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 metal grated in Erovian’s ears. Using this momentum, he followed through. His sword plunged into the other 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 etched into the other person’s face. He drew his sword from the man’s shoulder and thrust again. This time his sword found the man’s heart. The quilted gambeson the soldier wore did little against the power of Erovian’s masterfully executed attack. He’d trained since a small child to do just this—kill.

Blood spurted from the man’s mouth and splattered across Erovian’s face. One droplet struck Erovian’s eye. Ashlight! It burned like molten steel. Erovian kicked the other man. The almost-corpse slid from his blade. It tumbled down the slight incline. One final cry escaped from the Trevadreli’s mouth as he tumbled.

Erovian watched the body stop its descent with an ache in his heart he wished he could ignore. The smell of the man’s 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 all across the battlefield. Their stories ended forever, lest the Great Eye preserve them. He had lost count of the bodies he had added to the dead.

Erovian squinted in the noonday sun. Below the sun, hovering a hand’s width above the horizon, glowed a smaller, redder sun—the Great Eye. The normal sun skimmed through the sky from east to west every day. Yet, the Great Eye remained fixed above the horizon. It circled them all—always watching. Did it judge Erovian now? Did it approve?

Thousands of years ago, humanity named the second sun the Great Eye. Erovian didn’t believe in all the religious garbage surrounding Ardalenne’s official religion. He did not revere the Great Eye—most Tooriem Holy Envoys shared that sentiment. But seeing it there, next to the sun, watching him kill person after person, evoked a sense that the religious stories might be true. Erovian snorted. What a stupid thought that was.

The sound of metal on metal filled the rolling fields of Vorilume. A week ago, green grass and vibrant flowers filled this land. No longer. The battle trampled all living things into a bloody pulp, whether they were human or not. Only a few trees stood scattered across the landscape. None showed signs of much age.

Movement to Erovian’s left caught his eye just in time. The blood from his last fight had blurred his vision more than he had thought. He turned just in time to raise his buckler. Vibrations shook his bulky arm from the impact. He heard wood splintering. Agony screamed through his left arm.

Erovian shifted his stance. He saw his opponent, and his stomach sank. Weariness told him to just give up. Erovian was one of the largest Holy Envoys of Tooriem, which was no minor feat. On battlefields, the Alliance counted on Tooriem’s Holy Envoys for their exceptional fighting prowess. He remained significantly taller than the other renowned fighters. Now, he faced someone even more imposing than he was.

The Vadden man had pale, pinkish-white skin and a large beard of golden hair. His beard dripped with blood and sweat. He topped Erovian by at least a head and wielded a long, wicked-looking axe—part of the blade still lodged in Erovian’s buckler.

Erovian tried to move back. He needed a better position to fight, but his shield arm wouldn’t move with him. He struggled violently but couldn’t remove his buckler from the axe. Blood dripped from where the blade had mangled half of his forearm. Erovian’s eyes widened in horror, but he refused to panic. He was a blinding Holy Envoy.

Erovian growled and slashed his sword across the leather straps of his shield. He didn’t care if his arm got cut further. He recognized the limb would be of little use anymore.

The straps came free as the giant man launched a powerful kick at Erovian’s midsection. He attempted to sidestep, but the boot grazed him and he felt himself spiral out of control. Erovian rolled down the small hill—the world a dark blur around him. The corpse of a fallen Ardalenian soldier stopped his tumble. He somehow kept hold of his borrowed sword and surged to his feet.

Erovian couldn’t identify who would be the “victorious” side today. He did not care. All that mattered was this fight. The other man ripped Erovian’s shield off his axe with a gnarled hand. He tossed it aside. Erovian attempted to bring his left hand up to help wield his sword. Using two hands would greatly improve his leverage. Unfortunately, his injured arm refused to let him grip anything.

Erovian noticed the other man limped as he approached. Someone had hacked a gash into the monster’s thigh. Maybe Erovian could exploit the injury? The other man didn’t look like he intended to allow Erovian to do that.

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 muscles. 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 sort of connection with the man. Both of them had survived hours of fighting. They had both triumphed over foe after foe, and now one of their lives would end here and now.

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 simple moment of blurred vision, death approached him like a storm, and he had no shelter to hide.

Erovian raised his sword, settling into stance. He’d need to parry, dodge, redirect—survive. The attacks would be too dangerous to block with only one hand, and the hooked blade of the axe might wrench the sword from his grasp.

Erovian didn’t understand why, but he gave a very slight bow of his head to the other man. He was not a farmer nor a merchant. Like Erovian, this man lived as a warrior by trade. The other man looked at him with a grim expression—considering him. Then he nodded and settled into his own stance. Some of the ferocity left the Vadden’s eyes, replaced by a hint of respect.

Erovian didn’t want to wait for the man to attack first. He needed to close that distance. Erovian vaulted into action, slashing at the man’s hands. He hoped to get a lucky shot on the man’s fingers and cripple his opponent’s grip.

The man growled. He shifted his hands with amazing speed. Erovian’s blade grazed the axe’s haft and made a small chip in the dense wood. He ducked and avoided the Vadden’s follow-up attack. The butt of the long axe swished over his head like a deadly breeze.

Erovian leaped again and jabbed for the man’s armpit. With the haft of his axe, the Vadden swept Erovian’s blade aside as if it were made of grass. Erovian watched the other man shift his hands and choke his grip up to the head of his axe. This gave little enough warning to dodge a slash aimed at his throat. The blade passed so close to his neck, Erovian felt it graze his Adam’s apple.

For what seemed like hours, they exchanged blows. Before long, Erovian saw he was losing. His muscles ached. His heart pounded like a charging army. Worst of all, the bearded man continued to maintain a much higher rate of attacks. It was only a matter of time before Erovian slipped up and died like the thousands of others on this eye-forsaken field.

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

His newest child may already have been born. He had held his hand over his wife’s womb before leaving for war. It gave him great pride to feel his child beating relentlessly against its mother’s belly. He’d laughed with his wife—the child would surely be a champion one day. He just hoped all three of his children would become better than he was. He did not possess the strength or size to face this giant.

Erovian slipped on a rock slick with another’s blood—Erovian knew his would soon join it. Eye above, his blood already had! He watched the axe fall on his exposed leg. He tried to block. His one-handed defense didn’t have enough strength.

The axe clanged against his sword but pushed it aside with little pause. Its momentum carried it through his leg—the axe blade severing his muscle and bone right below his knee. Erovian experienced no pain even as the Vadden yanked his axe free.

Erovian’s leg collapsed beneath him. He dropped his sword—never once had anyone made him drop his weapon. His opponent’s bloodied blade rose again in slow motion.

Erovian instincts screamed at him to dive away, but his dismembered leg did not allow him. He crashed to the ground. Rocks dug into his back. All he could look at was the grim expression of determination on his opponent’s face. But did he also see sadness in those pale blue eyes? Erovian nodded weakly. At least I fell to a worthy foe, Erovian thought, and not to a stray—an arrow sprouted from the man’s neck. The man jerked, and pain flashed across his face. The Vadden didn’t look surprised though. Only resigned.

Another arrow sank into the Vadden’s exposed side, puncturing a lung. The long axe fell to the ground right next to Erovian as the world darkened. The ground shook as the man fell beside him. Erovian struggled to remain conscious. It seems I have lost too much blood to survive anyway, Erovian mused. He allowed his thoughts to drift off—seeing the faces of his family float through his mind until they too faded away.

***

Valda lowered her shortbow as the huge Vadden fell to his knees next to her fallen friend. The giant of a man’s eyes glistened with a story she’d never hear. He remained erect for a few seconds. Valda stepped forward and shot another arrow into his eye. He keeled over into a motionless heap.

Valda nodded to herself, pleased that she had hit her mark. She still worried she might have been too late to save Erovian. At fifty or more paces, he’d almost been out of her range with the tiny shortbow she carried into battle. The Vadden warrior had been a fine fighter. Ashlight, the brute had beaten Erovian!

Valda grimaced. It was not decent that such a talented man should fall to an arrow he never saw. But such was the way of war—nothing is fair. She’d lived through far too many battles to not acknowledge that fact. Sometimes she wished it were possible for her to die and finally leave these memories behind. But no, she had important work to do.

Valda sighed and gazed around the battlefield with another arrow already nocked on her bow. It looked as though the Alliance had beaten the Pact this day, but not by much. The bodies of her enemies lay strewn across the rolling hills of the field.

Rain fell from the darkening sky above. The Great Eye now hid behind the clouds, perhaps ashamed of what humanity had done this day. Valda stamped her foot on the ground as tiny streams of water began to slide down her face. Anger welled up inside her. She could taste bile rising in her throat. She needed to figure out how to end all of this.

Growling, Valda un-nocked her arrow. She slipped the bow and arrow into the sheath at her hip. A few Alliance soldiers milled about the bodies, looking for wounded comrades and putting wounded enemies out of their misery.

Valda leaned over and picked up her spear from where she’d dropped it. She used it as a walking stick, forcing her weary body toward the place where Erovian had fallen.

Had he joined the long list of friends she had buried across the centuries? Valda clenched her jaw and trudged through the rain. This war had stolen enough lives. One way or another, she would end it–whatever the cost.

Chapter 1

Hard As Stone

You’re not good enough! The words rang through his head—his father’s voice, Erovian’s, slurred and cruel.

Grey clouds covered the sky above the Tooriem training grounds. The sun and the Great Eye both peeked through them now and again. Jorium wanted to scream. He gritted his teeth until he felt like they’d crack. He poured his anger into his throwing knife and flung it at a round wooden target twenty paces away. Thunk! The knife sank into the middle of the target.

It smelled like it would rain soon. Good.

You’re too small! Jorium slipped another throwing knife into his hand, grabbing it out of the pouch hanging from his belt. He tossed this one even harder than the last. Thunk! The blade embedded itself an inch to the left of the first knife.

You’ll never survive war! Jorium palmed another knife and sent it flying. He threw it so hard that he lost control. The blade flashed through the air and buried itself in the hard earth of the training yard. He couldn’t even see the knife anymore—just a hole where it had landed.

You’ll never be an Envoy for Tooriem. Give up! He felt his heart quicken and his arms shake with fury. He worked harder than anyone else, yet his short, lithe body betrayed him.

Tooriem had a reputation for their strength. Even the women envoys were often bulging with muscle. Yet here he was with arms too thin, standing a head or shorter than his peers.

You’ll die out there just like your brother and sister. Jorium threw another blade. This one landed high on the target.

The words his father said to him in his drunken stupors always sank deep into Jorium’s soul. The Eye help him, he wished they didn’t bother him, but they haunted him day and night. Maybe they were a good thing. They pushed him to become stronger, but so far he’d only proven his father right. He was nothing. His siblings had great potential, yet they’d died in battle. What would he be able to do?

A tear dared to sneak past his resolve. Jorium willed it away. He had to be tougher than stone. Nothing could break him—not his peers, not the brutal training, not even his dad. He’d prove them all wrong.

Jorium glanced at the hole in the ground where his knife had cut through the earth. He shook his head. No, he couldn’t let his anger control him. He couldn’t let any emotion control him. He would be a fortified wall—a protector unaffected by anything thrown at it.

A boy in deep blue foreign robes appeared from around the side of a building—a Han life artist. Straight black hair flowed down to his ears and undulated as he walked. His swaying robes were tied in place with a green sash at his waist. The color of his robes complemented his reddish-brown skin nicely. He stood not too much taller than Jorium. Han people were shorter than most.

But what stole Jorium’s attention the most were the other boy’s eyes. They were emerald pools he felt he could swim in. He wondered what it would be like to gaze into them for hours. He realized he was staring just as the boy noticed him and turned to approach.

“Jorium,” the other boy said.

“Tal,” His voice sounded dead, but his heart pounded in his chest like two swords clashing in battle. He felt heat rising to his face. Why did Tal always do this to him?

Tal narrowed his eyes at Jorium. “What is wrong with you, acolyte?” Jorium’s eyes widened.

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

Tal quirked an eyebrow at him and then nodded.

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

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

Jorium smacked himself on the forehead. His cheeks warmed again as he realized he had been staring at Tal as he left. Distractions! He could not afford to be distracted. Jorium had an important duel coming up. He needed to focus.

Jorium turned back to his target. He sent his emotions deep inside. He didn’t need those here. He needed focus. He needed to be stone.

Jorium emptied his mind and shoved away all the hurtful words. He forced aside the image of Tal walking away—though that proved harder to do. 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. Control. At least he still had that.