Ventre twirled under the wild swing, bringing his back leg up to strike the opponent behind him in the gut. It wasn’t executed as flawlessly as Okagwe could do it, but the force of the blow and the rushed exhalation of air caused the man to double over, bringing his head in line with the swinging sword. The clanging sound as the blunt training edge met the man’s helmet was enough to drown out the applause of those watching the scene, which Ventre was grateful for. It was already sufficient pressure to be competing in the Sword Bearer trial without the additional observers, but the king had insisted that presenting Ventre with the sword at the festival would be the best time for the public's morale.
A sign from a judge deemed the “wounds” of two of his fallen adversaries non-critical, and they regained their feet and dove back into the mock battle.
One more down and two back in the fight, that makes only 7 left. He mentally tallied as he tripped up two opponents with a feint and blocked the strike of a third. Luckily for me, I am fighting common soldiers and not other members of the Bladeguard or else this fight would not even be possible.
He sensed the blade coming for his back, the result of thousands of practice fights similar to his current engagement and acted on instinct, jumping forward into the two soldiers he had just tripped up to avoid the strike coming from behind as well as the soldiers seeking to pincer his sides.
Fights against multiple opponents are won or lost based on a warrior’s ability to not get surrounded. He heard Ithius’s voice say in his head–one of dozens of small proverbs the giant regularly spouted out. Thoughts of his friend and mentor tempted him to lose focus on the current task and search the stands once again for the large man. He wasn’t here when the fight started, but surely he was present by now.
Dodge. Parry. Strike. Duck. Lunge.
The dance of blades continued for another 5 minutes while Ventre patiently and methodically found openings in his opponents’ guards until he alone remained standing, his chest heaving and his back soaked with sweat as the crowd roared their approval around him. Never one for too much attention focused on himself, his exultation in winning the bout transformed into nervousness in the few seconds it took for the king’s raised arms to quiet the noise.
“Ventre, son of Uther, today you have proven that your skill at arms is worthy of the title of Blade Bearer. You are a beacon for the younger generation. An example of steadiness and truth. A survivor of the War of Beacon Rock. In addition to the other Blade Bearer’s agreement that your appointment is warranted, it is my personal opinion that Palantir wouldn’t have wanted the responsibility to go to any other.” The king’s words brought to his mind the faces of both fathers that he had lost, and he fought down the tears he felt building.
“Let it be known this day that Crimea has found its missing Blade Bearer and that the Blade Song has been restored. Let all who would do our great country harm, fear and tremble before the harmony of our blades and the hearts of our people, which we will not hesitate to bear in defense of this great nation.”
The crowd’s deafening roar of approval nearly drowned out the king’s next words, and he only caught them by reading Angar’s lips, “Come and kneel, Son.”
Ventre did his best to steady his shaking legs as he approached King Angar, his eyes searching the crowd for Ithius in the few seconds it took to complete his pilgrimage. Upon arrival, he knelt on one knee and bowed his head. The melody that had haunted his dreams since Palantir’s death built as Angar drew the Blade of Harmony and placed its mirrored surface on Ventre’s shoulder.
“Let it also be known, that Ventre, son of Uther, is now Baron Ventre,” Angar paused for the words to take effect before continuing, “For his station in life ought to match the nobleness of his heart.”
Ventre chanced a glance upward and saw Angar smiling kindly at him. Though they had crossed paths many times over the past two years as Ventre trained for this position, he felt that the smile now bestowed on him was that of a proud brother, not the smile of a benevolent ruler which he had seen before. It warmed his heart and calmed his nerves, and Ventre felt his loyalty deepen.
The king extended his calloused and thickly muscled hand, pulled Ventre to his feet, and presented him with the Kantana of Speed. The familiar hilt served to steady his nerves even further and for the first time since the trial started, he felt that he could take full breaths. He raised his offhand to the crowd, eliciting another roar of approval.
I hope I never forget today.
The words had scarcely formed in his mind before a commotion on the far side of the arena caught his attention. Ovid, the Duke of Blood, along with a gaggle of soldiers which wore his house’s livery marched in, escorting a disheveled looking Ithius between them. The crowd, ever watchful of anything gossip worthy quieted more easily than they had earlier for the king, allowing all to hear what was said.
“Ovid! What is the meaning of this? I thought I made it very clear that his matter should transpire privately.”
“A thousand apologies my liege, I must have misunderstood you earlier.” The lies fell so gracefully and effortlessly from his lips that Ventre was sure most present would actually believe them.
Ventre watched as hurt, anger and resolve warred across the king’s face, as he thought through the duke’s actions and the power his duchy held. “Very well, let us be done with it then.”
“As you command, your Majesty.” Ovid responded, before raising his voice louder, “We bring before you today a soldier who is little better than a deserter.”
“Careful Ovid, he is still our brother.” the King said menacingly, cutting off the other noble.
“I think not, Highness. What else should we call a soldier caught sleeping on watch? Do we not label them scum? Have we not killed people for this exact crime?” The world seemed to spin around Ventre and he heard the crowd gasp as if from a great distance. That was impossible. Ventre knew that no one was more loyal to the king than Ithius.
“Those were times of war, and this is not.”
“Is the life of your son worth so little to you?”
“Is the life of your brother? Have you forgotten all he has done for us and for this kingdom? Have you forgotten all we have been through together?” The king responded, his voice rising even louder until Ventre began to worry that an actual fight would break out. His hand grasped the hilt at his side in preparation.
“I would speak.”
The words were gruff and subdued, and it took a moment for Ventre to realize that Ithius had spoken, especially with his head still downturned and his eyes focused on the ground–it was so unlike his usual confident and outgoing self.
“Then speak, brother. I would deny you nothing.” The King said.
“Ovid is right. I slept at my post last night and in so doing, I endangered the life of Prince Dasterion. For that, there is no redemption, and even if there was, I wouldn’t seek it. I deserve punishment…
“I ask to be sent to the salt mines, so that I might spend the remainder of my days serving the crown in the only way in which I am worthy to do so.”
The gasp from the crowd echoed Ventre’s own. The salt mines were where true criminals were sent. It was a life of slavery and far worse than death.
“Surely you don’t mean that.” Angar said, a touch of pleading entering his voice.
“I’m afraid I do, Brother. This is for the best.”
A single tear fell from the king’s eye. Glittering in the sunlight, it was impossible for Ventre to look away from. In the seconds it took to trace its way down the cheekbone and into the pitch-colored beard, the king said nothing, and Ventre knew a plan to save Ithius was being formed. Only no plan was forthcoming.
“Are you positive, Ithius?”
“I am, Sire.”
“Then I will not stop you,though this decision pains me more than I can express in words. But know that at any time, should you so desire, you are a free man. I don’t hold last night against you, and you shouldn’t either.”
The words had scarcely left the king’s mouth before Ovid motioned to two of his men, who reached forward and tried to pull Ithius to his feet. They may as well have tried to move a mountain, as the giants didn’t so much as rock. At a look from him, they backed up, their hands grasping for their blades.
Reflexively, Ventre’s own hand began to loosen his sword to stop yet another mentor from being taken away from him, but was stopped by Ithius’s words, “It’s not worth it, Ventre. Palantir wouldn’t want you to throw it all away like this.”
Ventre’s hand relaxed and his blade slid back into its sheath, despite the anger surging within him. It felt like a cheap trick to once again invoke Palantir’s legacy, nevertheless, it was sufficient to stop him. Over the years, he would ponder this moment over and over, wondering if things would have been different if he hadn’t listened to his mentor and friend.
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Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Ventre’s stomach rumbled as the clock sounded the lateness of the night. Had it really only been 12 hours since Ithius had been taken? It felt so much longer than that. The festival had continued unabated and seemed to drag on unceasingly. After the trial, the tournament of blades had started, where the best in the kingdom, other than the seven Blade Bearers, displayed their prowess at arms. Usually his favorite event, Ventre could only stare on unseeingly as he processed the loss of his friend. After the sword fighting was archery and jousting followed by song and dance as the people welcomed in the fall harvest. Through it all, he had remained by the Angar’s side, a figurehead of the kingdom’s power, despite longing to find a spot alone where he could weep. Many of the servers had tried to bring him food when the feast began, one even going so far as to place the filled plate in his fingers. But it remained untouched. The same was true for any and all drinks he was given.
Finally, the change of the guard was due, and he had excused himself to go stand watch outside of Prince Dasterion’s door. It was Ithius’s night again, as a member of the Blade Bearers took turns two nights in a row guarding the heir. Ventre wasn’t due for the watch for another 8 days, but he had volunteered. He wanted to do it for Ithius.
As he thought back on the day, it seemed unfathomable to him that so much merriment could occur in the midst of so much tragedy. Shouldn’t the world stop and mourn the loss of one of its greatest figures? He leaned his forward as the unchecked emotions came bubbling up, and his watery eyes missed the lamplight dimming from the hallway that crossed parallel to his position. The tears he had been holding back all day could no longer be restrained and he crumpled to the floor.
Less than a second after impact, the sound of the bolt striking stone above him cut through his emotions as his training took over. Two years under Ithius had him standing instantly, the Katana of Speed held in his hand as he peered into the dark intersection forty spans in front of him.
Another bolt shot from around the corner, which he deftly cut out of the air. Two more bolts came soon after, confirming that at least three intruders were present. He chanced a glance backwards, noting the prince’s thick oaken door remained firmly closed, as his mind planned out his next moves.
The long hallway he stood in made it impossible for anyone to get past him and to the prince unnoticed. It also made him a sitting duck for the three assassins who were shooting at him like a fenced-in chicken.
As the next volley of arrows descended, he used his enhanced speed to run up the side of the wall, reaching head-height and running several steps forward before gravity caught up and he was pulled earthward once more. A fourth bolt appeared, confirming that more than three were present. Undeterred, he deftly flicked the missile away as he traversed the two final steps to the intersection of hallways where his assailants were positioned.
A rapier arced around the corner, aiming a killing strike at his throat. It was fast and well executed, nothing like the soldiers he had fought earlier that day. But he was no longer using a normal sword and his katana easily moved the strike to the side. A blur to his left caused him to push off the wall with his right foot, propelling him sideways and into the man who had used the attack to hide his rush for the prince’s door. Even as he collided, he sent a vicious elbow to the man’s temple, knocking him out cold. The body had yet to fall to the ground all the way before he was once again at the center of the hallway, inhibiting anyone else from reaching his charge.
Despite the darkness and the six blades he saw reflecting the light from the torches behind him, he stood ready, a reaper of death amidst mere mortals. The moment stretched as the opposing sides took each other in, each waiting for the right time to strike.
Deciding to take the initiative, Ventre leaped forward, his sword cutting a strong lateral arc at the midsections of two men to his right. Though much slower, their training showed, as they moved to block him, but he was ready. His later strike slipped lower at the last moment, his unbreakable blade cleaving into the unarmoured thighs of one of the men, causing him to drop to the floor. Knowing that his back was exposed, he grabbed the second man, who was already off balance, spinning them both around and allowing the blades aimed for him to impale the man instead.
Two down, four to go. He thought, even as he sent a decisive killing strike to the third and final man who had been on this side of the hallway, bringing the count to three.
He saw one of the remaining three men make a dash for the now unprotected door as his comrades engaged him cautiously, obviously seeking to draw out the fight rather than simply kill him. Unwilling to play into their plan, he sprung forward, sliding on his knees beneath their blades and taking the foot off of the man to his right. The move would never have worked with a normal sword, but at twice their speed, what usually would have been a party trick or an extraneous flourish became lethal strikes that even his well-trained opponents were unable to deal with.
The final opponent proceeded to lash out wildly, seeking to create a wall between them as he backed into the hallway, preventing Ventre from reaching the man who was only a few steps from the prince’s door. Knowing he was running out of time, he looked around, seeing the loaded crossbow lying in a puddle of the blood from the first man he had taken down. Scooping it up deftly, he sent a crossbow bolt between the erratic strikes of the man closest to him and into the back of the one who was pulling open the prince's door. The last man, having followed the trajectory of the bolt with his eyes, lost his head before it could even turn back around.
Ventre ran towards the prince’s room, slipping inside and closing the door behind him as he peered around the nearly pitch-black nursery. Checking each shadow for the slightest glimmer or movement before moving forward to the sleeping prince. He suppressed the stray thought that had him wondering how the baby had slept through the fight just outside his door as he tucked the baby in the crook of his arm and made his way back into the hallway.
He paused just outside the door as he inspected his fallen enemies for the first time. Each wore sturdy black clothing, and he noted that even their weapons were devoid of color. Afraid of what he would find, he bent and removed the glove from the prone form of one of the victims, confirming his suspicion. The mark of the Messengers of Ahizo stood stark white against the man’s bronze skin–the group of assassins lived a few hundred leagues outside the kingdom in a treacherous mountain territory that no kingdom wanted to claim. They were known for two things: Their zeal of Ahizo, the god of death they worshiped, and their devotion to always hitting their mark. They prided themselves on always completing their contracts, which is why Ventre immediately stood and made his way quickly, although meticulously, to the royal bedchamber, searching every crevice for additional threats..
He saw the fallen bodies of the king’s guards as soon as he rounded the corner, causing him to rush even faster into the bedroom. Inching his way inside, he heard Angar’s voice, and a wave of relief crashed through his body, which was stopped short when he heard the clanging of steel and the building of the song of war.
“You killed her?” As if the violence and music somehow enhanced his senses, Ventre could suddenly hear the King’s sorrowful, questioning voice clearly when all had seemed muted only moments prior.
“It was a necessary evil I am afraid.” Ovid’s voice came next, strained although as arrogant as ever.
“But why? Why betray everything we have together? Everything our fathers worked to build?”
“Do you even have to ask? None of us have forgotten how you allowed Palantir’s death to go unavenged. If our brotherhood really means that much to you, how could you let King Edwin remain on the throne? All we asked for was for the debt to be paid in blood, and like a coward, you refused.”
Ventre silently made his way across the spacious sitting room and peaked into the bedroom proper. Duke Ovid, Baron Bren, and Earl Oswald Kan all fought King Angar, their blades all granting them supernatural abilities. Ventre caught his first true glimpse of what it meant to wield the Blade of Harmony as the King was holding his ground. He fought with strength, speed, balance, and an intuition that was unmatched, and despite the horror of the circumstances, Ventre believed he would win.
Everything changed when Kaius, one of Ithius’s Bladegaurd, emerged from the shadows, the Claymore of Strength cleaving through the air towards Angar’s unprotected back.
“Behind you!” Ventre screamed, enabling the king to turn and deflect the blow and causing the rest of the Blade Bearer’s to turn towards him and the fighting to cease.
In the quiet of the moment, Ventre was better able to take in the dark room. Queen Ansa lay dead, her throat slit in the corner near where Kaius had come from. Okagwe lay splayed in a different corner, his sword arm bent under his body in a way that shouldn’t have been possible.. Whether he had stood with or against the king, Ventre was unable to tell.
“Ah, so you survived the assassins, did you?” Ovid asked.
“I told you I should have gone with them.” The bloodhound said. “No measly Messenger is a match for a Blade Wielder even if he is newly minted.”
“No, you were clearly needed here and besides, he was supposed to be sleeping.” The sentence made no sense to Ventre, since they all knew he had requested guard duty, “Besides you…”
Prince Dasterion chose that moment to awaken and began to cry loudly, interrupting the Duke.
“Shame. I see they failed to get the prince too. Well, that is to be expected when you outsource I’m afraid.” The duke said.
Angar chose that moment to lash out, striking Kaius with a heavy blow to his armored torso and then leaping to engage Ovid. Baron Bren moved towards Ventre, but the King took a small blow as he pivoted and struck for the Bloodhound, forcing him to pay attention to the vengeful ruler or be cut down.
“Run, Ventre! Save my son! Protect Dasterion! This is my final charge to you.” Angar cried as his attacks became at once more powerful and less defensive.
Ventre stood motionless for a brief moment as the magnitude of the king’s sacrifice and the sheer horror of the events trapped him, but another shout from Angar roused him. Drawing the Katana of Speed, he turned and began running out of the room.
A crash and a curse of pain were followed shortly by the king shouting, “Bren, you unholy coward, get back here and fight me!”
The words reached him even before he exited the seating room, giving wings to his already desperate flight. Exiting the royal chambers, he hurtled over the pooling blood of the guards and ran as fast as he could down the corridors. Not even the Bloodhound could keep up with Katana of Speed.
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Martha awoke suddenly to a hand clamped firmly over her mouth, a dark spector looming over her and she struggled wildly. It took a few heartbeats for her to recognize her son Ventre in the darkness, allowing her to relax. Seeing her recognition, Ventre removed his hand and began speaking quickly.
“The King and Queen are dead. Dasterion lives and is in my care. We are leaving now, you need to wake Priscilla and leave as well.” The words had the effect of taking both of them back to their hometown when Illesh had invaded and they had been forced to flee in the darkness.
“Where will we go?”
“It is better for you not to know. They will use you to find me if they can.” Ventre’s strong arm wrapped around her and seemingly effortlessly propped her up.
“Well where should we go?”
“Go to Riverick near the northern border. Change your names. Don’t contact anyone.” He said as he grabbed a nearby bag and began throwing some of her clothes into it from the wardrobe.
“Will we see you again?” She hated that she sounded like a desperate mother when her son was one of the bravest men in the kingdom, but how else was she supposed to feel?
“I’ll contact you when the time is right.” He replied, before he walked to her and pressed a heavy bag into her hands.
“What is this?”
“Money. Enough to see you settled and comfortable.”
“But what about you? Won’t you be needing it?” she asked the retreating form.
Pausing at the doorway, Ventre turned and replied. “Where we are going, Cremean crowns will be worthless.” Even in the darkness, she could sense his eyes upon her. “I love you, Mother. I am sorry I couldn’t give you everything I said I would.”
“I love you too, Son. Your father would be proud.” She said, finally finding her feet and rushing to him.
After a quick embrace, she watched him disappear down the stairway and heard the door swing open. Gathering her nightgown, she ran to Priscilla’s room. They had all survived so much already, and they would survive this too.