The Way of the Blade

by Stuart Jaffe

  He paused, took a deep breath, and pushed off the log. Pain shot up his leg — but not like before. Unpleasant, certainly, but he could manage. He took a few small steps, leaning heavily on the branch. It held his weight, and as long as he kept a slow pace, the painful spikes never rose above a steady, numbing throb.

  Little by little, he walked along the shore with his makeshift crutch until he found an opening into the cold, rocky land deeper within.

  The path cut back and forth up into the mountains. Not much of a path, really — mostly an area where nothing grew, beaten down by the occasional traveler. Not enough travelers, though, to make a true path. In fact, weeds and saplings poked through repeatedly.

  Gray rock speckled with reds and greens loomed from the sides. Some formed arches overhead. Others curved over as if he walked under the broken ribs of a long dead giant.

  Sweat poured down Javery’s back and sides. He only noticed as it chilled his soaked body even more. It stung his eyes and seeped between his lips. His hands slipped on the crutch’s uneven surface, cutting his palms and fingers.

  As the hours passed, he pushed on, repeating a simple mantra — one more step. The sun had set, and the moonlight provided only a dim view of the area. As he walked on, he heard an odd crunch. Another step, another crunch. The ground gave way with each crunching step, and the hairs on his arms stiffened.

  Javery hobbled over to a large rock and sat. He stared into the empty darkness, his mind equally blank, and he breathed. Part of him wanted to do that and nothing more — ever. Just breathe and let the world spin.

  He shivered and shook off the idea. Bending down, he reached for the ground, trying to find out what caused that crunch. The answer came as his fingers locked on a human skull. More skulls and ribs and spines and bones of all kinds covered the path.

  “Crug, how many people have failed trying to find this witch?”

  Even as the sight turned his stomach, it lit him up — no way would he let the same fate happen to him. With renewed energy, he pushed further along the path. Each step came with the crunch of ancient bones. Step, crunch. Step, crunch. He refused to look down, instead focusing ahead, watching the clouds cut across the sliver of moon.

  The air grew colder. He slowed his progress, cautiously placing his crutch on the hard ground, making sure that his shaking body did not send him falling. Ice formed on his skin, and the mucus in his nose froze.

  Step, crunch. Step, crunch. Step ... silence.

  Javery turned his shivering head down. The bones were gone. He looked up — no, not gone.

  A stairway had been built into the mountain. The bones had been used to form the boundaries of each wide step, to hold back the dirt, to mark the path on the uneven surface. On each landing, a skull with a candle inside flickered a macabre light.

  Javery climbed higher. Step after step. When he reached a rise to the next stair, he had to put extra weight on his bad leg. Though only for a second, each time sent a knife straight up his side.

  After at least a hundred stairs (he lost count in the seventies), he came upon a wide landing with four skull-lanterns and a bench carved of wood and bone. He halted. He stared at this bench. It smiled at him, offering a chance for him to take the strain off his legs, even if only for a moment. And the bench had been built wide enough that he could lay down for a respite. A short one.

  He took a step closer to the bench. Every part of him that had not already frozen shook with the cold. His mind had no room for debate. It had become a void. Except for a memory glimmering in the darkness. His brother, Ronnic, racing him to some place — a lake? — but Javery couldn’t keep up — he stopped, kicked a rock, and yelled that he was going home — and Ronnic ran back, smacked him across the head — we never give up, Ronnic said —

  Javery turned to the next stair off the landing and climbed. Another fifty steps, at least. Then he came to the next landing.

  A horned-yorq sat on the landing, its face as startled as Javery felt. The animal was no bigger than a toddler but far more muscular. Four legs, wiry strands of hair poking out oddly, and horns — lots of horns. Horns along its snout, behind its ears, poking out from every joint, along the back.

  Javery broke into a broad smile. Either he had lost his mind or he stared at a mythical creature become real. And if the yorq was real, then the Pali Witch might be, too.

  Javery’s eyes took in the situation. He didn’t see any babies. He didn’t see a fresh kill. He didn’t see anything that would set this beast into a rage. In fact, so far, the two of them continued to size each other up.

  The next stair waited off to the right. Javery could sidestep in that direction and never have to cross the horned-yorq’s path. They could circle each other and all would be well.

  Except the yorq snorted — a long, angry sound. Javery thought of all those bones he had walked over. Even if they had all been killed by the witch, something had cleaned them of all their flesh. Something that had probably learned to enjoy the taste of human meat.

  The yorq’s eyes shimmered in the dim light of the skull-lanterns. It paced back and forth, never looking away. Its tongue hung out, salivating over the horns growing from its jawline.

  Javery put all his weight on his good leg and raised his tree branch crutch high in the air. He barked at the yorq and swung the branch in its direction. The yorq shied back a few feet. It looked to the stairway as an escape. It even moved closer in that direction. But then Javery only continued to make noise and stand there, and the yorq stopped and watched.

  “Go away,” Javery said. “Go!”

  The yorq lunged at him and pulled back at the last second. A feigned attack. Unfortunately, Javery reacted with full-force. He swung the crutch hard, lost his balance, and instinctively put pressure on his bad leg to stay upright.

  In his entire life, he had never experienced such shooting pain. He shrieked as his footing left him. His brain told him that he was falling, that his head and his back and his knees were taking serious punishment, that the ground spun around him. His body, however, registered none of it — the excruciating lightning firing off all the nerves in his skin blocked out all else.

  When he came to a rest, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel his body at all — a small blessing considering the agony he had expected to continue. With only one eye clear (the other covered in snow, blood, and mud), he watched the blurry image of the yorq pad towards him.

  Javery yelled at the beast, tried to scare it off, but then realized he heard no sound coming from his mouth beyond a pathetic whimper. The yorq sniffed him from head to foot. Out of the corner of his eye, Javery saw the animal licking his hand, possibly nibbling off his fingers.

  He closed his eyes and prayed that Carsite would protect him, or at least insure that he wouldn’t feel a thing.

  But he did feel something. He felt the yorq climb over his body and run off. Forcing his one eye to open again, he only saw blurs and shapes. But he knew that one shape well — he had seen it all his life in books and stories and legends. A bone thin body with the bottom half of a beautiful woman’s face. The top half — a formation of rock and flesh with antlers growing from its skull. Its fingers were too long and its skin hung like torn robes.

  The Pali Witch.

  She existed, and she had come to his aid.

  And Javery didn’t know if he should be relieved or terrified.

  Chapter 23

  Malja

  The long flight back over the ocean gave Malja plenty of time to rest. Her do-kha attended to her injuries in its limited way, but thankfully, nothing had been broken. The rest of her bruises would heal on their own.

  At the shore, she landed to give the talionog a rest. Then she headed to the town of Raxholden. Her mind swirled with conflicting thoughts and stories.

  By the time she reached the town, the midday sun neared. She flew over the buildings, taking a few moments to picture this town as Harskill had described it — a place built by the Scarites, a home for th
em that the Carsites invaded, an occupied territory. On the outskirts of town, Malja spied Fawbry and Tommy running a group of men through basic drills on how to use weapons, stick together, and work as a team.

  She guided the talionog smack into the middle of Fawbry’s lesson. Despite her grandiose entrance, the real treat rested on Fawbry’s stunned face. She had never seen him so delighted with her.

  “What in Kryssta’s name?” he said, offering her a hand to dismount.

  The men all stood around watching her as she shucked Fawbry on the chin. “I don’t know why I did that,” she said. “It just seemed like fun.” And there’s nothing fun in what awaits us.

  Tommy covered his smile and motioned for the men to form up in lines. He clapped his hands at Malja and then pointed to the men. Important things needed to be discussed, but she knew better than to walk away. Novice soldiers, especially farmers turned soldiers, required constant encouragement to face the daunting odds ahead. Even with one semi-successful battle behind them, they were smart enough to know that they needed more than luck to keep surviving.

  After a few minutes of drills, she nodded. “Not bad,” she said to Tommy, loud enough for the men to hear. “Still needs work, but they might just get there yet.” She pointed off into the fields of stone to a wooden structure that offered shade and a few benches. “Finish up with the men, then I need to see you and Fawbry over there. Fawbry, go find Canto, Javery, and Krunlo. Bring them here immediately. We’ve got to talk.”

  Twenty minutes later the group met in the field — except for Javery. To Malja’s questioning brow, Canto said, “There was an incident. The young man attacked his father.”

  “Attacked?”

  Canto shifted his gaze away. “He ... had suffered a humiliation recently. And he took it out on Shual. It was my fault. He found me with Druzane. I didn’t —”

  “Where is he?”

  Canto shrugged. “He took an autofly and headed to the East. Hasn’t been back.”

  Rubbing her hands, she frowned and gave the development some silent thought. At length, she said, “We don’t have time to hunt for him.” Positioning herself in front of Canto, she leaned in close, but in full voice, she added, “What exactly did your people do to the Scarites?”

  “Do? Nothing. We’ve protected ourselves from them for generations.”

  She slapped Canto. Before the sound had finished, Krunlo moved in. Fawbry put his meager body in between, and Tommy focused on a tattoo near his shoulder.

  “I could crush you,” Krunlo said.

  Fawbry held his ground. “I’ve stood in the way of far worse things than you.”

  To Canto, Malja continued, “You lied to us. The Scarites struggle to live. They fight you because all they want is to return to their homes — the homes you stole from them. You invaded and exiled them. Isn’t that right?”

  “I did not lie,” Canto said, so firmly that Malja knew he believed his words. Krunlo moved back, crossing his arms and glowering at Fawbry. “It’s true that the Scarites lived here and in the many towns of Carsite’s east coast. That’s no secret. But they always wanted to press further west. They always want to take our lands away. And then one day, they left.”

  “Left?”

  “According to our history, the Scarites learned of lands to the East that they wanted for themselves, and so they abandoned their homes, their towns, and made for the sea. Our people happily moved in. Years later, when they discovered that this new land of theirs wasn’t so wonderful, they demanded to move back. It was too late. How could we abandon what had become ours?”

  “So, you cut them off of your food supplies?”

  Canto’s eyes chilled as if witnessing the history unfold. “They would sneak in at night and slit the throats of our children. They would build explosives and destroy civilian buildings.”

  “You only have civilians when you have no military.”

  “We had one back then. But war never solved the situation. We tried to be diplomatic. We offered all sorts of concessions.”

  “Except to give them their homes back.”

  “They are our homes, too. I was born here. Everyone in this town was born here. We’re not some invading force. I can trace my family back several generations.” Canto rose like a brooding beast. “Each time it seemed we had finally negotiated a peace, they would attack us again. Or they would change the rules we had agreed to. Then Harskill came, and we’ve seen nothing but savagery from them. They’ve turned themselves into mutated horrors. How can we be expected to find peace with abominations?” He pointed his finger directly into her face. “And why should I have to answer to you? This was a problem that existed long before you came here. What makes you think that you can simply walk in and change everything? We don’t need you. We know our enemy, and we’re prepared for them.”

  “The Scarites have an army.”

  “And you do, too,” Krunlo said with a hefty thump to his chest. “My men are ready and —”

  Malja shot Krunlo a harsh glare. “With your men, the Carsites have a handful of half-useful squads. The Scarites have a massive, fully equipped army.” Back to Canto, she said, “Your soldiers are not enough for this battle. You need to negotiate a truce now.”

  “Are you listening to me?” Canto shouted. “They don’t honor such agreements.”

  “Even if only for a little, each day you gain is a day for more training, a day for you to find more men, a day to prepare.”

  “That is simply more time for them to do the same. We beat them once already. We can do so again.”

  “I know war. I know violence like you’ve never seen. This is a horrible way to live. It is even worse to raise a child amongst the bloodshed. Don’t let this become the fate of your people.”

  “We will never bow to Scarites, and we no longer trust them to make deals.”

  Malja’s body drooped. “Then you’ll all die.”

  When Krunlo spoke, Malja saw that he had lowered his arms and inquired with the thoughtful eyes of a warrior. “How large is this Scarite army?”

  “Thousands. A true army.”

  To Canto, Krunlo said, “Then she’s right. We can’t win against a force that large. Not as we are now.” He tapped his thumbs together. “But, what if we had something that might change the balance of power?”

  Canto glanced at Malja. “Somehow I don’t think she’ll fight for us anymore.”

  “Not her. The warship Nittilo.”

  Malja perked up. “Warship?”

  Chapter 24

  Javery

  Javery dreamed of Druzane. He floated in the air, and she above him. Her hair ebbed and flowed as if underwater, and her naked body descended upon him like a gift from Carsite himself. Javery could smell and taste her skin — like berries, salty berries.

  But even as a child, he always knew when he was dreaming. This time required no special skills. He would never forget the contempt on her face when he had caught her with Canto. The way she discarded him when she thought his power was gone.

  She would learn. That was the dream he wanted to see. Druzane on her knees, her head pressing to the floor, groveling for even a morsel of his attention. He wanted her to shake with fear because she would know deep to her bones that he had become godlike, and like the stories of old, he would smite her for betraying him.

  Javery startled awake. He was floating, staring at a golden ceiling, feeling gravity push him back to the ground but unable to lower. Slimy, metal chains posted into the walls had been tied around his wrists and ankles. They kept him suspended above the floor of an impressive room.

  Gold covered every surface, bouncing light and turning the air amber and beautiful. Beneath him were numerous pillows and cushions of all sizes. Olive silks hung from the walls. Everything about the room displayed wealth, power, and taste. Except for him. Having him quartered in the middle of the room, held aloft by rusting metal chains did not fit.

  Stranger still — he finally noticed that he was not in agoniz
ing pain. His leg, his palm, his sides, the back of his head — all of his injuries appeared to have been healed. He had been stripped and cleaned, and according to the messages his brain received from his body, he had suffered no lasting damage.

  He gave the chains a shake. They looked like they would snap at any moment, but each shake showed him that these chains were solid and not breaking without an extreme effort, if even then.

  He heard her approach long before she walked in. Methodical steps. A quiet tapping like water dripping steadily off of a leaf. A sound so gentle and clean that it never prepared him for what he saw.

  The Pali Witch proved to be every bit as horrible as he had seen right before passing out. Worse, in fact. Because in addition to that face of a half-beauty, half-monstrosity, her body also bore the same division. As if a dull sword had cleaved her diagonally from shoulder to hip, a jagged scar cut across her. The bottom half off this line remained human — a middle-aged woman’s body, not well-fed but not wasting away either. The top half — stone, mud, wood, and bone. She wore a tattered robe that hung limply over her skeletal frame and spread out to cover her to the floor. Javery thanked Carsite he did not have to see what disfigured horror formed her legs.

  “Why are you on my island?” she said. Her voice sounded old — older than Shual — and a clicking sound lay under her words as if something in her throat did not line up correctly. Or perhaps the rock that covered her skin reached internally, too.

  Javery turned his head to keep her in sight. “I’m here for the same reason I imagine all people come to see you. I want the secrets to magic. I want to learn that power.”

  “Learn? Not many come here to learn.” She had her back to him, yet she kept moving closer. “Most, in fact, demand. They want the power and nothing more. But you want to learn the power. That’s very different.”