Bladeborn

by Clayton Schonberger

  Bladeborn stood there for a few moments catching his breath. Blood oozed from his head.

  He muttered and gasped, “By the Blood of the Dragon God! That was no easy task. Infernal thing!” He felt the wounds on his head and spat.

  He looked at the saber, its sword-edge glowing bright green like a glow globe, still clutched in the skeletal hand. On the thing’s hand were two rings.

  He bent the fingers back until they snapped off, and from somewhere in the back of the infirmary the skull laughed again. Bladeborn ignored the sound, looking at the saber and the two rings. They were rare and precious, but badly tarnished. In the pile of bones left over from the apparition’s destruction, Bladeborn found what was perhaps the true prize… a bejeweled scabbard which appeared brand new.

  Turning his attention to the saber, he saw an inscription on it reading “Unto Death.” The green light about the weapon pulsed and began to fade. “What makes the metal weapon glow? Some type of unusual metal!” he thought. Skulls decorated the hilt, grip, and guard, adorning either side of the pommel. The skull-eyes seemed to be tiny emeralds.

  Ignoring the blood still oozing from his head, Bladeborn closely examined the scabbard. The saber fit loosely in the scabbard, which had a flap of perfect animal hide with a metal snap on it. Other flaps on the scabbard made it uniquely adjustable; it was ingeniously constructed and durable. Unlike the saber, the scabbard looked as if it was brand new, adorned with many sets of perfect fingernail-sized rubies. The fence would pay good money for them, perhaps more money than Bladeborn had ever possessed!

  “EEHAHHH!” said the skull in the back of the cavern.

  The scabbard could be worn so that the saber could be quick-drawn from a position behind the back. Under the ceramic coat, shirt, and cloak Bladeborn usually wore, even keen eyes wouldn't spot it.

  He stripped off his shirt and pottery-armor coat right there and strapped on the baldric and belt of the scabbard. He practiced the quick-draw system for a few minutes, and thought he felt a warming sensation where the scabbard’s high-grade leather straps touched his body.

  “EHAHHH!”

  The skull’s chilling cries were persistent! He wished he had smashed it when he had the chance but it was now mixed in with hundreds of others.

  Bladeborn finally had the right adjustment with the scabbard for best combination of comfort, camouflage, and speed. He tore a small hole in the back of his shirt to have the saber’s hilt in easy reach.

  Bladeborn lastly examined the two rings on the boney hand by the light of the saber. The outer band of the sapphire ring said “cold.” Trying on the ring, he found it would only fit on his left smallest finger. The diamond ring was a bit larger and said “energy.” He put that on the left ring finger.

  He decided to explore the rest of the area later. For now, he went back to the abandoned shaft he called home. Before he slept he pried one of the rubies out of its setting on the scabbard and secreted it away.

  The next day the wounds inflicted by the apparition were stinging horribly. Something in the touch of the creature badly infected him. He knew such diseases had treatments, but with all the sickness in the City few could afford them. The finest healers in Fortress City were the Priests and Sisters of Saint Morth, and they only worked for coin.

  Climbing the stairs to the pressurelift that would take him to the Mid-City Temple he stumbled repeatedly. His head oozed blood and a clear liquid steamed down his face and into his eyes.

  People were staring aghast at him. He stepped on the platform pressurelift that would take him to temple level, fearing an enemy would see him. him. The citizens sharing the pressurelift with him exited as quickly as they could. Bladeborn’s vision was blurring in and out of phase, and he leaned against the inner rail of the platform to keep from falling. He was worried that, on his arrival at the Temple, he would find that the Priests would be having a service, or that he wouldn’t be able to find a healer.

  After the pressurelift doors opened on the temple, Bladeborn staggered down the main aisle and saw a cleric of Saint Morth.

  “Help me, Brother!” Bladeborn put the perfect ruby in his palm. “...This is a perfect ruby—you can see its value. Please, good man, make this pain stop!”

  “Do not worry, my son. Brother Grumrig will ease your suffering!”

  “I…battled an undead…last night…” Bladeborn managed to explain. “When I awoke this morning…My head…Arrgh, the PAIN!”

  The healing cleric said, “I, Brother Grumrig, shall help.”

  Brother Grumrig pulled back Bladeborn’s cowl and gently lifted his head. He was shocked by what he saw.

  “Ooze-grubs!” Brother Grumrig declared. He could see there were actual parasites moving under the hairline at the top of Bladeborn’s forehead. “I have seen many wounds in my lifetime, but never such an infection as this. It’s a good thing you came when you did, my son!”

  Brother Grumrig pulled from his robes a vial of sacred water and a little holy book. Two aspiring healers hurried to Brother Grumrig's side.

  “This is a serious case,” Grumrig said. “The ceremony will be performed right now,” he said, “so fetch bandages, a surgeon's kit, incense burners, and a coal brazier with irons.” Bladeborn overheard the Priest called Grumrig confer with two sisters in confidence, “He is the one I told you about, sisters, I am sure! His life MUST be preserved!”

  “Yes, Brother,” the aspiring healers said.

  Then Brother Grumrig got down on his knees beside Bladeborn.

  “Let us pray, my son,” he said to his patient. “You must be strong if I am to save you.” Grumrig chanted a passage from a holy book. Moments later Bladeborn collapsed.

  * * *

  It was hours, or perhaps days, later; Bladeborn was not sure. He awoke on a comfortable cot in a little room where one of the Sisters of Morth sat reading by his side.

  “Well, you're awake!” she said, putting her prayer book away.

  Bladeborn looked around at the brightly lit, well-kept room, more than likely somewhere in the Temple. He reached up to his head and felt the bandages.

  “What happened to me?” Bladeborn said.

  “You had a bad infection but you won’t lose that eye!” the sister replied. “Three days, you been ‘out,’ sleepin’ like a baby. I would have cleaned you up and given you a new shirt, but Brother Grumrig forbade me to do so. He has seen to your care and recovery personally. I saw you when you first arrived. I thought it would take you months to heal from such wounds! But you, young man, are different!”

  He realized that the saber and the scabbard were still strapped to his back—it was very odd. The Priest and Sisters of Morth should have reported him to the Constables, but they didn’t.

  “I've got to get out of here...” Bladeborn said, swinging his feet off the edge of the bed. He looked for his undershirt, laced ceramic chest piece, and cloak. They were laid out on the table nearby, but he didn’t know how he would put them on without the Sister noticing the saber that was strapped to his back.

  “Wait, now young man!” she said, rising to her feet and firmly holding Bladeborn down. “Brother Grumrig comes tonight, and he said he must see you before you leave.”

  Bladeborn begrudgingly lay back down. The saber had been strapped to his back the whole time, but it was not uncomfortable. He felt protective warmth emanating from the scabbard and the belts that held it in place, encircling his torso like no armor could. Lying there, he found his mind reaching into a place where he could feel his wounds closing. All afternoon, Bladeborn stayed in that trance, letting the scabbard keep him on the path of healing power. He realized that the scabbard was a focus of his own healing Essence…He was more than amazed, as he could feel himself getting better…

  Onar had said Bladeborn might have Essence skills such as this. Bladeborn said a prayer to Saint Morth as he lay there, remembering Onar.

  He lost concentration on the healing trance when a Sister gently shook him.

  “Yo
ung man!” the Sister said. “I have your dinner!”

  The food consisted of finer fare that Bladeborn had partaken of since his brief time as a gladiator with Angres. He ate voraciously, and drank deeply of the sweet wine. The two Sisters in the room watched him and whispered to each other.

  After Bladeborn’s evening meal, Brother Grumrig arrived.

  “Hello, my son. You are mostly healed now, it seems.”

  “You are the one who saved me. Brother Grumrig,” Bladeborn said.

  “I have overseen your healing, although you seem to have overcome the worst of your injuries on your own.” Grumrig turned to the Sisters of Morth, “You two may go now.”

  The Sisters of Morth bowed slightly. The one who had been with Bladeborn that afternoon said, “The scratches on his arms have been… healing… while he slept.”

  “That will be all, Sister,” Grumrig said. “Please close the door after yourself.”

  The left, shutting the door quietly.

  Bladeborn looked expectantly at the Priest. “When can I leave, Brother?” Bladeborn asked.

  “Anxious to try out that metal weapon of yours, are you?” said Grumrig.

  “All right,” said Bladeborn, aware that the cleric could report him to the Constables. Bladeborn guessed that he would be asked to do a favor in return for Grumrig’s silence. “What do you want me to do, Brother?”

  “Just listen to a story while I remove your bandages...” Brother Grumrig said. “Suppose there was a young man who was caught by the Guards for robbery. He was locked in a cell for years with a famous teacher, a former Acolyte…One who was going to be the High Priest of Saint Morth in Fortress City. Let’s just say, if you will, there was a bribe paid to the jailor so the two of them could die together…”

  “What?” Bladeborn interrupted. He suspected This Priest referred to his time with Onar. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just relax and listen,” Grumrig went on, slowly unwrapping the bandage. “The young robber was imprisoned in a specific cell with the dying teacher. And suppose that this young man, against all odds, escaped and was trained to fight by one of the greatest warriors in the City… A match that, by everyone’s measure, he had no chance to win… This same young man was marked with a Demon’s signet when he was but a child…”

  “A Demon’s what?” Bladeborn exclaimed with surprise.

  “Yes. Of all people thus marked, this boy survived, and he still bears the faded symbol of power.”

  “Go on, then,” Bladeborn said.

  “Furthermore, if you will, the one I refer to was mothered by the leader of a powerful gang of rogues…until he rejected their criminal ways… Does any of this sound familiar—Bladeborn?”

  “Again, I say…What do you want me to do?” Bladeborn’s eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “Now, listen carefully,” Brother Grumrig went on. “There is a great room on the on the lowest floor of our city. Untouched and forgotten, this room has a pressurelift which goes to the top of the City.”

  “A room on the lowest Floors of Fortress City…” Bladeborn repeated. “Well, in all my travels I know of no such place.”

  “It is not just the room which I am interested in telling you about, young warrior. It is the pressurelift in that room that leads to the City’s highest level,” Grumrig said.

  “The highest level of the City? I have heard of this place. It is the Royal Treasury, is it not?” Bladeborn said.

  “There, the Sword of the Ancients lies in the hands of the long-dead Emperor Eshumé. Just suppose that this pressurelift could be made to work again…”

  “I don’t understand…” Bladeborn began to say.

  Grumrig continued, “The Sword remains encased behind a magic barrier no one has been able to open or crack in sixty years of trying. The Sword, contained almost continually since before King Koss was crowned…is needed by Fortress City.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Bladeborn asked. “The City ‘needs’ the Sword?”

  Brother Grumrig continued, “Upon his coronation, Koss took as his bride Lady Amel who gave birth to the last of his children, Princess Alaxia. As years passed, Koss proved to be a despotic ruler like no other. He openly follows a Demonic force known as Zipzorag, Lord of Nightmares... The same power you were supposed to be given over to as a child…”

  “Why is this happening to me?” Bladeborn exclaimed. “I don’t wish to be a part of all this! For months, I haven’t been able to show my face anywhere in the City! Even those on Beggar’s Row reject me, claiming I have become dirty to them by eating the dead! And you tell me this?”

  “Fortress City is dying, young man,” Grumrig began again, changing the subject, but sounding more serious than ever. “Things here are upside down…The population is disease-ridden, with entire floors unused or devoted to refuse. Nobles have become worshippers of elitism, sterile from their life-prolonging potions. And every day, the numbers of the downtrodden rise. But the worst thing is the turning of common man and rich folk alike from the path of Saint Morth of the Heavens…To the path of the Abyss.”

  Brother Grumrig removed the last bandage and the final cloth from Bladeborn’s eye, “You know there will be less scarring if I treat your face a while longer. But if you must go tonight, I wish you well.”

  Bladeborn blinked as his recently healed eye adjusted to the light. Bladeborn said, “Thank you, Brother. This path you speak of is clear to me... But let me make this clear: I am no pawn in some High Priest's ‘power’ game. Long ago, I swore I would always be alone free of the influence of others. I am my OWN man. I have found people do things for selfish reasons, and often require more than they say in return! How can I be expected to be any different?”

  “You make the CHOICE to be different, Bladeborn,” Brother Grumrig stated. “The choice that will set you apart from other men.”

  Bladeborn protested, “All too often, those who help me end up dead. I am going back to my life—I want NO part of such a scheme!”

  “What kind of life is it that you are a part of, young one?” Grumrig countered. “A life of hiding, lawless living, and hunger? How long until your enemies catch up with you? More than that, how long until the City turns into a place where NO ONE is safe? The City is dying…Strangled by the Demonic force which gathers power every day. We lay on the edge of our destruction, young man…”

  “What can I do to bring change?”

  “When you see an opportunity—seize it! You have powerful allies who want to see you succeed—”

  Bladeborn cut off the cleric, sharply gesturing with his hand, “That's what I thought... You’re talking about this like I have been a part of some plan to help the City—I want nothing to do with it. There are none whom I can trust. One mistake and my enemies will have me. There are people all over the City now who want me dead.”

  Brother Grumrig retorted, “And there are also those who are willing to aid you!”

  Bladeborn raised his voice in anger, “I am only interested in my needs and my life. I am not strong enough to be a part of this!”

  “Aren’t you?” Brother Grumrig calmly looked at the young man, questioning. “Do you realize it used to take a team of trained men your size to destroy the creature that gave you that infection? Eight warriors and two clerics, of my kind, would be lucky to live through a battle with a Skeletal Lord! Yet I have no doubt that is what you faced before you came to me. The question at this point, young one, is do you have any choice but to follow this path?”

  “I'm getting out of here!” Bladeborn got up and struggled into his clothing, as he laced up his ceramic-plated shirt he said, “Your claims are ridiculous, Priest. One man can only do so much in this world.”

  Brother Grumrig rose to his feet and folded his hands. He looked away from Bladeborn, slightly saddened. “Then I am mistaken. You are not the person we seek...”

  “Don't worry about me too much, then,” Bladeborn let a hint of a smile cross the corner of his mouth.

&nb
sp; The slight smile on the young warrior’s face gave Brother Grumrig a great deal of hope. “Wait, you'll need your boots and cloak!” Grumrig rose. Grumrig cleared his throat, saying, “I'll have one of the Sisters show you out.”

  “Good.” Bladeborn said. “Farewell, Brother Grumrig. We won’t cross paths again.”

  “Doubtless,” Brother Grumrig huffed. “If there's nothing else, I'll go back to my prayers, young one.”

  Bladeborn was shown out and didn’t feel at home till he was again on the lower floors. Had the “Skeletal Lord” put him into some sort of dream?

  Chapter 11: Thustral the Damned

  Bladeborn was determined to find out what the Skeletal Lord had been defending. The laughing skull was still in the back of the morgue, making an otherworldly racket. Down the bone-strewn hallway of the old morgue red light faintly emanated. He found a pile of dust-coated junk blocking the door to the room where the light came from. With some effort, he moved the junk aside. Saber in hand, he pulled open the remains of a broken door and entered.

  The room beyond was lit by ancient lamps which still glowed red with light. A small arena-like pit in the center of the room had indecipherable writing etched into its interior walls. Bare, broken bones were scattered across the chamber’s floor, and both the pit and the chamber floor were strewn with some coin and trinkets. Bladeborn was not about to let the valuables go to waste, so he began to lift the coin and incidentals into his pockets.

  He cautiously smashed several small Rat-bugs under the heels of his sandals. To be stung by one was a painful way to die. Bladeborn sensed that there were two more running around in the back—big ones. Still holding his saber, he grabbed a table leg and threw it where he could hear them. Two grandfather Rat-bugs came skittering toward him on their six insect legs.