                
Hungerblade
Part One: A Sword in Its Sheath
The troll Hemwold tightened his grip on his
cudgel, tensing the thick tendons and gnarled knuckles of his massive hand.
“Here comes an easy mark,” he said to his human companion Berchtold, who
crouched below him among the gray, feathery blossoms of a smoketree. The thick
foliage concealing their presence crept up to the edges of the Eichestrasse, the
broken old road to Lichtstadt.
“Traveling alone, is he? We’ll show him, then.”
His grin unveiled a collection of jagged yellow teeth. The shape of Hemwold’s
head recalled a slightly flattened cabbage, to which had been added a simian jaw
line and a pair of deeply recessed eye sockets. Irregular patches of downy,
fox-colored hair tufted across his bony pate. The troll’s garments, from his
tunic to his shirt, from his trousers to his boots, were patchwork affairs,
crudely cobbled from the stolen outfits of smaller men. “Look at him. Thinks
he’s so smart and cocky...”
Berchtold couldn’t see their quarry. His
comrade peered easily from a break in the foliage nearly nine feet from the
ground. Berchtold was a man of average size, but the troll exceeded his height
by more than a yard. Crawling on hands and knees, Berchtold poked his head out
from the smoketree’s lowest branches. His square features looked passably
handsome by candlelight, but a daylight inspection revealed the crookedness of
his flattened nose, a network of broken blood vessels across his cheeks, and
purplish folds of skin hanging wearily below his eyes. “Where?” he hissed.
“Cresting that rise. See?”
Berchtold saw that there was indeed a solitary
man traveling the ruined road—on foot, no less. Though morning fog partially
obscured his silhouette, the cut of his garb suggested no mere wandering
peasant, but a person of means. The man picked his methodical way through the
old road’s upended paving stones.
“Up against that oak there,” Hemwold commanded.
This was Berchtold’s cue to scramble out from their present cover and press
himself against the trunk of a larger tree about ten feet ahead. He would wait
until their quarry passed by, and then step out behind the man as Hemwold
blocked him from the other side.
The traveler continued his nonchalant approach,
finally stopping a few yards away from Berchtold’s position. “I can see you
there,” he said, his voice lilted by the faintest hint of a stutter. He wore the
rugged traveling gear of a noble on a hunting expedition, yet without the
gewgaws and ornaments the gentry typically favored. A pair comfortably worn
boots, clearly the expensive work of a master craftsman, protected his feet. His
long, boyish face and softly penetrating blue eyes led Berchtold to read him as
the sort of man who looked younger than he was. He seemed slim yet fit; nothing
in his calm stance revealed what sort of opponent he might be, should he choose
to resist. What held Berchtold’s attention most of all was not the unassuming
man himself, but the hilt of his blade, protruding from a tooled leather
scabbard. It, and its elaborately sweeping hand guard, shone as if lit from
within.
The man pointed to a pair of
enormous boots poking out from the bottom of the smoketree. “And you, too,
there,” he added.
Their attempt to surround him foiled, Hemwold
crashed out from the foliage, brandishing his cudgel. “You think you’re smart.
Give over your purse and maybe I won’t bash you.”
The traveler rubbed thoughtfully at his mouth.
“Hmm. Well. I can’t say you state your case appealingly, can I?” He shrugged.
“My purse has nothing in it except for, well, money and why have a fight over
that?” The man reached into his doublet, fished around for a leather purse,
untied it from his belt, and tossed it to Hemwold. Sticking to his combative
stance, the troll let the purse fall at his feet.
“And now that,” the troll demanded, indicating
the sword.
A lock of blond-gray hair fell down over the
traveler’s forehead. He grimaced in annoyance and he brushed it away. “That, I’m
afraid, is a different story... You know what the problem is here? We’ve entered
into this without proper introductions. What would your name be, friend? I am
Gardien. Jacques Gardien.”
Hemwold bared his rotten teeth. “The sword!
Now!”
In what was meant to be a soothing gesture,
Jacques held up his hands. “Oh dear. Let’s talk about this now. I can understand
how you’d think it would be good for you, to have this sword. But I’m its
custodian, you see, not its owner. So it’s not mine to give you. And I certainly
wouldn’t want to be rude and assume that you’re threatening to take it by
force…”
Muscles in the troll’s neck and shoulders
bunched as he smacked the giant club into his hand. “No one mocks me!”
“Not mockery, I promise you. A warning, and a
friendly one, at that.” He bit pensively at his lip. “Were you to rush me, I’d
be duty-bound to protect the blade, by drawing it against you. And when this
sword leaves its scabbard, well... I just don’t think you’d like the result.”
Angrily wailing, Hemwold bowled toward Gardien,
but Berchtold ran to block the troll’s path. He threw himself into Hemwold’s
well-padded midsection, his feet scraping against broken paving stones as he
struggled to keep his comrade back.
The troll’s face contorted in anger at the
unexpected resistance. “I’ll bash you too!”
Berchtold spoke through clenched teeth. “Didn’t
you hear his name?”
“What do I care?”
The traveler remained calmly in place, idly
removing a stray thread from the collar of his cloak.
“Gardien!” hissed Berchtold. “Jacques
Gardien. He is one of the Seven. And that sword you’re trying to steal—that’s
Hungerblade!”
Hemwold stopped pushing as the consequence of
an attack began to register in his slow mind. “Hungerblade?”
“Which he would surely use against us!”
The troll thought for a moment, his reddened
face taking on a sallow hue. “You are right,” he told the traveler. “You were
assuming that we meant to take it by force, and that was rude of you. So now we
bid you good day.” He backed himself into the edge of the woods, and then turned
to rush deeper into them. Berchtold followed close behind him, stealing a final
backward glance at the celebrated warrior-diplomat, before disappearing into the
oaks and pines.
Jacques Gardien sighed in relief, stepped over
to his purse and stooped to retrieve it. He returned it to his doublet and
continued on to the city of the sun.
Every time Jacques returned to the Doturi
capital, it seemed as if another new splendid edifice had been erected around
the Palace Square. Since his previous visit, the last of the official structures
put in place by the former Emperor had been demolished. A gaping hole in the
earth marked the former home of the Imperial Armory. A scurrying flock of ritual
magicians, wearing the golden armbands of the Enchanters’ League, measured its
foundations with their arcane instruments, the bearded elders yelling out
contradictory instructions to their smooth-chinned apprentices.
Zigzagging between carts and carriages, Jacques
crossed the Grand Circle to the palace walls, then passed the Imperial
Gates—used only when the Emperor was in a departing or returning entourage—to
the workaday service gate on the south side of the grounds. Though less grand
than the ceremonial entrance, it too was decorated with a frieze of gilded
cherubs, disporting on a field strewn with lyres, pipes, amphorae of wine, and
theatrical masks.
The guards at the gate snapped to nervous
attention at Jacques’ approach. He tried his warmest smile on them, but it did
little to relax the guards. They held themselves rigid, their gazes following
Hungerblade, as if afraid it would leap from its sheath to capriciously skewer
them.
Vast gardens arrayed themselves around the
palace, arranged in an obsessive symmetry meant to evoke the twin principles of
Harmony and Authority. Jacques moved through them with the greatest possible
haste. His long-legged, loping stride led waggish young nobles to compare him to
a heron, or sometimes an awkward crow, but only when he was well out of earshot.
Jacques sped past the famed
enchanted fountains, which spewed spouts of water in an ever-changing
choreography evoking the eternal progression of the major astrological
constellations. Near the first of several sets of polished granite stairs,
lingering near a topiary garden, stood a covey of court maidens, tightly wrapped
in multiple layers of daytime finery. They fluttered their jeweled fans as he
strode by. He couldn’t help but hear the giggling words that floated in his
wake:
“Him? Surely not!”
“No, no, it’s true!”
“He is not at all what I pictured, from the
legends of his... prowess.”
“His first impression is, they say, deceptive.”
At a further remove stood a group of court
bravos, staring envious daggers at Jacques as he swept by. If he took a step
toward them, they would pale, step back, and look away. Gardien saw no reason to
disturb them as they enjoyed their indignation. He certainly harbored no designs
on their girls.
The Solar Palace loomed ever closer. Despite
the darkening of clouds overhead, its enchanted panes still reflected the
sunlight of days past. The animating enchantment of its semi-vaulted silver
pillars and panels maintained its radiance not only on the dimmest afternoons,
but also deep into the night, making the Emperor’s mansion a literal beacon of
enlightenment. The beam it cast into the sky was, on a clear day, visible for
dozens of miles in every direction.
The door guardians jolted into action as he
neared the steps to the southern entrance. They heaved open its looming oaken
doors, allowing him to continue inside without breaking his determined lope.
He stepped into a scene of chaos, as workmen
struggled to emplace a marble figure on its pedestal. The statue, carved in
ghost-white marble with the ideal proportionality of ancient Æthenas, depicted
an athlete in repose, thinking profound thoughts with a discus cradled under his
arm. The work crew used a small crane to ease the heavy sculpture into place.
Pale green light stabbed out from joints in the casing, but the typically
omnipresent smoke of these machines was absent. It must be a newer version,
Gardien thought idly. The Doturi, who had never learned the magic of
bridge-building, used massive versions of similar design to move large cargoes
over rivers and across mountain passes. An ensemble of lutists, accompanied by a
sole cornet, stood at a remove, playing a spritely air. Its soothing regularity
was intended to keep the laborers of the court content and productive. No doubt
the enchanted instruments helped in that regard.
Buzzing around the workmen a staff of harried
curators removed paintings from the walls for replacement with new pictures more
greatly in vogue. The recent discovery of perspective in illustration would
forever alter the nature of artistic depiction—or so Guntram, whose expansionist
ambitions did not stop at the mere acquisition of territory, had determined.
Although largely indifferent to the arts,
Jacques did feel a touch of regional pride. The statue, the musical composition,
and most of the paintings were the work of his fellow Gallusi. The Emperor and
the majority of his senior nobles were of Visigi stock. Their descendants were
barbarians, who, before the devastations of the Red Plagues, were notable only
for their unceasing attempts to storm the walls of Roma. Guntram’s people had
been among the first to recover from the great depopulation, and were known for
their bluntness, pragmatism, and taste for ale. The Gallusi, liberated and
enfolded into the empire by Guntram’s father, brought it their philosophies,
arts, and the liquid bounty of Uropa’s finest vineyards. Thanks to Guntram’s
taste for all of these gifts, the stolid dukes of Visigiland now struggled to
emulate the fashions and caprices of Gallus.
Through the curatorial hubbub, Jacques saw the
High Chancellor, Salomon Pineau, waving a baton to catch his attention. Gardien
navigated through the throng down the polished marble hallway. Pineau, who waxed
his snowy beard to two sharp points, was a Gallusi like Jacques. Together they
comprised a conspiracy of two, to protect the Emperor from a certain dangerous
impulse.
Jacques tugged uncomfortably at his collar.
“You have a job for me...?”
“His Imperial Majesty wishes to convey its
parameters to you personally.”
“Ah,” said Jacques.
“He is in one of his restive moods, so under no
condition are you to...”
“Of course not.”
“He is entirely too fascinated by that blade on
your belt, and has been speaking of it all the more frequently of late.”
Jacques placed a reassuring hand on the older
man’s arm. “No matter how he coaxes...”
He would not permit the Emperor of Dotur, the
standard-bearer of Reason Radiant, to doom himself by stupid misadventure. The
sword’s enchantment made no allowances for mock combat, or even a simple
inspection.
Whenever it was removed from its scabbard,
Hungerblade took a life.
To be continued...
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