Goblet upon goblet was downed as people mellowed, and took up the tune

  Good Lyam of Redstone, good Lyam the Brave

  We need you to go out, and fight that surly knave

  Good Lyam of Redstone, good Lyam the True

  We need you to help us, we’re counting on you

  Across the room Jon Casserly and Dark Martin had taken notice of King Alginor and Robert’s conversation. Jon seemed somewhat amused by what was going on, while Martin Erris only glowered. All around them, the song went on.

  The red diamond on white, met the dark clothed

  foe

  Swords meeting shields, go after go

  The fighters were well matched, their skills to

  the task

  Who would triumph in this duel? No soul

  dared ask

  Nikolis suddenly wished that he could hear what was going on between them. He cursed himself for not being closer to the king. Whatever they were talking about, both of them looked upset.

  For hours the fight wore on, no victor yet clear

  Then the dark foe caught Lyam with a blow, un-

  aware

  As the sinister champion struck him with all

  It looked like good Lyam would assuredly fall

  Good Lyam of Redstone, good Lyam the Brave

  We need you to go out, and fight that surly knave

  Good Lyam of Redstone, good Lyam the True

  We need you to help us, we’re counting on you

  Cursing the musicians under his breath, he tried to slowly circle around to the king, keeping the wall at his back. He scanned the room as he went, looking for familiar faces. But none of his fellow greycoats were about, nor anyone of any use.

  Without warning the king stood abruptly, his chair thrown back. Black Rob banged a fist on the table in frustration and growled something indiscernible. “The ships!” was all Nikolis could make out.

  Nikolis practically ran across the room, fearing the worst, hoping beyond all hopes that the two did not come to blows. How he would handle that situation, he had no idea. All he knew is that the two of them were looking at each other with far too much animosity. Casserly’s perpetually cool countenance had vanished.

  Then with strength unknown, good Lyam did rise

  Raising his sword, intent on the prize

  He struck that dark bane with a slash to the head

  And the kingdom entire, knew that he was dead

  Good Lyam of Redstone, good Lyam the Brave

  We need you to go out, and fight that surly knave

  Good Lyam of Redstone, good Lyam the Just

  We need you to go out and defeat him for us

  As he got to the king, Lord Casserly stood and straightened his tunic. Oblivious to the confrontation, the musicians played on, finally coming to the end of the song.

  So, all of ye folk, remember this tale

  How good Lyam rose up, a-donning his ‘mail

  To save the old kingdom, for you and for me

  So, all of us folk, could live and be free

  As the musicians finished, and put down their instruments, Lord Casserly turned and stalked out of the chamber. Most of those in attendance were either too inebriated to notice what had happened or were paying too much attention to the song. The king only sat in his chair, the muscles of his face taut, his jaw firmly clenched.

  When the festivities finally died down Nikolis let the king take his arm, and led him out of the hall, to his chambers. Then he went about walking the hallways, making sure the area surrounding the king’s rooms were secure. After that he sought his own chamber, a small servant’s quarters similar to his room back at Highkeep, fed his two ravens who were perched comfortably on the window sill, and got what rest he could.

  When the sun rose the next day, he rose with it. He washed and ate and was back to the king’s room before the old man had woken. When he did rise, Nikolis helped him with his morning routine, and saw that servants brought food and water, and fresh linens. This routine went on for days in this manner.

  “The Bay of Blood they call it now,” Alginor said one such morning, as he stared out of his window at the water beyond. Milky eyes scored the waves as if searching for something. “When I led the assault at the northern gate, Matthis came from the sea. Like a serpent he rose from the waters.”

  Nikolis studied the king, intrigued by this sudden, and rare, talk. “Saloin Merlish never saw it coming. Our naval power was insignificant. But Matthis had bought a merchant’s fleet. It expended nearly all of our resources, but it worked. They say the bay turned red with all the blood that ran into the water that day. The sands turned crimson as the waters rushed upon the shore.”

  Nikolis dared not interrupt him, dared not ask any questions, fearful that the old man might not continue. He wondered if King Alginor’s mind was going, or if something else was making him share this personal story. Either way the subject, so rarely discussed, interested him to no end.

  The old king removed the golden crown that had only recently been placed on his head. He sat staring at it a long while. When he finally spoke, he said, “This crown was meant to rest on my father’s brow. Alas, he perished before the war was done.”

  Another fact Nikolis had never known. It seemed that no matter how much he quested for knowledge, so much still evaded him. “They’re horribly uncomfortable things.”

  It was a long time before he spoke again, and then he only said, “Hung for a traitor,” and shook his head. Those words tore at an old wound in Nikolis despite the fact that he assumed Matthis Casserly was the subject of the statement. “Traitors,” the old king went on. “I told them not to go. Begged them. They should have listened to me. I was left with little choice.”

  Nikolis knew the king was no longer talking about Matthis, that he had moved on to what had to be the subject of his parents, though he favored not even in a glance in Nikolis’ direction. The king went back to silence then and staring out at the sea. Nikolis’ spirits slowly sank and so later that day, when Darus offered to relieve him, he accepted.

  The city was bright and beautiful, the air fresh and clean. Plaster-walled armories, warehouses and citadels were molded and shaped and painted yellow and green and red. Marble structures, supported by massive columns, were laid in with red and green and blue stone. Mosaics of hundreds of pieces of colored glass were set into the sides of buildings, depicting famous battles and ancient rulers, histories and calendars and various other works of art.

  As he wandered through the city, Nikolis happened upon a massive building of white marble, supported on all sides by dozens of columns. Amidst the columns a set of long, flat stairs rose up into obscurity. Never before had he stood before so massive a stair, and so he was compelled to climb them. Just as his legs began to ache and he thought that the steps would never end, he reached a landing with an arched entryway ahead.

  When he stepped inside, he was stunned. One could see all the way up to the ceiling, to a domed skylight that filtered in the morning sun. The floor was comprised of marble of red and white, black and gold, the blocks laid out in patterned squares of one color, and then bordered with another. The stone was magnificent. In the red ran veins of a deeper scarlet, and in the black veins of white. Floors and shelving of a dark mahogany were built into the walls and rose from floor to heights almost indiscernible from his vantage.

  Though it was what was on these shelves that were the greatest marvel of all. Books and tomes, scrolls and stacks upon stacks of parchment, lined the walls. There were hundreds of them, thousands of them, hundreds of thousands of them. One could not begin to count. There were loose scrolls rolle
d and set in a myriad of slots, leather bound tomes and books with yellowed pages that were so old they looked likely to fall apart.

  Nikolis scored over histories, the youngest of which was ancient in comparison to what the library at Highkeep had to offer. There were not just one or two volumes on war and strategy, but dozens, all by people and concerning places that were unknown to him. He found a copy of Otollicus’ Travels of the Realm he could have sworn had pages and accounts that were not in the version he had read and was assuredly much older.

  There were maps both old and revised, copies and those that were plain, as well as those that were drawn with rich colors, and bordered with fanciful illuminations. There were ledgers and accounts of people long since dead, using ciphering systems that he did not recognize. He even found calendars that did not match that which he was used to at all.

  In various rooms set into the outermost walls, he saw many men, most of them white of hair, copying texts into newly bound volumes. Some even had a large, odd, circular glass that they held before the work, and squinted through, as they went about their task.

  “This place must hold untold wonders,” he found himself whispering out loud.

  “It does,” a voice said from behind him. “That and more.”

  Nikolis turned to see a short, old man walking toward him. He was dressed in a tattered robe and held an old tome in his hands. A large nose protruded from a wrinkled face, and but a fringe of white hair remained atop his pink head.

  “I’m sorry,” Nikolis replied. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Ah, words of that sort never disturb me,” the old man said.

  Nikolis nodded slowly.

  “I’ve not seen you here before.”

  Nikolis looked about, to the dozens upon dozens of people that were in the library and wondered how the old man could possibly know who came and went. “I’m new to the city,” he responded.

  “In with the King’s party, then? Come from Highkeep?”

  Nikolis nodded.

  “I traveled there once. When I was younger. A nice, quaint library. Peaceful and quiet.”

  “Nothing compared to this,” Nikolis said, sweeping his vision about the place.

  “Perhaps not,” the man said. “But each trove has its gem. I remember a beautiful collection of poetry there that I had never seen before. It was called Visions or Syler.”

  “By Tennemon. It has seen some water damage but is still quite legible.”

  The old man grinned even wider at that. “You know the keep library well.”

  “I had read through the majority of the books there twice, by the time I was fourteen years of age. I had to start borrowing from personal collections.”

  “A man after my own heart.”

  Nikolis smiled, feeling an odd sense of pride. “I just find it all so interesting.

  “As do I,” replied the old man. “Many here, they respect the work, they live to preserve it, to save it for years to come. But somehow, they still do not enjoy it. They do not revel in learning what knowledge, what adventure, a tome might give them.” Then almost as an afterthought, the man extended a hand. “I am Gine. I have been entrusted for so many years now, to keep the Library of Seaport.”

  Nikolis took the calloused, wrinkled hand and introduced himself. After they exchanged courtesies he said, “This place is breathtaking.”

  “It is,” replied Gine. “Even for one who has spent most of his long life inside its walls.”

  Gine turned then and led Nikolis about the place, showing him interesting volumes and scrolls, even portraits and paintings and drawings of buildings and nobles who had long since perished. He led him up the winding staircases, down the twists and turns of the great floors of shelves and through arched hallways and onto high landings. One could so easily get lost in the place, and never want for sustenance, so incredible was the store of knowledge.

  After they had walked about for hours, Nikolis dared to ask Gine a question that had been on his mind for more than a week. “I see no volumes about recent times here, about the war, about what led up to it, about what happened.”

  The old man’s usually mirthful expression faded then, and he took on a very serious tone. “Those books are no more, young Nikolis.”

  Nikolis couldn’t believe what he was hearing with all that the library held, volumes reaching back into the centuries. “How can that be?”

  “They were destroyed,” said Gine, as if it were his very children that had been murdered. “Or never written.”

  Nikolis couldn’t believe it. “How? Why?”

  “Orders from those in power,” Gine replied.

  “Lord Cassserly?” It was unfathomable.

  Gine nodded. “The world is a strange place, after such wars come to an end. Chaos reigns for a time. Though order is always restored, it seems scars remain.”

  “It’s unconscionable!”

  “Calm Nikolis,” said Gine patting him on the arm. “You will live through a lot and more, I am sure, before you are as old as I.”

  Nikolis could only shake his head in continued disbelief.

  “Let it not bother you. Enjoy what you do have.” The words sounded sensible, yet anger continued to cloud his mind.

  As Gine continued to offer kind words of reassurance, something struck him. “What of the artifacts about the city?” he asked, interrupting the old man. “The carvings that have been removed or obliterated, the statuary and the fountain ornamentation that is gone.”

  “A keen mind you have, and a keen eye. But no more should I speak on the subject. I fear you are too impassioned by it, and I myself have probably said too much.”

  “I must know,” said Nikolis, pleading. “You have to tell me.”

  “I shall say no more,” Gine insisted. “But what men talk about when in their cups, and at the gaming tables, is another matter. The passing years may loosen tongues, but so too does merriment, often times.”

  Nikolis thanked Gine for what he had shown him. He promised he would return, said how much he wanted to dig up the vast treasures the library had hidden in its twisting halls, and then he was on his way.

  Night had fallen upon the city when he started to make his way down the massive library stair. All about the streets torches were lit, casting reddish light off of the white walls of the endless buildings in such a way that it perfectly illuminated his surroundings. There was no time to marvel at such things, however. With only a few minutes walking, and the directions of a citizen or two, he was in the area he was looking for.

  The smell of ale, and the rowdy roar of laughter, permeated the tavern district. Although there were exceptions, Nikolis soon learned much of the city was laid out in districts of taverns, shops, tradesmen, and so on.

  There were several alehouses and inns lining the streets of white cut stone, most small, squat structures, two stories at the most. Many were marked with a carved wooden sign that hung from above the doorway and was lacquered or painted various colors.

  Nikolis came to one such building after an hour or so of wandering. It had a stone foundation and plaster walls, and warm light emanated from leaded glass windows. When he saw that the sign above the door featured a dark bird carved into its surface, and the name “The Crow’s Nest,” he decided it was as good a place as any to begin.

  When he entered the tavern the warm and inviting atmosphere struck him. Though initially he was a bit put off by the loud and blustery inhabitants of the place, he was soon intrigued. They rolled dice, and downed mug after mug of dark, foamy ale, but there was something appealing about their fraternity. One, sly, skinny fellow even pulled a knife on another when he was accused of cheating. But this only earned him a crack on the head from a pottered mug, which shattered into a dozen pieces and fell to the ground. The assembled crowd roared with laughter at the scene, and a few throws later the knife-wielder was back in the game.

  Though he was hesitant at first, Nikolis was soon laying coins down upon the table, and throw
ing dice with the rest of them. They were dark, carved squares of some sort of stone, and each side was marked with a different symbol. The game was simple enough, and after a few rounds he was certain that he had it down. He was even up a sovereign or two after a while, though his luck didn’t last.

  He bided his time, rationing the funds that he had. Though he drank, he nursed the same mug of ale for many hours, watching as the men around him ordered round after round. Let them dull their wits in their cups and lower their guards. A foreigner in their midst might put them off, but soon enough, they’ll forget that I am a stranger in this place. Hopefully his grey coat would not serve as a constant reminder of who he was. The thought had crossed his mind to take off the telltale garment, but he could not bring himself to do it.

  “Let’s hope Black Rob doesn’t outlaw gambling any time soon!” said a round, jolly fellow as he threw the dice across the table.

  “Oh?” Nikolis said, reaching for the stones, as it was his turn. He knew that an opportunity had finally come.

  “Seems he’s banned everything else,” the man went on. A few of the others in attendance muttered agreement.

  “It’s not like you can’t have any fun in the city, though,” Nikolis prodded.

  “Aye, you can find a drink or a game or two,” the man went on. “But where and when are at his discretion.”

  “The whores are gone,” added a short, gap-toothed fellow dressed in a soiled frock. “More or less, anyways.”