THE BLADE’S BARGAIN

THE BLADE’S BARGAIN, by Robert Luke Wilkins, with audio by The Bard

 

 

Savander and the First Blades screamed out from the line of date-palms and swept into the oasis on camel-back, past the wooden placards painted with the green eye of Inari the Trickster. The cultists panicked, three dozen peasant men and women with swords and axes, but their cheap armor was no match for the First’s blade-magic, which cleaved through it like paper. Savander, at the fore, rode down the robed leader–a middle-aged, handsome man who raised a pointed finger at Savander as he closed.

“You are lost men,” the priest called. “Slaves to powers that care not about you! But Inari loves you, and waits at the Caves of the Moon! He promises–”

The man’s argument faltered when Savander’s back-cut relieved his neck of his head, and ended his heretic lies. Soon after, his body burned with the others in a great pyre.

The smoke choked out the sweet aroma of the date-palms, and Savander watched it clouding the sky above the tranquil pools.

As his lieutenant Ahmed approached, Savander gestured at the water.

“I came here once, years ago. It was quiet–beautiful.”

“It will be again, once the fires die. But I’ll be glad to leave this place today.”

Ahmed went to fill his canteen from the pools. Savander pulled his own free, but paused to look back at the pyre. Why anyone would turn from Joran and the Nine Gods to follow such a creature as Inari–

From behind a date-palm, Savander saw the glint of an arrow-head, and caught the shadow of a cultist drawing down on Ahmed.

Savander’s left hand came up and clenched into a fist–the cultist’s eyes widened in shock as his chest crumpled, as though struck by a boulder.

Stupid!

The bandit’s crushed body collapsed–but Savander fell with him. Pain and fire flooded his abdomen as his vision faded, and shadows swam towards him. A hand reached for him, but as he tried to reach for it, he stumbled again, fell…

 

###

 

The pain woke him.

Sharp pain, terrible pain–but he was alive, which was more than he should have been. He was no full Magician, no matter what he had once hoped, and to use magic like that had been rank foolishness.

He lay on a stone bed, covered with straw–tried to sit up, but grunted and sank back down. Too weak. He closed his eyes, and felt his abdomen with his fingers–it felt hollow where the magic had devoured him. He’d been lucky. Much more, and he’d have needed a pyre of his own.

“Ah, you are awake,” said a thunderous voice, and the giant Yushua stepped into the room. Six and a half feet tall, with a waistline even larger, he could have seemed a lazy glutton, like one of the fat cross-legged merchants in the bazaar. But Savander had seen him after battle, stripped of fat by his sorcery. On those days, as he stood tented in loose skin, the hard muscle was visible beneath. Beneath the bulk lay a man of great strength, and greater discipline.

And still greater fortune.

Savander bit back his envy. Yushua was a great man–the greatest Magician the Empire had ever known.

“How long has it been?”

“Nine days. I feared you lost! I would have hated to lose you to such…”  He spat. “Such dogs. But Ahmed owes you his life.”

Savander shook his head.

“It was foolish. I didn’t think.”

“Foolish perhaps, but your instincts served you well, and nobly. Without them, Ahmed would be lost. He commands the Blades while you rest.”

“I should–” He tried to sit again, but collapsed, and Yushua raised a hand.

“Rest, man! The Unduhari horsemen have been quelled by diplomacy, and all else in the Empire is quiet–she will await your return. Be still, my friend, and recover! We will all be glad to welcome you back when your strength returns.”

 

###

 

Savander trained as much as he dared. Push-ups, squats, hand-stand presses, and drills with his silver-inlaid saber and circular Chakram throwing-blade all helped drive the lead from his limbs.

When he rested, he sat often on the ledge of the tall window that overlooked the Magicians’ Temple. Its slender, twisted spires cast thin shadows over Al-Amasri, the Jahari capital. A great stone bridge approached it, across a hundred-foot deep ravine filled with jagged stones. It stopped short by twenty feet, its end a stone square around a raised stone platform, and the remaining span could be spanned by lowering the Temple’s great drawbridge. It was home to Yushua, old man Allehar and the other Magicians–and Savander had walked through the mighty gateway in his dreams more times than he could count.

But he never would in life.

He sat, now, hand outstretched, palm up. His saber hovered above it, its point an inch above his palm as it rotated in a slow, steady circle.

The first Gift was telekinesis–and the second was focus. Savander concentrated on the saber, and it lowered until the point brushed his skin, then slowed, stopped, and reversed its spin, all without even a tremor. Two gifts of three, he had–but two was not enough.

Savander set the saber aside, stood, and stood naked in front of the long mirror in the corner. Even after nine days unconscious and unfed, his muscle remained well defined. His biceps were thick, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow. Only the hollowed abdomen betrayed any weakness. For a warrior, the Gods could scarcely have granted him a better body.

But for a Magician? A death-sentence.

Magic consumed the flesh. The sword trick was easy, a cantrip. But to exert real power, or to act at a distance, took far more. And the more you drew, the more flesh was consumed.

He had eaten entire banquets under the Watchers’ close eyes. He’d gorged until he retched and vomited, eaten and drunk until the pain left him curled up in tears. He had knelt for hours at the shrines, had prayed to Joran and the Nine Gods, begged them for this final Gift. But he had never put on more than a few wretched pounds, which disappeared in days.

He returned to the window, and looked out at the great drawbridge. Of blackened ironwood and inlaid with silver, it was raised for now. But if a man stepped onto the platform with enough weight to trip the mechanism, and could turn the three concentric wheels of the engraved silver lock above the gatehouse, the drawbridge would lower.

For Savander, it would remain closed.

But his physique and agility had made him a formidable swordsman, and he had turned the gifts into blade-magic, enough for a simple sword to cleave even the hardest armor. He had joined the First Blades at sixteen, and at thirty-three had become their commander. He had led them now for over a decade. Outside of war, the First Blades served as the bodyguards of Yushua, the greatest Magician in their history–and a man could take pride in that.

His white, gold-trimmed uniform hung on a wooden frame in the corner–and his desire to wear it again burned bright. He crouched to the floor, and began more push-ups.

 

###

 

Ahmed visited often, and brought foods Nashwa had prepared.

“She’s been cooking for me too,” said Ahmed, and patted his stomach. “Typical, isn’t it? Too scrawny to be a Magician, but still the fattest Blade. The others have started calling me Chakram.” Savander laughed, and Ahmed smiled. “It’s your fault, you know! Worry will give a man a ferocious appetite.”

“My apologies,” said Savander with a bow, and patted his own hollowed abdomen. “If I’m lucky, Nashwa’s food will do the same for me. I need every bite I can get.”

Savander returned to the Blades before he should have, but they cheered his welcome, and he was glad to no longer be confined to a sick-room. They watched over Yushua as the giant walked Al-Amasri’s streets, met with the high and powerful, counselled the Emperor, and had several not-so-secret trysts with the Princess Hanaya. Savander still needed time to fully recover, but he felt whole again in the company of his men.

Ahmed, however, was more than whole.

“I’m beginning to think Nashwa likes me this way. She keeps serving me extra–and damn if I can refuse. She slapped me the other day, and giggled when my belly wobbled.”

As more days passed, Ahmed’s muscular midriff vanished behind fat. Jokes amongst the Blades turned to whispered questions, and then Yushua took notice. He approached Ahmed, slapped his stomach, and smiled.

“Well look at this! I fancy we’ll soon have a new Magician in our number.”

Ahmed looked thunderstruck.

“No–I mean, it’s not. It can’t be.”

“Oh, you think not? Such a thing happened to Ullathar the Double-Bladed, after all.” Yushua laughed. “The Gods must have answered your prayers, my friend! Or perhaps you have been treating with darker forces?”

He slapped him and laughed again, and the other Blades joined in on the joke. Nobody paid any mind to Savander as he stood off to the side, wearing a forced smile.

 

###

 

Damn the Gods!

He’d knelt and prayed to Joran and the Nine, he’d made offerings, he’d given devotion long after his faith faltered–but they had all been deaf to his pleas. Instead, they had gifted it to his brother-in-arms who didn’t even want it!

“I’m not ready,” said Ahmed, as they stood guard together. “I never wanted to be a Magician! I wanted to be a Blade, ever since I was a boy. And Nashwa…”

Ahmed worried on that his wife would no longer find him attractive, but Savander knew she’d wanted this, even if he hadn’t.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll see, I promise.”

As he knelt before the shrine in his room that night, drowned in bitterness, Savander hated himself, hated his jealousy. Ahmed was a good man–his best friend, and the best of his Blades. He would make a fine Magician.

But Savander would have made a better one. He’d only ever wanted to serve the Empire, to give them his all! But all his life, the Gods had denied him the chance to truly harness his potential. He grabbed the clay idol of Joran–but before he could throw it, Yushua’s words whispered back from his memory.

Darker forces.

He returned the idol to its place, and turned it to face away. The idea was nonsense. Even if such dark beings did exist, then what fool would choose them, and in doing so, set himself against the Gods?

But thoughts of the dark pilgrimage lingered.

Each day, he left the clay idol faced away from him, and each day, the Gods tested him with forbidden hope. Each day he resisted, but despite that, each day, he crept closer to accepting that he would make the journey.

At last, he asked Yushua for time to travel on a family matter.

“Go, and take care of what you must,” the giant told him. “The Unduhari hold to the peace, and the Jahari Empire can afford your absence for a few days! But your men are stronger when you are with them. I will await your return.”

Savander packed swiftly, left Ahmed in command of the Blades, and set off.

 

###

 

He rode north on camel-back, towards the small town of Balla, his family’s ancestral home. But once Al-Amasri’s walls had faded from sight, he turned east towards the Black Mountains and the Caves of the Moon.

Folk had long called it an evil place, but folk were fools, and snakes soon became dragons on such tongues. While some spoke of witches, and legends gave life to devils and evil spirits, Savander suspected only bears and jackals. It was stupidity to ride there, and foolishness to expect to find anything. Even the journey, if it were known, might be enough to brand him a heretic.

Yet still he rode through the darkness of the new-moon night.

Two and a half days later, he reached the foothills. It was late afternoon, and the Caves of the Moon punctured their flesh as a dozen ugly, open wounds, their mouths dark with shadow from the sun overhead–and regardless of whether spirits or bears might lie within, the sunlight was a welcome ally. Savander tied his camel up to a dead bristle-tree, and entered the nearest cave.

It was barren.

No sign of people, either recent or long-gone–so much for witches and devils! Nor any animals, plants, or even lichen. The cave was dead. He struck a torch to light, and explored it as far as it went, far beyond where the sunlight reached–then searched four more, each as lifeless as the last.

It was rumor, nothing more.

He’d known it, deep down–but relief swept over him anyway, and the resentment he had felt seemed to vanish here, in this strange, dead place. After all, he was luckier than most–and Ahmed would make a fine Magician. He had a good heart, and was a true servant of the Empire. When he got back, he decided, he’d clap him on the shoulder and buy him a drink–or many. Damnit, he’d get him so drunk he couldn’t walk!

He laughed at the thought, and returned to the cave-mouth. He’d ridden hard, and had need of rest. There was no sign of bears or wolves to fear, and the caves would make good shelter for the night.

He sat alone and quiet until nightfall, ate a little dried meat, fed his camel, made up a small fire near the entrance, and slept.

 

###

 

“It won’t come cheap.”

Savander sat bolt upright in the dark. His heart raced with adrenaline, and turned to the voice. The fire’s embers illuminated a shadow–a man, perhaps, but his instincts screamed otherwise. He tried to seek out its shape in the dark–was it a man? A bear? A witch? He tried to stare at where he imagined a face might be, but could see nothing. Just a shadow that lingered, only half-way formed.

“What won’t?”

“What you dream of.” The shadow flickered, and though it didn’t move, it seemed closer. “The reason you journeyed here, sought me out. The gift you lack.”

It was real–real, despite his doubts. He hadn’t expected an answer, but now that one was so close, did he truly want it? After all, if this was real, then…

The shadow laughed–a thin, hissing sound.

“Oh, the Gods are real enough. But do you think the lives of men matter to them? You must feel their indifference. They will neither judge nor aid you.”

“And what of you?”

“Indeed, what of me. Outcast, ignored, forgotten, shunned. And you know my name, Commander of the First Blades. You guessed it, though you wish to be wrong.”

“Then speak it.”

“I am Inari, the Trickster. And you sit here, now, a heretic–and you slew so many heretics!” More hissing laughter.

“I am no heretic!” Savander stood. “I am–”

“A good man, oh yes, a loyal Imperial. Nor do I hold your butchery in the oasis against you. My followers come and go, yet I remain. And I listen to your prayers, where the Gods pretend deafness. Do you think people turn to me from some great mistake in judgment? The Gods are cold, indifferent to men. But to me, you are as my children.”

“You abandoned your children, to fall beneath our blades.”

“You are all my children, you and your First Blades just as much as much as those who you slew. I give gifts, I offer aid, and I answer prayers. But I take no sides when my children squabble.” When the voice next spoke, it had a light, amused tone. “And here you stand still, with no desire to run and embrace your indifferent Gods. You suspect I speak the truth, do you not? You know they turned from you, long before you chose to turn their idol. And you are curious, despite it all. I know what you wish to know, but you must ask.”

Savander’s breath caught as he fought to steady his voice.

“What is the price?”

It hissed, a sound that lingered even when it spoke.

“Different for each, according to their need and their measure–but for you, and for this, it is no small one. Tell me, how many men have you killed?”

Silence lingered, and the shadow laughed again.

“Your arm has been busy, and true! But for a gift such as this, your sword must be turned to a darker purpose.”

The word darker carried menace and glee, and echoed in the cave after all other words had faded.

“Tell me the price,” said Savander at last. In the shadows, he felt certain Inari was smiling.

 

###

 

Two days later, he lingered in the desert.

He had left the caves behind, and ridden back towards Al-Amasri–but after a few hours he had stopped and made camp, a short ride from the nearest oasis.

He needed time to think. He hated the answer Inari had given him, but the words still echoed.

“You will have until the next full moon to claim the gift. To do so, you must slay one who has it.”

He’d wanted to think it a lie, befitting Inari’s nature–but something in the demon’s voice had convinced him it spoke true. And though Savander’s mind had gone at once to the fat bazaar merchants, Inari had just laughed.

“You cannot kill just any fat sluggard you find. Bereft of magic, it is not the gift you seek.”

Savander had turned and ridden away while the demon laughed. It was repugnant to any honourable man. And yet the idea had reined him back in.

After all, it could be any Magician…

Consider Allehar. A great magician, but a spiteful and venomous man–and how old was he now? Gone eighty, certainly, perhaps even ninety? How long could he expect to live? And if Savander became a Magician in his stead, the Empire would be strengthened for years to come. It was cold, but the truth of it rang in him. Maybe it was even the loyal thing for him to do.

He considered the others. The three neophytes were all under twenty-five. Yushua, the giant, was still young, and the greatest Magician in their history. Last of all was Ahmed, who…

No–no. He would not consider it. But Allehar…

When at last he mounted his camel again, he rode on hard, and rested little the next two nights. Back within Al-Amasri’s walls, though, as he watched the old man walking the streets, the desert’s clarity evaporated like morning dew. He imagined catching him alone in an alley, sliding his silver blade through the old man’s ribs–and the thought twisted his stomach into knots, his honor gone to rot.

The memory of the conjured dream tasted sour, and he marched away along the city streets, trying to leave it behind him as so much smoke. But was it not worth the sacrifice, to trade his honor for the good of the Empire? After all, though they would build statues to Allehar, few would miss the man himself. And in his stead, a new Magician would walk alongside the others. That his own dream would become true was incidental, wasn’t it?

He felt dizzy, as though falling into a dream, and walked faster to try and escape the idea. He should never have ridden to the Caves of the Moon! It had been simpler before. He could scream at the world’s injustice with all his fury, but he had endured it, and believed it for the good of the Empire. But now? Damnation faced him twice over, whether he acted or not.

Yet still, he had three weeks until the full moon. Time enough for his heart, his loyalties, to become clear.

 

###

 

“Commander–Savander! To arms!”

Savander woke to Ahmed’s cry, and he sat up bleary-eyed in the dark as the lieutenant pushed open the door.

“What is it?”

“It’s war! The Unduhari broke the peace. They sent back our diplomat, beheaded and quartered. We have been ordered to march as guards to Yushua.”

The First Blades marched out, and three days later, they formed battle-lines near a muddy riverbed, just beyond where the desert bordered the Unduhari plains. The main forces advanced to the fore, the Emperor amongst their number, but the First Blades stood with the Magicians a short distance behind. The horizon glowed with the light of approaching dawn, and a waxing half-moon lit the sky. Ahmed stood alongside Savander, the lieutenant now round in the face and broad in the stomach.

“It’s nothing but a bother,” Ahmed muttered. “My sword arm’s still quick enough, but my balance is shot to hell.” He clapped his swollen belly, which wobbled at the impact. “This damn thing is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Your arm will see you through. Stay close to me, you’ll be fine.”

Savander hoped that would be true. For today, Ahmed remained with the Blades, but all the other Magicians had gathered for the battle. The youngest, barely eighteen, was squat and baby-faced, and the other two neophytes looked little older. They gathered and marched north-west to support the wing, while Yushua and old-man Allehar remained behind in the center, wearing belted robes and short, silver-scabbareded swords that would likely see no use.

But Allehar, carried to battle by his retinue atop a gilded red litter, looked ill. His face was stern and his eyes sharp, but his skin looked sickly-yellow. Savander leaned close to Ahmed.

“He looks sick.”

“Crimson lung.” Ahmed kept his voice low. “Yushua told me.”

Crimson lung. It was a death-sentence.

Savander looked to the moon. Three weeks were gone, and four days yet remained before Inari’s deadline. He still had time. And now, would not a swift, clean death be a kindness? There was even some honor in the act, if he only had the stomach now to do it.

And he knew there would be a chance for him. The Unduhari Horsemen had no magicians of their own but had easily slain the enchanters of the southern tribes, trusting to their skill with spear, sword, and bow–and perhaps thought to find the Jahari magicians no more formidable.

They would soon learn otherwise. By the battle’s end, Savander knew it would be the Jahari who stood victorious, as ever–but before then, there would be chaos. And somewhere amidst it all, he needed the Horsemen to give him one golden moment to exploit.

 

###

 

As the dawn sun rose, the battle began in thunder. Armored camels thundered into war-horses, lances and spears struck shields, swords rang out as they struck metal, and arrows hissed up into the air and rained back down as death.

Savander stood with Ahmed to his right, their swords ready as Yushua and Allehar wove their spells. The air rippled around them, as though boiling–but Savander could feel the warmth being stolen from the air, and frost began to kiss the grass around his feet.

Then Yushua opened his hands and pressed his palms forwards.

Savander heard the screams and felt the ground tremble. This was how the Jahari secured their Empire! Yushua’s sorcery thundered out into the enemy, while Allehar’s magics lashed out as rapid-fire hate.

Savander’s sword shifted, light and impatient in his hand. Very soon, if they had not already, the Unduhari would recognize the true threat–and once they did, like all armies who had come before them, they would make a move to try and slay the great Magicians now laying waste to their army.

And as though summoned by the thought, from the east, the horsemen came.

Savander heard the thunder of their hooves, looked up, and muttered a curse. The horsemen came, now, but all from Yushua’s side, and towards Savander and his Blades. Allehar, still working his magic, paid them no mind as they burst out onto the river-bed, and mud splattered into the air as they rode headlong towards the Magicians.

Yushua’s eyes turned towards the horses, and Savander’s Blades moved to circle the great magician as Yushua turned his sorcery turned towards the new enemy–Ahmed, off-balance, stumbled as he moved, and Savander caught his shoulder. The man was neither magician nor swordsman today.

Yushua’s hands whirled in a complex pattern, and cold air whistled around both him and his Blades–Savander’s cheeks stung from it, then Yushua spread his hands wide, and brought them together in a mighty clap.

The air rippled over the horsemen in a wave. Bones broke, and men and horse screamed in agonized unison, crumpling to the ground in a ruin of torn flesh. But those behind burst through over the dead and dying, and kept coming.

Brave men–but stupid.

Yushua’s face betrayed both surprise and grudging respect as his hands moved again–but the horsemen drew closer, and now Allehar and his Blades turned to face the oncoming charge. Allehar barked a command, and his men carried his litter into the circle, alongside Yushua, and Savander’s Blades merged with those of Allehar’s guard to form one ring, ready to receive the charge.

Where Yushua worked slow and mighty, Allehar worked quick and spiteful. One man’s heart imploded–another’s neck snapped–another fell as his horse’s leg shattered, each pulse woven with intimate hatred. Already both of their robes hung looser, and Yushua hitched his belt-cord to draw them on tighter. Allehar ignored his as they fluttered around him.

But the horsemen kept coming, charging fearlessly over their own dead, and now drew short-bows and heavy javelins, throwing and loosing at the circled Magicians. But As Allehar continued to snap the legs of charging horses, Yushua’s arms swept around him in a great circle. The air around them rippled, and every arrow and javelin fell aside to form a clean circle around the Magicians and their Blades.

Savander grabbed a nearby javelin, and hurled it back–missed. His second took a cavalryman high in the chest, and then he took a third. He circled around, backwards, and adjusted his grip to unbalance it.

Just enough, to go a little astray.

He pivoted, and his eyes fixed on Allehar–but he froze, unable to throw.

A horseman burst through, leaping towards the Magicians’ retinues. The rider buckled under the barrier’s energy–his neck snapped, and his horse screamed as its bones shattered, but the dying horse and man together crashed down. Savander jumped backwards, away from the tumbling pair, and as two of Allehar’s men fell beneath them, his remaining retinue carried the Magician away, and Yushua was knocked to fall into the mud, and his barrier-magic fell with him. Allehar man spat curses as he went, and Savander watched his hopes being dragged away with them.

Savander screamed in rage and stabbed his stolen javelin down into the dead horseman–once, twice–and then the following horsemen charged through, no longer pressed back, their javelins stabbing out like short spears.

Yushua half stood and  raised his hand to press one quick burst of force–just enough to slow the horsemen’s charge for two heartbeats–and in that moment, the Blades surged forwards to press their own attack.

Yushua drew his own silver sword, now, his most powerful magics no use–but his Blades still shielded him from the horsemen, and up close was where they excelled. Silver swords rose, and fell, and with their blade-magic, armor and bone cleaved apart under every stroke as though no more than paper.

And in the melee, Savander’s anger and frustration found purchase. His sword felt light and hungry in his hand, and he sliced clean away the leg of one horse, then took the head from a fallen cavalryman. To his left, a javelin speared down from horseback and caught one of his Blades between neck and shoulder–a man barely nineteen years old, newly under Savander’s command. And as the young man fell, blood surging from a mortal wound, Savander howled a battle-cry and drew back his own blade.

Another blade flashed out in front of him to cleave through the neck of the horse, then whistled around in an arc, and gashed a line through his own breastplate. He felt the heat of the cut as it crossed the left side of his chest, and looked to see Ahmed, his eyes wide and fearful as he stumbled, again, his footing half lost in the mud as he sank to one knee.

“Savander! Savander, I–”

“I’m alright,” Savander snapped. His hand pressed to his cloven breastplate, as though it might somehow stifle the wound–he could feel blood flowing, but the wound did not feel deep. He tested the swing of his arm–the wound burned with pain at the movement, but he had suffered worse before. “To your feet, now! They’re coming again!”

As Savander grabbed his friend by the arm and helped him back to his feet, Yushua bellowed out his own anger and pointed his hand towards the remaining horses. They had drawn back, wheeled around, and readied for another charge, perhaps hoping that Yushua’s magic was spent.

It was not. Yushua speared his sword into the ground, then bellowed curses as his hands again swept through the air.

As the horses crumpled and fell, Savander’s eyes turned to Ahmed, his footing still unsteady under his burgeoning stomach. He was neither swordsman nor Magician today, only a liability–and Savander felt the burning truth of that, dripping beneath his cloven breastplate. They would have done better to leave him back in Al-Amasri.

“We circle round,” said Savander, as the last of the doomed horsemen fell to Yushua’s spellcraft. “As Allehar goes north, we will go south. And–”

Another man cried out, and Yushua and Savander turned together–more horsemen came now from the west, standing tall in their saddles and levelling short-bows–and before Yushua could raise another barrier, a volley flew. Savander’s eyes flickered to Ahmed.

The dream was still in reach. He could grab a fallen arrow, and–

He reached up, grabbed Ahmed’s shoulder, and yanked him down. As the unbalanced swordsman tripped and fell into the mud, Savander turned his to cover him–and felt the arrows land. One bounced from his shoulder plate, a second caught in his armor, and a third snuck through and stuck him near the kidney. He gasped in pain…and then smiled.

It’s done, then. Let it end now, here.

He turned, pointed his left hand at the nearest horseman, and snapped it into a fist. The man’s chest collapsed, and his horse tumbled wide–then before he had time to react, Savander threw his sword from his right hand, pointed his hand, then snapped it shut again. A half-crushed horseman tumbled to his death, as his horse ran wild into its fellows.

Then came the pain.

Savander’s insides buckled, burned, and screamed–and if Savander screamed too, the sound was lost to the cacophony as he fell to his knees. All around him was thunder and Yushua’s war-cries, but sound and pain alike faded as Savander fell sideways into the mud, closed his eyes, and smiled.

It was done.

 

###

 

The pain woke him.

That he woke at all surprised him, but all he could muster was a feeble groan.

“Ah, you’re alive,” said a voice. Savander opened his eyes, and found Ahmed sitting at his bedside. The portly swordsman leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Savander with obvious worry. “I feared you might not survive!”

“I thought I would not.”

Savander did not admit that he had hoped it. He sat in silence–and as he remembered what he had considered on the battlefield, and how slender a thread his honor yet dangled upon, shame turned to worms in his stomach.

“I do not deserve to wake.” He looked to Ahmed. “There are things I considered doing, things I…”

Ahmed rested a hand on his shoulder. “All men think and dream, bad and good both. But actions tell the truth of you–and they speak well, and loudly, just as they ever did. Twice over, now, my life is owed to you.” Ahmed stood, and he patted his heavy stomach as it shifted. “I would gift this to you, if I could.”

“It is yours. The Gods are wise. You are a better man than I, Ahmed–you will make a great Magician.” He tried to sit, and again, grunted and lay back. He should have known better. “I am too weak. But promise me you will still wait for me, before you walk to the Temple.”

Ahmed smiled, and nodded.

“I promise you. Now, rest, and recover. I’ll return every day.”

As Ahmed left, Savander lay, eyes closed…and a whisper hissed into the air around him.

“You’re a fool, Commander of the First Blades. All you wanted, all your dreams, all within your grasp. You threw it aside to seek your own death, then failed in even that.”

“And you’re a liar,” he muttered. The shadows hissed back laughter.

“Oh, I am, when it suits my purpose to be. But my promises were true, and so is this. Years from now, when you sit alone in the shadows, childless and friendless, your mind will drift back to the battlefield, and you will wish you had chosen differently.”

The shadows fell silent, then–and Savander lay still, quiet, and alone.

 

###

 

It took three weeks for Savander to recover, and another month for Ahmed’s weight to grow massive enough to trip the Temple platform. They stood together, Ahmed at the fore, and Savander to his right rear.

“I’m nervous,” said Ahmed.

“I’m with you. You’ll be fine.”

Allehar had recovered from Crimson Lung, another triumph of sheer, wilful spite, and now he and the other Magicians waited within the Temple to welcome their newest brother. As Ahmed reached out, and the great locking wheels turned above the Temple gatehouse, Savander smiled. With a ferocious clang, the great drawbridge began to lower.

“Maybe the gift will come to you as well, one day,” Ahmed said. Savander patted his stomach–lean, muscular, and flat.

“The Gods will decide. But my blade will be yours, come what may. Now, go, and join your Magician brothers!”

Ahmed turned to him, smiled, and as the drawbridge settled into place, Ahmed began slow walk towards the Temple. Savander watched, and a comfortable rightness settled deep within him.

The Empire was in good hands.

 

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Robert works as a software engineer by day, and writes by night, with his stories having appeared in PodCastle, Stupefying Stories, On Spec, and others.  An ex-pat Englishman, he now lives with his wife in Nevada, where their cats Mochi Luna and Teddy Logan do all they can to disrupt the tranquility of their lives. Until it collapses into a singularity of spite, you can still chat with him on Twitter at @RobertLWilkins.

 

What can be said of The Bard?  This:  Long ago, the mists of time parted. An unheard-of figure emerged: a wildman; untamed and howling. His brute savagery was a marvel to all. He fled into the wilderness and passed beyond memory. During the commotion, the Bard also emerged. He also fled into the wilderness but he came back when he got hungry.