THE
LAST SWORDSMAN
A Tale in Three Parts
By
Benjamin Corman
Copyright © 2019 by Benjamin Corman
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PROLOGUE
They called him Blader. It was a rough term that towns and small villages often used to refer to someone who taught the sword, but it suited the folk of the Last Dell well enough, because they were a rough people. In his case, the term was wholly inaccurate. He had never taught any of them how to use any sort of weapon, but the people around him saw one at his hip, and watched him handle it from time to time, and so the name had stuck. The simplicity of the people, however, did not account for the glorified name they gave their community.
The Last Dell was little more than a refugee camp set in a small canyon formed by the meeting sides of two large rock slopes and was set deep in the Syler Mountains. All about, men and women, old and young, worn and dirty, moved by the light of dwindling fires. They were refugees from villages, those torn by war or plunder, runaway retainers or guardsmen who abandoned their posts, former serfs or slaves, sharecroppers who didn’t want to share anymore, or simple folk who wanted the freedom of a land not ruled by a feudal lord. They were a rough people and they were a tired people, but they were their own people.
The man called Blader moved among them, his once fine cloak turning in the wind. Boots that had once borne a magnificent shine were now dull and dingy, as they plodded along the stone slope. His clothes were worn and dirty, having not been changed or cleaned in longer than he could recall. This time of year, even the mountain streams were frozen, so bath and laundry were out of the question; what water they had was for drinking.
Even the leather thong that held back his long hair was tattered, and streaks of grey shone clearly at his temples. His hair was not the only sign of age he saw in himself of late. Both arms and legs grew wearier every day, and his stance and form weren’t what they used to be. At his hip was the weapon the Dell folk looked at so wonderingly when he let it show from beneath the folds of his cloak: a longsword of gold and steel. Of course, the gilded hilt was dirty and lined now, and all the gems and stones had long ago been picked out and bartered or sold for clothes and food and water. However, it was a more magnificent blade than anyone in the camp was likely to have seen. Even those who had been guardsmen would only have used rusting iron or tarnished bronze. Fine weapons were costly, and only the wealthy could afford them.
Boys and girls, and men and women, looked at him as he passed and smiled. He had come to the Last Dell many winters ago. He was angrier then, and stayed to himself for the most part, secluded from the masses. However, slowly he had opened up, let his anger fade away and allowed himself to embrace the, most often times distant, friendship of the folk around him. Time had a way of eating away at everything. Love, hate, memories, and even anger, had no defense against it.
After his anger had subsided, he went out amongst the people and for the first time truly saw them; their faces scarred and dirty, their clothing worn and ripped. They lacked even the most basic of provisions. Some were even missing limbs or favoring wounds that would never truly heal, even with a Brujo’s touch. He helped them create defenses for themselves and even found some viable men amongst the farmers and refugees in the camp who were strong enough to fight when it came to it. He taught them what he could, helped them build walls and shelters and beds. But he would not train them to use weapons. That, they would have to learn on their own. He could never do that again. Perhaps that’s why the name Blader had become so popular in the end – more of a friendly jest than anything else.
The folk of the Last Dell needed all the help they could get. Food and water were hard to come by this deep into the mountains. When a particularly harsh winter hit, and the raiders could not pillage anything more from the villages and towns along the northern front, they turned to the Dell for sustenance. His first winter here he had helped to bury over two-dozen men, and those were only the bodies that weren’t so hacked and bloodied that they were barely discernible as human. The unidentifiable body parts were left for the crows and scavengers. After all, they had to eat too.
The next year when the raiders came, however, the body count was lessened. Only ten were lost during that winter, and even less the next year. After that, it was safe to say the people of the Last Dell looked up to him as much as they did to anyone. They were free folk after all; they weren’t about to give themselves a leader, but if anyone had the respect of the lot of them, it was him.
The man called Blader moved out to the edge of a sheer cliff at the outer boundary of the dell proper. From this position, he could look over the expanse of mountains below, hundreds of dark, snow-capped peaks jutting out from the rocky earth. He sent a group of men off into the southern reach to scout and they were due back hours ago. They had noticed evidence of another raider gathering there, and so the men went off to feel out the situation. The people of the Dell had to be prepared for any assault. It was their only advantage and the key to their survival. The men had not returned yet, however. A cold wind blew down from the tall mountain slopes above him and he wrapped his tattered cloak tighter around his shoulders.
Footsteps sounded from the pass to his left. Blader turned and moved toward the path, a narrow flat that ran around the turn of a rock spur. They were coming hard and fast. Are my scouts returning? Are they being pursued? Is someone else racing toward our camp?
He motioned to a large man sitting a few paces off, tending a fire. The man, a hulk even without the furs and bulky clothing layered about his body, dropped the stick he was poking at the fire with, and stood. He retrieved a large bow from a pile of rags by his side and took an arrow from a quiver on the ground. Blader drew his cloak back and put a hand to the pommel of his sword.
The footsteps were closer now, nearly upon them. He grasped the hilt of his sword and prepared to draw. Two skinny youths rounded the corner, less than twenty years of age, with dark frazzled hair and stubble on their chins. Further behind came a squat, huffing, man, with full beard and mustache. Blader released the grasp on his sword and relaxed. “At ease, Bull,” he said, noticing the man at his side still clutching his bow. The large man nodded and sat down, turning his attention back to the small blaze before him.
The two youths skidded to a halt; both were breathing hard and could barely get a word out. “They’re there,” the first huffed, a homely man by the name of Gemm. “A load of ‘em. Gatherin’ fer somethin’.”
The second man nodded. “Yeah, was a lot of ‘em. More’n fifty I’d guess. More’n we saw all last winter!” He was a rat-faced man name Waller, with a thin line of black stubble under his pointed nose.
The last man finally caught up to the others, and pushed past them, not stopping. He moved up to the front, and spoke loudly, fear in his eyes. “We got to do something, Blader. They’re coming for us for sure, why else would they be so near?”
“Calm, Denner. No need to wake the camp,” said Blader, patting the man on his broad shoulders. “We may have nothing to fear. No need getting ahead of ourselves just yet.”
“Why else would there be so many?” Denner asked, ringing his hands together. “They’re hungry probably, wantin’ to steal what little we got. Always happens this far into the winter, and this one’s a tough’n.”
The man called Blader scratched his chin and shook his head. “Where are the others?” He turned, looking down at the mountains below. “They weren’t seen, were they?”
Waller elbowed his way to the fore. “Sterl and Himer went round to look from
the other side–”
“We rushed back to get word to the camp,” Gemm put in, cutting off his companion. “To make sure we was prepared if the worst was to come.”
“That was clear thinking. I’m sure the others will be back shortly.”
Gemm and Waller smiled, pleased with themselves. Denner pushed forward again, the praise doing little to change his mood. “What we gonna do, Blader? What we gonna do?”
Blader paced about for a few seconds, scratching at his chin, then turned back to the men. “Let us wait for the others to return before we decide what course of action to take. We’ll give them a few hours at the least. We will need all the information we can get to figure out what is happening here, and how best to deal with it. In the meantime, double the watch and send men out and around the slopes. If anyone is approaching, we need to know.”
Gemm nodded and moved to carry out the orders, though he stopped in his tracks when Blader spoke again. “For now, let us keep this quiet. No need to get everyone upset if the raiders simply mean to turn and head toward the northern front, which may well be the case.”
Gemm nodded again and continued on to deploy the watch.
“What should we do?” Waller asked, eyeing Denner who looked down at his feet, biting his thumb.
“For now, we wait. Come, let us share the warmth of Bull’s fire.”
He moved toward the small blaze and sat down. Bull made no motion as Blader sat, but when the two others moved to do the same, he looked up and eyed them.
“May we?” Waller asked, his voice shaking a bit. Bull grunted and went back to poking at the flames. Waller and Denner hunched down then, stretching cold fingers toward the warmth.
The man called Blader looked about the camp, noting the people going about their nightly routine – cooking dinner, tucking in little ones, and talking and laughing together. It was a shame the peace may yet be shattered once more.
As he continued to scan the camp, he noticed a face he did not recognize. At a fire not so far off in the distance a lone boy sat. He was young, younger than Gemm and Waller both; too young to be out and alone this far north. Underneath a dark cloak was the undeniable bulge of a weapon hilt. “Waller, who’s that?” he asked. “That boy there, by the far fire.”
Waller squinted, looking off. “Oh him? That’s the new boy that come to camp last week. Remember? I told you ‘bout him.”
Blader furrowed his brow. “I vaguely recall.”
“Calls hisself Ned, I think. Doesn’t talk with none of the others, though. Keeps to hisself. See him sneaking bits o’ food into his cloak of a time, like he’s hoardin’ it. Fiery squirt too, nearly broke Rill’s nose when he got too close the other night.” Waller laughed. “Rill deserved it, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Gemm returned a short while later and took a seat beside them. “The watch is set. A few of the men will be scouting the paths as well. They’ll see anyone coming for miles off.”
“Good,” Blader said. “In the meantime, let us relax and wait.”
Silence commenced around the campfire and all that could be heard was the ruffling of clothes as Bull poked at the fire or Denner bit at his thumb. Gemm and Waller shifted often, but Blader sat still, staring into the flames.
“Tell a story, Denner,” Waller said, clearly uncomfortable with the silence, the imaginings of a thousand imminent dangers no doubt weighing heavy on his mind.
“St-story?” Denner mumbled, as if he had no knowledge of what the word meant.
“Yeah. Maybe that one about the time you went to Seaport. Or the summer you sailed the Adrin Sea.”
“Naw,” said Gemm, “we heard all them before.” Then turning, he said, “I think Blader should tell us one.”
The man called Blader looked up and studied the youth before him. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Waller put in. “I been hearin’ you got a good one for a long time now, but you ain’t told us it yet.”
Though he smiled, inside Blader cursed himself for having let slip to a person or two, long ago, that he knew an extraordinary tale. Despite his defenses, it had come out around a fire of a night, just like this one, after others had let their dramatic stories unfold. There was no getting him to tell it though, after he had let escape what he should not have. They had pestered him for it at first, their curiosity stoked, but he would not, he could not, share it with anyone. Why he had even told them that he knew such a tale was beyond reckoning. Was it pride, vanity or simply the desire to tell someone, anyone, the tumult that was bottled up inside him?
“Come on,” said Gemm, “help us pass the time till Sterl and Himer come back.”
Lines creased the man called Blader’s forehead, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was staring deeply into the flames now, and no one spoke for many moments. Waller was about to say something, his mouth slightly agape, when Blader finally began to speak.
He had no idea why here, or now, he was finally going to talk about it all. But suddenly, the words came out. Perhaps time had also eaten away at his inhibition to speak of the past. Perhaps he finally just wanted someone else to hear, to know, what he knew. Maybe the weariness in his bones, or the news that yet another series of raids may come, was making him realize he may very well die without anyone ever knowing what really happened. Without looking away from the flames, the man called Blader opened his mouth and the story began to pour out.
“It was the year of the last great harvest. It was fall, and the leaves of the trees having withered and turned brown, were making their way to the ground. The time of rebirth and culling had ended, and now, as the cycle went, things were dying…”
PART ONE
THE BROKEN BLADE
CHAPTER ONE
Stark white sky gave way to the skeletal branches of bare trees. A solitary leaf broke free the tangle of appendages and went rolling about in the breeze before swaying ever so gently to the ground. The boy stopped before the fragile castoff and studied its intricate stem structure, a path of connecting avenues that so oddly, yet somehow appropriately, resembled the tree branches above. He thought about crushing the leaf underfoot, but then a strong hand was pushing him along again, moving him down the path of bare earth ahead.
It was the tall Brujo beside him that kept him going. His long, straw-colored hair was pulled back into a leather thong, and he wore a robe of roughspun from head to toe. He held a roughhewn staff that knocked against the ground as they went.
Before them a group of men and women bore a heavy litter upon their shoulders. A white shroud covered a delicate form, the fabric stained with several slowly spreading pools of red. A lock of auburn hair had fallen outside of the shroud and was swaying back and forth as the litter moved. The boy couldn’t look at it. Tears came to his eyes when he even dared to peek. Her screams came back to him, and he had to look away, anywhere but at her.
His gaze went ahead, but that did nothing to improve his view. Beyond the first litter was a second, this one borne by more men, and likewise covered in a white shroud stained with blood. The form beneath this shroud was larger, stronger; at least that’s what he used to think. The boy drew in a sharp breath and fought back tears. He looked away.
Beyond the second litter was yet another, and this was the most frightening sight of all. Breath caught in his throat and his palms began to grow moist. He forced a gulp of air and tried to look away, but he couldn’t. His eyes were transfixed on the horrific image before him. Eight strong men strained under the weight, but this form wasn’t covered in a cloth of white. Instead the great bear’s protruding stomach rose into the air unhindered, its eyes dark and cold, its maw a rictus of fury. Even now he could not convince himself that there was no danger left in the creature. Not after having been trapped as he was…the light of day blocked out…the air so thick and heavy…
The Brujo pushed him along again. He hadn’t realized he had stopped. He looked away from the forms, clutched tightly to what was in his hand, focus
ed on that instead. It was a slender sword, with a hilt of sweeping steel. It would have been a magnificent weapon, if it were not for the fact that only a foot of the blade remained, the rest having been shorn off when…when…he couldn’t think about it. Instead he tightened his grasp on the sword and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be moved along by the gentle guidance of the Brujo.
Soon the small village of Lilton rose up around him. Trees disappeared and were replaced by simple, thatch-roofed structures that lined the dirt road. The smell of roasting hog filled his nose and a smithy’s hammer rang out peal after peal, resounding through the morning air. It stopped though, as the procession passed, the smith inside his small hut staring out at them, his mouth agape. The boy had once viewed this place as a place of wonders, a place unimaginable, but now…now he didn’t even want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about anything. He cursed the smith and closed his eyes.
When he dared to open them again, he found himself in the center of the village, surrounded by men and women. They were talking to each other in harsh voices. They didn’t seem so much angry, as afraid, but of what, he couldn’t say. An older woman named Greta was there, and she was pointing a finger in the face of a man named Longwin, who only muttered and stumbled over his words, in response.
A more refined man by the name of Redin Daros appeared then, pushing his way between the other two. His long, dark pants ended in bare feet, and he was twisting a bit of straw between his teeth. “What’s going on here?”
Longwin turned to the boy, and then looked to the shroud covered forms that had been laid down on the ground. He started speaking in soft words to Redin. “What to do with them?” the boy heard, but then Greta cut in again pounded the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.
Redin shook his head, looking confused, and then Longwin replied, “Because of his…his father…his mother…his mother…what they did…”
The Last Swordsman Page 1
