Demon Blade

by Mark A. Garland

  In such times as those, though, left without reserves, Frost considered himself vulnerable; muscle was not so easily replaced once it was used for fuel. But this lighter condition had other, strange effects on him. He found himself easily aroused. And the condition seemed to have a similar effect on Sharryl, who was profoundly adept at both war, and its near opposite.

  He filled his mouth with a spoonful of soup again, swallowed with a grin. "Not a lie, for now," Frost said. "But in truth, life has been a bit quiet lately. No wars to speak of, other than skirmishes between fiefs, most of which tend to get so messy they're impossible to sort out and seldom show worthwhile stakes. The dragons are all but extinct, and there have been no demons of note since the forging of the Demon Blade, or shortly thereafter, to be correct."

  "Still," Rosivok said, also speaking for the first time in the family's presence, "we somehow manage to keep quite busy." Rosivok had finished his soup and started on a second hunk of the bread.

  "There are many rumors about the Demon Blade of late," young Aul remarked, gnawing on his own bread.

  "There are always rumors," Frost muttered.

  "These," Aul went on, "say that the Blade is somewhere here about, near Bouren or Jasnok. And the rumors are enough to bring strangers and soldiers alike into the area from many lands. Travelers all speak of this."

  "A very old wizard known as Ramins has possession of the Blade, and has for many decades now," Frost said. "This is common knowledge among those who practice my profession. And no one, perhaps not even Ramins himself, is certain where he is these days."

  "They say that now he is dead."

  Frost looked up from his soup, then he grinned wryly. "They always say that he is dead."

  "The spring may be worse for travel through Ariman than the dead of winter," Urid said after a pause. He seemed to wait for someone to ask why.

  "Why is that?" Sharryl obliged. She kept one muscular forearm on the table as she ate; the other, still bearing the forearm straps and edged steel blade of her subarta, she kept politely out of sight.

  "With the illness of King Andarys, Ariman is a troubled land," Urid said.

  Frost's eyes widened. "The king is ill?"

  "So we have heard, and so anyone will tell you."

  "We must make mention of this to Jaffic," Frost said, eyes narrowing again. "He asks after the Andarys family now and then."

  "Though he will never say why," Sharryl noted simply.

  "What sorts of trouble?" Rosivok asked.

  Urid took a breath. "The way grows more treacherous every day. Grand Chamberlain Ferris sits on the throne with King Andarys' blessings, and he has already imposed new tolls and taxes. And new laws every week, so the travelers tell."

  "He builds a much larger army, by conscription and with money for mercenaries," Aul added, a twitch at the edge of his mouth, a restlessness in his eyes as he spoke. "There is talk of war with Bouren and the other great fiefs in the north, though I've heard Lord Ivran is quick to deny that."

  "Yet his son, Prince Jaran has been out in the fields enlisting young men, and maybe looking for the Demon Blade himself," the father added.

  Aul leaned over the table and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "It is said that Lord Ivran may have had a hand in King Andarys' illness. Sorcery, perhaps."

  "We have heard of this," Rosivok said, looking at Frost, eyebrows raised. "Much trouble."

  "And we think little of it," Frost remarked. The Subartans were charged with his protection, so they tended to worry too much. A bother, now and then. Still, it was a condition Frost gladly accepted as it allowed him to occupy his mind with other, more intriguing things. "We will find the way in whatever condition we find it in and consider it then."

  "Enough to say," Urid added, "that a wise man would do well to mind his own business along the river next spring, and his back."

  "We are grateful for your candor, sir," Frost replied.

  Sharryl rose quietly and went to stand beside the room's only window, a view that looked out on the walk and the road.

  "Your friend does not return," Aul said, which earned him a strong "shhhhh" from his father.

  Sharryl looked at them, then turned back to the window. "He will come," she said softly. "As always."

  "He knows what to do," Frost explained. "He will pursue our little fool until he captures him, or kills him, or until it no longer seems a worthwhile endeavor. Jaffic would be the fool to do more in such a situation as this—that is, one in which my life is in no way threatened. And he seems no fool to me."

  Aul looked at him a moment, then nodded.

  "What do you plan to do until spring, then?" Urid asked after a time, passing the empty bread basket to his daughter and motioning to her to pass the flagon of ale toward the center of the table.

  "I would speak with you of that," Frost said. He sipped the last of his soup—a very satisfying soup, he thought, as hearty as a soup would allow, and seasoned just so. "Of course, I had heard of your predicament here." Frost grinned as he chewed a final bit of meat. "And of your daughter's very fine cooking. Might I have the ale?"

  The young girl averted her eyes as she passed the ale, a gentle blush touching her cheeks. Urid seemed to consider her, then he looked at Frost and tipped his head. Frost looked straight at the other man. "And we heard that you have an extra room."

  Aul looked up from his meal. Urid's face formed the slightest of grins. " You are awfully sure of yourself, aren't you?"

  "Indeed," Frost replied, settling back. "I am."

  * * *

  Rosivok woke him, as usual. "Urid's daughter is preparing breakfast," he said.

  "That," Frost replied, rubbing his eyes, "is very good news!"

  Rosivok waited while Frost got to his feet and searched for his tunic and his cloak.

  "Jaffic has returned," the Subartan said. "He did not find the one he sought. That one has taken to another house along the road, no doubt, but which house it is hard to say."

  Subartans were not well known as trackers, but that was not why Frost kept them. "Annoying someone else, no doubt," he said. "He could provide me a good regular income for a time."

  "I told Jaffic of the rumors of King Andarys' illness. He was shaken by it. He is concerned, though he hides it well. Perhaps that is where he came from; he is eager now to continue our journey."

  "A safe guess," Frost agreed. "But he will tell us when he is ready, and that is when I will be ready to listen. And spring is when we will leave."

  Rosivok only nodded.

  "Come, we will eat."

  The warrior made no reply, but waited quietly while Frost dressed. As they left the tiny room where all four of them had slept the night, Rosivok paused. "You truly believe there is nothing to the rumors these people repeat?" he said.

  "So many rumors, my friend. And all of them like raindrops in the air; if you go out, some will fall upon you, but most will not. I will keep us as dry as possible. Meanwhile, we are fortunate to have such a gracious host for the winter, and only good omens, so far as I can tell."

  Frost straightened the full-length satin cloak he had worn the day before and pulled it on. "For now, I smell porridge at a boil!"

  "Yes, my liege," Rosivok replied, and followed close behind.

  Chapter VI

  The village was small, only a dozen mud-and-stone huts with thatch roofs. Madia had never gotten quite this close to such a place, had never been in the house of a serf. One of the huts was much larger than the rest. She could see a few sheep and cows inside its wide open door, and more sheep wandering nearby in a fenced-in field.

  Small fenced gardens were in back of most of the huts, and chickens seemed to be everywhere. Two women carrying pails and followed by three young children came out of the largest hut and headed toward one of the others. They dumped the dark lumpy contents onto a big mounded pile at the near edge of the village, then stayed to throw dirt onto the pile. Another woman carrying a large earthenware pot and dogged
by a handful of small children came wandering out from between a pair of cows near another hut. Milk, Madia thought, and her insides ached from hunger.

  For three days since the attack she had stayed in the woods or crept through fallow fields, afraid to show herself to anyone, anywhere. No goblins or leshy had accosted her, no spirits had haunted her path, and she had seen no more robbers or soldiers about, but all her fears, both real and imagined, were beginning to pale in comparison to the physical punishment she had endured. She had found water in the small streams that trickled through the countryside, but she hadn't had nourishment of any kind, and she didn't think she could go another night or walk another step with her stomach so empty.

  She hid among the trees of the standing wood several hundred feet from the tiny village. As the cool of evening settled upon her skin, her hands shook. The sun began to set and she watched other villagers returning from the fields, a few more women and children, and twice as many men. Not long afterward, what seemed like the whole population of the village gathered on the little main road and headed for the manor house—a small arrangement of walls and a keep barely visible on a rise to the south. They would take dinner there, Madia thought, and then they would return.

  She watched them go, then watched the huts for a time after that, looking for movement, thinking of cow's milk. When she thought it was safe, she began to crawl out of her hiding place.

  The fields around the huts had already seen a harvest; only torn and trampled leaves and the withered remains of once growing produce were left. Cabbage, Madia realized, crawling past a few discarded, rotting heads. She checked them carefully, then began crawling in a more serpentine pattern, checking for heads that might have been missed. She found none. Finally she reached the little garden behind the nearest hut.

  Most of what grew here had been dug up, but there were small green beans still on some of the shortest bushes, and a row of carrots, still fresh and growing. She dug up a carrot and ate ravenously. The carrots were sweet and absolutely wonderful. When the food was gone, she crawled round to the side of the hut.

  The nearest window, shutters open, faced away from the manor house. She waited for her dizzy head to clear, for her heart to slow its pounding. She peered inside and saw no one, then pulled herself over the sill and let herself down inside.

  Coals glowed dark red in the small open hearth. The scent of the smoke filled the room, nearly covering many others—soured milk or cheese, unlaundered bedding, wooden tables and dirt floors soaked in ancient food spills. Across the room, through the open doorway, fading daylight sketched a table and chairs, a butter churn, a pair of short barrels, and a pair of beds from the shadows as she strained her eyes. One candle burned near the hearth, kept to light others, the one thing that reminded her of life at Kamrit Castle.

  She worked her way around the little room, looking for anything that might be considered food. Inside one of the barrels, wrapped in burlap, she found a fair-sized piece of oatcake. It lacked sweetness and was already getting old and dry, but she was careful not to lose a single crumb as she ate it.

  Then she spotted an earthenware pot near the door. She picked it up and shook it and heard a faint splash, then she tipped it to her lips. There was barely any milk left, but she was not displeased. She stood up again, the room in darkness now but for the glow of the fire and the one candle's flame. Outside the sun was setting, leaving a clear moonlit sky behind. Madia stayed still; the shaking hadn't stopped.

  She tenderly crossed her arms, tucking her hands beneath them, and hugged them against her. Better, she thought. Then renewed fatigue seemed to fill her mind and body, rising like the moon outside, replacing one pallid reality with another. The shaking moved to her knees and she sank to her haunches beside the door.

  Better, again, she decided after a moment. She just needed a moment's rest without the cold night dew settling on her hair, without the frightening unknown sounds of the night in the forest all around her, without the running. . . .

  She closed her eyes briefly, huddled on the floor, leaning against the doorway. She opened them again to the sound and sight of shoes on the floor beside her.

  * * *

  Man, wife and child, Madia gathered, looking at them. They stood around her in a loose semicircle, staring at her in silence. The woman and the boy held one lit candle each up in front of them. Madia realized they could see her much better than she could see them. She got slowly to her feet, straining to gather detail. They were dressed in the simplest of clothes, nearly the same dresses, shirts and pants worn by beggars in Kamrit. The man had an ax in his hands, held at the ready.

  "Had enough of our bread?" the woman said in a strong voice with a cold, even tone.

  "Who are you?" the man asked in a deep, rough voice that was less taciturn. He looked to be in his thirties, and he still had several teeth. His breath smelled heavily of ale.

  Madia opened her mouth, but the answer caught in her throat. Her instinct was to inform them of their place, tell them she was the royal princess of Ariman and was owed the service and allegiance of every soul in these lands, then tell them her bidding after that. But she still did not know who in Kamrit had sent the lone knight to attack her, or what he had wanted, or why Lord Ivran's men had killed the girl who wore her clothing—she didn't know who might have good reason to help her enemies by turning her over to them. How would these people react to the truth, she wondered, if they chose to believe her at all? . . .

  The man looked at his wife and shook his head. "She's a thief, that's all! A stinkin' thief. We can take her up to the manor and let the lord deal with her."

  "No!" Madia said, nearly startling herself with the outburst. "No, you can't do that."

  "You see?" the man said. "She is a thief, wanted by the king's men, sure. Out with you, to the manor! I'll not have your likes in my house."

  "Please," Madia said, finding the word somewhere. She tried to think of something appropriate—not the truth, certainly, but a lie, which was something she had a good deal more experience with.

  "I am wanted for something I did not do. You must believe me."

  "Where are you from?" he asked.

  "Kamrit," she said, having no idea what else to say.

  "What are you charged with?" the woman asked.

  Madia searched her tired mind for lucid thoughts. These were ignorant folk, of course, so anything simple would do, and she had concocted the most elaborate stories at the castle dozens of times, often with no more notice than this. . . .

  "The Princess Madia thinks I enticed a nobleman who was courting her," she said. "She ordered me thrown in prison. But I swear I did no such thing! I have no idea what drew the good fellow's attention, as I never so much as looked at him, and I only spoke to him when he spoke to me. Yet I am blamed! I barely escaped the city and have been alone on the road since then—four days now, without food or proper shelter."

  "Aye, the good princess is a graceless, vexing little imp!" said the woman. "The whole kingdom knows it! Be the king's ruin yet, and everyone knows that, too."

  "You have met the princess?" Madia asked, trying not to flinch, straining to hold her tongue.

  "Oh, no," the woman said, shaking her head from side to side. "But it is common notice. The king's threatened to put her out in the cold, you know, is the latest word about. Same justice she did you! Sure serve her right, too."

  "I hear the stories myself," her husband said. He frowned, the candlelit shadow of his ax growing longer across his rough, unshaven face. "But what of this one?"

  "Could just put her out, on her way," the woman said. "It was the full moon that brought her, so we could just give her back."

  "She is sort of pretty." The boy's voice. Madia could not imagine how he might see such virtues in her as she appeared just now—filthy, ragged, putrid—although she had already noticed that the smell was something these people were well enough accustomed to. She looked the boy over more closely. Quite young, really, perhaps thirteen. N
ervous boy-eyes of a kind she had seen times before. Madia very nearly smiled.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "No need to steal a man's bread," the boy's father told Madia, looking her over much more carefully now himself. "You can ask."

  "I really am sorry. I was not sure who to trust," she added, thinking this, at least, was quite true. I can't trust anyone!

  "Could be there's a nice bounty on her head?" the man added, looking to his wife. Even the boy seemed to perk up noticeably at the idea. Madia thought of the gold coins she had carried, a pittance to her then, a fortune to her now, more than enough to buy the loyalties of these people. But she was poorer than they just now.

  "I doubt there is any bounty," she said. "But your lord may wish to gain favor with the royal house by turning me in. I do not want to go to jail."

  "She talks so fine," the man said, rubbing his chin, thoughtful. "High breed, or a servant to a high house."

  "A servant, truly," Madia responded, "to many a fine lord and great baron who has visited the king." True also, in a very special way, she thought. "So you see, I know something of hospitality."

  "Never mind that!" the woman snapped. She stepped forward once and stood toe-to-toe with Madia, breathing ale-soaked breath at her. Her face fell into shadow, but Madia could gather much from the ire in the other's tone. "There'll be no hospitality for outlaws here, believe that."

  "Alright, Faith," her husband said, taking her by the arm, pulling her gently back. "Just a bit." He walked to one side of Madia and paused, puzzling, then went around to the other side near the boy. "I'll bet she knows something about work, bein' a servant to the king so long and all." He found Madia's eyes. "We got behind on cuttin' the lord's grain, enough so we'll have to work long and Sundays to get the last of our own garden done and stored for winter." He turned again to the others.

  "What I mean is, we might let her stay about for a few weeks, or so, till we're done with harvest and stores, and we might feed her a little now and then. As well my brother could use some help." He made a gesture behind him, toward some other part of the village, then looked at Madia. "You can sleep with our cow, if you want." He stopped to look at his wife and chuckled. Madia saw her grin and shake her head. "And who is going to watch her?" she said.