Soul of the Blade Read online

  His blade stuck out of the fern like a massive thorn. Just out of reach.

  He had to move fast. As soon as he retrieved his sword, the man would have a clear opening through Aeo’s defenses. He had to be prepared to defend as soon as he picked up his weapon.

  Aeo crouched beside his sword, his eyes still on his enemy. He waited there for a moment, tensing his muscles, steadying his breathing. Then he sprung sideways, grasping the hilt of his sword as he rolled over it, coming back to his feet with the blade ready. Another thing ferns were good for—cushioning a sudden fall.

  A lesser warrior would have left an opening for Aeo to take advantage of, but against this man and his sword, the assassin was forced to parry instead of taking a killing stroke.

  They fell into the rhythm of a well-matched fight, with neither Aeo nor the man holding a clear advantage. Aeo grinned through the strain and the sweat. At long last, he’d found a worthy opponent. Not even the weapon masters of the king’s army had offered this much of a challenge.

  Aeo was just surprised such a worthy opponent had been found in a frail old man with an enchanted sword.

  Since Aeo couldn’t force his opponent back, he gave ground willingly. A few steps here, a step there, and Aeo was pushed out of the buildings and into the trees. The man paused, glancing back at the emptied village. Only wood and wind remained in the streets. The rage in his eyes flared as he realized his targets had disappeared. He shouted something in a language Aeo didn’t understand, but the anger was clear in his tone. He turned to Aeo, hatred and fury twisting his face, and chased after him.

  Here, Aeo had an advantage. The close-growing trees inhibited the swing of the massive Bok’Tarong, but Aeo’s much smaller shortsword could still be used effectively. He dashed around the trees, breaking his opponent’s line-of-sight and hoping to circle around from behind.

  The man was good. His dancer-like grace aided him in the tight quarters far better than Aeo had expected. Still, Aeo was used to skulking in shadows. He’d had plenty of practice in his years as an assassin.

  They engaged in a few quick scuffles, a handful of strikes and parries from behind or around the trees. Each ended with Aeo breaking off and disappearing deeper into the woods.

  Finally, he saw his opportunity. A thick stand of cedars clumped together and created a patch of darker shadows up ahead. A fallen trunk, its bark long since eaten away, was wedged between two of the trees at a steep angle. Its top disappeared into the leaves overhead.

  Aeo climbed up the log, his boots slipping on the thick moss, and pulled himself into the canopy. The woody scent of cedar tickled his nose. He stifled a sneeze.

  The thick branches held his weight as he crouched in the black shadows. This would be the perfect place for an ambush.

  He moved through the trees, circling back the way he’d come, and jumped down.

  His opponent came to the fallen log, his eyes going to it and the branches overhead. He noted the footprints Aeo had left, following their path with his eyes, and raised his double-bladed sword toward the canopy.

  Aeo smirked. The battle had been engaged and he had come out as the victor. The man had his chance, and he’d fought brilliantly, but Aeo had still won. Pride flared in his heart.

  But that died in an instant, because now came the worst part of the job.

  He unsheathed his dagger, stepping up behind the man. With a silent apology, he slid his blade between the man’s ribs and pierced his heart.

  The Bok’Tarong fell from his hand. He looked back at Aeo, his eyes asking a thousand questions as he crumpled to the ground.

  Aeo knelt and wiped the blood from his blade onto the man’s trousers before returning it to his belt. He paused for a moment over the man’s body, heart pounding with exertion and adrenaline, as conflicted as he’d been after his first kill. He loved and hated this. The thrill of the fight, the horror of the kill. He’d seen too many deaths to remember, most of which had been by his hand. Death was a part of the job, but he had never gotten used to it.

  His eyes moved to the gleaming rose-gold of the Bok’Tarong. The sight wiped the melancholy from his mind. This might not be war, but spoils still went to the victor. And this magnificent sword was a bounty fit for a king. Or the world’s greatest assassin.

  He didn’t even try to suppress his grin as he took his new sword.

  I am not an object to be possessed, a voice said in his mind.

  Aeo stared at the blade. A talking sword? That one was new. “Who are you?”

  I am the Bok’Tarong, the voice replied. I am the sword of heroes.

  Aeo smiled. “The sword of heroes, huh? And now you belong to me.”

  I belong to no one—especially not to one unknown to us.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  The Bok’Tarong is the fighting partner of the Taronese sword-bearers. They are trained from youth to accept and merge with the knowledge of the blades. You are not Taronese. You have not been trained; therefore you are unworthy to bear me.

  “Like hell I am! You should be honored to be the chosen weapon of Aeo, the finest assassin in the world.”

  I refuse to aid you in any way. You may carry the Bok’Tarong, but you will never be the true warrior the blade symbolizes.

  “Don’t bet on it,” Aeo muttered, snatching the baldric from the dead man’s shoulder and slinging it over his own. He slammed the blades into their unusual sheath to drive the point home.

  He turned his feet toward the open road, leaving the small village and the dead man behind. Over the next few days he would put as much distance as possible between him and his victim, especially since he was bearing the Bok’Tarong now—an easy giveaway for anyone who may harbor some notion of vengeance.

  He couldn’t help but smile at his good fortune. The king would line his pockets with gold for his success. He had fought—and defeated—an opponent as skilled as he. Even the Mage General would have to recognize this achievement. But more than any of that, the weapon he had gained was the real treasure. The Bok’Tarong was more valuable and of higher quality than any sword he’d ever seen before. Sure, the voice inside the blades might be a problem, but he could manage. Sooner or later it would see there was no one better to bear such a sword than Aeo.

  Just before sunset he made camp well off the road in a small glen surrounded by tall cedars. Thanks to a lucky trap a pair of skinned hares was roasting over a crackling fire shortly afterward.

  While he waited for his dinner to cook, Aeo held the Bok’Tarong before him. It was a magnificent weapon—sharp edges, seductive curves, gleaming metal. It was as fine as any sword he’d ever owned and as beautiful as any woman he’d ever had. Even the firelight seemed attracted to the Bok’Tarong, as thousands of tiny flames gleamed in the blades’ rosy gold.

  He stepped away from the fire and raised the sword. He felt the fine balance of the weapon, even with the disproportionate blades. Aeo took a basic stance and swung the Bok’Tarong.

  The sword laughed at him. The finest assassin in the world? A child no older than eight could wield me better than that.

  Aeo growled. He did, however, shift his grip on the hilt and spread his stance a little wider.

  When the Bok’Tarong’s pursed silence dragged on, Aeo knew he’d gotten it right.

  Aeo’s focus narrowed. His whole world was the blade. Strong, steady, and swift—the assassin’s mantra looped through his mind as he went through a few steps. Strong, steady, and swift. And each stroke was exactly that.

  He kept his thoughts centered on the mantra, occasionally breaking his concentration to listen to the Bok’Tarong. It was just him and the blade, locked in the dance of the fight. Nothing else mattered.

  He practiced late into the night, paying no mind to the deepening darkness or the smoke rising from his burnt dinner. His muscles trembled with exhaustion and sweat poured from his body, but still he practiced. Only when the stars winked out and the dusky grey of predawn lit the horizon did Aeo stop to sle
ep.

  Even then, his hand remained around the leather hilt of the Bok’Tarong.

  3

  Summer came to Arata, scorching her forests with humid heat and blaring sunshine. Aeo passed those months in a blur of travel, mundane tasks, and the blessed moments of practice with the Bok’Tarong.

  Until now. The day he’d never thought would come.

  Aeo woke, groaning as the now-familiar ache of rheumy joints assaulted him. It took him several moments to gather enough strength to sit. When he did, his bones grated and his muscles screamed with pain and weariness.

  A few weeks ago, Aeo had been average height, stocky and muscular from a life of traveling and fighting. Now he was little more than a hunchbacked, jelly-muscled, blotchy-skinned skeleton. His military-short blond hair was gone. His eyesight, once sharp enough to spot game in the dense woods of Arata, was so clouded he couldn’t distinguish one toe from another. He was old and decrepit, though he was hardly past his third decade.

  The dreams had warned him. They had plagued his sleep every night since he’d taken up the Bok’Tarong. They were always different, yet somehow always the same. He watched as foreign images, people and places he’d never seen, passed by. In each scenario the Bok’Tarong played a central role, slaying evil and preserving the innocent. He watched as the double-bladed sword passed through hundreds of years—and hundreds of wielders—in the pursuit of justice.

  It was not lost on Aeo that all of the wielders exhibited the same curious features as the man he’d killed. They were all emaciated, arthritic, and none of them held the Bok’Tarong for long before they died.

  Just like him.

  This last part of his dreams was more poignant than ever. It had only been a few months since Aeo had taken the Bok’Tarong, but it felt like decades. Whatever had caused the bearers in his dreams to wither away was eating at Aeo, too.

  It was the curse of this bloody sword. It was punishing him for slaying its last bearer. The voice in the blades never spoke to him anymore. When he wielded the sword, strength and energy flooded his body. He felt like himself. But the rest of the time, he was a ghost of the man he’d been.

  And yet, despite everything it had done to him, he couldn’t help but love the damned sword.

  By the time he was too sore and lethargic to continue his work as an assassin, he’d been too enthralled by the Bok’Tarong to care. All that mattered was his time with the sword. Contracts, drink, even women seemed like a waste of time. Any moment not spent with the Bok’Tarong was a moment lost.

  And that had led him here, to a small glade in the middle of the forest. It wasn’t too far from the road. The young Aeo could have made it in less than a day, but it had taken him more than three days to make it here in his current state.

  He stood, with a monumental effort, and unsheathed the gleaming sword. He stared at the twisted blades with as much hate as he could muster for the beautiful sword, but still his heart loved the Bok’Tarong.

  “You have been the death of me,” Aeo whispered. “And so you shall finish the job.” He placed the pointed end of the long blade before his heart.

  With the last ounce of strength in his emaciated muscles, he plunged the Bok’Tarong into his heart, stopping its beat forever.

  Raeb came to another nondescript village along the road. He was aching and filthy from his long days of traveling, and though the sun was low in the sky the heat this far south was blistering. He’d have given his last cloak for a shady tree and a skin of cold water. Perhaps it was lucky there was no such thing around, since he didn’t have a cloak to trade for them anyway.

  His meeting with the man in the bar those weeks ago had been the last thing to work in his favor. It was more than likely he’d sent the man to his death, but it would stall the Bok’Tarong for a little while, blur Raeb’s trail with time and distractions. It would give him that much longer to get away.

  Since then he’d suffered long days of hard travel and nights sleeping with no blanket and a half-full belly. Aratan patrols had stopped him several times, hoping to conscript him to the war. As if there wasn’t a much bigger war they all fought every day. Of course, money didn’t buy intelligence. The Aratans faced this war with the Entana—with the “Coming Madness”—and didn’t even realize it. Nor did they realize opaque lenses and searching hands didn’t guarantee a man was blind and unfit for battle.

  Perhaps he should have let them take him. Surely a Halkronian blade could release him from this never-ending torture called life.

  But then again, death itself wasn’t the answer. He could die and still lose everything.

  He had to make sure he died free.

  There had to be a way, Raeb thought. He’d fled this far south, past the mountains, out of Arata and into the shrubby desert of Starek. Part of him wished to go further, across the sea to the barbarian lands, but he’d never find an answer there. If he wanted to gain his freedom, he had to stay here.

  Besides, he wasn’t sure if his leash would stretch that far.

  Raeb kicked the dry dust at his feet. He was constantly running to buy himself more time. But for what? He didn’t have a plan. All he had was one crazed, desperate thought. Finding a way to turn it into a plan that wouldn’t end up with him dead, insane, or worse wasn’t looking good. Especially in a parched, desolate place like this.

  But if he could find something, maybe he could end it forever.

  Raeb sighed. And maybe he could grow wings and fly away from it all, to a land where gold grew on trees and rivers flowed with wine.

  He ran a weary hand across the stubble on his chin and surveyed the village. It was little more than a clump of adobe houses along the road, stuck amongst the cactus like a wart among thorns. At least he could see a tavern among them. He would be able to get some food and a little rest before having to move on tonight. Perhaps he might even hear word of the Bok’Tarong. The double-bladed sword made for good fireside tales. With a little listening and a few ales, he could usually keep decent track of his pursuers.

  The tavern’s common room was mostly empty, but it was still too early for the working folk to arrive. Raeb ordered a meal and sat at one of the tables, observing the few inhabitants from behind his blind man disguise. It never ceased to amaze him how little attention the general populace paid to the blind. Wearing his black lenses, he was virtually invisible.

  A serving girl brought Raeb his food. She was almost too young to be working in a place like this, but there was a callousness in her face that showed she was not new to the job. She placed the plate on the table and tried to hide the fact that she was staring at Raeb. He pretended not to notice.

  He did keep an eye on her, though. There was something about her that wasn’t quite right. Her hair was dark like the native Starekians, but her eyes were green and her complexion was light like an Aratan. It wasn’t common to find people who chose to live in Starek if they weren’t born to it, but it wasn’t unheard of, either.

  Still, it was her actions that didn’t sit well with Raeb. Why hide your stare from a man who couldn’t see it?

  The night wore on and more people came to the tavern. He listened in on the daily chatter of old friends and new acquaintances, courting couples and grizzled old men. A few folks told of the stalemate growing more tense between Arata and Halkron up north. Once the war had started, neither side had done much other than line up defenses and stare down the other side. He heard many tales and jokes, but nothing about his pursuer or the Bok’Tarong.

  He was fairly certain he wasn’t being followed, but he left the town anyway. After so many decades of running he couldn’t bear staying in one place for too long.

  There was a hint of coolness in the air, now that the sun had set. The breeze smelled fresh and clean in a way it never smelled in Arata. Above him, the stars were white and brilliant against a coal-black sky.

  Just for a minute, Raeb understood why people chose to live here.

  Then the eerie whine-yip of coyotes set the hairs
on the back of his neck tingling and broke the trance. This wasn’t a place to let your guard down. The desert might be beautiful at times, but it was raw and dangerous in more ways than he could count. It didn’t forgive distractions.

  Raeb heightened his senses, forced himself to become more aware of his surroundings. Crickets chirruped from every direction. Ambient heat from the adobe homes wafted into the night. A slight shuffle as someone unaccustomed to hiding tried to stay out of sight.

  He tensed. The Taronese couldn’t have found him already. But then, this couldn’t be the Taronese. If it was, he never would have heard them.

  Raeb faced a nearby alley and stared into the shadows. “What are you doing here?”

  A moment passed. Then the serving girl from the tavern stepped into the moonlight. “I think we can help each other.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He started walking away, but the girl grabbed his arm. “I know you aren’t blind.”

  “Observant. Good for you. Now go away.”

  “Don’t you want to hear me out first?”

  “No.”

  “But …”

  “I cannot and will not help you. And you have nothing that can help me,” he said. “Do not follow me.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  He turned toward her, scowling and not quite meeting her eyes. “Because I’m dangerous.”

  The girl scrutinized him with that strange stare of hers. “I don’t believe you.”

  He pulled his arm out of hers and walked away. He paused several long steps away and looked back over his shoulder, allowing his lenses to slip and reveal his black, peridot-pupil eyes. “Believe it.”

  The girl called out from behind him. “You don’t scare me, you know.”

  His hand strayed to the unique weapon he wielded. If she, or anyone, knew about this, they’d be afraid. It even scared him. The Bok’Tarong might be the most powerful enchanted weapon in the world, but it wasn’t the only one. And some enchantments were worse than others.