The Bone Sword

by Walter Rhein

  Jasmine stepped to Malik’s side.

  “Is that him?” she whispered.

  Malik nodded.

  “Yes. That is Oberon Keels.”

  Jasmine watched in silence as Oberon made his way forward. She grasped Malik’s arm.

  “He wants you, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Malik replied, calmly.

  “Don’t go to him,” she said desperately. “We’ll fight as one, as an army, and live or die together.”

  The words were kind, but impossible, and Malik smiled.

  “No, it has come to this. It was always going to come to this.”

  He looked at Jasmine and caught her eyes forcefully with his own.

  “The time is coming when you’ll have to be stronger than you’ve ever been. I know you’re ready for it. Do you?”

  Her face went white, but Jasmine nodded.

  Malik turned away, walking briskly toward his ancient opponent. Gerard stepped in beside him. Malik nodded curtly and continued.

  The distance was short.

  The distance he had to travel to meet his master…

  …his captain…

  …the man who wanted him dead.

  At ten feet of separation, Malik stopped and spoke.

  “That’s far enough to parlay, speak your piece.”

  The space between them was a wide chasm, even though Malik was close enough to see Oberon’s eyes twinkle. The Nightshade stood a few paces back, apparently coached in what was about to happen.

  “Ah, Malik, no salutation for your old comrade? Wouldn’t you like to reminisce about old times?”

  The man’s voice had an odd effect on Malik, even after all the years that had passed. He felt sweat bead up between his shoulders and was disturbed by a sudden scratchiness in the back of his throat.

  “Same old Malik,” Oberon said, taking another step forward. “You know, you’ve caused me no end of trouble.”

  “That’s far enough,” Malik managed to grunt at Oberon’s continued advance. The words seemed to delight the tall master.

  “Oh, so you do have a voice after all. I was afraid you might have lost it in the swamp, or perhaps … to a dog? Have you been fighting over scraps lately, my old cadet?”

  A shiver went down Malik’s spine, and suddenly he was again beneath the piers at Camden fighting for his life. He clenched his teeth and shook the feeling away.

  “You should be more concerned about your own health,” Malik replied. “You’ve got an army facing you without so much as a troop to guard your retreat.”

  Oberon laughed outright, loud and mockingly.

  “Do you think I’m afraid of this rabble?” he said with a dismissive gesture. “There’s not a soldier among them. I could defeat this ‘army’ entirely on my own.”

  “Then why are you speaking to me?” Malik asked. “Why not just get on with it?”

  The question provoked a chuckle.

  “Commerce mostly,” Oberon said. “The kingdom has to function somehow. It does no good to slaughter all of the workers. I need them back out farming and tending the soil as usual, not trampled into it. You never really did understand the order of things, did you, Malik?”

  Almost instantly, Oberon’s countenance changed. Just as Malik had seen countless times in his childhood, his expression went from one of charm and elegance to a scowl of pure rage.

  “Quit wasting my time! I’m here to talk to the leader of this rabble!”

  Despite himself, Malik cringed at the words. The lessons of his youth had been too well learned to forget entirely. For a moment, he was paralyzed and he stood grasping desperately for something to say.

  Oberon watched him with a sneer of utter contempt. Finally, he snorted dismissively and began striding forward purposefully.

  “Out of my way, cur,” he growled, advancing like a charging boar.

  Each step brought him closer to Malik.

  Each step brought him closer to Noah.

  Each step brought him closer to Jasmine.

  Finally, the curse was broken and Malik’s sword flew free of its sheath. He stood proudly, blocking the way with his weapon, extending it only a few inches from Oberon’s contorted face.

  There was a long pause as Oberon looked at him. But bit by bit, the undisguised rage seemed to seep from his eyes.

  “So there is a bit of fight in you still, eh?” he said with a smile. Almost instantly, he was back to his charming persona. “You know,” he grinned, “most of the bar whores and serving wenches know me well back in Camden.” He licked his lips as he spoke and eyed Malik coyly as if trying to deduce what the younger man was thinking. “There are certain privileges that come from being a member of the Guard. I’ll stop by during rounds for a pint and if the mood should strike me I feel no hesitation whatsoever about taking one or two of them right there in the serving hall.”

  He smiled, and his eyes glinted as he made a gesture with his hands as if he were pushing over an invisible person standing before him.

  “Sometimes I do it in front of large gatherings. You should hear the men cheer and wait in line to have a go when I’ve finished.” He scoffed.

  Malik said nothing, but he couldn’t keep the anger out of his eyes.

  “They’re pigs, all of them, you know,” Oberon continued, grinning wickedly. “They’re females of the low class, only good for sport. You never get anything of quality out of their parched wombs.” He paused, tilting his head sideways with a sneer. “But it’s good for me to spread my seed. Sometimes they even take root. Sometimes they grow up into little bastards I can use as fodder to train real soldiers of the Camden Guard.”

  There was a long pause.

  Oberon stared at Malik intensely, driving home his words’ meaning.

  Malik’s jaw was clenched so tight he felt the pressure in his ears.

  “Yes, I gather up my little bastards and show them how to swing a sword well enough to make them suitable partners for the true guardsmen. The paying guardsmen. The noble-born guardsmen. The Camden Guard is made up entirely of nobles’ second and third sons, you know. There is no place for little bastards! It almost always works out just fine too…but some of the little street urchins have given me trouble on occasion. Yes…no end of trouble. Some of them have even mistakenly come to believe that they are worth something…”

  Behind Malik, Gerard watched with concern.

  Concern that Oberon would get the better of Malik and provoke him into an ill-considered charge.

  From a soldier’s perspective, that would be a disaster.

  It was not the way the battle should be engaged. Not here, not so recklessly. The army needed its morale restored. Malik was its soul and when he was vulnerable, all of them became vulnerable.

  The appearance of Oberon had been enough.

  The battle could not be engaged.

  Not now…not like this…

  Malik looked at Oberon down the length of his glistening sword. The twinkle in the man’s eye was an affront. It would take so little! Just a minor lunge forward and the pig would be stuck on his skewer.

  Malik found he could concentrate on nothing more than his breath.

  In…out…in…out…

  And all the while Oberon stared at him as if to say: come on…come on…do it… DO IT!

  Malik tensed himself. Took a deep gulp of air…

  And stepped backwards.

  There was an exhalation of breath all across the gathered line of men, and Gerard realized the tension had spread to their entire host.

  Wordlessly, Malik stood by Gerard and stared at Oberon darkly.

  Oberon nodded, the amused half-smirk still on his face.

  “Very well,” he said, lifting his hand. The Nightshade came forward and handed him a bag.

  Oberon hefted it and smiled, then looked past Malik to the gathering. With a flourish, he ripped the canvas away to reveal the decapitated head of the Earl of Miscony.

  “Behold,” Oberon cried loudly, “the earl h
as suffered the greatest punishment for his crimes! It is a new order! There is no need for bloodshed! Go back now! Return to your farms! Return to a long and healthy life. There is no reason for anyone to die today!”

  As Oberon talked, he strode back and forth on a line perpendicular to the road. As he moved, he gestured, and with one of his gestures, the castle gates opened again and a host of warriors began marching through.

  “Behold,” Oberon said again, pointing at the gates, “Nightshades, a hundred strong, sent from the Southern kingdoms at my request. Their fame is widespread. Rumor has it that a mere twenty of them destroyed all your villages from here to the mountains. Will you face them now?”

  Malik heard the grumbling along his line and he began to grow nervous. The mob could be swayed. In moments like this, facing the enemy force, it was easy to forget what you had marched for. It was tempting to begin to think that life, even oppressed life, was sweeter than death.

  For men who had never truly tasted life, the choice was difficult.

  It was difficult for men who didn’t really know what was at risk.

  But Malik knew.

  And he wouldn’t allow his friends to be duped.

  “The crimes of the earl extend beyond his severed head!” Malik shouted loudly in answer. “We are not content to exchange one dictator for another. We have our queen, and she leads us now!”

  At the mention of their leading figure, a loud cheer erupted behind Malik as he knew it would.

  Oberon listened appraisingly but he was not defeated yet.

  “Queens are born, not chosen!” he cried.

  “Ours was chosen by Lightbringer,” Malik replied. “For she is blessed with the ability to heal with her touch!”

  The words evoked another cheer, and this time Oberon flinched.

  “And she would have her subjects shed their blood for her?” he yelled.

  “I would gladly shed mine, Oberon! I would shed mine against you!” Malik said, pointing his sword at the lean warrior.

  Gerard leaned close to Malik. “What are you doing?”

  “I need to kill him, my friend,” Malik whispered.

  “But we need you with the army, we need your example.”

  “We need to remove Oberon from the equation. If I incapacitate him at the very least, our chances rise significantly.”

  “Incapacitate…” Gerard said in horror, but Oberon interrupted.

  “Are you challenging me, Malik, impostor of the Camden Guard?” Oberon said with a laugh.

  “I am, on these terms. If I win, your army will turn on its heels and march back to the Southern kingdoms. All must leave except those who are willing to swear loyalty to our queen.”

  “And if I win?” Oberon said with a smirk.

  “There is no battle,” Malik replied.

  Oberon’s face cracked into a smile. He nodded.

  “Done!” he cried, pulling his sword from its sheath.

  “But not here!” Malik declared, this time smirking himself and slipping his sword back into its sheath with a sharp gesture. The words caught the lean swordsman from the South by surprise, but Malik cut him off before he could protest.

  “There,” he said, pointing down into the valley below the castle, “in the labyrinth, at dawn. Let us fight where the armies and the gods alike might witness us.”

  Malik’s army let forth another rousing cheer and this time Oberon scowled. Instantly, he realized he’d been maneuvered into giving Malik’s force an extra night’s rest. But standing there before their army and his own, he saw no way to extract himself from the situation.

  His jaw tightened, but the mob had decided.

  “The labyrinth at dawn,” he said, spitting into the dirt and turning away.

  Malik retreated as well, but he did so stepping backwards, his eye on Oberon and the Nightshades throughout his entire retreat.

  Chapter 40

  The Inevitable

  That evening, Malik retired into the wilderness alone. He found a small clearing and sat quietly, absorbing the peace of the night, the gentle hum of nature.

  Somehow it seemed odd that with all that was happening in the human world, the breeze still flowed lazily through the trees, and the animals chirped and chattered to themselves in muffled contentment.

  Malik rolled his legs beneath him. Never in his life had he been so aware of the feeling of the soil beneath his breeches, or the sharp stones that poked through the grass.

  He breathed deep and closed his eyes.

  Images flashed behind his darkened lids. The faces of men dying by his hand. The faces of the people he had let down or not been strong enough to save. They came in rapid succession, one fading into another so as to become indiscernible. Malik was left only with a violent, painful feeling of remorse and emptiness.

  All of them were “it.”

  He had called them “it” to dehumanize their deaths.

  But it hadn’t worked. They had all been men. Men with mothers, families maybe, brothers, sisters and cousins who loved them. Malik had robbed them all.

  A face came again to his mind. The very first face.

  Turley.

  The boy he had killed at Camden at the urging of Oberon Keels.

  Malik inhaled and exhaled deeply.

  One brief moment in his life. The moment he had trained for. The moment he had waited for all of his adult existence.

  But when it had finally come, it changed him forever.

  He had killed.

  But he found that even though he had emerged the victor, it was within him that something had died.

  He was a killer.

  And there was no way to erase that black spot from his soul.

  Malik lifted his hands to his eyes in an effort to halt the throbbing agony. The pain thudded against his skull, and he held his breath and spit it out in an effort to control himself.

  Try as he might, he could do nothing to appease his guilt. He had been forged into this beast, this animal, this machine.

  Forged…

  By Oberon Keels.

  The name thundered through his thoughts like a strike of lightning.

  It had been Oberon Keels.

  Oberon set the boy before him.

  Oberon had put the blade in his hand.

  It had been Oberon.

  True, he could not bring Turley back.

  He could not bring any of them back.

  But he could remove Oberon and save the ones of the future.

  Yes, he thought, lying down on the soft grass.

  That, at least, he could do.

  That he would do…

  Tomorrow.

  He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

  Dawn would come soon, but he would not miss it.

  He scarcely thought he would ever sleep again.

  The hint of light shown in the distance as Malik opened his eyes.

  He could wait no longer.

  The time was now.

  He stood and felt the blood course through his veins. His body seemed to ache in a thousand places. The joints seemed stiff and slow to bend.

  “I’ll warm up,” he said to himself. “I’ll regain my flexibility as I have every other morning of every other day in my life.”

  But the aches and pains troubled him.

  Today he needed to be limber.

  Today most of all.

  He stepped from his clearing into the knee deep morning mist. The air was wet and heavy. There was tension in the air.

  The soldiers rested, but they rested uneasily. Sentries were posted all about, and they nodded to him as he passed, their faces lighting up as they saw him.

  It was true.

  He was their heart.

  He was their soul.

  At the center of the camp stood Jasmine’s pavilion. Malik reached it and stood for a moment in the long shadows of the early morning.

  Inexplicably, the bone sword that Malik carried on his hip seemed to acquire tremendous weight. He unclipped the w
orn and battered scabbard from his belt and held the weapon before him, almost scornfully.

  The leather wrap, imbibed with the sweat of a thousand battles and the blood of a million wounds, sulked like a shadow in the low morning light. Even the handle of bone with its crude, almost childlike carvings, seemed to absorb the festive morning beams rather than reflect them.

  The bone sword was a tool, a tool of death.

  And Malik was its bearer.

  He sighed and stepped forward through the flap.

  “Jasmine…” he started to say, but then stopped.

  They were all there!

  All who had accompanied him through this unexpected journey.

  Gerard and his sons, Alec and Michael; Denz, the deposed weapons-master; Rorik, the new lieutenant who had so quickly gained the group’s trust, and of course, Noah and Jasmine.

  For a long moment, they stood looking at each other, a sense of enormity surrounding them.

  Malik found himself overcome, and oddly, he felt compelled to lighten himself of his burden. He set the bone sword on the ground beside the door, leaning it against the support post of the structure.

  The release was liberating.

  “The army is ready, sir,” Gerard said finally. “We’ve walked among them throughout the night. They’re behind you.”

  Malik only nodded.

  “Did you sleep?” Denz asked with concern.

  “Did you?” Malik replied.

  The wry tone of his query provoked a chuckle.

  “Not much, I admit,” Denz replied. “But I doubt I’ll be the first man to go into battle on a poor night’s rest.”

  “We’ll be depending on you,” Malik said seriously.

  “So much trust?” Denz replied with a twinkle in his eye. His hand dropped down to rub his belly which, after Jasmine’s touch, revealed not so much as a scar to commemorate his initiation at Malik’s hand.

  “You’ve earned it,” Malik said simply. He then turned to Jasmine. “Whatever happens,” he said slowly, “I want you to remember this: there has to be a fight. You can accept no terms, you cannot surrender, you must charge. These men must learn what it means to take the life of soldiers of noble blood. Only then will they be able to lead. Only then will they gain the strength and confidence necessary to live as free men. You must fight. Do you understand?”