Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Dherran was a puddle of sweat, his arms shaking, everything sore and screaming. He moved jerkily now after five hours of bouting, his breathing shallow from all the bruises and welts. In the vaulted stone basement that was the Vicoute’s training arena, Arlen den’Selthir’s blue eyes were cold glaciers from where he stood across from Dherran in the sand pit. His light shirt and breeches had almost no stains of sweat, his posture impeccable even after so long. Not a bruise or a scratch showed upon the man, not a scrape in the white lamplight that illuminated the space. Other men and women sparred nearby, weapons ringing in pits of sand like the one in which Dherran faced den’Selthir, Kingsmen practicing their formidable arts.

  “Again!” The Vicoute barked, readying his quarterstaff.

  But Dherran had taken enough beatings today. He threw his staff to the sand, letting his temper best him at last. As soon as his staff left his fingers, though, den’Selthir swept in, ruthless, and flipped Dherran’s feet out from underneath him. Dherran landed on his backside with a grunt as sniggers from other fighters echoed around the vaulted stone cellar. Den’Selthir leveled his staff at Dherran’s throat.

  “Up! Face me!”

  On his back in the sand, Dherran crossed his aching arms over his chest, obstinate. Gazing past the fighters, his eyes lit upon the massive tableaux set into the far wall worked in silver. A wolf and dragon circled each other, fighting, perfectly balanced within a ring of golden flame. It was captivating, and had distracted Dherran ample times over the past weeks, and gotten him hit in the process. But he had time to stare at it now, because he wasn’t getting up.

  “No.” Dherran’s voice was as firm as he could make it considering that he was lying upon his back with a staff threatening his throat. “We’ve been at this for hours. And you had me running sprints half the night, then carrying water to the animals all morning. No. I’m done.”

  A swift rap caught him in the center of his belly. Dherran huffed, trying to not hold the tension of the blow. Bracing for blows only made things hurt more around Arlen den’Selthir.

  “You are lazy, fat, and arrogant,” den’Selthir lectured, as he had for weeks now, “and far too trusting. I could skewer you and be done with you, boy, yet you wear markings that are important to me.” Another sharp rap came to his abdomen. “Get up!”

  “How many times must I apologize for hurting Arvale in the summer-ring?!!” Dherran spat, unmoving. “I didn’t know he was a Kingsman! What do you want of me?!”

  “I want,” den’Selthir snarled, “for you to respect those marks! Which you do not! Flaunting yourself, brawling! Whoever decided to Ink you should have thought before they committed such a poor example to such a lofty rank! Again!”

  Dherran didn’t budge, merely ground his jaw tighter, willing himself to stay calm. Horrible things happened when one lost control around the Vicoute. He had learned that the very first day they had sparred together. The man was fast as a viper, and five times stronger than he looked, the grey in his hair be damned. He was a lifelong Kingsman, one who hadn’t stopped training.

  Not. A single. Day.

  Still on his back, Dherran expected another hit with the staff, and focused on keeping his breathing easy. “I am worthy of these marks no matter what you say, because I believe I am worthy of them. In my own way, I strive to be worthy of them everyday. Not that it matters to you.”

  There was silence from the Vicoute. Dherran tried not to brace, breathing, waiting for another swift rap with the staff. But a proffered hand appeared in his field of vision instead. Dherran didn’t take it, frozen in surprise. Den’Selthir had not offered him a hand up from the sand in all their long hours training yet. But now it was offered, and so Dherran took it, though he was tense, yet wary of a trap. The Vicoute, however, simply hauled him to his feet, gazing at him appraisingly, handing his quarterstaff off to a waiting armsman.

  “You’ve got tenacity, boy. Nine out of ten break under my treatment on just the third day. Indeed, you have something you believe in, or you would not have lasted these past three weeks. You’re a decent fighter, Dherran. But Kingsmen don’t rub their assholes in people’s faces and swing their cocks about to give the world a great big fucking. Breaking the beloved icons of a community will only get our name detested, and that’s what you do when you fight popular opponents and ruin them.”

  Den’Selthir stepped from the ring, flicking his fingers regally for his armsman, Philo, who came rushing with two fresh towels, using one to rub the sand out of Dherran’s hair and off his bare, sweat-streaked torso, not to mention the dry blood here and there. Den’Selthir needed no such treatment, and only used his towel to wipe a sheen of sweat from his neck and face, gesturing for Dherran to follow.

  It was a routine that they had undergone every evening after practice was finished. But every other time had ended with Dherran too weary to stand or see straight after eight hours of bouting. Den’Selthir had put him up against two of his retainers, then three, then four, and finally up to six before he had manhandled Dherran himself on the third day of the first week.

  And had been beating him to a pulp ever since.

  Usually, when they strode from the hall, den’Selthir nodded a curt goodnight, and Dherran went back to his rooms to soak out his aches in the copper tub. But tonight, den’Selthir beckoned, and curious, Dherran followed. They walked a short way down the vaulted underground catacomb, then through a heavy cendarie door and into a small chamber, the Vicoute’s saunas. Dherran had been down a few times with Khenria, as the saunas were open to all, though never had he been here with Arlen. Pegs hung on the wall, some already laden with clothes, some with fresh robes and towels waiting to be used. Boots lined the wall by the door.

  Without pause, Arlen began to disrobe, hanging his garments upon a peg, shucking his boots. It was the first time Dherran had seen the man shirtless, as the Vicoute always fought with his shirt on. And as Dherran also began to disrobe, he glanced over to see that Arlen den’Selthir had no Inkings whatsoever upon his chest. Confusion rose in Dherran, as Arlen made much of respecting the Inkings at every turn. But the Vicoute said not a word, simply slinging his towel over one shoulder and heading for another door, passing through with the grace of a lynx.

  Dherran followed, and found himself swallowed by the thick, muggy steam of the saunas proper. Steam billowed through clever vents in the walls. Kingsmen, and a few women, sat or reclined upon slatted cendarie benches in the thick muggy mist. Some had the traditional black Inkings, some had a plethora of battle-scars. Some were younger and unmarked, Kingskinder still earning their Seals upon the Vicoute’s estate in secret. While some, like Arlen, had no Inkings whatsoever, though they should have. And yet again, it raised Dherran’s curiosity. As they entered, a number of heads nodded, and the Vicoute clasped a few arms in greeting.

  “Arlen.” A large grey-maned boar of a man growled, clasping the Vicoute’s forearm.

  “Ghevran.” Arlen acknowledged him.

  “Arlen.” Another retainer clasped arms with the Vicoute.

  “Ihlen.” Again, den’Selthir recognized the man and moved on. Upon the estate, the Vicoute treated his men like retainers, Dherran had noticed, civil with them but brusque like a lord. But down here, in the training-pits and in the saunas, all were Kingsmen, and all equal, and Arlen greeted his kin accordingly. They moved through the room, the Vicoute pushing through another cendarie door, and came to a second steam room where a few other men lounged. But upon seeing the Vicoute, these stood with a nod, gathered their towels and stepped out, leaving Dherran and Arlen in the room alone. Arlen den’Selthir sat upon a bench with a sigh, scrubbing at perspiration on his face with his towel. Hanging it around his shoulders, he leaned back on the cendarie-paneled wall, closing his eyes.

  Still not knowing what he was doing here, Dherran sat also, a respectful distance away. The Vicoute was not a man to get cozy with, no matter that they had now known each other for three weeks. The steam was rich with a loamy smell, someth
ing that mellowed the mind and eased the tension from his screaming muscles. After a few breaths, Dherran had likewise closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

  But he was still curious. After a moment, he opened his eyes, gazing at the Vicoute’s bare chest. “Vicoute.”

  The man took a long, deep breath of steam. It curled in around his mouth and nose, then sighed out. “Down here, you may call me Arlen, Dherran.”

  “Why is that?” Dherran murmured.

  “Because at the end of a day, when a man has done everything he needs to do,” Arlen sighed, his eyes yet closed, “when he has upheld his integrity and lived a day worthy of his Inkings, then he may enjoy solace. Just as a man. Just as we all are, in our bones and flesh. Equal.”

  “Why do you not have Inkings?”

  One of Arlen’s eyes cracked open. “I have them. They are just not seen until you pierce me with a blade. One day soon, you will best me, Dherran. And when you do, you may have the honor of striking a mark upon my chest until Ink burns in my blood. But you must best me first.” A low chuckle came from the man, haughty and amused.

  “I will best you.”

  “I know that. Your skill impresses me, for having gone so long without a proper teacher. But know this: I am not here to teach you the sword. The sword is a crude weapon. I am here to teach you that which you lack most. To lead men in battle, one must be clever, patient, and thoughtful. One must play to the strengths of all around you, and win their hearts, so that their loyalty to you never wavers, never even for a heartbeat. Why do you think the people of Vennet love me? I send men and women for charity duties. I hold a school for the children of the town to learn their letters. I invest in community works like bridges, water piping, and roads. I sponsor events for the town, to liven their spirits. And all is done with the face and name of Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir. That is how they know me. And should the day ever come, that I must bare my true Inkings upon my chest and rally this town, this entire valley, this entire precinct, behind the Kingsmen, I could see it done. But for the spear you lanced right in my well-greased wheel. You have the courage and stamina of a great leader, but up to three weeks ago, you’ve been dumb as a stump and making enemies the entire way.”

  Dherran couldn’t resist crossing his arms over his chest, anger rising at the sting in the Vicoute’s words. “Why do you care at all? If I’m such a lost cause, just dump me and be done with it. Khenria and I can make our own way, even with Grump gone.”

  Arlen gave an irritated sigh. “Your Grump, as you call him, will be found, sneaky fox that he is. And when he is, he will be put to justice.” He held up a hand, forestalling any argument from Dherran, as had happened before. “I know he aided you and Khenria, her especially, and I am grateful to the man for preserving our Kingskinder. But it does not excuse what he is, Dherran. He is a Khehemni agent. And he will die like one.”

  “I don’t see why he has to die,” Dherran scowled.

  “Where there is one, there are ten. And where there are ten, there are a hundred. And breaking even one, Dherran, may lead us to the hundred. I will not repeat myself on this matter again.”

  “You can’t just keep leaving me in the dark, Arlen, and have me take all this on faith, and on your word.” Dherran growled, warning now. “There are things I need to know. You’ve explained less than nothing, and Khenria and I have waited long enough, training with your retainers day after day.”

  “You’ve waited ten years for answers, and you can’t wait one more day?” A curl of a smile graced Arlen’s lips, but he did not open his eyes.

  “I could slit your throat down here, and your retainers wouldn’t hear it.”

  Arlen’s smile turned into an amused smirk. They both knew his threat was useless. “Go ahead and try, Dherran. In any case,” Arlen continued, scrubbing a hand through his iron-streaked blonde hair, wiping sweat from his neck with his towel, “I’ve brought you down here to give you answers. You’ve earned them today. You controlled your temper and made a decision about what was best for your army, which today was simply your body, but that’s where one begins. Armies can’t fight day in and day out. They tire. Men get injured and sore, horses wear out, supply lines run thin. No one gets any sleep and people are up at odd hours doing tasks all night that weary them, like watering the animals. Commanders have even less time and ability to rest. Take it when you can, when the moment is non-critical. So you have earned answers tonight, by being smart today. Ask. I will give you five answers tonight, and five answers only. Be careful what you ask.”

  Dherran clenched his jaw, wanting to hit the Vicoute for his arrogance. But he saw now, what the previous weeks had meant, and found he was mulling it over, thinking about commanding armies and what a man had to learn.

  But there were other questions first.

  “How did you know Grump was Khehemni?”

  Den’Selthir sighed. “I wish I didn’t. I remember him from the Khessian Hills. He was in the rebel camp we routed. I chained him up myself, him and a few others who were to be brought to trial for war crimes. But he escaped, Aeon knows how. And in the morning, we found a number of our Kingsmen dead. He’d been spying on us. He knew which of us carried black Inkings, and he targeted them. I don’t know if he planned his capture so he could get close to our ranks, or if it was accident. But there it is. He stands accused of the deaths of thirteen Kingsmen. He will pay the Fifth Price, once we catch him. What else would you ask?”

  Dherran thought a moment, but the next question was clear. “Who are the Khehemni? And why do they plague us Alrashemni?”

  Arlen gave him a wry, tired smile, his eyes still closed. “We know and we know not. They have been a force opposing us in secret, for many hundreds of years, nigh-on a thousand, really, and yet the why of it is not exactly known. They are passionate about tearing down the things Alrashemni create, and do so in utter secrecy. Khehemni often come through a family line, like most Alrashemni, though some are conscripted. We know that their central governing council is called the Lothren, though we have only suspicions about certain individuals. Khehemni are notorious for being able to withstand torture, and rarely give us names. They have been found in Cennetia, Praough, Valenghia, here, and in Elsthemen. They wear a bloodmark upon the left shoulder that appears when the skin is cut, the same Ink I have for my Shemout mark, but their Inking shows a dragon fighting a wolf inside a broken circle.”

  Dherran blinked. “Like the tableaux upon your basement wall?”

  “Like it and yet not. My wall depicts the classic emblem of the warrior’s way, the Marriage of Conflict in perfect balance. Their blood-inking has the dragon and wolf, but inside a circle broken into many pieces. We don’t know the significance of the difference. Ask me something else.”

  Dherran paused, taking in this information, then pushed forward with a topic of interest to him. “How does a Kingsman become Shemout Alrashemni? One of the Hidden People?”

  The Vicoute blinked at him, then barked a laugh. “You don’t! You’ve flaunted those Inkings over half the Realm! Khenria might, but she’s been seen in your presence. To become Shemout, one must keep a low profile. Or a very high one, so high that no one would ever suspect you of being what you are. Some Shemout are born, as I was. Others are conscripted, but never with a history as brazen as yours! No, you’ll be needed for other things…”

  “What other things?”

  The Vicoute eyed him. “Are you sure you want to waste a question?”

  Dherran thought about it, then tightened his jaw, but he looked down, conceding.

  “Smart man. Your role will become plain soon enough. Ask me something else.”

  “Who leads the Shemout? Who makes the calls?”

  Arlen eyed him a moment. “Telling you that will secure your obedience here. I won’t let you leave, not if you have that knowledge.”

  Dherran eyed Arlen, the way he sat perfectly still. He was nearly certain that the Vicoute could kill him with just his bare hands, if he needed t
o. “It’s you, isn’t it? You're the leader of the entire Shemout, not just their Rakhan, their battle-commander.” Dherran murmured. “How many of your men and women here know?”

  Those icy eyes were riveting. “Only the ones who sport no blackmark. If you loose your tongue about this, boy, even to them, I will have it silenced.”

  Dherran did not back down this time. “And who becomes leader of the Shemout in Alrou-Mendera if you die?”

  The Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir gave a cold snarl. “You’ve got to get a lot faster to kill me, boy. I will answer your question, because you have earned the right to be answered tonight. But after tonight, I will answer no more questions about the Shemout, and you are to repeat nothing of what you’ve heard. My Second, if I die, is a Jenner. The Abbess of the First Abbey, in Lintesh. Her name is Lenuria. If I die, you are to ride out with the Unmarked from my retinue, and pass word immediately to Abbess Lenuria. Can you do that, boy?”

  “Why are you asking me to do this?” Dherran murmured.

  “Because if someone kills me, it will either be you,” he eyed Dherran almost appreciatively, “or it will be a very skilled opponent. And if she kills me, I want you to run like hell, and protect as many as you can. Abbess Lenuria can help you do that. Promise me that if I fall, you’ll pass word to Lenuria.”

  “She?” Dherran blinked at him. “You already know who it is that could kill you?”

  A wry, bitter smile curled Arlen's lips. “Yes. She spared my life once, barely. That is all I will say about it.”

  Dherran held the man’s gaze a long moment, weighing his options as the curling steam passed between them. “If I leave here, I may never find out what happened to the Kingsmen, to my family.” Dherran murmured at last. “So you have my vow. I will stay, and pass word to the Abbess if you die.”

  Arlen den’Selthir’s nod was grave with respect. “Alrashemnari aenta trethan lheroun.”

  Dherran nodded back. “Alrashemnari aenta trethan lheroun.”