Bladeborn

by Clayton Schonberger

  “No,” Bladeborn said, firmly. “I am my own man.”

  “Okay for you,” the Fire Tongue boy said sharply, obviously angry. “I hope that you can continue to get away with the goods. See you in the four directions. Be careful.”

  Bladeborn ignored the apparent threat from the Fire Tongue and hurried away, making sure he wasn’t followed.

  Later that morning, at the Shopkeeper’s back door, Bladeborn placed the expensive jar of Liquid Sweet in a clear spot on the little porch. He knocked on the door and waited, hidden nearby, to see that the Shopkeeper found it and was happy.

  However, it was the Shopkeeper’s wife who found Bladeborn’s gift. She looked around, and the shrugged. While standing on the rear stoop of the shop, she wordlessly opened the brand-new jar and ate all the Liquid Sweet. She tossed the empty container in a heap of rubbish, and then went back in the shop and locked the door.

  Denied the chance to repay a good deed with an act of kindness, Lone Shoulders was frustrated. His best stuff was gone, and he could think of no way to show his gratitude to the Shopkeeper. He went to the place where he had kept all his collection and sat down to think. He still had to do something for the old Shopkeeper—and somehow, he had to get even with Roccar, Whistler, and Scar.

  Although the marks lasted a long time, Lone Shoulders healed from Roccar’s beating. In the market plaza, he came across Claw Girl and her gang, but they did not appear to be aggressive toward him, so he let them approach. To his surprise, Claw Girl spoke to him.

  “Hey, Lone Shoulders…” she said. “I heard that you were nearly beat to death last week. You still look pretty cut up. You better be careful, or you gonna end up dead.”

  “What’s it to you, Claw Girl?” Bladeborn shot back. He had never known Claw Girl to be anything more than a rival for food. But now, he felt something different from her. Somehow, she was being—nicer. It was odd, because he wanted to be nice to her also.

  “I’m gonna get even with Roccar, Whistler, and Scar someday…” Bladeborn stated. “They had better watch out!”

  “Really?” Claw Girl said. She seemed impressed with his bravado, and Bladeborn liked that. But there was something else that she wasn’t saying.

  “Yes, they will get theirs,” Bladeborn affirmed. “I know they are after me. I know they are Hazords now… Still, some time they will look up and I’ll pound them. All of them.”

  “You know nothing, Lone Shoulders,” Claw Girl said definitively. “Roccar and his boys had some trouble on floor fifty-two, trying to rob some apartment.”

  “What?” Bladeborn was aghast. “What were they doing up there?”

  Claw girl thoughtfully played with her fingertips for a moment, and then said, “I heard it was a mission Leftee sent Roccar on… I’ll bet Leftee knew they would bungle it… You know Roccar—he and his bunch was always more of a muscle-gang than a heist-gang. It was all over by the time the Shaft Police arrived.”

  “Was?” Bladeborn asked, now interested. “What do you mean by that? What did the Shaft Police do?”

  Claw Girl waited dramatically, which annoyed Bladeborn. But he knew a bit about her now. It was her personality—the way she acted. Although he felt uncomfortable with the silence, he was patient, hoping she would spill the rest of her story.

  Claw Girl smiled, seemingly at nothing, and then looked Bladeborn in the eye, whispering darkly, “It’s the truth, Lone Shoulders… Roccar and the others were caught! The Shaft Police killed Scar and Whistler right there at the scene.” Claw Girl let this sink in, and then she said, “But the dead boys are the lucky ones. The Shaft police turned Roccar over to the Guards, and they took him to the dungeons!”

  Bladeborn knew the dungeons meant slow starvation—or worse, even torture. Even after all the hurt Roccar had done, Bladeborn shuddered—but only a little. He was relieved that he wouldn’t have to avoid Roccar anymore. But it hadn’t happened the way he intended.

  Claw Girl said, “I’ll bet you’re really happy now. Ain’t you, Lone Shoulders?”

  “Not really,” Bladeborn answered. “It’s like the people who worship Saint Morth say… In Fortress City, the streets are square.”

  “Yes, they are,” Claw Girl agreed. “Both Leftee, and your step-mom Agatha, knew Roccar was bad news. Finally, they got what was coming.”

  Bladeborn wondered how Claw-Girl knew about his relation to Agatha…Who had told her? It was the most Claw Girl, or anyone for that matter, had spoken with Bladeborn in a long time.

  Claw Girl said, “So, what are you going to do now?”

  “I have…an idea.” Bladeborn said cryptically, with a smile at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t know what he wanted to do now that his immediate goal was taken care of, but he bluffed as though he did.

  This seemed to annoy Claw Girl. She cursed under her breath. Then, inexplicably, she hissed like a wall-roach at him, “You still know nothing, Lone Shoulders!” She turned and left, her gang laughing and trailing after her.

  Bladeborn wasn’t sure what she had meant. He had memorized many great hiding places, was an excellent fighter, and could get by just fine, all on his own. What else was there to know?

  On a day when the upper market was bustling with activity, Bladeborn cased several stores for one to rob. He hoped that he could get away with the goods and blend into the crush of people all in a moment and then deliver what he stole as a gift for the man who had saved him from death after last week’s beating.

  With careful consideration, Bladeborn went into Guild Master Arbshak’s shop on level twenty-eight where expensive quilts were sold. He was going to steal one of the quilts, and then hand it to the Shopkeeper himself.

  When Bladeborn saw that Arbshak and his assistant were helping several real customers, he tried to escape with the goods before being noticed, grabbing a medium-sized quilt from a shelf near the door. He dashed toward the exit, but he was spotted.

  Arbshak shouted, “Stop! Thief!”

  Just as he ran into the street, a member of the City Guard snagged the young man and got him in a choke-hold.

  “I saw you go in there, little nip-crawler! Did you pay for that or is this robbery?”

  Bladeborn desperately tried to wriggle out of the Guard’s grip. The quilt fell to the ground as Arbshak came out of the store.

  Guild Master Arbshak picked the blanket up, “This will have to be washed now! I hope you lock him up and throw away the key!”

  The Guard said. “This one is far too bold to be on the streets! I promise, suitable punishment awaits him!”

  “Make sure of it!” Arbshak demanded, turning theatrically and stomping back into his store. The Guard began to haul Bladeborn off to his fate.

  Bladeborn kept struggling, so the large Guard drew his ceramic knife. He put it to Bladeborn’s throat to help keep control of Bladeborn.

  “Hold still, vermin!” the Guard said. “Look out,” the hefty Guard said, dragging Bladeborn through the busy streets. People turned and stared, surprised that the boy the Guard was such a handful, surprised at the disruption.

  “Move, all of ya! I caught a thief!” The Guard pushed through the crowds on the way to the station. The point of his ceramic knife drew a little blood as the big Guard held it at Lone Shoulder’s throat. Another Guard, a sergeant, joined the first along the way.

  “You got a live one there!” the sergeant declared.

  “Caught ‘him stealing a quilt from Guild Master Arbshak’s fine store,” the big Guard said.

  The sergeant said, “I’ve seen this one around before! We’ll make an example of him.”

  “What he tried to steal was worth a lot of money,” the big Guard said. “It’s to the dungeons with this one!”

  Bladeborn’s worst fear was coming to pass.

  Chapter 6: The Dungeons

  They held Bladeborn in restraints at the local guardhouse on floor twenty-five. The Guard Sergeant said, “What’s your name, robber, and where do you live?”

  “Eat dirt,�
�� Bladeborn said defiantly, eyes downcast.

  The Guard Sergeant slapped Bladeborn across the face, nearly breaking his jaw. “I’m gonna ask again,” the Sergeant said. “What’s your name and where do you live?”

  “I am called Lone Shoulders,” their prisoner answered, no longer feeling so sassy.

  “Lone Shoulders, you say? Is that your real name?” the Guard Sergeant said.

  “Bladeborn,” he said. “That’s my real name.” He thought about the one thing that might save him…Agatha. He knew that Agatha had an arrangement with some of the Guards. He had turned his back on the woman several times, but there might be a way to escape the dungeons if she got involved. “There is a woman—she adopted me, and she’ll pay to get me out… Agatha… She—”

  Bladeborn saw the two Guards bristle at the mention of her name.

  “So, you’re one of Agatha’s little wart-dogs, are you?”

  “She is my mother!” Bladeborn said, his heart racing. “Just ask her! She can get me out of this! …She’ll pay for the blanket!”

  “Oh, she’s your mother now, is it?” the Guard Sergeant said. The hefty Guard and the Sergeant laughed.

  “Agatha thinks she’s pretty smart,” the Sergeant said. “Well, she’s not gonna be around much longer. Constable Bluelock will see to that.”

  Bladeborn’s eyes got wide with worry. Although she he hadn’t spoken with her for years, he was concerned that something might happen to Agatha and possibly the Enclave.

  Seeing the understanding of Agatha’s situation come over his face, the Sergeant said, “That’s right, kid… Agatha’s days are numbered. But that don’t matter to you. You are already a goner.”

  And with that, they hit Bladeborn with a truncheon across the legs. Fighting back the pain with clenched teeth, Bladeborn said defiantly, “You guys are pretty tough when someone is tied to a chair.”

  This infuriated the Sergeant. He punched the boy in the ribs several times so hard it fractured bones. “So, you wanna’ find out how tough? Is that it?” He hit Bladeborn in the face until both of his eyes were swollen shut.

  Done working the boy over, the Guards dragged him down through the streets toward the entrance to the prison in the basement of the city.

  Holding the arms of Bladeborn, the two Guards passed through a city square. Although his vision was blurry and his head woozy, Bladeborn thought he saw Claw Girl and Fire Tongue with their gangs watching him being taken to prison.

  “Is that…Lone Shoulders?” Bladeborn heard Fire Tongue wonder aloud.

  “Oh, no...!” Claw Girl said, as though her heart was wrenched. “They…finally got him…”

  “He’s done for…” Fire Tongue stated.

  A little while later, a jailor spent some time arguing with the Sergeant about a bribe that was paid relating to Bladeborn. He had a ray of hope—maybe Agatha was getting him out!

  Although he was in a lot of pain from the beating he received, Bladeborn made out a few of the words the guards exchanged with the jailor.

  “Oh, no,” the jailor assured the Guards. “It wasn’t no one from Agatha’s gang that paid this here money… It was an interfering Priest of Morth.”

  “So, we got to let the kid go?” the Sergeant demanded in disbelief. “Even though he is one of the Enclave?”

  “Naww,” the jailor belched. “I told the Priest we wasn’t never gonna’ let the kid go! I argued with that Priest a long time. So finally, he says, put him in this one cell with the ‘old guy,’ Prisoner 75. Then he paid the money and left. Prisoner 75 has been here a long time, so I figured, why not?”

  “What’s a Priest so interested in this kid for?” the big Guard asked.

  “I wondered that too,” the jailor said. “The Priest said it was Church business. I don’t wanna’ mess with Church business.”

  “So, then you’re gonna put two of them in together?” the hefty Guard asked.

  The jailer took a swig of his liquor and replied, “It don’t matter. Might as well throw the kid in there together. Neither of them’s ever gonna’ breathe free air again… Now, I don’t like goin’ down inta that part of the dungeons. Undead and tentaslimes go around there. But like I said, it’s the church.”

  The Sergeant said, I’ll go with ya for a share of the money.”

  “Sounds good,” the jailor said. “Lemme find that old key…”

  The jailor took a rusty key off the board, then with the Sergeant and another City Watchman, Bladeborn was dragged out of the central room. “…don’t matter where we put ‘em… they ain’t never getting free… more than likely, they’ll get eaten!”

  After all the violence done to Bladeborn in the past week, he had no fight left in him. Down many stairs, around several corners and through puddles of standing water, they took Bladeborn into the deepest of cells. The jailor had to fight with the lock to get the rusty iron key to turn. After several lunges at the door with his shoulder, the jailor burst through a crust of condensed lime and salt to open it up.

  Bladeborn heard an old man’s voice from inside the cell, “You have come to free me?”

  The Sergeant pushed the old man away, onto his backside, “Move!” The Sergeant demanded.

  The jailor and the other Watchman threw Bladeborn in with the old man and the door was slammed; then Bladeborn heard a key locking the cell once more.

  “The old man screamed, “NO! I’m supposed to be let out! Don’t leave! Please! Don’ leave me….”

  The man cried a minute and Bladeborn laid there, listening to him, unable to move due to his injuries. Suddenly, the old man arose.

  Laughing hysterically, the emaciated old man began to dance a wobbly, forlorn jig by the light of pale glow-globes in the cell. Bladeborn saw the whole thing, and didn’t know what to think.

  The old man cavorted over to the doorway where Bladeborn’s broken body lay and bent down to get a close look at his new cellmate. With his scraggly, dirty-white beard and red eyes inches away from Bladeborn’s face, the man who was called prisoner 75 hissed, “Who will be the first to eat whom?”

  The old man then went back to dancing and signing a nonsense song. Through his swollen, bloodshot eyes, Bladeborn watched the madman’s jig go on, between the pillars in the back of the cell, and into some water. Finally, the old lunatic sat down and cried. Bladeborn wanted to look for a way out, but he didn’t have the strength, and he began lapsing in and out of consciousness.

  Chapter 7: Onar the Acolyte

  Bladeborn slowly awoke, lying in dried blood. Every movement he made caused him pain.

  Looking about, he saw the cell’s dim greenish light came from weak glow-globes caked with the moldy dirt of time. Prisoner 75 was down by the water in the back of the cell. By watching quietly, Bladeborn learned of the man’s secret to survival. The old man was fishing with a white net, apparently woven from hair. Bladeborn saw the man use the white net to catch worm-fish from the pool.

  In a hoarse voice, through his parched lips, Bladeborn called to the old man. “Help me! Please! Old man!”

  Prisoner 75 ignored him. Weak and hungry, Bladeborn lacked the strength to struggle, and the old man shared nothing.

  Bladeborn grew weaker still that day. The old man stayed by the water. Bladeborn knew he would die…what help could the crazy old man be?

  Bladeborn woke up again, and found the old man was willing to share a few salty worm-fish with him.

  Despite the bit of kindness, Bladeborn said nothing. He could think of little besides the constant severe pain of his split ribs and other injuries.

  “I am sorry for being cruel the last two days.” The old man explained. “I have been here a long time.”

  Bladeborn nodded and tried to smile and acknowledge the old man’s kindness, but the slightest movement caused him pain.

  “Be still,” the old man said. “Focus on healing. Rest and recover.”

  Bladeborn slept after eating and drinking. When he next awoke, the old man had more fish. The man had also
been scratching small symbols in the moldy tiles on the walls of the cell.

  The old man said reverently, “I am no mere prisoner, young man…Before they locked me in here I was figure of some merit, an Acolyte of Saint Morth.”

  Bladeborn listened and ate the fish. He could barely focus on what the Acolyte was saying. Simply breathing was hard.

  Hours may have passed, or days. The dim glow-globes in the cell gave off no indication of day and night. As he stirred into consciousness, Bladeborn saw the old man sitting nearby.

  “I won’t be false with you, young man,” the Acolyte said. “Your condition is serious. I was selfish not to understand from the first how important it is that I care for and watch over you—for us both. I will do everything I can to save your life…”

  “I don’t know what an Acolyte is, and I know little of the gods,” Bladeborn managed to say, coughing painfully. “I know Saint Morth promises us Heaven, but I don’t believe in it.”

  “Your lack of belief makes things more difficult,” the old Acolyte said. “Yet still, there is this…Among other things, I did an aura reading of you as best I could in these horrid conditions. I wondered, was there a reason that Saint Morth caged us together, or was it all mere chance? Well, young man the answer is interesting. You are more than you appear to be. I may be almost crazy but I know what I know. A long life awaits you, at the end of your journey lies the sun.”

  “What is the sun?” Bladeborn asked, barely able to speak. “You tell my fortune in riddles.”

  “Young man,” the Acolyte said reverently, “Your spirit…is a very OLD spirit. It gives you pure, magical Essence—the kind only found in the mightiest of Wizards, although I know you are not a Wizard.”

  He saw that the symbol the old man had scratched into the wall looked faintly like the tattoo he had on his chest.