Bladesorrow (The Agarsfar Saga Book 1)

by D. T. Kane

  “I’ve already sent a sentinel for our mounts. Come. We mustn’t delay.” He looked to Ferrin, gave him a slight frown, but said no more and moved towards the town gate. Two sentinels were already yanking at the ropes that worked the system of pulleys used to open it.

  “Interesting,” Ferrin said once her father was out of earshot. “Can’t wait for you to tell me all about this later.”

  “What makes you think I’ll tell you anything? This might be important business I have to keep to myself.”

  He scoffed at that and she couldn’t suppress a smile. It wasn’t that she didn’t have other friends. But being daughter of the town master caused most to tread carefully around her. Others around her age rarely said anything of substance to her, for fear they might say something wrong that would make its way to father’s ears. She’d never do that, tattle to father. But the wall between her and the other students was there all the same.

  Ferrin, on the other hand, didn’t have that problem at all. If anything, his was the exact opposite—he had absolutely no filter. But it also meant he was the only one her age in Ral Mok that she felt truly free to speak to of anything. And he often had good advice as well. Of course she’d speak to him of whatever she learned of these visitors.

  Then a thought struck her.

  “Do you want to come along?” She instantly regretted how foolish it sounded. Why would Ferrin have any interest in coming? The formalities of welcoming visitors were tiring, something she knew Ferrin understood all too well, what with all the times she complained of it to him. She hoped he would interpret the reddening of her cheeks as leftover excitement from the confrontation with Jeremyck.

  Still, just for a moment, she thought he was going to say yes, and she felt a stupid rush of glee at the prospect. But then he shook his head.

  “No. I’ve some more reading to do.” He belayed her sarcastic retort with a raised hand. “Not this,” he said, motioning to the book he held. “Genealogy research.”

  She suppressed a wince. Still obsessing over his parentage. And she knew he’d made no progress. Not because he’d told her, but because he had not said anything. If he’d made any discoveries it was certain he wouldn’t be able to shut up about it. Eventually he just had to accept the fact that—

  He rolled his eyes at her. Ferrin knew how she felt about his research without her having to utter a word. Then his eyes flicked in the direction father had gone, revealing the true reason he wouldn’t take her up on the offer to tag along: Father wouldn’t approve.

  And he was right. Father already disliked the amount of time they spent together, which was outrageous. He clearly liked Ferrin. Gave him private lessons, let him get away with things like that episode just now with Jeremyck. Crashing boulders! If anything, the amount of time father spent with Ferrin was unhealthy.

  She almost laughed at that. Likely he just thought Ferrin was trying to steal kisses from her, though she thought Ferrin trying to kiss her was about as likely as a pride of lions appearing at Ral Mok’s doorstep.

  Ferrin grinned at her again, before jogging away towards the library. She glared at his back, even as a pang of disappointment at his departure ran through her. Then father shouted for her once more. She quickly pushed the sentiment from her mind, hurrying to join him. There’d be time enough to see Ferrin again later. Right now, she had to find out who these visitors were and what could be so important that they’d come all the way to Ral Mok unannounced.

  4

  Erem

  “...and he rent open time to cast them in.”

  -Partial inscription on a cracked tablet recovered from the ruins of Ral Falar.

  WE ALL RETURN TO THE dirt eventually, the broad-shouldered man thought, frowning as he placed a tuber in the wicker basket at his side. He rose from where he’d been couched over the garden and scratched at a weathered cheek replete with dark stubble, glancing upward through his solar specs to gauge the time. The sun moved towards the horizon, a blue sky streaked with red, as if the heavens themselves were hemorrhaging. The sky had appeared so for far too long. Sighing in a way that sounded more like a growl, he stomped off towards the house, the creases of his well-worn boots complaining all the way.

  Though he’d been here for years now, the place still had a foreign sense about it, like he didn’t truly belong. It was at the center of a clearing, encircled by fields of corn and beans. Beyond those, forest stretched in all directions as far as he could see. The cottage before him was a simple structure of mud and brick, baked beige by the sun. A pair of trees, one several heights taller than the other, stood beside the dwelling like weathered monuments forgotten to the progression of time. Their branches drooped low, as if shielding the house. From what, he could only speculate, though he had his suspicions.

  The man prodded the door open with a foot and set the vegetable-filled basket on a worn maple table inside the door. His nostrils flared at the aroma of stewing rabbit. He removed his boots and tossed them aside, but left the solar specs strapped over his eyes. Dust and grit ground underfoot as he made his way over the uneven floorboards to the fire. He put his head over the large cast-iron cauldron and inhaled. Not bad, but it was plain. Unexciting.

  Releasing another feline-like sigh, he pushed an armless wooden chair from his path and made his way to a shelf on the far wall. Several jars stood upon it, along with the remains of a dismantled chronometre, gears, springs, and hands strewn about. This latter he ignored—the device wasn’t his. He stood, considering the jars for several moments. He twisted at a ring upon one of his fingers, made of a dark wood he suspected was from the trees outside the cottage. It was etched with fine, indigo characters that gave off the suggestion of a glow that might not have been there. The language was one long lost to history.

  Finally, he selected a jar, returned to the stew, and cast a handful of the spice into the pot. The liquid burbled with renewed pungence.

  Satisfied, he returned to the table and the vegetables he’d pulled from the garden. He produced a dagger that had been tucked into his belt. It shone a deep black that reflected the flames of the cook fire behind him. The blade was covered in crimson runes that seemed to dance and pulse in the fire light. The slim cross guard had a slight downward curve; the handle was long for a dagger, wrapped in fine leather, and ended in a pommel that curved upward into a hook.

  The man fingered the instrument idly in a manner that bespoke great familiarity. No man, save one with a lifetime of experience, could wield such a weapon with such casual indifference.

  He began to chop the tubers and other roots.

  Thunk thunk thunk. The knife slid through the vegetables in precise, even slices.

  He wiped the slices back into the basket, took them to the pot, dumped them in. He gave the stew another stir, then set the ladle aside and returned to the bookshelf, thinking to read while his meal finished. His eyes scanned over the spines of several leather-bound volumes. Tragnè’s Oral Histories. The Cataclysm. Surviving a Manticore Attack. The Lessons.

  He finally settled on a worn copy titled Myths of the Aldur. Taking it from the shelf, he slumped into the armchair positioned before the fireplace. Its red-velvet upholstery was well-worn. He’d always found it a curious piece of décor considering the sparsity of the other furniture here. Aside from the calligraphed map of Agarsfar that hung over the fire, it was by far the finest furnishing here.

  Not that he was complaining; it was a fine spot to read before the warmth of the flames.

  But this evening his heart wasn’t in it. Sleep was often a difficulty, and as of late it had been particularly hard to come by. Long, restless nights of staring at the ceiling from the small cot that lay in a corner adjacent to the fire. And even when he did sleep, he woke feeling as if he’d just come from a battle, sore and fatigued.

  But now he felt his eyes growing heavy, and it wasn’t long before he set the book aside and closed them. Just for a moment, while the stew simmered.

  His eyes had only been shu
t for an instant, but when he opened them, the interior of the humble cottage was gone. Now he stood in a cavernous chamber. Its ceiling supported by rounded pillars, so high they disappeared into the gloom of the dimly lit space; so wide around his fingers wouldn’t have touched if he hugged one. He knew if he spoke his words would echo across the space, though something in his mind restrained all utterance. And somehow his footfalls seemed to make no sound.

  The only light came from torches protruding from sconces on the pillars. Rather than the warm, reddish hues of mortal fire, these gave off a mysterious purple glow. Shadow flame. The chill of them caressed his skin like acid as he passed.

  The pillars were positioned in pairs down the center of the chamber, forming a passage that led off into murky unknown. He peered over his shoulder and saw no door or other point of entry. His hand unconsciously reached to his hip for a sword that wasn’t there.

  He continued to make his way between the pillars. There was what felt like plush carpet underfoot, though it was too dark to tell, and the man found himself picturing far more gruesome things being trampled by his soles. He chided himself for such foolishness.

  He walked for what seemed an eternity without evidence of progress. Endless rows of pillars. The place was unnaturally silent. Even his own, steady breaths seemed to come from one far away rather than his own lungs. As he continued forward, his innards began to roil, as if he might be ill at any moment.

  Yet still he strode on, as if drawn by an invisible rope lassoed about his waist, and despite an increasingly large part of his brain shouting for him to stop, to run as fast as he could the opposite way. But his feet now seemed to have a brain of their own, and they propelled him ever forward at a slow, but persistent gait.

  Finally, the end of the pillars. A raised platform hovering out of the shadows. A throne of hewn rock sat alone on the dais.

  As he drew closer, he recognized the seat was carved into the wavy outline of a robed and hooded being. It was massive, nearly two heights tall, twice the stature of a grown man. But he knew it was not an exaggeration; the sculpture was to scale. For he’d once faced such a creature. His mind wailed for retreat, but his legs were fervent engines, propelling him onward.

  Closer still and now he realized the seat bore an occupant. A figure, clad in plate, pauldrons sculpted in the likeness of roaring lions. It was surrounded by an aura of violet-tinged darkness, clinging to it like sublimating steam. The figure was still as the stone perch upon which it sat.

  The man’s stomach clenched and a dizzying wave of confusion overwhelmed him. He knew that figure sitting there. Was certain he knew the man it resembled. And yet, simultaneously, he was absolutely certain he didn’t know the figure at all. Had never met it. He tried to stagger back, but his sentient legs dragged him onward.

  Onward.

  As the man looked on with rising horror, the silent sentry rose and began to inch forward, seeming to glide. The progression was slow yet deliberate, like a boulder rolling down a shallow grade, and he trapped at the bottom. An old scar in his side began to throb.

  Even as the laconic figure neared, that violet-tinged pall obscured most of its features. But one characteristic remained starkly apparent, cutting through the haze. Its eyes. Blue, human eyes. Terribly normal in the face of the oncoming creature. For creature it was, he was sure. This was no man, though it might appear as such. No animal. Nay, not even an Angel. This thing was not of the Path.

  And yet, he knew those eyes. He didn’t know how. Couldn’t place from where he knew them. But they were unquestionably familiar. Intimately so.

  The thing continued to prowl ever closer. He wanted to shout, but no sound came. Wanted to scream. His lips remained sealed. Whatever invisible force was yanking him forward also had a stranglehold on his voice. The throbbing in his side had segued to piercing agony, like a knife being driven into him over and over; the disorienting wave of confusion had transformed to twisted anxiety. Hopelessness like he’d never believed existed.

  In an act of pure desperation, he reached for the light, hoping to end this. But there was no light to grasp in this dark place. And then the man remembered, heart dropping, that the light had left him long ago. There could have been a sun blazing overhead and he’d still be unable to channel.

  It stopped a pace away from him, those too-familiar eyes cutting into his soul, passing judgment and executing all in the same moment.

  Then it spoke. Not with one voice, but many, more than he could count. Male. Female. Young. Old. A myriad of tones as well. Frantic. Gleeful. Manic. But above all, was the icy calm tone of an old man. He spoke but three words, yet each bore the gravity of many written volumes, all telling tales of unconscionable woe.

  “I. Am. Messorem.”

  Then it reached out and grasped him by the shoulder. Cold agony spread from where it touched him, engulfing his entire body, his very being. He let out a scream of fear. Of pain. But no sound reached his ears. It felt like his body was ripping apart.

  Thump.

  The man opened his eyes to find the book had slid from the arm of his chair and landed cover first on the floor before him. He let out a heavy breath and wiped fog from his specs. Rivulets of cold sweat streamed down his brow. The dream was over. It was one he’d had many times before, though this was the first time the creature had spoken. And, he also realized with a grimace, this time the aching in his side had remained after waking.

  Footsteps. A rustling from the clearing.

  He tensed and sprang to his feet, like a cat spotting prey, though right now he felt the hunted. Was that the first of them, or had someone taken the initiative on him while he’d dozed? The muscles in his neck rippled as he turned an ear to the door.

  Another rustle.

  The man glanced toward the cot covered in furs that was positioned opposite the spice shelf. A sword that seemed an older sibling to his dagger—black as a cave with blood-red runes running its length—stood propped in the corner.

  No time for that. He slipped the knife from his belt, holding it tip down in his right hand, and adjusted the bracer strapped to his left wrist, hidden beneath his sleeve. The elementally enhanced steel was cool against his skin. Skin that was still hot and damp from the disturbing dream.

  The man crouched low and crossed the threshold of the dwelling. He peered around the clearing, muscles wound like the chain of a castle gate.

  Pitter-patter pitter-patter. Footsteps from behind the house.

  Still crouched, the man crept towards the back, his uncovered feet silent. He turned the corner and spotted the intruder, back to him. It would be a simple thing to throw the knife and bury it between her shoulder blades.

  Instead, the tension left his body and he tucked the knife back into the rear of his belt.

  Near the empty stable crouched a girl. She couldn’t have been more than ten, though some part of his mind also registered an unnamable sense of agelessness when he looked upon her. Her hair was a mess of knots and gnarls, mixed with leaves and even a few sticks. It might have been a dark shade of red or auburn, but it was impossible to tell. She was clothed in a pair of ill-fitting linen trousers and a single piece of hide with holes cut for her head and arms. It hung to her knees. Her feet were bare and filthy. She wore a wooden necklace that matched his ring, amethyst etchings showing in the sunlight.

  The hint of a smile played at the edges of his mouth.

  “Air-rum,” the girl said in a delicate voice that carried to him like a bird’s sweet song. She hadn’t turned to face him. “You mustn’t loud walk if you want to surprise the girl.” She giggled. “I felt you in the ground all the way here.”

  The man cocked an eyebrow, but wasn’t really surprised. The little one was gifted, and in some ways wise beyond her years, despite her ill-developed grammar. He strode over to her.

  “It’s Erem,” he corrected, smiling down at her. When she made no acknowledgement, he spoke again.

  “Autumn, what are you doing?” Erem’s voic
e was strong, but hoarse, like a fine instrument that had long sat unplayed.

  She flinched at the sound, and for a moment he was afraid she’d run. Autumn always seemed on the verge of flight. From what he didn’t know. But then she eased and continued working the ground in front of her. “I smelt your stewing. Wanted to make you something for it. I’ve made you plenty yellow ears and string greens. Trying something new.”

  “Ah. That’s kind of you.” Erem knelt beside her, careful not to startle her again. She was moving her hands back and forth over the ground in front of her, above a small sprout. He’d initially taught her to talk to herself while doing this, but the hand movements had proved a much better Focus for her. And who was he to dispute it? A Focus was very personal.

  As he watched, the sprout began to grow. But after it had sprung several inches, the growth seemed to fizzle to a halt. The girl narrowed her eyes and squinted intently at the plant, like she was trying to figure out a puzzle.

  “Your breath too loud,” she complained, not taking her eyes from the plant before her.

  Erem held back a chuckle. “Sorry,” he whispered, then took in a breath and held it.

  She returned her attention to the plant and it began to grow again. When it reached about a forearm’s length, the girl seemed satisfied and stood. She grabbed the plant near the base and gave a tug. It ripped from the earth and she fell back onto her bottom, showering herself in soil. She giggled, holding the stem triumphantly before her, a large carrot dangling from the end.

  This time Erem did smile. “Beautiful,” he said in an almost wistful tone. “It will make a find addition to the stew. Won’t you come in and have some with me?”

  The gleeful look left her face and the girl peeked uneasily at the cottage. She shook her head.

  “No. Falume my home. Food there. The house is—” She paused, as if she didn’t want to finish the thought. “Sad,” she finally said, handing the vegetable to him. Then, face taking on a thoughtful look, she asked, “Why not come with me instead? You’re always moping here; new places good for you.”