Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  Geyer stepped forward with his knife out. “Now show me how fast you are. Keep the knife tight to your body to strike, and away from your body to defend.”

  “We’re going to practice with real knives? Shouldn’t we use sticks or something first?”

  “If you want to learn to fight with a stick use a stick. If you want to learn to fight with a knife use a knife. Much time is wasted teaching fighting with wooden swords. Once you move to a real blade, the weight and balance and fear must be relearned all over again. We don’t have the luxury of time, but we do have one luxury that will make your training faster than anyone else’s.”

  “What’s that?” Before Ara finished the question, Geyer leaped forward, thrusting at Ara. Ara jumped back and swung his knife to defend the oncoming blade. Metal clinked on metal as Ara stumbled backward. Geyer attacked again. Ara blocked the first obvious thrust, and then Geyer swung the blade down and sliced Ara above the knee. Ara screamed in pain and grabbed at the cut.

  “Our luxury is that you can heal,” Geyer said. “So there’s no need to hold back.”

  “It still hurts!” Ara yelled, holding his knee. He pulled his hand away. It was colored by blood. His blood.

  “That’s something you need to get used to.” Geyer held his knife out, pointing at Ara. “Now, attack.”

  “But what if I cut you?” Ara asked.

  “Then the lesson will be over, and you can have your breakfast.”

  Ara didn’t know what he wanted more. He sprung forward, swinging his knife wildly. Geyer stepped back, keeping his distance, not needing to raise his knife. He was quick even with the bad leg. Ara could see how most of the old knight’s weight fell on the good right leg, and the other touched the ground behind him for balance. Ara thrust the knife straight for Geyer’s belly, and Geyer made a casual backhand swipe that knocked the knife from Ara’s hand.

  “Grip your knife as if your life depends on it. Because it does.”

  Ara picked the knife off the ground and gripped it tighter. He swung a fury of attacks, this time deliberately targeting high and low. With each move, he felt more capable, as if the knife was at home in his hand. The steps came naturally: parry, attack, parry, attack. He swung a combination at Geyer’s gut, and the old knight nearly tripped as he fended it off.

  Geyer looked at Ara in surprise. “You were holding out on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “Not that I remember.”

  But, yes, something felt familiar about this. He’d handled weapons in the past. Ara bobbed back and forth, excitedly. This might trigger his memories, help him remember who he was.

  Then Geyer attacked. His blows were more fierce, showing he’d only been holding back. Ara weaved and blocked, narrowly dodging the Geyer’s blade. Their knives met overhead, and Geyer swung his good leg, sweeping Ara’s feet out from under him.

  Ara fell flat on his back, losing his breath on impact. But he held onto his knife.

  “Good,” Geyer said. “There might be hope for you yet. If you happen to face an old cripple and not an army of Temple guards, that is.”

  Ara breathed heavily. He was already out of breath from the short skirmish. His stomach longed for the breakfast waiting back at the fire. Had Petar said, oranges? Plus, Ara felt ridiculous fighting in Chancey’s oversized coat.

  “Can I take this off?” Ara asked. “It’s hard to move in.”

  Geyer nodded. Ara took off the coat slowly, switching knife hands to get the sleeves off and using the time to catch his breath. The moment the coat was off, Ara flung it at Geyer. Geyer caught the coat as it covered his head, and Ara lunged forward. He swiped at Geyer’s bad leg, knowing it would be slower to move. Geyer recovered from the ambush, tossing the coat aside, but Ara was upon him. Ara swung low and nicked Geyer’s calf. It was a small scratch, but it tore Geyer’s pants and left a sliver of a cut.

  Ara stepped back, his knife out in a defensive position. Ready for Geyer’s angry reaction.

  Geyer looked at the droplet of blood on his leg, then to Ara.

  “That was well done. You used surprise and found an advantage. Even the strongest fighter only has two hands.”

  Geyer bent down and slipped his knife into his boot sheath. Ara kept his own knife ready, not wanting to drop his guard if this was some kind of trick. “You can relax. The lesson is over for now.”

  Ara offered the knife back to Geyer, but the man shook his head and pulled the second sheath off his belt and tossed it to Ara. “It’s yours. Keep it with you at all times.”

  Ara sheathed the knife and looked down at the rags of his nightshirt and pants. There was nowhere to put it. He definitely needed new clothes. He pulled on Chancey’s coat and stuffed the blade in one of the pockets.

  “Your wound has already healed,” Geyer said.

  Ara looked down at his knee. The pants were torn, but the cut was gone. Only the faintest traces of a line remained.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Ara said.

  Geyer shook his head. “Where did you get your training?”

  “What?”

  “Your defensive stance and the way you move, two feet at a time so your balance is never compromised. It’s clear you were taught to fight before.”

  “I don’t…” Ara thought through the dark fog that was his memory. “I don’t remember.”

  Geyer wiped the spot of blood from his calf. “Well, whoever taught you, knew what they were doing.”

  Ara pondered this as they walked through the forest back to the grass clearing. The weapon in his hand, sparring with a teacher, it somehow felt right. Even the hunting spear had felt oddly familiar. But who would have trained a Descendant?

  Ara was thinking about what it all meant when they reached the wagons. Everyone had gathered around the fire. Briton, Petar, Hannah, Brim, a young man of twenty, and a girl Ara’s age. The girl had red hair and freckles marked her face. Her eyes seemed to scowl. Ara smiled. The gesture was not returned.

  “About time, you two,” Petar said with a smile. “I was having to defend your breakfast from these animals. I hope you’re still hungry.”

  At the sight of the loaf of bread split open and resting on a blanket, Ara lost all thoughts except for the one that came from his stomach.

  Cambria couldn’t believe the boy eating bread beside her was the same boy they had taken in two days ago. He still looked miserable, of course, in his bare feet and thin clothes riddled with holes. But he’d appeared moments from death, and now he was walking around with ease. And she could have sworn he had scars on his face. Hannah was good but she wasn’t a miracle worker. Had it been an act? Were these travelers just using Petar and Hannah’s hospitality for a free meal? Or something worse?

  “Again, we must thank you for your generosity,” the old man said. “Without you, we would have likely starved on the road. Now we are sitting here enjoying a warm breakfast. How can we ever repay you?”

  “The bread cost about two coppers,” Cambria said.

  “Cambria,” Hannah chided. She turned to the old man and smiled. “We were happy to help. It is good to see you all doing so much better. Ara, I can hardly believe your improvement. You look like a new person.”

  The boy hurried his face in the bread.

  The old man stood up, his back cracking louder than the fire. “The girl…Cambria, was it? She’s right. We do not seek to take advantage of your hospitality.” He reached into a pocket in his gray robes and pulled out a coin purse. He counted out some coins and then rounded the fire and handed them to Petar.

  “This is far too much,” Petar said, looking down at the coins in his hand.

  “Well, if it is alright then, perhaps we will continue on with you for a little while longer.”

  “Of course. We are happy to have the company. Listening to Brim’s stories can get old.” Petar laughed at his own joke. Brim met Cambria’s eyes. She could tell he was as suspicious of these strangers as she was.
Good. They would need a second set of eyes on them.

  “Where do you guys come from?” Aaron asked. “I’m curious. You seem such an odd pairing.”

  No one spoke above the crackling fire.

  “As do we, I’m sure,” Petar interrupted the silence.

  “Of course,” Aaron nodded, taking the hint not to pry.

  “It’s okay,” the old man said. “I do think a formal introduction is in order. You’ve met the lad, Ara.” Again, the boy ducked as the eyes fell on him. He had pale skin and tangled hair that matched the bronze color of his eyes. He was in desperate need of a bath.

  The old man pointed to the large bearded man in green, who sat farthest from the fire. “And this cheerful gentleman is…Mister Mortimer Marigold.”

  The boy, Ara, choked on his bread.

  “Like the flower?” Hannah asked.

  Marigold’s teeth tightened into what could only generously be called a smile. “One and the same.”

  Marigold stood and waved a hand towards the old man. “And this is the boy’s great…great-grandfather. Benjamin Dullstone.”

  “Quite right,” Dullstone said with a bow. “But you can call me Stone for short.”

  “Or Dull,” Marigold said.

  “Well it’s wonderful to officially meet you,” Petar said and clapped his hands. “Now, would anyone like some more bread?”

  After some small talk—mostly by Petar—the fire was put out and the tents packed away. Cambria kept an eye on the new additions to their caravan. Stone and Marigold exchanged some words in a whispered argument while Ara looked around as if in a daze. Cambria didn’t know what these strangers’ story was, but she knew there was more they weren’t letting on.

  “You look nervous,” Aaron said as the wagons rolled out of the clearing and onto the road.

  “I’m not nervous,” she said.

  “You don’t need to worry over everything. They seem like good people.”

  “What do you know? You’ve been with us for less than a year. You haven’t seen what people on the road are capable of.”

  “I know, Cambria,” Aaron’s voice grew low and serious. “I was just teasing. I didn’t mean to bring up…” Aaron’s voice trailed off as he gave her that look she hated; the look of pity. “But believe it or not, I had a life before you, and on a few occasions even had interactions with people. I have a good feeling about these ones, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well relax all you want then, but I’m going to be ready in case something happens.”

  “Like in Minan?” Aaron raised an eyebrow. “You almost cut off that man’s hand. Brim had to hold him down to stop him from running away so Petar could stitch him up.”

  “I thought he was trying to grab me,” Cambria said. “He could have just told me there was a bee on my shirt.”

  “I’ve never seen Petar so angry,” Aaron laughed, leaning back against the wagon’s side canvas. “You’re the only doctor I’ve met who sends the patients away worse off than before.”

  Cambria tried to keep a straight face, but a smile broke through. It wasn’t fair. She had helped plenty of people; all her life she worked with doctors—her parents first and then Petar and Hannah. In all those treatments, only a handful were from injuries she had caused.

  Still, it felt better to be made fun of than pitied.

  Cambria looked out the back of the wagon as Aaron was still chuckling at his own joke. Maybe he was right about these three; Stone and Ara seemed harmless enough, anyway. Maybe life had made her too distrustful. Maybe it was better to live carefree and oblivious to the dangers around her—like Aaron and Petar? But she couldn’t do that. She would keep her guard up and do the worrying for all of them.

  Cambria couldn’t risk losing any more people she cared about.

  19

  “It is my fear that we have underestimated the strength of these people and, in doing so, have condemned ourselves.”

  Bale cursed as he pulled his horse to a stop in the wet forest. There was no sign of the boy. They followed the river for miles before the hounds found the bloody rag tied to a branch. The diversion had cost them half a day, and now Copher could not pick up their trail in the heavy rain. Markas and his party of guards found only an abandoned horse. Which meant their quarry was down to one horse for a party of three. Yet days of tracking still produced no results. Somehow a Descendant boy, an old man, and a traitorous Carmine guard had outsmarted the Temple’s finest. The Highfather would not be pleased.

  Bale drank only a quarter of blood from the vial. It cooled the burning in his chest and neck, but the relief would not last; he would soon be out of blood. Since the trail was cold, he would take his men into the nearest town for the night and secure some more blood from the Curor there. It would be weak town blood, but it might hold him over until he found the boy.

  The rain had stopped by the time the guards rode into the small western town. Denfold was in the realm of the now defunct House Carmine but didn’t seem to notice the change. The political battles of the nobles rarely affect the average man’s daily routine. The townspeople on the street at this hour gaped and steered their course away from the twelve Temple guards and the three blood hounds.

  Bale climbed off Smoke and handed the reins to Van. “Get the horses settled in the stable and find us rooms at the inn.”

  “If there is no room?” asked the guard, he shook his wet hair and sniffed through a nose battered from countless fights.

  “Then make room.”

  Bale crossed the street towards the town’s Curor’s shop, a red heart painted on the front of the wooden door. It had been a long day’s ride hunting through the forest, but anger outweighed his fatigue. They had been close. Whatever secrets that dirty Descendant hid had been within Bale’s grasp. Now he was gone. Even Copher would have difficulty tracking him after so much time had passed. Bale needed another strategy. But first, he needed blood.

  Bale’s fist struck the Curor’s door so hard it almost came off its hinges.

  There was a thump inside the shop. Then an angry voice shouted, “I’m closed.”

  “Open the door.”

  The voice grew louder as it approached the door. “Go away before I have you flogged. I am an appointed Curor of the Faith.”

  “And as such you fall under my command.”

  There was a pause inside from the now uncertain Curor.

  “Open the door before I bust it down and take what I need,” Bale ordered.

  The door cracked open and the red-robed man’s eyes lit up at the sight of Bale in his black armor. “The Blood Kni—” the Curor caught himself, opening the door and stepping back. “Sir Bale, I wasn’t expecting—”

  “I’m here on direct orders from the Highfather,” Bale said, stepping past him into the Curor’s shop. “I need blood.”

  “I…I don’t have the strongest blood, being so far from the Temple,” the Curor stammered. He shut the door behind Bale and hurried to the knight’s side as if to block his attention from the contents of his shop.

  “One bottle of your best blood will do,” Bale said looking around the shop. It was a mess. Bottles left out and unmarked. Equipment spread about the table, dirty tubes and blades marked with rust. So far from the Temple and the Fathers’ eyes had made this Curor careless. Not only that, this man was hiding something.

  “A whole bottle?” the Curor said. “Yes, of course, of course.” He rummaged around on a shelf behind Bale.

  “And do not try to send me off with the pig blood you sell the townspeople,” Bale said. “If it is not the blood of Descendants, I will know. And you will lose more than a single bottle.”

  The Curor gasped, insulted. He looked ready to deny it but then thought better of it and returned to the shelf. The sooner he got the bottle, the sooner Bale would be out of his shop. Specs of dried blood powder dusted the table near Bale. An enterprising Curor. Not only was he selling false blood, he was making illegal blood powder for sniffers; addicts who inhaled the
drug.

  “You get a lot of blood sniffers this far from the city?” Bale asked as he wiped his black-gloved finger over the table, picking up red specks.

  “Of course not,” the Curor croaked. Fear mangling his voice. “Desecration of the holy blood is sacrilegious.”

  “Yes, it is.” Bale flicked the dust off his fingers. “But I’m not here to arrest you. I keep no illusions about the morality of the Faith. I’m looking for someone, and perhaps you can spread the word to your…more desperate customers.”

  “I would be happy to assist the Highfather in any way I can.”

  “A Descendant boy escaped House Carmine. I need to find him. Alive. It would be in anyone’s interest to be on the lookout for him or any suspicious travelers.”

  The Curor nodded and handed a bottle of blood to Bale. The glass bottle was cold; he had stored it for some time. Bale doubted this was the special occasion the Curor had imagined.

  “There were some travelers who came through two days ago,” the Curor said. “They were traveling doctors from the southern realm.”

  “Doctors? Here?” Bale thought about the last time doctors dared travel in the Faith’s lands. He had personally been ordered to…convert them. “Where are they now?”

  “I ran them out of town,” the Curor said with pride. “They took to the road, heading east. They won’t find any hospitality in this part of Terene, I guarantee you that.”

  Bale rubbed at his neck. He craved the contents of this bottle to ease the burning; wanted to down the whole thing right there. But he had work to do. He stuffed the bottle in his pack and headed for the door.

  “Spread the word about the boy.”

  “Of course.”

  “And if this blood isn’t what it should be, I’ll be back.”

  The Curor quickly shut the door behind Bale. Bale walked through the quiet street of Denfold towards the inn. The blood poison burned in his chest. How much longer could he last? He had to find the boy soon. And he better be everything the Highfather claimed. Bale winced and tore off the bottle’s cap. He allowed himself one sip, no more.