Crowlord (The Sword Saint Series Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  She reached her companion’s side to find him rigid, tension visible in his posture. He’d swung his satchel over his shoulder and tucked his hands into his cloak. They were resting on his sword hilts, she could tell. Her hands immediately went to her own weapons, but she didn’t draw them until she saw what had alarmed him.

  This was precisely the shelter she’d been thinking of. There was an opening about twelve feet high and three or four feet wide that widened into a cave maybe twenty feet deep and thirty feet wide, if memory served. Fingers of stone dangled from the ceiling, but they were no longer growing, instead dark with soot as the cave had been used by travelers for generations.

  The previous time she’d passed through, some three or four years earlier, a pair of young brigands had been sleeping inside, but had fled in terror when she swept open her cloak and showed her weapons. The villains had lived like animals and soiled the interior with discarded bones, bloodstained rags, and their own human waste.

  She’d cleaned it up before spending the night, even knowing her efforts would likely be ignored by the next travelers to come through. How could people live like that? Even the hogs kept by farmers down the canyon knew enough not to foul their own pigsties.

  Katalinka half-expected to see the same pair of brigands inside, urinating against the cave wall and roasting a pair of stolen chickens as they counted the loot from some unwary traveler they’d knocked down and left for dead by the side of the road. She and Abelard would put them to flight and clean up their rubbish.

  Instead, there was a single man inside, standing near the back, with shadows dancing on the wall behind him from a small campfire, nearly burned down to coals. He’d stripped off his cloak and shirt and stood barefoot next to the flames while he rubbed what looked like ash across his chest. A leather strap slung over one shoulder held a sheathed sword whose hilt poked up past his right shoulder.

  After the darkness, the light of the fire was more than enough for the confines of the cave. A small pile of dry wood stacked to one side indicated that the man had been well-established before the demigod broke out of the mountains and raised this unnatural summer blizzard. He’d been in here, staying warm and comfortable, while they fought the weather outside. Look at him standing there, shirtless, while they stood shivering, wet and snow-covered at the entrance.

  As they stood staring, the man continued to draw geometric shapes on his skin. Surely he’d noticed them by now. Katalinka tapped Abelard on the shoulder and nodded for him to step farther inside, away from the cold draft at the entrance.

  Abelard didn’t move. Instead, he pointed to the fire.

  She’d been busy concentrating on the strange man with the sword, sizing up the strength of his sowen, which was occluded from her senses, but clearly had some power behind it. The fire itself hadn’t drawn her attention. Now her eyes widened.

  The man wasn’t standing next to the fire. He was standing in it, feet buried in the coals. That explained the sowen and the sword. He was a firewalker.

  Chapter Two

  Katalinka was still staring at the firewalker when he dipped an index finger into the palm of his opposite hand, which was filled with smoking ash. He drew a line from his forehead down the bridge of his nose to the tip. He bent and plucked a live coal from the fire and used it to draw another design along his collarbone. His bare chest was a mass of swirling curlicues that entwined and snaked vine-like across his flesh.

  At last he dropped the coal, brushed the ash from his hands, and turned his gaze toward them. “I feel your sowen. Are you bladedancers or warbrands? Come into the light where I can get a closer look at you.”

  The man’s strange behavior and Abelard’s own caution had made her wary, and it took some effort to shake it off. This was the point of their trek, was it not? To visit the other temples and discuss the attack of Lord Zoltan’s men on the bladedancer temple. Their first stop was the firewalkers, in fact, the Blade Temple of the Elegant Sword, built into the basalt and obsidian of an ancient caldera.

  This man was of that temple; there was no reason to expect trouble. She took a few paces toward the fire. Abelard followed, shaking snow and ice from his cloak.

  The man remained standing in the fire as he studied them in turn. “Bladedancers, then. Sohns, from the feel of it. You must be Abelard. And you are. . .Narina? The master sohn’s daughter?”

  “Narina is my sister. I’m Katalinka.”

  “Ah. Right.” He nodded. “My name is Volfram, third sohn of five. We don’t have a master—we’re all equals.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Nevertheless, she hadn’t heard his name before, and wasn’t pleased that he knew more of her than she did of him. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I thought it prudent not to stand beneath a demigod while it thundered snow and ice on my head.”

  “You’ve been in here a while?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Given that nobody has seen a dragon break from its frozen lake for hundreds of years, I could ask how you knew it would be active today, but that’s not what I mean. What are you doing? Why are you charring your chest and face with hot ash and live coals?” Katalinka pointed to his feet. “And why are you standing in the fire? Firewalker or not, that’s got to be painful.”

  “Hurts like hellfire, in fact.” Volfram bent for a piece of firewood and tossed it onto the fire, where it smoked for a few seconds, then burst into flames. He twisted his feet to bury them deeper in the glowing coals. “You bladedancers meditate to gather sowen—you don’t know how much we envy that at our temple. Unfortunately, it’s pain that clarifies the mind in our sect. And there is no pain as pure as fire.”

  Volfram sounded pleasant enough as he relayed these details. He was mid- to late-thirties, roughly halfway between the ages of the two bladedancer sohns. He had curly brown hair, closely cut, and a clean-shaven face, with a self-deprecating smile that belied the fact that his feet must be an agony of pain.

  “Come out of there,” Abelard said. His tone was pleasant, conciliatory. “The demigod has passed, and things seem calm enough in here. If there’s need, the three of us can combine our sowen to drive back the cold. Meanwhile, I sure wouldn’t mind getting out of this wet cloak and laying it next to your fire to dry.”

  “I’m not worried about the dragon.”

  “That’s only because you weren’t outside just now,” Abelard said with a little chuckle. “Believe me, it’s no joke what we saw.”

  “I’m sure it’s not. If a dragon were to stick its head into our cave, all our combined sowen wouldn’t last two seconds. But that’s not why I’m gathering my strength.”

  Katalinka kept her tone calm, the frown off her face. “Then why?”

  Abelard had relaxed his posture and looked like he wanted nothing more than to get that wet cloak off and throw himself down next to the fire, but she noted his posture, still alert. His hands remained near his sword hilts, and she followed his lead.

  “The tighter your sowen, the more mastery, the better you fight.” Volfram nodded.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “But you just came out of the storm, whereas I’ve been here for three days so far, preparing for battle.”

  Katalinka glanced behind her, where snow drifted at the opening. Even before the storm, they’d seen very few people on the road the past two days, mostly shepherds, woodcutters with their carts loaded high, trappers, and hunters. The handful of cottages had gardens with turnips and potatoes, but it was too high in the mountains for serious farming.

  Surely he wasn’t talking about fighting. . .

  “Brigands?” she asked. “Is there some encampment of them nearby? We haven’t heard anything, friend.”

  “Brigands, ha. I’d hardly need three days in the fire if I meant to fight brigands,” Volfram said. He let out a long sigh, carried until it ended in a soft hiss. “You see this already, you know the answer. But let’s get it out in the open. I’m afraid that I’ve been preparin
g for a more serious challenge, and that calls for all the sowen I can manage. You see, my friends, I need to kill two bladedancer sohns.”

  Katalinka’s swords were in her hands with no memory of having drawn them, and at the same time her cloak and satchel fell to her feet. Abelard stood to her right shoulder, his own weapons drawn and his cloak and pack on the ground. His black demon blade nearly touched the white steel of her dragon blade as the two stood side by side.

  Standing in the fire about a dozen feet away, Volfram drew his sword in a single, fluid motion. It was nearly twice as long as either of theirs, a two-handed weapon. While it wasn’t so heavy or powerful as one of the falchions carried by the warbrands, its length gave its wielder a significant advantage in reach. Long, lead-colored filigrees crawled across the gleaming surface, matching almost perfectly the designs the man had burned into his flesh with the hot coals.

  Volfram didn’t leave the fire, didn’t yet make a move, and that gave Katalinka hope that this disaster could be avoided.

  “Put the sword away,” she urged.

  “We don’t want this fight,” Abelard added.

  “Neither do I. But once the call comes. . .what can any of us do to avoid it?”

  “What call?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “The same call that brought you up the post road. I felt you leave the temple—your sowen was like stones tossed in a pond. There were ripples in the auras all the way up the canyon and beyond. You’re seeking us out, and I thought it better to be prepared. To fight you on my terms.”

  Katalinka shook her head, confused. “Why would you think we’d come to fight? We’re only trying to gather a conclave of elders to discuss a problem of mutual interest. There are troubling matters brewing in the lowlands, and some of that trouble found its way to our temple.”

  Volfram’s sword moved, and the bladedancers stiffened, but he was only shifting his weight as Abelard edged further to Katalinka’s right and their opponent’s left.

  “Troubling matters—is that what you call the present situation?” Volfram asked.

  “They’re going to get more troubling in a hurry if you don’t put that sword away,” she said.

  “Your wording is humorous, in a way. Troubling, as if it were news from a distant land, like the swamp folk rising up in the Southlands.” Volfram shook his head. “If only it were that simple.”

  He leaped out of the fire. It was a swift move, his sowen focused to a sharpened point, and Katalinka barely had time to lift her blades before her opponent was bearing down on her. His sword was fast, his reach long, and he’d have got through her defenses in the first contact of steel on steel if Abelard hadn’t leaped to her defense. His dragon blade knocked back Volfram’s sword.

  Katalinka ducked a second blow, then came up with her swords stinging at the man’s belly and rib cage. He twisted away, and her weapons made a futile slash at the air. Volfram sprang backward and held his sword in front of him while poised to make another charge. He’d placed the fire between him and the bladedancers.

  The cave was silent but for light breathing and the crackle of the coals, stirred up by Volfram’s sudden leap clear of the fire. It had all happened so quickly that it felt more like a bladedance at the temple shrine, nothing serious. Nothing real.

  “Come, friend,” Abelard said. There was a slight hum of tension in his voice. “Put the sword away. I’ve got a rabbit in my satchel—caught just this morning—and my partner carries a bottle of rice wine. You must have food and drink of your own to share, and your fire has burned down to a nice hot bed of coals. We’ll discuss this over a good meal.”

  “The more we share, the more companionship we build,” Volfram said, “the harder to cut each other’s throats after.”

  The words were violent, and he’d just proved his intent with a slashing attack, but he sounded calm. Katalinka didn’t understand. Surely there was a way to avoid this fight. Nobody could want it.

  “We’re not going to cut anyone’s throats unless you force us into it,” she said. “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s almost like you don’t understand,” Volfram said.

  “How could we if you don’t explain?” she asked.

  “What called you into the mountains, why are you on the road?”

  “A crowlord’s men attacked us. They wanted to steal weapons we’d made for Balint Stronghand. He’s the crowlord to the north.”

  “I know who Stronghand is. And was anyone harmed? Apart from Balint’s men—I assume you cut them down like sheaves of green rice.”

  “Yes. My father. The master sohn. An unfortunate spear thrust caught him unaware.” Her throat tightened. “He didn’t survive.”

  “I see. Then what?”

  Any talking meant less fighting, so she sketched the details of the raid, how Balint’s captain had lured her sister into discussion while his men set upon her father, Master Joskasef. How Narina set off for Balint to deliver the weapons and later to confront Zoltan.

  “Zoltan must be hoping to amass enough weapons to crush his rivals once and for all. It doesn’t matter how he gets them.”

  “And what was this captain’s name?”

  “Miklos. He carried a falchion made by the warbrands.”

  “Miklos?” Volfram let out a bitter laugh. “He’s no crowlord captain. If you recluses got out more, you’d know that. Or maybe Miklos is a captain, but that’s not how he started. That weapon? That’s no mere falchion, it’s a master sword.”

  “The warbrands would never sell one of their master weapons to a lowlander,” she protested.

  “He’s not a lowlander. Miklos is a warbrand sohn.”

  Katalinka frowned. “Impossible.”

  “Listen to me, bladedancer. I don’t know why he didn’t behead your sister when he had the chance, but that’s his ultimate goal. First her head, then yours if you somehow best me. Or mine if I best you—which is the most likely outcome, since I’m the stronger fighter.”

  “There are two of us,” Abelard said. “Even if your boast were somehow true.”

  “It’s not a boast—I felt your sowen just now, and the demigod left it in tatters. In any event, I have no choice. If you don’t die in this fight, if you somehow cut me down, you’ll understand soon enough. We have been called, you and I, and all of us. A champion will rise.”

  He made another move, clearing the fire with a single leap. His sword flashed down from behind his shoulder. This time Katalinka was ready. She rolled clear, ducked a second swing, and came about with her swords stabbing. A feint, a thrust, and a slash with the demon blade.

  That maneuver and timing had worked on her sister on more than one occasion in the arena, but Volfram moved with impossible speed. He was back at her in an instant, and if Abelard hadn’t been coming in from an angle, the firewalker’s sword would have taken off her head. Instead, Volfram was forced to withdraw.

  The bladedancers came at him, one high, one low, with four blades thrusting and slashing. Somehow, their enemy stayed clear. He fought them back, then fought them back a second time when they regrouped.

  Volfram’s words hadn’t been a boast, she realized. His sowen was stronger than both of theirs put together. That made him the better fighter, more able to sense and move away from the auras cast by their swords, and with such speed that he seemed almost a blur. It was like the training sessions with her father when she was a girl, when he had showed her maneuvers and they’d been too swift to follow with her undeveloped sowen.

  But Katalinka and Abelard had fought in the arena side by side or opposite each other for years. They were moving in concert, with one blocking Volfram’s attacks while the other pressed an attack.

  The battle moved the trio against the far wall, then back toward the cave opening, which was almost entirely blocked up with snow. They kicked through the fire, fought through clouds of smoke, and then briefly battled in the midst of flames when someone knocked the gathered firewood into the coals and it
caught fire.

  Volfram’s weakness, she began to realize, was the length of his sword. In the center of the room, he was too fast, his reach too great, but whenever the fighting pushed near the edges, the narrower confines restricted his range of movement and turned his advantage against him. Rather than try to maneuver around him, to get one bladedancer into position to attack the man from behind, they needed to fight him up against the wall.

  She made as if to start another frontal attack, and Abelard darted around in another attempt to get behind their enemy while he responded. Instead of continuing with the two-pronged attack, however, she abandoned the attack and followed her companion around. That compelled Volfram to whirl about, which in turn forced him back against the snow-clogged cave opening.

  “Now!” she cried, hoping Abelard would follow her lead. He did.

  The bladedancers charged in, and Volfram, apparently not realizing where he was, tried to use the cave wall to launch himself up and over them. Instead, he fell back into the snow. It enveloped him and smothered his free range of motion. He lifted his sword with a series of desperate thrusts as Katalinka came down upon him.

  She couldn’t see at this edge of the cave, with darkness and flying snow and smoke choking her vision. But the aura of her enemy’s sword, together with the feel of his sowen, not so strong as it had been moments earlier, guided her weapons. Her dragon slashed through snow, just missing, but her demon struck, cut. A thigh or hip. Deep enough to do damage.

  Katalinka pulled the demon blade free at the same time her dragon came back around. It was meant to be a killing blow, thrusting right into where she thought the man’s belly was. Right up under the rib cage to puncture his lungs and pierce his heart.

  At that moment she realized the horror of it, the fact that she was about to kill a rival sohn she’d only hoped to speak with. To share a calm discussion about their shared troubles. She pulled back her strength at the last moment, and only the tip penetrated the man’s belly. He cried out in pain.

  “Stop!” she cried.