Nightblade

by Jason Howard

  Roen itched his belly.

  He seemed embarrassed for a moment, but then he reached up and itched both of his cheeks.

  “What’s wrong sir?” the flesh mage asked, stepping to him.

  Roen didn’t answer—he just itched his cheeks, and then his neck, trails of blood appearing.

  He grunted, and the grunt became a scream. “Make it stop!”

  The flesh mage tried, but his spells seemed to die in the air near Roen. Some powerful arcane shield had been erected.

  “It’s him,” Roen realized aloud, and he staggered to his tent, practically diving through the flap.

  From inside the tent there was a muffled scream.

  The men all stared at the tent in horrified fascination. This wasn’t the only punishment Roen had received from their leader, but it was, by far, the worst. The screams lasted for another minute or so. There were terrible crashing noises as Roen thrashed wildly around the tent. Finally, it ended.

  The men stared at the tent, no one moving.

  Roen, not emerging, asked for the flesh mage.

  A flesh mage entered the tent and came back out a while later.

  “He says that our master’s displeasure has now been expressed. Tomorrow we will make haste for the Windwalker Tribe, and we will make sure to kill every member of it. There will be no rations for the search party that failed to find the slave until three days from now. There will be no rations for anyone tonight. And do not disturb his tent.”

  Everyone nodded and exchanged looks, but no one said a word. Their silence was heavy with a shared understanding that a single moment of conversation would be a grave mistake.

  Chapter Five

  The Windwalker Tribe

  An indigenous and self-governing tribe in the great rainforest of Ajalta, known for their prowess in hunting, as well as the enchanted beadwork of their shamans. Their tribal Chieftain is Makala Remelda.

  –All encyclopedic entries have been excerpted from Ascadell’s Encyclopedia Edition LXIX

  Artem Remelda approached the hut warily, trying to keep his feet silent. He considered channeling a spell to dampen the noise of his footsteps but decided it wasn’t necessary. During his warrior training he had learned how to be as silent as the starlight he was walking under. A mosquito buzzed past his ear but he didn’t slap it. Even that sound might give him away. He knew what he was doing was stupid, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  He took a deep breath and hummed like a darkle, a kind of nocturnal hummingbird that nourished themselves with the nectar of moonflowers. This was the signal he and Almera had agreed upon.

  A head poked out from behind the hanging liger pelt that served as a door to the hut. Artem breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was Almera’s.

  “Hurry,” she whispered, “before someone sees you.”

  He disappeared behind the flap.

  “Is your mother—”

  “She’s in The Heart, I told her I forgot something.”

  “This is unwise—”

  And then she was kissing him. Her soft lips made him forget all his worries and objections to their foolish plan. So many times now they had found a way to sneak off together, and each time he’d struggled with the same misgivings. And each time he’d lost. His father, the chieftain of the tribe, would never approve of Almera. She was the daughter “born of lust” who didn’t even know her father. Artem was supposed to marry the daughter of a proud warrior family.

  The only problem was that Artem had fallen in love with Almera. He knew that he would never love anyone else. He had known it for years. He had known her as far back as he could remember, playing in the jungle as toddlers, inventing games with the other children of the Windwalker Tribe. Their friendship had grown until they had reached an age when a girl couldn’t play silly games with a boy anymore.

  Now they were playing a much more dangerous game. Eventually, Artem knew, they would be caught. But that would be another day. Now he could only think about how her lips looked, parted invitingly, and how her shirt hung around the curves of her body.

  He reached for her but she slipped away. She crossed the room and laid down on her bedroll, motioning with a single finger for him to follow. Artem exhaled raggedly, knowing that he shouldn’t, and also knowing that he didn’t have the strength to resist her.

  Almera enjoyed watching him cross the room. Even in the near darkness she could see his strength, which had been cultivated through training and rigid discipline at the hands of seasoned Windwalker Tribe warriors. Artem was only seventeen, but he was tall and broad, his shoulders thick with muscle. He wasn’t a brute though—every inch of him moved gracefully as he walked across the room.

  Almera loved the way he reached for her, so delicately, which contradicted his powerful body and sculpted arms. He knelt, reached forward and grazed her cheek with his knuckles as he pushed a piece of hair away from her face. She smiled, her ivory teeth standing out against her dark skin. Artem smiled back.

  He leaned forward—slowly—and kissed her. She pulled him down onto the bedroll, burrowed against his chest. He wrapped a massive arm around her.

  They stayed like that for a few moments before her face sobered and she said, “You shouldn’t go for the Warrior’s Trial tomorrow. Spend some more time training.”

  Artem took her hand. He liked how her chocolate skin overlapped with his even darker complexion.

  She held onto him tight until he forced her to let go.

  “We have to go back now,” Artem said. “My father thinks I’m answering nature’s call.”

  “Well perhaps you couldn’t push at first, you were backed up,” she said.

  He laughed and said, “That will only be believable for a few more minutes.”

  “Your stomach is bothering you, you must have ate bad meat.”

  “Almera, we can’t just lay here—”

  “I know.”

  They were silent. This was the feeling, Artem hated, the feeling right before they had to leave each other. When they were around the others they pretended none of this existed. Sometimes Artem thought that was fun, seeing the knowledge of their secret gleaming in her eye as they talked about trivial things. But it always left a raw ache in him. They would never be happy until they could really be with each other.

  Artem started to get up.

  “No, not yet. Tell him you were feeling sick, you had to eat some nirn root to calm your stomach.”

  “I told that lie yesterday, remember? When they were on the hunt.”

  “Well then—”

  “Almera, we have to get back!” He hadn’t meant to yell. Now the silence was full of something horrible.

  She nodded.

  He said, “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded again, started to stand. He stood too. He tried to wrap an arm around her but she pushed him away. “Almera, I shouldn’t have yelled, I really am sorry.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry too. I can’t do this to you. You’ll be the chieftain someday, unless I disgrace you, which I will do, because I can’t . . . I can’t . . . accept that I’m just not good enough for you. That this will never happen.”

  “No, you are more than good enough for me. I don’t care about who your father is or was. I don’t care about who I’m supposed to be. All I care about is you.”

  “You have to care about who you’re supposed to be. If I took that away from you, what does that make me? That makes me selfish. I can’t take away your future, Artem. I can’t take it away and replace it with me. I know we’ve tried to end this before, but this time . . . this time needs to be the last time we sneak away.”

  “You’re right, this will be the last time we meet like this.”

  She blinked in surprise. Then she looked a little hurt. She had expected more of a fight. He grazed his knuckles across her cheek again, leaned in and kissed her forehead before saying, “Tonight I will tell my father about us. There will be no more sneaking away. Everyone mu
st know.”

  “No, you can’t! He’ll . . .”

  “He’ll hate me. And he will be shamed before the entire tribe. And I will be shamed too. But I will overcome all of that. Perhaps it will take years, but it will only motivate me to be a better warrior. I will redeem my honor in battle.”

  “I am a stain that you will never wash—”

  “Don’t ever say that!”

  His tone silenced her. Fire burned in his eyes. She was scared of him for a moment.

  “I won’t let you do this,” she said.

  “You can’t stop me. This is the right thing to do. Better that we reveal this on our own terms. Better that we are bold and honest than get caught sneaking and lying.

  “I won’t let you do this to yourself. I’ll stain your reputation. This tribe deserves you as its Chieftan. Even if you tell everyone what we’ve done I still won’t be with you. Eventually they will forgive you, but not if I’m still with you. This is over.”

  “Almera—Almera!” But she was running. She burst out of the hut, the liger pelt door flapping wildly for a moment. He stared at it. He took a deep breath. This changed things. What if he told the whole tribe that he was with Almera only for her to deny him? Then it would all be for nothing.

  He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had to come clean and hope she would change her mind. As he left the hut he was filled with a sense of dread. And with his dread came the same tension and awareness that he felt right before a battle. Or right before making a kill during a long hunt. How strange it was that the most important fight of his life would be fought with words instead of weapons. And how strange it was that his enemies in this fight were his parents and the traditions of his own tribe.

  Artem was jerked from these thoughts by a sound. A sound that was out of place. It had been a faraway crunch, a snapped twig or a dead leaf crushed underfoot. Artem dropped low, suddenly feeling naked without his spear.

  Artem crouch-walked along the wall of the hut, then peered out around the corner.

  He saw men approaching. Dozens of them. Perhaps hundreds. They emerged from the trees like a silent fog. He noticed something that bewildered him. Swords. They didn’t clutch the bows and spears of an enemy tribe. And an enemy tribe wouldn’t attack in the dark of night, with no honor. These were no tribal warriors. They wore gleaming black armor with the red markings of a black widow.

  He pulled his head back, out of sight. Soon the men would be among the empty huts. They were too close for him to make it to The Heart, where the rest of the tribe was celebrating the day’s hunt.

  He needed to hide. He thought about ducking back into the hut, but they were probably here to check the huts. In a flash of inspiration, he jumped, grabbing the thatched roof and throwing his legs up onto it. He rolled onto the roof.

  The men with the black armor and the gleaming swords were soon just below him. He flattened himself on the roof, staring up at the stars. The rainforest’s canopy reached out over the edges of the village.

  Artem could hear them searching the huts, fanning out. He glanced down. Their black armor, the way it gleamed in the moonlight, reminded Artem of the glossy carapace of cockroaches. He shuddered.

  There were whispers among them, then Artem heard, “Sir, the huts are all empty.”

  “Then they must all be dancing and hooting together by those cookfires,” a deep, arrogant voice said.

  Artem risked lifting his head a little so that he could see the voice’s owner. He was a blonde-haired giant of a man. Artem froze as his gaze roved past the hut Artem was laying on top of.

  “Let’s go kill some jungle savages,” the leader said.

  And then the cockroaches scuttled toward The Heart.

  Artem leapt down, running for his own hut. He needed a weapon.

  ***

  Almera managed to fake a smile when she arrived at The Heart. The Heart was the center of their village. This was where they took their meals, where they danced and talked after a long day. After a hunt the men would bring their catch here. The women would skewer the meat on long spits and turn it over roaring cookfires. After the meal the old men would beat on drums, chanting and singing.

  The young men would dance, sometimes acting out the day’s hunt, they would joke and wrestle. Boasting about the day’s hunt would run high. With the beat of the drum they would pantomime a hunt. Throw an invisible spear, flex and roar, jump with their arms wide. When the soup, greens, and juicy roasted meat was ready they would all feast.

  Normally, Almera enjoyed the celebration of the hunt. She was one of the best dancers in the tribe. But tonight, heavy with dread, she stood near the other girls, who were chittering things that seemed inane to her, and watched.

  A little boy named Luven approached her, holding a skewer of meat and roasted vegetables.

  “Here,” he said, staring up at her with wide eyes. He was only eight, but he was always so serious and earnest that he seemed much older.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Why?”

  The girls near her had stopped talking, interested to hear her answer. Everyone could tell that something was bothering her.

  She looked away and noticed the susurrations of the firelight against the trees of the jungle which surrounded their village. “My stomach hurts.”

  “You’re lying,” he said.

  She laughed. “Oh, am I? And what makes you say that?”

  “You’re always hungry. My brother says it’s because you dance so much. He thinks you’re pretty.”

  “I don’t think he wanted me to know that, little Luven.”

  Luven frowned. “Why?”

  “Sometimes we don’t want people to know things because . . .” she trailed off.

  “Don’t call me little Luven, I’m not little anymore. I’m eight!”

  Almera was glad he’d lost interest in his original question.

  “Fine, small Luven.”

  “No! Just Luven! I’ll be nine soon.”

  “Tiny Luven?”

  He crossed his little arms over his chest and glowered.

  She picked him up and spun him around and he started giggling as she said, “I’ll call you little Luven until I can’t pick you up and spin you anymore!”

  The world blurred around them as she spun. The campfires, the dancing villagers, the wall of jungle trees, all of it became melded into the firelight, even the voices, the laughter, the drumbeats, and the smell of the ripe jungle air.

  When she set Luven down, he stumbled, dizzy and smiling. He tried to punch her in the leg, as he always did after she spun him.

  “Little Luven,” she mocked as she stepped out of range.

  He ran forward and grabbed her waist, hugging her tight.

  Luven looked up at her, turning serious. “I like when you spin me,” he said. “So I don’t want to get big. Not yet.”

  “Okay little Luven.”

  “Take this.”

  He thrust the skewer of meat up at her. She took it. He wasn’t satisfied until she took a bite. It was a delicious, juicy hunk of meat that had been dipped in a spice sauce. The flavors exploded across her mouth, the sauce burned down her throat.

  “I’m getting more now,” Luven said, and without waiting for an answer he took off, running back toward one of the cookfires. A bunch of men made a big deal about him when he got there, ruffling his hair and pretending there was no more meat even though there was enough to feed to the tribe twice over. She smiled as Luven punched at the men, fighting for his right to get a piece of meat. They dodged and countered gently, but Luven’s little fists didn’t stop until the men conceded and gave him another skewer. Luven ate greedily, getting spice sauce all over his chin and face.

  Someone screamed.

  It was a horrible, panicked scream that ended in a wet gurgle.

  Almera looked around, saw a woman swaying, her hands clutching at an arrow which was lodged in her throat. There was so much blood spurting and gushing, it worked through her fing
ers. She fell forward and lay still.

  Then there was a war cry from the darkness around The Heart. The men ran to take up spears. The women took the children and ran for the huts.

  Chapter Six

  Willpower

  –noun

  1. the mental resistance one has to magical attacks.

  a. It is a naturally occurring talent that only certain people have in significant quantities. It can be enhanced through training and meditation.

  b. Many people that have strong Willpower have no or little Genuity (ability to channel magic).

  c. There have been some links made between physical and mental toughness and Willpower.

  Artem burst into his family’s hut. Somewhere far away he heard a scream that ended in a wet gurgle. Then there was a war cry followed by the sounds of battle. His father’s halberd was balanced on two wooden spikes that had been driven into the wall of their hut. It was a beautiful weapon. It looked like glass, translucent and elegant. But the glass must have been enchanted in some way, because it was far stronger than any glass could possibly be. It had never cracked or chipped. When it was smashed against stone it didn’t break, instead it shattered boulders. Its axe-blade and spearpoint were still razor sharp even though his father never taken a whetstone to them.

  The halberd had one other enchantment as well. It would return to the hands of its wielder with a thought. Artem’s father could not channel magic, but he had seen him command the halberd. It came flying back and its handle thwacked against his waiting palm.

  Artem knew he wasn’t worthy of the weapon. Not yet. But he took it anyway. He ran off to join the battle. But he didn’t run straight in. His training had taught him better than that. He had think strategically, find the most effective place to enter the fray.

  He snuck from the huts to the treeline of the jungle. Sweat poured from him, and his skin itched as leaves and vines slapped at him. The jungle was raucous with hoots and hisses, squawks and screeches. There were more species of wildlife in the Ajaltan jungle than the rest of Ascadell combined. A darkle hummed past him, and he nearly crushed it as he stepped on the moonflower it had been flying toward. The glowing petals sparked and dulled in his wake.