by Scott Kaelen
“Right.” Jalis drew a breath and readied her daggers. “So be it. Today is a good day to die.”
“Not for you, lady,” Ellidar said. “Not for you.”
Mallak paused his attack and backed away slowly, a sneer upon his face. “Your little woman grows anxious.”
Shaking out the tightness in his tiring shoulder, Oriken frowned at the king. “Huh?”
“Did you not hear the commotion beneath the clash of our blades? When fighting, you should extend your senses – focus on the fight, but be aware of everything in the sphere around you.” Mallak sighed. “I was referring to your outlander woman in the hall beyond, not the harlot you left at the mansion.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The king laughed. “Oh, I know. I touched her mind when the two of you were alone, so softly that she could not sense it. I witnessed every… sordid… detail.”
“You witnessed nothing.”
“As you say.”
Mallak readied his stance, and Oriken did likewise. Deftly, slowly, they stepped around one another.
“Why are you doing this?” Oriken asked.
The king barked a terse laugh. “I’ll tell you why. These black centuries have left me as little more than an empty husk, a blighted ghost inhabiting this flesh and this castle. I am bored, outlander, and you are sport. Now, raise your weapon before I gut you like a pig.”
“I’ll show you guts.”
“Promises, promises.”
Mallak swarmed in, his gladius a whir of motion. The chime of steel filled the air as Oriken fought for all his worth, barely deflecting the flurry of blows that rained upon him, forced back across the floor by the king’s sheer ferocity. With a snarl, Mallak changed to a frenzied beat attack, aiming each thunderous blow at Oriken’s sabre.
In the briefest of pauses, Oriken saw an opening. With a flick of his wrist, he circled the sabre beneath the gladius and swept the king’s sword aside, following up with a backslash that tore across Mallak’s chest.
The king merely grinned and lashed a fist into Oriken’s jaw, sending him careening away. Planting his feet firm, Oriken groaned as pain swelled across his face and the stars in his vision faded. Casting Mallak a black glare, he wiped a sleeve across his bloody lips. No sooner had he done so than the king came at him again.
On they fought. Mallak angled him further and further back into the centre of the chamber. Oriken’s boot-heel snagged on a ruck in the carpet and he toppled. Holding his sabre out wide, he tucked his knees to his chest as his back touched the carpet, and he rolled with the fall. His feet arcing over his shoulders and touching ground, he sprang into a stance and danced away as Mallak’s blade hummed through the air where he had stood.
“For crying out sodding loud,” Oriken breathed.
The king smiled and flicked a glance to the frayed edge of the red carpet. “My apologies for the untidiness of the place,” he said in mock civility. “It really will not do. I shall have to have the servants slain for such ineptitude. Oh, wait! They’re already dead!” The smile widened to a grin as Mallak held his arms out in a theatrical shrug.
“Side-splitting,” Oriken muttered. Lunging forward, he thrust the sabre between Mallak’s ribs and drove it deep.
The king grunted and cast Oriken a baleful glare. With a snarl, he hammered the pommel of the gladius onto the sabre with enough force to snap the blade and wrench the handle from Oriken’s grasp. Weaponless, Oriken backed away. With deepening dread, he watched Mallak clasp the broken sabre and draw it from his torso. Tossing the bloodied blade to the red carpet, the king’s expression turned from hate to admiration.
Oriken looked around in desperation for a weapon, but he couldn’t be further away from those that adorned the walls of the voluminous chamber. If he turned to sprint to the wall behind him, Mallak would tear his back open, but to reach those on the opposite wall he would have to get past the king. That left the hunting knife. A pitiful weapon against the heavy gladius.
I’m fucked, he thought. Casting a grim look at Mallak, he unclasped his jacket to reach the knife.
Mallak grinned. “You can leave that toothpick where it is, outlander; I may as well be fighting an unarmed man, and that would be against the rules. Here.” Mallak tossed the royal gladius across the space between them.
Oriken snatched it from the air and frowned incredulously at the gleaming blade, then at the king. “Why?” he demanded.
“No sport,” Mallak replied as he turned his back and strolled with confidence across the throne room.
I drove my blade into him, and the man barely reacted. Oriken shook his head as fatigue began to creep in.
“That was your chance to run me through,” Mallak called over his shoulder. “Again. But you’re a man of honour. I respect that.” Reaching the wall, he plucked a considerably less-ornate gladius from its bracket and tested its weight. Nodding in satisfaction, he strolled back to Oriken and, without any further preamble, he resumed the fight.
Stars a-fucking-bove! Oriken thought. Unaccustomed to wielding a gladius, he fought to manage the weightier weapon. Sparks flew as the short, wide blades danced and clashed. Sweat ran beneath his hat into his eyes, down his face. Fatigue was creeping in, and his shoulder ached from the constant clashing of blades, but the king seemed not to be tiring at all. How in the fiery Pit am I supposed to defeat this creature?
With Eriqwyn at Shade’s heels, the inscrutable seamstress led the way up the Galialos vault’s stairwell. The four men and Demelza trudged mutely behind, each no doubt contemplating the task that awaited them. She could sense their trepidation, their fear, and she understood it; never had her nerves been tested so since becoming a Warder. Over the years, she had often paused at the bars of the portcullis during her patrols, and through them glimpsed movement in the shadows or heard a distant crooning that was nothing like any creature of the heath, and it had never failed to leave her skin prickling with gooseflesh. But the ghouls within the Forbidden Place were an obstacle, not an objective.
Her scrutiny of the outlanders on Graegaredh Knot had allowed her to commit their appearances to memory; that, and Demelza supplying her – albeit under duress – with their names, had allowed her to build a profile for each of them and share the descriptions with her group. The hunt was not for a nameless, faceless enemy, and that gave her an advantage. She was prepared, and the graveyard was almost upon her.
“You have my appreciation for showing us this route,” she said to Shade. “But you must know that the council are likely to call for the cave to be sealed.”
“That would be unfortunate,” Shade replied, her voice drowned by the staccato echo of rainfall that drifted from the vault’s entrance.
“Moreover,” Eriqwyn said, “we will have no choice but to hold a hearing to determine the punishment for entering the Forbidden Place without permission – not once, but repeatedly. I imagine it won’t be treated lightly.”
“I fully expect so.”
Eriqwyn cast the seamstress’s rear a wilting scowl. You’re being remarkably calm for a woman in such a tenuous position. She pushed the thought from her mind as they turned onto the last flight of steps and a grey curtain of rain loomed into view, leaking wan daylight onto the stairwell’s landing. She doused her torch and placed it within a shallow niche by the wall, then selected an arrow from her sheaf. As she waited for the others to join them, she gazed out at the bleak vista of the graveyard.
She had been twelve years old the first time she glimpsed the inside of the Forbidden Place. She’d stared between the portcullis bars with nervous fright, fascination and the thrill of naive youth. She’d knelt and reached through to touch the mist that licked at the cracked earth, and listened to the muted sounds that ignited her direst imagination. Now, she was inside that place, and the first wisps of fog curled upon the rain-pelted mud, the downpour filled the air, and the rumble of thunder rode the black clouds that darkened the day. As a Warder, it was weather she wa
s accustomed to; with the wind and rain masking sight, sound and smell, it could give her a tactical edge against the outlanders.
“Thank you, Shade.” Eriqwyn turned to the seamstress as the last of the group reached the landing. “You have aided our mission greatly by leading us here, but your presence is no longer required. You may return to Minnow’s Beck and report to the Lady of the Manor.” Now that Eriqwyn knew of Shade’s noble lineage, she could see it behind the woman’s smile – it was one of patience, the sort that Adri showed to the common folk when they approached her with their trifling problems.
Stroking a finger slowly down her chest, Shade said, “Oh, I think rather that I might stay a while.”
Eriqwyn cast her a level look. “I have no time for this. Do as you will, and face the consequences later, but do not hinder us. If you compromise our—”
“Yes, I know,” Shade sighed. “You’ll shout at me and wave your finger in my face. Spare me the misdirected anger, Eri, and the spurious gratitude. It is not me you should be worried about.” With her torch still ablaze, she headed for the stairwell.
“Where are you going?” Wayland asked as she angled past him.
“To pay my respects to my relatives.” Shade’s gaze fell across the whole group. “Watch yourselves in this so-called Forbidden Place. There are things here that are more dangerous than a trio of outlanders.”
“We know that,” Onwin said.
“No, hunter. In this, you know nothing.” Ignoring his dour expression, Shade crossed to the top of the steps where Demelza stood nervously clutching her bow. Placing a hand upon the girl’s shoulder, she said, “Don’t be afraid, little one. You will do what you know you must when the time comes. As will we all.” And with that, the seamstress headed back down into the depths of her family vault.
She is of no concern, Eriqwyn told herself. “Wayland, you will take Tan and Demelza and scout the far side of the graveyard for the outlanders. Circle around to the Chiddari vault and wait at its entrance. I will meet you there. You remember its location from the archives map?”
Wayland nodded. “Aye.”
“Onwin and Lingrey, you are with me. If anyone sees the outlanders, try to dispatch them from a distance. If they see you, we have lost the element of surprise, in which case you should alert the rest of us by any means necessary. But, as Shade rightfully reminded us, do not forget what else lurks within these walls. Any questions?”
“What if…” Demelza began.
Eriqwyn looked past the rest of the group to the girl. “Yes? Speak up.”
“What if one of us gets lost?”
“We cannot waste time or attention in retrieving any who stray,” Eriqwyn said firmly.
Wayland gave Demelza’s shoulder a gentle touch. “Stay by me, lass. But not too close.”
Eriqwyn turned her attention to the whole group. “If all else fails – goddess forbid – and if you can retreat to the cave or the northern portcullis, then do so. Otherwise we strive to achieve our objectives. Valsana be with you all.”
Five solemn faces regarded her, and when she caught Wayland’s eyes her strength bolstered. This time, his subtle wink was aimed not at her, but at the girl by his side. And then he was striding past her, stepping out into the storm with Demelza and the blacksmith in tow. Eriqwyn watched the three cloaked figures angle around a bronze statue that lay half-submerged, its face pressed into the dirt. Like ancestor, like descendant, she thought, detachedly, as the three cloaked figures moved away.
She glanced up at Lingrey as he appeared at her side. “Ayup,” he said, smacking his lips as he gazed out across the rows of headstones. “Just another field, is all. Just another field.”
“What troubles you, outlander? Not so brash now, hmm?” Raising an eyebrow, Mallak lunged for Oriken’s chest.
Oriken swept his blade across and the swords clashed, deflecting the thrust, but not enough. The edge of the king’s gladius sliced through his jacket and bit into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he flashed his sword across to meet Mallak’s next attack, but the king’s blade dipped and he over-swung, leaving his side exposed. A blur of motion was the only warning as Mallak’s fist hammered into his face.
He was down, cheek mashed against the hard stone, his vision awash with a rainbow of colours. Willing his body to move, he slapped a hand around the floor in search of the jewelled gladius. Twice in one rotting day, he thought. Only, this time, it wasn’t Krea he faced. I’m a dead man. Get up, damn it! He eased himself to his hands and knees, every moment expecting Mallak’s sword to plunge into his back, but the blow never came. Slowly, the throne room swam into focus and he looked across to see Mallak grinning from ear to ear, all white teeth and black gums. The king’s shirt was stained from the wound in his side, and the chamber floor was pockmarked with dark droplets, but the wound itself seemed no longer to be bleeding. Between Oriken and the king lay the jewelled gladius.
He glanced back up and frowned at the king’s expression. Was that a shadow of pain that flitted across Mallak’s face, the briefest wince that the ruler of Lachyla had let slip? So, you do feel something, after all. The thought gave him hope.
“Perhaps if you kept your mind on the moment rather than elsewhere,” Mallak suggested, stepping to the fallen gladius. “Because it seems to me that your friend’s assessment of your swordsmanship is sorely lacking.” Nudging a toe against the sword, he slid it across to Oriken.
The haft slid into his open hand. He upturned the tip onto the stone and leaned upon the pommel, using it to climb to his feet. His face throbbed – both from the punch and from striking the stone floor – and the inside of his sleeve was slick with blood. He clutched the gladius and held his other arm to his side, and regarded Mallak with a baleful glare.
“That was honour repaid,” the king said. “In a duel, it is the height of bad manners to attack an unarmed opponent, just as it is the height of impropriety to not attack an armed opponent.” He lifted his sword in a mock salute.
Fuck your honour. Oriken lunged and swiped his sword in a backhand that bit deep into Mallak’s raised forearm. “No more games,” he growled, whipping the blade away.
“Only the endgame,” Mallak said, his voice thick with a liquid crackle, the casual amusement slipping from his face. He swapped the sword to his off hand and held his injured arm to his chest, soaking his shirt in even more blood.
Oriken flicked a half-hearted jab at Mallak which the king swatted aside. Oriken’s optimism surged as he circled his blade back around in a savage reverse slash. Mallak’s parry came too slow, and Oriken’s sword tore across the king’s abdomen.
With a deft back-step, he grinned in satisfaction as Mallak clutched the wound, his slick, blackened entrails spilling about his fingers. “I got you, you bastard. I got you good.”
The king’s mask of pretentiousness dropped altogether. “You did say you would show me some guts,” he spat. “Come on then, don’t stop now! Be a good sport!” He lunged, but his movement was sluggish and Oriken easily side-stepped the thrust.
Ignoring the pain that pulsed down his arm, Oriken raised his sword in a double-grip, reversed the blade and plunged it into the soft flesh between Mallak’s chest and shoulder. The king’s arm dropped to his side, but the sword remained in his grasp.
With a shake of his head, Oriken stepped back from the grievously injured king. “Give up, damn you.”
“Don’t you dare spare me any quarter!” Mallak snarled. “I hold a weapon yet. Have at me!” He ran at Oriken, his blade flapping up in a feeble attempt at attack.
Oriken swiped his sword into Mallak, then a second time, and a third. “Curse you!” he yelled into the king’s face. Mallak’s black gaze shone with defiance as he locked eyes with Oriken, but still he refused to fall, refused to let go of his weapon. Oriken tore into him, swiping the royal gladius across the king’s torso, slicing his face over and over, until finally he reversed the blade in a sweeping overhead arc and hammered it down. The wid
e tip smashed through the king’s collar-bone and plunged deep into his chest. With a gurgling sigh, Mallak’s hand fell from his stomach and his innards spilled to his feet. He crumpled and sank to his knees amid the pool of his bowels, staring towards his throne as he teetered, a bloody, broken mess. His sword slipped from his grasp and clattered to the stone.
With the last of his strength, Oriken pulled the gladius from Mallak’s body and sank to a knee before him, leaning upon the royal sword, its tip pressed against the blood-soaked stone.
Mallak’s breath came ragged, and blood, darker than wine, frothed at his lacerated lips. “There’s no need… to show deference now, Oriken of Eyndal.”
“It’s Alder’s—”
“Folly. I know.” Mallak’s eyes closed and he fell backwards, his head landing with a soft thud upon the red carpet.
“You were toying with me.”
A gurgling cough issued from the mess that was Mallak’s face. “Perhaps. Just… a little.”
“Why?”
“I could have taken my own life… a thousand times and more… but that is not the way of kings, it is the way… of cowards.” This time when he coughed, blood spumed from his mouth and he fell silent but for the crackly, liquidy, burbling of his breath. He lifted a hand and motioned for Oriken to draw nearer. Oriken lay the gladius down and shuffled closer. Mallak’s hand shot down and gripped his wrist, his grip strong for a man who should be utterly dead. Oriken made to pull away, but there was no attack left in the king. Mallak’s mouth opened. A bubble popped at his lips as he tried to form a word.
“What, damn you?” Oriken lifted his arm and grabbed the king’s wrist, trying to pry him off. “Still have something to say? Why won’t you just let go?” With the last word, he wrenched himself free of Mallak’s grip, and the king’s arm fell to splash into the mess at his side.
Mallak’s gaze locked with Oriken’s. There was no malice in his eyes now, he was back to the man with whom Oriken had earlier conversed. “Thank you,” the last king of Lachyla whispered, and his eyes closed.
