Enderal:Tales of the Wanderer: The Blade Master
- Sun Temple — Curarium
The Blade Master
"Blademaster" is what many call themselves, despite barely knowing the proper way to hold a sword. What is most amusing is that the majority stops being daring and loud-mouthed as soon as an opponent gets close to finishing them off. Then they beg and grovel. For their lives. For mercy. Vow on Malphas and the world to better their ways, abide the Path. A real blademaster does not beg. If he kneels down, then only to receive the final, lethal sword stroke. Merely a few of these unyielding warriors exist. This story revolves around the fate of such a man, whom I encountered on my journeys. A man, for whom nothing was more sweet than death itself.
"You must be kidding," I huffed disgruntled. "That much? For one loaf? Where are we here? In some Qyranian noble house of pleasure?"
"That is the price for strangers, no more, no less," the trader persisted.
"It brings you joy to squeeze people out for their last coin, doesn't it? Let me tell you something: this often gets back at someone eventually." I handed the man the demanded sum and grabbed my bread.
"Have a nice day, Mysir," he said with a malicious smile on his face.
"Burn in the sunfire," I grunted back.
The streets of the city were bustling with activity. Around midday this was usually the case; it was the hour of large deals for the traders and bargaining and haggling turned into competitions. I was only passing through but had to replenish my supplies: a week long walk to the Frostcliff Mountains was ahead of me. Believe it or not, this trader had still offered me the best deal out of them all. Prices were currently at a horrendous level, especially for travelers. Yes, travelers were the preferred target if it came to leaving somebody's coin pouch flat. I sighed and took a look in my sachet. There was not much left.
Soon I would have to come up with a creative solution, if my luck would continue to reside on the end of bad. Back then I was not as experienced; it was one of my first great travels across Enderal. There was a lot that I had yet to learn on the hard and rough streets, a lot that my extensive training with the masters could not have prepared me for. It is like with a child: You can offer them a hand, but in the end they have to learn to walk themselves.
Somehow the people were restless, I had observed, even without the use of my special eye and enhanced senses. It was in the air. If I had asked around more, I would have known earlier what was going on. So I just came to know now, when loud screaming resounded somewhere ahead of me. I raised myself on tiptoes and craned my neck to look over the crowd. A young fellow came running down the street.
"Today is the day! The time has come! The scoundrel is being dragged to the scaffold! Everybody come and see, the time has come, they'll string him up! Down at the market!" Simultaneously loud bell-ringing echoed over the city's rooftops. The people turned their heads. Windows and doors were opened. Little by little the citizens made their way towards the market square. Flustered whispering could be heard everywhere in the crowd.
When the noisy brat passed me by, I reached out and caught him. His legs swung forward; I quickly prevented him from falling. "What's happening here?" I asked.
He stared at me with a scared expression. My cowl must seem frightening. "Uh… uh... th-the scoundrel, he is going to be hanged, Mysir," stuttered the lad.
"Who is this "scoundrel" supposed to be?" I demanded to know.
"The bleeding blade, the cutthroat who slaughtered a dozen members of the Order three moons ago."
I let him go. He cast suspicious looks at me while slowly continuing on his way.
I had not heard of a twelve-fold murder in the area. And I had a good overview of every man who would be capable of committing such an act of violence. There was obviously something wrong with this case. I headed towards the market to take a closer look at this affair.
A vast crowd of people had gathered in the square. The entire city was on its feet. In the center of the square stood a scaffold with three gallows erected on top of it. The freshly bound ropes on them were a sinister omen. I pushed farther towards the front through the mass of people. It was not long before murmuring started around the eastern side of the square. The source of noise moved further and further until it reached the platform. Then I saw the guard squad. Five Keepers, armed to the teeth, escorted a man in their middle. He had long, straggly hair which hung in front of his face in unkempt strands. His body looked maltreated. They had probably kept him in the "Hole", the most inhumane cell of the dungeon, not even wide enough to turn while lying down. Because of this even his last reserves of strength must have been depleted. At the front of the troop walked the executioner, identifiable by the black and red hood on his head.
The captive was led on the scaffold, on which a luxuriously dressed town crier, with a brooch of the Order on his chest, had already taken position. The Keepers struck the captive on the back so hard that he fell to his knees. Nevertheless he kept his gaze on the ground, did not make any move to resist his rough treatment or impending execution. This man was broken, he had accepted his fate. A stone flew from the crowd and hit his head. He grunted, bared his teeth without looking up and shook off the blow as if nothing had happened. Blood trickled down from under his hairline. It dripped on the wooden planks of the platform.
"This man!" the town crier pointed an accusatory index finger at the captive and spat on the ground. "This man, whose name is not even worth mentioning, killed twelve - I repeat - twelve of our best warriors, honorable and brave men, in cold blood." The crowd seethed. Shouts of defamation echoed over the square. "On the night of the twenty-seventh Fundament, he assaulted them during their innocent sleep. Half of them were dead before even awaking." A dramatic pause of the town crier followed. "The only acceptable punishment for this is death. But, dear people, it would be presumptuous if that was to be the extent of his sentence. Before he dies, he has to suffer the same agonies as those he left with their throats cut, this scabbed bastard son of a fisherman's whore!" the speaker screamed while the crowd roared in consent. "Bring the rack!"
Two sturdy Keepers wheeled the instrument of torture over a ramp on the scaffold. The captive did not show any reaction to what awaited him.
"He still has not confessed his murderous acts in the face of Malphas. Until this has not happened, this Pathless one will not receive any mercy!"
Frenetic cries of joy accompanied the words of the speaker. The captive was hauled up and tied to the rack. The straps were buckled up. With a nod the town crier signaled the executioner to begin his work. The arms and legs of the captive strained while the executioner turned the crank. Not a single sound left his throat. He stayed completely calm. The speaker gave another sign and the executioner continued to operate the mechanism stretching the prisoner's limbs. The same procedure was repeated several times, but the captive maintained a stony silence. Anxious mumblings spread amongst the bystanders. The town crier started to become nervous and hastily whispered something to the executioner. I suspected that there was something amiss here. No normal man could ever endure such agonizing, cruel torture without showing a hint of pain. Apart from strong drugs or other medicines, only one technique existed which allowed for the complete dismissal of any pain. The Iron Cloak, only used by the highest of the blademasters, the Tyrangalar, a very famous ancient federation of which many legends are told.
"Release him," the town crier sneered. "We will chop off his fingers one by one."
The captured blademaster was dragged to the decapitation block. He did not fight back, his limbs flaccid. His spirit was elsewhere, his mind focused on something other than the impending mutilation. A Keeper chucked one of the captive's arms on the block. The executioner sharpened his knife, which was as long as his forearm. He set the whetstone aside, positioned himself in front of the captive, raised his hand and brought it down in a fell swoop.
But the knife never reached its target. I felt the shockwave of magical energy thunder across the square from the center, not perceptible for common people. The Iron Cloak had been released. In the next moment the captive was on his feet. The iron shackle burst as if it were made of ailing wood. He grabbed the hand in which the stunned executioner still held the knife and broke the wrist with a skillful move. Then he took the blade and drove it into the man's neck. The executioner was dead before his killer, bloodied knife in hand, let him collapse beneath his own gallows.
The marketplace went into uproar. The people fled from the scaffold in blazing fear, pushing each other in their haste to get away. I, on the other hand, forced my way towards the gallows. The five Keepers of the Order drew their weapons. The town crier tried to make himself scarce but did not make it far. The blademaster threw the executioner's knife after the fleeing man. It struck him in the back of his head. Face-forward he fell to the ground, still twitching for a little while longer in his death throes. Two men dead in two blinks of an eye.
This man was a death machine. You can probably imagine how he dealt with the Keepers, but I will not withhold the details. The first to approach him: a kick in the privates, an uppercut to the jaw, and the Keeper was disarmed. The man barely had the time to realize he had lost his blade before it was briefly returned to him, plunged in the unprotected neck right above the edge of his armor. Dead. Now the blademaster found himself in possession of his favorite weapon.
The second warrior of the Order: a severed arm, then a stab through the heart, the lethal strikes preceded by several matchless feints. The blademaster dodged a blow with a somersault, piercing the right knee of the third attacker upon landing. As the warrior's leg buckled, the blademaster's sword nailed his foot to the wooden board. His scream was loud enough to pierce my ears, despite the ruckus surrounding us.
The fourth Keeper hew at the escaped prisoner, likely thinking he stood a good chance now the target had just relinquished his weapon to incapacitate an opponent. He was easily evaded and in return the blademaster boxed him onto both ears, disarmed him as well and used the blade to kill the third man, withdrew the sword from his foot and ran it through the fourth's throat. A double death.
Meanwhile the fifth Keeper had already made a quick getaway, like everyone who could reasonably be considered to be in their right mind. The torture and time spent in the cell had not harmed the blademaster in the slightest. I was not surprised. These fighters could put themselves into artificial sleep for days and buried themselves in chambers deep under the earth to put their abilities to the test.
The blademaster jumped from the platform. I was the only one still standing in the market square. Just a few steps separated us. He stormed in my direction. My muscles tensed, but I was too slow. Already it had become impossible for me to dodge in time. He was fast as lightning. My breath seized in my throat. For a fraction of a moment our eyes locked as he passed me. I simply stood there, rooted to the ground. My shirt had been ripped at my right shoulder, revealing a cut so thin that I barely felt it. My heart started beating again.
I turned around and saw the blademaster make his way up the street, pursued by a troop of Keepers. It took me far too long to start moving again and follow them. His combat style was extraordinary, unlike anything I had witnessed before. Under no circumstances did I want to miss the end of his dramatic escape.
A swath of destruction had been carved through the street. I saw the trader who had sold me the exorbitantly expensive bread, dead under the debris of his market stall. Apparently he had hastily tried to rescue his property amidst the chaos. Several innocents lay sprawled in their own blood, the ones who had not managed to get out of the way quickly enough. Finally, in front of the city gates, the Keepers cut the fleeing blademaster off and surrounded him. He saw himself closed in by an overwhelming number of enemies. I came to a halt as close to the scene as I could, gasping for air and leaning with one arm against a building for support.
The Keepers closed ranks, their halberds pointed at the blademaster. One man emerged from the human barrier, stepping into the circle. My eyes widened. When I had woken up this morning in my hard, uncomfortable bed under blackberry bushes and thorns, I could never have imagined that I would experience such a spectacular situation. The Keeper who had come forward was Ragis Starseeker, currently the very best swordsman of the Order and former student of the legendary Loram Waterblade. He had long, black flowing hair and was a downright handsome fellow. Yet his sharp cheekbones and flawless complexion merely created the deceptive illusion of a gentle soul. His blade was the most lethal weapon in all of Enderal.
Ragis strode toward the blademaster with determined steps, stopping at a respectful distance. Silence, like before an approaching storm. Even the wind appeared to hold its breath. Suddenly the sword rushed out of Ragis' scabbard and swept forward. Simultaneously the blademaster brought his weapon up. The swords connected with a loud clang which rang clear in the silent street. Both opponents held still, their blades crossed. "Name?" Ragis asked in a calm voice.
"Eremir. Fifth of the Chiming Shadows," the blademaster replied. His voice reminded me of a gnarled, old wooden plank, floating in a river.
"A Chiming Shadow..." Ragis' brow rose. "Well, that is interesting. I would like to offer you a fair deal: Surrender, and you will live, Eremir. I do not wish to kill you, it would be a terrible waste, a loss for the whole world. Whatever the issue, we can discuss the subject in peace, without crossing blades. Choose the path of reason."
"Do not act so innocent now. You knew exactly who I am, and I have already experienced what a "fair deal" with the Order really means," Eremir spat. "You did not treat me fairly, you did not offer me any justice. I did not murder these people. They attacked me, I presume on your command, Ragis. You are human scum. A deceitful snake without honor, determined to exterminate people such as me. You want to get rid of the Chiming Shadows and the Tyrangalar. You consider them a threat to your reputation, your cause. It's very shrewd how you have managed to spin it all so the blame lands on me. If you do not let me pass, I will fight you and your men."
Ragis' mouth changed from a relaxed grin into a straight, soulless wrinkle.
"Believe me, you will die as well," Eremir warned.
Ragis took a step back and let his red cloak of the Order drop to the ground. "You asked for it."
He loosened the cuffs and collar of his jerkin. His reinforced leather armor glimmered with golden ornaments. Then he extended his arm, pointing his sword at his foe. With a grim expression on his face, Eremir emulated the movement.
The two opponents circled each other, watching the other intently for the slightest opportunity, their movements careful and graceful as feline predators. Ragis was the first to disrupt the waiting and gauging; abruptly his sword thrust at its target with the swiftness of a striking viper. Eremir parried the attempt without struggle, followed by an attack of his own. The blades danced and sparked in a swirling storm of silver. The endurance and speed of the fighters was unrivaled. The smallest mistake would decide the duel's outcome. I followed the clash, mesmerized by the dance of swords.
After a series of fierce, acrobatic maneuvers, Ragis found himself at the advantage. Smiling insidiously, he dove under Eremir's incoming blade and struck him in the abdomen. It was a relatively small cut, though with serious consequences. Eremir stumbled backwards and pressed his hand to the wound, blood staining his fingers. Immediately Ragis tried to follow up on his success but his tackle was averted and he was driven back.
"You are hiding behind your armor, coward!" Eremir snapped.
Ragis' grin turned dreadful. He signaled two Keepers to approach and remove his leather armor. "Now we are equal", he said.
His black hair was sticking to his forehead. He took a delicate silk cloth and dabbed the sweat away, then assumed his fighting position again. Eremir was facing him, clad only in his rags of indiscernible color.
The storm started anew. Whirling, dancing, the search for a weakness in the defense of the opponent. Eremir's movements painted a trail of blood spatters on the cobblestones. The longer the fight would last, the more this wound would take its toll on him. I doubted that he would have enough strength left to perform the Iron Cloak a second time.
In a flurry the two swords collided. They glided along each other, screeching, in the face of their wielders. Unexpectedly Ragis grabbed Eremir's sword-arm with his free hand, who no longer had the energy to prevent the move. An awful crunching resounded. Slowly the blade pierced his chest, until the red tip protruded from his back. Ragis twisted his weapon, then released it. Eremir spat blood, the sword stuck in his body.
Ragis smiled a satisfied smile while the blood of his enemy stained his jerkin. "The Chiming Shadows are not what they used to be. You quickly gav-"
He abruptly fell silent. Bewildered and unbelieving his eyes stared down at Eremir's blade, which had found its way into his stomach. The older blademaster drove it in with all his power, burying it up to the hilt. Ragis let out a rattling breath; through his clenched teeth flowed blood. The look of smug satisfaction dissolved, along with all the color in his face.
"A fight is not over until you have assured that your opponent is dead. This was a lethal mistake. Waterblade taught you well, but it seems he left out the most important lesson," Eremir coughed, a bittersweet smile on his lips. "I warned you that you would die as well."
They both spat blood, collapsing to their knees. The Keepers around them watched the spectacle motionless and in silence, either too numb or too much in awe to act.
Ragis' expression twisted into a hateful grimace, but before he could offer a final response his body slumped to the ground.
Eremir tilted his head back, face to the sky. "Ah." That single word was filled with such relief that it sounded as if he was finally free now, as if a heavy burden had been taken from him. "Death, sweet death, rip my heart from my chest!" His shout echoed between the surrounding houses. "Now I will finally see you again, my dear Iona."
Then he fell silent too, dropping on his side. The entire city - no - the entire world seemed to lapse into silence. Somewhere, high atop a tree, a robin started chirping.
