Nikolis fell to the wall and slowly sank to the floor. How was it that no one had ever told him? How could he have blocked it all out? It was impossible. The mystery of Garren Bair, the boy that seemed to inexplicably despise him, was solved. That dark hair, and broad build could mean only one thing. Garren was the son of Grames. The Great Bear was his father. Tears came to his eyes again. He understood Garren all too well now, because the other boy must have felt so many of the same things that he did. Nikolis felt overwhelmed, lost in a sea of despair.
“All of this over a woman.” Erad look to his father with a disgusted look on his face. He shook his head. “To be so disaffected for so long over a whore.”
Nikolis heard the words and saw Erad’s face return to a smirk. In that moment, all he wanted to do was dash that horrific grin from the so-called prince’s face. Pushing up to his feet, Nikolis brought his sword to the fore. Erad put his own blade up in defense, but Nikolis swatted it aside with ease.
“What are you doing—" The price’s words were cut short. He gasped and looked down in horror at the slender blade that was embedded four feet into his chest. Erad had once been a match for him with a blade, but that was long ago. The prince coughed, and wheezed, blood coating his lips. “You swore…to protect…the royal blood.”
Through gritted teeth, Nikolis shot back, “I have.”
“What have you…” Erad stammered. “What…have…you…done…gua–guar…dsss…” Erad fell to the floor, taking Nikolis’ sword with him. The blade still protruded from the price, but he was dead. Nikolis knew it at the very core of his being. Looking once more to the king, he turned away from the grisly scene and fled down the stairs.
Drennen was no longer anywhere to be found, so he made his way to the first room he could find on an outer wall. A window stood in front of him, the dawning world beyond. It was only when footsteps sounded behind him that he turned to see yet another familiar face.
It was Vayne Dangard, his longsword in hand. Nikolis collapsed inside himself, his shoulders slumping. He didn’t have another fight in him, especially not with Vayne. He had always liked the man. He could not fight him. He had nothing left inside.
Vayne stepped forward and held out his sword. Nikolis closed his eyes. He would take what was coming.
When many moments passed, he opened his eyes again and saw that Vayne had turned the pommel of the weapon toward him. Nikolis took the hilt in hand hesitantly, and studied the man, confused.
“You best get away,” said Vayne, simply.
Nikolis turned from him, and went to the large window ahead, climbing out on the ledge. Tears came to his eyes when he thought about what was now to come, what he must do, where he must go. He turned back to Vayne and said, “Be a friend to her.”
Vayne nodded.
Then Nikolis leapt from the window, disappearing into the world beyond.
EPILOGUE
The night was dark, moonless. The fire had died down to dim, red coals, offering but the slightest illumination cast on the stoic faces of the men that sat around the campfire. Bull poked a stick into the coals, stirring them idly, saying nothing, seeming to pay little attention to what was going on around him. Waller scratched at the dark stubble beneath his pointed nose, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, while Gemm sat staring ahead, wide-eyed, watching unseen visions unfold still. Denner hunched his broad shoulders and shook his head. It was clear that something in the telling had struck a chord of remembrance in him.
The man called Blader sat back, staring off into the darkness, saying nothing. There was more to the tale, much more, days of flight and evasion, near capture and death, despondency, and all manner of discouragement and hopelessness. Of odd companions on the road, men thought long gone materializing from the mists like stories of legend, the striking truth of old conspiracies laid bare, and of even the hellish depths of the Fighting Pits of Barrow, but he could not continue. His mouth was dry; the words would not come. There was some relief in having said the words, having told the story, but at the same time a sudden feeling of dread welled up in him. He looked at the faces around him, the faces of men he trusted as much as any, and for the first time in a long time, felt real fear. Not of what they might do, that fear was laid to rest long ago, but of what they might think of him.
It was finally Denner who leaned forward, about to open his mouth and break the silence, when a sudden crash sounded from behind him. The large man turned to see two figures emerge hastily from a copse of bushes. Bright-eyed Sterl led, his mop of sandy hair unkempt, followed closely by Himmer dressed in torn clothing and favoring an injured arm. They had finally returned.
“They’re massing!” said Sterl, perhaps too excited at the prospect. “There’s no doubt!”
“Basteds made me injure me ahm!” Himmer complained, holding up the bandaged appendage.
“Did they see you?” Blader asked, the fear of earlier moments heightening the concern in his voice.
“Nah,” Sterl replied, “they ain’t seen ‘im. Went round fer a closer look s’all. Mashed ‘is paw a’tween some rocks.”
Blader looked to Himmer, who nodded his affirmative to the events. They were safe for now. “But they’re coming?”
“Soon I’d think,” said Sterl. “There’s a mess of ‘um. More’n I ever remember seein’ a’fore. Gatherin’ fer somethin’.” Behind him those around the fire had stood, concerned looks on their faces. All except Bull, who remained sitting, starting into the flames of the fire.
Off in the camp, others had been roused by the commotion. They stood outside tents and lean-tos, holding children, or fingering makeshift weaponry. They were scared, all of them, and they were looking to him for advice. Fatigue, and the telling of the tale, had sapped his strength. But they needed him now; he was all they had.
“Best we get ready then,” the man called Blader said, his voice taking on an air of command. “Douse the fires and set the snares. Waller and Denner, you scout the passes, we need to know when they begin to advance. Report in every two hours. Keep time, we’re counting on you. Himmer and Sterl, you man the eastern rockslide. Be ready in case they come earlier than we expect. The tumble will slow their progress and warn the rest of us.”
Waller and Denner shuffled off without complaint. Sterl seemed disappointed at the assignment, but he was anxious and cocky, and the camp couldn’t have him provoking any action before it needed to happen. The young man took Himmer by the arm and dragged him off toward their post.
“What of me, Blader?” Gemm asked. It seemed he was looking to the older man with renewed respect, almost awe.
“Dash your mind of fanciful thoughts,” he replied, causing the young man’s face to sag a little. “Stay sharp. Lives depend on us. Gather the young and infirm to the back caves. Everyone that can throw a rock, or wield a sharpened stick, must do so. What iron we have goes to the most able men and women, as always. They’ll be on the front lines. Make it happen.”
Gemm lit back up at this assignment, nodding and running off into the camp, stopping at every man, woman, and child he saw. The refugees certainly had vigor. That much was certain. They would need every ounce of it, if what the scouts were saying was true. They had never faced a massing this big, not since he had come to the Last Dell. Something else was going on, something he could not yet figure out. They would need every able-bodied man to defend the camp.
With that thought in mind, he headed over to the newcomer, the young boy that had settled within their midst not so long ago. If the telltale bulge beneath his cloak was indeed a sword, perhaps he knew how to use it. If he were a renegade squire, or the son of a lesser noble, he might have been trained in battle. Another sure-sword on the outer perimeter would be of great benefit to them.
He approached the boy, who instinctively drew his cloak tightly about himself. He couldn’t have seen more than fourteen winters, had a fair complexion and deep, auburn hair. Dark, suspicious eyes looked out as Blader approached. “They call you Ned?” B
lader asked.
“They call you Blader,” the boy responded. He was sharp, no doubt in that, there was an intelligence there. His voice bespoke a learned quality.
“What brings you to our fair camp?” The man called Blader stretched his arms about in mock ceremony.
“That’s my affair,” Ned responded.
The man called Blader hunched down, taking a seat across from him. “There’s a storm on the horizon, my boy. Battle is coming.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I might assume you a spy for the raiders, if I didn’t think you an honorable man.”
Ned puffed up at that. Something he had said made the boy take pride. That was a good sign. Though oddly, every now and then he saw the boy favoring his arm, which was set out a bit from his body. It was almost as if something was squirming beneath his cloak.
“Can you use that sword?”
“I could skewer you, if I chose,” Ned replied. But as the words came, he shifted uncomfortably, and his cloak fell agape. As it did there was a dark flutter, and Blader put his hands up instinctively, to shelter his face. When he removed his hands, there was a dark shape seated on his arms.
Ned cursed under his breath.
It was a large raven that now clawed at Blader’s sleeve. It looked somehow familiar; the black feathers, the set of the beak and the way in which it peered at him. It couldn’t be.
The man called Blader reached out a trembling hand to stroke the feathers.
“Don’t eat him!” Ned said, almost a whine. The crack of his voice betrayed his age, dispersing his shroud of maturity.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Give him to me. Jayjen, come here.”
Blader fell back at those words, strange feelings overtaking him. As Ned leaned forward, his cloak parted again and what was revealed beneath shook him to his core. “Who are you?” he asked.
“You know my name,” the boy replied. “Now, give me the bird. Don’t make me do something I might regret.”
“Who are you?” Blader demanded.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The man called Blader stared on in wonder, his eyes wide, his hands trembling. It didn’t take long for the boy to notice the look, and retreat, trying to ascertain why this man was looking at him so. Then he figured it out, drawing his cloak closed, concealing the sword that was sheathed at his waist. Only the hilt had been visible, but that was all that needed to be seen. Sweeping steel of that design marked only one blade.
“Where did you get that?” Blader demanded. Suddenly Ned looked scared. He felt guilty for that, but he could not stop himself. “Where.”
“From my mother. You cannot have it.”
“Impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“Who are you?”
“Surely you’ve heard of the Bastard of Highkeep?” the boy said, with a scowl, an edge of sarcasm coating his words. The man called Blader had not. “Believe it or not, that is who I am. Harm me, or steal from me, and there will be a price on your head, bastard or no.”
Foolish boy. If I killed him here, none would know, no matter who he is. Not to mention, I already have a price on my head. The man called Blader could only stare. What does all of this mean? It is all so unimaginable.
“Your name,” he prodded.
The boy stood up, and threw his cloak over his shoulder, exposing the hilt of his sword once again. “I am Ned Ryland.”
“Edward,” Nikolis breathed.
“Only my mother calls me that. Allow me to be on my way unharmed, and you will be rewarded. You have my solemn promise.”
Noticing the scene they were making, Blader stood, drew the boy down. “I have no wish to harm you,” he said. When the boy struggled, he added, “Don’t draw attention. I’ve seen that you’re good at that. Don’t make the mistake of bringing curious eyes on you now.”
“What do you want of me?” Ned demanded, as loud as he dared.
“Why are you here?” Blader asked, sitting forward. He knew that the boy was being pulled in by his curiosity and that by those means he might earn his trust.
“You’d laugh if I told you.”
The man called Blader shook his head. “Tell me.”
“I’ve traveled before. I’m traveling now.
“There’s more to it than that.”
Ned gulped. “The castle, well, I’ve always known it wasn’t where I was supposed to be. Not that those there would ever let me forget it. But those walls, holding me in, trapped. I stole away when my mother allowed it, and even then, when she didn’t. She knew how I felt. I don’t think she realized I would be gone so long this time, but she accepted it. For some reason, she was always understanding.”
The man called Blader nodded, enraptured by every word the boy spoke. He knew why she let her son wander, after all, she had felt the same in her youth. “And the blade? Where did you get it?” Anticipation over the answer to that question was as frightening as it was exciting. He could almost imagine what the boy would say, but he could not believe even that imagining.
“My mother gave it to me,” he said with a shrug. “It belonged to my father.”
Even half-expecting it, the man called Blader reeled at the words. Again, he was afraid, though he could not place why, but mixed with this feeling was a sense of surprise and wonder. Unimaginable.
The pair continued their conversation long into the night, as all about them preparations were being made for battle. The threat was close, but it would not come yet. The scouts confirmed this with their continued reports. So, on the pair spoke, and as they talked, the man called Blader slowly allowed himself to reveal things to the boy. They were little things – parts of himself that he had never dared share before, not even around the campfire of earlier.
When the morning came, he woke the boy with a shake and then did something he thought he would never again do. He offered to teach Ned the sword. The boy was hesitant, at first, saying he already knew the blade. It was clear that with the morning sun, renewed suspicion had dawned. Despite that, in the end, he accepted. The two took up their weapons almost immediately and practice began.
The man called Blader felt a sudden rush of desire to impart to the boy everything he knew. It was a burning desire that had to be tempered. Slowly, slowly he must teach him. He could not reveal too much, too quickly. Danger was still about, and the boy was yet young.
“Again,” the man called Blader said, as he and Ned stood on a rocky rise, endless mountains and valleys stretching out below them. “Say it again.”
“I shall bear my sword well and true,” Ned began. “I shall use it for the right of all people.” The boy went through several stances and maneuvers, turning the blade this way and that. Practicing lunges, feints, parries and thrusts. It was cleared he had been taught to use the weapon, but not well enough.
“To protect the innocent,” Ned went on. “To guard the weak. To fight in times of war, when I am called. To protect my brothers and sisters and to serve them.”
With each sentence, the man called Blader had to suppress a grin. “The last…”
“To shelter my brothers and sisters when they are in need, and to never turn my sword against them.” Ned put down his sword, breathing hard. Sweat glistened on his forehead, matting his hair down. He wiped his hand across his brow and then turned to the man called Blader with a puzzled look. “What about the Queen?” he asked. “She is not mentioned in the oaths.”
“The Queen stands for all of those things, my son,” the man called Blader replied with a grin. “More than anyone living.”
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The Last Swordsman Page 40