The Death Arts

Prologue:

Erovian slashed his borrowed short sword against his opponent’s blade. The clash surprised the man, throwing him off balance. He couldn’t block Erovian’s next move. Erovian guided his nicked blade down the other man’s with serpentine speed, the noise of metal grinding against metal grating in his ears. Using the momentum, he followed through. His sword plunged into the man’s shoulder with little resistance, severing vital muscles and ligaments.

The curved saber fell from his opponent’s hand. He willed himself to ignore the terror on the man’s face. He drew his sword free and thrust again. This time it found the man’s heart. The quilted gambeson did little against the power of Erovian’s attack.

Blood spurted from the man’s mouth and splattered across Erovian’s face. One droplet struck his eye. Ashlight! It burned like molten steel.

Erovian kicked the dying man from his blade. The body slid down the incline. One final cry escaped the Trevadreli as he fell.

Erovian had grown up believing that battle and war were glorious. That cry felt anything but. The man had been half-trained and hardly a challenge.

Erovian watched the body come to a stop, an ache settling in his chest he wished he could ignore. The smell of blood on his face wouldn’t allow him.

The man had likely been the son of a farmer or a carpenter. Similar people with similar stories lay slain across the battlefield. Their stories ended forever—unless the Great Eye preserved them. He had lost count of the bodies he had added to the dead.

Farmers. Shopkeeps. Millers. Bakers.

None of them were warriors like Erovian—an Envoy of Tooriem. He tried to rub the blood from his eyes with his forearm. He muddled his vision further with sweat. Erovian grunted in annoyance and glanced down at the damaged sword he’d picked up earlier, doubting its longevity.

The battle had begun in chaos. Erovian had dropped his poleaxe and broken his favorite side sword trying to pry up boulders to send crashing into the enemies below. Not his smartest move—but it had worked well enough.

Erovian squinted in the noonday sun. The sounds of battle had quieted, though he could still hear and feel the ground tremble as a company of blackhorn riders drove down enemies in the west. He felt so tired. He lowered his sword, pointing it at the bloodied ground.

Below the sun, hovering just above the horizon, glowed a smaller, redder orb—the Great Eye. The normal sun skimmed across the sky each day from east to west. Yet the Great Eye remained fixed, circling endlessly. Always watching.

Did it judge him now? Did it approve?

Thousands of years ago, humanity named the second sun the Great Eye. Erovian didn’t believe in the religious nonsense surrounding Ardalenne’s official faith. He did not revere the Eye—most Holy Envoys shared that sentiment. But seeing it there, beside the sun, watching him kill again and again, stirred an uneasy thought that the stories might be true.

Erovian snorted. What a stupid thought.

A week ago, green grass and vibrant flowers had filled the fields of Vorilume. No longer. The battle had trampled everything into a bloody pulp. Only a few scattered trees remained, none showing much age.

In the cool breeze, tattered flags wavered where their bearers had fallen. The scent of spring fought against the stench of battle. Dark clouds rolled in like an omen of death.

Movement to Erovian’s left caught his eye—just in time. The blood from his last fight had blurred his vision more than he thought. He turned and raised his buckler. The impact jolted through his arm as wood splintered. Pain screamed through his left side.

Erovian shifted his stance and saw his opponent. His stomach sank. He was one of the largest Envoys of Tooriem on the battlefield, which was no small feat. The Alliance relied on them for their unmatched skill. He stood taller than most warriors.

Now he faced someone even larger.

The Vadden man had pale, pinkish-white skin and a thick golden beard stained with blood. He loomed over Erovian by at least a head and wielded a massive axe—its blade still lodged in Erovian’s buckler. The man glared at him with fury.

Erovian tried to move back, but his shield arm wouldn’t follow. The axe held fast. Blood dripped from where the blade had torn through his forearm. His eyes widened, but he refused to panic. He was a Holy Envoy.

Erovian yanked the shield, pulling himself toward his opponent. Pain flared through his arm, but he ignored it and made a wild jab at the man’s belly.

The giant roared and used the lodged axe to wrench Erovian off balance. He stumbled.

He slashed through the straps of his shield, uncaring if he cut deeper into his own arm. The limb was nearly useless anyway.

The straps came free as the giant launched a powerful kick at Erovian’s midsection. He tried to sidestep, but the blow clipped him, sending him tumbling down the hill. The world blurred around him.

He slammed into the corpse of a fallen Ardalenian soldier, stopping his fall. Somehow, he still held his sword. He surged back to his feet.

The Vadden lumbered down after him—slow, deliberate. Erovian didn’t know which side would claim victory today. He didn’t care. All that mattered was this fight.

The man ripped Erovian’s shield free with a gnarled hand and tossed it aside.

Erovian tried to bring his left hand up to steady his blade, but his injured arm refused to cooperate. He let it hang limp, blood dripping from his fingers. He settled into a one-handed stance.

Erovian noticed the man limped as he approached. A deep gash marked his thigh. Maybe he could use that. If he survived long enough to try.

The Vadden held his long axe in both hands. It was practically a polearm with its length. Erovian didn’t like that. Not only did the larger man have two hands, the high ground, and more muscle—he also had superior reach.

Anger glowed in the man’s eyes as he hobbled forward. Erovian saw something else—weariness. Oddly, he sensed a connection with the man. Both had survived hours of fighting, triumphed over foe after foe, and now one of them would die here.

The Eye knew there were no other options. No running. No pleading. Only fighting. Erovian cursed the Great Eye and his luck. Because of a moment of blurred vision, death approached him like a storm—and he had no shelter.

Erovian didn’t understand why, but he gave a slight bow of his head. This man was no farmer or merchant. Like Erovian, he lived as a warrior. The other man regarded him with a grim expression, then nodded and settled into his own stance. Some of the ferocity left his eyes, replaced with a hint of respect.

Erovian didn’t wait. He needed to close the distance. He lunged, slashing at the man’s hands, hoping to cripple his grip.

The man grunted and shifted his grip with surprising speed. Erovian’s blade grazed the haft, chipping the dense wood. He ducked the follow-up—the butt of the axe sweeping over his head like a deadly breeze.

Erovian leaped again, jabbing for the man’s armpit. The Vadden swept his blade aside with ease. Erovian saw the man choke up on the haft—barely enough warning to dodge the next slash aimed at his throat. The blade passed so close he felt it graze his Adam’s apple.

For what felt like hours, they exchanged blows. Erovian knew he was losing. His muscles ached. His heart pounded like a charging army. Worst of all, the bearded man maintained a relentless pace. It was only a matter of time before Erovian slipped and died like all the others on this Eye-forsaken field.

Erovian pictured his three children’s faces. Justine would be nine now. She’d held the blade for four years. Jalon would soon turn five—he wished he could give the boy his first practice sword. Giving Justine hers had been one of the proudest moments of his life.

His newest child might already have been born. He remembered resting his hand on his wife’s womb before leaving for war, feeling the child push back. He had laughed—the child would be strong. He only hoped all three would become better than he was. He did not possess the strength or size to defeat this giant.

Erovian slipped on a rock slick with blood. He watched the axe fall toward his exposed leg. He tried to block, but one-handed, he lacked the strength.

The axe struck his sword and shoved it aside. Its momentum carried through his leg, severing muscle and bone below the knee. Erovian felt no pain as the Vadden yanked the blade free.

His leg collapsed beneath him. He dropped his sword—never before had anyone forced that from his hand. The axe rose again in slow motion.

Erovian’s instincts screamed at him to dive, but his body wouldn’t respond. He crashed to the ground, rocks digging into his back. All he could see was the grim determination on his opponent’s face.

And something else—sadness? Erovian nodded weakly. At least I fell to a worthy foe…

An arrow punched through the man’s neck. The Vadden jerked, pain flashing across his face—but not surprise. Only resignation.

Another arrow struck his side, puncturing a lung. The axe slipped from his hands and fell beside Erovian. The ground shook as the man collapsed next to him.

Erovian struggled to remain conscious. It seems I have lost too much blood to survive anyway, he thought. His mind drifted, his family’s faces rising before fading into darkness.

***

Valda lowered her shortbow as the massive Vadden dropped to his knees beside her fallen friend. The man’s eyes glistened with a story she would never hear. He remained upright for a moment longer before she stepped forward and drove another arrow into his eye. He collapsed into a motionless heap.

Valda nodded, satisfied with her shot—but she feared she had been too late to save Erovian. At fifty paces, he had nearly been beyond the range of her small bow. The Vadden had been a formidable fighter. Ashlight, he had nearly killed Erovian.

Valda grimaced. It was not right that such a man should fall to an arrow he never saw—but war was never fair. She had lived through too many battles to believe otherwise. Sometimes she wished she could die and leave these memories behind. But she still had work to do.

Valda sighed and scanned the battlefield, another arrow already nocked. It appeared the Alliance had won—but barely. Victory meant little. She saw nearly as many Alliance soldiers among the dead as those of the Trevandel Pact. Worse still, before the battle began, word had come that a Tolvakani army marched from the northwest—only a week away.

They had won today—but not enough. Armaviri could no longer be taken. They would have to retreat and recover.

Rain began to fall. The Great Eye vanished behind the clouds—perhaps ashamed of what humanity had done this day. Valda stamped her foot as water streamed down her face. Anger rose within her, bitter and sharp. She needed to find a way to end this.

She un-nocked her arrow and slipped her bow into the sheath at her hip. Around her, Alliance soldiers moved among the bodies—searching for the living and finishing the dying.

Valda bent and retrieved her spear, using it as a walking staff as she forced her weary body forward—toward where Erovian had fallen.Had he joined the long list of friends she had buried across the centuries?

Valda clenched her jaw and pushed through the rain. This war had taken enough.

One way or another—she would end it.

Chapter 1:

You’re not good enough! Thunk! A throwing knife sank into the center of the target. The words rang through his head—his father’s voice, slurred and cruel.

Grey clouds covered the sky above the Tooriem training grounds. The sun and the Great Eye peeked through them now and again. Jorium wanted to scream. He gritted his teeth until they ached and poured his anger into a throwing knife, flinging it at a round wooden target twenty paces away.

Around him, acolytes clacked wooden swords together. The training grounds of Tooriem stretched wide—they took an hour to cross. Even with so many people around, Jorium could still felt alone.

You’ll never survive war! Jorium palmed another knife and sent it flying. He threw it too hard. The blade flashed through the air and vanished into the packed earth. Only a small hole remained.

Jorium fought to steady himself. He had trained as a Tooriem Acolyte for two years now—officially since fourteen, though like most Tooriem, he had held a blade long before that. He knew better than to let his emotions take control.

You’ll never be an Envoy for Tooriem. Give up! His heart quickened, his arms trembling with fury. He worked harder than anyone else, yet his short, lithe body betrayed him. Jorium threw another blade. It struck high on the target.

His father’s old drunken words always sank deep. The Eye help him, he wished they didn’t—but they haunted him day and night. Maybe they helped, in a way. They pushed him to become stronger. But so far, he had only proven his father right. His siblings had been strong—and they had still died. What chance did he have?

A tear threatened to slip free. Jorium forced it away. He could cry when he died. He had to be harder than stone. Nothing could break him—not his peers, not the training, not even the memory of his father. He would prove them all wrong.

A cool breeze swept across the grounds, carrying dust and a few autumn leaves. It tickled his nose, and he sneezed. Jorium growled under his breath. Blind him—even sneezing made him angry.

He glanced at the hole where his knife had buried itself and shook his head. No. He couldn’t let anger control him. He couldn’t let anything control him. He would be a wall—unyielding, unmoved by whatever his enemies threw at it.

A boy in deep blue foreign robes stepped from around a building—a Han life artist. Straight black hair fell to his ears, shifting as he walked. His robes were tied with a green sash, the color complementing his reddish-brown skin. He was a head taller than Jorium.

But what caught Jorium most were the boy’s eyes—emerald pools he felt he could drown in. He wondered what it would be like to gaze into them for hours. He realized he was staring just as the boy noticed and turned toward him.

“Jorium,” the boy said.

“Tal.” His voice came out flat, but his heart pounded like clashing blades. Heat rose to his face. Why did Tal always do this to him?

Tal narrowed his eyes. “What is wrong with you, acolyte?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m a warrior.” Jorium shrugged, twirling a knife in his hand.

Tal quirked an eyebrow, then nodded.

“Fine then. I will see you at the First Blade match in an hour.” Tal looked up at the darkening sky for a moment. “I don’t look forward to it.” Tal studied Jorium one more time, then turned away.

Jorium felt no offense. He knew the other boy didn’t like violence. What worried him more was that he couldn’t figure out why his hands got so clammy around Tal.

Maybe it was because of the traditional bindings on Tal’s left arm, marking him as a life artist. The cream-colored wrappings spiraled around his fingers, leaving only the tips exposed, and ran up to his elbow. No one but the Han people knew why life artists wore them. A mystery indeed.

Jorium smacked himself on the forehead. His cheeks warmed as he realized he had been staring at Tal as he left—and not just at his wrapped arm. Distractions. He could not afford them. He had an important duel coming up.

Jorium turned back to his target and pushed his emotions deep inside. He didn’t need them here. He needed focus.

Jorium emptied his mind and shoved away the hurtful words. He forced aside the image of Tal walking away—though that proved harder. He breathed deeply.

When he threw his next knife, it bounced off the target with a clang—not because he’d missed, but because he’d hit the hilt of the first knife.

Jorium nodded in satisfaction. Hardness gave him control. At least he still had that.

***

Two Years Earlier

“You’re staying here, boy.” Jorium’s dad stepped in front of the hardwood door, his massive frame filling the entryway. Erovian the war hero had gained quite a gut since his days on the battlefield. His square face held a scraggly, unkempt beard, and his tight black curls stuck out unevenly. His blue-grey eyes burned with fury—and what Jorium read as hatred. He had been told more than once it was his fault their mother had left.

Erovian held a clay mug that sloshed amber liquid onto the hard-packed dirt floor as he swayed like a tree in the wind.

Jorium clenched his fists. He glanced toward the window. The sun had just risen—and his father was already this drunk? Even for Erovian, that was early.

“It is my right, Father. I’m fourteen now. I can be an acolyte. The initiations start today—and I’m not going to miss them.” Jorium pulled the wooden sword from his belt with a shaky hand and pointed it at him.

Erovian guffawed, spilling more of his drink. He swayed on the wooden peg that replaced half his left leg. He steadied himself against the doorframe with the metal hook where his left hand used to be. The leather straps groaned under the strain.

“Put that thing away, boy. You don’t belong out there.” Jorium glanced at the practice sword. It was simple—the best he could afford. The Eye knew his father would never give him a better one.

“I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a whisper.

“What’s that?” Erovian sneered. “You think you know better?” Erovian's laugh darkened. “You know nothing. Choose a different life. They’ll never accept you as a warrior. Look at you.” He gestured with his drink, spilling more onto the floor.

“You’re barely bigger than most ten-year-old girls—and you’re what, now?”

Jorium felt his emotions pull in every direction. This man was a war hero? He’d show the world what a real one looked like—once he got out of this suffocating house.

“I’m fourteen. The age Tooriem takes acolytes. I just told you that.”

Jorium stared up at him, craning his neck. His arms trembled with rage and fear. His knees threatened to give out. It was like staring at a mountain and demanding it move. Erovian laughed again and took a long swig. He grimaced.

“Fourteen? A blinding ten-year-old girl could knock your twig of a body over—the Eye blind me, a gust of wind could.”

He met Jorium’s gaze. It took everything Jorium had not to look away. Tears welled in Jorium’s eyes. He dropped his gaze before his father could see.

He fastened the practice sword back onto his belt—as if he had given up. Then he turned and ran. His father’s peg thumped behind him. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

Jorium leapt over the small pallet he used as a bed. His blanket and pillow were neatly arranged. Something shattered beside his head as he reached the window—liquid spraying across him. He gagged at the smell.

“Why don’t you listen to me? You’ll die!” his father roared. Jorium froze at the open window, tears streaking down his dark-brown cheeks.

“I will not stay here—trapped with you for the rest of my life.” His voice cracked, high and shrill. He hated how it sounded. He unlatched the window's shutters.

“I’m going to honor my brother and sister. I will become an Envoy—and I will be twice the warrior you ever were.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He dove headfirst through the window rolling into a run as soon as he hit the ground.

“No!”

Jorium heard things crashing behind him—his few possessions breaking. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t coming back.

He didn’t look back. He wiped the tears from his face and forced the rest down. He would never cry again. Today, he became a man—a better man than his father ever was.

***

Sweat, mud, and rain intermingled on Jorium’s face as he dodged to the left. His attacker’s huge wooden sword swiped through empty air, setting the larger youth off balance. Jorium heard and felt his feet skid through the wet sparring ring. The longer the match went on, the more the ring became a pit of mud. Jorium slid into a familiar attack stance and faced Rellim.

Rellim was the Talon Acolytes’ largest boy, with bulging biceps and formidable height for a sixteen-year-old. His complexion was very similar to Jorium’s—the rich, dark brown skin the Tooriem people were known for.

Rellim’s grey eyes scanned Jorium wearily—likely thinking how easy this fight would be. Jorium would prove him wrong. Rellim wore his hair in long dreadlocks tied back with a strap of leather. Jorium preferred his tight coils cut short and neatly lined—though he had to admit the dreadlocks looked cool.

Jorium glanced at the sidelines. The drillmasters didn’t seem to care about the rain. They stood around the circular sparring area as though the storm didn’t exist. Jorium knew Valda would be watching, but he didn’t have time to find her. He also didn’t want to risk seeing Tal. He’d surely lose concentration if he did.

Jorium narrowed his eyes, ignoring the water streaming down his face. He could do this. Only Rellim stood in his way of proving them all wrong—of proving his dad wrong.

Jorium moved into a new stance. Drawing on the strength of his whole body, he sent the short curved sword in his left hand toward Rellim’s neck. Each practice sword was an exact wooden replica of their chosen weapons. His was smaller than Rellim’s—built for dexterity and cutting.

Rellim’s chosen weapon was a longsword in one hand and a wooden buckler in the other. Jorium smiled as Rellim hastily raised his buckler to block. As his left sword glanced off the shield, he simultaneously slashed with his right, cracking it across Rellim’s ribs. Jorium heard something snap despite the rain.

Rellim grunted. Pain filled his grey eyes. What had been a drizzle was now nearly a deluge, obscuring vision and footing.

Jorium leaped back, crashing through the heavy rain. Barely visible, Rellim raised his sword for a counterattack. Jorium evaluated his next move.

No drillmaster raised a hand or spoke to stop the fight. If they had been using real weapons, Rellim would have suffered a fatal injury. That didn’t mean the match was over. A true Tooriem Envoy could still fight through such wounds. Rellim could still win if he disabled Jorium quickly.

Rellim adjusted fluidly to Jorium’s retreat—there was a reason he held the First Blade title—and leapt to smash him with his shield. Jorium crossed his swords and met the charge, letting his feet slide in the mud to absorb the impact. Rellim stumbled slightly but regained his footing before Jorium could exploit it.

Jorium’s hands buzzed from the impact, but he ignored the pain and steadied his grip. He glanced at Rellim’s broad shoulders, as Valda had taught him, and saw the next move coming.

Jorium yelled and slid his crossed swords up just in time to catch Rellim’s blade before it struck his skull. He lashed out with his foot, connecting with Rellim’s stomach. It felt like kicking a wall. Rellim pulled back to reset. Jorium didn’t let him.

Jorium charged. For an instant Rellim looked stunned, then settled into a defensive stance. On a normal day, that was the right move—but Valda had taught him to use the environment. He just hoped the mud would work the way he imagined.

Rellim raised his shield and sword, ready to block and strike. Gaining speed, Jorium dropped to his knees and slid through the mud. Using the momentum and surprise, he lashed out at Rellim’s unprotected leg. The boy tried to dodge, but Jorium’s blade struck true with a sharp crack, followed by a cry of agony.

The ground shook, and Jorium heard a large splash behind him. Still sliding, he shifted his left foot to redirect his momentum and spun around. The world blurred for a moment. He stood there panting waiting for an attack. One never came. He stepped forward.

He looked through the sheet of rain, he couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Rellim lay writhing on the ground. Jorium froze, letting the rain cascade over him. His chest heaved. The wooden swords felt heavier now. His hands stung from the impacts. Jorium relaxed when he saw Rellim’s sword and shield lying in the mud.

The boy’s left leg bent at an unnatural angle. His moans rose above the downpour. The smell of earth and rain mingled with the quiet anguish.

“The winner is Jorium!” Drillmaster Strind’s voice carried over the rain—flat and without emotion. The arena fell silent except for the steady drumming of rain.

Jorium licked his lips, tasting sweat. For a long moment, he simply stood, letting it settle. He had done it. He had proven his dad wrong. He had proven them all wrong.

Rellim groaned again. Jorium glanced down at him. A pang of doubt made him hesitate. But at what cost?

Jorium scanned the sparring circle for the first time since the match began. What had started with only drillmasters now drew most of the Talon Acolytes, all staring at him.

“Jorium takes Rellim’s place as the Talon Acolytes’ First Blade,” Strind stated. “Tal, please attend to Rellim.”

Jorium stared as the life artist dashed into the ring. Rain clung to Tal’s blue robes, revealing the shape of impressive muscles beneath. Jorium hadn’t expected that from the thin Han boy.

Tal reached Rellim and glanced up at Jorium. His emerald eyes seemed to glow in the gloom—hard, disapproving. Jorium looked away. That expression hurt more than a blow for Rellim’s sword.

For the first time, Jorium felt shame. But why should he? He had done what was required. He shut the emotions out—becoming stone. He had earned the title he had always wanted.

He was the First Blade of the Talon Acolytes.