Guilds & Glaives

by David Farland

  The bulky form in the dirt before him stirred and groaned. Dalmodir, club resting on his shoulder once more, stepped into the moonlight to join the Despatcher, who had approval emanating from his deep-set eyes.

  The Despatcher motioned to Dval. “Remember the oath that you swore on the mountain.”

  And Dval suddenly understood his true test.

  The words his master had spoken there rose clearly in his mind: “More often than not, my son, the greatest dangers to our kingdom arise from within. Sometimes we are called upon to do what men of good conscience cannot.”

  After them echoed his own words, spoken with his hands on his heart and his sword. “To protect the king and every person of Mystarria, whether great or lowly, from all enemies, within and without our land, in whatever form they may take, and to stand against the darkness.”

  Sometimes, Dval thought, our duty is to protect the people from their lords. He glanced at the girl, huddled in his cloak at his shoulder, and queried his master with his eyes.

  “A petty, ignoble execution for an ignoble man,” the Despatcher said.

  Dval peered down at the Duke. There was a deep shadow in him, revolting and twisted. He had not seen it before and he realized something. The Duke was drunk, a cruel and dangerous drunk, and under its influence, it seemed that he had become a new creature, more foul and loathsome than a pirate.

  Dval sank to his knees beside the duke. The man was so drunk that he now simply moaned in a fitful sleep, tossing his head from side to side.

  My Master, the Glory, has been leading me here all along, knowing what we must do. Dval had worried that he himself might be an oathbreaker, but now he had an opportunity to prove himself.

  A scuff and a rustle wrenched his attention upwards. The duke’s men stood rigid mere yards away, Sir Marin’s face as pale as the moon itself, as if he feared for his own life.

  The Despatcher stood at Dval’s back. “You will tell them,” the Despatcher ordered, “that the duke died in a fall from his horse.” Every word carried its own warning and Dval knew that his master’s eyes, leveled on each of the men in turn, reinforced his threat.

  None of them replied. The Despatcher nodded to Dval.

  Dval studied Sir Marin and the men and thought he saw relief hidden beneath their fear. Like him, they were mere servants, following orders.

  The duke stirred again and stared at Dval, eyes glazed with drink but wide with sudden fear.

  “Oathbreaker,” Dval whispered, and snapped his neck.

  Blood and Onyx

  R.K. Nickel

  It was common knowledge that no one could steal from the queen.

  That’s why the guild sent Rivyn.

  He crouched atop the roof of the blacksmith’s shop, hidden behind the billowing smoke of the chimney. From here, he could study the movements of the palace guards as they circled round and round the high stone wall.

  To the west, the sun licked the horizon. Almost time.

  Rivyn hated the moments of waiting. Waiting meant time to think. Was he really going to break into the best-guarded building in the sovereignty? The last Soul Runner who’d gone after the queen’s jewel had ended up extremely dead. Rivyn could attest to that. The royal alchemist had pickled the head and kept it in a glass display above the castle gates for a year and a day. The queen had never been kind, but it seemed as though, the last few years, she’d grown especially cruel.

  But if he turned back, the guild would suspend its contracts and send every member after him. They couldn’t take over his soul; no Runner could Bind another of their kind. But when they found him—for they would find him—the punishment would make the Ritual look like a night out with friends. Or so he assumed. Friends were a luxury Soul Runners were forced to eschew. No, if he wanted to keep his head, he’d simply have to play the role of fearless thief.

  Action is identity.

  Pretend to be brave, you are brave. Steal, and you’re a thief.

  There—on the wall—the guard Rivyn had seduced a few weeks prior. Rivyn cracked his knuckles, then scampered to the edge of the roof, drawing a shuriken from his belt. You were a terrible lay, he thought as he rolled the shuriken across his left arm, each of the four points drawing a pinprick of blood. He cocked his arm back. Waited. Waited. Now.

  As the shuriken tumbled through the air, Rivyn thought he could just make out his glistening blood on the black blade. And then it struck home, right in the flesh of the guard’s left shoulder.

  Rivyn focused, channeling his will. Then Leapt.

  The world constricted, light and dark merging into a single pinhole of lurching existence as an inexorable force tugged Rivyn forward. He burned with elation, with unfettered momentum. He was everywhere, and nowhere, and felt a whole lot like throwing up.

  And then he was atop the wall, looking back at the chimney. The woman who had been Rivyn spun about, clearly confused, horrified. Rivyn had Bound her for nearly five weeks. It was a long time for a consciousness to be trapped, tamped down beneath a greater mind. She would remember none of it, of course—just a gap where her life should have been. Nothing of seducing the guard, nothing of the nights in the tavern, plying men for information. For five weeks, she had not existed. There had been no she. She was simply Rivyn.

  Action is identity. And she had taken none.

  Rivyn considered killing her—the guard had a dagger at his hip that would likely fly true, and it was certainly what the guild would have wanted, but whom would the woman tell?

  Instead, he turned his attention toward the palace. This body was larger, heavier. But stronger, too. Rivyn felt the weight of the leather armor upon him, the remnants of a heavy meal sloshing in his stomach. His bladder was full to bursting. Why couldn’t people take care of themselves?

  There was nothing for it now. Ever since the previous Soul Runner’s attempt, the Queensguard had been especially attentive to unusual behavior, like, say, pissing from atop the outer wall. So he’d simply have to hold it in. Rivyn pulled the shuriken from his flesh, grimacing. At least he wouldn’t have to run it across his skin a second time. The blade already glistened with the guard’s blood—his blood.

  Bloodforged.

  His thoughts flickered briefly to the ritual. Nearly a decade prior, but you never forgot your first time. Lying on the altar, a youth of sixteen, surrounded by the Unbodied—the guild’s most elite assassins. And beside him, mouth gagged, limbs strapped down, the first person he would Bind. A stocky lad with short-cropped hair. An orphan, someone nobody would miss. Rivyn still remembered his eyes. Hazel. And filled with a fear Rivyn had never seen.

  And then they’d plunged the onyx dagger into Rivyn’s heart. The Blade of Making. There’d been a brief moment of darkness, followed by that now-familiar pull as he’d been drawn to the bloodforged wound. They’d driven an onyx spike through the orphan’s left hand, and that’s where Rivyn had entered.

  The body he’d known his whole life was gone, a sack of flesh, and yet Rivyn lived—the true Rivyn, the idea of Rivyn, the mind. The actions. And once someone made his first Leap, became a being of consciousness, the path was ever open.

  The bell rang in the royal tower. The changing of the guard. Hoping no one would notice the few drops of blood around his shoulder, Rivyn descended the stairs to the inner courtyard. Someone was coming his way.

  “Samson,” said a fellow guard.

  “Alistair,” Rivyn replied, then reached out his hand. They shook, interlocking their little fingers. It’d cost Rivyn a hundred claws worth of ale to get that out of one of the castle staff.

  “The sun rises,” said the guard.

  “The panther stalks its prey.”

  The guard nodded, then released Rivyn’s hand. The Queensguard changed the call and response weekly to ensure that everyone was who they appeared. Clearly that wasn’t often enough.

  Rivyn continued toward the barracks.

  “Hey, Samson,” called the guard before Rivyn had taken even three paces. “Aren�
��t you forgetting something?”

  Rivyn turned, slowly, mind racing.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, fingers dropping to his belt, feeling the outline of the hidden shuriken.

  “You still owe me for the girls last night, you dog.”

  Rivyn relaxed. “Yeah, yeah. Whaddaya say I meet you at Mistress Taneal’s after your shift and we do it all over again. I’ll cover.”

  “I like the way you think.” Alistair flashed a devilish grin. Men. Always making decisions with the smaller head.

  As soon as Alistair was out of sight, Rivyn turned away from the barracks and ducked into the kitchens. The smell of baking bread immediately assaulted his nostrils. This jerk may have been terrible in bed, but damn did he have a great sense of smell. No wonder there was so much food sloshing around in his stomach. If Rivyn’s last body had been this adept at discerning the intricacies of the wafting oats and barley, he’d hardly have been able to resist.

  The lone kitchen maid on duty looked up from her work and dropped a dish in surprise. It landed with a shattering crash. “Now look what you made me do,” she said.

  “Apologies,” Rivyn mumbled, adding what he hoped was an appropriate level of shame to his gravelly voice. A constellation of freckles dotted the girl’s face. This had to be the one.

  “You were in here not but three hours ago, mister,” she said, beginning to pick up the ceramic pieces from the floor. “Someone’s going to get suspicious.”

  “I know, but I just can’t help myself, m’lady.”

  “I’m no lady.”

  Rivyn bent down and helped stack the broken slivers. He looked at her. Their faces were close. She smiled.

  Rivyn closed his hand around one of the sharper fragments, squeezing until a few drops of blood dripped between his fingers. Soul Runners quickly learned to tolerate a high threshold of pain.

  “Heavens, Sam. Will you never learn to be more delicate with those ogre’s hands? Come here.” She took his arm.

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble for leaving the oven unattended.”

  “And what will cook say if she finds blood all over her kitchen? It won’t take but a moment.” She grabbed a cloth napkin and led him to the pantry, which she unlocked with nimble fingers.

  “Now let me see,” she said, closing the door behind them.

  Rivyn thrust the sharp ceramic edge into her stomach, making sure not to cut too deep. “Apologies again, m’lady.” Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and Rivyn Leapt.

  The familiar pull took him, the darkness, the heavy, pounding pressure, weightlessness, the endless, throbbing tug, a tearing of the mind.

  He pulled the makeshift weapon from his stomach and, just as Samson moved to cry out, rammed it into his neck. The kitchen maid’s arms were surprisingly strong—kneading dough was its own sort of training—and despite her shorter stature, he had no trouble slicing straight into the jugular.

  “She deserves better than you anyway. Fooling around at Mistress Taneal’s.”

  Action is identity. Repeatedly cheat on the woman who loves you, you’re a shitty person. And in this case, a dead one.

  Rivyn looked over his clothes. Not too bad. He grabbed a fresh apron, then removed the shuriken from Samson’s belt and tucked it into a sock.

  He stepped back out into the kitchen, locking the pantry behind him, then took the fire poker from beneath the oven, thrust it into the flames, and cauterized the small wound in his stomach. Gods be damned. He clenched his teeth, trying to hold in as much of his scream as possible. Nothing hurt worse than burning flesh. But one couldn’t wander around bleeding all over one’s dress.

  Now, to complete the disguise. Rivyn slipped the apron over his neck, concealing the blood on his dress, then looked around until he spotted what he needed: a tray loaded with fresh-made breads and marbled cheeses. He quickly picked up a cheese grater, then scraped it along the edge of the fire poker, which still had little bits of blood and flesh stuck to it. Thin metal shavings flaked off, and he forced them into the soft cheese.

  “What are you doing?”

  He hadn’t heard anyone enter. Bad hearing? Great. It was always something. What had the cook seen? Rivyn waited, tense.

  “You were supposed to be upstairs five minutes ago.”

  “Of course. Going now.” Rivyn tried to imitate the kitchen maid’s inflection. He should’ve gotten her to talk more. Rivyn took up the tray and hurried toward the exit, ferreting away a couple of napkins as he went.

  “Fool girl,” said the cook. “I ought to leave you to the jungle.”

  Just another girl without options. Like Rivyn had been. But if he completed his task, the guild would have no choice but to make him one of the Unbodied. For the last decade, he’d been yoked, tugged wherever the guild desired. He’d joined because he wanted to be someone else. And now he’d give anything to be, well, someone.

  No, he was someone. As long as he moved forward, made choices, took action, he was Rivyn. Still, a little freedom would be nice. A chance to sit beside a fire and read a book. To sleep with someone not because they had information, but because he was attracted to them.

  What a thought.

  And yet, even still, he could never feel at home, for always he’d be riding in an unnatural body, little more than a parasite. A powerful one, but a parasite nonetheless.

  Maybe one day, once he’d proven himself a worthy Unbodied, he’d find someone in the guild to, well, not to settle down with, but to be a companion. Someone he could work beside, who understood his condition and his sacrifice, someone who loved him entirely for him, no matter which body he happened to reside in.

  He reached the harem and, with a nod from the guards on duty, entered.

  “Which one of you is serving the queen tonight?” he asked, puffing out his breasts a little.

  “I am,” said a gorgeous young man. Shirtless, he seemed mostly to be a solid block of abs. Exactly what the queen would want. Her lust was legendary. And legendarily shallow.

  “The queen’s meal,” Rivyn said, trying to add a touch of flirtation to his tone.

  If they’d simply wanted to poison the queen, how easy it would have been. But her treasure would be less valuable in an unstable market. And easy was a relative term, Rivyn supposed. This theft had been two years in the planning.

  The queen’s treasure, Rivyn thought as the slave took the tray. Though the Unbodied had tried to make the job sound routine, Rivyn wondered what jewel would truly be worth the risk. In Rivyn’s experience, wealth was ephemeral. The sovereignty’s true currency was information. With the right leverage, the guild would be able to elevate itself, cementing a place of power beyond the queen’s scrutiny.

  “She requested that you to bring it to her right away,” Rivyn said to the slave and, with a slight bow, headed for the door. The man followed close behind.

  After he’d gone a few steps back toward the kitchen, Rivyn stopped in his tracks. “Oh no,” he said, then turned to the harem guards. “I forgot to set out the napkins. Please, the cook will have my head.”

  “Go on then,” said the taller of the pair.

  “Thank you. Oh, thank you. Stop by the kitchen in a couple of hours and I promise I’ll make the two of you something special.”

  “Much appreciated,” replied the guard. In Rivyn’s experience, a man’s stomach did nearly as much thinking as his groin.

  It wasn’t long until Rivyn caught up to tonight’s meal. Both of tonight’s meals. “Excuse me,” he said meekly. “I’m terribly sorry, but I forgot the napkins. Here.” He set them on the tray.

  “Thank you.” The pleasure slave turned to go.

  “And, uh …”

  The man gave Rivyn a withering glare. “Yes?”

  “Tonight was my first time in charge of the cheeses. Could you, could you try some? I want to make sure I didn’t make any mistakes.”

  His eyes narrowed. This was not going well. But Rivyn didn’t dare use any of his usual methods. He needed t
he man’s body to stay perfectly intact. After all, the queen would be seeing it completely naked. A single wound meant his task would be ruined and his life forfeit.

  “You seem awfully nervous,” said the slave.

  “It’s just, the cook beats me something fierce whenever I get anything wrong, but I’ve never been good with numbers, and just last week I added twice as much flour to the bread as I should have, and I think I might have put in entirely too little salt, and—”

  Rivyn cut himself off mid-sentence. He could see he was making no headway. “Oh, forget it. I’ll just take my chances with the cook. I hope you enjoy your meal. I slaved over it.”

  Rivyn turned and stomped off. But just before he rounded the corner—

  “Wait.” The man took a bite of cheese.

  “It’s good,” he muttered.

  “Thank you,” said Rivyn, suddenly aware of the bloodforge created by dozens of immeasurably small cuts in the man’s throat. Swallowed shavings were a Soul Runner’s dirtiest trick—effective and nearly undetectable. “Sadly, I had nothing to do with it.”

  Rivyn Leapt, felt himself slip into the black, into the place that was no place—then dove forward and tackled the kitchen maid, wrestling her to the ground before she could gain her bearings. Rivyn almost laughed. The pleasure slave might look amazing, but the maid was the stronger of the pair. Beauty over utility. Or perhaps in the slave’s case, beauty was utility. The maid tried to shout, but Rivyn slammed an elbow into her neck, bruising her windpipe. “Quiet.”

  He ripped off her dress, eliciting a fearful whimper. Gods, what must she think of me? “I’m not going to hurt you. I could, but I’m not.” Rivyn tore the dress into strips. The material was tough. “Mostly because Samson was an asshole.” Her face grew even more terrified. “Yes, I know Samson. He was bedding other women.” Rivyn gagged the girl, tied her arms and legs, then dragged her into the first room he found—guest chambers, clearly unused at the moment. He dropped her into the bathtub, then grabbed his shuriken from her sock.