Nightblade (3 page)

Her son, so curious and so brave, rushed towards his mother in an incoherent attempt to do something, anything. He was picked up easily by one of the bandits and restrained without problem. None of the men, none of the elders, no one so much as raised their voice to protest the crime which happened next. They still believed that silence was their greatest defense. The boy was made to watch as the bandits took his mother on the cold ground. He didn’t know about her knife, but other men held her arms still while another was between her legs. They were taking no chances. When all willing were satiated, the bandits pulled the mother over to the boy by her hair.

Unable to move her legs, she tried to stand but had to be thrown through the snow the last remaining paces to her son. She did not say anything, couldn’t say anything, but she somehow held on to the last shred of her dignity and pride, the piece that no violence could take away. Her eyes did not burn with hatred, nor did they reflect the calmness of resignation. If the boy didn’t know any better, he’d say that his mother’s eyes were smiling. Later in life he would see that same look, and he would realize it was hope. Hope that despite everything, he would have a better life. He would never forget her final moments.

One of the bandits casually stuck his sword down through her, pulling it out slowly. He laughed as he watched her life blood flow out of her as though he’d just heard a joke that was kind of funny. With a quick flick of his wrist, he snapped the blood on his sword onto the boy. He chuckled, but left the boy alone. The boy watched the life leave his mother’s eyes. But even in his shock, the boy’s mind was working, and he cataloged his mother’s killer as the leader.

The rest of the work happened quickly. The bandits were seasoned and went around slicing the throats of the rest of the party with a ruthless lack of concern. It was quick work, done without hatred or malice. It was business, no different than slaughtering cows. The farmer’s boy understood the truth the other villagers did not. The bandits had killed already. To leave witnesses increased the odds of capture and prosecution. Robbery was one matter; murder another, with much stricter penalties. Killing the rest was just good practice – safety first.

The boy was held tightly by one of the bandits and was unable to move against the much stronger grip. Forced into the role of a spectator, the boy could not help but bring his power of observation to bear on the unbearable scene taking place before his eyes. Of the elders, the oldest was resigned to his fate. In a last show of bravery, he bared his neck and stared his killer in the eyes. He died without a sound. The other two elders whimpered and tried to scamper away, but were easily caught and killed before they could get more than a few paces.

The merchant was the most interesting to the boy. He, whose hope for life had made him a coward, found his strength in the face of certain death. With no other option he raged, attempting to defeat his captors. But with no weapon and no training in defense he was beaten and mocked by the bandits before he was finally silenced for good. They held the man in disdain, the man who wouldn’t fight for what was his.

After all was done, it was only the boy left. The bandit the boy had identified as the leader walked up to him. “Well, boy, this is business.” His voice held a trace of an apology, a tone the boy found strange considering the circumstances.

The boy looked his murderer in the eyes. He would show no fear to this man.

The leader, despite his cruelty, was observant. “The boy is brave. Do you wish to join us? We could use someone to keep camp for us. We can train you how to fight.”

The boy’s mind was racing, thinking of the answers and the consequences. Looking from the corpses strewn around him to the leader, he spoke with a soft voice. There was no defiance, none of the hatred the bandit leader had observed before. “No.”

The bandit leader studied the boy. He was not trying to stare him down or offer foolish intimidation or threats. He was only a couple of cycles old, but he knew the cost of his answer, and was unwavering. For a young boy, he seemed much older than he was. The risk of taking on a personality that strong was not worth the potential benefits of trying to convert him.

Turning to the boy, he spoke again. “It was well said, son. I respect that.” He looked up to the man holding the boy. “Kill him.”

The boy did not close his eyes. He had seen the cowardice of many in the group and swore that he would represent his family with honor. There was a soft rush of air past his head, and the boy waited for the transition to the Great Cycle. But there was no pain. After a moment of confusion the boy discerned that the grip which had been holding him in place was loosening. He glanced up and saw a throwing knife lodged deep into his captor’s throat. His captor, suitably surprised, dropped to his knees unable to breathe.

A man appeared out of nowhere. He was of average height and wore clothes of white that blended in with the snow in the background. He spoke, and his voice, while deep, still seemed soft to the boy. “That’s enough.”

The bandits all turned to face the stranger. Disbelief was etched on the leader’s face, mirrored by the boy’s. There were still six bandits left. It was suicidal to go against those odds. No one fought six men and lived to tell the story. It was great for the storytellers, but the young boy wasn’t fooled by stories like the merchant’s son had been. It didn’t happen in the real world. But the stranger was calm, as if he’d stopped by on a morning walk to say hello to a neighbor. His sword was sheathed, and his hands were open and relaxed at his sides.

The leader spoke with confusion and a trace of nervousness in his voice, “Who are you?”

“Shigeru. I’ve been tracking your group since the last farmstead you raided. I was asked by the girl you barely left alive to kill you.”

The bandit nodded. “Should have killed that bitch quickly. What is your family name? A man of your confidence must come from one of the Great Houses.”

“I have none.”

The boy saw the tension in the leader’s shoulders dissipate. No last name meant an outcast, a bandit or rogue with no formal training. The stranger standing in front of him may be an excellent throw with a knife, but would be dead within minutes. With a nod of his head the five remaining bandits rushed at the stranger, swords drawn. The boy watched with open eyes, unable to turn away. Something about the stranger’s attitude drew all of his attention.

The stranger stepped forward into the rush, moving with calm steps. What struck the boy as unusual was that the stranger did not seem to move much. His cuts all blended into one beautiful motion. There was never even the clang of steel on steel. When he stepped out of the back end of the rush of bandits, the boy would have sworn that they had been play-fighting, unwilling to actually meet steel.

The impression vanished with the spirits of the bandits. The five men collapsed, and within the space of a couple of breaths they had stopped moving altogether. Their leader was the only one standing, and although he stood tall, the boy could almost smell the fear radiating off of him. He was much bigger than the stranger dressed in white, but size wasn’t going to save him.

“Who are you?” The bandit leader asked again.

“Shigeru,” stated the enigmatic man.

“Your name is no answer, where did you learn how to do that? I have never seen moves like that.”

“Nor will you again.” The statement was made without a change in inflection.

The bandit held his sword out in a defensive stance as the stranger took two paces forward. The boy stared, intent on watching what happened. He thought for a heartbeat that he felt the movement of the stranger. He blinked, and it was untrue. The two warriors had not moved. They stood two paces apart, the stranger with his sword held low and behind him, the bandit with his blade held straight in front of him.

The boy wondered if they would stand that way forever. The bandit held his stance, as firm as he could, while the stranger was relaxed. In time, the bandit’s stance began to falter, but he was without options. Turning his back would mean immediate execution, but an aggressive cut seemed equally unlikely to succeed. He was most safe as he stood, but he couldn’t lower his guard without risk.

The outcome was inevitable. The bandit, either out of frustration or the realization that there was no other option, switched to an offensive stance and stepped forward. The stranger, as relaxed as ever, moved forward as well. Again there was no clang of steel, but the bandit fell without a sound. The stranger flicked his wrist, and blood snapped off his blade. He withdrew a cloth from the folds of his robe and wiped down his blade before sheathing it in one smooth motion. He was unhurried and thorough. The boy got the impression he had done this many times before.

The process only took a couple of breaths, and when he was done he turned his attention to the boy. The boy, earlier fascinated, now felt the slow but steady growth of the taste of fear in his mouth. He had never seen anybody like the stranger. He thought quickly. Behind him the stranger’s throwing knife was embedded in the bandit who once held him captive. It wasn’t much, but it was a hope. He could grab the knife and throw before the stranger reached him.

The stranger stopped where he was. “You need not worry about me, boy. I have no intent to harm you. Leave the knife where it is.”

The boy started. He had made no motion towards the knife and was confident he hadn’t even glanced towards it. The pieces fell into place in his head, and the boy found his natural curiosity overwhelming his fear. “You can s
ense
, can’t you?” He put a strong emphasis on the word sense, savoring the sound of it like a rare dessert, something one got to experience only occasionally, if ever.

The man let the hint of a smile creep into the corners of his mouth. The boy found that with the smile, the stranger who had just slaughtered a group of bandits was kind and warm. The stranger nodded. “My name is Shigeru. What is your name?”

For some reason the question gave the boy pause. He was five, and of course he knew his name, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak it. Some quality in this man wouldn’t allow him to speak. His tongue, always quick with questions, was thick and heavy. His mind, quick and sharp, could not form a coherent thought.

The stranger examined him head to toe, and for the first time in the boy’s life, he felt like he was no longer the one who was asking the questions. Without saying a word, the stranger managed to look into him. It wasn’t that he was being stripped naked, but that somehow this Shigeru was able to look straight into him, unraveling all the paradoxes which defined him as a child. Shigeru held the boy in his gaze and seemed to come to a conclusion. Without warning the boy felt like he had been folded back up into the box of himself. It was disorienting, and it took him a couple of breaths to recover.

“Your name is Ryuu.” The stranger mentioned this matter-of-factly, confusing the boy even further. From a literal perspective, the man was wrong, but there was some quality in the name that seemed so right. The boy nodded, implicit agreement with a new reality defined by his new name.

The stranger sat down, calm and unmoving. Ryuu watched Shigeru as he pulled out dried fruit and ate. He offered some calmly to Ryuu, who took it without saying a word. The food tasted wonderful to the boy, who hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he started eating. He realized as he ate he didn’t recognize all the fruits he tasted. He filed the information away. Wherever Shigeru had come from, it wasn’t near here.

Seeing that Shigeru wasn’t moving, Ryuu turned to his parents. They lay unmoving on the snow, and for the first time the reality of what had happened started to sink into Ryuu. The grief rose over him and crested like a wave, almost knocking him to his knees. He stood through it, pondering his next move. The first was clear. He needed to take care of his parents.

Shigeru watched without speaking as Ryuu brought his parents together over some straw from the caravan. The work was slow and his parents were heavy, but Shigeru did not offer help and Ryuu didn’t ask. He laid them in repose and quickly said a prayer to the Cycle. He took a moment to reflect on all that his parents had given him. Grateful, he took the embers from the caravan’s forgotten fire, stoked them back to life, lit a torch, and then carefully touched the flame to his parents’ pyre, which was slowly consumed by the fire.

Ryuu watched them burn, but could not bring himself to cry. Not yet.

After the bodies were fully consumed, Shigeru stood up. He re-arranged his limited clothing. Without a word, he turned around and started walking away. Ryuu understood. After one last glance at his parents, Ryuu followed him.

CHAPTER THREE

The sounds of battle died away, leaving behind an eerie silence, a natural honoring of the dead. But the smells lingered, impossible to forget. It was the smells that haunted him day in and day out. If he wasn’t watched like a hawk by so many, he would have thrown up. But that was not a possibility here.

Prince Akira sat on a horse, his balance and poise reflecting the cycles of training he’d already accumulated despite having only seen ten cycles. He followed his father as they inspected the troops recovering from the battle. They were trying to retake the Three Sisters, the single large pass that exited the south of the Kingdom. To hear his father tell the stories, this battle was just one of a much larger cycle. Ever since the collapse of the Great Kingdom over a thousand cycles ago this pass had been controlled by the Southern Kingdom. It was only in the past fifty cycles that it had become a site of contention between the Southern Kingdom and Azaria, the people to the south of the mountains.

Akira would have loved to see an actual Azarian. The one people, although divided into three kingdoms now, were all the same heritage. Azarians were different. They were supposed to be taller and darker skinned. Every man and woman of their people was said to be equal in battle skill to three of the Southern Kingdom troops. Akira had quizzed his father on the Azarians relentlessly when he had been younger, but his father had always pushed aside his questions. It wasn’t until two moons ago he realized it was because his father hadn’t known the answers. They only ever encountered the warrior class, and neither nation had managed to push far into the other, due in large part to the Three Sisters.