Son of the Black Sword - eARC

by Larry Correia

  Jagdish was enraged. “This is my prison! These are my men!” The Protector countered, lunging forward, striking at the halberd shaft, trying to force it down, but the warrior was having none of it. When his attacker made it past the spike, Jagdish turned and slammed both arms forward, crashing the length of wood into the armored chest. The Protector went flailing back, tripped over one of the dying prisoners, to crash against the stone wall.

  There was a burning sensation on his shoulder. Jagdish glanced down to see that his uniform was hanging open. He’d been cut. Didn’t even see that one coming. He roared, lifted the pole arm, and went after the Protector. Jagdish hacked through vines and ivy, and sent a shower of dust from the wall beneath, but the Protector had already scrambled aside.

  The Protector counterattacked, blade flashing through the air. Jagdish tried to block, but he’d put himself too close to the wall, and the haft scraped against stone, slowing it just a bit. He felt the cut as a terrible fire burned down his ribs. Grimacing, he moved away from the wall, striking with both ends of the long weapon, trying to make distance, but the Protector followed, constantly swinging, his blade a blur of motion. Splinters flew from the halberd shaft, but better splinters of wood than bone, and Jagdish sacrificed his weapon to save his life.

  The halberd went flying across the road.

  The Protector’s eye instinctively followed the bouncing pole arm, just for a heartbeat, but that was enough for Jagdish to launch a kick into his opponent’s leg. Nothing broke, but it pushed him back long enough for Jagdish to draw his own sword.

  They were back where they started. Only now Jagdish was bleeding and his foe was not. Slick, hot blood was running down his belly, but not fast enough to drop him yet.

  The Protector’s hood had fallen back, revealing a hard, square face. “You’re better than expected.”

  “You’re worse,” Jagdish said honestly. Ashok was far faster than this one. With all his clumsy mistakes, if he’d been fighting the Black Heart he would’ve been dead five times over by now. It seemed that not all Protectors were created equal.

  They met in the road, sword blades flying. Jagdish’s issue weapon was a traditional Vadal broadsword. It was heavier than his opponent’s weapon, thus a bit slower, but it was also longer, and the extra mass was sufficient to knock the lighter blade aside. The Protector kept slashing at him, but even with the fog in his head, Jagdish’s muscles remembered what to do. Months of training with the finest killer in Lok had prepared him. He caught the edge with his flat, and then again, always moving, interrupting his opponents lightning quick swings with fast strikes of his own. The Protector seemed to grow frustrated. Unlike Ashok, this one actually seemed capable of getting tired.

  Jagdish pressed the attack, cutting and thrusting. His arm burned, but he kept it high, no delay, never settling into a pattern, and never, ever letting up, even for an instant. The Protector overextended. Jagdish used his sword to push the blade further astray, and then slugged the Protector in the face hard with his left fist. A jolt ran down Jagdish’s arm, but that square jaw gave and the Protector took a few halting steps back, stunned and hurting.

  He might have finished him then, if it wasn’t for the interruption. “Enough games. We’ve got work to do.” Jagdish spun around to see who else was speaking. There was another Protector coming out of the prison, wiping his bloody sword on a torn scrap of Vadal gray. This one was an average-sized man, neither old nor young, but obviously in command.

  The Protector he’d been fighting put one hand to his face, and shoved his broken jaw back into place with a sick crack. Jagdish flinched. No matter how tough a man was, that should have put him down. The Protector moved his jaw side to side, and then opened and closed his mouth a few times. Satisfied it was in the socket, he spoke as if no injury had occurred at all. “Let me finish this, Sikasso. It isn’t often we find a real challenge.”

  “You call this a challenge, Lome? He smells like a brewery.”

  “He’s more skilled than he looks.”

  “Make it quick.” Sikasso tossed the bloody rag that had been a guard’s tunic on the ground and sheathed his sword. “I’ve got a message to deliver. Use your magic and finish this mope.”

  “That’d be cheating,” Lome said, eyeing Jagdish suspiciously. “A good fight makes life worth living.”

  “It’s getting paid that makes life worth living.” Sikasso began walking across the grass. “I don’t care what you do, but if you don’t catch up in time, you’re not getting your cut. I’m off.”

  “You’re not going anywhere!” Jagdish bellowed at him. He’d have his revenge on these Protector dogs, and he was angry enough to fight their entire order at once to see it happen.

  But then Sikasso seemed to…melt. Silver dripped into black. Jagdish blinked, uncomprehending, as the Protector spread his widening arms and leapt into the sky. It was almost as if a hole formed in the world. There was a color, but not one that his mind could comprehend or record. Where Sikasso had been was an absence of sight, and then something came out the other side. He thought he saw feathers, but then he had to look away because the searing darkness burned his eyes. There was a beating of wings and a slap of air, and then Sikasso was gone.

  “Witchcraft!” Jagdish roared as the abomination soared into the night. “You’re no Protectors of the Law!”

  His opponent laughed. “Your Law is for the weak, and you’re not worth losing my share.” Jagdish turned back to see that Lome had lifted something small from a chain on his belt and he was clutching it in his hand. More of the eye-stinging magic was emanating from that fist. Lome began whispering something that made Jagdish’s ears ring.

  Jagdish charged.

  Things had changed. This time he didn’t even stand a chance. Lome parried every attack effortlessly. A grin appeared on the murderer’s face, and it began to widen as he chased Jagdish back. It took everything he had just to survive. Lome seemed gleeful. Flats met, the curved sword slid down steel, and Jagdish nearly lost his fingers. The false Protector moved like the wind.

  He’s toying with me.

  Lome hit him incredibly hard in the side. It would have been a killing blow, but he’d used the spine of his blade just out of spite. Lome did it again. It was like being beaten with a steel rod. Now this was like fighting Ashok. He batted Jagdish’s sword away, then kicked him in the torso hard enough to lift him off his feet and fling him down the road.

  Jagdish hit the ground hard, rolling, stomach heaving, simultaneously gasping for breath and retching his guts up. He could feel the shape of the footprint embedded on his chest. Jagdish tried to stand, but Lome was on him, and a fist clipped the side of his face, driving him back into the road. Stars spun behind Jagdish’s eyes.

  “That was for breaking my jaw.” Lome kicked him in the side to roll him over. He stepped on Jagdish’s sword, pinning it. “That really hurt!” The false Protector stood over him. The chain hooked to his belt was dangling, and at the end of it was something small and impossibly dark, swinging back and forth. When he tried to focus on it, the object stung his eyes.

  No wonder I lost, fighting a damned wizard. Jagdish tried to curse him, but all that came out was a wheeze.

  “I’ve enjoyed this.” Lome lifted his sword to deliver a decapitating blow. “But I’ve got places to be,” he said just before his head opened like a red flower and Jagdish was hit by a shower of blood and teeth.

  Armor clanking, Lome flopped to his knees. There was an angry roar from behind him, a flash of movement, a terrible thud from another impact, and then Lome collapsed in a heap. A huge man appeared, standing over the wizard, holding the giant iron beam the guards used to bar the gate. It normally took two guards to lift the thing, but now it was being held by a single person, and there was blood and hair stuck to that massive bar. He lifted the beam in both hands, thick muscles straining, and brought it down on the wizard’s head again. Red and white chunks flew in every direction.

  Seemingly satisfied that
Lome’s skull had been thoroughly smashed, the big man spit on the nearly headless corpse, then tossed the iron beam into the road. Clang. He wiped his bloody hands on his clothing, and Jagdish realized his clothing was nothing more than a wool blanket with a hole cut out of it for his large head to poke through.

  A prisoner had just saved his life.

  “Looked like you could use a hand, Risaldar…What’s this then? I knew I smelled magic…” The big man knelt down, took up the chain and tore it from Lome’s belt. “Demon bone! That’ll be worth a few notes!” Then he picked up the Zarger blade. It looked like a toy in his hands. For a moment Jagdish thought the prisoner might use it to finish him off, but instead he used the sword to cut a strip from the dead man’s cloak, which he roughly shoved against the gash on Jagdish’s chest. “Lay still. You’re hurt and there’s no rush. Far as I can tell your friends are all dead. You have my word I’d no hand in that. It was this fool and the other one.” He stood up. Jagdish recognized him as one of the worker-caste prisoners, but right then couldn’t remember his crime or even his name. “No offense to your fine hospitality, but I intend to escape now. Just hold onto that rag tight as you can and make sure you keep pressure on that wound.”

  Jagdish was still recovering from getting the wind knocked out of him. He couldn’t have stopped the prisoner even if he’d felt like it, but he needed to understand what had happened here. He managed to croak, “Ashok?”

  “The Black Heart? He weren’t involved.”

  “How do you know?” Jagdish gasped.

  The big man grinned. “Because some of us lived!” and then he ran away.

  The warrior Jagdish lay bleeding in the road before Cold Stream Prison, surrounded by bodies, as the torch slowly flickered and went out.

  Chapter 25

  Ashok sprinted through the night, leaping over fences and ditches, crossing open fields as quickly as possible to stay out of the moonlight. He’d not worn shoes the entire time he’d been in prison—he’d given his fine boots to one of the guards—so the soles of his feet were a callused mass, but they’d still taken a beating tonight, and were bleeding from many small cuts. His arms and face were scratched from crashing through brush trying to stay out of sight. The only living things that had spotted him had been farm animals that he’d startled awake or birds he’d flushed from the trees. His lungs ached and his muscles burned, but rather than slow down, he’d called upon the Heart of the Mountain and pushed on, far past human endurance. He set a brutal pace that the most athletic warrior could have only kept up for a short burst, and Ashok kept it up for hours.

  The exertion made it easier not to think about his orders.

  Akershan was on the far end of the continent. He’d die if he kept this up. Such a journey could take months this time of year and required planning. This area was all farms and pastures, but as he went south he’d enter the hills and then the mountains, and as the altitude climbed the temperature would drop. By the time he reached Thao lands, the snows would be deep. He would need food, clothing, supplies, and preferably horses. Ashok had no idea how he’d get such things now, because his entire life when he’d needed something he’d just requisition it from his inferiors. He’d been of the first caste and a senior member of a prestigious order, so that had been his right.

  But now he had nothing, no symbol of office, no rank, and no place. How did the casteless find food and shelter? He’d never cared enough about them to pay attention. Workers traded with money, but Ashok possessed no banknotes. Omand had declared he was to be a criminal, and criminals just took things. He was passing small villages and isolated farms, and there was nothing the workers there could do to stop him if he stole their property, but the idea sickened him, and Ashok kept running instead.

  He stayed off the main road, but kept parallel to it as much as possible. This might have been his homeland, but it was unfamiliar territory. The moons had helped keep him pointed in the right direction whenever the terrain forced him away from the road for most of the night, but the bright Canda had sunk behind the distant mountains and tiny Upagraha had faded away as it always did. A thin fog had rolled in. The sun would be up soon, and the farmers had already risen for their long day’s toil. There were occasional travelers on the road, mostly on foot, but some on horses or mules. Ashok could have easily taken one of them, but orders or not, he didn’t think of himself as a highwayman.

  Crashing through a small stream soothed his feet, but it was only temporary, because the wicked water simply softened his flesh so the ground afterwards hurt even more. He paused long enough to slake his thirst, but didn’t drink his fill. That would only slow him down. Then it was back to running.

  That narrow, shallow bit of water made him think, though. He’d have to cross the Martaban River soon. It was too wide to leap across and too deep to wade. It was fresh water, not nearly as evil as the violent saltwater of the sea, and they were so far inland that it was doubtful a demon would stray this far from Hell, but that wasn’t the problem.

  Like all people raised in the highest caste, Ashok didn’t know how to swim. Whole men only used water to drink and bathe, otherwise it was better left to their inferiors. The impure and sullied worked around the source of all evil. Submersing yourself completely was madness, and only a fool would swim. So he’d need to cross at one of the few bridges or find a ferry. He couldn’t follow the Capitol’s orders if he drowned, and the idea of leaving Angruvadal on the bottom of a river was absurd and offensive.

  Suddenly his foot plunged into a gopher hole, and his momentum caused him to crash into the dirt. Being tired and distracted had made him clumsy. He wouldn’t be able to obey his orders if he tripped in the dark and snapped his neck either, and it was truly darkest before dawn, so Ashok lay there, face down in the damp grass, breathing hard, trying to collect himself.

  What am I going to do?

  Kule had taken away his fear, but Ashok felt a weak sickness inside his chest. Dread…Close enough. It did no good to be mad at the Capitol. It was their place to give punishments, and this punishment was truly a masterpiece. Not only would Ashok suffer in the most terrible way possible for the rest of his life, but everyone in the land would see his example, serving out the rest of his days in the service of a false god.

  Resigned to his fate, Ashok rose from the dirt. He’d wrenched his ankle hard, and it was throbbing and swelling as he set out. The tendons protested, but he ignored the pain, and continued on, but a bit slower now.

  By the time the eastern horizon was beginning to turn orange, Ashok reached the river. He heard it long before he saw it, a deep energetic sound. The ground around the river was marshy and covered in tall reeds. He moved across the dry bits of land until he stood at the bank. Here the river was wide, cold, swift-moving death. He tossed a stick in the water and watched as it was swept away instantly. Ashok could fight anything that walked on land or crawled out of the sea and have a good chance of winning, but he knew he’d perish if he tried to make it across that.

  Even then, it was tempting.

  It would be simple. He could drive Angruvadal into the ground to wait for its next bearer, then step over the edge and let the water have him. He knew from watching the Inquisitors torture witches that drowning was painful, but a relatively quick way to die. Eventually his bloated, soggy corpse would be carried out to Hell for the demons to devour. That would be decisive and final, nothing like the harsh, lingering punishment the Capitol had dreamed up for him.

  Ashok put one hand on his sword. I can’t dishonor you like that. He stepped away from the bank.

  In the distance there was a dark shape in front of the rising sun. It was taller than the fog and the lines were too straight to be part of nature. A tower. Probably a checkpoint, and if there was a checkpoint, that meant there was a bridge. Ashok set out toward it, carefully picking his way through the tall reeds. No one could be allowed to stop him, and he had no travelling papers. So sneaking across was preferable to fighting. He’d ruined e
nough lives already.

  Creeping forward through the mud and weeds until he was close enough to get a clear view of the checkpoint, Ashok could see that the squat tower was made of red bricks. The silhouette of a single archer was visible on top. Next to the tower was a small wooden barracks, and from the size there couldn’t be more than a handful of warriors stationed here. No stable or feed, so they didn’t even have horses to pursue him if he was seen. The final building was the arbiter’s office. Smoke was rising from the chimney. Other than the single archer, he saw no other guards. Hopefully most of them were still asleep.

  Behind the buildings was the bridge and he could see why they’d built it here. The ground was higher and the river narrower, so the wooden bridge was shorter and tall enough for the local barges to move beneath it freely. A large raft covered in barrels and crates was moving toward the bridge. There were figures on both sides, pushing their way against the current with long poles. Ashok didn’t know if those who moved cargo on the rivers were casteless, or if there were any workers low enough to have an obligation so awful.

  On the opposite shore was a small village consisting of a trading post and a handful of buildings. As much as the idea of stealing disgusted him, he would have to find food there. Even with the Heart to sustain him, all of his running had left him famished.

  Ashok assessed the options. It was tempting to just run across, but the last thing he wanted to do was cause these warriors to give chase. Since the bridge was constructed of crossed wooden beams, he could probably climb across the bottom, staying out of the archer’s view, but he couldn’t see the underside from his current position. The archer was looking in the opposite direction, so Ashok moved out of the reeds and made his way through the tall grass toward the bridge.

  A dog began barking. The sudden noise shattered the quiet morning. Ashok froze. The archer turned toward the sound, which was coming from behind the arbiter’s building. The barking stopped abruptly, turned into a whine, and then that was cut off as well, as if someone had grabbed the dog by the snout and squeezed its mouth shut.