The Crimson Queen

by Alec Hutson

  “You were a farmer.”

  Senacus shrugged. “Perhaps. The Cleansing burns away our past lives, as it burns away the taint. We are reborn in the light.”

  “Can you speak of the Cleansing?”

  “Not . . . completely. It is pain beyond imagining, and our minds cannot stay strong during the ordeal. I remember being strapped to the altar by an old mendicant with a kindly face. He had brushed back my hair and kissed my brow and given me Ama’s blessing. Then the flash of a knife. Pain. And not just from the cut, as I’ve been wounded similarly many times since. It was like there were lines of fire snaking out from the wound, racing through my veins, until I was burning up from the inside. Then I saw a light of such perfection that I wept, and I was enveloped by it, and the flames in my body were replaced by cool water, and when I awoke I was in a bed with clean white sheets, and I had become Pure.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I don’t know, but perhaps ten?”

  “Do you ever wonder about your family? Your people?”

  Senacus fingered the relic around his neck. “I have a family, and a bright father who wants for the world to be perfect again for his creations, like it was before the taint of sorcery seeped in from the Void.”

  Demian shifted in his saddle, turning to look at Senacus. Was that pity in his eyes?

  “And what about you? How does a man enter your order? I can’t imagine the initiation is any less terrifying.”

  Demian chuckled. “I imagine not. I never suffered through a childhood spent under the mountain, thank the gods.”

  Senacus blinked in confusion. “Then you are not kith’ketan?”

  “Truly, I am not.”

  “But the High Seneschal said . . .”

  Demian held up a hand to forestall him. “He believed I was. And to most the difference would be academic. I have lived under the mountain. I have bargained with what . . . persists down there, and been given certain abilities that are usually reserved only for those that bear a shadowblade.”

  “Which that sword is not? I thought it must be.”

  Demian chuckled, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Be careful, paladin – Malazinischel does not forgive insults easily.”

  Now it was Senacus’s turn to grin. “That’s the sword’s name? Malazith . . . Malazid . . . surely a better one could be chosen. Night’s Kiss – there’s a good name for an assassin’s sword. Or how about Blood – ”

  The shadowblade lunged from his horse, grabbing Senacus’s shoulder and wrenching him from his saddle. Something hissed through the air above him as he fell. The shock of hitting the ground knocked the wind from the paladin, but still he managed to push Demian away, scrabbling for the knife at his belt. The shadowblade ignored him, holding tight to the reins of his horse while keeping himself crouched behind its flank.

  “What – ”

  “Archers. I heard bows being drawn.”

  “But there were no – ”

  Demian pointed to a tree a few span behind them, just off the Way. An arrow fletched with gray feathers was stuck in it, still quivering slightly.

  Senacus moved to take cover behind the other leg of the assassin’s horse. “Can you see them?”

  Demian peered under his horse’s belly at the line of trees fringing the far side of the road. “Yes. Two archers, both with arrows nocked. Another three men with swords. One of them is coming out into the open.”

  Senacus risked a glance around the horse’s leg. A bald man armored in a motley assortment of battered plate and leather now stood a few dozen paces away, his hand on the hilt of the greatsword strapped to his back.

  “Hail travelers, and welcome to our forest!” he called out, and harsh laughter rose up behind him. “That was an impressive little tumble you took, and it leaves us all in a bit o’ pig mud, as I’m sure you can see. We want that there horse you’re hiding behind, but we also want to kill you. So in my great spirit of generousness,” more laughter at this, “I’m gonna say you both can run on down the road, so long as ya leave your horses and your bags behind. Either that or we start shooting again, take your stuff from your corpses, an’ have horsemeat for dinner. I’m not fussed, honest, however this plays.”

  Senacus glanced at the assassin. “Ideas?”

  Demian drew his sword. The aura of menace radiating from the cracked, curving blade made the hair rise on Senacus’s arms. “Yes.”

  He straightened and walked calmly toward the trees overhanging the road. Senacus heard the twang of bowstrings and cried out to Demian, but as the assassin passed into the shadows cast by the branches he vanished, and the arrows sliced the air where he had been.

  “Bright sun,” Senacus whispered, sketching the holy symbol of Ama in the air.

  A cry of fear and pain from the woods, cut short. Another scream, a different voice. The bald man started back toward the forest, his sword in his hands, then hesitated.

  “What sorcery – ” he said hoarsely, his words dying away as Demian walked unhurriedly from the woods. In one hand he held his strange curving sword, and in the other he carried four heads by their long hair. He tossed them on the ground in front of the bandit.

  The man dropped his sword, staring wide-eyed as a trickle of blood reached toward him from the closest head. He fell to his knees, clasping his hands together.

  “Mercy! A shadowblade . . . gods, please, we did not know . . .”

  Demian stepped closer and pressed the tip of his sword into the man’s throat. A bright red point blossomed, then blood slid down his neck.

  “Please, lord.” The man was crying now. “We have gold, jewels, back at the ruins. Slaves to sell . . .”

  “Slaves?”

  The bandit seized on this. “Aye, slaves. A boy and two girls, one is very fetching. We took them from a family of pilgrims on this road, not a week ago. They’re unspoiled, would bring a good price in Menekar.”

  “Where are the ruins you spoke of?”

  “Please, lord, my life.”

  Demian withdrew his sword and the man rubbed his throat, smearing his hand with blood. “I will not cut you again. Now, where is your hideout?”

  The bandit gestured at the woods behind him. “Back there you’ll see a deer trail; follow it till you come to a stream. The ruins are south of that a little ways, near the willows.”

  “Thank you,” Demian said, stepping away from the man and sheathing his sword. He went over to his horse and gathered up the reins.

  “You are not going to kill him?” Senacus said, coming to lay his hand on the assassin’s arm.

  Demian led his horse off the road and tied it to a low-hanging branch. “Malazinischel has tasted him. He is already dead.”

  Senacus glanced back at the bandit, who had begun writhing in the dirt clutching at his bloody throat. Spidery black lines were spreading from where the sword had nicked him, creeping up his face; when they touched his eyes it was like ink had been dropped in water, darkness rising up to fill his sockets. With a final death-rattle, the man convulsed and was still, black tears streaking his face.

  “By the Radiant Father,” Senacus murmured, appalled.

  “Nothing by his hand, I can assure you,” Demian said, slinging a bag over his shoulder. “Bring back your horse and tie it next to mine. Take whatever possessions are most important to you, in case the horses are gone when we return. Let us go pay these bandits a visit.”

  Senacus went to fetch his mount, which had cantered down the road a ways after the attack. When he returned he unlashed the pack containing his holy armor and hefted it. “Are we really going to attack a bandit stronghold?”

  Demian’s dark eyes glittered. “I hate slavers.”

  “Truly?” Senacus said as he followed the shadowblade into the forest. “Why?”

  “I was a slave once.”

  Senacus cro
uched in the forest clearing and waited. He was tempted to don his Pure armor and unwrap his sword, since the mercenary garb he now wore seemed as flimsy as paper, and the hunk of poorly-forged steel at his side had none of the exquisite balance of his white-metal blade, but in the end he did not. If any of the bandits happened to escape, then the story of a paladin and a shadowblade traveling west together would spread like wildfire across Araen, and would most certainly arrive quickly in the court of the Crimson Queen.

  Senacus started as Demian stepped from the shadows. “That is unnerving,” he said, shaking his head.

  The assassin knelt beside him and with a stick began quickly sketching out the bandit’s hideout in the soft forest loam, using pebbles to mark where he had seen men. “There are at least eight in the ruins -”

  “So you didn’t kill them all already?”

  Demian ignored the sarcasm. “No. I thought you would want to join me.”

  Senacus sighed and shook his head.

  The assassin tapped a series of large squares in the corner of what he had drawn. “These buildings are mostly intact, and quite possibly more bandits are inside. I did not see anyone going in or out, but I only watched for a brief while. It is the remains of a town, Myrasani most likely. The forest has reclaimed much, but some of the stone structures still stand. Here were some large casks under a tarp,” he pointed to another crudely-drawn shape, “probably ale or wine, but it could be oil, so have care. There’s also a long table here, and as you can see most men were clustered around it. They were playing some card game that involves having to stab quickly between the spread fingers of a hand. It looked interesting.”

  “Any archers?”

  “None had bows with them.”

  Senacus sat back on his haunches. “Well, that makes it easier. Do you have a plan?”

  Demian shrugged. “We have wasted enough time already. I do not want to try any elaborate ruse to lure groups of them out into the woods. I propose we walk into the camp and kill them.”

  “Eight men?”

  “If there’s another eight in the ruins we might actually have a proper fight.”

  Senacus stood, brushing dirt from his legs. “You don’t lack for confidence.”

  “These are not trained soldiers, if the men we met on the road are any indication. Most likely a group of peasants driven from their land in the Shattered Kingdoms, or perhaps local Myrasani reduced to banditry because of famine.”

  “Yet you have no sympathy for them.”

  “Whatever simple farmers they once were, they no longer are. Murderers, thieves, and slavers.”

  “If that bandit had not mentioned that they had slaves they planned to sell in Menekar, would we be here now, or a few leagues down the road?”

  Demian said nothing, and Senacus nodded. “As I thought. So in your eyes slavery – a practice condoned in the Tractate itself – is worse than murder.”

  The kith’ketan’s flat eyes were unreadable. “It is.”

  “Why? Most slaves are well-cared for, fed, given clothes and a place to sleep. There are many in the world who can only dream of such things.”

  Demian swept his hand through the loam, obliterating the drawing he had made. Senacus took a quick step back, surprised. It was the first true emotion he had seen from the assassin.

  “There are no gods, paladin. There is no afterlife, no eternal reward. You, in fact, are a slave to a creature you cannot even comprehend.” Demian stabbed the stick he still held into the ground. “All that a man has in this world is his own will, the freedom to do what he desires. Taking away that is the greatest crime one can inflict upon another. Murder – it is terrible. But it is over in an instant and the dead never can truly understand what has happened to them. They are simply gone. But slavery – day after day, year after year shackled to another’s whims – it is the most heinous of crimes.”

  Demian rose, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Come. It is time.”

  The ruins were as Demian had sketched, a low shattered wall surrounding a handful of crumbling stone buildings. A large courtyard had been cleared of debris, and two great trees dragged into the center of this space and shaped into a long table. As the shadowblade had said, men were gathered around it, intent on some game. Most were dressed in ragged, frayed tunics, though a few were clad in bits and pieces of stolen armor. As they strode into the ruins Senacus saw that a number of the bandits wore dented legionary helms; they must have ambushed a small patrol or a diplomat traveling west with an imperial escort. If that was true, it was only a matter of time until the legion sent out a proper force to root them out.

  The bandits were so engrossed in their game that the shadowblade and the paladin had almost reached the table by the time one of the men noticed them and cried out. Senacus glanced at Demian to see if they should attack during the confusion, but instead Demian folded his arms and waited as the outlaws fell into chaos. Cards fluttered up in the air, and piles of coins scattered as they stumbled away from the table, reaching for their swords and axes.

  “Who in Garazon’s black balls are you?” yelled a man wearing a plumed legion helm.

  Demian offered a humorless smile. “We are the men who are going to kill you.”

  The bandit shared an uncertain look with his companions. “We heard that Telemach had put a bounty on our heads. You come to claim it?”

  “No.”

  “Are there more of you out in the woods?” he asked, straining to look past them.

  “No.”

  “Just you two?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then either you want to die, or you’re both damn fine warriors.” The bandit cleared his throat and spat. “Well, just so happens we have our own damn fine warrior. Benjin.”

  A thin boy in a dented cuirass much too large for him stepped forward. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Go wake the Skein.”

  The boy grinned, showing a mouthful of missing teeth. “Aye.” Then he dashed away, vanishing inside one of the listing stone buildings.

  The bandit leader shook his head slowly. “You two are just as brazen as the last bunch. Marchin’ down the road, blowing their horns an’ telling us to come out and meet imperial justice.” Senacus could see the tension draining from the other outlaws, the shock of seeing him and Demian stride from the woods fading. “Well, might be a few months ago our heads would’ve been on pikes back at their fort. But they didn’t know about the Skein.” A ripple of laughter from the outlaws. “Born killer, that one. So vicious he had to leave the Frostlands, if you can believe that. We took him in, give him plenty o’ chances to slake that blood-thirst of his. Tore through that imperial patrol like he was a wolf in a chicken house, he did.”

  A deep, gravelly voice boomed from inside the building the bandit had entered moments before, harsh words spoken in a language Senacus did not know.

  “Well, here he comes.”

  A giant stepped from the shadowed interior, stooping to avoid striking his head on the doorframe. Senacus steeled himself to avoid taking an instinctive step backward – the Skein was huge, two heads taller than any of the other bandits, and at least half again as broad. He looked to be armored in the full skin of a black bear, its head hanging down from his shoulder and its clawed paws laced across his stomach. Tied into his wild blond beard were three shrunken gray heads; Senacus thought they must be wraiths, though he had never actually seen those monstrous scavengers of the north. The Skein’s bared arms were roped with muscle, and he held two giant battle-axes, which he clashed as he moved blinking into the light.

  “Why wakes me?” he bellowed, his face flushed.

  “Ah, Golgeth, these men say they have come to kill you.” The bandit leader pointed at Senacus and Demian.

  Still holding his battle-ax, the Skein wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “They? Only two?” He uttered a string of harsh sylla
bles, punctuated by smashing his weapons together again and stalking toward the waiting shadowblade.

  “I will slay this one,” Demian said calmly to Senacus. “Keep the others from helping him.”

  Senacus stepped away to give the assassin room to move, then turned his body so that he could both watch the fight and make sure none of the other bandits attacked Demian from behind.

  The Skein’s pace quickened as he approached Demian, who drew his strange sword with a flourish. The giant lunged forward, lashing out with startling quickness, and the shadowblade leaned backward as the first ax-blade whistled a half-span from his neck, then brought his sword up to block the second. He staggered slightly under the tremendous force of the blow, and Senacus feared for a moment that the ancient blade would shatter, but it held with a rending shriek and a scattering of silver sparks. Demian leaped backward as the Skein continued surging forward, his ax-blades flashing. Several times Senacus thought the giant had actually caught Demian in one of his sweeping cuts, but each time the shadowblade managed to twist away or duck beneath blows that would have chopped a young tree in half. As Demian retreated before the onslaught, Senacus found himself holding his breath, afraid that a slight misstep on the uneven ground could doom the shadowblade.

  Then something changed. Suddenly it was the Skein who was stumbling back, desperately attempting to ward off Demian’s flickering blade. A line of red appeared on the giant’s arm, then he reeled away as the shadowblade’s sword scored his side. Demian paused his advance as the Skein tripped and fell backward, one of the axes flying from his grip. The shadowblade followed, and snorted derisively. Screaming in rage, the Skein heaved himself from the ground and leaped at Demian, his axe a silvery arc. The shadowblade nimbly sidestepped the blow and struck out with his sword and the Skein’s head separated from his shoulders, spinning through the air.

  Before it had even landed Demian charged the stunned bandits. Senacus joined the shadowblade, and together they easily cut down the outlaws as they cowered or turned to flee. After a few bloody moments only the young bandit who had awakened the Skein remained, Senacus’s sword at his neck. He blubbered incoherently, his face deathly pale.