Demon Blade

by Mark A. Garland

  She had no idea what to expect in Kern, whether soldiers from Kamrit or Lencia might be there, whether anyone would recognize her, or help her even if they did. But there was no choice now.

  She took a deep breath, waited for the worst of a fresh wave of shuddering to subside, then headed down into town.

  The square was open and empty, its booths packed away for the winter months, merchants and peddlersgone to warmer climes or huddled in their houses. But as she examined the signs and markings outside some of the shop doors, she saw some remained yet open: clothier, cartwright, cobbler, smith, candlemaker and a few more. It was better than anything she'd seen in months.

  A large inn made mostly of stone stood at the far end of the square, the only inn, so far as Madia could tell. She wiped rain from her face and made her way forward.

  As she approached the door, it swung open and two men appeared. Involved in their conversation, they stepped out onto the wooden walk and closed the door behind them, not quite steady on their feet. They looked up and fell silent as they fixed their eyes on Madia. Next they looked to each other, expressions unreadable. Madia's mind whirled; she searched for the knowledge of the other life she had lived, her long experience manipulating men.

  They were poorly dressed and groomed and clearly uncaring of the fact, with skin made rough by the elements, the way her own hands had already become. Theirs were large hands, though as one of the men pointed at Madia, she saw that he was missing several fingers. The other man, the heavier of the two, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and squinted in Madia's direction.

  They were both tall, both bearded, and hatless. The rain began to wet their balding heads, beading and running off the oil in their dark hair and whiskers. Thieves or unemployed laborers, Madia thought, the two of them drinking the winter months into oblivion. And no women, she guessed, or none that would have them, though such men were quick to feed each of their hungers all the same, when they could.

  "I think you are right," the heavier one said, taking one step in Madia's direction, nodding. "She be a woman at that!"

  Madia felt herself shake violently as a sudden wave of anxiety—of fatigue wrapped in fear—swept her. Then came a round of fresh chills. She knew she should be gathering words to say, thinking of something to do in case this situation got out of hand, but her mind would not operate and her spirit seemed too drained.

  "Not good, but she don't look real bad, either," the one with the missing fingers replied. Madia knew that wasn't true—not now.

  The bigger one stepped off the wooden walk. "Where you from?" he asked, grinning, displaying a lack of teeth.

  "The south," she said, finding speech uncommonly hard. "A village."

  "All alone?" Fingers asked, scratching the whiskers on his cheek with just his thumb. "And in such a rain?"

  Lies, Madia told herself. Think of something—

  "I was traveling with my husband, but we were set upon by outlaws and he was killed, three days ago."

  "Traveling where?" the large one asked.

  "Ahh—here, of course. I—rather, he was a, a—" She tried to recall all the trades she had just counted on her way into town. "A baker," she said. "Do you have one?"

  The question gave them pause, then Fingers made a negative shrug. "Well, anyway, we got lots of folk who bake, so it don't matter. Where'd you learn to talk like that?"

  Madia felt another shiver, the strength leaving her body; her speech still retained much of what her appearance did not. "Some years ago, I was a servant at Kamrit castle," she said, picking up the same old line.

  "Aye, I'll bet, and I was the king's mistress!" Fingers chortled, slapping his friend backhanded. "Now, what else is it you aren't sayin'?"

  Madia only stared at them, wishing they would vanish. Wishing she could call the guard and have these two sent to the dungeons or executed.

  "Got any coin?" Fingers asked her suddenly.

  "No," Madia said. "The robbers took that."

  "Lessee just what you got in that sack," the large one said, grinning now, nearly toothless as well. "You don't mind, do you?"

  Not again, Madia thought. She could understand the lure of the rich-looking bag she had worn from Kamrit, but the wet sack she carried now was not the least bit appetizing, unless they were just that curious, or bored, or stupid—or all those things.

  "Please, let me pass," she said.

  The heavier man reached into his coat and drew out a blackened stiletto, then pointed it toward Madia. "When we come to it, dear," he said. His nose began to run; he sniffed fluids back, then swallowed.

  Madia remembered the sword on her back. She stepped back, heart pounding as the possibilities settled in her consciousness. She shrugged off her bag and pulled the cord free, then wrestled the blade from its wrappings. The two men faded back just a step, then Fingers began to laugh, and his friend did, too.

  "Maybe we oughta get us some help, 'fore she runs us through!" the fat man roared, spreading his arms, holding the stiletto with just his fingertips as if preparing to drop it; Madia didn't think he would. Fingers started moving right, working his way around so as to get behind her while the other man slipped the knife back into his fist and came straight ahead.

  Madia swung the blade at the man on her right, forcing him to back away. The bigger man jumped at her, lashing out with the stiletto, apparently aiming for her arm. She reacted just in time, countering with a short and unexpected thrust that found the front of the big man's thigh. He stood back, gaping down as blood soaked his knee and spread down the gray-brown trouser leg. Then he looked at Madia again with a strange, contorted face, and he began to howl.

  Madia checked on Fingers, found him standing too close, no smile on his face now. She put two paces between them, but already the big man's stiletto was lashing out again. He was swinging wild, too fast for Madia's battered mind and body to defend against. She fell back, stumbling, parrying his moves by rote, but he began to catch on, anticipating what she might do next. He lunged twice, and the second strike caught her sleeve and tore it nearly off. She thought there was blood, but she couldn't pause to look. When she glanced sideways, she realized she couldn't see Fingers anymore.

  A second later he found her, hands grabbing her from behind. The other man straightened, a rain-soaked look of satisfaction spreading over his chunky features. Madia felt exhaustion take her, felt the chills overwhelm her. She slumped back into the smaller man's arms and let him take her weight.

  "Have to hurt you for this," Chunky said, pointing to his leg.

  "Earned wages," Madia tried to say, the only thing she could throw at him, but she didn't think the words came out.

  She heard the door on the inn burst open behind them and looked up to see another man stepping out. Both the men with her turned and looked. He was tall and broad-chested, if a bit round at the middle, and dressed much better than these other two. He wore a sleeveless fur tunic, his face was shaven, the hair coiffed out of his eyes. A handsome man, in fact, despite being early in his fifties if he was a day.

  She noticed now that he had a full broadsword sheathed in decorated leather and lashed to his side. She hadn't seen the like since leaving Kamrit Castle.

  "Go on back inside, Hoke!" the man holding the stiletto said. "This be none of your affair."

  The man they called Hoke simply stood there, silent, arms folded in front of him. Madia suddenly realized he wasn't looking at the two men at all, but was staring straight at her. Then a part of her mind tried to tell her she had heard that name before, sometime long ago, or heard mention of it, though nothing would come clearly to mind.

  "Yours, either, I would wager," Hoke replied, looking at them.

  "Well, she is goin' with us, you hear!" Fingers said, shouting in Madia's ear. "Just simple fact!"

  "Leave her," Hoke said. "You don't need her. She looks half-dead anyway."

  "Gonna be all the way dead the way she's actin'," the fat man said, shifting his weight, his leg bleeding worse now. "Jus
t go back to your business."

  "You are keeping me from it," Hoke replied. "I say she was headed inside, in need of a meal and a room."

  "Never do you no good," Fingers said. "She's a beggar. Got robbed on the road, and her husband killed."

  "That so?" Hoke said, surprise in his eyes. "A husband, was it?"

  Madia barely realized he was talking to her. She nodded, then felt the man behind her jerk her once for her efforts.

  "Just bring her," the big man said, waving his slender knife toward the near side of the square. The sound of Hoke's sword leaving its scabbard drew everyone's attention. He stepped down and approached Madia and the two men. She noticed he seemed to limp on one leg just as the fat man did, though he was apparently much more used to it.

  "Leave her!" he said again, his voice both louder and lower this time. He stood at arm's length from the fat man and brought the tip of his sword into gentle contact with the stiletto, then slowly forced it downward. "Or I will lose at least one customer."

  The other man seemed to struggle against the pressure, then he gave up and withdrew. "You are not makin' any friends, Hoke," he said, still holding the knife defensively, though the killing mood had left his eyes.

  "Never needed many," Hoke said, then he took another step forward. The man behind Madia let go quickly enough and slid sideways to join his friend, leaving Madia to find her legs again. The two of them stood watching Hoke and Madia, already putting distance between themselves and Hoke as they walked slowly backward. They began mumbling, though not loud enough to hear the words.

  "Speak up!" Hoke said, shouting. He stepped toward them at the same time. Both men jumped involuntarily, then turned and hurried off, mumbling all the more.

  Madia watched Hoke put his sword away. She felt her legs giving out.

  "Thank you," she said, making certain he heard.

  Hoke smiled quietly then, as though he'd come to some agreement with himself. "It is my sworn duty," he replied, looking at her.

  She swallowed, took a breath. "Your duty?" She felt herself going to her knees. Hoke stepped toward her and slipped his arm around her waist. "I could hardly let them kill the king's own daughter!"

  * * *

  She woke in a soft bed—a room at the inn, she thought, in part because Hoke was standing over her bed.

  "Is it morning?" she asked. She remembered going inside the inn, and eating soup, and being wrapped in something warm. . . .

  "Afternoon," he said. "You missed breakfast and lunch, but you are in plenty of time for dinner. I'll wait for you outside." And with that, he disappeared through the doorway.

  She felt like staying in bed a while longer, snug under the warm blankets, but her stomach would not let her, any more than her curiosity. She dressed in the simple, blousey dress she found laid out beside the bed, then found a comb and used it on her hair. When she joined Hoke outside, he led her downstairs to a quiet table at one end of the big room, where the meal was served.

  She learned that the clothes had been provided by a woman Hoke introduced as Keara—a woman nearly twice Madia's age, tall and thin, with long dark hair and calm, set features. Keara stuffed Madia full of cooked pork and carrots in a brown gravy, and fresh oat bread, and the best ale Madia had ever tasted. There were two very large stone hearths complete with chimneys at either end of the room, one of them just behind her. Inside a great fire burned, warming her back.

  Hoke ate quickly, then went about the room, still limping, speaking to a few of the other guests. He returned just as Madia was finishing. He took to his chair across the table from her, getting the bad leg out from under him first. Keara excused herself and went to fetch more bread and ale, half of which she gave to two younger couples on her way back.

  "How would you say she is faring?" Hoke asked Keara after she joined them, nodding at Madia.

  "Well enough, considering," Keara said, holding a folded cloth, shaking her head. "One more day out there and nobody could have done her any harm."

  "How long were you on the road?" Hoke asked.

  Madia felt the remnant of a chill pass up her spine as she thought of that journey. There was much she wanted to put out of her mind, and more she needed to know. She wanted to ask questions, not answer them. "Seven nights, and eight days," she said.

  "Keara is right, you know, a lot of folk would never have lasted so long. A traveler's got to have the know-how to pack in weather like this. And strength—plenty of that, certainly. And fortitude. And, I think, sensibility!" Hoke leaned over the table, eyeing Madia as though she might disappear at any moment. "So," he said, "you are a puzzle, because as the Greater Gods are my witness, Princess Madia was never a woman of any such qualities!"

  Madia swallowed back a gulp of ale and nearly choked on it. "Oh," she said, nose down. "You knew her?"

  "I knew you," Hoke replied. "When you were much younger.

  "I . . . see." Madia looked up and sat still a moment, trying to read the man's dark eyes. "Who are you?" she asked directly.

  "Hoke."

  "I know that, but why does your name sound familiar?"

  "I was captain in your father's royal guard and fought beside him in the Voller uprisings before you were born. I used to tickle your sides when you were just a small girl." Madia found vague memories stirring, becoming clearer. As she recalled her history lessons, the Voller wars arose when a small number of Ariman's eastern coastal fiefs, led by Baron Voller, had challenged the rights of the crown. In the final battle, King Andarys had been captured by a raiding party led by the baron himself, then held for ransom. But a small, outnumbered band of Andarys' finest knights from the royal guard overran and defeated the kidnappers almost at once, and the king had escaped unharmed. Baron Voller, however, had not survived, along with most of his men.

  "I have been told of this," Madia said. "You are the captain who led the rescue attempt?"

  "The same."

  "But he was badly wounded," Keara said, glancing back at the handful of others seated about the room, then sitting herself down as well. "Nearly lost his leg."

  "That was twenty years ago," Madia said. Her eyes strayed toward the leg, but the table blocked her view. "It never mended?"

  Hoke shrugged. "Well enough. But I'm not much good in a fight."

  "I would never say that," Keara disagreed, scowling at Hoke. He shrugged again.

  "I lack agility," he said.

  Keara made a face. "Yes, but there is something to be said for skill. He was the finest swordsman in all Ariman in his day, mentor to all the great knights."

  "It is true," Madia said, more of her lessons coming back to her now. "That is just how it was told to me. You became a great hero."

  "I became a burden, kept on because of your father's charity."

  "It was gratitude," Keara corrected, looking at Madia, ignoring Hoke now. "And need. Your father put Hoke to work training the best of the many young men-at-arms that came to his service. And every man was grateful."

  "Why aren't you still there?" Madia asked. "I can assure you that there is lately a great need for competent instructors."

  "My own decision. I was not . . . comfortable. Your father offered me a small fief near Haven, but I never fancied myself a baron."

  "So he offered money instead, and Hoke bought the inn and settled here," Keara finished for him. "Which most of Kern has long been pleased about, especially me, though I should never let him hear as much." She rolled her eyes at Hoke. He rolled his eyes back at her, and Madia could see something of the strength and spirit between them.

  "You are husband and wife?" Madia asked, certain of the answer. But both of them began to laugh.

  "No," Hoke said, still chuckling. "Though we nearly were, quite some years ago, when we still both lived in Kamrit. Her husband was my dear friend, as was she. He was with me when we rode to rescue our king. He did not survive."

  "Hoke has looked after me," Keara said. She reached toward him and put her hand on his. "We were something like lov
ers for a time."

  Hoke looked at her, a brief expression Keara seemed to recognize. "He still looks after me," she added.

  "It is the other way around," Hoke said, pulling free of her. "My own mother did not watch me so well."

  "Stop your lies," Keara scolded. "Or I'll have you limping on both legs!"

  Hoke laughed again. Madia suspected that it was not the first time Keara had made that threat. They were like the people she had met in the villages, Madia thought, working together whenever they had to, finding humor at the edges of pain, but they were a little like her, too, as no one she had met since leaving Kamrit had been.

  "I am grateful to both of you," Madia said.

  "Gratitude is also not a quality of the little princess I knew," Hoke said. "The girl I've heard much about in recent years. 'Please and thank you,' and all—I don't know. In fact, the girl I recall had almost no good qualities at all. I would have let those men outside do what they would with that girl—if she were not her father's daughter. No, I'd say getting killed has had a profound effect on you."

  "I was almost killed," Madia said, then she told him about the knight on foot from Kamrit, the others on mounts from Bouren, even about the villages she had lived in. Both Hoke and Keara listened intently, their eyes fast upon her, until she told them of the last village she had visited, and the news of her father's illness.

  "You do not know, do you child?" Keara said, looking at Hoke as she did.

  "Know what?"

  Hoke leaned over and reached one large hand across the table, beckoning, then waited until Madia gave him hers.

  "Your father is dead."

  * * *

  "I swear," Hoke said, when Madia had recovered enough to call him a liar, then to tell him that it was impossible.

  "It is true," Keara said.

  "I am certain of it," Hoke continued. "I still have many friends in Kamrit, many inside the castle itself. Word comes to me, and the same story is told by everyone. It was the illness, as you say, though some of my friends believe his illness was not natural. They have no proof of treachery, nor any clear motives. But in all the years I served him, Kelren Andarys was never ill. And now we know someone tried to kill you, though the murder of the king, like your own, is a difficult thing to understand and a harder thing to prove.