Saga of the Singing Sword Brigade
Book One—New Birth
by
J.M. MacLEOD
The sword gleaming with ancient runes,
Pulsing out heroic tunes,
Hummed a strain one cold, fey night,
Ere the battle joined full might,
To keep safe from hurtful woe,
And guard from death’s sorrow.
Hear a tale that will inspire,
Told by every rune afire.
Of caves and snows, hills and dells,
Oaths taken, deceivers fell,
This tale though new, is old as stars,
And blest are all that bear the scars,
Wise they are that live and learn,
Truth their cause, the false to spurn,
To cry out, “Lives for the King,”
And strive to give him everything.
CHAPTER ONE
The side of Artka's face slammed on the dirt road. A knee jammed the small of his back and hostile hands pinned then bound his arms. A stinging, egg-sized knot grew on his forehead. He was hoisted upright, shackles were locked around his ankles and he was shoved into position beside Bilrood, his best friend.
“A trap,” Bilrood whispered through gritted teeth. His lower lip swelled and discoloration spread across his cheek.
“Heshup, boy,” a sharif growled, brandishing a short sword.
Artka, glancing left, saw bushes whipping back and forth and said, “The others got away. We’re the only ones that got caught.”
“Here now, no talking,” said a sergeant strutting before the would-be highwaymen. Then to his men, “Load ‘em up.”
Artka was tossed like a sack of turnips onto the wagon’s floor. He looked up to see gruff prisoners crowding the benches on either side of the dray.
"Ere, yer crimpin’ me feet. Git off’n the floor," said a a gravelly voice.
Artka struggled onto a rough-hewn bench. Craggy faces with cold eyes surrounded him. Directly across sat a man with a vivid chin-to-ear scar that his grizzled beard couldn't hide. The man’s lip curled as he said, "Whut yer be lookin' at? Yer wanted ter be a outlaw, now yer'll see whut comes o’ thet."
"Ease off the beggars, Rilf," said another man toward the front.
"Please, what’s to happen to us?" Bilrood asked, eyes wide, nostrils flared.
Rilf, the man with the scar, said, "Why laddie, yers jest enlisted.”
"Enlisted? In the army?" Artka said.
"Aye," Rilf stared at Artka, "… less’n yer prefers hangin'. All law-breakers—includin' youthful miscreants, either gits hanged or trained fer battle."
Bilrood leaned forward. "But, I'm not old enough—."
"Old enough ter pillage innocent merchants though, aincha? I reckon yer qualifies."
Artka shot a sideways glance at Bilrood. Bilrood, face red, shoulders hunched, stared at the flexing floorboards.
The mood inside the prisoner wagon was sullen. No one spoke.
The wagons reached Cosmopolis after an hour’s journey, arriving just before sundown. Artka heard the ancient hinges of the fortress gates groan open as the wagon lumbered across the drill field.
Artka looked through the opening in the rear of the wagon and read Carnalia’s motto over the gate, etched as if by fire:
LIVE FOR THE MOMENT, DIE FOR THE EMPIRE.
The wagons lurched to a stop at the far end of the field. “Git out, yer scum, move yer cankered hides!” shouted the guards. Men were yanked off the wagon and shoved into line. Artka held his hands over his head as protection from the blows accompanying the curses raining down on the prisoners.
“This is the army post, not the torture dungeon,” Artka muttered in relief when he saw nearby soldiers drilling.
A guard commanded, “Halt! Face off…left.” He cuffed a man who had turned the wrong way. “I said left, you bird twit.”
Artka turned left and choked back a cry of anguish. Looming before the assembled prisoners stood the gloomy archway leading down into Carnalia’s dungeon.
From the other side of the courtyard a stocky sergeant huffed toward the assembly drawing the prisoners’ attention away from the yawning mouth of the prison. He unrolled a scroll and read, "You are hereby declared guilty of any number of these crimes against the empire: murder, thievery, pillage, treason, sedition, brawling, usury, insolence, abuse—verbal and physical, rapine, hate crimes, drunkenness and resisting arrest—and are heretofore sentenced to death by hanging." He lifted his eyes from the scroll and grinned at the condemned. "Because of the emperor's fondness for his subjects, however, he will pardon you… conditionally. That condition being, you must enlist in the army to fight the empire’s enemies. Those who refuse this gracious offer are to be hanged forthwith."
A masked, black-garbed executioner stepped out of the shadows and tossed a series of nooses over a stout tree limb.
“All wishing to enlist, step forward."
Leg-irons clanked as the entire mass of prisoners shuffled forward.
The sergeant snarled an order and the prisoners' arms were unbound. Sighs filled the air. The leg-shackles, however, remained.
The sergeant smiled. "Good. Now, raise a hand—either will do." He waited until all prisoners complied. "By your upraised hand you signify that you bind your eternal soul to live and die in service to your emperor; to kill his enemies; to unquestioningly follow every command given or else suffer the wrath of our lord in this life and fiery torment in the ever-after."
The references to “fiery torment” and “ever-after” puzzled Artka, for Carnalia’s rulers ridiculed anyone who believed such things. Nevertheless, Artka, along with every other prisoner, took the oath to obey upon pain of death and eternal torment.
"Now off to the dungeon with you until we collect enough volunteers to make a full brigade."
Guards prodded prisoners toward a table of stacked bowls. Next to the table was a three-wheeled cart bearing a cauldron of foul-smelling gruel. Serving girls ladled the gruel into bowls and handed them out to the prisoners shuffling past. "Eat up,” said a guard, “… it's all you're likely to get 'til tomorrow."
"What's in it?" Artka asked.
"Better off not knowing, lad. It's called B'n'B broth; more than that you don't want to know.
Artka lifted a bowl and sniffed. “I’ll learn to fly before I drink this slop!”
“You’ll drink it, and be thankful,” said the guard, resting his club menacingly on Artka’s shoulder.
The man behind Artka threw his bowl to the ground, dumping its contents. “It ain’t fit to eat.”
The club whipped off Artka’s shoulder and smashed into the man’s nose. He sank like a brick.
The guard returned his glare to Artka. “Now then …”
Artka considered the unconscious man lying at his feet, then narrowed his eyes at the guard, hefted the bowl to his lips and gulped. It nearly scalded his throat and once swallowed, lay like sludge in his belly.
“That’s more like it, then,” said the guard lowering his club, “it don’t taste so good, but it’ll stave off belly rumbles. Now get moving; come on, get along with you.”
Shackles clanking, the line of gagging prisoners was herded toward the dungeon's maw. “Keep your bowls,” advised another guard. “It’s your water and food dish until your training is complete.”
Slimy, spiraling steps led into the dungeon’s murky depths; torches provided smoky light only at each landing. “Where are the handrails?” cried a man beginning the descent.
A guard sneered, “Ain’t none. You’ll have to watch your step, won’t ya?”
“But these leg irons might trip us—.”
“Your tough luck,” came the reply. “Just don’t take no one with you if you fall.”
Stench worse than the B'n'B broth greeted the descending prisoners. Artka’s stomach lurched.
At each level guards shunted some of the prisoners down a tunnel and into various cells. Tears brimmed in Artka’s eyes from the stink as the group descended floor after floor to the deepest, most fetid depth where, on the last level, the corporal paused, fiddling with the key ring, biting his lip, looking back and forth from the remaining prisoners to the last available cell door. He finally unlocked it, saying, “Oh well, it’s only for a day or two…” then took the torch from its sconce and led inside. "Come on, move it. Here’s where you'll lounge away the hours until we're ready for you. Pick a spot along the wall and get comfortable, ha ha.”
Artka backed against the wall and slid to the floor. A chain was threaded through his ankle irons and linked to the rest of the prisoners in his group.
“Nighty-night,” a guard mocked as he stood ready to close the cell door. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite—nor anything else! Ha ha ha.” The door clunked shut.
Wrapped in absolute darkness, Artka sobbed; bravado wasn’t needed here. If only he’d escaped like the rest of the gang… He thought of his parents—what would they think? And his sisters, especially his own twin, Jeda? Would he ever see them again?
Bagged like a goose for the Winter Solstice feast! Pleasure seeking had consequences after all. But… didn't everyone in Carnalia “Live for the Moment?” Wasn’t he just living for the moment? Why did he and Bilrood have to give up their rights to fun and pleasure to go and fight—perhaps die—for the empire? Artka swiped at a tear. The rest of the motto—“Die for the Empire” he now realized, was a consequence, not a patriotic second option. But, what choices had he had, really? As oppressive as the empire was, didn’t it only encourage natural inclinations?
"How long will we have to wait here?" Bilrood’s voice came from the nearby darkness.
"Till we rot," said Rilf, hard by Artka.
Artka had been so full of self-pity that he'd failed to notice who his closest chain-mate was.
"'It’s just like you Rilf,” said another from several feet away, “… to keep tormenting the lads. Ain't there enough Pitland in this stink hole without you adding to it? Don't pay no nevermind to Rilf there, leastways, long as he can't reach out and throttle you."
That comfort was a bucket with no bottom.
"We'll be here a day or two, I s'pect,” said the same person. “That oughtta be long enough to collect more ruffians and cutthroats for the brigade’s needs."
Artka stretched his legs, paying little attention to the banter around him until someone hissed, "... but he's up against an enemy that can topple him. He needs all the help he can get, even the likes of drunks, robbers and thieves."
"Wrong, wrong, wrong,” said another, “…the emperor especially wants cutthroats. They’re easier to train for killing and harder to be tricked into changing sides. But, the emperor hain’t never beat the king, and never will."
Several seconds of silence passed before anyone dared respond; such a statement was punishable by a prolonged, painful death.
"Bah," Rilf finally said, rattling his—and Artka’s—section of chain. "No enemy kin stand agin’ the emperor. I kens; he gots powers. An' besides, he gots all kinds o' mystical beasties whut does his biddin'. Yer'll never persuade me ter believe the emperor be's hard put."
"Well," said someone from a distance, "… he's never bothered to gather highwaymen, cutthroats and losers so thoroughly before."
"Yeah, and he's never been face to face with the king either," said another.
"You're all mistaken,” said yet another unseen shackle-mate from the darkness. “There was a time, long ago, as the legends tell it, when our emperor ran in terror from Ecclessa’s prince. Tell me, does anyone know if Logon's Bridge still stands?"
"What's Logon's Bridge?" a youthful voice asked.
"Bah! And double bah, says I." Rilf hacked up a wad of phlegm. "That business 'bout Logon's Bridge—nobbut nonsense."
"Then... King's Gate has been taken?"
"What's so important about Logon's Bridge and King's Gate?" repeated the youthful voice.
"Is the younger generation so ignorant as to not know the tales of Logon's Bridge?"
"Lookee here," Rilf said, "… yer be's street scum just like us'ns, an yer gots no bizness fillin' our ears wi’ Ecclessite lies. Logon, if'n he ever existed, got kilt by assassins. No tales 'bout him still bein' alive is gonna change thet. So quicher moanin' 'bout Logon's Bridge. Thet fable don't mean nothin'." Rilf rattled his chain again for effect.
"When Logon's Bridge, and the King's Gate Fortress that guards it,” continued the mysterious speaker, “…falls into empire hands, disasters heralding the end of the world will are supposed to be unleashed."
"Shut …(cough) up!" Rilf’s spasm prevented him saying more.
"A great conflagration will overwhelm the empire—."
From the darkest, deepest recesses of the cell burst a thumping sound accompanied by growling that increased in volume until the prisoners couldn’t hear each other. It grew into a roar and held forth for several minutes. Then the roar died away, leaving a horrified silence that filled the cell in its place.
“What was that?” whispered a cellmate, finally daring to break the stillness. “It sounded like a man-eating gorril beating his chest.”
No one answered; the prisoners scarce breathed.
Then another ventured, “Great Dreads of the Gate, they put us in here with killer beasts!”
More silence.
Finally one of the prisoners whispered, “Whatever it is, it must be caged or it would’ve attacked by now.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said another, sighing in relief.
“Ecclessites believe horrible beasts will eventually be loosed upon humanity,” said the man who had mentioned Logon’s Bridge. “That creature might be one of those monsters, chained up in this hole to be released at the end of the world.”
"Nah! I agree with Rilf," Bilrood said. "That end of the world stuff sounds like the enemy’s lies to make us fearful."
"Oh? And are you so wise? You’re but a youth, barely draftable, I’d guess. But you can discern fact from fable?"
"Well, just who are you, that you know so much?" said Bilrood.
"I marched with the kingsmen, once. They have runes engraved on their swords that tell them what's going to happen. The prophecy of Logon's Bridge is one of those runes."
"And you believe that claptrap? You fool." said another.
"Very well, laugh. You wanted to know about Logon's Bridge. There it is.”
A taunting wave of laughter coursed through the prisoners like a wave.
"Treason, traitor," someone shouted. "You should be sent to Pitland and tortured by the White Priestess."
The cell’s lock clicked. All conversation ceased.
The door creaked open and soldiers scurried in. A stab of torchlight blinded Artka. Lower-rank soldiers methodically stooped over to unlock prisoners. "All right, on your feet," barked the sergeant.
As the prisoners got to their feet, the sergeant and two corporals walked to the cell’s inner recess. There in the torch’s glow Artka saw an immense man hunkered down, both feet and one hand shackled to the wall. There was something vaguely familiar about him… His beard and hair were long and unkempt, his face grimy… it slowly dawned on Artka that this was the face on wanted posters throughout Carnalia; here was the infamous outlaw, Turit! Already in chains… but still wanted? Was he the source of the roar?
For a chilling moment Turit’s hateful eyes locked with Artka's. Artka shivered, his hands went cold and his feet numb as he tried in vain to turn his eyes elsewhere. The spell was only broken when a guard roughly shoved Artka to a place in line. But Turit’s feral glare remained in Artka’s mind’s eye.
“I didn't know where else to put them, Sarge,” the corporal whined as the prisoners shuffled out of the chamber. “All the other cells were already too full—or else had captives from the warfront, and I'm under strict orders to not let that kind weave their spells on recruits. Those orders are from the commander hisself."
"But, not in here with him, you mold-brain,” said the sergeant. “He's not fully conditioned yet. Any outside contact might undo the effort invested. You’d better hope there’s no harm done or you’ll answer to Hod-ya herself, and that’ll mean the rack. I'd wager a month’s rum on that. Might as well empty the other cells too, we'll start this brigade’s training early. Head ‘em up the stairs."
CHAPTER TWO
Artka jerked awake. Harsh reality burst in on him in the form of a brutish sergeant striding between bunks smacking procrastinators’ feet with a quirt and shouting, “Get outta them racks.”
"Ah," the sergeant said observing Artka and Bilrood trembling in the early morning chill at the foot of their bunks, "… now they’re sending nursing whelps for me to babysit.” The man’s shoulders were wide as a door; his jet-black eyes matched his close-cropped hair and chin-line beard. “Well, if you lads survive my boot camp, you'll survive anything."
He turned and paced the center line of the barracks. "I’m your new owner, your mentor, your mommy and daddy, your disciplinarian, your lover and… your worst enemy. At first you’ll hate me; but before you finish training you’ll love me. I care for none of that—only that you obey me.” He paused in front of Rilf. "I see you still haven't learned to keep out of trouble, Rilf. That gash I put on your face made you handsomer. Let's hope I don't have to open up the other side.”
Rilf lowered his eyes.
"I have power to make you happy...” said the sergeant, continuing his swagger, “or sad, very sad, at my whim." He whirled suddenly and cold-cocked a man whose eyes had been wandering. The trainee collapsed. A dark scowl from the sergeant discouraged anyone from rushing to the fallen man’s aid.
"You are to call me Sergeant Love, understand?”
Every man in the barracks stared in horror at the man on the floor.
"Answer me, blast your louse-riddled hides!"
"Yessir!" The men roused from their trance.
Sergeant Love spewed staccato instructions about daily routine, policing the barracks, respecting officers and getting outfitted with weaponry, food, clothing and various supplies. Finally, the sergeant strolled to the door, pausing briefly beside the unconscious victim on the floor. "At my whim." He exited.
Corporals shouted instructions, trainees fumble-fingered their bedding or set about straightening items while a couple of orderlies aided the stricken man. Artka’s eyes met Bilrood’s. Sergeant Love had singled them out … would he make examples of them as well?
“Where are they taking him?” Artka asked the orderlies carrying the unconscious man out the door.
“The infirmary, I guess,” said a nearby recruit as he paused making his bed. “But—if you’re wise, you’ll forget you ever saw him.”
Artka and Bilrood exchanged glances. “Let’s get our stuff,” Bilrood said, “like the sergeant told us.”
They joined the line at the outfitter’s where they were issued coarse-woven tunics of a dun hue, stiff leather breeches, a leather breastplate, thick-soled boots that laced securely around the calves, a helmet sans plumage, a rucksack for personal items and a bedroll that doubled as a rain cover.
Their main piece of weaponry was a three-foot broadsword of fire-hardened hickory wood. One side was sharpened to a hair’s-breadth; the other was half an inch thick. "This," the supply sergeant said, "must never be out of reach until you earn your iron sword." What feat merited bestowal of a black iron sword was left unspoken.
So began Artka’s rigorous training that honed him from a rogue boy into a dangerous killer.
~
“Wake up,” said Sergeant Love, silhouetted by the rising sun in the barracks’ open doorway. “You graduate today. I’ve rarely trained so proficient a brigade of troopers. I’m proud of you. Three months ago I wouldn’t have traded a cockroach turd for the lot of you. But now, though short-handed, I’d pit you against any fighting unit that ever marched off to war—Ecclessite, Eroton or Carnalian. I’m proud to lead you into the bloodfest of battle.
“The gates will be open for three days. For those three days you have free reign to go anywhere and do whatever you want—within reason. Your only law is to be back here ready to march daybreak of the fourth day.”
"When do we get our iron swords?" Artka asked.
"Why laddie-boy,” said a snarling voice from just behind, “yer'll earn yer iron when yer've kilt an enemy wi' yer hick'ry."
"I don't believe that. " Artka turned and curled his lip at Rilf. "The emperor wouldn't send us to fight with mere toys."
Rilf just smirked.
"Nay, he's right, boy." Sergeant Love laid his hand on Artka's shoulder. "Your first kill will have to be with that hickory. But… it don't necessarily have to be in battle, nor even a man for that matter, if you catch my drift." Sergeant Love winked at Rilf. "Why lad, first enemy outpost we come to, go find a woman, or a child … We only want to see blood on the blade—just make sure it's Ecclessite blood."
Having been raised amid Carnalia’s selfishness and cruelty, Artka, though disgusted, wasn't all that shocked.
Bilrood sauntered over and said, "Artka, come with me.”
Artka, watched Rilf and Sergeant Love walk away.
“We'll get gloriously drunk,” Bilrood persisted, “and find some willing companions, and spend three days in revel.”
“I don't think so," Artka said. "Not until I've let my family know what's become of me."
"Are you sure?"
Artka nodded.
"I understand. My mam and pap don’t care; they’re probably glad I’ve disappeared. Well, if you change your mind, you’ll find me at the Boar's Tusk Inn. In fact, you'd better come get me or I might not make muster."
The two parted: Bilrood eager to splurge his wages; Artka back to the haunts of his youth, back to his father's house.
CHAPTER THREE
"Master Artka," said Gwinnid, his mother's plump maid. "Oh, come in, come in. We thought you'd been kidnapped or something dreadful. But, look at you. Why, you're a full-grown man. Well, don't just stand there, come in."
Gwinnid led through the dining hall where a crackling fire warded off the autumn chill. In Eroton’s northlands snow would soon fall. But in Carnalia’s milder climes a good fire was all that was needed to ward off the night’s chill.
Artka, feeling more guest than family, followed Gwinnid to the reception hall and waited while she went and announced his presence.
"Artka," said his mother upon entering, "… oh, my dear, dear son, where have you been?" Her tone changed from dripping sweetness to mock scolding in mid-sentence.
"I'm... I'm in the army, mother," he said, hoping to avoid explaining the circumstances under which he’d joined.
"How common, Artka. You haven't said anything about my gown. It's the latest style. Do you think the color too muted? I thought the train a little long, but Gwinnid assures me it's no lengthier than other dignitaries’ wives. Do you like it?"
"Uh, very fetching, mother," he said. She hadn't changed, unless it was to be even more status-obsessed. He tried once more. "Mother, I've been training these last three months with a brigade that will soon—."
"I know very well you've been off playing at army. Haven't I lost sleep worrying? You know how much I need my sleep to keep wrinkles away. Artka, I'm afraid you'll have to be more considerate."
Artka shrugged. "Where's father?"
"Your father? Ah, this is his day to attend to the Lord High Secretary of Crimes and Misdemeanors. He's a very important man now, very important indeed."
Artka followed his mother, eyeing the multi-colored tapestries and exquisite furniture. Logs crackled in the fireplace, sending waves of warmth into the room. He longed to explain that he wasn’t “off playing at army”, but she wouldn’t comprehend; it was outside her world of pomp and parties. She’d said nothing about his staying there overnight, either. Well, that was to be expected; he'd made it clear when he left that his loyalties were to the gang in the hills. This unenthusiastic reception was all he had a right to expect. And yet... he'd hoped for some display of familial affection.
A rustling of petticoats from the doorway interrupted the uncomfortable silence. Jeda, his fraternal twin sister, swept into the room followed by the younger twins, Velnu and Cornil. "Ooh, you really are here,” squealed Jeda as she scurried across the room and embraced him. "You shameless scoundrel, how dare you stay away months on end?"
Velnu and Cornil crowded close, voicing agreement. They were still girls in Artka's eyes, but his own twin surprised him. She'd blossomed into a beauty. Her long blonde hair fell delicately about her shoulders, framing her finely featured face. Her large, blue eyes glinted with merriment as she said, "We were all sure you'd gotten arrested and thrown into the emperor's dungeon."
Artka coughed, then said, "Ah, actually, I've, er, joined the army."
Color drained from all three girls’ faces. Even his mother seemed to have finally understood.
"Oh no, Artka you can't," Jeda said. "I mean, it's not final, is it?"
"Afraid it is."
"Mother, tell him no," Jeda said.
"Listen to me," Artka said, "…it's done. I'm a soldier now. Childhood is behind me. I'm my own man, able to walk my own paths."
"But the army..." his mother said. "Just a common soldier. Oh dear. What will they think of me now? Really, Artka, how could you?"
"I didn't have much choice at the time."
"Why not?"
"I'd rather not go into all that. Look, I only have three days till I march. I'd like to spend them at home, if that's alright?"
"Well, er... Artka,” his mother said, “… you've been gone so long, we assumed you wouldn't be back. We made your room into a servant's quarters. I'm afraid there’s simply no place here for you anymore."
"Mother please," chorused the younger twins. Jeda looked on pleadingly, but held her peace.
"All right, my darlings. Artka, you may stay in the great room if you like. I'll have Smid put bedding in there. I must warn you though, I don't know how your father will react. He's very important now; has a lot on his mind, and doesn't like surprises."
"I won't be any trouble, I promise."
“What’s army life like?” Velnu said as she and Cornil took Artka’s hands and led him into the sitting room.
“Oh yes, leave nothing out,” Jeda said, tagging along.
Artka sat on an overstuffed couch between the twins and said, “Well… I don’t know what you want to hear.”
Jeda settled on an ottoman directly in front of Artka, hugging her knees, watching Artka with wide-open eyes. “Is it very harsh?”
“Harsh…?” Artka said, remembering Sergeant Love clobbering a man senseless the first day of their training, “ … there were times—.”
“Let’s see your muscles,” Cornil said. “ I bet they worked you real hard.”
Artka laughed, rolled up his sleeve and flexed his biceps. “Push-ups, chinnings, running fifteen miles a day, weapons drill, tactical and strategic studies morning, noon and night… and wrestling competitions. Yeah, I’d say they worked us real hard.”
“Us?” Jeda asked.
“Bilrood was caug—er, joined when I did.”
“Bilrood? Wasn’t he the leader of your gang?” Jeda asked.
“Tell us about the fighting,” Velnu interrupted, giving Artka yet another chance to evade Jeda’s question.
“Yes, how many kingsmen have you killed?” Cornil said.
“I haven’t been in battle yet. I’m ‘raw meat’, as they say.” Artka chuckled and pointed to his helmet. “See, no plume. They only award a plume after you prove yourself in battle. But I’ve won the broadsword competition three weeks in a row now. No one in the brigade can match me—except our sergeant, of course. And I’m almost the best wrestler…”
“Well,” said dame Kway, “I have a trousseau to choose, which is what I was doing when you showed up, son. The Cosmopolis Ball is coming up soon, and alterations must be made...”
Cornil and Velnu, tired of the novelty of their brother's return, excused themselves to watch their mother try on garments.
After the twins left, Jeda whispered, "It's been so lonely here without you to talk to. I wish I could run off and join a gang. Then I wouldn't have to put up with being ordered about by everybody, especially our little sisters. Mother favors them so…"
Artka stared into the fire.
"Why do mother and father cater to their every whim, but treat us little better than servants?" Jeda said. "Since you've been gone it's worse than ever." She searched Artka's face. "Maybe I will just slip away one day, like you did."
"No! You mustn't. A boy gets into enough trouble on his own in Carnalia, but a girl... a girl would be better off dead than on her own in Carnalia."
"Artka, are you in trouble?"
He hung his head. He couldn't deceive her. "I was..." The daylight faded to blue, cobalt, and finally pitch black outside as he related his capture by the merchant’s surprise “cargo” and being forced into military service. He said nothing, however, of Turit, not wanting her to face repercussions of knowing that the empire’s most wanted criminal was secretly already in prison.
Jeda shuddered when Artka told her about Sergeant Love. "What cruel irony for him to be called 'Love.'"
Artka prattled more than he'd intended, unable to stop, as if talking to someone who cared could cleanse him.
Jeda dropped her gaze when Artka mentioned how he'd been advised to earn his iron sword.
"Jeda, are you weeping?"
She turned her face away.
"I'm sorry. I said too much. You're the only person in the world who really cares about me. I never meant to upset you."
"Artka, what's the purpose of it all?" Jeda turned her face to his. Tear trails glistened on her cheeks. "Is life nothing but hardship, cruelty, hurting others for selfish gain? Isn't there somewhere people are kind?"
"Be thankful we live in Carnalia, short lived as our freedoms are. During training I learned about the king of Ecclessa; he’s worse than the emperor, allowing no pleasures at all, not even the pleasures of nature. He hates his people, making them obey bitter laws, working them to exhaustion until they’re used up."
"How awful."
"And besides that, he's employed a Magician to mesmerize and drive even his own troops to destruction." He paused, remembering the empire’s slogan. How different were the two kingdoms, really?
"What?" Jeda asked.
"Something reminded me... oh well, there isn’t much use in questioning the order of things."
Cornil stamped her foot on the landing and called, "Didn't you two hear the dinner bell? Mother is getting impatient." With a sassy toss of her curls, the younger twin went back to the dining room. Artka and Jeda followed.
Father’s place at the table was empty, his chair backed away to a corner.
"We're sorry mother, " Jeda said, "…we had much to catch up on."
"See to it that you're on time from now on, or you'll go hungry."
“Father’s not coming?" Artka asked as he slid into his seat.
"He's still at the palace,” said Dame Kway, sticking a fork in the roast. The roast was garnished with boiled potatoes drenched in butter and topped with a sprinkling of herbs and side dishes of varied vegetables—some raw, some cooked, some swimming in sour cream. Blood oozed as Dame Kway’s knife sliced into the beef. “Your father won't be home till late. Just think, children, the chief men directly under the emperor know your father personally. How important we'll all be."
A procession of over-loaded servants paraded in with three more courses, followed by puddings, cakes and other confections.
After dinner, in an unusual move, his mother invited, "Artka, since you've entered a man's world, coarse and common as the military is, you're entitled to share a man's pleasures. Come, have some brandy."
Artka was pleased to accompany her to the parlor where empire dignitaries were often entertained. His parents had spent a small fortune making it lavish. A cask of brandy sporting a highly polished brass spigot in the bunghole sat on a stand against the far wall. Crystal glasses were cabineted above on either side. Adorning one wall were empire banners and plaques. The opposing wall bore family portraits, crests and heraldic emblems. One could not help but associate Kway family ancestry merging with Carnalia’s dominion. His mother's contrivance, no doubt, and very effective, too. As important personages were ushered into this room his father's rising prestige would correspond to the lowering liqueur level. "Very shrewd, Mother."
"Thank you," she said, handing Artka a snifter half-filled with golden liquid. She stood before a portrait of herself and her husband. "I only wish I’d hectored your father sooner. Who knows where he'd be now? Sometimes I wonder if your father has enough drive to attain any higher success." She lowered her glass to the table. "It's obvious that, though you have potential, you don't have much ambition driving it, just like your father."
Artka settled in a comfortable chair, partially listening as she rambled on about her being responsible for the family’s ascending status. Artka's presence wasn't needed for this performance; indeed, he had the feeling that she often came here alone to sip brandy and harangue the pictures on the wall. Tonight, at least, she had a live audience. A comfortable dizziness overtook Artka; his eyelids grew heavy and his breathing slow and deep. His mother's voice droned into the background as his thoughts swam lazily across his mind.
He awoke in the dark; cramped, cold, stiff, and alone. He made his way to the great room where bedding waited beside a cozy fire. A dull ache throbbed behind his temples. He stretched out and was instantly asleep.
Hours later consciousness returned. The room was gray with the approach of dawn. He prepared to roll over when the sound of someone breathing nearby alarmed him. Artka rolled over. A shadowy form stood at his feet. "Who's—who’s there?" Artka said, trying to make his voice menacing.
"So, the highwayman wakes." It was his father, his tone cold and hard.
Artka quickly sat up, re-kindling the pounding in his head. "It's early. What do you want, Father?"
"You come here, trying to associate with my name after being nabbed as a common criminal, and then demand answers from me?"
"You know about that?"
"Not much goes on in Cosmopolis that I don't know about. I know you’re to march in two days time. Is that why you're here, to see if I can get you removed from active duty? Well, I could, but I won't."
"You never did understand me. How did you find out?"
"What does that matter? Enough people have access to the rolls of prisoners enlisting in the army; if anyone makes the connection between us... You must leave the house, now."
"Right this minute?"
"Immediately, while fog enshrouds the streets so no one can recognize you. As far as we—your family—are concerned, you're dead. No one in this house will ever hear from you again, understand?" Kekinor Kway turned to leave.
"Can I at least say good-bye to Jeda?"
"Leave now! She’ll be gone soon, as well. The two of you never did fit in. You've found what you're best suited for; the emperor will find a suitable use for your sister, too. Don't bother coming to visit her, she won't be here." He vanished into the gloom of the hallway.
Artka stared at the dying coals in the fireplace, collecting his thoughts.
Two men swaggered into the room. "Yer be’s trespassin’. The master wants we should escort yer off'n his property," sneered one.
Artka stood; the pounding in his head increased. "I'll get my things."
"Already got ‘em. Let's go."
Artka was prodded through the darkened room, past curtained windows, down long, dark corridors, passing silent, luxuriously furnished rooms. At the door to the street he said, "May I have my things?"
"Sure, why not?" The gruff bodyguard handed over Artka’s leather rucksack containing all his personal items, clothing, a short knife and a notebook of tactics. The other guard still held Artka’s hickory blade.
"And my sword?" Artka said, waiting in the doorway.
"Yer means this here toy? Not till yer off’n the property, laddie. C'mon, move it," said the shorter one, giving Artka a poke.
Artka’s face flushed and his muscles tensed, but a season of Sergeant Love’s tutelage had taught him to master those impulses.
The bodyguards noticed his stiffening. "Do it yer little snake. Come fer usn's," said one fingering his knife. "I sees the anger in yer eyes. Like ter kill usn's, wouldn't yer, huh?"
Artka studied the gnarled hands, sinewy arms and flinty faces of the two men; they could kill just for fun, and probably had. He turned and started down the stairs.
"Hah! See whut fer kind o' recruits the emperor gots now, Blatch. Afeared o' every shadow. We'll hafta defend the empire ourselves if’n all they gots is blokes the likes o' him."
"Right yer be, Orvy. Pretty poor pickin’s, I'd say," said the other. He jabbed Artka’s shoulder blades with the hickory sword.
Artka’s rucksack hit the stoned walkway; he spun in a blur, grabbed the hickory blade and tugged the unsuspecting goon off balance. Blatch’s arms flailed, his hand released Artka’s sword. Quick as a spark Artka caught and flipped his weapon to his sword hand, and in one motion crunched the thick side against Blatch's neck. Blatch sprawled headlong, seeing white spots swirl in front of him.
Orvy yelled, "Hey! Watch thet yer..."
Artka leapt, brandishing his “toy”.
Orvy fumbled in his belt for his knife.
The sharp edge of Artka’s sword sliced through the homespun sleeve into Orvy's elbow. A muffled snap resounded as bone and tendon spliced free of each other. Orvy cried out and fell facedown on the stairway, unconscious, his arm bent unnaturally beneath.
Artka’s head was clear; the headache gone. He lifted his sword. "Blood on my blade—but not Ecclessite blood." Only trouble could come of this. He knelt and wiped his sword in the grass. Blatch moaned. Artka went and, with his foot, prodded the man.
Blatch rolled over. Artka touched the sword point to the bodyguard’s throat. "Tell my father that I will be back and I'd better find Jeda safe, or he'll pay more dearly than your pig-faced friend. Got that?"
Blatch made no response. Artka pressed his sword. A spot of crimson appeared under the sword’s point. "Got that?"
"Right, I'll tell him."
"And if I ever see you or your comrade again, I swear by the dreads of the gate that I'll lay your skulls open." Then, looking toward his father's house, he shouted, "I'll return. Count on it."
A curtain moved ever so slightly at an upstairs window.
