Son of Cayn

by Jason McDonald

  “Who are you?” the knight snarled.

  The ranger replied to the knight’s question by feinting high with his left and following with a low right. Marko correctly read the move and lowered his shield to block. Instead of striking with his sword, Xandor stepped in, planted his right foot on Marko’s shield just above the centerline, and shoved the knight backward. The shield’s top edge pivoted back, smacking into the knight’s helm with a clang. A line of blood welled across Marko’s brow as he stumbled back and dropped to one knee to regain his balance.

  Xandor followed up instantly with a double assault, each blade coming in from opposite sides. Marko pulled his shield high and pivoted on his knee, slashing with his bastard sword in a vicious arc at the ranger’s ankles. Catching the flash of steel, Xandor leapt over and away from the cut. Both men were back on their feet in an instant, warily circling, looking for an opening in the other’s defense.

  A flurry of blows passed back and forth, and the sound of crashing metal rang through the dark streets. Cheers and groans erupted from the crowd as the onlookers encouraged their favorite, yet neither man seemed to be able to gain the advantage.

  The ranger blocked a heavy blow at hip level with crossed blades, only to find himself buffeted by the shield. The two men were too close for the blow to cause Xandor any real damage, but it threw off the ranger’s attack and forced a retreat.

  Adrenaline pounded through Xandor’s veins, but he knew the fight couldn’t go on much longer. Even if the two of them had the stamina, he had little doubt the militsiya would be along soon. He spun both his blades, ostensibly loosening his wrists, as he circled the knight, looking for an advantage.

  The scrape of Xandor’s boot on the pavement echoed as he led his attack with his left hand and reverse-gripped the sword in his right for close-in slicing. Anticipating the maneuver, Marko shifted his left foot back, adjusting his stance to give himself extra room to swing the shield like a hammer into the closing attack, forcing Xandor to vent the fury of his attack on the shield face.

  Like a hawk, the knight leapt after the ranger, sword high and shield to the fore. Xandor watched the knight’s charge, his mind working furiously.

  Marko’s blade descended, and Xandor’s blade rose to meet it, beating the sword aside. Simultaneously, the ranger drove his other blade into the edge of the knight’s shield, cutting through the ironbound rim and biting deeply into the oak beneath.

  Marko twisted the shield to bind the blade and whipped it to the left. The maneuver almost ripped the sword from Xandor’s grip, but the battered edge of the shield broke free, leaving Marko with an eight-inch chunk of shield missing and Xandor with a sore wrist. The combatants circled each other again, Xandor twirling his swords to work out the soreness.

  The circle of spectators shifted as the fighters ranged, each barely avoiding blows from the other, dodging and parrying at the last possible second.

  Then Marko struck, with an overhead swing of his sword followed by a low shield bash. Xandor blocked the blade and braced himself for the blow from the shield as he brought his other blade around in a powerful arc aimed at Marko’s exposed helmet. This time, however, the knight tilted his shield and struck with the edge as he lifted, catching Xandor along the ribs. The ranger’s breath whooshed out, stealing enough power from his swing the knight’s helm turned the sword’s edge with a ringing clang, leaving only a half-inch-deep dent.

  Both warriors, mildly stunned, took a moment to reassess and recover. The smell of sweat and blood coated the night air, and the crowd reached a fever pitch. Marko shook his head to clear the stars as Xandor struggled to get his breathing back under control.

  A scream from above got both of their attentions.

  “Back off, or we’ll kill the girl!”

  Through the broken window, Xandor saw the bartender in the hands of one of the Northmen. He had one hand in her hair, holding her head back to draw her throat taut against his dagger. Unhappy muttering broke out among the spectators; they didn’t take kindly to one of their own being threatened. Finding he had the upper hand, Marko smiled when Xandor stopped circling and shifted back two steps.

  “Let her go!” the ranger yelled over his shoulder, still facing the knight in a defensive crouch, both blades in guarding positions.

  “A truce, warrior?”

  “A truce,” Xandor replied.

  Bringing up his sword, the knight saluted the ranger and signaled for his men to leave. The ranger watched the knight disappear into the crowd. He glanced up at the window to see the bartender standing alone, one hand on her throat, the other on the window frame. He nodded to her as he heard the sound of hoofbeats receding to the north.

  With sweat dripping down his face and his swords still in his hands, Xandor stared down the road the knight and his men had taken, wondering if he should try to chase them. All around, the spectators were discussing the fight, some drifting back inside the bar, others wandering off down the street. Xandor breathed heavily and knew his energy would soon start to flag. A hand on his arm snapped him out of his reverie.

  “Are you alright?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Then come inside and have a drink on the house. The militsiya will be here any minute.”

  He glanced at her, startled to see an angry red mark on her cheek already darkening to a bruise. One by one, he sheathed his swords, wincing as he lifted his right arm.

  The bartender’s eyes widened. “You’re bleeding!” she exclaimed as she saw the dark stain spreading over his armor.

  Xandor looked down. “Bloody hell! The bastard got me with his shield.”

  “Come. The least I can do is bandage that for you.”

  The two walked back to the tavern, the bartender staying solicitously at Xandor’s side. She sent the few patrons who remained out into the street, announcing she was closing for the night. Although there were some grumbles, everyone shuffled out the door. Outside, the militsiya arrived to investigate the disturbance.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” the young woman said. “Are you normally on the wall or the gate?”

  Xandor clenched his teeth and shook his head as she helped him remove his damaged leather and the thin shirt beneath. A leather thong supporting a small, bronze Korsun cross contrasted with his tan skin.

  “Neither,” he replied, then hissed with a sharp intake of breath as the bartender applied a vodka-drenched towel to the wound across his ribs.

  “Sorry, but the alcohol will kill any infection. Are you new here, then?”

  He nodded. “Just arrived today. My name’s Xandor, by the way.”

  The bartender smiled. “Dana. Press this towel against your side while I get my bag. You need stitches.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You’re going to stitch me?”

  “Sure. It’s easier than mending a shirt.”

  “I’m hardly a shirt that needs mending!”

  Dana laughed. “Relax. I served two years in a field hospital. I know what I’m doing. Still, you should probably drink some of this,” she said, handing him the vodka bottle.

  * * *

  When the Lieutenant of the militsiya entered the tavern, he found Xandor sitting on top of the bar, stripped to his waist. A bottle of vodka sat open beside him, and the barkeep was putting a knot in the last of a line of stitches along his ribcage. The officer watched as she had Xandor hold white gauze over the wound while she wrapped a cream-colored bandage around his torso.

  “I’m Lieutenant Penko. Who are you, and what happened here?”

  Xandor looked around and found his leather tunic. He reached inside and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he handed to the officer. The officer took it and read it. He nodded and, as he handed it back, said, “I thought so. Heard rumors one of the Kral’s rangers was in town.”

  The barkeep made a little gasp, and the two men stared at her. “Sorry, I . . . you’re a ranger? I thought you were militsiya.”

  “Who
are you?” the officer asked bruskly.

  “My name is Dana Valevataya, and I own this place.”

  “Would you mind please stepping away, ma’am, while I discuss what happened with the ranger? I will have one of the other officers come and take your statement.”

  “No, you won’t,” she said, waving her arms. “Have you looked upstairs? It was my home those men tore up. I have every right to know what’s going on.”

  Xandor said, “It’s alright, Lieutenant. With all those people outside, there’s no chance of keeping this story quiet.”

  Dana threw a quick smile at Xandor. The ranger went on to explain to the officer that he was trailing someone of interest and that person led him to the fugitive knight—the same person responsible for attacking the patrol outside Dobrovnitsa. Xandor recounted the evening’s events leading up to the fight and provided detailed descriptions of the knight’s men, including the heraldic mark on the knight’s shield.

  “Lieutenant, although that knight carried a crest of nobility, I expect he is not really a knight, nor does he subscribe to the standard knight’s code of honor. When we fought, his tactics were unorthodox. Not only did his men hold this woman hostage, but he used sharpened edges on his shield during the fight—something I have only seen used by Rhodinan mercenaries. The knights I know would view his tactics as dishonorable.”

  The officer wrote down some notes and asked, “Which way did they leave?”

  “The last I saw, they disappeared into the crowd.”

  The tavern door burst open and everybody turned as a young militiaman rushed inside and said excitedly, “Sir, we found them! We have them trapped near the Stena.”

  Officer Penko nodded toward the young man. “I’ll be right there. Wait outside for me.”

  As the young man obeyed, Xandor said to Penko, “Be careful. Those men are very dangerous.”

  Looking at the ranger with curiosity, Lieutenant Penko asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the Kral’s interest in all this?”

  Xandor jumped down from the counter and said, “Believe it or not, Lieutenant, soap.”

  Shaking his head in disbelief, the officer turned and slowly walked to the door. He had one hand on the door when Xandor asked, “Can you do me a favor?”

  Lieutenant Penko stopped and looked back toward the ranger.

  “Please send a runner to the Elina. Tell him to find a dwarf named Chert Joalheiro. He needs to know what happened here.”

  “I’ll send someone immediately.”

  “Thanks.”

  After Lieutenant Penko left, Xandor reached for his blood-soaked shirt, but Dana stopped him, her fingers warm on the back of his hand.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. As she said it, she stepped in close to place her other hand on his bare shoulder.

  Xandor looked down into her eyes, seeing now that they were flecked with amber. Her tousled hair framed her face in a soft, golden nimbus. She was standing very close, though not quite touching him, and he could feel the magnetic energies between their bodies.

  Dana ran her fingers up his arm as she raised herself on the balls of her feet, simultaneously drawing Xandor’s head down toward hers. When their lips touched, energy arced between them, and her body seemed to melt against his. The ranger’s arms closed around the bar owner, all thoughts of his job forgotten.

  * * *

  Chert stood by the broken doorway of the third floor apartment. Part of the door sagged on its damaged hinges, while the rest lay on the floor in splinters. He stepped into the living room and noticed the clothes, armor, and weapons scattered about. The dwarf followed the trail of castoffs to a darkened room where Xandor and someone else lay sleeping in the bed under a large pile of fur blankets.

  Chert looked around at the state of the room. The bedroom furniture looked like it had been used for sparring practice, and a heavy blanket hung on the wall. Chert walked over and peered behind the blanket to find the remains of a window where something, or someone, had been thrown out.

  “Ahem.”

  Nothing. Just the gentle rise and fall of the blankets.

  “Ahem!”

  Still nothing.

  He reached over and snatched the blankets off the bed. Frozen air washed over two naked bodies, and the shock brought both of them wide awake and screaming.

  “It’s time we were leaving, Xandor.”

  The ranger opened his mouth to protest, but when Chert held aside the makeshift curtain to reveal the growing daylight, he closed it. The ranger turned his gaze to Dana beside him and started to blush. She had managed to retrieve a portion of her blankets; still, he couldn’t help but remember the curves of her body . . . He shook his head to clear it.

  “The caravan left over an hour ago,” Chert said.

  “What?! It can’t be that late!”

  “Well, I would have been here sooner, but one of Marcus’ messengers caught up with me.”

  Xandor stood and walked around, collecting his discarded clothing and weapons.

  “What did he have to say?”

  “The note was short and cryptic, but apparently a lot of the upper class are getting sick. They aren’t sure what’s causing it and the healers are at a loss as to how to cure it. The messenger also said several members of the royal family are deathly ill. Marcus said he was getting sick, too.”

  “Marcus? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. He said the symptoms vary in severity, but some of the more extreme symptoms he mentioned were sores on the skin that won’t heal and vomiting blood.”

  Xandor made a face. “Ugh. Did he say how this might be related to our mission?”

  “Not really, but he did say they were investigating common denominators and our soap was on the list. One of many.”

  “That narrows it down,” Xandor said sarcastically.

  “Another thing. They found Sachin’s body.”

  “What?! Where’s Grendel?”

  Chert held his hands up to calm Xandor and said, “You don’t understand. Marcus sent word his people found Sachin’s body back in Pazard’zhik. I didn’t get the full story, but they fished his body from the Maritsa day before yesterday.”

  “Then who was I following last night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  * * * * *

  Part II

  The lands east of the Stena were once prosperous, teeming with trade and civilization, but that was more than thirty years ago, before the great sickness that befell the land. Before the Plague War.

  It started with strange rumors regarding the elves. Rumors of remote villages filled with the dead. Extremely reclusive, they rarely traded goods or left their lands, so when they fell ill, no one but the animals knew it.

  Next, it spread to humans. By all accounts, the disease seemed to be directed toward those whose lives were intertwined with magic. Arcane spellcasters were the ones who suffered first and most. The more powerful they were, the faster they succumbed, and during those final stages, their lives ended in horrible, screaming deaths. However, it was not just the mages who contracted the disease. Anyone with the potential for arcane magic was struck with the malady.

  As bad as those with an affinity for the arcane had it, the plague still might have gone unnoticed since there were so few of them. Then the normal folk in the towns and cities west of the White River became ill. Priests and lay healers were helpless to save those who sought their aid. Their ministrations were useless against this new evil, and they were not immune to its deadly touch, either.

  It did not take long for people to blame the spread of the disease on mages and the elves—the very ones who were the most susceptible. Some of the more outspoken citizens claimed the mages were poisoning the land, and Gaia herself was seeking revenge on those who, as some put it, “raped the earth and stole her power.”

  More and more people turned against the mages as the contagion spread. A few of the fortunate ones who were not sick were driven out, but most fell to the whims of the c
rowds. Witch hunts sprang up throughout the countryside. They tested everyone, no matter their age or gender, and stoned those who failed. Their bodies were returned to the earth in mass graves to “give back their magic.”

  Driven to hysteria, the Trakyans and Rhodinans banded together and slaughtered the magical races of the elves still living in the bountiful forests of the region. Even after three decades, some people still hunted the mages and the elves, blaming them for the plague that killed their brother or sister, or their father or mother.

  Into this turmoil erupted the Sons of Cayn. They varied in all manner of size and shape, from the lowly goblins that scavenged their food from the mass graves to the giant nephilim who bathed in the blood of those they killed. Hordes of khumanoidi came down from the highlands and razed whole towns and cities. Eastern Trakya, in its weakened state, provided no resistance to their onslaught.

  An army pulled from the people of Pazard’zhik and its neighbors arrived, bringing orders from the Kral—everyone west of the White River must abandon their homes. Wealthy and poor alike moved west, most with just what they could carry on their backs. It became a gruesome race against death.

  Khumanoidi hordes, driven by some unknown master, ignored those who fled. Instead, they coordinated their movements and struck deeper and deeper south. The White River turned red, and the lands along its western banks were no longer safe for the civilized world. Rhodinan and Detchian countries struck treaties of cooperation and strove to defend their borders, ceding territories across the river to the hordes just as Trakya had. Battles raged as the Sons of Cayn struck time and time again, striving to break the back of the resistance.

  Then the plague crossed the White River. It entered into the northern territories of Detchia, and the hysteria of the masses quickly followed. The Detachian armies were broken. Free to do as they would, the hordes slaughtered their way east and south—at least until they arrived at the Alashalian Mountains. There the tide of the Sons of Cayn crashed against the Knights of the Iron Tower. Many a song was written during those months of fighting, but in the end, even the famed Knights were forced to retreat east.