Son of the Black Sword

by Larry Correia

  “Protector business. Make a hole.” Most people were quick enough to get out of his way. Though his horse did knock over a few workers, they were of low enough rank that nobody would notice. “You must have some warhorse in your blood,” Ashok congratulated his mount.

  The Order’s compound was a prestigious posting for the warrior caste, so the soldiers guarding the entrance were always alert, and they had spotted his uniform above the crowd. “Who approaches?” one of them shouted.

  “Ashok Vadal, twenty-year senior.” The horse seemed very pleased to stop.

  “You are expected, Protector,” one of the guards said as he took the reins.

  Ashok slid out of the saddle. “Take care of this animal. It’s been tougher than expected.” He patted the foaming beast on the neck, then walked through the inner courtyard.

  Several acolytes were crudely sparring, which consisted of mercilessly beating each other with padded sticks. It was good to see that there were so many of them. Though they remained a small, elite organization, over the last decade their numbers had grown. As the Protectors had regained their status, the houses had obligated an increasing number of recruits, and since no one wanted to be outdone, they only sent their best. The acolyte running the drills saw him coming, and snapped at his younger charges to get out of the way. They quickly formed a line and bowed. Ashok didn’t know any of them, so he gave but a small nod in greeting as he passed them by.

  He could hear them whispering behind his back. Black-hearted Ashok, the finest killer who has ever lived. He didn’t know them, but they knew of him.

  The doors to the keep were open. In the high desert it was best to keep the air circulating. “Ashok!” the booming deep voice came from inside, followed a moment later by the broad-shouldered bulk of one of his brothers. “About damned time you showed up! Way to take your sweet time.”

  “Hello, Karno.” Ashok outranked him, but they’d fought together, so he was used to Karno’s plainspoken ways. He was from House Uttara, a land so poor that even their first caste were little better than farmers. Bad manners were to be expected from them. “Good to see you too.”

  The big Protector never seemed pleased, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Forgive my abruptness. You can clean up later. The master’s been waiting for you. Come on.”

  The compound was too quiet. He saw no other Seniors. Normally they only had a small garrison here, but he’d never seen so few experienced Protectors here. He went up the stairs, and the main chamber was just as dead. The only other living things were a couple of lazy dogs and a slave sweeping the floor. “Where is everyone?”

  “Trouble down south. The Inquisition needed some muscle. Mindarin sent most of the Capitol garrison.”

  It had to be bad if they’d called up that many Protectors. “Makao again?”

  “Not this time. Casteless uprising in House Akershan. Cultists of the Forgotten got to preaching the old religion. They even have themselves a false prophet. So some lunatic hearing voices got them all riled up and they murdered an arbiter. Can you believe it?” Karno snorted. “Bunch of idiots hiding in the mountains. Next thing you know they’ll be crowning some fish-eater to be their king. The witch hunters are taking it serious though. They say the rebels have got their hands on some powerful magic. Fortress forged, I’d wager.”

  There were very few things more illegal than Fortress alchemy. They were the last open practitioners of the old ways in Lok, but their impenetrable island kept them from safe from the Law, and their smuggled abominations were a terrible source of corruption in the world. If it was truly that bad, then Akershan was where he would be going next. Good. Crushing uprisings was preferable to dealing with politics in the Capitol. At least the religious fanatics were honest. “I need to speak to the master.”

  “This way. I sent a slave to make sure he’s awake.” Karno lumbered down the hall. He was a head taller than Ashok, twice as big around, and shaggy as a bear in winter. He was one of the few men in the Order against whom Ashok actually had to work hard in order to win a sparring match. “I asked to be sent to smash this uprising, you know, but I got stuck here. The casteless back in my own house got uppity a few years back, murdered some of our warriors, and then Devedas slaughtered the lot of them, the lucky bastard.”

  “How is Mindarin?”

  “Bad.” He wasn’t known as Blunt Karno just because he preferred to fight with a hammer. “Prepare yourself.”

  His father had died when he was very young. Ashok couldn’t remember a thing about the man, couldn’t even picture his face. Mindarin, on the other hand, had taught him everything he knew, made him everything that he was. The swordmaster was much more of a father than the one who’d passed on his blood. Everyone dies, but Ashok didn’t have to like it.

  They went up the stairs and stopped before a closed door. It was a sad comment that here privacy was worth more than the cooling breeze. Ashok reached for the handle but Karno stopped him. “Wait for the slave to come out. He can’t even sit up in bed on his own or clean himself. Let the master retain what dignity he has left.”

  Ashok let go of the handle. “I was unaware.”

  “Most are. He was struck down months ago. The surgeons said it was a seizure of apoplexy. There was paralysis for a time, and only recently could he speak clearly again, but his body continues to deteriorate. The Heart of the Mountain is the only thing sustaining him.”

  “Is there no hope for him?”

  “None. The rebels hiding in their mountain holes can pray to their false god for comfort, but for us, there’s only the harsh truth that such a great man will be remembered. I’ll leave you to your business.” Karno stomped back toward the stairs, but paused before going down. “Whatever reason Mindarin called for you, whatever your assignment may be, I know you’re the right choice. You are the best of us.” He bowed.

  He cared little for praise, but coming from one as honest as Karno, the words actually meant something. Ashok returned the bow. By the time he looked up, Karno was gone.

  A few minutes passed. There was a single chair in the hall. The Order was supposed to be above petty house politics and devoted entirely to the rule of law. They kept an office here only as a demonstration of that fact, and they kept that office humble in an attempt to keep their power from going to their heads. The chairs weren’t even padded. If they had guests then a slave would bring in a cushion. After weeks in the saddle, he wouldn’t have minded that minor comfort. So Ashok remained standing. He was so tired that he probably could have slept standing up. He’d done it before.

  The door opened and a slave came out. “The master will see you now,” she said, keeping her eyes averted. Slaves were usually born of the worker or warrior castes, dishonored, demoted, and sold for some reason or another, but still needed to perform the necessary tasks that were above the filthy untouchable casteless, like tending to the needs of an honored hero suffering from disease.

  “You may go,” Ashok told her as he entered. The curtains were mostly closed. The room was far too warm. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. There was someone on the bed. He almost didn’t recognize the skeletal figure propped up on a pile of pillows because he had lost so much weight. Mindarin was a shadow of himself.

  “Lord Protector.”

  “Ashok.” Mindarin opened his eyes. Despite his haggard appearance, at least they were as clear and focused as ever. “I knew you’d come, lad.”

  “I’m here to serve.”

  “As always . . . For that has been your life, to serve without question . . . Never to question . . .” His words were slurred and clumsy. It was an unjust fate for the one who had been their most eloquent defender. Mindarin had accomplished more with his words than with the sword, because in his case they had been equally sharp. To hear him now made Ashok’s chest ache. “I knew that if I lived long enough for you to return, then this meeting was meant to be,” the dying man wheezed. “Oh, how I wish I could be as pure in my devotion to the L
aw as you’ve been.”

  Ashok knelt next to the bed. “I am nothing more than what you made me.”

  “No. You were the creation of another. The Order merely gave you purpose. You are a sense of duty made flesh. You are the living avatar of the Law. You were a blank canvas and on it was writ devotion. You were the perfect student because you were designed to be. It is easy to be the ideal Protector when you have no choice in the matter.” Mindarin gave a raspy laugh. “I suppose we are all slaves in some way.”

  That made no sense. Perhaps the master’s mind wasn’t as clear as he’d first thought. “I was obligated to serve by my house, but I took the oath willingly, and it is the best thing I’ve done.”

  Mindarin took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for a great labor. Ashok could tell that he was calling upon the strength of the Heart. When that borrowed energy was gone, the resulting strain would probably finish him off.

  “Please rest. There’s no need.”

  “I must.” When Mindarin spoke again, his words were stronger, far more forceful. Here again this was the man Ashok had known. “When I was struck down and knew I was dying, I had to make a difficult decision. Summoning you here was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I realize cleaning the stain from my own conscience is no reason to condemn you, so now I offer you a choice, Ashok. On one hand, I can remain silent and you will continue to live your life. I offer you my place as master or you may return to your house with honor . . .”

  It was as Devedas had predicted, the choice he’d been dreading, to retire in glory or continue to serve the Order. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”

  “You speak too quickly. That isn’t the choice . . . I’m offering your life, however you wish to live it, or the truth. Leave things alone, retain the lie, and do with the rest of your days whatever you desire, but the truth . . . the truth will ruin you. It will change everything.”

  Uncertainty was an unfamiliar feeling.

  Mindarin reached out one shaking hand and laid it on Ashok’s cheek. His skin was dry and thin as paper. “I have summoned you because I am selfish. I have failed the Law and failed you. My conscience isn’t clean.”

  Ashok was no stranger to death, but right now he felt ill. “What would you have me do so you may die in peace?”

  “Offering you this choice is enough. In that drawer is a message. It is the reason you are without fear. It is a secret known only to myself and master Ratul before me.”

  It had been years since he’d heard that name spoken aloud by another Protector. Just thinking of the former Lord Protector filled Ashok with disgust. “His secrets should remain hidden. Ratul worshiped the Forgotten while he pretended devotion to the Order. I’m ashamed he’s the one I gave the oath to. He was a lawbreaker and a traitor.”

  “Yet he was also my dearest friend, and his beliefs saved your life. Before he fled to join the heretics, he told me what the Heart of Ramrowan revealed you to be.”

  “Ramrowan?” It was the first time Ashok heard the Heart of the Mountain given that unfamiliar name. “I know who I am. I know my place.”

  “Good. That is how it should be. If you wish to continue living, burn the letter and never think on this moment again.”

  Ashok was silent for a long time. “What manner of lie?”

  “One that will cause no further harm, and I kept your secret for the same selfish reasons Ratul did. You have been our greatest instrument of justice. This Order is stronger than we have been in generations. We are respected, honored, even feared and it is a result of the legend you have created with that mighty sword. If you wish to know what Ratul saw in the Heart, read it, then do as you see fit.”

  Ashok stood up, went to the writing desk and opened the drawer. The only thing inside was a sealed letter.

  “It’s coded. If you wish, I will give you the cipher, but remember, sometimes lies are for our own protection. This is your choice. Do not make it lightly, Ashok.”

  Was this some sort of test? A trick? He reached for the letter, and then hesitated. “What does the Law say I should do?”

  “For once in your life, do not make this about the Law!” Mindarin’s words showed surprising strength.

  “But the Law is everything.” Ashok picked up the letter. His face was flushed, his hands trembling. He was growing angry and wasn’t even sure why. “You know I was never one for your puzzles and word games. I’m not one of your riddles to be solved. I am a Protector.”

  “You are a killer.”

  “And the best one we’ve ever had!” Ashok snarled. “You tell me what to do and I do it. Point me toward the violators and I destroy them. Punishing the lawbreakers and striking terror in the hearts of those who even think of stepping over the line, that is my place. I follow orders. I keep order. I don’t choose. There’s no choice. If this is some sort of test of my worthiness—”

  “Angruvadal decided that a long time ago, the question then became how many lies we were willing to tell to justify its decision.” The borrowed vitality was beginning to leave Mindarin. His skin turned ashen, his voice lost its previous strength, and he seemed to melt back into the bed, once again, nothing but a shadow, skeletal as the guardians on the mountain. “It’s remarkable what we can forget. We’ve forgotten our gods. Compared to that, what is one life? I don’t have enough time left to keep the lies straight anymore, Ashok. With truth comes suffering. With ignorance comes freedom. Choose.”

  He quoted his lessons from memory. “There is no freedom. Every man has a place.” Then he recalled the stubborn casteless who’d refused to give up his spear on the beach in Gujara. “Truth doesn’t change the Law.”

  “Choose.”

  Ashok broke the seal.

  Chapter 8

  Twenty years ago

  As the richest, most powerful house, Vadal was the last to be announced during the induction ceremony. Aunt Bidaya had prepared Ashok for this by explaining that it was all politics. Vadal could afford to wait. It tells our rivals that we saved the best for last.

  Ashok found the Protectors’ audience chamber to be surprisingly humble. Perhaps it was because he was used to the beauty of Vadal holdings that he connoted power with opulence. Except the Protectors were powerful and their audience chamber had less decoration than a Vadal horse stable. The simple room was crowded with representatives of every great house and their candidates for obligation. Everyone was dressed in furs or thick robes and their breath could be seen in the air. The windows were open. The ceremonial chamber wasn’t heated. It wasn’t as if a militant order with the blessing of the Inquisition couldn’t afford to run the furnace. It was the Protectors’ way of telling their guests that they didn’t give a damn about anyone’s comfort.

  The representative from house Vokkan finished his long description of his charge’s exploits, accomplishments, and championships. The oldest was only thirteen years old, so he couldn’t have done that much, but that was the game. The tales were surely exaggerated, but this part was all about trying to outdo the other houses. Whoever gave the most valuable obligations would be able to brag about it in the courts.

  Ashok didn’t understand these games that his aunt spoke about, but he understood honor, duty, and the Law. Each of those things demanded that he be here now.

  The Protector in charge of the ceremony walked in front of the kneeling young men, inspecting them. Once satisfied, he made a mark on his scroll. “The Order thanks Great House Vokkan for their generous obligation of seven sons of the warrior caste and one son of the first caste.” He sounded bored. “They will proceed to testing.”

  Despite the Order’s power, the Protectors of the Law were few in number. A single master was presiding. His witnesses were a senior and a few other acolytes, barely older than the boys who were being obligated. While the presenters and their charges had decorated their winter clothing with ornaments, jewelry, and silks dyed the colors of their houses, the Protectors were dressed in drab cloaks, fit for workers. The master checked his
list again as he moved to the end of the line. “Great House Vadal has brought . . . A single candidate? Your lady must not be aware of our failure rate.”

  The other presenters were curious. The dumb ones found that amusing. The smart ones realized that Vadal was up to something. The master stopped before the small Vadal contingent. He stood there for a while in the cold winter sun, taking his time. Ashok kept his back straight and his eyes fixed on a crack in the wall as the old man studied him. “Present your obligation.”

  The other presenters were arbiters and other courtly types. Ashok was the only one being introduced by a wizard. Kule was a small, quiet, odd-looking fellow. He stepped out of line and cleared his throat before speaking. “On behalf of Bidaya, Thakoor of Great House Vadal, as per our contract I obligate to the Order of Protectors the second son of deceased Jayesh of the first caste, who was once arbiter of Goda Province. Here is Ashok, aged ten years.”

  “A single candidate, and the youngest one here . . . This will end well,” the Protector muttered. Everyone heard that, and there was a bit of laughter. Ashok kept his gaze fixed on a distant point and showed no emotion, just as he’d been taught. “What are his accomplishments?”

  The other candidates had gotten long litanies of achievements. Ashok’s was brief. “He is the chosen bearer of mighty Angruvadal.” Kule finished his pronouncement and returned to his place in line.

  The snickering died. Nervous whispers immediately rose among the other house’s presenters. Angruvadal? Several of them broke protocol by turning their heads to try and catch a glimpse of the sword sheathed at the boy’s side. All they would be able to see was that it appeared to be far too long for him to wield it worth a damn. They would be incorrect.