The Last Swordsman

by Benjamin Corman

  The tip of the blade was orange. He found another stick, a larger one this time, and put it between his teeth. As he brought the hot metal close to him, he bit down on the stick and started breathing hard. Squinting his eyes shut, he put the steel to his flesh and screamed into the night. The pain of nothing prior compared. Darkness rose up again and consumed him.

  Only a scattered awareness followed. He thought he opened his eyes and saw that it was day, but the next he remembered he was surrounded by night. He felt as though his leg was on fire, and then his forehead began to feel hot as well. Sweat coated his chest and back, and he had to throw his cloak off. Then he woke and felt cold, freezing, and so had to draw the garment about himself again.

  Lying beneath the tall pines, he began to see things, odd things. He wasn’t sure if they were real, or only illusions of the mind. One of the ravens plopped down in front of him, Mayjen he thought, and pecked at his arm. Nikolis tried to “shoo” the bird away, but it only evaded his hand, walking down his spine and pecking at him. Voices later sounded in the night, and he turned all about, trying to find their source. He was certain the riders from Seaport had found him, but when he awoke later, he heard nothing. There was a cawing sound and a scratching. It sounded like one of his ravens, was in trouble, and so he looked about in a panic. Dark claws appeared before him as he tried to stand and engulfed his vision.

  When he woke up next it was morning and his throat was dry; so dry that he clawed his way down to the stream despite the pain. He plunged his head into the water and drank long and deep. When he tried to lift up out of the water, his body wouldn’t respond, and he started to sputter and choke. With a heave, he managed to push himself over onto his back, and began coughing and spitting water.

  A burning sensation was still strong in his leg and his stomach was hollow. He thought about trying to catch some small game, but he did not have the strength for traps or snares. Instead he found some more of the red berries, and some nuts that looked like they might be edible. The temporary feeling of fullness after eating them was soon replaced with an intense stomachache that made him realize he had to do something to find more suitable nourishment.

  Nikolis removed the strip of cloth from his leg, knowing that he had left the blood circulation cut off for too long as it was. The wound was a marred ugly mess of purple flesh and newly formed welts. Tearing a new strip from his shirt, he washed it in the river, and then wrapped it about the wounded area. Then he pushed himself to his feet, wrapped his cloak about his shoulders and took his sword up again, as a crutch.

  Little was known of the east, but Nikolis hoped he would find something, somebody, that could lend him aid. As he wandered the countryside, however, all he saw was rocks and trees, and fields of tall grass. No one and nothing was in sight, except for the occasional animal tracks on the ground below, and a falcon or hawk flying above. After two days of wandering, drudging along at as fast a pace as he could manage, he was ready to give up. He would die out here; there was no other foreseeable outcome.

  Leaning against the trunk of a tall tree, he pondered his fate. What has brought me to this? Did I do the right thing? What else could I have done? He thought back on things and then angry, forced himself to his feet again and started walking. Where he was going, in what direction, became meaningless. He just had to keep moving, had to keep going, he couldn’t give up. When night came, he didn’t stop, not until he was so weary and out of breath that he collapsed in the dirt.

  When the sun rose the next morning he was off again, leaning heavily on his sword, pain in his leg and hunger gnawing at his insides. He was in a severe state of discomfort, but he was moving.

  Hours later he was tired and aching, his eyes wouldn’t focus and every muscle in his body protested from the strain of pushing himself – but he wouldn’t stop – he kept moving, forcing one foot in front of the next.

  Without realizing it, he found himself in a thicket of tall grass. Searching ahead with hands he tried to find his way out, but he quickly got turned around and confused. When he finally stumbled out of the grass, he turned about to see a strange figure before him.

  Standing tall, with a long, curved blade in his hand, was a man. He was short, with sun-dark skin and dark hair. His naked chest glistened with sweat, and he wore only a pair of leather trousers that went from waist to knees, beyond which were only bare feet. Nikolis watched as he stood and mowed down large swathes of grass with each pass of his curved blade.

  At first, Nikolis wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real or just another delusion of his mind, but then the man turned and seemed to notice him. He jumped back and raised his blade into the air. Nikolis suddenly felt in a panic, so he too raised his weapon. The strange man started to back away, but Nikolis convinced himself that he had to take this threat out or risk being overtaken in his current predicament. So, he moved forward and attacked, lunging at the man.

  The man turned aside his sword with a downward cut of his weapon and then brought the curved tool back up to attention. His eyes were wide, confused, yet attentive. Nikolis came on again and again the man easily turned his blade aside.

  Nikolis’ leg started to burn, and his head grew heavy. He launched a lame attempt at another attack, and this time the man brought the thick of his blade down on Nikolis’ wrist, causing his sword to fall from his grasp. Nikolis stumbled and his head swam. He tried to stay on his feet, but it was no use. The world grew hazy and then the ground came up to swallow him.

  The next thing he remember was a dozen voices sounding from around him – strange voices, making strange sounds. None of it was intelligible. His eyes fluttered open briefly, but all they took in was bright whiteness. He tried to force them open again, but the effort was exhausting. The world around him felt light, insubstantial, as if he were floating. When he tried to move his arms or legs, he found that he couldn’t. There was still a burning in him, as if small fingers of flame ran up and down his body, emanating from he wound on his leg. His entire body itched and burned – it was unbearable.

  What seemed like an eternity passed before he was able to open his eyes again. Men were around him, more of the sun-dark people. There were at least four of them, and they had something in their hands: a platform of sorts. Wait, I am on a litter. They are carrying me. Flashes of shroud-covered forms being carried by village folk on biers assaulted his mind. He struggled, tried to get free of the litter, but it did him no good. Both his arms and legs were bound with some sort of twine. Someone came over and put a hand to his chest and spoke strange words. It frightened him. He struggled all the more. I am dying. I am dead. This is my funeral.

  “Don’t fight,” said a voice. It was a man’s voice. It sounded strangely…familiar. “You’re wounded. You’ll hurt yourself.” Where was the voice coming from? Who had said it? Was he going mad? He saw no one but the four men who stood around him, their well-muscled arms bearing his weight.

  One of his ravens flapped down and landed on his chest. It waddled up to him and stared at him with black eyes. The bird gave him a sense of ease, of calm, but then a hand swiped at it and sent it flying away. When it was gone, he started to wonder if it had ever been there at all.

  A solitary familiar word was heard as he was carried along. “Brujo,” he thought someone said, but he couldn’t recall how or why that word made sense to him. Then suddenly the bright light of day was gone, and he was surrounded by darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he found that all around were walls of a sort, though they looked like none he had ever seen before. They were natural, brown, almost as if they were from the cured hide of some magnificent animal. There were several wooden poles extending upward, like the supports of a tent. But if this was a tent, it was the largest he had ever seen. When he turned his head to look about, he saw something standing in the room, by a large fire.

  It turned toward him. It looked as a large, brown bear, but something was wrong. The proportions weren’t right. As it approached, he saw ears characteristic of the be
ast, but then below it was a man’s face, smeared in red and black. The strange thing reached out at him with a large claw. Nikolis began to feel sweat pouring down his brow, and he struggled against his bonds. The claw came near his face, and then ran down his chest. The creature began to say something soft, slow and repetitive. The same phrase over and over again, getting louder. The sound was almost melodic, but the words were nonsense. They meant nothing to him.

  The creature went to his leg, to his wound. “Keep away!” Nikolis spat. “Stay away from there. Stay away from me!”

  The creature didn’t listen. It went back to the fire and gathered something. A bowl perhaps, carved from wood. There was something in it. It looked hot. The creature brought the bowl to his leg and a greenish liquid could be seen. The slow, steady melodic words went on as the creature leaned over his wound. Then there was pain, intense, incredible pain.

  The next time he opened his eyes he was out in the open air and it was night, the stars were bright in the sky. The air was cool, but fresh, tall grass swayed back and forth in the breeze. At first these surroundings made him feel better, but then he started to feel warm again, and then hot. Though it seemed impossible, he felt as if he was freezing and burning up at the same time. He shook and he sweated. When he realized that he was covered in some sort of animal skin, he threw off the blanket to cool down, but then he was soon shivering uncontrollably.

  A figure appeared above him then, a young woman with black hair and black eyes. She had sun-dark skin, and was wearing a short, hide garment that went from shoulder to thigh. Leaning over him, she felt his cheeks and his face and then disappeared. When he looked up, he found her again, standing before a massive body of dark water. Beyond that, in the distance, he saw the tall peaks of a small mountain range. I must be dreaming. All of this is beyond real, impossible.

  With her back to him, the young woman shed her clothing and stood naked in the moonlight. Her legs and arms were well muscled, unlike any woman he had seen before. Her back and shoulders were well defined. When she turned toward him, he saw that her stomach was flat, her breasts small and round. There was a patch of dark hair between her legs, and as he watched her, she made no effort to conceal her nakedness. A sense of guilt started to well up in him, but he did not look away. He was not himself; he was entranced by this vision, all of it so real.

  The woman came over to him and tossed his blanket aside. Then her hands went to his clothes and started undoing the laces. Soon his shirt and breeches were gone, and he was as naked as she was. She helped him up, her body so close to his, and guided him toward the water.

  Leading the way, she brought him in with her. It was cold, near bone chilling, but soothing. Cradling him in her arms she held him, letting the water engulf his body. She cupped some of it in her hands and let it out over his head, the cold liquid streaming down his face. Then she lowered him under the water and held him there.

  For some reason, though his face was now below the surface, he did not panic. To be so utterly surrounded by the water, the gentle weight of it pushing against him, it was as if he was in another world. When she finally let him rise, he felt as though some of the sickness in his body had been washed away.

  Nikolis wasn’t sure how long he remained in this state, so peacefully floating, as if nothing else mattered, but all too soon the woman was helping him out of the lake and into the cold night air. The burning was gone, but now he shivered worse than before. His teeth chattered, and he had to wrap his arms about his body to try and gather warmth. The woman led him to the animal skin and helped him under. Then she joined him beneath the blanket.

  She hugged him close, wrapping her strong arms around him. He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest, could feel her stomach and legs against his own. Soon he was warm again, and quickly feeling better. A beautiful voice was speaking into his ear. The words were soft and soothing, and he understood none of them.

  When next he awoke, he found himself in another dim room, the walls seemingly comprised of that same hide material he had seen before, tents poles jutting upward in a circle. Streaks of sunlight entered from somewhere, and at first, he thought he was in the same enclosure. But then he noticed subtle differences in the layout, and an object or two that was not the same and decided that it was a different place. When he tried to move, he realized for the first time that his arms and legs were no longer bound. He placed his hands under himself and tried to rise.

  “Don’t move,” said a voice. It was the same voice from earlier, the only one that had made any sense. “Here, drink this.” A warm bowl was placed in front of him. Nikolis could only be suspicious of it. He kept thinking about the greenish ooze he had seen in a similar bowl not so long ago, but the aroma soon got the better of him, making him realize how hungry he was. He leaned up as best he could and brought the bowl to his mouth, drinking slowly at first, and then downing its contents with abandon. It was a thick broth and seemed the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

  When he was finished the bowl was put aside and a face appeared above him. It was the face of a young man, with golden hair and beard. There was a familiarity to it, and at first his mind went to thinking of Erad; but it wasn’t Erad. It took him a while, but recognition finally dawned. “You look horrible,” said Lorre Ryland.

  “I feel horrible,” Nikolis replied. Lorre Ryland? How could it be? He had disappeared from Highkeep so long ago.

  “But better?” Lorre prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “You were in rough shape. We thought we were going to lose you. But then the Brujo saw to you. They are a wonder at healing.”

  “Brujo?” The image of a tall man with straw-colored hair flashed through his mind.

  “They each have one. As well as a few apprentices that strive to learn the ways.”

  “They?” Nikolis asked.

  “Each tribe.”

  “Of who?”

  “The Do’shibu,” answered Lorre. “The Lakemen.”

  “Lakemen?”

  “There is not much in the east they say. Not much except some of the most magnificent mountains and rivers and streams, and a people like you never thought existed.”

  Nikolis couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was as if out of a story. “How did you find them?”

  “I was made Regent of the East. It was an honor only, you know. The King made no claim to lands east of the White River. They had long been regarded as untamed, unsuitable, though now I couldn’t say why. I was given the title, so I figured that I may as well learn a thing or two about the land.”

  “I remember,” Nikolis said. “I remember you leaving the castle on scouting expeditions.”

  “Yes. When I was younger, I would venture forth on brief outings. After the time it took to travel out, and cross the river, I would stay only a week before heading back to Highkeep. It was during one of those visits that I first met the Do’shibu. That seems like it was so long ago now. I began to devote myself to longer and longer visits with the people. In all honesty, I’ve seen the harvest come and go more than once, but I can’t remember how long I’ve been gone this time.”

  “Near three years,” said Nikolis. “If I’m remembering correctly.”

  Lorre Ryland leaned forward and scratched his chin. “Has it been that long?”

  Nikolis watched Lorre as he pondered this. The king’s nephew had always been a likeable and thoughtful person, one of the few people that had showed kindness to Nikolis when he was young.

  As he sat and watched the golden-haired man his lids started to grow heavy and as much as he tried, he could not keep his eyes open. For a moment the thought flitted through his mind that if he fell asleep again, he might never wake. “The King,” he blurted, “was attacked. At Seaport. I wasn’t involved, I swear. I tried to save him. I have suspicions, but…I can’t…I can’t say for certain who was behind it.”

  Lorre’s eyes narrowed as Nikolis spoke. He nodded his head slowly and said, “I believe I can.�
�

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The day was bright, but the air was cool. All around the sounds of nature hummed their serene tune. Birds flew from tree to tree, squirrels scurried about searching for nuts, and tall stalks of wheat swayed back and forth in the breeze. Off in the distance was a wooden walled structure, behind which a basin of water was corralled. Beyond that were clever channels built of hard-packed clay that brought that water all the way, winding through the countryside, from the White River. When their work was done, the Do’shibu farmers would open those walls and let the water spread out over the field, the crops drinking the life-giving liquid in.

  The irrigation system was used most often when rainfall was not plentiful, and as of late the days had all been fair and temperate. It was beautiful weather to work in, tending the crops, planting and digging your hands into the soil. Another harvest season would be upon them before they knew it, and winter would come, but for now things were agreeable.

  Nikolis swung his qe’rath, the small curved blade the Do’shibu used, laying low a patch of grass that was growing too close to the crop. The land here was covered with fields, as far as the eye could see, and they needed constant tending. Though sweat dripped down his bare chest and back, he kept at the work. His pants were now frayed and worn so much that like the Do’shibu’s own, they reached barely below his knees, and his unadorned feet dug into the soil as he walked. High above, his ravens screeched, wheeling about in the air, chasing one another. They seemed to be enjoying this wondrous land as much as he did.

  The birds always made him think of his other raven, the dark-haired woman that now came into view far off in the field. She was the one that had taken him into the lake that night, and then had shared the warmth of her body with him. The Do’shibu regarded the lake water as sacred so much so that they would not enter it with any possession, save for their own skin. They did not often drink from it or use it for planting. Only at the most extreme times did they wade into its depths or draw water from it.