Blackest Knights

by Phipps, C. T.

  Lysandra held the stone up to look and saw the darkness wafting from him like smoke.

  “You! You did it,” she gasped. “You took my family away, you even killed my cat!”

  Mitacarnon’ face, once a mask of stone, curled into a sinister smile. “You’ve discovered the Interpreter and what it does. It is a useful tool. I was right to plan this.”

  “If you desire it, give me back my family.”

  “I can’t. I sold them into slavery. They’re down the Furno by now, to Tarshish or Gad.” Mitacarnon laughed and drew his sword beckoning to her. “Give me The Interpreter.”

  “No. I need it to find them.”

  “Fool girl! Give it or die,” he said, almost surprised at her resolve.

  “You mean to kill me anyway.”

  His lips curled. “Yes.”

  They stood facing one another, at impasse.

  Then a gasp gave away Paanchi’s attack. He tackled Mitacarnon from behind, knocking him forward but not out of the fight. The bigger man turned, cutting Paanchi across the ribs with his sword. Wheeling back to Lysandra, he blocked her thrown knife.

  “You can’t beat me,” he said, kicking Paanchi while staring evilly at Lysandra.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “I wanted to see what you could do. I’ve heard so many tales sung of your cleverness. I didn’t believe them.”

  “Do you now?”

  “No. Queen of Thieves, I don’t.”

  The magical Interpreter stone was still in her hand. She saw through the gift of the gaze what she needed to do. “Alright, you can have the stone.”

  “No,” muttered Paanchi weakly.

  Mitacarnon cocked a suspicious eyebrow at her surrender. “Keep your hands where I can see them. No hidden daggers or tricks.”

  “You see my hands,” she cooed, further disrupting Mitacarnon’ attention.

  Mitacarnon stepped closer and reached for the stone. She flung it at his face. It grazed his temple and landed on the ground beside Paanchi. In the moment of his pain, surprise, and hesitation, he lowered his sword and Lysandra took his hand in a wrist lock, forcing him to lose his grip on the blade. She wrenched his arm and forced him inside the tower. Slamming the mammoth door shut, she breathed and waited. The lock was flipped, and Mitacarnon was sealed inside.

  Muffled poundings availed nothing, and he went silent.

  Lysandra picked up The Interpreter then helped Paanchi stand. “You alright?”

  “I think so. The cut is not deep.”

  Lysandra studied the stone then looked to Paanchi. In her eyes shone a new resolve. “Good. Let’s wake the town to their prisoner inside the tower and be away. The stone tells me the children are in Tarshish. We should find them in a week and may the devils take their captors,” said Lysandra, brandishing Mitacarnon’s sword in one hand, while holding the Interpreter in the other.

  Red

  By M. L. Spencer

  The man and the boy could have been mistaken for father and son. They had the same tanned-leather complexion and careless slouch, and both wore matching scowls of concentration on their faces. Especially when they were together—as they were now—knee-deep in the channels that etched the mud flats like winding spiders’ veins. The boy stood with both hands bracing an angled stake that had been driven into the channel’s bottom. The man knelt beside him in the frigid water, lacing slats through an old wattle fence with all the patient skill of a basket weaver. The fence spanned the channel, forming the seaward end of a weir-trap designed to catch fish on their way upstream.

  The man gave the fence a sharp tug, causing the wooden stake to slip in the boy’s grasp. He let go with a grunt and raised his hand up before his face, staring at a red drop of blood already collecting on his palm. The droplet swelled, quivered there for a moment, before releasing to plop into the water of the channel. The blood formed a small ring on the water’s surface that was soon borne away by the current. Another droplet fell, quickly absorbed by the turbid water. The boy clutched his wrist, staring down at his hand with an intense non-expression on his face.

  “We all bleed red, boy,” the man said without looking up from his work. He tied off the end of the wattle fence with a length of hemp twine, then bit the twine through with his teeth. He stood, hands on his hips, and looked up at the encroaching layers of fog that descended over the ocean. The boy’s stare followed his gaze as the shadow of the fog rolled over them. The afternoon chilled as if the warmth of the air had been sucked out to sea with the receding tide. The man scratched his head, glanced down at the weir trap, then returned his attention to the fog. The boy stared down at the gash on his hand. Another drop of blood plopped into the water.

  Red.

  But not all blood was red, the boy knew. At least, not according to Edrin of Starns. The bard had stood before the village gathering the night before. The haunting tones of his seven-string instrument had filled the air, his tenor voice crooning the forbidden strains of forgotten songs, unknown to even the eldest. Ballads of the ancestors: ancient men who had bled brown from their veins instead of red. Men whose courage had never faltered, whose strength had never waned. Not until their chocolate blood had faded to red. Only then had they failed, their line and greatness diluted.

  The boy’s hand started to throb as the salt water worked its way into the wound. He dropped his arm to his side, shivering in the shadow of the ocean fog. The man tapped him twice on the shoulder and then waded back in the direction of the bank, leaving the weir behind to do its work. The boy followed, his bare feet sinking into the fine sediments of the channel. The smell of the ocean thickened the air, the sound of waves breaking against an offshore reef a consistent, droning refrain. The man and boy picked their way across the runnels that drained the low-tide flats, at last gaining the footpath that led up the beach into the village of Anai.

  The smell of smoke, cloves, and vinegar pervaded the air. Few people were scattered about the dilapidated huts and those that were seemed indifferent to their passage. Most were gaunt women and sickly children, all but the very youngest toiling at the unending labor that was the hallmark of life in a seaside hamlet. A girl sitting by the door of a leaning hovel looked up from her net-mending and flashed a fleeting smile at the boy. Her sand-colored hair lifted in the breeze, haloing her face. Her silvery eyes were striking against the honey-bronze complexion of her skin.

  Tessa. Her blood is red, too.

  The boy raised his gashed hand at his sister—an acknowledgement—then turned his gaze back to the man who walked ahead of him in the place of his father. Kagen had, in the tradition of the Vards, married his brother’s widow. As was his duty, Kagen had taken the family of his brother under his roof and claimed them as his own. The boy liked his uncle well enough; Kagen was a stern man, good with net and fish knife, uncomplaining and uncompromising. He was “of the earth,” as the saying went. And, like the earth, he’d been weathered by the sea’s enduring tyranny. He walked with shoulders slumped, his face resolute.

  The sound of commotion captured the boy’s attention. It came from the thicket of trees above the salt flats, a distant and swelling thunder. He flashed a concerned glance at his uncle, who stopped and raised his hand, head cocked as if listening. A frown of concern darkened his features.

  “Go to your sister, Tash.”

  The boy nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the path ahead as he jogged up the steps to where his sister sat, the net forgotten in her lap. Her wide eyes tracked his motion. Below them, their uncle stood his ground, drawing his boning knife from its sheath.

  From out of the trees spilled a charging band of mounted soldiers. Their horses sprinted toward them across the heathered meadow, halting only when they reached the sandy center of the hamlet. Seabirds scattered out of their path with startled cries, squawking as they took to the air. Their horses shifted and snorted, nostrils distended, lathered flanks heaving. The men on their backs were Imperial soldiers armored in red brigantine that gleamed as if po
lished. Black and red standards flew over their heads, rippled by the offshore breeze.

  Tash clutched his sister’s hand as she rose to stand beside him. Below, their uncle stood his ground, boning knife in hand, staring into the helmed face of an Imperial officer who glared down at him from the back of a war horse.

  The soldiers dismounted, striding forward to ring Kagen, their eyes roving over the crowd of frightened villagers gathered ’round. The captain reached up and unfastened his helm, releasing a spill of sweat-dampened hair covered by a skullcap. He hung his helm from his saddle’s horn, then dismounted. His narrow gaze travelled over the sparse crowd, at last coming to rest on the tattered fisherman who blocked his path. Kagen sheathed his blade, taking his time about it, and tucked it back into his belt. Then he looked up to meet the officer’s cold stare.

  Tash felt his sister’s fingers tighten on his own. He squeezed back, his attention gripped by the scene below. He watched as the glare of the soldier hardened, then at last detached from Kagan. The captain turned, addressing the terrified villagers.

  “Where’s the bard?” he asked, glancing from face to face.

  Only silence answered his question. Women drew their children protectively behind their skirts. Men shifted and glanced at each other with nervous eyes.

  Tash heard a door opening and turned to find his mother emerging from their hut to stand behind them. The last of the color drained from her pale face as she took in the scene below, of her husband confronting a contingent of Imperial soldiers. The boy felt his mother’s trembling hand clutch his shoulder. Below, only the nervous shifting of horses and the cries of seabirds disturbed the uneasy quiet of the hamlet.

  The officer raised his voice. “Word has it that a bard was here last night reciting the Ballad of Lawkis in your longhouse.”

  Gazes shifted to the ground. The quiet extended, tension compressing the air until it was almost too thick to breathe. The captain’s gaze swept over the crowd, coming to rest on Tessa.

  “Tash,” his sister whimpered. She bit her bottom lip, her eyes moistened by fear. Her trembling fingers squeezed his hand painfully.

  The officer stalked forward, feet booming on the planks as he mounted the steps toward them. Panicked, Tash stepped forward to block the soldier’s advance. He was vaguely aware of his uncle throwing himself at the captain, only to be dragged to the ground by a band of armored men. A steel-gloved hand swept out, striking Tash in the head and hurling him sideways to the ground. He rolled over, rocking in pain, his hands clutched around his head as the world darkened. A soldier wrenched him to his feet and held him pinned against the brigantine skirt that guarded his thighs. The boy thrashed, beating at the soldier with his fists.

  Tessa screamed piercingly. The captain snatched her by the arm and dragged her after him down the steps. There, he caught her by the hair and wrenched her head back, pressing a dagger against her throat. Their mother fell to her knees with a mortal howl. Sobbing, she crawled forward, reaching a hand out toward her children.

  “Stop.”

  Tash ceased his squirming, looking up to see a man threading his way through a clot of gaping villagers. The man stopped in front of the captain, hands raised, and nodded at the soldier.

  “I’m the bard.”

  There was no trace of fear in his voice. He was a man of middle years, who wore a faded shoulder-cape over a threadbare shirt and baggy pants. The embroidery on the cuffs might once have been fine but was now tattered and frayed. He had a look on his face that spoke of weary resignation and long-abandoned pride.

  The captain shoved Tessa to the dirt. She curled up in a ball and laid there, shaking and sobbing. Kaden, held restrained by three soldiers, let out a bellow of outrage.

  The captain wiped the sweat from his brow, then turned his attention to the bard. “What is your name?”

  The bard kept his hands raised. “Edrin. Edrin of Starns.”

  The officer cracked a small, arrogant smirk. “Edrin of Starns. Last night you were witnessed performing a proscribed ballad before a gathered crowd.”

  The bard shifted uneasily. “I apologize, good sir, if I committed any type of misdeed. I merely sang a song.”

  “Captain,” the officer corrected him in a menacing tone. He took a step forward. “You sang a forbidden song in a forbidden tongue before a forbidden gathering.”

  The bard swallowed. “Then I apologize, Captain. I meant no offense.”

  Slowly and deliberately, the soldier moved forward until he was but a nose-length from the bard’s face. The surrounding crowd had gone rigid and silent. Tash could hear the sound of his own breath like a gale in his ears.

  Voice low and threatening, the captain said, “I don’t think you take my meaning. You willfully defied Imperial Law. The penalty for which is death.”

  The bard looked down, his hands still raised. Then his eyes shot up in defiance. “I sang a ballad. That’s all. My people have been cowed by your ‘Imperial Law’ for too many years. We are starting to lose the memory of our ancestors. For generations, it has been the duty of bards to keep that memory alive. My duty. I exist to sing my songs and remind my people of the greatness that once was.” He spat on the ground. “So, go fuck yourself.”

  The captain looked down at the glob of spittle that stained the ground. “You like to sing?”

  “I do.”

  The officer turned away, glancing out over the surrounding crowd. “This man likes to sing. So, let him sing.”

  He whirled, swiping out with his dagger and wrenching the blade across the front of the bard’s shirt. Edrin of Starns doubled over with a cry, clutching his middle as his intestines spilled wetly through his hands, slithering to the ground. He fell forward on top of them, screaming in agony as he clawed at his guts, trying to rake them back inside.

  “He sings well, doesn’t he?” the captain smirked.

  He struck out with a steel-toed boot, knocking the screaming bard the rest of the way to the ground. He kicked the man’s head then started stomping on it, over and over, grunting as he put all his weight and effort into the blows. He stopped only when the bard’s head caved in, reduced to a bloody, flattened pulp. The captain dragged his boots through the dirt, one at a time, wiping off the gore with an expression of distaste.

  He turned and announced to the gathered crowd, “You are all aware of the law. And you’re all in violation of it. This man wouldn’t have sung a note if he didn’t have an audience. By the order of Emperor Mirak IV, I declare the inhabitants of this village traitors to the Empire.”

  Turning back to his soldiers, he directed, “Burn it down.”

  The crowd fled with cries of horror but were prevented from escaping by more soldiers who surged forward from behind. Taking advantage of the commotion, Tash rushed out into the road and grabbed his sister by the arm, pulling her up the stairs and into the hut as their mother followed. She slammed the door shut and barred it, making dust rain from the ceiling. The shadows of the room encased them, the only light coming from cracks between boards. Through the slatted windows, he could hear the terrified screams of the villagers. Their mother scooped Tess up in her arms, clutching her as she sobbed into the girl’s hair.

  Tash glanced around for anything he could use to defend them. On a table against the far wall, he saw his mother’s set of knives. He lunged for them, grasping one just as the door of the hut jolted, its frame splitting. Another impact flung shards of wood at them, then the door burst open. Imperial soldiers spilled into the room—three of them—weapons drawn.

  Gathering his courage, Tash leaped in front of his mother and Tess. He stood his ground, wielding the rusted knife, his arm shaking in fear. He didn’t know what else to do. There was nothing else to do. The first soldier advanced toward him, sword held at ready. Beneath the shadows of his helm, the man’s thin lips drew into a scornful grin. Why is he smiling? Tash swallowed, raising his thin blade. Why is he just standing there?

  The man lashed out with his boot. The at
tack was so swift that Tash didn’t have time to react. All he managed was a cry, then the knife flew from his grip as he fell to the floor. The soldiers poured over him, their feet kicking him in the ribs as they fought to subdue his mother and Tess. A scream pierced the room, followed by a high-pitched shriek. The hut trembled with the sounds of scuffling boots and hammering fists.

  A vambraced arm yanked Tash off the floor. His gaze fought through streaked patterns of light and shadow coming in through the window slats, at last glimpsing his mother lying face-down on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out from under her. Tash beat his fists against the steel cuirass of the soldier dragging him from the hut, but all he succeeded in doing was making a racket. The man moved like an iron golem, his grip indomitable. He never lost a stride as he hauled Tash out into the white glare of sunlight and flung him down in the dirt.

  Tash scrambled to raise himself off the chalky ground but was pinned to the earth by a boot driven into his back. The awful pressure of it made breathing almost impossible. He lay there, blinking, gasping for air, as his eyes tried to make sense of the madness that surrounded him. Everywhere he looked, villagers—people he knew—lay sprawled on the ground, dead or dying. Many were women. Children. Blood pooled in the sand, leaked from the mounded corpses of his kinsmen. A shiver ran through him as he stared at a thin trickle of blood winding through the dirt toward his hand.

  Red.

  A group of soldiers had collected the remaining men of the village in a small cluster to the far side of a burning hut. There, they were made to kneel with their hands behind their heads, guards hovering over them with crossbows raised. On the other side of the road, women and children were being loaded into wagons. There were a few young boys amongst their number; none more than eight or nine. The older boys all knelt on the ground in the cluster of men. Tash’s eyes strayed toward the luckless bard, who lay in a pile of his own entrails, head crushed into something unrecognizable as human.

  The weight of the boot lifted off his back. Tash gasped in a gulp of air as he was hauled to his feet. Before he could react, he was being shoved toward the burning hut. Trembling, Tash dropped to the ground beside his uncle, who knelt with his fingers laced behind his head, blood leaking down his face from a wound in his scalp. Kagen’s lips were drawn back in a snarl, his teeth bared like a dog’s, his eyes locked on something across the street.