The Song of Blades: Chapter Two

                               
                                           






                                                                                                                              Chapter Two: An Old Friend






The crunching sound of steps echoed through the dark. Broin sat with his back to a cold and wet stone wall, watching as some rats fought noisily at his feet for the crumbs of a piece of bread. Water fell from the ceiling to the ground, the only other sound he could hear. It was dark, and only the torches and a few windows in the ceiling beyond his cell allowed some small amount of light to pierce the darkness.

    Broin heard the steps coming closer, and his dazed gaze wandered to the metal bars on his right.

    He didn't know whether he was dazed from all the mead he had drunk the previous night, or if it was a result from being hit against his head.

    The torchlight reflected on the wet stones, as the steps of a single man came closer. The person lowered the torch closer towards Broin, who remained on the ground.

    “You have seen better days, my friend.”

    The man wore a long chainmail under his leather cuirass, which was reinforced with metal plates at the breast. As he removed the metal helmet from his head, Broin’s anger surged forward. All he wanted to do was kill this man.

    He jumped rapidly to his feet and clutched the bars, stretching his hands desperately towards the man in front of him.

    “Open this cage, you coward, and I will tear you apart!” Broin couldn’t reach the man, who stood at a safe distance, so he glared into the amused blue eyes in front of him.

    The man’s face was handsome; his dark hair fell to his shoulders and his short beard was well-maintained.

    “This wouldn’t be a fair fight,” Civan said calmly, gazing steadily back at Broin. He took in Broin’s dirty tunic and breeches, sodden from the wet wall, the only clothing Broin had left.

    “As if you would care,” Broin growled. “They didn’t have a fair fight.”

    “I had my orders, and you were the one who fled from the battle,” Civan replied.

    Broin spat on the ground, disgusted with both the man in front of him and himself. The mud and blood from his failed escape still covered his body, irritating him even more.

    “She gave you the orders, am I right?” Broin seethed, looking away.

    Civan stepped forward, clutching the cold bars in his hands as he peered in at Broin with terror flashing through his eyes. His voice was only a powerless whisper as he mumbled, “You actually know...?”

    “So the rumors are true? You and the queen share a bed?” Broin smiled and shook his head in amusement.

    “Even if it is true, who would believe you? You are a deserter, a coward, who fled and left his men to die! Your word means nothing more than the dirt, on which you are standing.” Civan paused, allowing silence to surround them for several seconds. Then, he asked curiously, “Why did you even return?”

    “I have killed the king, didn’t you know?” Broin asked, the sarcasm clear in his voice.

    “My men told me.” Civan scrutinized Broin, cocking his head to the side. “I don’t think it was you, though I won’t be stupid enough to defend you. You should have stayed away from Kronwall.”

    He released his hold on the bars and stepped back, but continued facing Broin. “It was a wonder that you even escaped last time. But the gods won’t help you this time,” he murmured.

    “I won’t leave this city until my sword is drenched in your blood, my old friend,” Broin seethed quietly, his lip curled back in hatred.

    Civan watched Broin carefully. Finally, he picked up the torch from where he had placed it on the ground and turned from the cell. “Good luck with that,” he muttered, not bothering to look back as he walked away.

    Broin watched the torchlight fade away, and the prison was soon dark and empty once more. The only sound was that of the falling droplets of water.

“Stand up.”

    A guard opened the door of Broin’s cell. The man was tall, and his broad face seemed to be frozen to show no emotion. Three other men stood behind the first, their weapons drawn and their eyes wary.

    Broin looked towards the armored men and asked in a bored voice, “Where are you bringing me?”

    “You will know soon enough,” the guard laughed in a smoky voice, and he grabbed Broin roughly by the arm.

    Just then, a black cat trotted away beyond the guards. Broin stared at the animal in slight shock--it was the same cat he had seen the night he had been captured! The animal stopped momentarily and stared directly into Broin’s eyes, before it continued on its way and vanished around a corner.

    Broin returned his attention to the guards, trying to shake the cat from his mind. The men pointed their weapons at Broin, while the lead guard tied his hands with rope. Once set, Broin was pushed forward down the dark corridor.

    With a simple glance at his surroundings, he knew where the guards were taking him. When he was the captain of the city, he used to visit the prisons to interrogate the prisoners from Nieldwin. Sometimes the prisoners didn’t even look human by the time he reached them, and he was always shocked to see how cruel people could be to one another. It was worse than anything he saw on the battlefield.

    But this time he wasn’t here as a captain. This time, he was the prisoner.

    Images of the Nieldish prisoners flashed before his eyes, and he felt his knees getting weaker. Though he tried to hide his fear, the guards easily sensed it.

    “Just talk and it won’t be bad,” the guard said in a cheerful voice. “At least, it won’t be that bad.”

    The other men around Broin laughed.

    Without warning, a shadow fell from the round ceiling and landed on the two guards in front. Broin jumped back, as the guards shouted in surprise. The figure held a curved dagger in its hand and stabbed it into one guard’s throat, before it dodged to the left of another guard’s sword.

    The two men on the ground tried to stand up, but the figure was faster. It kicked one’s head, then grabbed the other man’s collar and slammed his face against the wall.

    Only one man was left, who instinctively lifted his arms and threw his sword away. He took several steps back, crying, “I yield, I yield!”

    The stranger stood motionless for several moments, seeming to take in the frightened guard before it. It wore a long blue cape, its face hidden under a hood and behind a piece of fabric. Two sparkling lights gazed at the guard. Then, the figure lifted its arm and threw the curved dagger, which struck the man’s left eye.

    “I beg your pardon.”

    The newcomer walked calmly towards the dead guard and pulled his knife from the man’s eye. He cleaned the blade on his cape, the blood blending into the dark blue.

    Broin didn’t move and merely watched the stranger. Even if he wanted to move, he wouldn’t be able to.
“Keep an eye on the corridor,” the man demanded, throwing away his long hood and face cover.

    He had short brown hair, and his thin face was distorted by a deep scar. The scar ran across his face, from the right ear to the left side of his throat. He had wary eyes, which scanned their surroundings for any danger. The countless rivets at his dark leather armor sparkled in the pale light of the torches. Though intimidating and seemingly fearful, he nervously played with the dagger in his hand.

    Broin was finally able to find his voice and asked quietly, “Why are you helping me?”

    The man didn’t answer. He removed a breastplate from one of the dead men, which he then fastened around his own body. The stranger then knelt down beside one of the unconscious guards and took a silver ring from his finger, which he then placed on his own finger. It appeared that the stranger merely wanted the jewelry for himself, but then he muttered something in a foreign language. In the next moment, dark smoke formed, dancing around the ring and encircling his entire body. Like snakes, the black fog twisted around the man until all Broin could see was smoke.

    Broin took a step backwards, fear flowing from his fingertips to his toes. He stumbled over the dead guard and fell, but didn’t even notice. He couldn’t bring himself to move any further; he could only stare at the scene, petrified.

    As fast as the fog had come, it vanished. Now there stood a different man with a bald head. His red beard reached down to his breast, and his thick arms and face were covered with scars. Broin looked down at the unconscious guard, and realized that the stranger looked exactly like the guard now.

    “You are a demon! You will take my soul!” Broin yelled, not caring that the other guards might awaken.

    “Shut up! Or do you want to get us both killed?” the man hissed. His voice had also had changed to a dark tone, fitting to match his rough appearance.

    As the man tried to hide the dead bodies in an empty cell, Broin asked fearfully, “What are you?”

    “My name is Weylin,” the man grunted, as he heaved the last body into the cell.

    He then held out a hand to Broin to help him to his feet. Broin took the hand tentatively, scared that the smoke might return to clutch him as well.

    Weylin glanced towards the bodies piled up in the cell, not noticing Broin’s strong discomfort. He grabbed a sword from the cobbled floor and moved behind Broin. “Come on. And say nothing.”

    Even though Broin was terrified of this man, he didn’t have any other option. He therefore walked forward, passing through multiple corridors until they reached a closed door some minutes later. Two guards sat at a table in front of the heavy door, playing a board game. The corridor was silent, apart from the cubes falling on the wooden table and the loud curses the guards shouted. They were so engrossed in their game that it took them a moment to realize that Broin and Weylin were approaching. The hallway then became quite still, as the guards moved forward to block the door.

    “Orson, where do you want to go?” one man with a broken nose and horse-like appearance asked.

    “To Commander Ahlgren,” Weylin, who had taken Orson's appearance, replied. “He told me to bring him the prisoner. If you don't believe me, go ahead and ask him. The commander said that it was urgent, and he is in a terrible mood today.”

    The guard with the broken nose glanced to his comrade, who nodded back to him. They then opened the door for Orson and Broin. Beyond the door was a spiral staircase, which led up to a tower.

    As Weylin pushed Broin through the door, the ugly guard spat at the prisoner and hissed, “Even a dog has more honor than you, bastard!”

    Broin stopped abruptly in his tracks. Anger pulsed through him, the sides of his head throbbing. He raised his tied hands, ready to attack the guard. The guard lifted the club in his hand, scowling down at the prisoner.

    “Don’t be a fool,” Weylin whispered, so only Broin could hear him.

    Broin jeered at the guard, brushing the rage aside as best as he could, before continuing on his way.

    The stairs led them to another corridor. The right side was an open archway which allowed them to view the city of Kronwall, while there was a door on the left side and another archway at the end of the corridor. The city seemed to be frozen; nothing moved in the streets and just the torches of a few patrolling guards were visible in the dark from the distance.

    Broin took a few steps to the right side and placed his tied hands on the stone parapet, so he could feel the cold breeze of ice crystals on his skin. A six-hundred-foot-tall rock separated the keep from the city of Kronwall.

    As he looked down, he took a step back and chuckled, “I have forgotten how deep it was.”

    “Try not to fall down,” Weylin said blandly.

    He opened the door on the left and nodded for Broin to follow him inside the room. Broin looked away from the city and followed Weylin in, who had already searched the room for any sign of life.The cold moonlight fell through the tiny windows and reflected on armor and weapons, which were stored in the room, while silver dust particles were dancing in the pale light.

    “Get yourself some armor and then let’s go. I don’t want to stay any longer at this damn place,” Weylin muttered, and he closed the door soundlessly behind him.

    Broin walked towards a table at the center of the room, which was covered with chainmail hauberks and other armor. He didn’t hesitate and grabbed one of the hauberks, the red-white tabard of Kronwall, and a closed helmet (since most people would recognize his face). When Weylin opened the door again, Broin grabbed a sword and fastened it at his belt.

    As they walked towards the archway, some guards were headed their way. Broin felt his heart beating wildly, but the other men just greeted them and continued.

    The archway ended in another step, which led them deeper into the keep. Weylin led him through more corridors, which Broin could remember from his days as a captain. The corridors led to the servants’ quarters and the kitchens. During the day, hundreds of people were running like hornets through the halls, busy with their tasks. Now it was dark and only some patrols crossed their path.

    After the assassination of the king, more patrols were ordered in the keep, so it was no wonder that nobody cared for Broin and Weylin, who both just seemed like two more guards.

    “Here.” Weylin opened a small door to his right, which was usually used by servants and messengers.
The door led outside to a snow-covered wooden staircase, which ended at food stores and the horse stables. Weylin grabbed a torch from the wall and walked forward, Broin following soundlessly, all the while watching the patrolling guards in the courtyard. Most of them were rather busy, shoveling away the snow, rather than guarding the keep. Curses were carried on the wind, while one man yelled commands.

    “Hey, what are you doing here?”

    Weylin stopped and leaned over the wooden banister. Each guard had stopped to stare at the two in curiosity. Broin clasped the hilt of his sword, hoping that they wouldn’t have to fight.
Weylin indicated Broin to follow him to the end of the step, where a group of guards was waiting for them.

    “We were sent by Queen Alarice herself to inform the city of Vilstred that the king has been killed,” Weylin explained. However, as the leader of the guards still remained silent, Weylin gave him a piece of parchment from his pocket. “The orders and the royal seal.”

    The leader looked at the parchment and handed it back to Weylin. “I am sorry for stopping you. You can go,” the leader said, bowing his head.

    Broin didn’t know how Weylin was able to get such an order, but he was glad that they didn’t have to fight.

    “There are two saddled horses at the stables,” Weylin said, attempting to warm himself from the stinging frostbite.

    Behind the food stores were the stables. Two horses lifted their heads curiously when they heard the approaching footsteps through the snow.

    Weylin opened the saddlebag of one of the horses, and threw a bundle towards Broin, who reacted just in time to catch the soft object. When he looked at it, he saw that it was a dark cloak. He threw the rough cape around his shoulders, happy to have a little protection against the cold.
Meanwhile, Weylin mounted his horse, the torch still in his hand. “Come on, we don’t have time,” he grumbled, straightening his own cloak.

    Broin climbed on a white mare and pushed it forward. Weylin had already reached the gate, which was guarded by several more men. As the riders approached them, the guards moved aside and bowed their heads in respect.

    A winding street led to the distant city, which was barely recognizable through the wind and falling snow. The road was bordered by rocks, some of them bigger than a house. Leafless bushes grew between the stones, their branches looking dismal under the weight of the snow.

    “Faster!” Weylin shouted; the wind was growing stronger, that Broin could hardly hear his call.

    Weylin kicked his steed roughly, and his horse jumped into action. Broin raced after him through the snow, his mare hardly able to keep up as the storm continued to push them back.

    One last gate separated the keep from the city of Kronwall. The guards stopped patrolling the tall portcullis as soon as they saw the torchlight approaching them. A guard dog barked and pulled at its leash, the only sound on the wind.

    “What in Arild’s name are you doing here?” the guard with the dog called, his voice faint.

    Arild was the father of all gods, and the protector of men in battle. In the old legends, Arild was crowned the first king of the Northern Realm with a crown made from his own sword.

    Another loud bark pulled Broin’s attention back to the guard dog, which nearly pulled its owner away.
Weylin stopped his horse at a safe distance from the aggressive animal and showed the piece of parchment with the queen’s sigil.

    “They can pass,” the guard said, and he signaled to the men on the gatehouse. “Open the gate!”

    The command was repeated by another man above them, and with the loud sound of cracking ice and metal chains on stone, the portcullis was lifted.

    After what seemed like hours of waiting in the cold, the gate was open. The guard nodded towards Weylin, who led the way through the gate. When they had passed fully through, they heard the portcullis fall to the ground once more. Right after they passed the gate, there were houses and stores of Kronwall’s inhabitants, which were built close together.

    They moved silently through the city, the wind howling through the tight streets. Most houses were older than the wall around the city, and it was a miracle that they had survived so many harsh winters.
Broin’s gaze fell to a skinny man, who was wrapped in a tattered blanket. The man was frozen solid, his hand still stretched out for a coin.

    “Did you know him?” Weylin asked, stopping a few feet away from Broin.

    Broin continued on his way and answered, “No, just a beggar.”

    “We shouldn’t ride too slowly. The guards might be awake now, and could have alarmed the others,”

    Weylin said, changing the topic as he turned his head in the direction of the keep.

    “How did you do this?” Broin asked curiously.

    “What?” Weylin cocked his head in confusion; his red beard was nearly white with snow and frost.

    “Your body. I have never seen a man do that before.”

    “Do you believe in legends?” Weylin inquired, smiling.

    Broin narrowed his eyes, but remained silent. He knew that there had been people with special abilities in the Northern Realm, long before the first cities were built. Those people, who were named the Blessed Ones, lived peacefully with the normal people of cities and villages. It was seen as a gift of the gods when a child had special powers, such as seeing into the future and, in rare cases, the power to change their own appearance.

    Then, three-hundred years before, a terrible plague cursed the lands and killed thousands of people. However, it didn’t affect the Blessed Ones. King Harald of the Northern Realm accused the Blessed Ones for conjuring the plague to wipe out anyone without their special blood. For a while, the Blessed Ones were simply ignored by their communities--until the dead continued to rise in numbers. King Harald then sent his men to capture or kill the Blessed Ones.
Within weeks, the streets were filled with countless bodies, and the smell of burning flesh was carried for miles.

    If a child was born with a special ability, the parents had to bring it to a local priest, who tried to save the child from this so called “source of evil”. Most children never survived this procedure. The priests gave the children potions made from foxglove or wolfsbane, which would take away their power.

    “So do you?” Weylin asked, as he turned his horse down another street.

    “You are one of them?” Broin grumbled, keeping his voice as low as possible in the howling wind.

    “Your kind has been killed centuries ago!”

    “But am I here or am I not?” Weylin laughed, tipping his head back to stare at the sky.

    Broin just couldn’t believe that the stories were true. He always thought they were a lie, a fairytale that had been told for centuries to entertain children.

    “Are you afraid?” Weylin chuckled.

    However, he stopped speaking quite suddenly, as he saw that they were approaching the main gate of the city. Compared to the keep, it didn’t seem too well-protected: Only a handful of men were gathered around a fire, trying to warm their fingers.

    One of them sat on the ground, and he sung in a loud and babbling voice; it was even loud enough to drown out the howling wind:

“What do I need more,
than a Northern whore?

“I don’t need the battle,
just the heat of her skin,
I sell all my cattle,
to touch her small chin.

What do I need more…”

    Then he stopped and yelled to one of the men around the fire. “I need more wine!”

    “You’ve had enough,” one of the men at the fire shouted in return, as another commented, “Get some sleep.”

    The men around the fire looked up when Weylin stopped in front of the gate. The drunk man was the commanding guard, recognizable by the feathered helmet on his head of the lower captains.

    “Can we pass? We have an important mission from the queen herself.” Weylin took the parchment out of his pocket again and showed it to the captain.

    The captain’s face was red from the cold (or perhaps the wine), and his tired eyes looked to Weylin, who still sat on his horse with the parchment held out in front of him.

    “My order is to stop everyone, who wants to leave or to enter the city,” the captain groaned. “An order from the queen herself.”

    Broin moved his horse forward until he came to a stop at Weylin’s side. He leaned forward and hissed, “But what will the queen do, if we tell her that you are stopping us from this mission? Or, even worse, if she knows that the captain of those guards is sitting in his own piss and not even able to take a single step?”

    Surprised by the bold words of the man at Weylin’s side, the guards gazed from Broin to their captain on the ground. Not a single word escaped the captain’s lips. As the silence continued around them, Broin kicked his horse’s sides gently and moved forward.

    “Let’s go,” Broin said coldly, and the guards stepped aside.

    Nobody dared to say another word, as the two riders passed through the final gate and into the stormy night. Weylin did not speak until long after the shimmer of the fire died away in the distance. He tossed the torch into the snow, throwing them into darkness with a sharp hiss.

    “Bold words,” Weylin finally said, glancing back to ensure they were not being followed. “You could have killed us.”

    “But I didn’t,” Broin replied, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders.

    Weylin said nothing more and continued to lead the way. It was difficult to see more than a few feet in front of them, until they reached the woods beyond Kronwall. When they made it to the shelter of the trees, the wind stopped tearing at their clothes and instead caused the uppermost branches to moan.

    A strange murmur pulled Broin’s attention towards Weylin, who spoke something in the same ancient language he had used in the prison earlier than evening. The smoke surrounded him, and it gradually creeped towards the ring on his finger. Once it was gone, Weylin looked just as he had before he had taken Orson’s identity. He stretched back on his horse and let out a soft cheer, clearly glad to be rid of the stolen body.

    Broin watched the man uncertainly as he placed the ring into a purse at his side, which was filled with jewelry and coins. He frowned in dismay as Weylin grabbed something from the bag’s depths and passed it towards him.

    “This is yours,” he said, a wide grin on his face like that of a fox.
Broin removed the thick leather glove from his hand and felt something cold fall into his open palm. As he looked at the object in the pale light of the moon, he realized that it was the necklace he had given to the barmaid!

    He closed his hands around it and held it at his heart, before placing the necklace around his neck once more. After this brief moment of joy, he glanced back towards Weylin, who didn’t stop to watch him out of his sheeming eyes.

    Without warning, Broin pulled the reins harshly and grabbed Weylin’s sleeve. He pulled him down tightly, causing Weylin to have difficulty breathing.

    “It was you! You bloody bastard killed the king!” Broin roared, as Weylin tried to stay on his saddle. “I shall break your neck!”

    “Let me explain everything!” Weylin yowled, having trouble in both keeping his steed calm and remaining on the horse himself.

    Broin pulled Weylin closer and snarled, “There is nothing to explain!”

    Weylin grabbed Broin’s wrists, trying to push him away, but Broin was stronger than Weylin.

    “Give me the chance to tell you everything! It was me, who has saved your arse tonight!” Weylin yelled in despair and annoyance.

    “It was also you, who has caused the problems!”

    “Someone has sent me to do it all!”

    Finally, Broin opened his hands and allowed Weylin to gasp for air again. Broin leaned on his saddle, prepared to strike again if needed.

    “Who has sent you? And don’t tell me lies!” Broin growled sharply.

    Weylin took a deep breath before speaking. “I got the order to kill King Evert. My leader--”

    “Leader?”

    “My leader gave me a detailed contract, which included you,” Weylin continued.

    “How does he know about me? After I fled, I became a nobody,” Broin muttered in confusion.

    He didn’t know how anyone was able to know his true identity, since he has hidden himself for years and traveled as a stranger throughout the land.

    “Even I don’t know. I just know that my leader is someone who has eyes and ears everywhere,” Weylin said, and he glanced around, as if someone could hear them.

    “Bring me to your leader,” Broin demanded, shooting a threatening gaze towards Weylin. “And don’t try any tricks.”

    “I wanted to bring you to him anyway,” Weylin said with a shrug.

    “Why?” Broin asked at once.