Demon Blade

by Mark A. Garland

  Madia began to feel almost comfortable here. She came to stay with a mother who truly needed help with many things, a widow named Arie and her two daughters, girls half Madia's age. With no sons and no husband, Arie and her girls had learned to do a man's work each day, and bore a look in their eyes and posture that testified to this. She said her husband had died during the winter past, something wrong in his gut, a painful passing. The other villagers had helped with whatever they had, and still did, more generously than any people Madia had ever known at Kamrit Castle.

  So Madia offered to help Arie with putting up the last of her winter stores, then she helped make ale and noticed, tasting older brews, that she had begun to develop a taste for the stuff herself.

  She met other girls her own age here, most of them married, though a few that were not, and there were many young men, though she only flirted with them; she had known too many men of learning and power, men of adventure who were greater adversaries in games of romantic lure and chance. Already she had almost forgotten what that was like, though not completely. Food and shelter were one thing, but a princess' fancy was quite another.

  She stayed nearly three weeks until, come a Saturday afternoon, Arie returned from taking a wagonload of the last of the season's apples to the market. When the wagon drew near, Arie was off the back and hurrying toward the hut before the wheels had stopped.

  "Hope!" she said, a terribly serious look on her face. "I have news of Kamrit, of the king!" She said it all in one breath, then drew another. "We should go inside."

  Madia nodded, went in and waited while the girl composed herself, waited for her to say that the princess was presumed dead, and so it might be safe for the servant girl Hope to return to the city of Kamrit.

  "The long illness that plagues King Andarys has taken a turn, they say, and has worsened. The grand chamberlain, Lord Ferris, is carrying out the king's wishes for him."

  Madia felt her gut tighten. My father, ill! And that cretin Ferris running the kingdom. . . .

  "They say Lord Ferris is hunting enlistments, and his soldiers are said to be everywhere lately, especially in Kopeth, looking for young men to join their legions."

  "Perhaps they will stay in Kopeth," Madia muttered, her mind going in two directions.

  "But don't you see, they will come here soon, searching for freemen, or any man willing to serve the king. Did you not say you were still wanted by every soldier in Ariman? Or do you think, with the king's illness, your crimes might have been forgotten?"

  "Perhaps," Madia said, paying strict attention now. "Though . . . I would doubt that."

  Of course, she still had no idea who else was involved, which made trying to understand the possibilities just as frustrating as it had been the day she was attacked.

  "Then I fear for you. You said that your service in the castle made you known to all."

  "That is true," Madia replied. "When might they come?"

  "A few days, I think. Perhaps a day."

  She had heard of a town beyond Kopeth, known as Kern, nearer the northern border of Ariman—though not too close, as anywhere close to Bouren was nowhere she wanted to find herself just now. Still, there might be nowhere else to go. Except home. "Then I must leave tonight."

  "You must let me help you."

  "You say the king's illness is an old one. Do you know anything more?"

  "No, only what they say."

  Madia had never known of any such illness, so she thought it might well be a lie. Her father wouldn't do her the favor of getting sick and passing on. Rumors could start, though, and spread. . . .

  "Where will you go?" Arie asked.

  "I have a place to hide," Madia said, because Arie didn't need to know any differently.

  "Will you be back?"

  Arie stood looking at her the way Lady Anna used to, nights when Madia would leave her chambers; like Rous and Faith and Aust had looked at her the day she had said good-bye to them. She had said good-bye too often of late.

  "Yes," she said, knowing it wasn't true.

  "Then I would have you borrow something of mine." Arie went to the corner of the room, reached behind the pine storage chest there, and retrieved a sword. She handed it to Madia. A crude weapon, the blade was short and blunt and made of poor steel, most of it rusting and pitted at the edges. The hilt was homemade, carved from oak, and there was no scabbard.

  "It was found in the fields, leftover from the wars," she said. "It might afford you some protection against the hungry beasts, or men. My husband taught me how to hold it, to protect myself when he was away. It is not hard to learn."

  She went to show Madia what little she had learned. Madia let her, not letting on to her own abilities with a weapon.

  "Thank you," Madia said when they were finished. She wrapped the sword in rags and tied it to her back. "I will return it, I promise." And she realized as she said it that, in fact, she hoped she might keep her word.

  She dressed as warmly as time and the villager's generosity would allow. She took food for a week, hoping it would not take that long, uncertain she would survive longer in the cold that had gripped the land in recent days.

  For a moment, she began to wonder if it might be better to just go home, or go to Kopeth, better to face her enemies and risk being killed or hauled away by her father—or by his enemies. At least that way, she thought, she might die running toward her life, instead of away from it—because that is what you are doing! It was an idea she still felt uncomfortable with, one she could examine only indirectly. Yet there were other concerns.

  What if my father really is ill. . . .

  But if she were ever to go back with the intent to survive she would need to know more, to understand many things that eluded her now. The decision could wait, a few days at least, until she'd had time to think things over a little more, time to decide what she was afraid of, no matter where she was; or perhaps, with luck, she would be able to learn something new in a real town. One way or another.

  With the first light of the last day of November, she set out again, feet crunching on the morning frost covering the grasses in the fields along the road to Kern.

  Chapter VII

  Silently Anna stood over him, watching him breathe, ignoring the ache in the bones of her tired feet. She knelt and took her thin leather shoes off. The cool stone floor felt good against the soles of her feet.

  The king stirred, one hand twitching slightly; Anna held the hand in hers, squeezing gently. She liked to come here as often as she could, then stay by Kelren Andarys' side until she could no longer stand. The king had deteriorated slowly before her eyes, fading away physically and mentally until he could barely move or speak, or recognize anyone. Still, Anna spent time at his side, fussing over his appearance, his clothing and his hair.

  Lord Kelren reminded her of all that had been, of the times when her husband was still alive, when the castle was filled with visitors and host to countless gatherings, when all Kamrit was as bright and alive as he was. Sir Renall and Kelren had been great friends, and Kelren had been a good friend to her when her husband was taken. The king had trusted her with the care of his only daughter.

  A trust she felt she had betrayed, at least in some ways. Like her husband, Madia was also gone, and Kelren was all that remained of her, too. . . .

  Every time she looked at him, she remembered all this. When he died and all that had been the best parts of her life died with him, she would have nothing at all.

  She stood back as her feet ached again in protest, then she sighed, considering giving in to the hour, to the inevitable. Her thoughts drifted again, only to be interrupted by the click of the latch on the door behind her. She turned to find Lord Ferris entering the room. He was accompanied by the seneschal, Tristan, two squires, and behind them a pair of serfs and Lamarat, the court physician. Ferris greeted her; Tristan only gave her a nod. They approached the bed, but only Lamarat did not stop short. He edged in front of Anna, and she quickly retreated.

/>   "We must tend to him now," Lord Ferris said, taking Anna well aside. "You may come again tomorrow, if you wish."

  Anna barely looked up. Ferris had the most unsettling eyes she had ever encountered, and a certain way about him: agitated at times, frightening, like an animal gone mad. "Yes, my lord," she said, bowing to him. "Tomorrow."

  "Good night," Ferris said.

  She faded back and quietly let herself out.

  * * *

  When Lamarat was finished, he stepped back. "Forgive me, my lord," he said, "but there seems to be nothing left to do. His fate lies in the hands of the Greater Gods."

  "It is enough that you have tried," Tyrr told him—made the mouth tell him. "More, no one can ask."

  "Perhaps a priest or a wizard," Lamarat said. "I fear there may be sorcery at work here, though I cannot be sure."

  "A priest will be called if one is needed," Tyrr assured him, working to form an appropriate expression on the construct's face. "But I fear Kelren's suffering is nothing more than nature's own cruelty." He paused momentarily, just long enough, then he turned to the others. "Please, leave me now, all of you, so that I may pray with my king in silence."

  He waited while the physician left, taking the seneschal and the squires with him. The two serfs, however, remained. These were the men Tyrr had picked out, along with several others, to become more of his special allies, a rare dimension added to his perfectly evolving plan. He had given them special training and guidance, then set about working new spells with old; they were his now, completely. Soon, there would be many like them.

  He nodded to one of the serfs, who turned and latched the door. Tyrr positioned himself, held the construct still, then focused the rest of his energies on the feeble, failing body of King Andarys. Even this newest incantation was similar to others he had tried, made to cause a specific human suffering; it was especially designed to draw much greater energy from both the natural world, and from the great reserves inherent in the power differentials between the human world and Tyrr's. This night Tyrr labored carefully, tirelessly, fighting his natural urge to rush in and finish up, to substitute raw energy for a sustained methodology. This was as much a test of his own resolve as it was a means to accomplish his goal—the death of the king.

  He had reasoned that perhaps his failures so far were due to a lack of attention to detail and not to errors in his spells or their intensity. A problem, Tyrr believed, that had plagued his kind throughout the ages.

  Until now.

  The king was gravely ill. He looked terribly thin and pale, skin dry and limp, eyes nearly always closed, glazed when they were open. There was no doubt that Tyrr's efforts so far had had their effects, and the entire kingdom was convinced of the apparent sad outcome of Kelren's strange, worsening affliction—but somehow the man still lived! And clearly, that had gone on long enough.

  Magic was at work, certainly, since no amount of mortal fortitude could have kept any man alive under Tyrr's repeated assaults. But even magic, no matter how layered or perfected, had its limits, its weaknesses, its gaps. Tyrr simply had to construct a spell that worked.

  He made the mouth speak the spell's final words as he placed the construct's hands over the bed, palms open and facedown, letting the power of the spell flow to the king. Tyrr bore down, concentrating with all his faculties, letting the incantation do its work.

  When the spell was finally spent, he looked down with his own vision, as well as through the eyes of the human construct, and examined the body of Andarys. He saw an utter lack of movement, sensed nothing there at all. A faint excitement began to build inside him, the hope of final victory! Then the king's chest rose, and fell, and rose again.

  "No!" Tyrr said out loud, realizing in the same instant that he had done so unconsciously, that he was losing definition—slipping! "Don't let it control you," he said, again out loud, this time on purpose. Rage and frustration could force the quick unraveling of all his carefully adopted constraints and resolutions, could make the construct too real or destroy it altogether.

  He saw the door to failure again creeping open before him—a trap, the same trap that had swallowed so many of his kind in ages past, and one he had sworn to outwit! Mild panic swelled within him. He sought to suppress it, to replace it with any sort of calm and confidence. But already he noticed that the body construct he had labored so long to complete was beginning to dematerialize. . . .

  "Think," he made the mouth say. Control, he told himself. More thinking is needed, and more control!

  He turned away from the body, then paced the room for a time, diverting the energy of the storm of emotion within him to the walking motion as he had seen humans do. Like shouting, this seemed to help, though he was not quite certain why.

  Think!

  Finally Tyrr returned to the bedside and looked down.

  And there it was! The answer nearly struck him like a blow: try as he might he could not make the king die—this, sadly, was truth. The solution, then, was to simply lie!

  * * *

  Anna was halfway up the east stairs when a slab of rough stone scuffed her toes, and she realized she'd forgotten her shoes. She hesitated to go back—Lord Ferris would hardly be pleased, no doubt. Perhaps he and the others will not stay long, she thought. I could go and wait near the door for a bit. And if they didn't come out directly, it could wait until tomorrow.

  She went back down the stairs, along one quiet corridor, then turned into the next, nearing the king's chambers. Here she passed by the doors to other chambers unoccupied for a generation, where Hual Andarys had kept family and friends, and finally Madia's room, now empty as well. When she reached Kelren's chamber door, she paused, listening. She heard nothing, so she pressed her ear against the door.

  Mumbling drifted through the thick oak, but nothing she could understand. Then she heard something that sounded like grunting. Suddenly she was aware of footsteps echoing faintly, somewhere behind her. She spun about, hurried up the hall, and ducked through the door to Madia's chambers, then pressed the door carefully shut behind her.

  She could hear the footsteps clearly as she huddled near the floor: someone passing by the door, stopping at Kelren's chambers. Then a knock, a voice begging entrance, the voice of Ceanlon, the new prelate of Kamrit's Church of the Greater Gods, a priest that had become a close spiritual advisor to Lord Ferris since Kelren had taken so ill.

  They have given up hope, Anna thought, feeling the loss in her own heart as the implications forced themselves upon her. Then she heard the chamber door open and close. She waited a moment to be sure no one else was outside the door. When she was satisfied, she slowly pulled the door back a crack. Voices grew suddenly loud as the king's chamber door pulled open. Anna quickly retreated. She could hear Ferris talking to the prelate Ceanlon, and to other men, who made brief, mumbled replies. She couldn't be sure what any of them were saying, though she was certain she did hear the word "body" mentioned twice.

  So he is gone, she thought.

  As the group moved down the hall, Anna took a breath, then held it, and inched the door back just far enough to get her nose into the opening. She could see Lord Ferris and the prelate moving away. Between them, two serfs carried the body of the king. Anna's heart sank still further. She had wished to be near when death finally came to him, to say her own good-bye. She waited for the party to reach the adjoining corridor at the end of the hall—to turn left toward the west wing of the castle, the way that led to the underground catacombs and vaults, where Kelren's father had been laid to rest. The place where Kelren's body would be prepared.

  They reached the intersection and paused, speaking momentarily, then Ferris and the prelate turned west as expected and disappeared around the corner. The serfs and Kelren's body, however, turned the other way, and headed east.

  * * *

  Still in bare feet, Anna padded down the hall, staying well back and out of sight, but close enough to follow the faint echo of scuffling feet ahead. She trailed the ser
fs through numerous corridors and down two main levels, then down another. She finally stopped when she reached a turn no citizen of Kamrit wished to take. Beyond lay a large open stairway leading down to the castle's oldest, darkest dungeons.

  She poked her head around the corner. Only one torch lit the top of the stairwell; the second was missing, taken down the stairs by the serfs. A small table and two chairs stood next to the stairs, a place for the guards—though, as far as Anna knew, only the new dungeons had guards these days. A single soldier stood by the table now.

  What for? she wondered. Here to guard the king's dead body? But from what? From whom?

  Only darkness filled the stairwell beyond. Then she heard footsteps again and saw the helmet of a second guard rising out of the black hole that surrounded the light from his torch. The two serfs followed, empty-handed. Anna felt a chill rake her spine, felt her feet ache, her head beginning to throb. She turned and hurried away.

  Chapter VIII

  From the knoll, Madia could see most of the town of Kern, a huddle of houses and larger buildings around a single town square, all set in a natural hollow that rose beyond to the horizon's low wooded hills. In the flattest fields on either side of the town, between small wooded lots and rocky mounds, water stood in pools and furrows, the result of three days' near constant cold rain. The weather had turned bad enough to threaten Madia's survival, and she suspected, soaked, weak and shaking as she was, it might yet do the job.

  She had slept the first rainy night under a stand of pines, but the water had dripped down and soaked through the ragged tapestries she had brought to cover herself. The next night was better, spent in a tumbled down lean-to; she shared the space with a pair of goats, both female, no doubt from a nearby manor, and their warm milk had been something to savor.

  But she had begun to shake sometime late yesterday, a condition that got no better even after walking all day, or after finishing the last of her provisions, trying to gain strength enough to recover. She could not remember ever being so cold; a cold she thought would never leave her bones. The shaking had grown worse this past little while. Her teeth had begun to rattle.