Son of the Black Sword

  There was something strange going on in Jharlang, and Sikasso vowed to get to the bottom of it. As soon as he could slip away, he’d inform his wizards to search for whatever was causing that sensation. What luck. He’d come here for Angruvadal, but if they could capture it along with something else . . . Sikasso grinned at the thought. That morning he’d thought of his men as addicts, and there was nothing more exciting to an addict than a new drug.

  Nadan Somsak was eyeing the village. His helmet was an armored bucket with vision slits and elk antlers, which was good, because Sikasso wasn’t sure how his flesh would react as the demon took it over. Nadan put his hands on the helmet and began to lift. “I would caution you against taking that off, Thakoor,” the wizard said.

  “My throat burns. My guts churn. All I can taste is metal.”

  “It takes time for my magic to work. You will look like your old self soon enough, but right now, your appearance may be unsettling to your men.” In truth, Sikasso wasn’t sure what it was going to do to him. Every man’s reaction was different when the demon got into their blood. Usually it took a day or two before the user became too hideous to pass for human, but for someone who barely qualified as human to begin with, perhaps the transformation would go much quicker.

  “What have you done to me?”

  “I’ve given you the strength to crush Ashok Vadal like a bug.”

  Chapter 44

  Ashok walked around the corner of a house and right into a group of Somsak. They were distracted by all of the screaming and carrying on as panicked workers were being dragged outside and their homes looted. They were violating the Law concerning the conduct of a raid, acting as criminals. Good. That made this much easier for him.

  The first one he killed never even knew Ashok was there. There was a black flash and then a severed head was rolling through the snow. The head hit another Somsak in the foot. He looked down, saw his companion’s face, and then promptly lost his own. Ashok slid past, gutting a third, then spun and removed the arm from a fourth. That last one began to scream.

  Several warriors turned toward him at once. Ashok stood there, black blade dripping, as the bodies collapsed around him.

  “I am here.”

  He had never been gifted with subtlety.

  Bellowing, they lifted their weapons and rushed forward. Ashok stepped into them, turning aside steel and parting flesh in return. With Angruvadal whispering how to move, where to place his body, and warning him of incoming threats that he couldn’t even see, the Somsak weren’t just fighting Ashok, who on his own was one of the greatest swordsmen to ever live, they were fighting every man who’d ever wielded Angruvadal, and it showed in the bloody results.

  Ashok parried, dodged, leaping side to side, until he was in the middle of the pack, and then he went to work. Every movement resulted in serious injury as Angruvadal split chain and cleaved through bones. Angruvadal didn’t cut like sharpened steel, but like a bolt of lightning blasting a tree into splinters. Warriors stumbled away, missing limbs or gushing blood, crying for help, or to be avenged, or for their mothers.

  Within a span of a few heartbeats, the surprised group was broken. Every last one of them was dead or crippled.

  The rest would not be so easy.

  He set out at a run. The odds were still against him, but better in the chokepoints and narrow alleys of the town than out in the open. He had to keep moving. If the Somsak could bring the full weight of their numbers against him at once, he would perish. There was shouting behind him, so Ashok moved between the houses, pushing past chicken coops, iced-over gardens, and pig pens, until he came out in the next lane. A Somsak was coming down the steps of a fine estate, carrying a crying woman over one shoulder, so Ashok hacked through his knee without even slowing. He fell with his would-be victim on top of him.

  More warriors were on this lane, but rushing in the direction he’d come from, so Ashok crashed right into them, swinging. He hit a Somsak in the back, slicing through furs and piercing his spine. His appearance was so sudden that the others slipped and fell on the ice, scrambling to get out of his range. Ashok followed one of them as he was sliding away, and the only thing he could reach was his foot, so he lopped off the end of his boot and a few toes out of spite.

  There were mounted soldiers at the end of the street. They began firing their crossbows. With their horses dancing about nervously their accuracy was terrible, and the only thing struck was an innocent worker running for cover. Bolts spent, they kneed their mounts and rode off, shouting for help.

  The warriors were trying to push back. His location was known and orders were being relayed. They were coming from all directions now, converging on his position. He had to keep moving; being surrounded meant he was finished. A spear was thrust his way, but his strong response splintered the shaft. Before the warrior even realized he’d lost his weapon, Ashok had driven Angruvadal through his chest and out the other side. He slammed his shoulder into the dying man, lifting him off the ground and pushing him back through the crowd. He was nicked and cut as he passed, but Angruvadal warned him of the dangerous swings so he was able to avoid those. Crashing into the next alley, he jerked his sword free and retreated, walking backwards as the Somsak pressed into the narrow space after him. He lunged forward and sank the tip of the blade into a thigh, then fell back as the warriors tripped over their injured.

  The Somsak had no cavalry tradition. They didn’t fight from horseback. They rode to where they were going to fight then got off. There was no room for elaborate maneuvers on the trails and canyons they normally fought in. Their methods tended to be direct. No historian had ever accused them of being tacticians. They did not train as a group, but as individuals, overwhelming their foes with speed and violence. Each one was more focused on gaining individual glory than achieving a united goal. They were fantastic raiders and terrible front-line combatants. He would use their own traditions against them.

  This spot would do. He was between two solid homes. Ashok let the soldiers pile into the narrow gap after him. Two strong men, shoulder to shoulder, barely fit. Clever warriors would have boxed him in with spears on both sides before filling him with arrows and bolts, but these were too eager to prove themselves, and they got in each other’s way in their rush to be the one to strike him down. He let them build up, their overwhelming numbers giving them courage even in the face of black steel.

  Once there were too many of them pressed in to escape, Ashok attacked. He cut into them like a tornado, a whirling, never-ending flurry of deep slashes and splattering blood. They tried to fight, but the close confines caused them to get in each other’s way. Arms were retracted to strike, but elbows ran into the man behind, feet were tripped over, and hands were bumped as Ashok turned the first rank into red fountains. He climbed over the dying and launched himself into the rest, wishing he still had his old suit of armor, because then he could have done so with even more abandon.

  Realizing they’d walked into a trap, the Somsak tried to fall back, but crashed into their fellows. Ashok kept pushing as men slipped on ice or blood. The wooden beams were painted red. Angruvadal warned him that the other side was filling up as well, and he turned just in time to dodge a spear that had been hurled at his back. He kept pushing through, his movements so inhumanly fast that surely some of the Somsak thought they were fighting a demon.

  Then he was out of the alley and back in the open. Sliding, trying to find traction, Ashok kept running. Vaulting over a railing, he landed in a crouch as crossbow bolts embedded themselves in the porch around him. He lowered his shoulder and crashed through a worker’s front door.

  Ashok rolled across a woven rug and back to his feet. It was a nice home, with wooden floors instead of dirt, and warmed by a roaring fire in a great stone hearth. The family who lived here was hiding, terrified, beneath a table as a battle raged across their yard. He was no longer of status. He couldn’t just barge into the homes of whole men. That was trespassing. He started to apologize, but
the Somsak were already following him inside, roaring like madmen. Ashok ducked beneath the first’s wild swing, stabbed the second through the door between the ribs, then kicked the first in the ass, launching him head first into the fireplace. Another followed, but he made the mistake of lifting his blade for an overhead swing and stuck it into the roof beams. Angruvadal tore across his stomach, spilling his guts across the nice rug. Ashok shoved him out the door, into his brothers, and several of them tripped and fell down the icy stairs.

  “I am sorry for invading your home,” Ashok told the terrified workers between the screams of the burning warrior. That one had gotten up and was thrashing about, fur and feathers aflame, so Ashok ran him through, and knocked him onto the stones so he wouldn’t burn the whole house down. “Should I live long enough, I will return and pay for the damage to your property.” Then he headed for the back. There wasn’t another door, so Ashok kicked out the shutters and climbed through.

  He fell on the ground, and since the runoff from the roof had collected here, the ice was so thick and slippery it took a moment to find his footing. By the time he was up, more Somsak were already sliding around the corners. These warriors had learned a valuable lesson from the many dead and wounded he’d left behind and they approached with far more caution.

  The smell of smoke struck his nostrils. He glanced over and saw a black pillar rising from the casteless quarter as it was put to the torch. Earlier, he’d declared that those untouchables were under his protection. That was unacceptable.

  Ashok broke a sword, cut its owner’s throat, and set out toward the flames.

  Chapter 45

  Judging from the incredible racket, Ashok had certainly made himself known. Even though they were only fighting against one man, it sounded to Keta like a mighty battle was being waged. A never-ending stream of horsemen had thundered past the inn, yelling their battle cries. But Keta really doubted the Somsak knew what they were getting into. He had once seen a Protector singlehandedly crush a rebellion, and that one hadn’t been armed with an ancestor blade.

  “Now’s our chance,” Keta said as he led his stolen horse from the barn. They wouldn’t mount up until they were out of town. The ground was still too slick and the sun hadn’t melted much of the ice yet. The horses would have a hard enough time not falling down even without riders on their backs, so better to save them for later, when they’d have to run for their lives across the hills.

  After Ashok was dead and the Somsak could afford to turn their attention elsewhere.

  Keta silently cursed himself as a coward, but what did the Forgotten expect him to do? The gods hadn’t made him strong. What little magic he’d learned was as pathetic as his martial skills, and he had no black steel to call on anyway. His faith was weak. Keta was a bookkeeper. He was a glorified scribe for a prophet without faith.

  What would you have me do?

  “Come on, you damned stupid thing.” Thera was tugging on the reins, but her horse wasn’t cooperating. All of the crashing, banging, and screaming throughout the town had terrified the poor animal. She smacked it to let it know she meant business. It tried to bite her, so she punched it in the snout. “I’m not going to get caught over the likes of you.”

  “Shhh . . .” Keta saw movement on the other side of the inn. Not all of the Somsak had moved on yet. A few were more interested in terrorizing the locals and stealing their valuables than in seeking glory for their name against the legendary Black Heart. Soon enough, those moved on and the road was clear.

  Thera’s horse began cooperating when it realized she was leading it in the direction away from the scary sounds. They started down the road. Luckily it wasn’t too steep, otherwise they might have slid all the way to the bottom of the mountain. It was terribly cold, but Keta was so flushed with fear that sweat was pouring down his face. They took one of the narrow paths through the tall rocks. With such a battle raging, all the Somsak would be distracted, so this was their best chance. The way back to the trade road appeared to be clear.

  Ashok has wanted to die all along. Who am I to try and stop him? Keta thought bitterly.

  “So much for him being our general. Can’t lead much after you’ve been hacked to pieces.” Thera kept her voice down. She was trying to sound tough, but Keta could tell she was moved by Ashok’s sacrifice. Despite her callous act, she cared far more for others than she let on. “Ashok might not realize it yet, but I think I know why he saved those kids.”

  It was probably best not to talk at all, but that was easier said than done when they’d just abandoned someone. “What do you mean?”

  “The old Ashok, the one they built made out of lies and law, is starting to crumble. He’s starting to see for himself, to be what he’s really supposed to be. Or maybe I’ve been right all along, and your Forgotten is full of it.”

  Or maybe I’m a coward who lacks the faith to do what must be done . . . “Don’t talk like that. If anyone shouldn’t talk like that, it’s you.”

  “Fine, you’re the Keeper.” Thera threw her hands up in frustration. “You’re the one who’s supposed to know what the words mean. You’re the one who’s supposed to testify and all that nonsense.”

  That’s right. I am.

  He’d always been a dreamer, but those dreams kept on getting crushed. For his dream to succeed, for his people to be free, someone had to be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  “Keta, what’s wrong?”

  He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped walking. Grant me courage, he prayed. “I have to go back for Ashok.”

  “Are you mad? You’re no warrior!”

  “No . . .” Keta understood exactly what he had to do. “I’m the Keeper of Names.”

  “So that means you need to die for no reason? I don’t believe in your gods, but I do believe in your goals. So you picked the wrong man to be your general. So what? You’ll find another. You’ll make it work just like you always do.” She tugged on her horse and this time it was smart enough not to trifle with her. “Now shut up and keep walking.”

  But Keta couldn’t move. Thera deserved to know the truth. “I lied to you about last night’s revelation from the Voice. There was more.” He reached into his coat and pulled out the transcript.

  She snatched it from him. “Where do you get off hiding that from me?” Thera read.

  Here the path is set. Let my general begin his war. The world must remember what has been forgotten. My faithful servant will be sacrificed, a martyr. The testimony sealed in blood.

  She frowned. “I hate the Voice.”

  “I’m sorry. I was trying to protect you. Don’t you see, Thera? We’re the servants. Me, you, and Ashok. One of us is supposed to die here today. It can’t be you or Ashok. You’re both too important to the work. It has to be me. I’ve got to go back.”

  Thera was staring at the paper. She looked like she was about to be ill. “You’re certain this is exactly what the Voice said?”

  “I’m positive. There are no mistakes.”

  “And you just decided that one of us is supposed to die, and that’s why you didn’t try to stop Ashok. How is that your decision to make?”

  “I was scared, and he volunteered.”

  “And you think the gods would describe him as faithful?”

  “It has to be me,” Keta said. The gods would choose a new Keeper of Names, but there was no one else like Ashok. Keta had to be prepared to die for his beliefs, like Ratul before him. “I’m going back.”

  Thera stared at him as she realized their long journey together was coming to an end. She was a fighter, and so her first inclination would be to fight him over it, but there was no time. She didn’t even dare raise her voice too much. “You’re a stubborn fool.” She shoved the paper roughly back at Keta. “If this message is so damned important, Keeper, make sure it ends up in your book with the rest of your god’s nonsense. I’m getting out of here.” Thera stomped off, heading further down the hill.

  She might be furious at him n
ow, but he was glad to see her leave. Thera had to escape. She was the most important of them all. Someday she would understand and believe. “May the Forgotten watch over you and keep you safe,” Keta whispered as he prepared to go willingly to his death.

  But Thera reached the edge of the bluff and stopped. Below her would be the bridge and path back to the trade road. He was unsure why she paused. Keta could barely hear her as she muttered a long string of curses against Keta, his ancestors, and his god. Then Thera pulled on her horse and turned the reluctant animal back toward the village. She began walking uphill. “I’m going back too,” she snapped as she passed him.

  “What! Why?” He watched her, incredulous, as she struggled up the icy slope toward where hundreds of blood-crazed Somsak were rampaging. “I’m the one that should be martyred. You need to stay alive!”

  “I know that,” Thera snarled. “I’m going back because the damned bridge washed out during the night. The river’s too full, fast, and filled with ice chunks to cross. Feel free to stand here in the open until some tattoo-faced maniac puts an arrow in you. I intend to find another way out of this canyon.”

  Chapter 46

  He’d swung Angruvadal into armor, shields, and bodies until a normal man’s arm would have given out, but Ashok called upon the Heart of the Mountain and continued long past human endurance. That path he’d taken through the village was clearly marked in red. His long merchant’s coat hung in bloodsoaked tatters. He’d been wounded several times, but none deep enough to be of concern.