Every particle of his being—mind, heart, body, and soul—was perfectly committed to his battle with the Blessed Hands Idol. So committed, in fact, he disregarded the flicker of candle flames as the door to the small room opened, admitting a breezy change in the room’s pressure. But Sensei Quicksteel’s angry shout would not be ignored.
“In the name of the goddess! What are you doing, Disciple Del Darkdragón?”
Paladin whipped around to face Sensei Quicksteel, a monk for whom he held the greatest respect, and Zwergfuchs Von Hammerhead—Fox the Runt to his peers—a boy for whom he held the least. Gears clicked and whirred behind him, but before he could react, the spinning arms of the idol smashed into his shoulder, kidneys, and the back of his head, knocking him to the floor.
Fox the Runt howled with laughter.
Paladin shook off the hurts and climbed to his feet, dipping his head to Sensei Quicksteel. The sensei’s normally kind smile and patient manner were twisted and ugly. His tilted burnt-brown eyes were wide with shock and anger. His straight pepper-and-salt hair hung below his ears, uncombed. Paladin had never before seen the monk with even a single hair out of place. The Seisakushans believed that the exterior shell reflected inner existence. Sensei Quicksteel had always been devout in his adherence to this philosophy.
Paladin could form no words.
“Do you see now, Sensei Quicksteel?” Fox the Runt said. His wide sneer made him look more canine than ever. “He profanes the goddess in Her own House with the same treacherous forms he used to defeat me in kumite!”
“Be silent, Disciple Von Hammerhead,” the monk said. “You, Disciple Del Darkdragón, have indeed desecrated the house of Seisakusha and—perverted Her sacred gift, Ashi-Kobushi.”
The monk paused, skewering Paladin with tight-faced scrutiny. After a moment, his features softened. “If I did not know the goodness in your heart, I would banish you from the temple and forbid you ever to enter these sacred grounds again. But your mother was among the finest disciples ever to study here, and I would not like to see you bring shame and heartbreak upon her. Further, I would not waste such talent as yours. You—”
“Sensei!” Fox the Runt yelled. “Surely there can be no—”
Sensei Quicksteel leveled a scalding glare at the Runt. “Be silent.”
Fox the Runt backed away, patting the air with his hands. He resumed his smug sneering when he thought he was out of Sensei Quicksteel’s striking range.
“I will give you but one chance, Disciple Del Darkdragón,” Sensei Quicksteel said. “Renounce the lesser fighting forms, and pledge your devotion to Seisakusha; do these things and you will be allowed to stay. You will be punished, and severely, but your studies will go uninterrupted.”
Paladin could say nothing. The sensei leaned closer, the jade medallion he wore beneath his tunic slipping free and dangling, hypnotically, before Paladin’s eyes. It was Seisakusha’s water symbol, the Nureta Sakuru, a circle cut in half by a vertical line. Paladin stared at it as the sensei whispered at him. “You are the most gifted pupil I have ever instructed. With training, you could become a master bushi or a Black Spear, greater even than your father. But to reach such heights, you must continue your studies and atone for your blasphemy.”
“Sensei,” Paladin pleaded, “how is it blasphemy to praise Seisakusha’s brothers and sister? I have read the Nyusu from cover to cover, and nowhere does it say the goddess ranks Herself above Her sibling gods. Perhaps—”
CRACK! Paladin heard the sharp clap of flesh on flesh. A moment later he felt a sting on his right cheek, then realized he was sprawled on the floor. He never even saw the sensei move.
Sensei Quicksteel grabbed him by his curly hair. “Renounce the lesser disciplines or leave the temple at once, Disciple. This is your only chance.”
Tears spilled down Paladin’s cheeks. Banishment from the temple would mean an end to his dream of serving as a knight in la Orden Majestuosa de la Lámina Incendiaria—the Majestic Order of the Blazing Blade. He wanted to do what the monk asked, but knew he could not. No matter how easy it would be to speak the words of such an oath, it would be impossible to honor it.
Paladin was one of the Blended Folk, people of intermingled ancestry. He was equal parts Kusini Watu, Oestean, Nord, and Shimabito, and had been practicing his unique fusion of the four martial techniques for as long as he could remember. His martial dance honored his blended heritage. A commitment to a single god or discipline would be a betrayal of all the gods and, by extension, a betrayal of his family. Ultimately, such a vow would be unfaithful to who he was in his blood and soul. For him to claim one god over any other would be tantamount to him claiming one ancestry over the other, and that he would not do.
“I cannot, Sensei Quicksteel,” he said. “All of the Divine Siblings created the Thirteen. I am devoted to each. They are all part of me—”
“Go,” the sensei said, turning his back on Paladin. “You are no longer welcome here.”
Paladin grabbed his cloak and staff and slunk into the hallway.
“You forgot these, halbrasse!” the Runt jeered.
The three worship candles Paladin had brought from home—Muumba’s gray, Creador’s scarlet, and Schöpfer’s brown—thumped him in the chest and broke apart at his feet.
Sensei Quicksteel turned his angry glare on the Runt. “What did you say, Disciple Von Hammerhead? What did you call him?”
“Sensei,” the Runt said, “I just wanted the blasphemer to have his candles.”
“What did you call him, Zwergfuchs?” The monk’s voice sounded strained. “What is this ‘halbrasse’?”
The Runt’s sneering grin stretched across his face. “Halbrasse means the same as híbrido.”
When Sensei Quicksteel didn’t recognize either the Nordzunge or Lengüoeste slurs, the Runt huffed in frustration.
“He is a half-breed, Sensei Quicksteel. A—zasshu. The mongrel get of a wild black dog and a wanton bitch in heat.”
CRACK!
The slap sent the Runt skidding out into the hall, where his head of short-cropped, white-blond hair smacked against the wall. The humiliation on the Runt’s face almost made Paladin smile. Almost.
“You continue to disappoint me, Zwergfuchs,” Sensei Quicksteel said, his voice trembling with emotion. “To speak such disgusting—” The sensei took a long, deep breath and calmed himself. “You have a devotion to filth, Disciple Von Hammerhead. And I will honor it by allowing you to continue as—what is it you younglings call it? Turd Nanny? Yes. You will serve for another year.”
“No! Please,” Fox the Runt begged, “Sensei, I—”
“Get out of my sight,” Sensei Quicksteel hissed. “Both of you.”
What little color there was in Fox the Runt’s cheeks drained away until his face was a translucent mask of utter, hopeless defeat. His iron-gray eyes welled up with tears and his thin lips quivered pitifully.
This time Paladin did smile.
The Runt scurried away, puling like a colicky babe as he went. Paladin waited for him to get out of sight, and then left the communion hall.
He had feared this moment since he first set foot in the Seisakushan temple. It was a scene he had performed thrice before, with the Creadorians when he had disciplined in their cathedral near his home in Westgate, with the Schöpferites when he had worshipped amongst them on Nordländer Hill, and the Muumbans when he had studied with them in the southern quadrant of the city, Pequeñas Pirámides. They had all banished him from their holy places when they had witnessed his singular dance of praise to the Divine Siblings. He was not surprised that the Seisakushans had reacted the same way. Still, it was a bitter draught to swallow. Of all the monks, priests, and priestesses he had studied under, none had seemed more fair or just than Sensei Quicksteel.
Walking out amongst the sakura trees into a beautiful autumn morning, Paladin couldn’t help but wonder what he would say to his parents, especially his mamá, a devout Seisakushan. He had been expelled from every disc
ipline in the city, banished from every temple and forbidden to formally study any of the martial techniques.
In embracing every god, he had been rejected by every religion. He had made an utter mess of his life and future and was astonished by the monumental failures he had amassed at such a young age.
Today was his sixteenth birthday.
Chapter Three
Peddlers
The city stank worse than usual this morning.
A dense, bitter, sulfuric reek contaminated the familiar, almost comforting, miasma of smog and garbage and stale urine. It smelled like every egg in Santuario del Guerrero had rotted all at once.
The temple gates clanged shut behind Paladin, the ringing of the iron bars tolling the end of something precious. The guards refused to look at him as he slunk out into streets grown thick with sightseers. Greedy peddlers in fine clothes or holy robes stood outside the taverns, brothels, and churches, competing for the coppers of the heartsick and weary with promises of salvation for the soul, fulfillment of the flesh, or simply oblivion. But Santuario del Guerrero’s main attraction was the arena, Phoenix-Rising Amphitheater, where legendary King Blackspear had sponsored the very first Torneo two thousand years before. That tournament had produced Paladin’s namesakes, the Thirteen Paladíns, heroes who had united the kingdoms—at least for a short while—and led the world to victory in the war against Creador’s Bastard Sons, also called banes, and their keepers, the Vile Creadorians.
The scene swirled around Paladin in a blur as he shouldered his way past the throngs of people milling about like agitated cattle. Most were turistas, but many were warriors come to display their skill with bow, lance, and sword in the Torneo trials. The glory seekers wore armor burnished until it gleamed. Their pristine cloaks, adorned with the colorful totems of Houses great and small, flapped in the autumn wind like pennants borne to battle. They swaggered past the mobs of goggle-eyed turistas, jaws set with determination, eyes flashing with bravado, though most of the strutting show-offs seemed more peacock than paladín.
Still, he was jealous. At least the preening posers would prove their valor, or lack of it, on the field of honor, while he would be amongst those who could only watch. The only battle he would fight would be the one his culo waged with the hard wooden benches in the arena stands. He was old enough to compete in the Torneo’s youngling trials, but his papá, Rebelde the Darkdragón, had forbidden it. A prohibition made even more galling by the fact that both his parents had competed in the games and won honors. Rebelde had won the Black Spear an unprecedented five times. He was the most famous Black Spear in modern times. He should have been proud his heir longed to follow in his footsteps. But at the mere mention of Torneo, Rebelde would scowl as if he’d smelled something foul and grumble about fools and glory. Gods, how it vexed.
Paladin just wanted to get away from it all. He found the crowds suffocating and the competition for turista coins sickening. Throwing his elbows into ribs and sweeping his staff into knees, he fought his way to a deserted, narrow alley between a tailor’s and a candlemaker’s shops. He took a moment to catch his breath. People stood at the mouth of the alley, their backs creating a fluttering wall of many-colored cloaks. From this alley he could scale the wall of the tailor’s shop, then clamber along the roofs to the Círculo del Triunfo in the heart of the city. Then it would be a short journey to the Ciudad Vieja district in Westgate.
He and his vato, Drud, had found routes to and from their homes to just about every other point in the city by scurrying along the rooftops, though it was something they did less and less as they had grown older. He was about to begin climbing the wall when he felt movement behind him.
A gang of men, women, and children had followed him into the alley, their eyes blazing with pious fervor. He instantly knew who they were by the pendants dangling from their necks, a bastardized version of the Creadorian holy symbol, the Ira de Dios, a simple scarlet circle. The scarlet circle worn by these zealots contained a tear-shaped flame in its center, the Llama de Creador, or Creador’s Flame.
They were part of the same fanatical sect that had unleashed the banes upon the world some two thousand years before, nearly wiping out the entire human species. They were the Vile Creadorians, the single most hated group in the Thirteen Kingdoms. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
The Viles fanned out. They moved like a squad of well-trained soldiers, staring at him like he was an enemy officer they might capture, separating him from the mouth of the alley. They were going to try to convert him, like they did everyone they came in contact with. He swallowed the knot of dread tangled in his throat and put on his boldest face.
They drew nearer, flashing big, toothy smiles, the kind worn by roaming peddlers who sold “miracle elixirs” from the backs of gaudy old wagons. He waved them away. “Just leave me be, por favor. I want no trouble.”
“We offer an end to your troubles,” one of them said. He was a few years older than Paladin. His angular face looked strained from the effort of maintaining a pleasant appearance. “You have but to give your soul to the Prophet.”
Paladin loved the gods, but he was sick to death of the self-serving hucksters who claimed to advocate for Them. He certainly was not about to listen to a Vile sermon. He had kept his emotions bottled all morning, but now his anger and vexation spewed forth. “Your stinking Vile prophet can kiss my culo, cabrón! And so can you!”
The fake kindness on the young Vile’s face curdled, became something ugly and hateful. He took a single, menacing step forward, growling, “You have a regrettable attitude, chico, and terrible manners, even for a híbrido. Perhaps we will teach you civility as well as holy truths.”
“Teach me then, señor.” Paladin thrust, his control of his weapon so precise that he stopped its tip less than an inch from the man’s face. “I am your humble student.”
Paladin was tall for his age, slim and wiry with muscle. He moved with the speed, balance, and precision of a studied combatant. Anyone, trained or not, could see by his skillful handling of Sunderbones that he was an expert with the weapon. By contrast, the Vile man’s slimness was a simple lack of muscle. His stance—if it could even be called such—was rough, awkward, unbalanced. He was no fighter, trained or otherwise, and he was unarmed. If the two were to fight, it would be a bloodbath, and it would not be Paladin doing the bathing.
But the Vile didn’t flinch.
The man should have cowered before the weapon poised a sliver of an inch before his nose. Instead, he balled up his fists and advanced, displaying an utter lack of fear, forcing Paladin backward. It wasn’t empty bravado that moved the man to such bravery. Insanity, as clear and ugly as truth, shone in his dark green eyes. And Paladin became afraid in its presence.
The Vile man would never know how close he came to having his loco skull cracked open. An instant before Paladin would have struck the man with his staff, one of the Vile priestesses intervened, stepping between them. She grabbed the man by the shoulders and coaxed him away, speaking in sensible tones. “Enough, Claudio. We are here to attest to The One God’s blessings, not pick fights.”
She was beautiful. She was young, Paladin’s age, perhaps a year or two older. Her short-cropped, silky black hair and bright golden eyes marked her as prima del duende, or duende-kin. These rare and unique features were attributed to an ancestrety that included the First Children, called duende, an ancient race of mythological shapeshifters. The priestess wore the scarlet sash of an Adept, which meant she was on the verge of being raised to full priestess. Claudio’s respect toward the pretty priestess bordered on reverence. He dipped his head to her and backed away. “Sí, Sister Pía. I forget myself.”
“Perdónanos,” the oldest of the Viles, a woman well into her sixties or seventies, said to Paladin. “We do not mean to frighten you. We are only concerned for the fate of your everlasting soul.”
“Save your concern,” Paladin said. “I will hear no Vile lies.”
“But—
”
“Please. Just let me be on my way.”
“The Prophet—”
“Just leave me alone!”
The old woman hissed. Her fingers were knots wrapped in wrinkles. She used them to sign the Vile holy symbol before her heart. “Give your soul to the Prophet, The One God’s Mortal Voice! Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi!”
Agony invaded his skull.
He lowered his staff and grabbed his head. The Viles surrounded him, grinning their huckster smiles and staring, eyes empty of anything not loco.
“Your soul is in rebellion,” the pretty Vile, Sister Pía, said. “You have been taught to hate us, to fear and call us Vile. But your soul knows truth when it hears it. It is revolting against your poisoned reason. This is why your head pains you.”
He considered that the Vile woman might be telling the truth. There was a part of him, and not a small part, that longed to yield his reason or do whatever it took to ease the pain in his skull.
“Would you hear the sacred teachings of Vicente Santos?” a young girl of about ten years asked. “La Guerra de la Condenación is nearly upon us! Would you hear the words that will save your soul?”
“The what? The War of Condemnation?” Tears blurred Paladin’s vision. He could focus on little past the rusty spear embedded in the base of his skull, but he trusted his reason, poisoned or not, and he would never put his faith in a religion that claimed three of the four gods he loved were fakes. “No. No, I don’t want to hear any of it!”
The Viles stalked closer. The old woman waved her bony finger at him. “Pray for him! Pray for his soul, my brothers and sisters, pray!”
“Adanedi nihi galvquodi-adanvdo gvdodi Adelohosgi,” the Viles chanted in unison. “Give your soul to the Prophet!”
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