Son of the Black Sword - eARC

by Larry Correia

  * * *

  “Are you comfortable, child?” the woman asked him.

  The boy nodded. The lady of the great house didn’t seem so angry with him now.

  “Good. Drink up.”

  They’d given him some cushions to sit on and a cup of wine. He was still scared, but something in the drink had made him very sleepy. The sword had finally allowed his fingers to release it, so it was resting at his side. Though he wished they would, no one had tried to take the sword from him yet.

  “I’m sorry I took it.” He was having a hard time speaking. It was like his tongue was too big for his mouth. “You can have your sword back.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, child. An ancestor blade cannot simply be given or taken.”

  A few other members of the first caste had joined them and then they’d gone to a smaller, more private room. It was covered in silks softer than anything he’d ever felt before and the air was filled with perfumes that made his face itch. The woman in charge was named Bidaya, because that’s what the other important whole men called her, except for the youngest one who kept calling her “mother.” The young man was pacing back and forth nervously while the others sat. The boy was very sleepy, but he could tell that the young man was very upset, even more so than the others, or maybe he wasn’t as good at hiding it yet.

  “You should have had the guards execute the little fish-eater on the spot!”

  “That would have been foolish, Harta,” one of the old men in robes stated. He had white hair and a bushy beard. “Your mother was wise to proceed cautiously. What’s done is done. Angruvadal chose this casteless for some unknowable reason. He is the bearer now, and one does not simply execute a bearer.”

  “Speaking of which…” The young man stopped his pacing long enough to look the boy over. “Are we in danger? What’s to stop it from slaughtering us all?”

  “Besides the fact that he’s probably only five or six years old and the sword is bigger than he is?” Bidaya snorted. “Calm yourself. The boy is no danger. His drink is laced with a bit of the sleeping poppy. I’m surprised he’s still awake at all.”

  “You should have just poisoned it and saved us all the trouble,” Harta complained.

  “That would be unwise,” the old man said. “The sword has spoken. If we went against its wishes, the Angruvadal might construe that as an act of treachery. To murder the bearer of an ancestor blade is a terrible dishonor against a house. Traditionally, the only way to remove a bearer is through a proper duel, and he is far too young to legally enter into a duel.”

  “Damn it, Chavans, the judges don’t have to know,” Harta shouted.

  “I’m not worried about what the judges think. I’m worried about what the sword thinks. Why do you think there are so few of them left? There were once hundreds of black steel weapons and now there are only a score, if that many. If the blade feels its house is no longer worthy of protection, then it will perish. The surest way to prove we are unworthy is by murdering its bearer.”

  “A duel isn’t murder under the Law…Neither is falling asleep in the bath, and this stinky little creature could certainly use a bath.”

  “No one has ever accused an ancestor blade of having nuance, Harta. If we murder the bearer, no matter how clean we keep our hands, the sword might shatter.”

  “So what?” Harta waved his hand dismissively. “Killing the brat is worth the risk. Even if it breaks, it isn’t like father used that sword in decades. There hasn’t been a demon washed up on our shores in my lifetime. Vadal is the strongest of the great houses. We don’t need to rely on some superstitious artifact when we’re this well positioned in the capitol.”

  “It isn’t just the blade itself, but what the blade symbolizes,” Chavans argued. “Losing our house’s sword will make us appear weak, and our allies in the courts will turn on us.”

  “I’d rather not have an ancestor blade at all, than bear the scorn of having it carried about by casteless scum!” Harta kicked a pillow for emphasis.

  “On that point, heir, we are in agreement,” Chavans said. “However we proceed, no one can ever know of this shame.”

  The sleeping poppy was making it hard for the boy to keep his eyes open and there was a pleasant humming in his ears. While Chavans and Harta continued their debate, Bidaya was absently studying the boy. He’d seen that expression before on the face of a butcher about to take apart a hog, only he found that he was too tired to care.

  Harta had gone back to pacing. “Worst case scenario: we kill the casteless, the sword shatters, and then we give the shards to Kule’s wizards to play with. I know they’re constantly raiding the treasury to buy black steel fragments and demon parts enough as it is.”

  “If you believe that’s the worst that can happen, then you lack the imagination necessary to someday rule this house,” Chavans replied. “If this scandal were ever brought to light, it would ruin us. We would become the laughingstock of the council. Our warriors would revolt before they would follow a non-person into battle. The Capitol would send the Protectors to execute us all.”

  “Enough, both of you,” Bidaya said. Chavans and Harta closed their mouths. She looked over her shoulder at the last person in the room. This man had not spoken this entire time. He was so quiet and unassuming that the boy had nearly forgotten he was there. “The boy must go, but we can’t jeopardize the sword. What do you think, Kule?”

  The boy shivered. It was a name that was spoken of only with fear and superstition among the casteless of House Vadal. From the stories, he’d expected a fire-breathing giant dressed in demon hide, raven feathers, and baby skulls, but Kule just seemed like a small, quiet, soft-spoken type. If he’d been casteless he would have been too frail to work and would have been sent to the pleasure houses to be abused for the whole men’s amusement. But everything was different when you could work magic.

  “Kule?”

  The terrifying wizard was cleaning beneath his fingernails with a talon that had been cut off a bird of prey. “Send him to the Protectors,” he answered absently.

  “What?” That seemed to alarm Harta. “Are you mad? What would that bunch of fanatics want with it? How does that solve—”

  Bidaya held up her hand and the heir immediately fell silent. “Continue.”

  “The answer to our conundrum lies with history. It has been a very long time since a great house has volunteered the service of the bearer of their ancestor blade to the Protectors of the Law. The last time that happened, impoverished Akershan’s obligation died after a few years, but they gained the Capitol’s gratitude for a generation. For mighty Vadal to give such a gift would be seen by the judges as an incredible act of devotion. Our foes will believe that we are so confident in our defenses that we do not even require the blade’s presence. Angruvadal exists to serve, and there is no honor greater than to dedicate a life to protecting the Law. Everyone wins.”

  Except me, the boy thought to himself. All he knew about Protectors were that the non-people were taught from birth to never break the Law, because then the Protectors would come for them.

  “The life of a Protector is one of hardship and service, but it is not usually a long life…” Chavans mused.

  “That is correct, Arbiter. Their lives tend to be glorious and brief. Their average member doesn’t survive their obligation. Our only terms would be that when he is inevitably killed fulfilling his duty, the ancestor blade must be swiftly returned to its rightful house so that it may choose its next bearer. Then we can put this unfortunate incident behind us.”

  “The Order is brutal. With any luck he’ll die in training.” Chavans smiled. “Yes. This course is honorable and brief.”

  “Foolishness,” Harta declared. “The Law is clear on the separation of castes. What happens when the most ruthless of all its enforcers discover that we not only violated the Law, but insulted them in the process by sending them this…this…farm animal?”

  The wizard smiled. Perhaps it was th
e poppy, but the boy thought Kule’s teeth were too sharp. “I will make sure the boy tells them only what we wish him to.”

  “Your potions may be able to cloud the mind, but they can’t pass a casteless off as a whole man.” Forgetting his earlier fear, Harta strode over to the boy. It probably helped that by now he was barely able to keep his eyes open or his heavy head from drifting toward the cushions. Harta roughly put his hand on top of the boy’s head and rubbed it around through his hair as if searching for something. “Everyone knows casteless have horns.”

  “That’s only a myth,” Chavans snapped. “Did you not pay any attention in your studies? They are mentally defective savages, but they’re still physically human.”

  Embarrassed, Harta backed away, wiping his hand on his robe because he’d touched something filthy. “They’re still coarse and stupid. This charade will fool no one.”

  “Protectors are not known for their polite company, firstborn, but rather for their viciousness, a quality which casteless have in abundance,” Kule explained patiently. “The Order will be so pleased at having access to an ancestor blade that they will overlook his limited intellect. Vadal encompasses a vast territory, I have no doubt we can find some backwoods inbred village for him to hail from.”

  “My scribes keep the Vadal genealogy,” Chavans said. “It can be arranged.”

  Kule, satisfied that his nails were clean, stuck the talon back inside his sleeve. “I assure you, grant me a bit of time and no one will ever suspect this little thing was not born a whole man.”

  “Very well, wizard, you had best not disappoint…Giving our best to the Order…Only Vadal cares enough about the Law to make such a sacrifice,” Harta muttered. “Yes, I could sell that in the Capitol. Let those Vokkan monkey-humpers try to suck up to the chief judges over our trade disputes after that.”

  “What of the boy, Kule?” Bidaya asked.

  “What of him, my lady?”

  “Can you truly make him believe he is one of us? Can you truly make something forget what it really is?”

  The wizard was confident. “It will take a great deal of effort and expense, but my art can obscure its memories and construct new ones in their place. I will give it a new foundation built upon a total devotion to the Law. Upon that foundation I will build a most obedient servant.”

  Bidaya seemed intrigued. “While you’re at it, can you remove his fear?”

  “It will take some doing, my lady. Emotions are stamped upon us. Cutting off one may damage the others. May I ask why?”

  “I want my family’s sword back as soon as possible.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. That is wise. The bold die first. I will erase his sense of fear. As for erasing the evidence of the rest of his existence, that is up to you.”

  “Very well, we will proceed with the wizard’s plan. Chavans, how many others know of this?”

  “Six guards, mere nayaks, so no one of rank sufficient to cause a scandal if they die. I saw to it that they were all confined to the palace and allowed no visitors.”

  “Excellent. Come up with a crime and execute them for it. Murder all the house slaves and their overseer as well.”

  The boy protested. The house slaves had been kind and fed him, but his cries meant nothing to the first caste.

  Bidaya turned back to the boy. “Do you have a family?”

  He didn’t want to answer, but the sleeping poppy made it so the words just fell out. “I have a mother.”

  “You don’t know who your father is? Of course not. Since the sword chose you, I’m assuming you’re my dead husband’s bastard. And all this time I thought he had better taste than to slum about with a fish-eater whore…Chavans, before you kill the overseer have him take you to the casteless quarter, find the boy’s mother, and kill her. In fact, let us err on the side of caution. Find whatever slum he called home and burn it to the ground. Kill everyone he’s ever known. Make it certain.”

  “It will be done,” the old man assured her.

  “Please don’t, my lady,” the boy begged. “I can keep a secret.”

  “This is for the best, child. Go to sleep now. Tomorrow will be a new day.”

  Chapter 12

  Ashok remembered the hands of a child, covered in blood…Now they were the hands of a man, hardened, and trembling with barely controlled rage. The spell was broken. It was all coming back. This was it, the very place where the fraud had begun.

  Lies. Slander. The crowd whispered about his allegations. Outrageous. They looked to their Thakoor, but Bidaya seemed incapable of responding. Ashok knew that the truth had momentarily robbed Bidaya of her serpent’s tongue. She should have known this day would come.

  Her silence was damning. The whispers began to change. Could it be? What does it mean? Born of an untouchable makes him untouchable. A casteless bears our sword?

  “What was her name?” Ashok whispered.

  Bidaya mumbled something incomprehensible.

  This time he bellowed with all his might, “What was her name?” The mob flinched away.

  “Why would I remember?” Bidaya shouted, her face flushed red. “I don’t remember the name of some wretched casteless whore any more that I remember the name of the pigs we butchered for dinner. They’re equally inconsequential. You were nothing. She was nothing. You were a whim of the sword. I made you, petulant child.”

  “You broke the Law,” someone in the crowd charged.

  “I saved this house!” Bidaya screamed back. Then she realized she’d said too much and tried to compose herself, but it was too late. Face had been lost. Word would spread. “I deny these charges. The Protector has lost his mind. He’s a foul liar. You wish to make this a legal matter, Ashok, then so be it. You wish a life for a life, then as the Law allows, I demand a duel. Who among you has the courage to defend the honor of this house? Who will fight on my behalf?”

  Several young men of the warrior caste immediately stepped forward. Their volunteering forced some of the hesitant soldiers to action so they wouldn’t lose face. They began to assemble in front of Bidaya. Most were too naïve to realize what they were facing. Some knew. They were aware of what an ancestor blade could do, threshing men as if it were a scythe and they were wheat, but they would willingly die for their master because that was what warriors do.

  “I will have my restitution,” Ashok warned. If she expected bloodshed to turn him aside, she was sorely mistaken. His anger would only be quenched when Bidaya was dead at his feet. “I don’t want to kill these men, but I will.”

  Most of them were young, dressed in brilliant uniforms, and wearing commendations earned as a result of their station rather than their own skill, yet there were a few among the perfumed peacocks that carried themselves like experienced combatants. One of them wearing the uniform of the Personal Guard raised his voice. “If you wish us to commit suicide on your behalf, my lady, we shall gladly do so, but there is no such thing as a duel when an ancestor blade is involved. Only slaughter.”

  Bidaya wore an evil smirk. Let the world say that the Protector had gone mad, slaughtering warriors of his own house, men who’d broken no law, who had no chance against an invincible black steel weapon…Bidaya would surely die, but not before she’d preserved her name. Ashok was so furious that he thought about cutting them all down regardless, but he would give her nothing.

  “You are wise, warrior.” Ashok drew his sword. The group before him flinched. They could feel that it was eager to kill. Not today. Ashok lifted Angruvadal high, then slammed its point deep into the floor. The black steel penetrated the stone like it was soft wood. He let go and stepped away, leaving the sword there, upright and vibrating from the impact.

  Now it was fair.

  He walked over to his opponents, stopping when they were only a few paces apart. Half of them had already drawn their dress knives and were jittery with nerves. “Who will contend with me?” Ashok suspected it would be the fearsome bodyguard next to Bidaya. That one looked eager enough.

&n
bsp; But Bidaya put her hand on the giant to keep him in place, then looked over her prospective duelists. There were a dozen to choose from. Ashok could tell what she was thinking. Without the sword, a warrior had a chance to defeat him. If he died in combat, Angruvadal would be satisfied. She could still salvage this situation. Bidaya had already proven herself so dishonorable that her next words shouldn’t have come as a surprise. “All of them.”

  “My lady?” asked the same veteran as before, unsure at the command.

  This was an execution. She meant for the lies to die with him. “You heard me, Jagdish, all of you.”

  Those with integrity hesitated, torn by such a command. The rest rushed forward, eager to curry their Thakoor’s favor.

  A young warrior lunged, driving his dagger at Ashok’s face, but the Protector knocked his arm away. Another gave a wild swing at his midsection, but Ashok darted back. Then he had to move again to avoid another blade, and another. But even without Angruvadal in his hand, he retained much of its wisdom, and had trained in the fighting arts of the Protector Order where Ratul had allowed him no crutch. Ashok flowed like water between his foes. He swatted aside an arm, then slammed his elbow into that warrior’s chest, knocking him down. Another stabbed at him recklessly, but Ashok caught him by the wrist and twisted, throwing him off balance, and used his momentum to snap bones. The warrior cried out in pain as Ashok spun him about and flung him into his allies.

  They were coming from every direction. A cut was directed at his back, but Ashok was too fast. He stepped into it, caught the arm, locked up on the elbow, and ground that joint into fragments. Then he dragged the arm back up and put the warrior precariously beyond his center of gravity. The others were still attacking, so he twisted the arm harder, steered the warrior between his body and danger, and dragged his meat shield toward the center of the dance floor.

  Many guests were fleeing, but others remained to watch the spectacle. Ashok observed his opponents. The inexperienced were getting in each other’s way, tripping each other up. The careful were flanking, looking for their moment. Ashok twisted the arm harder and the boy screamed. The reactions of his opponents told a story. Those who cringed were vulnerable. Intimidation made them afraid. Fear made them clumsy. That took care of most of them. Only one of them had a face as expressionless as Ashok’s. He made eye contact with that veteran, then he ripped the captive warrior’s knife from suddenly nerveless fingers and plunged it into its owner’s throat. He dropped the gurgling, choking warrior to drown in his own blood.