by Matthew Wolf
COPYRIGHT
THE KNIFE’S EDGE
Book One of The Ronin Saga
By Matthew Wolf
Copyright 2013 Matthew Wolf
eBook Edition
Discover more information at http://roninsaga.com
Acknowledgements:
Map – Flavio Bolla
Cover Art – Noah Bradley
Book Design – Emilie Christensen
eBook designed by MC Writing
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To view the map in greater detail please visit http://roninsaga.com
To my devoted editor, friend, and all around rock—my mom.
THE KNIFE’S EDGE
Book One of The Ronin Saga
by
MATTHEW WOLF
The Return
KIRIN RAN. USING THE TOOTH OF the battlement as a stepping-stone, he launched himself at Ren. Blade arcing, he landed in Water Upon the Rocks, an attack from above. Steel clanged as metal sparked, and his muscles strained against his master’s parry.
Ren’s thin lips curved into a smile, making his peppered beard rustle. “Keep that up and you’ll have my title before long.”
Eyeing him through the mesh of their swords, Kirin smirked. “It’s all yours.”
Immediately, he realized his mistake, but it was too late. His pressure waned as his concentration slipped. Ren’s heavy biceps flexed. Kirin was blown back as if by a gust of wind, feet scraping along the gray stone. He threw a leather boot to the ground in a Low Moon stance, his knees bent and back straight. At the same time, he tossed a hand to the rampart’s wall. His palms scraped the stone merlons and he skidded to a halt. He looked up. Ren’s sword hurtled towards his face. Pressing against the ground, he vaulted backwards, diving beneath the blade’s tip. Landing on the balls of his feet, he peered through his brown hair.
Ren rose to his full, impressive height. Despite the chill in the air, the man was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of frayed brown pants with leather strings. His frame was tanned dark from the unforgiving sun. A long scar ran diagonally across his chest. A few more white lines marred his shoulders and arms. There was not a scrap of fat on him. Lit by the dawning sun, Ren stood in High Moon. His back leg was heavily bent, holding the majority of his weight, while his front foot rested lightly upon the ground. It was a stance most could learn, but few could ever master.
Kirin rose. “You tricked me.”
Ren broke High Moon. Sword tip to the stone, he leaned on his pommel, lounging. He was beginning to lose his hair, pate wearing thin, but what was left was plaited back into a komai tail, a black and gray braid of traditional Devari code, but far longer in accordance to his rank. “Don’t listen to me then, or, better yet, don’t talk back. Besides, you should know my tools by now—tools which a blademaster should always have at his disposal.”
He scoffed. “Tools? They are clearly tricks and you know it.” His palms stung and he saw peeled callouses, raw and pink, like a shaved beet. “And why do I always seem to get hurt around you?”
Ren shrugged innocently. “Not sure, I don’t get hurt.”
There was a subtle shift in the air, and Kirin focused, becoming acutely aware of his surroundings. Sharpening his senses at will was a skill of the Devari harnessed over years of intense training. Ramparts, crenulated towers, and scaled rooftops surrounded him. What he felt was the guard changing as hundreds of fresh bodies were beginning their first patrol of the day.
He embraced the Leaf, using his Ki. Suddenly, his veins chilled. He stood inside a soldier’s cold limbs, felt his stiff joints, and heavy lids from recently shed dreams. The man excused another tired soul to the hard sacks of the barracks. With a breath, Kirin retreated from the guard’s body, flowing back into his own.
What I wouldn’t do for a soft pillow. He envied them, for a Devari never slept more than several hours. But deep down, he did not envy their softness, or at least, he would not trade for it. Brushing the dirt from his black tunic and brown pants, he regained his feet and raised his sword. But Ren was looking away, gazing over the bailey’s walls. Something weighed heavily on his master’s features. There were shadows in the man’s eyes. “Is it true?” he asked.
“Rumors are rumors, Kirin. Besides, you should not concern yourself with prophecy. As Devari, we are above such things.”
“You’re avoiding the question. I want to know, is it true they are back?”
“Say their name lad. Only a fool fears a name.”
“I can’t…”
“Then I’ll say it for you.”
“Don’t—”
“Ronin,” Ren said, interrupting him.
Kirin’s breath caught. He looked behind. The rampart was empty and he breathed a sigh. Though he knew the guards would not disturb Devari training and they were safe from prying ears, to speak their name aloud was a crime punishable by death.
“It’s only you and me up here, Kirin. And as for your question, I’ve outlasted a hundred false returns, each one more absurd than the last. Though a false return is nothing to smile about. Each causes its share of pandemonium. I’ve seen hangings, riots, even full-scale wars at the hands of a false return.” The man was holding something back.
“But I’m not asking about rumors. Though I have heard them all… whispers that the elvin prophet is on her deathbed, that the Patriarch is to decree this coming as a True Return, that Taer and Maldon are shutting their doors to outsiders completely.”
“Taerians have always been a foolish, superstitious lot, and Maldians follow on their heels like a trotting dog,“ Ren said contemptuously, “and I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but the Patriarch has uttered no such thing.”
He continued undaunted, “All of Farhaven’s magical creatures are fleeing to their sanctuaries. The whole Citadel is in an uproar. Things I’d have to be blind to miss. I’m not asking if something is happening, Ren. I know something is happening. I’m asking what you think.”
Ren turned, looking away. He was silent so long Kirin didn’t think he was going to answer. At last, he spoke, “This time, something seems different. I feel there is a deadly sliver of truth within the rumors. After two-thousand years, I fear the Return has come.”
The Return… The phrase alone was even more terrifying than Ren’s fear. But the feeling of dread in the Citadel of late had been palpable, nothing short of the Return seemed likely. “The Gates separate Farhaven from Daerval and the enemy has never crossed the Gates, right Ren?”
“Farhaven is safe, lad,” Ren said. “Don’t you worry.”
Kirin looked out over the Citadel’s curtain wall in thought. He saw the courtyards with sculpted shrubbery. The baileys were filled with winding stone paths, training dummies, and rows of haystacks. The morning bell tolled, announcing Neophytes to their daily duties. Out over the Citadel, its field of towers, and heavily fortified keeps was a magnificent city; and where the sun beat back the mist, it revealed pockets of the land below.
He saw dirt streets. From this height the people looked like colored ants. To Kirin, the city was an awning that covered the land, reaching into the dunes of the Reliahs Desert. It was the great desert city of Farbs, Kingdom of Fire. It was truly breathtaking. Often he wished he could leave the walls and walk among the people. But such a thing was not possible for a Devari.
“Wake up!” Ren bellowed, and he was glad to see the y
ears had shed from Ren’s face. His master’s stance switched from High Moon to Low Moon, one leg sweeping back. Kirin saw his opening, but kept his face blank. “So are you going to sight-see, or for once are you going to actually hit…”
He didn’t let Ren finish and charged with a fierce cry, sword raised for Heron in the Reeds. Ren smiled as if he were waiting for it, blade flickering into Full Moon, covering his head. In the last moment, Kirin gathered his meager power. Using the element of moon, he summoned a blanket of darkness and flung it before him like a black shield. It was a weak and dismal spell, but it was enough. His cry pitched and he dove through the shield. Ren’s sword appeared from nowhere, but he rolled beneath the man’s blade. As he landed, he twisted. Fisher in the Shallows. He lashed at Ren’s legs, ready to retract the blow in victory. Ren had lost. Elation lanced through him. Abruptly, his master smirked and his hand smacked a hidden block of stone.
A sphere of dark purple appeared from thin air, hovering between them. The liquid darkness swiftly expanded. It touched his outstretched arm and he recoiled, but it was no use. His muscles twitched as if suffocated in stone, and the darkness swiftly slid over him like a second skin.
The world turned black as night.
Kirin was weightless and falling.
The Seven Trials
VERA INHALED THE INCENSE THAT BURNED in the brightly lit room. On any other day she would complain about its putrid sting as she walked past the Oval Hall, watching as people flocked towards the great chamber.
Today, however, the incense smelled sweet.
Her face glistened with sweat. Seven women surrounded her. Each stood on one of the seven points of the Star of Magha, set in the white marble floor with gold veins. Each point stood for one of the elements of the Great Kingdoms. She stood on the red flame of the Citadel.
All the elements were present, but one. The forbidden element of wind.
The women surrounding her breathed heavily, wearing looks of loathing. They fear what they don’t understand. She took in their stares and noted their different strengths. Merian stood on the emblem of flesh, Sara, water, Tamiko, earth, Resa, sun, Eliwyn, fire, and the others she did not know. The only thing they shared was that they were years older than her, and nearly all of them despised her.
With a portion of the spark, Vera twisted a strand of water with a thicker thread of light. Any trace of dampness was sucked from her dress, like poison drawn from a wound as gray wool was simultaneously straightened and smoothed. Immediately, pain jolted her as if a small firework erupted within her brain. She gasped and fell to her knees. Looking up, she saw Merian had snapped the link tight.
The link was a connection of visible gold between her and the others, like a wagon-wheel’s spokes, stemming from Merian. For that mere moment, the link between all eight women glowed brightly. The other women gave Merian curious, if not entirely disapproving looks. All except one. Eliywn looked at Vera with sympathy. It was well known that the use of pain outside each individual Trial was strictly prohibited.
“Do not use the spark during the Trials for anything but the Trials themselves,” Merian snapped. “At least not until we are done with you.” The woman’s lips pursed, as if she were thinking up something truly cruel to say. “And I would save your energy if I were you. You will need every morsel you can conjure in the next Trial, or you will fail miserably.”
Vera brushed her fall of auburn hair behind her ears and rose to her full height. There was a fire in Merian she had not seen until now, and she nearly applauded the woman for showing her backbone at last. Then she eyed Merian’s red robes. The robes of a Reaver. She looked around the room at each woman. Each bore the robes of a full Reaver, a title she craved to hold more than air.
“Neophyte Vera, you have completed the Sixth Trial. The final Seventh Trial will begin now,” Merian quoted line for line.
With the veil of obedience, Vera smiled. “As you wish, Reaver Merian.” Each woman looked like coiled desrah snakes ready to strike. She grinned, inviting it, and together, the women attacked.
Spokes of light flew forth, striking from all sides. She threw up her hands, erecting a shield of light. The spokes of light moved through her shield like water, racing towards her. Too strong. Seven Reavers could not be bested by any but an Arbiter in a match of raw power. The Seventh Trial was not one of strength, but a test of spirit. It was not meant to be won. But she was not done.
Vera summoned a shield of darkness and it launched from her fingertips, spreading in the air. Her gaze narrowed like an arrow’s sight on Merian whose eyes blazed with hatred. She unleashed her bottled power with a scream, uncaging the tendrils of living darkness, but in the last minute wove threads of moon to disguise the power’s dark form. The light and darkness collided with a powerful crash and an earth-shaking clap rattled the room. The bars evaporated like mist. But in the moment before their collapse, the darkness funneled up the spoke of light and sunk its teeth into the wielder of the link.
The thunderclap of air blew the women back.
Slowly, the women rose to their feet. A foul smell like burnt hair hung in the air, but no others seemed to notice. At her feet, Vera saw fragments of colored glass from the windows high above, and shreds of priceless tapestries depicting grand scenes of the Lieon, the Great War.
Resa, a bull-like woman, spoke, “Never has the test of light been countered with a shield of moon. Moon is the weaker of the two elements, but somehow it worked. Truly remarkable and worth the coming ceremony. You are now the youngest to pass the Seven Trials in history. Congratulations, Reaver Vera.”
“Congratulations,” the other six said, their voices a single hum from the Link.
“Merian, sound the chime,” Resa ordered. “It is complete, the Citadel must know. The ceremonies must commence.” She hadn’t noticed. Neither had the others. There was a stark silence. Vera smirked, reveling in their confusion. The seven women’s eyes widened in sudden recognition, their feelings connected through the link. As one they looked to Merian.
The woman knelt, her wide-eyes brimming in horror. “My power is gone!” the woman shrieked, and gave a bloody cry.
“Merian!” The women swarmed around her, dropping the golden glow of the link.
Resa touched the sister’s forehead and recoiled with a gasp. “I cannot heal her. It is far beyond my skill.” She grabbed Tamiko. “Take her to an Arbiter and quickly. Perhaps they can grab the spark before it recedes too far.”
“She… it’s gone? But how?” Tamiko stuttered.
Vera smiled at the woman’s shock. Like a wide-eyed doll. She always thought Tamiko’s hair and face too done up to be attractive, though most of the men of the Citadel didn’t seem to mind.
“Stop asking questions and go!” Resa yelled. Tamiko bolted to get help and Resa turned. The woman’s eyed blazed. Come to me, Vera beckoned. Resa rose, moving towards her. Her heavy steps reminded Vera of a cerabul before the charge, or one of the Devari guards stalking postures, which made her think of Kirin. Behind the woman Vera saw others. Curious and fearful Neophytes flowed into the room, faces pale from the sound of Merian’s chilling scream. Eliywn rushed to Vera’s side. Resa approached and Eliywn straightened to her fullest height, which was a hand or two shorter than Vera.
Before Resa could speak Eliywn proclaimed in a rush, “She did nothing against the law of the Citadel, and she obviously didn’t mean—”
“Leave,” Resa seethed.
Eliywn bristled as if slapped, and she looked ready to respond. The girl knows not when to quit. Ignoring Resa’s direct order would meet with serious punishment, for Reaver of three stripes vastly outranked Eliywn’s one. She touched her friend’s arm. Eliywn frowned, but understood, and grudgingly took her leave.
“What was that?” Resa whispered, breathing fire. The woman’s body practically shook with desire to hurt Vera, likely not even with the spark, but with pure, animal-like rage. She would… thought Vera calmly.
“What was what?”
<
br /> The spacious hall filled with Neophytes and Reavers, rushing to see the cause of the uproar and whispers spread like fire.
“Heresy,” Resa sputtered. “Merian might die, if she doesn’t, the spark inside her is shriveled and likely the spark is gone from her forever! You desiccated her!”
The word gave Vera chills. Desiccating meant being deprived and cut from the spark, like a still beating heart carved from one’s chest. For a Reaver, it was a word far worse than any curse.
Vera returned the woman’s wrathful glare with a small smile. Words would clearly not affect some women, she knew, no matter how profound. Resa snatched Vera’s robes. “If I ever, ever see anything like that again, Citadel law or not, I will personally pluck your haughty eyes from your head, without the spark.”
I was right. Vera dipped her head, casting her eyes downward. “Apologies, Reaver Resa. My power went beyond me,” she lied. “I will learn to control it.” That much was truth.
Resa’s meaty fist rose, ready to strike. At last, with an unattractive snarl, she turned and stalked out of the chambers, following the two women who held the muttering, half-conscious Merian on a cloth stretcher.
And for a brief moment, she felt a note of pity. No one should suffer that fate… She would take a thousand deaths before she would take a life without the spark. Ignoring the eyes of others, Vera pushed her way through the whispering crowds of Neophytes, heading to her quarters.
The Neophyte Palace
THE CORRIDOR SHOOK WITH THE PEAL of tower bells, announcing the completion of the Seven Trials. Vera ground her teeth in irritation and turned the corner swiftly, running headlong into a figure. She rubbed her arm, looking up to see the worried frown of Enise, a bookish Neophyte.
“I’m so sorry, are you all right?” Enise asked.
The girl looked every bit like a startled bird—sharp nose, spiky fray of white hair like plumage, which was even more frayed and bristly than normal, and bright, wide eyes. Enise was one of the few who didn’t loathe Vera. She wondered if the girl had never heard the rumors. Either way, she liked Enise.
