Guardless

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Most cities are dangerous, but Armoede takes the danger to the next level.  The king sits upon his gilded throne in Aumont, but the city was run in dim rooms and back alleys, by men with far more gold than morals.  Those were the men whose gangs caused the city folk to bar their doors throughout the day and nobles to bring a contingent of guards with them every time they left Aumont.

The king ruled nothing more than the palace he hid in, leaving his subjects at the mercy of the gangs.  Only one man—one man in tens of thousands—dared to walk the streets alone.  The gangs called him Guardless.  They said that he was eight feet tall, with bulging muscles and startling red eyes, that he was a demon summoned by the king to restore order.

They were wrong.

In truth, I was just over six feet, with lean muscles and muddy brown eyes.  I wasn’t a demon, and I certainly wasn’t working for the king.  He never would have sent me; he was more than content to sit on his royal ass while his people lived in fear.

No, I worked alone.

My target today was a butcher’s shop in the Market District—a front for Jakov’s gang. It was a small shop, but the amount of gang members I had observed coming and going suggested some rooms underground, like those I had found over in Toven’s Square.

I pushed my way through the front door into a low-ceilinged, dimly lit room, a counter at the far end.  Behind the counter, a heavy, pockmarked butcher was wiping his bloody hands on his apron.

He looked up, obviously surprised to see me alone.  I could see fear flitting behind his eyes.  Could I be Guardless?  But, of course, I wasn’t eight feet tall or breathing fire, so he disregarded me as a threat.

“How can I help you, my good sir,” he said, tapping his cleaver on the counter four times in quick succession.  A signal.  There was likely a group of cutthroats somewhere in the back, now making their way into the front room.

“I would like to speak with Jakov.”  I stepped closer as I spoke, moving up to the counter.

The fear returned to his eyes.  “Why would I know where Jakov is?” he asked.  “I live my life trying to avoid the gangs.  Everyone in the city does.”

The back door burst open, and two men ran in, swords out.  One was thin and wiry, the other tall and bearded.  They both had swords drawn.

“Looks like you haven’t done a very good job,” I said, and punched the butcher hard in the throat.  He dropped to the gory floor, gasping for breath.

The two gang members charged me, and I met them with steel, ducking past the thin man’s blow and slashing my sword across his left hamstring.  As he fell, I drew my second sword and caught the bearded cutthroat’s blade on it.  I then flicked his sword to the side and drove my other blade through his heart.

My blades had been unsheathed for less than a minute, and already one of my enemies was dead and the others were incapacitated.  I flicked my sword across the other cutthroat’s neck and killed the butcher in a similar fashion.

That was how I fought—ruthlessly and efficiently, leaving no survivors.  The longer a fight lasted, the better the chances of one of my opponents landing a lucky blow or escaping.  I never let an opponent escape; my reputation was part of what kept me alive.

I stepped into the back room, a cramped space filled with hanging meat, and found what I was looking for: an open trap-door in the far corner.  I made the drop down the shaft and found myself in a dark hallway.  At the end, a sliver of light shone from under a closed door.

I walked up to the door, not bothering to sneak, and kicked it.  The timbers exploded inward and I came face to face with Jakov.

The gang leader was short, far smaller than I had expected, but had the distinctive scar that I had heard of—a crescent from his eye to his chin.  The crime lord sat calmly at his desk, his hands folded in front of him.  As I leveled my sword at him, he began to chuckle softly.  “Thanks to you,” he said, “it seems we’re both guardless.”

“I would hardly call those men guards,” I said.  “They barely offered me a moment’s distraction.”

“That’s the issue, isn’t it?  It’s so hard to find good help.  Nearly all of my men are base thugs.”  He leaned across his desk.  “Not like you.”

I lowered my sword, incredulous.  “I’ve spent the last two years hunting the gangs of this city, and you are trying to recruit me?”

Jakov shrugged.  “You could still hunt gangs,” he said.  “I would send you against my enemies, the other gangs in the city.  It isn’t any one gang that destroys Armoede, but the competition between us.  You could be the man ends these gang wars.”

“I came to kill you, not to make a deal.”

“When I take control of the city, you will be the second most powerful man in Armoede.”

I lashed out with my sword, opening another cut on his cheek.  “Were you really so confident in your offer that you would put yourself in this kind of danger?”

He smiled.  “My master was relatively sure that you would accept.”

His master…? I growled in frustration and stabbed the man through the chest.  The reason that he had seemed too short to be Jakov was because he was too short to be Jakov.

I pushed his body off the desk and began searching the room.  There had to be something that could help me.

***

Jakov leaped with surprise as I stepped in front of him and pressed the tip of my sword to his jaw.

“All that trouble you went through—hiring a double, leaving a token guard at the butcher shop—and you let your double keep a list of your safe houses on his person.”

Jakov grimaced.  “That bastard was supposed to be more careful.”

“It is hard to find good help.”  Sweeping my sword through the air, I separated his head from his shoulders.  I wiped the bloody blade on his tunic and left him there on his own drawing room floor.

It would add to my reputation.  Guardless, the one man in Armoede with nothing to fear.

Carnivore Coast

General Kail Richards leaned against the railing of his balcony, a thick cigar smoldering in one hand and a crystal glass of dark rum in the other, watching as, down in the beach, his white-jacketed officers forced the savage chief up to the headsman’s block.  Beyond that, his soldiers held back a crowd of the savages with long spears. Kail could just hear the shouts coming from the flame-haired mob.

“Don’t you want to go down to the beach, sir?”  His bodyguard, Wyn Bruce, stepped up to the railing, his rank insignia glittering on his breast and his white tricorn hat tucked under his arm.

Kail shook his head and puffed a cloud of smoke out towards the beach. “I don’t blame to get any closer than this balcony,” he said. “It’s the small things that make life worth living, like being able watch an execution without ever leaving my house.”

When Kail had first come to land on the Carnivore Coast, a storm of steel before the primitive natives, he had built his manor into the side of Ember Mountain—a dormant volcano with a commanding view of the coast and inland rainforests.  He had come as a conqueror, but the savages had rolled over as easily as he expected.  From those rainforests, they had mounted a furious resistance.  That had been six months ago.

“Have a drink,” Kai said, pointing to the bottle that sat on the nearby table.

“I’m on duty, sir.”

He should have known—Wyn was a stickler for the rules.  He had been a colonel, but had been demoted when his practice of checking the Officer’s Field Guide before making maneuvers in battle had ended bloodily early in the campaign.

“When the king hears of our victory, we will be richly rewarded.  I believe that’s worth celebrating.”

“I’ll celebrate when I’m off duty.”

“Your loss.”  Kail turned back to the beach, shading his eyes against the bright tropical sun.  That had been a disadvantage at the beginning, his men having to adapt from their rainy homeland to this bright continent.    Since, they’d learned how to survive, though Kail swore his skin was a few shades darker than it had been six months ago.

Down on the beach, two of Kail’s officers held the savage chief roughly by the shoulders as the paraded him before his people.  The chief’s face had been scrubbed of its vile markings, and his fiery red hair had been cropped short, as a man’s hair should be.  But his expression…

“Does he seem happy to you, Wyn?”  The savage’s face was turned skyward, his lips slightly curved.

Wyn leaned over the railing and squinted towards the crowd.  “Not happy, sir.  I’d say he looks at peace.  He has likely realized that we are right to kill him.  He never should have resisted civilization.”

That must be it.  Why else would a condemned man be smiling?  Still it nagged at Kail.  His officer’s instincts told him that something was wrong; he just didn’t know what it was yet.

“Hand me that spyglass.”  Wyn passed one over, a long tool of polished wood, and Kail brought it to his eye.  His instinct had never failed him; something was amiss.  What was it?  “Something is wrong with the crowd,” he muttered.

“What’s that, sir?”

“They don’t seem distraught that their leader is being killed.  I know that they’re barely human, but they did show emotion in the field, at least in regards to their own dead.”  What was wrong?  “They aren’t doing anything.”

“Of course not, sir.  Our spearmen are holding them back.  What can they do?”

“It’s not that.”  There was no tension in them, no emotion but determination.  “They aren’t even trying to get past our spearmen.  In the rainforest, they would throw themselves on our swords just to recover their own dead.  Now, they just stand there, easily five yards from our men.”

“What’s that, sir?”  Wyn had procured a spyglass of his own and was focused further along the beach.

“What’s what,” Kail snapped.

“Behind them, sir.  Those four men.”

Kail turned his gaze to the spot Wyn had indicated.  There were, in fact, four men gathered around a fire, holding their palms out as if to warm their hands.  Only their lips moved.

“How could they be cold in this weather?” Wyn asked.  “I haven’t stopped sweating since we reached this continent.”  Then, having forgotten his decorum in his moment of confusion, he added, “Sir.”

They couldn’t be cold.  The temperature hadn’t dipped below seventy degrees in the last six months, including nighttime.  Then Kail noticed a swirling tattoo on one of the men’s legs.  These weren’t just any savages; they were the sorcerous shamans that had tortured Kail’s armies, causing the very forest to attack them.  Suddenly, everything fell into place.

He grabbed Wyn by the shoulders and yanked him around to stare into his eyes.  “Get the news down to the beach as fast as you can,” he said.  “All of our men are to focus on killing those four savages around the fire.  Forget the chief, just kill those four.  Do you understand soldier.”

Wyn saluted, “Yes, sir!” and ran off of the balcony screaming for the servants to saddle his horse.

Kail turned back to the beach, what he was seeing confirming his suspicions.  It was subtle, but the savages were arranged in a defensive formation similar to that of his white-clad soldiers.  They were protecting the shamans—why, he didn’t know, but if the savages wanted it, he would do whatever he could to deny them.

Wyn reached the beach even faster than Kail had expected, his horse moving down the steep path at more of a fall than a run.  He shouted something that Kail couldn’t hear, and the soldiers leapt at the savages.

The flame haired tribesman pulled forth concealed weapons and fought back fiercely, but Kail’s men were the best in the world, well trained and merciless.  They began to steadily push towards the shamans.

Kail allowed himself a sip of his rum, thinking that he his quick thinking had solved the problem.  The shamans didn’t stand a chance.

Then, the very mountain rumbled beneath his feet.

Kail, stumbled at the violence of the shock; his glass slipped from his hands and shattered on the balcony deck.  Pulling himself to his feet, he looked back to the fight.

His men had almost reached the shamans and the beach was littered with dead savages, but the view still filled him with dread.  The fire that the shamans stood around had grown.  It now blazed ten feet in the air and glowed as brightly as the Carnivore Coast’s accursed sun.

The mountain shook again, and this time Kail was thrown bodily to the ground.  He came up tasting blood.

This couldn’t be.  The savages were powerless primitives, only capable of animating vines to trip and whip at his soldiers.  How could they be moving mountains?

The campfire flared, spurting a gout of flame thirty feet into the sky, and the mountain exploded.

***

Wyn Bruce looked up as the top half of Ember Mountain disintegrated into a fountain of lava.  The soldiers around him saw it too, and began to run.  Wyn followed, knowing that once an army broke, they would never again turn and fight.  His only chance was to run faster than the rest.

Unfortunately, he had taken a leg wound during the first minute of the fighting.  The other soldiers easily outpaced him, and before he had gone twenty yards he was tackled to the sand.

A fire-haired savage straddled him, knife held high.

“How?” Wyn asked.  How did this happen.  Structure and order were the hallmarks of civilization.  How had a tribe of primitive, chaotic people defeated the most disciplined army in the world?  “How?”

The savage answered by sliding his knife into Wyn’s ribs.

The Dragon

The streets of New Orleans were nearly deserted.  Once, this would have been an anomaly, but it was now a weekly occurrence.  Every Friday the city left their jobs and homes to come together.

El turned the corner onto Sugar Bowl Drive, her head down and her hands in the pockets of tight, torn jeans.  Even in the muggy heat, she wore a grey hooded sweatshirt.  Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun, and her tanned skin smoldered like embers.  She was heading towards the Superdome, following a muted roar.

It was the roar of an entire city, emanating from the massive stadium, which had been expanded to hold hundreds of thousands.  What was it that could bring the entire city together?  It wasn’t football, not anymore.  The war had changed things.

All men are created equal.  It was the mantra of a nation, and the nation held on to it so tightly that they hadn’t known what to do when it simply wasn’t true.  Superhumans had arrived, and humans were forced to accept the existence of superior beings.  They hadn’t taken it well.

Superhumans lost the war badly and now fought each other for the amusement of the victors.  The entire city turned out to watch the bloodbath.  It was slaughter for sport on a scale unseen since Rome.

The guards at the entrance looked up from their burgers as El approached them.  One was short and round, the other just as round, but much taller.  They looked surprised, thinking that everyone in the city would already be inside.

“Stop there,” the short one said, pulling a small device from his belt.

“What’s wrong?”  A wisp of smoke escaped El’s mouth as she spoke.  She was still working on controlling that.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her.  He obviously didn’t see her as a threat.  After all, what did he have to fear from a slight, twenty year old girl?  “We just have to run a quick test to make sure you aren’t one of those freaks.  It’s a formality.”

“A test?”  El made her voice quaver.

The guard moved his device toward her finger.  “I just need a bit of blood, nothing dangerous,” he said.  “You have nothing to fear unless you’re one of those monsters.”  He chuckled.  “You aren’t a monster, are you?”

Her answer was to attack, ripping out his throat as her fingers grew into deadly claws.  He fell with a gurgle and didn’t move again.

The second guard was quick enough to draw his gun, a scream tearing itself from his lips as the bullet left the barrel.  The bullet struck her directly between the eyes.  El shook her head to clear the ringing, and plunged her claws into his heart.

El felt her forehead where the bullet had struck her.  The scales that had formed to protect here were iron gray and iron hard, and they began to fade even as her fingers brushed them.  She focused, and they returned, spreading across her body.  Within seconds, her skin had been completely replaced with the steely scales.  I’m getting better; it only took a few seconds this time.  When El had first gotten her powers, the scales had only appeared when she was about to be hit, but she had practiced, and could transform all the time now.

The short guard’s radio crackled to life. “What was that, Sanders?”

El mimicked his deep voice as she replied.  “Accidental discharge, everything’s fine.”

“Be more careful, or you’ll be stuck on sewage duty next week.”

“Yes sir.”

The man on the other end would have to be stupid to have actually fallen for her imitation, so she hurried through the double doors into the building.

Inside was a gigantic marble statue depicting two superhumans fighting.  It towered three stories high, surrounded by the escalators that brought viewers to their seats.  El leaped onto the statue and began to climb her way to the top, her claws biting deep into the stone.  Crouching at the top, she could hear guards rushing through the doors and their shouts of alarm as they discovered the bodies she had left.

She leaped from the statue and landed on the cold floor of the third story.  The blueprints she had memorized earlier said that the VIP boxes would be to her right, so she set off, keeping to the curve of the corridor.  One guard passed her, but she killed him before he could make a sound.

Before long, she came to a large arched doorway with the letters VIP stamped above it.  A sign beneath those letters read: “Albert Wayne, Mayor of New Orleans”.

El stepped quickly through the archway and came face to face with two more guards.  These weren’t the pudgy guards she had seen at the entrance—these men were killers, all hard muscle and precise motions.  As soon as she came around the corner they reacted, firing point blank.

Even at the short distance, the bullets bounced harmlessly off of her scales.  El allowed a moment for the shock to register on the guard’s faces, then opened her jaws and engulfed them in a torrent of bright flame.  Their screams ended quickly, and El stepped over their charred bodies and shoved her way into the VIP suite.

The suite was a wide room with a view over the arena, in which a superhuman in black dodged blows from a massive fighter whose blows left craters in the ground.  A row of leather chairs sat empty facing the fight, with a bottle of whiskey spilled across one of them.  No Wayne.  They must have left in a hurry.

A small door of the left side of the room was left swinging open.  If the mayor and his retinue had left when she had killed the guards out front, they would be long gone.  Should she just try to make her escape?  El had planned to find the mayor in his box.  What had she been thinking?  Of course he wouldn’t just sit and wait for her to kill him.  He would have a contingency plan, somewhere to flee.

Footsteps sounded from the hall outside, and El was forced to act.  She ran through the open door after the mayor.  There was always the possibility that he hadn’t left until she had attacked the guards outside his suite, and no matter how small that chance was, she was going to act upon it.

The door opened into a small curving corridor that ran behind the other VIP boxes.  At each one, El was tempted to stop and kill the people who were cheering for the slaughter of her people, but she kept moving.  Her real target was the man who orchestrated the bloodbath, not those who watched it.

She turned through the first open doorway in the corridor, through which she could see a giant marble fist.  It was the same room through which she had entered the building.  She rushed to the railing and looked down in time to see the mayor, flanked by two guards, rushing towards the double doors on the ground floor.  They were followed by a huge man—nearly seven feet tall—who sported a web of scars across his heavy broad shoulders and bare back.

El let out a roar and leapt out over the statue, ready to climb down after her prey.

“The Dragon!” one of the guards cried as he saw her jump.  It was the alias that she had been given, like the ones they gave the fighters.  She grinned savagely when she heard it.  Unlike the captured superhumans, who saw their names as symbols of their slavery, she reveled in hers.  It was the name they gave to something feared.  She was the hunter.  She would land amongst her prey and kill them one by one.

However, as she landed on the marble, it fell away beneath her.  It shone with a ruddy light and grew so hot that she could feel it through her scales.  It grew bright red, and melted into searing magma.  She fell with it, and landed hard in a pool of lava.

The scarred man stood above her, the magma swirling around his feet, his eyes alight and a cruel smile cut across his face.  A superhuman! Working for Wayne?

Mayor Wayne stood just outside of the lava with his two guards.  “Kill this creature, Ignus,” he said, turning away, “but don’t tire yourself out.  Remember, you have a fight in the arena later.”

So one of Wayne’s gladiators also did his dirty work?  Ignus stepped forward, and the magma flowed up his body and coalesced in his hand, hardening into a wickedly sharp sword nearly five feet in length.  More hardened into greaves and a chestplate as he approached El.

She rose slowly, her side aching from the fall, and unsheathed her claws, all the while looking for a way out.  Her clothes had burned away, leaving only her lean, scaled body.  She knew immediately that she was at a disadvantage.  The scales protected her from the intense heat of the lava, but the molten rock clutched at her legs and prevented her from moving with speed.  This wasn’t a fight she could win.

“That man enslaved our kind,” she said, maneuvering towards the door.  “He watches us die every day.  Why do you serve him?”

“The food is better, for one.”  He stomped his foot and a wave of magma cut off her path to the exit.

The heat was reaching unbearable temperatures; even El’s thick scales couldn’t protect her from all of it.  She could feel herself growing faint as Ignus closed on her, cutting off all paths to freedom.  She breathed fire at him, but he walked unflinchingly through the flame.

El began to panic.  There was only one option that remained to her, but she had never managed it after the night she had discovered her powers.  But as the heat grew, she realized it may be her only option.  She closed her eyes.”

“You don’t want to watch yourself die?”  Ignus laughed.  “The cowards are all like that at the end.”

She tightened her focus, willed herself to change.

“It won’t save you.”

She couldn’t do it.  The heat was only amplified by the sun streaming in through the massive window.  It was stifling, burning away her focus.

“It won’t save any of them.”

Flames of anger rose in her hotter than any flame, hotter even than the magma surrounding her, and leathery wings burst from her back, unfurling behind her.  She leapt upwards, taking flight and smashing through the window.

Ignus roared, and a tidal wave of lava shot after her before splashing into the street.  It barely missed her as she shot into the sky, searching for Wayne.  She spotted him and his guards walking towards another entrance to the Superdome.  He was returning to watch the fights!  Was this man really so confident in Ignus that he would return immediately and so calmly to his entertainment.  He and his guards moved with no signs of worry.

She landed among them, a storm of flame and claws, killing the guards in seconds and flinging the mayor into the wall of the dome, cracking the concrete.  He tried to climb to his feet but couldn’t, collapsing into a heap.

“This is why your kind needs controlling,” he said.

El didn’t dignify that with a response, instead opening her mouth and bathing him in flame.  When all that remained was a charred skeleton and a wide swath of scorched concrete, she took off.  She could hear Ingus’s roars over even the roars of the crowd, and that was the sound of victory.

Pride (Arden #4)

Read the rest of Arden’s story here.

Arden awoke to a searing pain in his back and a healthy dose of humility. Even the slightest movement brought a fresh wave of agony and a reminder of his failure. Arden wasn’t sure which hurt more.

He tried to rise to his knees, but the pain brought him crashing down again, face-first in the mud of the riverbank. His brother’s sword had cut him deep; his back was afire from shoulder to hip. I never should have let my guard down. The pain was made worse by the knowledge that it was his own fault.

Moving his head slightly, so as to avoid agitating is back, he looked around. Night had fallen, so the Mask’s camp was illuminated by flickering torches. He was in a makeshift prison, surrounded by inward pointing stakes and tied to a boulder set deep into the mud.

Rough hands grabbed him gently. Then another smaller set of hands began to smear something on his wound. It was cool and soothing, but the pressure on his cut still brought him pain. He squirmed under the care, letting a groan out from between clenched teeth.

“Try not to move, Arden.”

“Jaron?” Arden had thought the old fisherman to be dead.

“Yes, and Taro.”

“Where’s Hus?” Arden asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“Dead.  The Mask’s men shot him as we were climbing out of the river.” That was Taro’s voice, obviously younger. There was anger in it, and Arden couldn’t blame him.

“I’m sorry,” Arden said, “and not just about Hus. I never should have put us in this situation. I was a fool to think that we could hunt down the Mask without the garrison from Kingston.”

“What’s done is done,” Jaron said. “Now we must hope that they can find us.”
Taro stayed silent, likely because he didn’t agree with his father’s forgiveness.

“We shouldn’t try to escape,” Jaron continued. “Jon has no doubt told the militiamen where we went. Assuming the Mask doesn’t move camp in the morning, they should be able to find us easily.”

“Why did you think this was all a good idea?” Taro hissed, no longer trying to disguise his rage. “You told us that you knew the Mask. You said that you could anticipate him. Except you got led by your nose into a trap, and Hus is dead!”  His voice rose as he spoke, the last word said with such vehemence that one of the Mask’s men came over to see what the problem was.

“Our friend is rather badly wounded,” Jaron told the pirate, and it seemed to work, as the guard returned to fire, where the Mask’s crew was eating.

“Why?” Taro repeated, hissing the word.

“The Mask is my brother,” Arden said. And I never stopped to think that maybe he knows me as well as I know him.  He hadn’t thought of that, and he had paid the price. “I thought I knew what he would do.”

“Well, he baited you. It seems he isn’t as proud you thought he was,” Taro said.

“His pride is the only reason we’re alive right now,” Arden said. “If we die out here, we don’t bolster his reputation. And if there is one thing my brother cares about, it’s his reputation.”

“So the reason we’re alive is so that he can kill us later, in public?”

Arden nodded, moving his head as much as his wound would allow. “Which is why we must hope that the militia finds us soon.”
***

Arden woke to the bustle of the Mask’s men breaking camp.  The makeshift prison had been removed, and all of the pirate’s tents were down.  Jaron and Taro were still tied to the boulder with him, but were wide awake when he rose.

“Feeling better, Princess?” Jaron asked.

He was.  Jaron had taken Arden’s shirt and ripped it into makeshift bandages, which Arden now wore.  The pain was still there, but it was no longer debilitating, and Arden was able to stand.

“Much better,” he said.  “I see that we’re moving.”

Taro nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.  “I’ve tried to leave behind as much of a trail as I can,” he said, “but I can’t guarantee that the militia will be able to find us.”

“They may not have to,” Arden said.  “If I know my brother, we’ll be going to them.  He doesn’t know that we sent for the garrison.  He likely thinks that Crickhall is ripe for the taking.”

“The entire town?” Jaron was incredulous, “with only these men?”

“Crickhall may have a larger population but few of them can truly fight.  Besides, my family isn’t known for our small egos.”

The three prisoners were forced to march in the middle of all the pirates, dragging the boulder with them.  They walked a short ways through the forest until they came to the spot on the river where the Mask kept his boats.

“You can sail with me, Arden,” he said, cutting Arden free from the boulder and tossing him into the bottom of his boat.  “It will be so lovely to catch up.”

There was nothing Arden would have liked less.

“Where are we going, Tymon?” Arden asked from the bottom of the boat.

The Mask stiffened.  “Don’t call me that.  I am the River’s Mask.”  He certainly looked the part, standing at the prow of the boat, in black leather and his hideous iron mask carved in a demon’s visage.

“Your name is Tymon,” Arden said.  “Stop with this ridiculous persona.”

“Tymon died years ago.  I am what is left.  I am the king of this river.”

“And do you mean to take Crickhall as your keep?”

Tymon drew his sword and thrust it quivering into the timbers of the boat.  “When I take Crickhall, I will truly rule this river,” he said.  “We were born to be kings, Arden.  How can you forget where we come from?”

Arden shook his head.  “We were never meant to rule, Tymon.  We were the fourth and fifth sons.”

“And we survived,” Tymon said, ripping the mask from his face as he turned to face Arden. “When our lands were burned and our brothers were killed, we survived.”  Arden could see a crazed light in his eyes.  “We were born to be kings, and I will carve out a kingdom along this river.”

Arden saw motion in the trees to either side of the river, and his heart soared.  “Do you truly believe that you can just take this land, and no one will stop you?”  he asked.

“No one can stop me.  Through my veins runs the blood of–”

He was cut off as the militiamen of Kingston stepped from the trees and unleashed a storm of arrows.  One carved a bloody furrow along his cheek, and another struck his shoulder, tossing him into the river.  The current bore him swiftly downstream and out of sight.

Arden was left clutching the demonshead mask as the men of Kingston, swept the pirates into the river.  He tried not to think about his past, about his lost birthright, but his brother had thought of nothing else.  Tymon had always thought himself a king, but kings drowned the same as all other men.

Read the rest of Arden’s story here.

Rings

The emerald ring was pretty enough, but the man offering it wasn’t.  The jewel’s face was cut into a dozen starry faces, his cut with a dozen angry scars.

“A magic ring,” he called to Kaira, “a ring that could change your life!”

What a fool.  Magic didn’t exist.  It had died with the Old Heroes, legendary men who had called down lightning and waged war with burning swords.  If anyone possessed magic, it wouldn’t be this decrepit old merchant.  And if the ring was magical, he was hardly smart for shouting about it.  If the old stories were true, that was the kind of thing that people killed over.

Nowadays, it was the kind of thing that people were arrested over.

As Kaira stepped past the old man, she saw a group of guards pushing their way through the crowded market towards the man. She could make out their bright white uniforms as they cleared a path. As they approached, the old man’s face lit up, probably at the sight of more potential customers, as he offered them the ring.

Damn fool.

“Magic doesn’t exist.”  One guard, seemingly the leader of the other two, stepped up to the merchant, pushing down the arm that had been offering the ring. “And the queen doesn’t think kindly towards those who would sell lies to her subjects.”

“They aren’t lies.”

Kaira groaned. Damn fool, she thought again. All the merchant had needed to do was apologize and allow the guard to take the ring. That would have at least given him a chance to escape the queen’s dungeons.

“If magic is real,” the guard said, “then you shouldn’t have any problem magicking yourself out of the dungeons.”

The old merchant kept his smile as he drew himself up and said, “I expect not.”  His insolence was going to ensure that he had an accident before he ever reached the dungeons. What a fool.

“You’re coming with us.”  The two guards who had yet to speak grabbed the merchant and pulled him away from his stall.

“Wait!” the old man cried. He was squealing and squirming in their grip, making a rather pathetic scene. “Let me talk to me daughter. Then I’ll go quietly.”

They released him. “You have one minute,” the guards told him.

Kaira looked around for the man’s daughter, confused, until she realized he was approaching her. Now she was the one who felt like a fool, for staying to watch instead of disappearing into the crowded market.

“I love you,” the old man said, grabbing her hand. He smelled far cleaner than he looked, like an odd mix of fresh fruit and cooked meat. Kaira tried to pull away, but his grip was immensely strong. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered; then, louder, “tell Mama what happened.”  He pressed something into Kaira’s palm. “I hope to see you soon.”

As the old merchant was led away, Kaira slowly opened her palm and saw another ring nestled there.

***

 

Kaira slowly turned the ring in her palm. It was heavy iron, etched with odd spiraling symbols, and reflected the warm light of the lantern beside her.

She sat on the edge of a cliff, her feet dangling off over the sea. It was dark out, the sky above her and sea under her were a deep, dark blue. At the moment, she was seriously considering throwing the ring into that azure abyss.

It was useless, right?  If the old merchant was to be trusted, it was magical, but if she was to believe everyone else she had ever met, magic didn’t exist.

Kaira slipped the ring onto her finger for the fourth time and, as before, nothing happened. There was no rush of magic, no moment of clarity or burst of flame. If this was magic, it was nothing like the stories.

She stood and started along the cliffside. She loved walking here, straddling the land and sea. She walked, one foot in front of the other, until a rock turned under her foot. With milling arms, she attempted to keep her balance, but failed, and fell tottering off the cliff.

What a damn fool, she thought. She had always been dangerously curious and daring, but this was as embarrass in a death as they came. It was odd, but, as she fell, it was that thought that dominated her mind. It was less of an oh shit I am about to plummet to my death, and more of a wow, I am stupid.

The ground opened up beneath her feet and was replaced by the dark sea, but, after a moment, she realized that it wasn’t getting any closer.

Kaira looked back at the cliff and saw that she was still level with the rock, her face only feet from the stony cliffside. She was hovering impossibly in the air.

Perhaps there was magic after all.

Up, she thought, and she began to rise, the cool sea breeze rushing past her as she flew.  Exhilaration coursed through her. Magic was real, and she could control it.

She settled back into solid ground and twisted the ring from her finger. She could use this ring, but if magic was real, it could change the world. She replaced the ring on the hand and stepped off the cliff. At first she had trouble, but within minutes she was soaring through the night sky.

***

 

Ezard sat on the damp cell floor, picking at the scab that was forming on his left forearm. Would the girl come to find him?  Would she even discover the use of the ring?  She had been curious enough to watch his arrest; hopefully she would be curious enough to seek him out.

It was unlikely, and he knew that.  He began to curse his decisions.  Why in the ten hells had he given his only piece of magic to a random girl instead of using it himself?  Sure, the guards had bows, but he still could have escaped.

He moved to the window of his cell.  Soft moonlight filtered through onto his face.  The dungeon was cut into a massive cliff face that ran along the sea.  He had been lucky enough to be given a cell on the edge, near the sea.

He drew another ring from deep within his boot and slipped it on his finger.  It was gold and wire-thin, very difficult to see.  He placed the ringed hand on the wall of his cell and pushed, the veins on his neck standing out with the effort.

After a moment of straining, the wall began to crack and crumble; pieces at first, the massive chunks of rock tearing free and falling into the sea.

***

Kaira was flying towards the cliff-side prison, wondering how in the ten hells she was going to find the merchant in the maze of cells, when a part of the cliff gave way.  She turned towards the hole in the cliff, using the ring to guide herself lower in the air.

The merchant stood in the mouth of the new cave.  His ragged, baggy shirt had been removed, and he didn’t look nearly as decrepit as he had in the market.  Moonlight shined on thick, corded muscle.  His scarred face, framed by his long ragged beard and hair, looked less aged then it had.

“I was hoping you’d come,” he called.

She swooped in and landed next to him.  “You told me you’d see me soon.”

“So I did.”

Kaira held out a hand.  “Can you teach me about this magic?” she asked.

He smiled, as if it was the question he had been waiting for.  “I can, indeed.”

Shoremont Keep

                  Soft torchlight flickered throughout the taproom of the small tavern. Save mine, every table was empty. Even the bar was deserted, the barkeep having left the room at my request. My requests were a promise of gold, followed by a threat of steel. The barkeep had only required the former.

                    Clustered around my table were four brothers and a single ebon skinned woman. All wore dark leathers over their black tunics. All were here because of my golden promises. All were thieves and killers.

                    “Why are we here, Tasson?” the woman said. Her name was unknown to the world; she was known as the Panther. She was a master thief, notorious for dangerous heists, and very expensive.

                    One of the brothers, Axus, opened his hand, and the fire from one of the torches floated to him and coalesced in his palm. “I’m here to help a friend,” he said, letting the flame write between his fingers. “I don’t know about you.”

                    The four brothers were elementals, mages with dominion over the elements. It was a rare gift, and for it to appear four times in one family was unheard of. Axus, the youngest, controlled fire, the eldest, Billus, controlled water, and the twins, Garus and Farus, held dominion over earth and air, respectively.

                    “The cat is here for her gold,” Billus said.

                    “Quiet, mage,” the Panther snapped, then, turning to me. “We all know the plan. Why did you call another meeting?”

                    “There’s been a change,” I said. “Suleth is being moved earlier than I had previously known. Everything must happen tonight.”

                    I paused as the news registered with everyone. The Panther took it silently, only a slight frown on her face, but the four brothers all objected loudly.

                    “We aren’t ready,” Farus said. “Billus and I haven’t had enough time.”

                    “Tonight?” Axus was incredulous. “Tasson, there is a feast in the castle tonight. The place will be crawling with guards. Is there no better time?”

                    “There is no other time at all. Suleth will be gone by tomorrow.”

                    Billus spoke up. “If there is truly no other chance, I would regret not taking it. I will follow you, Tasson, and I expect my brothers will do the same.”

                    The four brothers nodded their agreement, and I let out a sigh of relief. Each one of them was essential to my plan. Without them, I was doomed to fail.

                    I turned to the Panther, who had stayed conspicuously silent. “Are you still on board?” I asked her.

                    “Are you still paying me?”

**

                    Shoremont Keep rose high above the sea, a monolith of dark stone against the pale twilight. The keep had four thick round towers that rose high into the sky and, on the sea side, reaching low enough as to be buffeted by the waves. It was situated at the end of a narrow peninsula, with three gatehouses along the path.

                    This was the keep that I meant to break into.

                    My crew, excepting Axus, sat in a small boat, concealed by a mass of fog rolling in from the sea. It looked natural, but was far from it. Billus and Farus worked in tandem, pulling the fog over us like a grey blanket.

                    “We’ve been building it up offshore for the past couple of days,” Farus said. “We were hoping to have more, but by tonight this is the best we can do.”

                    It would be enough, I hoped. I could still see the outline of the keep, but with any luck the guards would be unable to spot our small black vessel.

                    “When are we getting started?” the Panther asked. She sat at the back of the boat, her black leathers wrapped in a heavy gray cloak. “The damp of this fog is starting to soak me though to the bone.”

                    “We have to wait until Axus give the signal,” I replied. “Have some patience.”

                    “You’re not paying me to have patience. You’re paying me to—“

                    She was interrupted by a flash of flame that outlined the castle in an orange glow.  It was the signal we had been waiting for, so, as soon as it appeared, Billus willed the waves into action.  They propelled our craft quickly and quietly towards the castle walls.

                    Axus’s fire had been our signal to move, but its purpose was twofold.  He had assaulted the first gatehouse, setting it ablaze, and drawing the keep’s guards towards his position.  As I drew nearer to the walls, I could no longer see their silhouettes standing watch.

                    Once we had climbed onto the rocky shore, Billus, Garus, and I lifted the boat out of the sea and started up towards the castle walls.  The Panther moved a step behind us, slinking along with the shadows.

                    Garus stepped up to the wall and put his palms on the dark stone.

                    “Are you sure you can do this?” Billus asked.

                    The Panther laughed.  “Is now really the time to ask that?  If he couldn’t do it, I would have liked to know before we made this the crux of our plan.”

                    Billus ignored her with a shake of his head.  “Can you?”

                    “Let’s hope so,” Garus said.

                    With a snort, the Panther stepped further back.

                    Garus closed his eyes and focused, a grimace on his face as he worked.  I sat for a moment as nothing happened and doubted.  What if this didn’t work?  I had no other options.

                    Then, with a deep rumble, the stone between Garus’s hands parted.  The noise wasn’t loud, but it resonated, as if a great roar was being muffled.

                    Garus fell to one knee, panting.  “That was as quiet as I could make it,” he said.  “I had to do it slowly, but there’s still a chance a guard heard it.”

                    I put a hand on his shoulder.  “You did well enough.”  In all honesty, he did better than I had hoped.  I would have been fine with an earthquake, as long as it gave me entrance to the keep.  I looked at the Panther and gestured towards the opening.  “Lead the way.”

                    The passage wasn’t large.  The Panther could make it through standing, but I had to bend over to follow her.  The three brothers stayed behind.  We followed it to the end, where it opened into a shadowy corridor lit by a single flickering torch.

                    As I stepped out, I ran into the Panther, who had dropped to a crouch.  In the poor light I could barely make her out as she sat watching the corridor.

                    “There aren’t any guards,” I said, and tried to move past her, but she grabbed my wrist in a vice-like grip and pulled me back.  She was much stronger than I had thought her to be, based on her size.

                    “This is my realm now, Tasson,” she said.  “Your job is gold and quick talking.  My job is steel and shadow.  And I can’t do my job if you go running ahead of me.  If you want to make it out tonight, alive and with Suleth, you follow me.”

                    I nodded, not wanting to make noise of any kind, and crouched down behind her.  After a few seconds, she began to move, fluid and silent on the stone floor.  She led me up into the higher levels of the keep, twice stopping me from stepping out into the view of a guard.  As we neared the top of the South Tower, I realized that I would never have made it without her.  She seemed to sense guards before they came into view, and a locked door was barely a hindrance to her.

                    We stopped just below the highest floor in the South Tower.  The top floor was a single room, I knew, and it was where Suleth was being held.  The only way in was a single trapdoor that was undoubtedly guarded on the other side.

                    “There’s no way around it,” I said, unsheathing my sword.  “We’ll have to burst through quickly.  A quiet fight would still leave us a chance to escape.”

                    The Panther put her hand on the tip of my blade and pushed it down.  “Now who is the impatient one?” she asked.  “There is always a way around.”  She turned and climbed out a window, her hands and feet expertly finding cracks in the stone.  “I’ll knock on the trapdoor when I’m ready for you to come through.”

                    I stood there for a few seemingly endless moments before I heard anything, then, a muffled thud.  Had that been the knock?  No, I decided, that had more likely been the sound of a falling body.

                    I heard two more thuds, and then a sharp rapping on wood.  I pushed open the trapdoor and climbed into the tower room.

                    It was nothing like the prison I had expected; it was one of the most mundane rooms I had ever seen.  There were four round windows, a low roof, and cracking walls, against which were piled crates and barrels.  A thin layer of dust covered everything, except for the three guards bleeding on the floor, their throats cut.

                    The Panther grabbed the front of my tunic and shoved me against the wall, livid.  I once again came to appreciate her deceptive strength.  “There is no one here, Tasson,” she growled.  “What is your game?”

                    “There is no game,” I replied, lifting my open hands.  “I’m as confused as you are.”

                    Suleth should have been in this room.  My source within the keep had been very clear.  My source…

                      As I heard raised voices and boots on the stairs below, everything fell into place.

                    “It’s a trap!” I said, and with all of my strength, flung the Panther out the southern-facing window.  She was surprised enough that I was able to do it, but I hoped I had been able to throw her far enough.  Before I had much time to dwell on my choice, I followed her.

                   The night air whipped at me as I fell towards the sea.  I hoped that I would be able to clear the rocky shore.  If not, this would be an embarrassing way to die, and I knew the Panther would haunt me through the ten hells.

                    Just before I hit the sea, water rushed up to meet me.  It curled around me and cushioned the impact, holding me in a swirling liquid orb.  Looking over, I saw Billus standing on the boat, focusing on another orb, this one holding the Panther.

                    As soon as we were on the boat, with Billus taking us speedily away from the keep, the Panther rounded on me.  “You bastard!” she shouted.  “You just threw me out a window!”

                    “It was how I had planned to leave all along.”  I tried to sound collected as I relayed my plan, but my shivering betrayed me.  “I never thought to have to do that.”

                    “Where is Suleth?” Billus asked.

                    “I don’t know,” I said.  I felt a cold rage sweep over me.  “He was never there.  I’ve been played.”

                    “I thought you said there was no game,” the Panther spat. “And yet your informant, whose identity you’ve never told us, betrayed you?”

                    “There has always been a game,” I said.  “It seems I just didn’t know who was playing.”

Ring of Bullets

I tightly gripped the barrel of my rifle as I settled down in the dirt and gazed over the ridge at the red desert sprawling before me. The landscape was a red and orange scene of mesas and plateaus, as if a god had taken a carving knife to the ground. The sunlight beat down relentlessly, hot and heavy on my back. A dusty road ran through the red cliffs, with intervals of shade where the rock walls blocked the sun.

I would have given my best gun to be in the shade, but Castro had ordered the crew to lay prone on the ridge atop the Mesa. It was the best ambush spot in the Drylands, he said. And if the stories about their quarry were true, they would need every advantage.

The Red Sun Sons were the best bounty hunters in the Drylands. It had been Castro’s idea—the gang and the name. The gang was an excellent idea, we were all rich and dangerous—everything a man could hope to be out in this waste. The name…well, an infant could have come up with a better one. Castro thought that the double meaning of son and sun was magnificently clever. It wasn’t.

Normally we took bounties alone and returned with the gold. If the target was especially dangerous, sometimes we would go tandem. Never before had any more than three of us been on one hunt together, but five of us lay atop the dusty mesas, our rifles trained on the road below us. Castro hadn’t even wanted the job, but Ray had forced the issue.

“We didn’t become the most feared hunters in the Drylands by shying away from the tough jobs,” he had argued, and he had been right. The Red Sun Sons had taken down some of the most notorious bandits and some of the most powerful lawmakers. As long as the gold was good, no prey was off limits for us.

If that was the case though, why did five of the most dangerous men in the Drylands demand a king’s ransom before taking this job? Why were our palms so slick with sweat, making it difficult to keep our rifles from slipping? It wasn’t greed, and it wasn’t the sun.

We had been in place for over an hour when he approached on his white horse, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face and a short beige poncho draped over his shoulders. As he grew nearer, I could see a pistol on either hip, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and a long sword hanging from his saddle. His skin was deeply tanned, and he sported a scruffy black beard, and he was entirely underwhelming.

This was the man that had required five of our best to hunt?  The legendary Whiteshot, who was seven feet tall and impervious to bullets? The bandit who had single-handedly created ghost towns?  I glanced towards Ray, who lay 20 meters to my left, and raised my arms questioningly. He nodded once before settling the stock of his rifle into his shoulder and returning his attention to the rider.  I took a deep breath and aimed my own rifle. My breath came easier, and my palms felt drier. This I could do. The man before me was no god, just a bandit the like of whom I had dealt with before, on my own, without the luxury of an ambush.

We allowed him to enter the pass. That was the plan: fire from the top of the cliffs on either side, from all angles. I pulled at the brim of my hat to shade my eyes squinted down the sight of my gun.  Whiteshot entered the pass at a slow canter, and I began to count. Three seconds from when he entered, Castro had said.

Three…

I lined up the rider in my sights.

Two…

I cocked back the hammer.

One…

Five men fired in unison, an earsplitting crack running through the air as the shots discharged.  Our quarry didn’t even have time to duck.  It was a perfect ambush.

As it turns out, Whiteshot didn’t need time to duck.  He didn’t even have to lift a finger.  The five bullets, one moment speeding towards him, suddenly stopped, hovering in the air a meter from his body, sunlight glinting off the bright steel.  He was surrounded by a ring of bullets, completely unharmed.  They started to rotate around him, still suspended in the air.

My original fear was nothing compared to what I felt now.  I was facing a man who could stop bullets midair.  It was worse than the rumors, because I knew it to be true.

Ray was a braver man than I, because he fired a second shot before I even thought to raise my gun again.  His bullet joined the others, but the shot gave away his location.  Two of the bullets left their orbit and sped towards him, faster than a shot from any gun.  They tore through his head and he collapsed dead to the dust.

As I fumbled with my gun, my other companions fired again.  Castro, Tom, Mick—all met the same end as Ray.  I watched as they were killed by their own bullets, held immobile by the sickening realization that the hunters had become the hunted.

I never fired a second shot.  I lay silently as he continued through the pass, my one bullet still circling him.  It wasn’t until nightfall that I found the courage to move, but I haven’t stopped moving since.  I lay in the grip of terror, but I will never again let it control me.

I still hunt him, because I made a deal.  In the Drylands, two things are sacred—your gun and your word.  I gave my word, and now my gun will see it through.  I am a Red Sun Son, and we always finish the job.

The River’s Mask (Arden #3)

Read the rest of Arden’s story here.

Arden looked up from his cups as the fishermen entered the Hobbled Harpist; three of them, their clothes soaked and torn. One was a haggard looking old man, muscled from years of plying his trade along the river. The other two were young enough to be his sons; one skinny but healthy looking, the other tall and heavy, with bloody scrapes on his arms and knees and a half-drowned look about him.

Jon set aside his dishrag and crossed to them. It was just past midday, so the common room was empty, most of the town being hard at work. “What happened, Jaron?” Jon asked, helping the bloody fisherman into a chair.

Jaron, the old fisherman, took a seat before taking a deep breath and beginning. “We were out on the river, good day for it too, our nets were full. We were getting ready to bring our catch in early when they came.”

“River pirates,” the thin man spat.

“They boarded quickly,” Jaron continued. ” We didn’t have any choice but to jump overboard. Bracken’s crew wasn’t as lucky.”

They were indeed lucky. Arden had seen the rafts and small fishing boats that plied the river. He often thought they were lucky not to capsize. None of the fishermen stood a chance against an armed boarding party.

“We set up our nets where the river was at its narrowest, upstream from here. They came from the river and shore at once. We let the river carry us back to Crickhall, but Hus here was hurt when the current threw him against the rocks of the river bed. Taro and I had to carry him here.”

Arden looked at Taro’s slight build and imagined Jaron must have done most of the lifting.

Jon fetched bandages from behind his bar. “We’ve had pirates here before,” he said, applying them to Hus’s wounds. “I’ll send Gorden up to Kingston tomorrow morning, have him fetch some militiamen. Pirates will usually lay low for a while after an attack.”

“These weren’t any regular pirates,” Jaron said. “They were led by a man in an iron mask, forged in a demon’s appearance.”

Arden had been watching Jon apply bandages to Hus, but now whipped around to stare at Jaron.  Are you sure?” he asked.

“Sure as the sun rises.”

A series of images–memories–flashed before Arden’s eyes. The sign outside the Hobbled Harpist shorn in half; flame licking at the splintered wood.  A man stepped into view, masked in a demon’s visage. The flickering flames danced over his dark iron mask and the broad head of his wicked, curved axe.

“Don’t send Gorden in the morning,” Arden said. “Send him tonight.”

“Is it that serious, Arden?” Jon asked. “He caught us by surprise last time, he won’t be able to do damage like that again.”

“It’s more serious than you know.”

“Who is this pirate,” asked Taro, “and why do you fear him so?”

Arden emptied his mug with a long drink. “He calls himself the River’s Mask. He’s vicious, greedy, and utterly without mercy. And he’s proud.”

“What does his pride have to do with anything?” Taro asked. “It’s his blade we have to worry about.”

“His pride matters because it’s what drives him. He wears the mask because it helps him build a reputation. When I defeated him, I took a shit on that reputation.”

“Why do you know so much about a river pirate, Arden?” Jaron asked, suspicious.

“I make it my business to know my enemies. That way I know what they mean to do. The Mask didn’t show much interest in your fish, did he?”

“No,” Hus put in. “Cut them away like they were worthless.”

“A waste,” Jaron interjected.

“How did you know?” Hus continued.

“The Mask doesn’t care about loot this time around. His fight is personal, revenge for his loss. It means he’ll be more rash that otherwise.”

“And you plan to exploit this,” Jon said. It was not a question.

“Send Gorden to Kingston,” Arden said.  “If he rides hard and the militiamen listen they should return by tomorrow night or the morning after. In either case, I intend to greet them with the Mask’s head.”

*

Arden stood at the front of the raft as Jaron and Hus poled it along. They were far upstream from Crickhall, where the river narrowed and trees grew densely on either bank, giving shade to the water’s edges. “Is this where you were attacked?” he asked, without turning around.

“We’re nearing the spot,” Jaron called, ” but I don’t see why they’d stay here. Most pirates go to ground after an attack.”

No sooner than he spoke, small boat with a reinforced prow came rushing around a curve in the river.

“These aren’t most pirates.”

The steel prow of the other boat opened a massive hole in the raft, and water immediately washed over the deck. Arden was thrown into the river.
The water was a shocking cold, and forced the breath from his lungs. Arden surfaced quickly, gasping down sweet air, and kicked out for the shore. Grabbing a protruding root, he pulled himself from the river and onto the muddy bank. He saw the fishermen doing the same, Hus with some help from the other two.

The pirates’ boat slid onto the bank beside him, and the Mask leapt to the ground. He was taller than Arden remembered, but his axe was as wickedly sharp as ever. The other pirates moved to surround Arden, but the Mask waved them back.

Arden smiled; that’s what he had been counting on.

“Come back to lose again, have you?” Arden taunted as he rose to his feet, drawing his sword.

The Mask answered with a swing of his broad-bladed axe.

Arden’s confidence swelled as the fight began. The Mask was an even worse fighter than he remembered. His strikes were clumsy and rage-filled, easy for Arden to avoid.  He danced past one blow and thrust downward, his blade cutting through the Mask’s calf and sinking into the mud.

The Mask screamed in pain, and that’s when Arden knew he had failed. He knew the Mask’s voice, he had been hearing it in his head since learning of his presence, and the scream he was now hearing was not the same voice.

“You never were one to be cautious.” That was the right voice, but it was behind him. He felt a flash of searing pain as a blade opened his back from shoulder to hip.

He hit the ground and rolled over, allowing the cold mud to soothe the terrible cut.
His brother stepped over him, without his mask, his face scarred and burnt.

Read the rest of Arden’s story here.

 

Sunset

My killer stood before me, silhouetted by the setting sun. The light made him faceless, a shadow with sword in hand, ringed in fire. His blade was wicked and curved, icy steel that seemed to leech the radiance from the sun behind him. He called the blade Night.

I took my sword in hand. It was long and straight, spotted with rust and nicked upon the edge. It was the blade that was supposed to have killed a king.

On my surcoat, a golden sun crested a distant horizon. It was meant to be a rising sun, but now it seemed to be setting.

A crowd was gathered in a wide circle around us, stomping their feet and calling for blood. I could hear the prince address them in his high, nasally voice. “This man before us stands accused of killing my father, our late King. He has been given, as is his right, a trial by combat. If he is innocent, may he prove it now in the sight of gods and men. If he is guilty, may he die painfully.”

This was no trial. The crowd knew it. I knew it. The prince and his champion knew it. This was an execution by combat. The charade angered me. The prince would never allow me to win, this facade just made a mockery of justice. No doubt the prince had ordered his champion to make my death long and excruciating.

The sun dipped further behind the horizon as I stepped forward and raised my sword. The sky was darkening quickly.

The executioner raised his curved blade, and my trial began. We fought back and forth, locked in a dance of death, moving to the rhythm of the crowd’s stomping feet. Swords flashed, steel, clashed, and the crowd cheered as each blow fell.

My death was a show to them; I let that fuel me.

I beat my killer back, scoring cuts across his pauldrons and chest plate. I thrust my sword at his hip, and the tip came away bloody. A hush fell over the crowd. I couldn’t turn from the fight to see the prince, but I imagined him white with fear. Then I imagined him dead.

For a moment, the sun burned bright.

He righted himself, and caught my next stroke on his cross guard. He began to move slowly forward, raining blows upon me and forcing me steadily back. I parried most of them, but one cut my shoulder, and another opened my arm from shoulder to elbow.

The sun was further eclipsed. My enemy was no longer surrounded by a burning brand, but faintly outlined with a dim yellow glow.

He slashed at my hamstring, and I fell to my knee, my breath labored.

The last rays of light painted the sky.

I raised my sword above my head, and he struck it with a flurry of savage blows until he beat it from my hand and sent it skittering across the ground.

The sun set, his sword rose, and Night fell.

Songs From The Hobbled Harpist (Arden #2)

Snorts snorted as the cart rolled into Crickhall under the bright afternoon sun.  He snorted again as Arden brought the cart to a stop in front of a tavern along the main street, and once more when Arden hopped down from the cart and ran a hand along the old horse’s flank.

“Well done, old boy.”  Given Snort’s advanced age and slight limp, it was impressive that they had made it all the way to Crickhall from their home in the forest.

Arden turned and entered the tavern, which a newly painted sign identified as The Hobbled Harpist.  The taproom was small, with a bar along the far wall and the room cluttered with round wooden tables.  An old man in a worn leather apron stood behind the bar cleaning glasses.  His hair was shot through with grey, and his shirt, rolled up to his elbows, revealed wiry forearms crossed with scars.

“Arden!” he exclaimed, looking up from the counter as the door opened.  “To what to I owe the pleasure?”

“I decided it was time to come sell some furs,” Arden said.  “It’s been a while since I’ve been into town, Jon.”

Jon nodded.  “One hundred and four days,” he said.  “Would’ve been better if you had made it one hundred and three, though.  You won’t be able to get a stall in the market this late in the day.”

“I ran into trouble on the road.”

Jon looked up as if to ask about it, then seemed to think better of it.  He slid Arden a glass of water.  “I’ll see if I can scrounge up some food for you.  You look like you could use some.”

“How much will that cost me?” Arden asked, reaching for his coin-purse.

“Nothing at all,” Jon called as he disappeared back into the kitchen.  “Not after what you did for me last time you were here.”

Arden returned his purse to his belt and turned to observe the room.  It seemed that the Harpist was doing well.  A new stage for performers had been erected in the corner, and iron-and-glass lamps hung from the walls, whereas they hadn’t during his last visit.  What had Jon said, one hundred and four days?  It must have been; Jon never forgot a date.

“You won’t have to pay for a single thing while you’re here,” Jon said, entering with a bowl of hot soup.  “You have done me service worth a lifetime of meals and rooms.  Those bandits almost robbed me blind, but you and that gimpy old horse ran them off.  What was his name?”

Arden cracked a smile. “Snorts.”

“Yes, that was it!  Should’ve remembered that, there’s nothing you could say that that horse wouldn’t have answered with a snort.  Whatever happened to that old nag?”

“He’s still with me,” Arden said, gesturing towards the street with his spoon.  “I’ll need a place for him and the cart.”

“I’ll get my boy Gorden to bring them both around back.  I was able to get a small stable built.”

“It would seem that life has been treating you well in the past one hundred and four days.”

“It has indeed.  I’ve had to break up a few fights, those accounted for some of these scars here, but that’s to be expected.  Fights are good for business.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Arden finished his soup and Jon continued his cleaning.

“I’m going to have to pay you somehow,” Arden said. “It might take me a while to get these furs sold, and I don’t want you to lose too much money.”

“Nonsense.  I’m doing well enough as to afford it.  You don’t have to pay a thing.”

“All the same, I’d like to.  Do you still have that old lute?”

“Of course I do,” Jon said.

“I’ll play for my keep, then.  An hour or two every night.”

Jon face lit up in a wide smile.  “That’ll do nicely,” he said.  “You know, I used to play a bit myself.  I was rather good until I broke some of my fingers in a fight.  I reckon I could have made a profession out of it.”  He sighed.  “Go up to your room whenever you’re ready.  Last one at the end of the hall.  Gorden will bring up your things.”

 

***

Arden woke up well past dark, the moonlight streaming through his open window and casting odd shadows on the floor.  His white chest sat in the corner by the door; presumably Jon’s boy had brought it up.  The rest of the room was simply furnished, all worn wood and rustic colors.

Arden rose and walked to the door.  He could hear the muffled sounds of a crowded taproom, the shouting and laughing that usually accompanied drinking.  He stepped into the hall and locked the door behind him, then made his way down the stairs.

The taproom was full to bursting, all of the tables taken, and the rest of the patrons crowded around the bar.  Arden was able to locate Jon through the crowd, and the tavern owner waved him over.

“You can start to play in a few minutes,” he said.  “The lute’s back behind the bar.”

Arden fetched the old instrument, and then made his way to the small stage in the corner.  As he was tuning it, he noticed an old man seated near him, bent over his cup.

“Any requests?” he asked.

The old man looked up from his drink.  “Start with something slow, son.  Something sad and sweet.”

Arden nodded once. “Maybe I’ll end with that,” he said.

He scanned the room before he began to play. The tavern was full, and he could pick up some snippets of conversation.

“Did you and the rest of your boys finally catch up with Jode?” one man asked.

His friend, whose clothes marked him as part of the local militia, shook his head.  “We just found him and one of his ruffians dead on the road this morning.  Jode got his throat cut.”

“That’s what he deserved, preying on honest merchants like me.  I didn’t spend my whole life learning about trade to be bankrupted by some brigands.”

A few tables down, one of Jon’s serving girls talked incessantly to another man, who was too deep in his cups to be paying attention.  “It’s an outrage,” she said.  “Our militias say that they can’t protect us from these bandits, and then two of them just turn up dead.  And their leader no less!  The mayor needs to invest in better guards instead of spending his coin on a new dock.”

The man she was talking to just nodded slowly, his eyelids drooping.

Arden finished tuning the lute, and plucked the strings experimentally.  Their noise was pleasant, if slightly off tune.  He struck up a tune, one that was greeted with a roar of approval from the crowd.  It was a common tavern song, one with a simple melody and memorable chorus.  It was the kind of song that accompanied good food and drink, and the patrons immediately picked up the rhythm, stomping out the beat with their boots.

He then began “The Dog and his Daughter”, a song about a young girl that had been raised by dogs and was trying to find a human mate.  The chorus was nothing more than barking along with the lute and the crowd joined in enthusiastically.

He played well into the night.  By the time he was finished, the old man next to him had fallen asleep at the table, his request forgotten.  Most of the crowd had left, returning to their homes or their rooms upstairs.  At one point during the night, a young man with fiery red hair had come inside, his nose broken and his leg bandaged.  He had tried to eat his meal unobtrusively, but Arden had noticed.  The young man was one of the last to leave, and he left the largest tip in the small jar on the stage.

Jon approached him after the last song, a smile on his face.  “That was great,” he said.  “You’re almost as good as I was back in the day.  Five years and sixteen days, and my fingers have never had the same speed.”

“I’m sure you could still draw a crowd.”

“Probably, but not like you did.”  Jon emptied out the tip jar and handed Arden the coins.  “That’s the largest crowd I’ve had in a long while.  I almost had to ask Rona to serve drinks instead of letting her complain to everyone.”

“I’m glad I could find a way to pay for my room,” Arden said.

“Will you be playing tomorrow night?”

“If you’re in the mood for a melody, then yes.”

 

Read more about Arden here.