Trial of Chains_Crimson Crossroads_Book One

by Sohan Ahmad

  I took our secret path just in case. There’s no way anyone could have kept up. Tyr checked just to be safe, confirming his belief. Master’s condition is even worse than I thought. The Breeze paused, concerned like a mother for her child. “I thought so at first too, but there’s no one. I’m alone, Master.”

  However, Tyr’s shadow suddenly became two. “Hello, friend, apologies for my rudeness. I should have properly announced myself,” a raspy voice declared, hiding its intent behind the lingual elegance of a scholar.

  “Impossible!” Tyr shouted, leaping back with blade swiftly taken in hand, the hairs on his neck stiffening like barbs. “How the hell did you . . .?”

  “Hush child. You have no need for shame,” a cloaked figure answered, emerging from the darkness to silence the boy’s dismay. He was as tall as most men, but his presence loomed over him like the oldest and largest of oaks. “Of course, you could not perceive me.” As he pressed forward, his visage grew larger with each carefree step. “Gratitude for guiding me here. I may never have discovered this place on my own,” the stranger continued until the Wind caught his eye. “I believe I have seen you somewhere before, friend.” The stranger ignored Tyr’s lethal stance as if he were little more than a house cat. “We have met, correct?”

  I thought he looked familiar, but when would I have seen him? Tyr asked himself as his master answered.

  “Apologies friend, but I do not know you and you do not know me.” Though Zephyrus could not see beyond the outlines of the stranger’s cloak.

  “I’m afraid I do,” the stranger replied, his grin lighting the shadow within his cowl. “Yes, it was years ago. Back then, I never imagined a child could walk with the God of Wind, but now . . . to think that my search for the lost Dantes brat would lead me back to you as well—words cannot describe my joy.” The stranger paused a moment to restrain his glee. “Apologies, you must forgive my rambling. It is rare to come across a worthy blade in these wretched times. Still, I would hate to spill insignificant blood after such a long hunt, so for my sake, I need to hear you say it. Are you the one I seek?” His pale lips stretched wide, no longer able to contain his lust. “Please, oh please, say yes.”

  Chapter 24: Bloody Winds

  Please lie, Master. Tyr never thought he would see the day where he would shiver at the sight of an enemy within his Master’s presence. He isn’t like the others, and your eyes are broken. Don’t answer, I beg you! Though in his heart, the Breeze knew there was only one answer his master would give.

  “Sword Saint of Chronos, and the God of Wind.” Sir Zephyrus Lenalo had been found, and he would not forsake his name a second time. “I am indeed he.”

  “Wonderful news!” the drifter replied with a smile that split open his formless face. “So wonderful that I may even let the boy escape a second time.” He caressed his fingers along his hip before pointing to the Wind’s blade. “They say your Gale is the best in all the land. Your treasured sword shall become my trophy, just like the other Dominion Blades I have collected. Go on, friend, choose one, and I shall kill you with it!” He discarded his long cape of tanned leather to reveal six of the deadliest weapons in existence.

  Nonsense. Zephyrus believed, his vision still clouded in black. Though the six blades eluded his sight, Zephyrus smirked as the tiniest glint of red became clear. “So, the dreaded Crimson Swordsman is a Drake?” He finally rose from his porch, continuing as the gold and leather scabbard squeezed within his grip. “This sword is a gift and as of today, belongs to my apprentice.”

  “Your lips speak of my clan with fondness,” the hunter of Saints said as the veil of darkness that concealed his face had faded into the sun’s light. His eyes glowed bright red like the Scarlet Sea, and his skin was paler than white, unblemished as if it had never seen the sun. “Yet I must warn you: the pleasantries end once I unsheathe my blades.”

  While the two warriors enjoyed casually conversing about each other’s death, Tyr stepped in front of his master with sword raised. “If you want to fight the God of Wind, you’ll have to get through me, Demon!”

  “Stand aside Tyr,” Zephyrus instructed. “He is beyond you.”

  “I’m not afraid of him!” the young warrior shouted until the Crimson Swordsman appeared like a gust, knocking him to the ground with the back of his hand.

  “This is no place for children,” he reinforced the Wind’s counsel: “You should listen to your master and stay put, Sebastian.”

  That name again! Tyr’s confusion coiled within his fingers and toes, releasing from the tip of his tongue. “My name is Tyr!” he yelled, but he could barely graze the drifter’s shadow, crashing to the dirt, unable to capture the image that existed only for a breath.

  “Call yourself what you like, child, but it makes no difference,” the hunter warned as the Breeze regained his footing. “Your eyes have a splendid darkness, and your delicate skin reeks of blood, but don’t get cocky after ending a mere handful of lives, boy! You will never be worthy with such ignorance.”

  Tyr stood once again, wiping away the thick, red liquid that dripped from his nose. “I don’t need lessons from a thief.”

  The Crimson Swordsman’s red eyes twitched as he placed a hand on the grip of one of his six. “Interrupt me once more, and you die, brat!”

  “Big words for a coward who stalks young men in the woods,” Tyr replied.

  The killer of masters drew Thrash from its snakeskin sheathe, raising it high to split the Breeze in two. The diamond-edged hybrid of chain and steel was once held by the southern Saint of Water. Like the body of a snake, the linked blades could extend and retract to whip and stab with seamless transition.

  Within that fleeting instant, the Wind flew behind the drifter, releasing a torrent from his scabbard. His blade moved with the swiftness of its namesake, cutting through the air as if it did not exist, but the Crimson Swordsman’s senses were sharper than expected. What speed! he thought as he abandoned his assault, escaping death by the narrowest of margins.

  Tyr appeared frozen in time as the masters moved like a fading memory, there one second and gone the next. There was little he could do, his eyes fixed to the barely visible symphony of steel that danced before his sight until Zephyrus forced the Crimson Swordsman back on his heels. “Behind you, Master!” Tyr warned as the Drake slipped to the Saint’s back and the Wind evaded a hole in his spine by a hair’s breadth.

  “Brat,” the killer of masters uttered beneath his breath before jabbing to the Saint’s eyes. Zephyrus swayed his head to the side and retaliated with a horizontal slash, forcing the Saint hunter to retreat a handful of steps.

  For a moment, neither master moved, mirroring breaths in and out of their chests as their eyes locked. They carefully analyzed the memories of each murderous exchange, projecting images of their predictions in order to gain the slightest edge.

  Finally, an opening, the naive Breeze believed. While the enemy’s back was turned, he sprung forward with a powerful slash, but the hunter turned his hips with blinding speed, unleashing a thrust that broke clean through the young man’s sword. Too close. Tyr managed to deflect just enough force to avoid losing his head, but he did not escape unharmed. Thin lines of scarlet began to trickle down his forehead.

  Zephyrus could smell the dense, red scent oozing into the air. “Tyr, what happened?” he shouted.

  “It’s just a scratch, Master,” the reckless youth answered. “I can still fight.”

  Meanwhile, the Crimson Swordsman could not help, but marvel at the boy’s achievement. I know this child has lived under the Wind’s watch, but his arms appear too slender to lift a sword, let alone stop mine. How unusual. I tried to kill him, and yet he still lives. I must take care. It would be embarrassing to die with a child’s blade in my back.

  Where the hunter saw a need for caution, the Saint did not. Every second I waste puts him in greater peril. I must end this. “Tyr, what kind of blade does he carry?”

  “Besides the one in his right hand,
there are five others on his hip,” the pupil answered, describing each Dominion Blade from the pommel to the tip.

  “Six blades?” Zephyrus asked. I underestimated this drifter. If he has defeated nearly half of the Saints, he is worthy of my attention. Even as he pondered such worrisome thoughts, a small grin appeared between the edges of his lips.

  “Now I remember him,” Tyr announced. “We saw him on the road to Scilia.” He went on to describe the Crimson Swordsman’s tanned bull-hide cowl and silver-plated bracers, along with thinly woven ring mail leggings that tucked into greaves made from the red skin of Bovarian flare wolves.

  Through his disciple’s words, the sightless Wind sketched a clear image of the enemy in his mind. I can see his stance, the subtle shifting of his weight. He seems to favor his left side, but if he can truly wield six of the world’s singular blades, I must treat both hands as equal threats. But first, “Tyr, get behind me.”

  “No, Master,” his pupil replied, steadfast in his stance. “I can’t let you fight alone.”

  “Tyr?” the red-eyed hunter asked with a chuckle. “You went and renamed the boy without his mother’s consent. I wonder what she would say if she could still speak?”

  “Shut up!” Tyr yelled, taking the hunter’s bait. “You know nothing of my mother.”

  “Ignore him,” Zephyrus demanded. “Listen to me clearly. I cannot fight and protect you at the same time!”

  “I should be the one protecting you Master. Your eye…”

  “Quiet!” the Wind roared like thunder.

  The Crimson Swordsman’s ears twitched upon hearing their squabble. What about his eye? The boy talks too much, but I wish you would have let him finish. Just then, a strong breeze washed across them, forcing his red eyes to squint. Impressive. The Wind indeed. Even among the Saints, I’ve never met a warrior whose eyes did not flinch against such a gust. No, it cannot be.

  A tear escaped his scarlet eye, and like a drop of blood, it smudged against his sun-starved skin. The tone of his stance shifted as he sprung forward to separate the Wind from his apprentice. “Your wisdom is wasted on youth. Do not squander your last breaths.” Zephyrus defended against another series of assaults, retreating toward the pillars of his front porch. However, the Crimson Swordsman sliced through beams of lumber as if they were sheets of paper, and without its supports, the wooden canopy quickly collapsed atop the Wind. As a cloud of dust burst forth, he managed to scatter, dancing free among the rubble.

  His shadow stood silent for a moment, slowing his breath to the steady slapping of silver-plated hands. “Amazing! Despite your failing eyes, you move more gracefully than any I have ever killed. I can even hear it, the rumored whisper of wind singing from your sword. What a rare pleasure it is to face a warrior who deserves his title.”

  “The wind has been my ally for as long as I can remember,” Zephyrus claimed, still calming the breath in his chest. I need more time. “Many years ago, I faced a storm that rendered my eyes useless. There is no word within the common tongue that holds the right to describe his speed. His blades were flashes of light, swift enough to erase steel. I needed all six senses to survive from breath to breath, but it was then that I first felt the wind at my side. Every shift of his arm created a ripple of air too faint for eyes to see, but to me, it was as clear as a twister.”

  Nearby, Tyr watched them closely, recalling the telling of that same story during their first year together. Amazing that Master only managed a draw.

  Upon hearing his tale, the Crimson Swordsman cackled, “You are a fool if you believe the wind will aid you forever, Saint. She is a fickle creature; you never know when she will turn her back on you.”

  While the master killers were locked in conversation, Tyr lunged at the enemy once more with cracked blade in hand, chopping the air in two. Yet the red-eyed hunter saw him as a fly, unwilling to acknowledge his attack with words. Instead, his body danced atop effortless footwork, making his physical form intangible. He stifled the boy’s threat as easily as he breathed the air, shoving his fist into olive cheek. Again, Tyr found himself on dry autumn soil, wiping crimson from his face.

  The hunter would not allow him to recover, quickly slashing towards Tyr’s neck. It’s a fake, Tyr realized too late to retreat, barely managing to meet the Saint hunter’s chopping blade with his. But his cracked steel could no longer clash with Thrash, shattering like brittle glass. Tyr’s eyes bulged as the hunter’s stolen Dominion blade rushed toward his frozen body, too frightened to blink.

  “Get back!” The clang of metal and his master’s words thawed his feet. Zephyrus swooped in like a winter gust, swatting aside the hunter’s blade before thrusting a foot into his gut. He followed with a powerful crossing slash, shearing beyond the rings of his mail vest. A thin coat of red wet the blade, but unfortunately, Not Deep enough, Zephyrus lamented.

  Tyr stared at his master’s enormous back, blinded by its radiating light. For a moment, he erased the sightless Saint from his mind, remembering only the God of Wind.

  “Excellent attack!” proclaimed the hunter of masters. “However, I am not so easy to kill.” The scarlet in his eyes blazed with a vibrant lust.

  Zephyrus replied only with silence, unmoved by the murderous aura that strangled all light from the sky, releasing a dance of ivory death. There were no holes in his onslaught, as if he were a blade wielded by the War God himself. The Crimson Swordsman narrowly avoided each slash and thrust, his cloak slowly ripping to shreds as a barrage of murderous metal rained down upon him. Amid the assault, Zephyrus stabbed his steaming blade into the soil and launched a tip full of soot into his opponent’s eyes. When the hunter raised a hand to deflect the soil, the Wind drilled a hole into it.

  As the battle heated, Tyr grew restless, running toward the back of their home to replace his splintered steel. By then, the Saint hunter had drawn a second Dominion Blade, clawing at the Wind’s forehead with Hydra. Previously wielded by the wandering Saint of Mist, a man whose true identity remained a mystery to all except the hunter, it was a three-headed short sword, coated to paralyze the flesh it touched. Zephyrus swayed his chest as far back as possible, but one of the heads managed to bite him. Warm blood began to pour from the skin atop his eye, painting his gaunt olive cheeks in the deepest of scarlet.

  “Lucky your eyes were already worthless,” the hunter mocked. “You are getting slow, old man.”

  Arrogant little runt. The hunter’s bait lured once more until a drop of blood stopped the Wind’s feet. The more I press, the longer the grass becomes. He tapped his feet on the trampled sod, inhaling the surrounding sky. Open, vibrant winds began to wither into a dull breeze, as if to offer warning. That was careless; he nearly drew me into the forest.

  “What’s the matter, old man?” the Crimson Swordsman continued to mock. “Are you that afraid terrified to face me? Who knew you were such a coward?”

  “Seems your brain is good for more than just pretty words,” Zephyrus answered.

  “What gave me away, friend?” the Saint hunter conceded with a grin.

  The Wind turned his back, offering one word as he returned toward the crumbled remains of his porch: “Impatience.”

  A small laugh burst forth from the hunter’s lungs. “I suppose my restraint has worn over these long years of searching, but as you can see, I am quite persistent.” He cackled once more, “Apologies, poor choice of words.”

  “Your journey must have been a lonely one,” Zephyrus returned his own taunt. “You seem to enjoy the sound of your own voice.”

  “You are mistaken, my friend, for I am never alone.” The hunter peeked past the Wind’s shoulder with a sinister grin. “The spirits of dead Saints deafen me with their incessant nagging. If only you could hear their whispers of caution.”

  Suddenly, the demon charged forward, hurling Hydra with murderous intent. The Holy Sword dipped his shoulder low to avoid the poisonous claw and sliced the air in two, creating a lacerating vortex, but its wrath was misguided. Bast
ard!

  “Don’t worry Master, I’ll beat him.” Nearly a dozen paces away, Tyr had stood face to face with the Crimson menace, striking hard with fresh blades, but the hunter smashed his silver-braced hand against cheap steel as if they were crafted from old clay.

  “You shouldn’t lie to your blind Master like that,” the Crimson Swordsman teased as his metal fingers clasped onto a fistful of dirty gold strands, dragging the boy into the oak dungeon. “Saint! Follow me if you wish to rescue your apprentice!”

  “Tyr!” Zephyrus shouted, sniffing the air to find his apprentice. “Keep talking,” he pleaded. “I’ll save you, I promise.”

  “I’m here Master,” Tyr yelled, kicking and digging his fingers into the dirt, but the hunter’s grip would not yield.

  “Foolish boy,” the red-eyed hunter remarked. “He won’t risk your life.”

  “Shut up!” Tyr shouted, continuing his struggle. “You don’t know anything about my master. If he wasn’t blind…”

  “Disciples should not insult their masters.” the hunter interrupted. “He is well beyond the need for sight.” His grin began to sour as he neared the gate of tall oaks. “Love, however, is the strongest weakness of them all.”

  “So is talking too much,” Tyr said, plunging a nearby shard of scattered steel into the hunter’s leg.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry to die, brat!” the Crimson Swordsman hissed, barely flinching to the bite of a desperate child. “Your time will come soon enough, but it would be in bad taste to kill a pupil before his master.”

  Blood! The scent flew to the Wind, but his feet were heavy. Damn it, move! Tyr needs me. Fuck the forest.

  “Hurry Saint,” the hunter reminded. “Before your boy’s ill manners force my hand.”

  “I will raze the forest atop his rotting corpse!” Zephyrus shouted, but it was too late. They had already vanished into the cage of bushes and thorns where giant oaks pierced the clouds. His rage boiled over, clouding the only sight left to him until the pungent scent returned to his nose. Wait, that is not Tyr’s. He sniffed the trail, following it to the edge of his land. Amazing, the boy still fights, and yet I cower. His mother would never forgive me for being so weak. Wait for me, Tyr, I will be there shortly. And so, discarding his warrior instincts, he sheathed his gleaming ivory blade to calm its bloodlust and ventured forth into the green gates of hell.