The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm)

by Brian C. Hager

  “Celos did, and I’m going to tie the rope around his neck myself.” At that moment, he sounded very much like an angry Overlord of the Southern Kingdoms.

  * * *

  The streets were crowded despite the rain sheeting down from the sky. It pounded onto the cobblestones and ran in rivulets down the sides of the streets, where it wasn’t collected into puddles too big to jump over. Gusts of wind blew it almost horizontally into the faces of the people passing by, but they didn’t seem too concerned about it. Even when cloaks were whipped up and hoods thrown back, the people simply straightened their garments, pulled their hoods back up, and kept marching through the deluge to their destinations.

  Vaun had never seen rain so heavy and wished he had an umbrella, though that would surely have interrupted Merdel’s precious Balance. Inside would’ve been even nicer. He and Drath had roamed the city for hours now, and despite their well-oiled, heavy cloaks, they slowly became drenched.

  “Can’t we go inside now?” The Swordsman had to raise his voice over the pounding of the rain. The full force of the storm, unbelievable as it seemed, had not quite reached Bordell, so at least he didn’t have to shout over thunder.

  “Not yet. I want to know the minute they get back. They might decide to take their time, and that would be a bad idea considering the state of things. Besides, don’t you want to see the city?”

  Vaun looked around. “What city?” The rain obscured everything, making the buildings only large dark spots looming around him and the people invisible until he bumped into them. He had only been in the city itself once before and had been too busy paying attention to where he went to see much else. He’d wanted to be able to return and see the city on his own without the risk of getting lost. Bordell, after all, was rather large.

  Vaun remembered that the buildings were frequently two stories and that merchants dotted every street with their shops and stalls. In the older sections of town, most of the structures had only one floor, with warehouses dominating the area. All the buildings were mostly stone and wood and attracted the eye with their construction. A few of the wealthier shopkeepers and tavern owners had colorful signs or awnings to proclaim the establishment’s name, but decoration was mostly reserved for the houses. Even then, the plain buildings were finely made, Bordellan architects being haled the world over as some of the best. The fine gabling and well-fitted stones showed the pride the builders took in their work, and the designs demonstrated a sharp eye for detailing and craftsmanship.

  The streets were all cobblestone, something Vaun had been told was extremely rare because of the cost and the work that went into paving even one street. There wasn’t too much trash or poor around, because Bordellans liked to take care not only of their city but also the inhabitants. Vaun had passed several charity establishments during his walk through town, as well as a number of different churches. Though King Dobry allowed his people to practice, or not practice, their own beliefs, he left no doubt as to where his loyalties lay. The massive Cathedral Temple of the Great God one block over was where the monarch attended his services.

  Most of the homes were one-story affairs with cheerfully painted walls and windows looking out onto the streets. A few days ago, Vaun had seen what must have been every woman in the city standing just inside her open door shaking out rugs and drapes, while men were at work both inside and outside the city. Several houses had men and boys crawling around on top of them, and Thorne, who’d been his guide at the time, had explained that they were inspecting the roofs in preparation for the coming rains.

  The nice weather they’d been having for the last month or so would end soon, and weeks of heavy rain always followed. In order to keep their homes from flooding, the men and their sons checked for holes in their roofs before the rain started. Usually, the wife would do a final check and would invariably find a spot her foolish husband had missed. There were even a few guilds designed specifically to prepare roofs for the rainy season, one of which was run by women. Supposedly, every home they inspected remained watertight. Vaun had smiled at that, too.

  Now, however, as water ran off the hood of his cloak onto his face, he groaned irritably. Ordinarily he liked rain, but he wasn’t used to it coming down in a wall or on top of him. He preferred to sit inside or under a covered porch to watch a storm. This getting out in it, not to mention staying out in it, was plain idiocy, and he said as much to his rain-loving companion. Drath only laughed, the insensitive lout.

  Vaun shrugged, trying to shift the Vaulka under his cloak, but despite the overly large size to accommodate for the weapon he couldn’t coerce it into a more comfortable position. The weight of the heavy cloak, much greater now that it was soaked, caused his sword belt to dig painfully into his shoulder. He considered moving the sword to his side, but passed that off as an affront to his Swordsman’s nature. This was the first time he’d felt the Vaulka as a hindrance, and that bothered him even more than the rain. He refused to use his other cloak, which had a hole cut in it to allow his sword hilt to be free of the confining cloth. He didn’t want his precious Vaulka to get wet.

  Vaun wiped his face again. “Fire and blazing stone, Drath! What’re we doing out here? The rain’s so heavy I can barely see you walking next to me, much less spot the elves if they happen to pass by. Why don’t we go inside one of these taverns and dry off a little? I could use something warm to drink. I’d even drink some of Thorne’s throat-burning ale if it’d wash the damp and chill out of my bones. Then we can continue our stone-cursed search.”

  Drath laughed. “You know, Vaun, you’re beginning to sound more and more like you belong here. Are you sure your parents didn’t find you somewhere?” Vaun frowned, but Drath couldn’t see him. “But we can’t do that. We have to talk to Rush and Dart the minute they enter the city. If they did go to Darim, we have to warn them about Dobry. He’s so mad he might hang them alongside Celos just for telling him about it.”

  Vaun stepped close to his friend. “Do you think he’s right?” He didn’t like the idea of a fellow monarch betraying his king, nor the chances of what might happen if the Overlord proved right. Civil war could erupt if the king carried out his intention to hang King Celos, right or wrong.

  “I don’t know.” Drath obviously contemplated the same grim possibilities. “Celos does disagree with Dobry a lot, and he’s always seemed jealous of his power. But I’m not inclined to accuse him of treason just yet, no matter what Dobry says. He may have said those words to Dobry a long time ago, but I don’t think he wants the Overlord dead. And I also don’t think he’d send a Jaga. That takes a rather low sort of individual, wouldn’t you say?”

  Vaun shrugged.

  “I’ve met Celos a few times, and he always struck me as fiercely loyal. He and Dobry just don’t see eye to eye all the time, and he expresses his opinions openly, which can put suspicion on him. I certainly hope the elves can tell us something, if that’s what they went to find out.”

  “It’s been four days since they left.” A figure bumped into Vaun, and for once the person bothered to apologize. “Do you think they could’ve gotten there, found something, and come back by now?”

  “It’s possible.” Drath peered out into the rain. He, like Vaun, stood with his arms crossed, trying to hold in as much body heat as the cold and rain would allow. “They once traveled from Celene to Tarquon in a week and a half on foot, and it takes longer than that on horses. It’s remarkable what those two scatterbrains can do if they think they can get something out of it. I’ve got a feeling they should be here soon.”

  “Do you think King Dobry will wait until they arrive before acting on his assumption? I heard he’s already ordered the garrison readied for march and several stout ropes brought to his chambers. He seems a little upset.”

  Drath scoffed. “A little! Are you sure we’re talking about the same man? I’ve never seen Dobry so angry. He looked like he probably did years ago when people say he had no control over his temper. I thought he’d explode
at the mere thought of a traitor in his own house. Now that he thinks he has proof of one of his own monarch’s treachery, I suspect he’s ready to start cutting off heads. Fortunately, I think, or at least hope, he’ll be sensible and wait until we hear from Rush and Dart.”

  As if summoned by the tall man’s words, the two elves ran through the crowd toward Drath and Vaun, Rush calling their names long before he reached them.

  Drath started in surprise and moved with Vaun out from under the cover of the tavern’s overhang where he and the Swordsman had been conversing. Vaun exhaled in relief, glad he’d soon be out of the pounding rain. However, at the frantic looks the elves wore as they approached him, and seeing them running and shoving people aside, he worried something was very wrong.

  “Drath!” Rush called again as he and his cousin stopped before the tall man and Vaun, panting heavily. “You have to get to the palace. Quickly.” He paused, trying to catch his breath.

  “Why?” Drath bounced in agitation at the elf’s behavior. “What’s wrong?”

  Rush finally caught his breath. “We saw two of Elak’s men on the way here. They were talking about some kind of orders to find out what was going on in the palace. Dart says they were looking into a mirror the whole time. From what he could hear, Elak’s been suspicious of King Dobry being involved with us and wanted to find out if it’s true. He sent those two men to spy on the palace, and while we were watching them they began arguing about how to carry out Elak’s last orders. I don’t know for sure, because we were pretty far away for even Dart to hear clearly, what with the rain and all, and we didn’t stay to hear all of it. They sounded like they were planning to murder Princess Tara.” The elf paused as he mentally calculated. “Today.”

  Drath’s jaw dropped when the elf said that, but Vaun leapt into motion. He sprang past the elves and the gaping Drath and sprinted toward the castle. His cloak began to catch on his legs, so he tore it off without pausing and flung it away. Ignoring the people he pushed aside and the feel of the rain as it fell on his body and his sword, the young Swordsman charged toward the palace. He had vowed to himself to protect King Dobry and his family and would allow nothing to stand in the way of his promise. Even the people yelling “water-cursed Ramener” after him didn’t slow him.

  Drath and the two elves recovered their surprise at Vaun’s action and hurried in pursuit of the running Swordsman. The youth quickly outdistanced them, however, even outrunning the swift-footed elves in his frenzy.

  The palace gates, normally open during the day—King Dobry welcomed his subjects to seek audience with him—had been shut since the Jaga’s attack. The guards beside it recognized Vaun as he ran up to them, and they hurriedly opened the stout iron gates in response to his cries. Vaun charged through the gateway, telling the guards that murderers had invaded the castle and to send help to the princess’s room.

  Vaun had no idea where her rooms were, but figured they had to be close to her father’s. As he passed through the front courtyard, he heard shouted orders behind him, proclaiming that the royal palace guard had heard of the danger. Once inside the main causeway and out of the rain, the youth slowed down, panting and scanning in all directions, trying to guess in which one lay his destination. His left side began to itch, but he ignored it in his haste to save the princess.

  A scream tore at the air and echoed off the marble walls, and Vaun sprang toward it. His blood boiled now in fury at the evil wizard for daring to send men into his king’s home, and he ran with all the speed his body could produce. In anticipation of battle, the Song began a slow, steady interlude that, coupled with the cadence of the Rhythm, spurred the Swordsman on.

  He charged up a flight of steps towards the sounds of a struggle coming from a room down the hall. As he drew closer to it, his side itched even more, almost distracting him from his goal. Feet pounded on the floors behind and in front of him, but he disregarded them as he sprinted for the door and launched his body against it. Such was the intensity of Vaun’s rage that he crashed into the oaken door with the weight of three men. Not nearly as stout as her father’s door, it flew open, tearing the lock out of the wall. Even as he burst wildly into the room, Vaun Tarsus drew his sword and attacked the first man he saw, the Song guiding his strike.

  The unfortunate attacker he fell upon, having turned at the door breaking open, never saw who killed him. Vaun pushed away the sensation of severed bone and barely saw the man’s head fall to the floor, his body following immediately after. In celebration, the Song trilled a triumphant flourish before settling back down in preparation of more fighting. Oddly, the Swordsman realized that flourish sounded the same as it always did when he completed a battle measure.

  Tara screamed again at the spray of blood, but the man holding her gripped her tighter and clamped his hand over her mouth.

  Vaun whirled toward him and leveled his bloody sword point-first at the man’s face, flinging blood on both captor and prisoner. He ignored the slick feel of the blood on his sword blade and swallowed down the taste that feeling gave him. For once, the feel of death didn’t bother him. He also ignored Tara’s wide-eyed stare at the Vaulka in her face.

  Vaun looked at Tara’s captor with cold, deadly eyes, using his body to say what his voice need not. The man was burly and unshaved and had three claw marks on his left cheek underneath a bright red handprint. Apparently, assaulting the king’s daughter was no easy task.

  The Swordsman panted and dripped water, but he never took his eyes off his enemy’s, and he did not blink. The Song took on a menacing note, echoed in the pale blue eyes that intimidated the light-haired assassin. The itch in Vaun’s side had receded since entering the room but still remained.

  The man backed away, keeping Tara pinned in front of him, and Vaun followed. The palace guard reached the room and blocked the door, a few entering with drawn swords and encircling the man and his hostage, cutting off any possible escape.

  * * *

  The mercenary looked around, knowing that if he surrendered, he would surely die. He also knew that if he fought he didn’t stand much of a chance, either. The fierce-eyed Ramener standing in front of him with a bloody Vaulka in his hands told him that much. Of course, what his master would do to him if he failed made losing his head seem a gift. Still, he didn’t want to die, not even for a young southern princess, and Master Elak couldn’t torture what he couldn’t find. The wildcat he held took up both his hands, so he had no weapon to use against her or his attackers anyway. In desperation, he backed toward the wall, and the Ramener and the guardsmen closed in, pinning him tighter.

  As King Dobry strode into the room, his royal sword naked in his fist, the man knew he must act quickly or surely die. Master Elak’s anger could burn in all the Fires of Tarquon; he was giving up the life of a mercenary. Heaving Tara at the death-wielding youth in front of him, who was closest, he sprang toward the window, hoping the rain had softened the ground below. He didn’t remember Bordell was all cobblestones.

  * * *

  Vaun, anticipating the move, circled his sword over the princess’s head to avoid skewering her and sidestepped her stumbling form. He planted himself in front of the fleeing assassin, sticking his sword firmly into the windowsill and cutting off his escape. He’d barely heard the king’s order to capture him alive.

  The bloody, woven steel provided an excellent barrier to freedom, and the Swordsman staring death over it turned the mercenary’s knees to water. Vaun kept glaring at him as the palace guard swarmed over the man and removed his weapons. Vaun was struck at how odd-looking they were—all hooks and jagged edges.

  Only when the guards had tied the assassin securely did Vaun pull his Vaulka out of the wall and turn toward his king. Wood felt nothing like flesh and could not hope to satisfy his Swordsman’s lust for battle, but at least he didn’t have to feel death every time he used it. And, strangely, that itch in his side had departed.

  Princess Tara broke from her father’s embrace just long enough to slap V
aun firmly across the face. She then launched into a long tirade about him allowing her to fall to the floor instead of catching her when the man had pushed her. She also chided him for daring to slay a man in her own rooms, not to mention the mess he’d made with both blood and rainwater.

  Vaun stood dumbfounded, the slap having abruptly cut off the Song. With his cheek stinging, he wondered what he’d done to deserve her wrath and why she looked like she wanted to kiss him.

  13

  AFTER ESCAPING THE PRINCESS, VAUN RETIRED TO HIS ROOMS to clean up and relax. King Dobry wanted information out of the elves and the prisoner immediately, and since he couldn’t help in the questioning, the Swordsman retired to his rooms. Once there, he stripped off his clothes and hung them to dry. He had asked for a bath to be poured and gratefully sank into its warmth. He wasn’t used to having people do things for him like the castle’s servants did, but discovered he could very quickly become accustomed to it. He hadn’t found it difficult to refuse the offer made by a rather lovely dark-haired maidservant, however. Even now, the mere thought of her helping him bathe made him blush terribly.

  Thoughts of the pretty maid aside, Vaun lay back in the tub and tried to figure out why Tara had slapped him. He guessed that, since she’d fallen ungracefully onto the floor, she had suffered some embarrassment. In truth, the Swordsman had considered catching her with one arm as he stepped around her, but had decided against it in his haste to keep the attacker from escaping. The Song had also told him such an action was unimportant compared to the possibility of a fight with the assassin. Still, he had saved her life, and that at least should’ve excused him for not catching her when he could. Her other complaints were even more ridiculous. If he hadn’t killed one of the men she would probably be dead, and some of the guards had dripped just as much water on the floor as he had, yet she had said nothing to them.