“No! No! No!” he cried and screamed with every blow of his pitiless hammer.
At some point, he stopped swinging when all he felt beneath his blows was wood. White Beard’s beard was a matted mess of red hair. It was such a beautiful shade of red, a color unlike any other. He fell back and dropped his hammer, staring around at the blurring world. Eyes looked at him like he was the monster, like all of this was his fault.
Blacksmiths forged iron and the cobbler made shoes. This was what Isa made. All he’d made since he was a teen. He didn’t feel any pride in his work, despite how effective and well-placed his strikes were. They were still murdered men, corpses, children that may never see their bastard fathers again. They were men with hopes and miseries and everything else, just like him, but found themselves on the wrong path to the end of his hammer. And so it went. Isa took a long breath in and let it out slow. He had to get out of here.
“I didn’t want this. Was just… just.” He rose up on limp legs, stumbled through the door and into the bright. The sun burned in his eyes. He had somehow managed to take his cloak, seeing it in his fingers and dragging it on. He stumbled down the street, and people got out of his way, avoiding meeting his eyes. They knew the color of his cloak and the distinctive color of his skin. They saw the blood and knew when to stay well away when the Swiftshades were at work.
Time passed. He wasn’t sure how he got there but found himself staring out at a narrow irrigation canal. It had mortared walls that rose up another four feet to contain the snaking waterway when the floods came. The stone was a blinding white, the sun glinting and dancing off the crystals within it. There wasn’t a cloud in the great blue wall above. He couldn’t say how long he sat with his back against this smooth-faced boulder, big enough to cover his form. Tall grasses filled in around his outstretched legs, curling over his bloody knees. It was as if a bit of his memory had been removed and filled him with a great sense of unease.
A few farm houses trailed the snaking water. Between them were thriving vegetable plots stretching to the west farther than the eye could see. There was a windmill on the other side of the canal, creaking on the cool breeze. At the nearest farmhouse, maybe a hundred feet away, he saw a hoe, a pitchfork, and shovel resting against its weathered side. The Arch Wizard was industrious, he thought wryly.
The canal’s water softly gurgled like blood rushing through veins. The blood that Crystal no longer had because of him. The blood that he couldn’t restore because he wasn’t blessed with the gift of the Phoenix. He knew it would have been too late, even if he’d found a healer in minutes with that magnitude of a wound.
He sniffed and looked down at his hands, pink and streaked with dried blood. His cuticles were red ellipses, always the hardest to clean. He peered at the shimmering water and saw the sun had moved more than he’d have expected by now.
Something was clinging to his face. He wiped it on his cloak, heavy with his stinking sweat, and bits of blood flaked off all around. “Should have killed him. Shouldn’t have let him live,” he said, but the voice didn’t sound like his. He scoffed, and his eyes filled with wet, his lips trembling. “What have I done? I failed her. What kind of man am I?” he said into the empty sky.
“The kind that comes with us,” a gruff voice said from behind.
Isa flinched and vaulted to his feet. He parted his cloak, and his sword rasped free from its sheath with the cold ring of blood. His heart thundered as he twisted around to face five Milvorian armor-clad warriors. They were Tower Armsman wearing grim expressions, each with spears leveled at him with points almost as long as his short sword. They took shuffling steps closer and around his flanks, their spears just a thrust away from running him through.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” he stammered and took a step back into a fighting stance, his back foot driving into the grass. How had he not heard them? His edge was truly dulling.
“Lower your weapons, all of them. You’re coming with us. Don’t make this more difficult than it must, Isa.” A broad-shouldered guard stood between the two other pairs, beckoning. It was the same man who’d spoken earlier. Isa narrowed his eyes and took him in.
He had an enormous double-axe resting easily over his shoulder, the pommel a forged skull with a grisly spike on the bottom and rubies for eyes. He had penetrating blue eyes and a jaw so wide he could likely crack open a walnut with just his teeth. He recognized the man then, Grimbald Landon, the new Captain of the Tower’s Armsman. He confirmed it by the Arch Wizard’s Dragon and Phoenix crest on his chest, a silver sigil of the gods intertwined.
“Grimbald?” Isa tested.
“Mhm.” Grimbald nodded. “Forgot my face already?” Grimbald worked his shoulder around, made his giant armored plates hiss as they shifted.
“How did you find me? What do you want?” He lowered his sword and scratched his hairless head. Blood flaked down onto his shoulders.
Grimbald chuckled and shook his head. “Not too hard. Just followed the trail of blood.” He shrugged. “You Swiftshades think you’re above the Arch Wizard’s law. Well, you aren’t. You killed some men today over at Trystan’s, didn’t you?”
“I—” Isa sheathed his blade with a heavy exhale and a nod. “I did. If you could call them men…” He swallowed hard. “The woman, that wasn’t my doing.” There were no excuses for his crimes. He didn’t have to kill them, maybe shouldn’t have. But sometimes that’s just how things went. He realized with a start that he’d left his hammer and his axe at the tavern, his fingers feeling at the empty belt loops.
“Well, then. You know you have to come with us.” Grimbald twirled his axe in one hand and slipped it into a strap behind his back. Isa got the feeling that this wasn’t something Grimbald wanted to do. They had fought together, bled together in the Shadow Realm just over three years ago. That was a bond that couldn’t break, despite hardly knowing each other. “Found your other eh, weapons. Give ‘em to you later, should the Arch Wizard decide to let you have ‘em. I’ll be needing your weapons, all of ‘em.”
Should the Arch Wizard decide to not hang me from the gallows, Isa thought with the beginnings of a smile.
“Told you he could be reasoned with,” Grimbald threw over his shoulder. A guard with a pointed beard muttered curses at Grimbald, maybe losing a bet by the sound of it. “Made a fine mess of Trystan’s.”
Isa swallowed. He wasn’t above the law, but most of the time it didn’t apply to him or any member of the Swiftshades so long as they were doing the Tower’s work. Today’s blood was not the Tower’s work.
Isa unclipped his sword’s sheath strap and dropped it, then the twin daggers on his belt, the pair in his boots, the pair strapped around his thighs, and finally the dagger hidden against his chest under his shirt. The Armsman watched with wide eyed fascination as Isa tossed blade after blade onto a pile.
“That’s all of ‘em?” Grimbald asked, seeming to stifle a laugh.
“That is all.” He put his wrists out and Grimbald clinked on a pair of shackles. He latched them down tight enough that Isa couldn’t slip them off without some difficulty, at least not without dislocating his thumbs first.
“Arch Wizard will deal with you. She’s fair.” Grim beckoned for him to follow and he did.
Isa sniffed and licked his sun-beaten lips. The other Armsman kept a watchful eye on him as apparently, his reputation had preceded him. He wondered what lay in store for him. Exile? Execution? Demotion? And found he didn’t much care.
They were making their way towards the Silver Tower, seeing he was on the outskirts of New Breden now. Some time passed, and he marched in silence, listening to the platitudes of the Armsman and staring down at the path transitioning from dirt to flowing cobbles. The sun hung in the air like a golden coin, painting the waving grasses in hues of fire. Then he remembered something important. “I have to be at the guild tonight for the Test of Stones,” he said over his shoulder.
Grimbald grunted. “I know. Nyset, er, the Arch Wizard will le
t you fulfill your obligations. After that, report to her chamber at sunset. Those men you killed were wanted mercenaries. Lucky for you, we already wanted them dead.”
“I reckoned. Killed my fair share before. Know the type.” Isa nodded and blinked, his eyelids crusty with blood.
It seemed he was being fairly treated as far as criminals went. The cobbled path curved towards the city, and even from about a quarter of a mile away, he could see it had transformed since he left. Streaming red and blue strips of fabric fluttered in the air from lamp posts and roof lines. Canvas tents had popped up, narrowing the streets so not more than a few people could pass at once. Prismatic banners showing the Arch Wizard’s sigil hung between the rooftops. Barrels of ale were propped up, and he could see merrymakers clanking tankards together. “Looks like the Festival of Flames is starting early.” Apparently, a few deaths weren’t enough to stop a party.
“Can’t blame them,” Grimbald said. “Folk need to make up for all the bad times, all the bloodshed from the Shadow War. Lots of wounds to be closed up for the years to come.”
“Shadow War? That’s what they’re calling it now?”
“Gotta get out of your hole in the ground once in a while. Get some sun on that skin of yours.” Grimbald smiled at him with his big stupid teeth. There was something about his easy going nature that Isa found grating, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. Maybe as the Captain of the Armsman, he should take his work more seriously.
“A fitting name, I suppose. If you plan to let me go anyway, think you can take these shackles off?” He thrust his wrists at Grimbald. “Don’t care for being paraded in chains before a crowd. Not so good for the morale of my men, given tonight’s testing. You understand?”
Grimbald had a faraway look, his eyes glossy with fiery beads reflecting the sun. “All the losses… the struggles,” he muttered.
“Grim?”
“Yeah?” He turned to look at him, looking like he’d forgotten who he was for a moment.
“Can you get me out of these?” Isa saw a tear slip down his cheek, quickly wiped away on the back of his giant hand.
“Can I trust you?”
Isa stopped, sighed, and cocked his head at him, thrusting his wrists out again. A guard grunted as he walked into him, making him take a staggering step for Grimbald.
“You murdered three men today,” he whispered. “And it wasn’t an assignment, least I was told. Sure, they were bad men. But even bad men get trials. Why’d you do it?”
The truth was that Isa didn’t know why. It was the same question that had been haunting him. It certainly wasn’t for love. He liked Crystal, but deep down, he knew their relationship was only a business transaction. They were both a means to each other’s ends. His skin tingled under Grimbald’s patient stare. He lowered his voice so their conversation stayed between them. “I was trying to do something decent for once. But I lost control. So, here we are, and now she’s dead. Not very good at doing good things.” He forced a smile and met his eyes. For a brief few seconds, he saw recognition and understanding in Grimbald’s expression.
Grimbald gave a tired grunt and produced the key from his pocket, unlocking the chains with a click. Isa rubbed at his freed wrists, feeling like the chains were still there. It wasn’t a feeling he ever wanted to get used too. Grimbald draped the chains around his neck. It was a bad spot for them. Isa thought of how easy it would be for him to swivel to his side, grab the chains and choke Grim into unconsciousness. He needed to be more alert to potential threats. How could he protect the Tower with such a carefree attitude?
Isa cleared his throat and started on, following Grimbald for the heart of New Breden. “The Arch Wizard wants to see me, does she?” He felt a flutter in his stomach at the thought of seeing her again. There was something about her that always made his guts squirm with anticipation.
“Mhm,” Grim said with an eyebrow bob.
He hadn’t seen Nyset in at least six months, not since she started hiding from the world in her isolated spire. After Walter’s death, they’d spoke often for two years, at least once a week. They talked about superficial matters, business in the Swiftshades, outlaws to be hunted. Occasionally, they spoke of the less superficial like the Shadow Realm.
Nyset liked to keep a watch on the Shadow Realm by drowning the condemned and healing them before their bodies truly failed. They were rapists and murders of the vilest sort. When resurrected, she would ask them a flurry of questions to confirm that Walter’s legacy persisted and that his sacrifice had not gone in vain. The Shadow Realm was indeed still a place of magnificent beauty where crystal clear rivers flowed, and fauna and flora flourished.
They were all volunteers of course, but what dead man would deny a second chance at life. The condemned who lived, maybe about half, were given their freedom for their participation under the condition they kept their lips sealed regarding this matter. Most did, some didn’t, and that’s where Isa came in. He cut out the tongues of those who spoke of what she did. He did the bloody work.
They would often meet because she also wanted to know how many had failed to keep her secret, under the guise of learning how the Swiftshade trainees were fairing. He always saw through her questioning, waiting for her to work her way to the meat of what she really wanted to know. Time passed, and the frequency of their meetings lengthened until they stopped meeting at all. Maybe she was finally convinced the Shadow Realm would stay how it once was in the time before the Shadow god.
“Not gonna make us come looking for you again, are you?” Grimbald asked, breaking his train of thought.
“No.” Isa peered over at Grimbald, looking over the hulking man striding beside him. Isa observed the way his arms casually swayed, each time showing a thin strip of leather under his armpits where a blade would easily slide in. There were other spots too. Over his neck, the backs of his thighs, and unprotected Achilles tendons were just a few places he knew a well-placed slash or stab might be crippling. Armor like that made you slow, gave you a sense of false confidence, he thought. In leather armor, you could move and dance with your blades, while still providing protection against mistakes.
“Not thinking about doing anything foolish either, are you?” Grimbald regarded him with a raised bushy eyebrow.
Isa felt his back trickling with sweat. “Of course not. Just observing, truthfully always wonder how it’d be to fight a man in Milvorian armor.” He narrowed his eyes.
Grimbald chuckled. “Let’s hope you never have to find out,” he said with what was supposed to be a friendly wink, but Isa heard the threat in his voice, felt it in his iron gaze.
“Any idea what this is about?” Isa asked, trying to diffuse the tension forming between them.
Grimbald gestured at the mounting crowd ahead. “What? This? The Festival of Flames of course.”
“No. I know. Not that.”
“About your crimes of course.”
Isa groaned. If only he knew of the thousands who had fallen to his blade before. “No. Why does she want to see me?” You imbecile. Isa bit at his cheeks to stifle the words.
Grimbald responded but Isa didn’t hear him over someone’s cheering as they entered the mouth of the aptly named Central Street, running straight for the Tower. Celebrators parted to let them through, but the infusion of alcohol didn’t allow their passing to ruin their good time. Isa was glad for that. Grimbald was right; they deserved it.
The scent of roasted chicken and rosemary wafted through the air. Someone pulled lamb shanks out of a clay oven, the skin crackling and the succulent scent mingling with the chicken. Along with it came uproarious laughter pouring out from houses and spilling into the streets. The streets were bustling with revelers swinging lanterns and mugs slopping out with ale. People were dressed in bright shades of reds and blues. Some were apprentices of the Tower, indicated by the distinctive angular cuts of their robes’ wide cuffs and the women’s plunging necklines. The villager Norms, the slang name for those not touched by the go
ds, were trying to dress like them. Tonight it was permitted, but otherwise considered an offense to Tower custom.
“Candies! Candies here! Come get them children!” A woman with gray hair screamed in Isa’s ear, trying to push a bit of chocolate dipped Elixir beans into his hand, despite his waving her off and letting them fall.
He made his way close to Grimbald after letting a pair of men walking arm in arm pass between them, apprentices of the Phoenix given the blue of their robes.
“Don’t stray too far now, whiteface,” one of the Armsman murmured, thinking Isa couldn’t hear.
“Whitefaces,” his compatriot snickered. “Think they’re better than us. Like to see how’d they do without the crutch of their transformations.”
Isa felt his hands balling up, and a soft growl escaped his lips. He started to turn to face them.
“Don’t pay them any mind,” Grimbald said, grabbing Isa’s bicep and preventing him from turning. His hand felt like an iron vice, but he had the feeling he wasn’t using much force at all. Grimbald stopped to face the pair. “You two will be taking the northern watch tonight.”
“What?” one of the men balked, his jaw hanging open. “But I put in for tonight off months ago.”
Grimbald planted his hands on his hips and thrust his barrel chest out. They visibly wilted under his impressive size. “Act like professionals, and you’ll be treated like them. Act like children… well, so it goes. Maybe next year.” He marched onward.
“Fucking shit! Had to open your big fucking mouth, didn’t you?” One of the guards slapped the other in the back of the head, clanging against his helm.
“Ow! Damn you!” The slapped guard raised his arm, and Grimbald whirled.
“Enough!” Grimbald barked at them. “And people ask me why I haven’t found a wife and settled down with children,” he chuckled with good nature, grinning at Isa.
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