Shadow of the Conqueror

by Shad M Brooks

  “Not if they know they’ll lose.”

  “Oh really, and just how good a duelist are you?”

  Daylen reached in the same box that had held the gauntlet and took out a flat, round disk the size of his palm. It was a gold-plated steel disk that bore the indented steel image of a sword. This was the mark of a master, the type of metal denoting the level. Iron for Master, copper for High Master, silver for Grand Master, and gold for Grand High Master.

  Daylen held up the badge. “I’m this good.”

  Ahrek looked stunned for a second, before laughing.

  “No, really,” Daylen said. “I am a Grand High Master.”

  “That was your father’s mark,” Ahrek said, wiping away a tear. “You don’t deserve to wear it.”

  “I do if I’m actually as good as the mark says.”

  “Have you been tested before a panel of masters to earn the right?”

  Daylen clipped the badge over his belt buckle as it was made to do. “Until I can, I need a sign to warn would-be challengers of my skill.”

  “You are not a Grand High Master.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “It takes years of training to become a Grand High Master, years far beyond your age. Daylen, please, there’s a much better way to fend off would-be challengers. Just don’t wear your sword and gauntlet and wrap the sword so no one can see it.”

  “Son, don’t presume you can tell me what to do.”

  “Daylen, give me the mark.”

  “Go stone yourself.”

  “Give it to me!”

  “Make me,” Daylen said offhandedly as he returned to rummaging through his things.

  Ahrek didn’t respond, clearly accepting defeat.

  “Very well,” Ahrek said with a stern voice. “Outside. Now.”

  Daylen turned to the Lightbringer. “What?”

  “You wish me to make you, so I shall.”

  Daylen laughed. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The aristocracy wanted to strip my military rank for insubordination, but by that time I had gained the loyalty of half the army.

  So they tried to kill me instead.

  The attack came during a public gathering where I was trying to rally further support. Soldiers loyal to the aristocracy surrounded us and began killing wantonly. I, with the people, fought back. We had all just endured the Fourth Night, and no one was unfamiliar to battle. They fought just as well as an army—and with my leadership, against greater numbers, we killed every last one of our attackers. Some might say we won that battle, but the truth was that only ten survived. My dearest Tara was killed in that battle along with our children: our young son, Daygen, and infant daughter, Teressa.

  * * *

  Daylen followed the Bringer to the grassy field beside his home.

  The sun was shaded that fall by some low clouds and the grass swayed in a soft breeze.

  “You can stop the charade, Ahrek,” Daylen said.

  Ahrek didn’t reply, all humor gone from his face.

  Daylen laughed. “Look, son, your bluff has failed. You don’t even have a sword, not that it would have been any use. Are you going to duel me with your bare hands?”

  Ahrek reached under the neckline of his robes and retrieved a medallion that had been hanging underneath. A round disk flipped out to hang in front of his chest. It was gold—and bore the image of a sword.

  The mark of a Grand High Master.

  Daylen nearly fell over. “What?”

  The Bringer lowered his arms and light began to shine from his hands. The light in each hand began to grow and take shape, forming a teardrop kite shield and huge bladed broadsword, both fully sunforged that shone white. With a few masterful flourishes, the Bringer took a battle stance, shield in front, sword at the ready.

  Daylen could barely believe his eyes. Not only was Ahrek a blackened Grand High Master of the sword, but he could create sunforged weapons out of light without the slightest sign of fatigue. Why would a stoned-blackened Lightbringer go through the extensive training to become a Grand High Master? It was true that some Lightbringers fought, especially those who had joined the Archknights, but Ahrek didn’t look like a swordsman. And, on top of that, why wasn’t Ahrek famous? There was only fifty or so people alive at this level of skill, and thus they were practically celebrities.

  “Are you ready or not?” Ahrek asked.

  No, Daylen wasn’t ready. He was expecting this duel to be laughably easy, but now… Well, black! Daylen could use his lightbinding powers, then he would win easily, but that simply wasn’t fair. Then again, neither was the Bringer’s shield.

  “Are we allowing illegal arms, or would you rather I avoid using the darkstone in my gauntlet?”

  “Of course I would rather that.”

  “What about your shield?”

  The Bringer looked to his left hand and seemed to notice the shield for the first time. Turning back to Daylen, the Bringer shrugged. “Sorry, I created it on reflex. Swords only then, for a fair test of skill.”

  “Agreed.”

  The Bringer’s shield dematerialized back into light that flowed into his arm, disappearing. He performed another sword flourish, taking a stance with his right side facing Daylen.

  Daylen pursed his lips and took off his gauntlet before dropping it to the grass. He performed a flourish of his own and took his stance. It was surprising how quickly he had become accustomed to having a strong and healthy body once more. It had been so long since he was able to push himself physically to the level his skill demanded. His muscles quivered in anticipation.

  They stared at each other for a long time.

  When swordsmen reached the skill level that Daylen and Ahrek were at, they would plan their moves and predict their opponents’ own moves as much as react to what their opponents did. It became a battle of psychology as much as reflexes.

  Then without a word or sign, they lunged at each other at the exact same time. A blur of movement followed. Thrusts, parries, lunges, ripostes, slashes, and counters. Back and forth their swords danced with perfectly executed technique.

  As the sunforged blades struck they flashed brightly in blue and white, chimes sounding from the swords’ inner lights.

  It was an orchestra of dance, light, and sound, each beat a step in the fight.

  Ahrek truly was a master.

  Few battles were fought with such perfect precision, as there were so few alive with such flawless skill. It would have been worthy of song if there was but anyone to see it.

  In one last final move each sword slid down the other, to which they both countered and attacked. The combatants were forced to jump back to avoid the other’s blade, which caused a pause in the duel.

  Daylen stepped to the side, ready to go again, but Ahrek smiled and stood up casually, his sword disappearing into light.

  “What?” Daylen asked.

  “You weren’t lying,” Ahrek said in awe. “You really are a Grand High Master.”

  “But…but our fight?”

  “We were fighting because I believed you unworthy to bear the mark. I was wrong.”

  “Don’t you want to see who’ll win?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Oh, come on!” Daylen said, annoyed.

  “Very well, I concede. You win.”

  “That’s not the same, and you know it!”

  Ahrek chuckled, which only made Daylen angrier. “You’re a bastard,” Daylen said.

  “I’ve never seen anyone so disappointed with winning.”

  “I didn’t win! You robbed me of that.”

  “You’re acting like it’s the end of the world. This is but a very little thing in the larger picture.”

  “Oh, put a rock in it.”

  “You’ll still need to be reviewed by a panel of masters, which you’ll pass—but until then, as I’m a master, I can give you permission to wear the mark. Othe
rs need to be warned of what they might be getting into if they’re adamant enough to challenge you, which will dissuade many from trying to steal your sword.”

  “I’m glad you agree,” Daylen said cynically.

  “You know, I’m still finding it hard to believe that you could reach such a level of skill so young, but I can’t deny what I’ve seen.”

  “I wouldn’t believe it either, but here I am.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “My father.”

  “I thought you grew up in an orphanage.”

  “We visited each other when we could, and I practiced every waking minute. It turns out I inherited most of my father’s natural skill.”

  “You’re a true prodigy, then, and you’ve clearly dueled before. That makes me wonder, why you don’t wear a tassel?”

  “I, uh, lost it. I’ll thread a new one before we leave with a couple of beads on it.”

  “You’ll need red, to reflect your skill.”

  “That’s my plan, but enough about me. You’re a master? And you can create sunforged objects!”

  “I had no reason to show the mark, as no one dares challenge a holy man. And because I can create a sword whenever I need there’s no reason to carry one, which makes it doubly illegal to challenge me. I haven’t fought a duel in years.”

  “Well, your skill hasn’t waned.”

  “I never said I didn’t keep up training. If Night falls within my lifetime, such skill will be most needed.”

  “Is that why you endeavored to become a master, whilst already being a Lightbringer that is?”

  “I was a master before I was a Lightbringer, but what I’ve said is the reason I keep my skills sharp.”

  “I’ve never heard of you.”

  “You keep track of every Grand High Master of the sword?”

  “I used to.”

  “Well, fame is something I’ve no need for. In fact, it would get in the way of my service… Another reason I hide my mastery.”

  “I can understand that. So how are you able to summon sunforged objects?”

  “First of all, I don’t summon them. They aren’t teleported from some other plane of existence. They are created from my inner light.”

  “Yes, okay, so how under the Light can you create something so complex without killing yourself?”

  “Well the mass of an object affects my vitality more than complexity, and if it’s an object I’m very familiar with, or that I have a special connection with, like my sticky bread, they become much easier to create. Also if I’m feeling particularly emotional, the power seems to feed off that emotion before my stamina.”

  “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Well, you are very young.”

  “I am not young!”

  “Daylen, please. Stop getting so offended by the truth. You are young!”

  Daylen grumbled to himself, knowing that he couldn’t deny what the Bringer was saying. He needed people to think him as young as he looked, as much as he hated it. Daylen just had to swallow his pride. “Fine. I am, son.”

  “If you need to call me son to get over the resentment you have at your own age, I can accept that.”

  “We’re agreed, then.”

  “Are you still planning to head to the capital?”

  “Yes. I’ll just gather the rest of my things; though I suppose provisions are less a priority now, considering you can just create food for us.”

  “I’ll create what we need, but don’t expect a banquet for every meal.”

  “Unless it’s easier to create, like sticky bread.”

  “Well, yes, apart from that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Words will never convey the pain at seeing my wife and children murdered. Saying my heart felt ripped from my chest, that my soul was wracked with unspeakable sorrow and grief, reveals but the slightest fraction of what I suffered as I knelt over the dismembered remains of those whom I loved most in this world. Though I still breathed, the aristocracy had succeeded in their attempt. Daylen Namaran died that day with his family.

  * * *

  Towns like Karadale held mismatched buildings ranging between old and very old, some built from nice sturdy brick, while others had been crafted of stone or half-timbered with faded whitewashed daubed walls, or a mixture thereof. Every building sat at generous distances from the others, for there was room to spare in the country, making the streets seem more like small trodden fields with grass growing on the edges in wide swaths.

  Daylen wore his gauntlet and sword as he walked with Ahrek down the street, a newly threaded tassel hanging from his temple with a few red beads.

  It was still early High Fall, yet most of the townspeople were up and about. Daylen could swear that every single one stopped to stare at the two of them as they passed. Low murmurs rolled on the air like a distant hornet’s nest.

  Yes, word of who Daylen was, or was supposed to be, had clearly spread through the whole town. There he was, the son of the old town tinker—who had just so happened to be Dayless the Conqueror himself.

  “You’re popular,” Ahrek said to him.

  “Paradan did his work well.”

  “He hardly needed to try, considering the news.”

  They moved to the side of the road to avoid an old horse-drawn cart coming their way and found themselves near a group of townswomen. They were particularly invested in their discussion of Daylen, whispering frantically and pointing at him.

  Being so annoyed at the unwanted attention and obvious prejudice everyone had for him, Daylen couldn’t resist.

  He jumped to the woman screaming, “Raaa!” and making clawing motions.

  They screamed and ran like mice, one so frantic that her arms flailed overhead as she ran down the street long after the others had gained control of themselves, though terror was fixed on their faces.

  Daylen doubled over in laughter.

  The women walked away, glaring at him.

  “Are you done terrorizing the locals?” Ahrek asked.

  “It seems my presence is enough to instill terror, so I might as well have some fun with it. Their minds are made up. I’m Dayless the Conqueror reborn.”

  “And you’re doing nothing to dissuade them of their fears.”

  “It’s not like anything could,” Daylen said. “Look, son, you’re more naive than I thought if you haven’t figured out by now that people do judge a book by its cover and think whatever the light they want to think about someone so long as it makes them feel better about themselves. They’re going to hate me no matter what I do.”

  “I disagree. It’s possible to earn the love of even your most bitter enemy.”

  Before Daylen could reply, someone cut him off. “So you’re the Great Bastard’s bastard.”

  Being in conversation, Daylen hadn’t noticed that a group of young men had gathered before them.

  “Huh, don’t look like much,” Fergen Le’donner said, head of the Le’donner family and local twat. He looked like a dried fruit with a personality and wit to match.

  There were fifteen men with him, including his sons, whose heads were as thick as their arms. The country had a knack for breeding dumb brutes. Many wore a tassel each with a few beads, and all wore swords on their hips.

  “Now, men, we want no trouble,” Ahrek said.

  “We’ve no issue with you, Bringer. No, we’re after the Bastard’s bastard.”

  “Is that the best you can do?” Daylen said. “Of course, I shouldn’t expect much considering the abyss of your intelligence. Don’t push yourself too hard or you’ll give yourself an aneurysm.”

  “A what?”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Listen, you little smartass, we know who you are! The son of the Great Bastard can’t be allowed to walk around freely, especially in our town.”

  “Piss off, Fergen, I’m leaving anyway.”

  “How’d you know my name, runt?”

  “Everyone knows the village idiot.”
<
br />   “Daylen, stop antagonizing them!” Ahrek said.

  “Why, I ought to—” Fergen raised his hand to strike Daylen—but then, one of his sons spoke up.

  “Careful, Dah, he’s wearing the mark.”

  “A load of drack,” Fergen said. “No kid is a master or wins red beads. He’s nothing but a sniveling liar, just like his father!”

  “The beads are rightly his,” Ahrek said, “as is the mark of a Grand High Master.”

  The moron hesitated as he looked to the gold disk over Daylen’s belt buckle. “No. You’re lying.”

  Daylen sighed. “Lightbringers can’t lie, you stupid yoke.”

  “That’s it!” the brute said, grabbing Daylen’s jacket, about to throw a punch.

  Daylen had had more than enough of this. Not wanting a full brawl in the middle of a street, he decided to end things quickly. He channeled light into his strength and speed, using two of his four paths on each, and in a blindingly fast movement of his hands he broke the man’s left arm in two places and punched him in the chest. Fergen flew into the air, knocking down those behind him.

  The others in the mob, those left standing, looked to their fallen companions and then to Daylen in astonishment and fear.

  “Light’s mercy!” Ahrek said, walking over to the fallen man who was trying to breathe, his face an image of pain.

  Light shone over Ahrek’s hands as he healed the man, who gasped in relief before eventually sitting up. Those he had knocked over were already on their feet.

  Ahrek helped Fergen stand.

  “Now leave before anyone else gets hurt,” Ahrek said, waving his hand at the mob of young men. They obeyed, though they stared at Daylen, terrified.

  Light, it was satisfying.

  Ahrek grabbed Daylen’s arm, saying angrily, “You, with me, now!”

  Daylen easily resisted the Bringer’s pull, as he was still channeling light to his strength. “Get off!” he said.

  Suddenly a force hit Daylen so strong that it knocked him off his feet. The invisible force then grabbed him while he was still in the air and pulled him down an empty street from the view of the many onlookers.