Caine Black Knife

by Matthew Stover

  “Your authority comes straight from Khryl, right? That’s what I want. I want freedom of action. The next time some asswipe Tyrkilld takes a swing at me, I want to flip out the Holy Foreskin and tell him to suck it, I’m working for God’s Own Motherfucking Self.”

  She gave me that pitchfork stare for a long time. When she finally decided to talk, her expression hadn’t changed. “It is said that you are a man without limits.”

  “That was Ma’elKoth.”

  “Boundaries, then. That there is no line you will not cross.”

  “People say lots of shit about me.”

  Sunset began to burn through the smoke that hooded her eyes. “You must understand that I am the same.”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  “In service to my Lord—in the defense of His Land and His Soldiers—I have no boundary.”

  “I believe you.”

  She idled back to the altar-block pedestal that protruded seamlessly from the cool smooth platinum on which we stood. She reached to lay her hand lightly on that angled handle, fingers curling gently around it in what was almost a caress.

  The universe snapped into focus.

  —the soft prickle of blood-rusted wool against skin drying tight and stretched—

  —the damp-glazed chill of the platinum under feet colder than the breeze that smelled of coal smoke and rain—

  —eyes shrouded with limp wet hair the same bleak brown as the robes—

  —the swell of breath bringing small hard breasts up along the inner curve of fabric—

  —both hands buzzing with the memory of knives—

  Words came from me without volition—

  “What the fuck did you just do?”

  —because these were the words I always said now.

  These were the words I’d been planning to say at this moment since the birth of the universe.

  And by the time she spoke, I already knew—

  “This,” she said softly, “is the second most sacred relic of our Order. It is all that remains of the Accursèd Blade that struck off the Peaceful Hand of Our Lord of Valor.”

  And it happened—

  —the flash of grey steel and the jewel-spray of blood in firelight blossomed inside my head blazing the silent anguish of a wounded god—

  —as it was going to happen five hundred years ago.

  Again.

  And again from my mouth came the words I always said now—

  “What’s happening—? This is—this is—I’ve felt this before . . .”

  I knew her answer.

  “You have not. It is the Regard of Khryl.”

  The words echoed within me endlessly, as though she still had yet to say them, but they had been said long ago but were forever speaking now.

  “The Gods exist beyond the grip of time. When we draw Their Eyes, They brush us with Their Power.”

  “No,” I insisted forever. “No, I know this feeling . . .”

  She always said, “It is the echo of the future.”

  “No . . . no, I really have . . .”

  I have always been here because there is no past: all that exists of the past is the web of Flow whose black knots are the structure of the present. I will always be here because there is no future: everything that is about to happen never will.

  Now is all there is.

  I have always sat in the rubble of the Financial Block, facing down the length of God’s Way over the carnage and ruin of Old Town, perched on a blast-folded curve of assault-car hull with Kosall’s cold steel across my lap. The rumpled and torn titanium wreckage permanently ticks and pings as it eternally cools under my ass. A few hundred yards to my left, there has always been a smoldering gap where the Courthouse once stood, surrounded by a toothed meteor-crater slag of melted buildings; even the millenial Cyclopean stone of the Old Town wall sags and bows outward over the river, a thermal catenary like the softened rim of a wax block-candle.

  I face the god in the infinite now . . .

  I said again forever, “It’s an echo of my past. Or something. Let the fucking thing go, will you?”

  She released it, and time leaked back into the universe.

  I stared. “So that’s what’s left of the Godslaughterer’s sword? For real?”

  “Do you not know it so?”

  I nodded thoughtfully, scratching at my beard. Threads of dried blood wormed across my fingertips. “The Peaceful Hand?”

  “The hand He extended in friendship to Jereth of Tyrnall, when Our Lord-Father Dal’Kannith sent Him to offer truce in the Deomachy. The hand that Jereth treacherously struck from his wrist. With this very blade.”

  “Huh. That’s not the version we learn in the Monasteries.”

  Her forefinger tapped the plain age-eaten knob that once must have been the pommel; even this was enough to claw my brain with déjà vu.

  —I squeeze its hilt until its hum matches my memory: it buzzes in my teeth—

  “Shit, don’t do that, huh?”

  She took her hand away and turned her palm upward. “And do you have reason to believe your version of the tale true and ours false?”

  I shrugged, opening my own hand toward her. “History depends on who’s telling the story.”

  “The power of Justice that runs in the very Blood of Our Lord destroyed the Accursèd Blade,” she said, “but His Peaceful Hand was severed, and Our Lord maimed, by treachery; so it was that Dal’Kannith decreed on that black day the birth of the Knights, that we should become the Hands of Our Lord. As Champion, I am His Living Fist. In His service, what I do is His Will. Whatever I do. That is how I can bring you—even you—to this holy place.”

  My smile of understanding wasn’t a smile. “All your sins are forgiven in advance.”

  “I am righteous by definition. Until He proclaims by Terranhidhal zhan Dhalleig that I am no longer his chosen Champion, I am incapable of sin.”

  “Not exactly peaceful hands.”

  “No. The Hand of Peace was struck from him. We are Hands of War. The Hand of Peace is—” She gave a negligent flip of the head that spun blood-damp hair around her eyes. “—where we stand.”

  I looked around. Those spires resembled fingers for a reason . . . *You and your candy-ass artistic metaphors,* I monologued.

  God did not reply.

  “So what’s the point of all this?”

  “You must understand,” she said, “that I treat with you only because you are a lesser evil than the darkness we face. You must understand—though we stand upon the holiest sanctum of our Order, though we are on Khryl’s Own Palm of the Peaceful Hand itself, despite the lineage of the Accursèd Blade, its sanctity so vast that a lesser being might be struck dead for merely daring to gaze upon it—you must understand that if I ever even suspect you might be a more immediate threat—”

  She wheeled on me. Her lips had peeled off her teeth and her eyelids had vanished, and there was nothing human in her chrome-steel face. She seized the naked hilt of the Accursèd Blade and banished time and sense from the universe. She said forever, “Here under the Eyes of God Himself, I swear upon Mine Own Legend of Honor that I will pull this hilt from its resting place and fuck you to death with it.”

  She let her echo die at the end of all things.

  When, after several cosmic ages, she finally let go and the world started to turn again, I said, “I take it that’s a yes.”

  HERO

  RETREAT FROM THE BOEDECKEN (partial)

  you are CAINE (featured Actor: Pfnl. Hari Michaelson)

  MASTER: NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION, UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.

  © 2187 Adventures Unlimited Inc. All rights reserved.

  Screams of burning ogrilloi echo off the stone. Eight or nine of them—a swell bonfire down there.

  The light they cast gleams on steel teeth of two kratrioi closing in on them from either end of the alley, and from up here it looks clean, precise, even elegant: close-order drill on a parade ground.

  Y’know, for a weaselly
little twitch, that Pretornio swings serious dick.

  Caine.

  I look up and give a wave toward the impenetrable night-shadow that shrouds the distant parapet where Tizarre and Rababàl stand.

  Two packs converging on your position. Get ready.

  Yeah: they’ve heard the screams. Running to get a look. And they’re gonna die for it.

  I turn toward the featureless shadow-shapes of Marade and Stalton. “Here they come. Fade.”

  They’re right on top of you—

  I wave a second acknowledgment and swing through the window gap in the crumbling wall, get low, and squeeze some heat into the butt of the blade-wand. The thumping of bare feet and clicking of toeclaws on stone has my balls sucking themselves up to my rib cage. Huge blacker shadows hurtle into the shadows in front of me and I stick the bladewand through the window and a pulse of blue energy licks from its end, casting enough light that I can see three or four of them begin to just come apart.

  They grunt and gasp as they fall and one starts to howl and I duck below the sill and press against the night-chilled stone as the canteen full of oil that Rababàl has Reached down to just above their heads ignites with a metallic whang.

  When I look back out the little window, everything’s on fire.

  Including about fifteen Black Knives.

  >>scanning fwd>>

  Fucking stuck—goddamn crest ridge’s like a bench vise—

  Good thing the fight’s over. This could’ve been terminally embarrassing.

  I step on his face—my boot heel squelches in his open eye—and stick the bladewand back behind my belt so I can use both hands.

  Ghost-blue flickers from oil flames guttering in the cracks of the flagstones. The last two Black Knives wheeze and gurgle against the wall, sagging. Marade rips the smashed visor off her helm with a squeal of tortured metal, then limps painfully over their smoldering throw nets, slaps aside the hammer one raises in feeble defense, and lifts her morningstar.

  “Leave them,” I pant at her. “Inhaled flame . . . dead already.”

  She turns a blood-smeared face toward me: the smashed visor must’ve crumpled in enough to break her nose. “We can’t just let them suffer—”

  Stalton sags against the crumbled wall, cradling the pudding that used to be his left wrist. “Sure we can.”

  He nudges one of the throw nets with his foot. “It was a pretty good speech, Caine,” he says with a shaky, shocky laugh. “But that don’t-let-’em-take-you-alive thing is starting to look like a problem.”

  With the dead ogrillo’s head braced between my boot and the oil-scorched flags, a twisting wrench yanks my sword free of his skull. The effort unfolds a scarlet bloom under my short ribs where his hammer caught me, and I wheeze a little as I lift the sword.

  “Oh, for shit’s sake. Look at this.”

  Right at the mess of brains and bone splinters, the blade takes a thirtydegree bend and almost a quarter fuck-my-bleeding-ass twist. “You spend like half your motherfucking life learning how to get a sword into somebody’s skull—how come nobody teaches you how to take it out?”

  They’re not listening; Stalton’s trying to tighten the straps of his battered shield one-handed, and Marade’s looking down at the mess those warhammers made of her right thigh.

  “Screw this piece of shit.” I drop it. Swords suck, anyway.

  Wouldn’t happen with a knife.

  I pick up the warhammer he hit me with, hefting it for weight and balance, and the bloom of pain below my short ribs spiders into a spreading numbness that buckles my knees.

  Oh, damn.

  I lean on the warhammer and palpate my liver through the cool slick chainmail and my padded surcoat. It doesn’t exactly hurt; the sensation is too vast, too oceanic. My gut’s bloating already, and pressing on it opens a black pit that sucks away my strength. Dunno how bad it really is, but the night darkens and goes liquid around me, and sounds stop making sense. Bad enough.

  Shock, though, I am trained for. Breathe.

  And.

  Breathe.

  And—Breathe, and—

  And a few seconds’ focused concentration on my Control Disciplines pumps my blood pressure high enough to swim the world back into focus.

  Breathe.

  And breathe.

  A shift of attention within the Disciplines amps my stress hormones; the pain fades and strength leaks back into my legs and arms, and my head clears.

  Forget love and money, baby: adrenocortical steroids make the world go round.

  After most of a minute I can stand up straight and finally get a decent look at this hammer. The haft’s longer than my arm and the iron head runs about three kilos, but two-handed, I can swing it well enough. My gut and Stalton’s wrist can both vouch for the impact the bone-shattering peen can deliver; the spike on the back side has the same shallow curve as an ogrillo fighting claw and can punch through steel plate—Marade’s right cuisse looks like the surface of the moon, and at least three of those craters are deep leaking punctures.

  Should work well enough on ogrillo skulls.

  Marade shakes her head distractedly, sprinkling her legs with blood from her nose. “Caine. I’ll need your help—”

  A surge of motion behind her, and she interrupts herself with a shirring backhand of her morningstar that meets the clumsy lunge of the dying Black Knife and splatters the wall with his brains.

  That girl can hit.

  His corpse flips against the other Black Knife. The live one gives a snarl, but he’s got nothing left—the snarl’s mostly groan and he collapses beneath his dead clanmate’s body, still staring murder up at Marade as he strangles on the fluid filling his burnt lungs.

  Y’know, if she and I could find some way to live through this—I mean, y’know, if she likes me at all . . .

  She staggers toward me, fumbling at the upper curve of her perforated cuisse. “Help me get this off, will you?”

  I drop to one knee and slip my hands up under her tasset to feel for the top buckle, and I must truly be a sick fucking puppy, because the feel of her warm flesh through the sticky cloth of her breeches has my breath going even shorter than that body-shot from the hammer did.

  “I, uh—” I have to cough my throat clear. “We don’t have much for bandages—I mean, my shirt, I guess—”

  “No need,” she tells me. “Soft-tissue wounds aren’t serious for me. I just need this off. The ripped edges are cutting into muscle—I can’t walk and I can’t Heal. And I need to see what I can do for Stalton’s arm.”

  My gut could use some attention too, but—

  The way she’s talking . . .

  I stop and squint up at her. “Kinda lost that whole Ivanhoe cadence all of a sudden, haven’t you?”

  “What?” She looks startled, and a guilty flash shifts her eyes. “I, uh—”

  Caine. The ghost-hiss of Tizarre’s Whisper shushes from just behind my left shoulder. I raise my arm to signal I’ve heard her. Two more packs, and another’s linking up. About two bowshots south and closing.

  I nod to myself and pull my right-hand boot knife. Marade scowls down as I start sawing through her cuisse’s retaining straps.

  “Caine?”

  “That was Tizarre. We have company.”

  She bares her teeth and looks over her shoulder. “Stalton?”

  “I’m mobile,” he says thinly. He doesn’t sound too sure of it. “Which way?”

  “Fuck it.” The last strap parts and her cuisse comes off in my hand. “Just get out of sight. We’ll hit ’em right here.”

  >>scanning fwd>>

  The ogrillo hesitates for one frozen second when I point the bladewand at his eye. I summon the surge of intention that will slice off the top of his head but all I get is a bluish static discharge and enough heat from the bladewand’s eggbutt to scorch my palm and shit how long does this fucking thing take to repower anyway—

  He grunts and spreads a huge wicked grin and lunges, swinging, and I duck inside
the dark whirr of his warhammer and spike that wicked grin of his with the business end of the bladewand.

  Its mithondion wood is dense as steel and it punctures skin and rips muscle and splinters bone; it grates into the hinge of his jaw and sticks fast and rips from my fingers as he rears back, bellowing the nerve-numbing shock of the bone-shot. His hands go loose on his hammer’s haft, while mine find it below the head. A hard twist of the haft and a sidekick to his gut don’t move him at all but shove me away and leave me on my feet in front of him with his hammer in my hands. And the bastard turns and bolts like a startled cat.

  With my bladewand still sticking out of his motherfucking face—

  “Cocksucker!” I spring after him but something tears in my belly and ogrilloi can do forty at a sprint and I couldn’t catch him on a motorcycle. “Shitlicking cunthole come back and fight!”

  I throw the warhammer as hard as I can. It spins along the street and slams him across the kidneys and he staggers, but he keeps his feet and never even looks back.

  He vanishes into the hot dry midnight, and all I can do is cuss and snarl and look around for somebody else to kill.

  I find only smoking corpses and the clitclat of toeclaws moving away into the darkness and Marade in her battered armor springing onto the back of one huge buck who’s not quite fast or smart enough to have bolted with the others. She’s lost her morningstar somewhere, but it doesn’t matter; with one hand sliding around his bull neck to grip her opposite rerebrace, her other hand finds the back of his crest ridge, and with Khryl’s Strength, she doesn’t have to settle for the strangle. One grunting flex practically pops his head off.

  He’s dead before they hit the ground.

  She lies across him, panting. By the time I get there, she’s rolled onto her back, still gasping shallowly, and it’s easy to see why: her breastplate’s a mess. Must be like trying to breathe inside an iron maiden. The kind with spikes. “Here, let me help—”

  “No—no, I can—” she wheezes, pulling off her gauntlets. Blood bubbles from her smashed mouth. “Where—?”

  I shake my head. “Fuckers ran off. Not that I blame them. And I—I—”