Free the Darkness (King's Dark Tidings Book 1) (5 page)

With grim determination, he released his grip on his shield.
The man teetered before him for a fraction of a moment before falling to the
ground. It was just enough time for Rezkin to launch a series of his own
attacks against the strikers. He managed to catch one man in the throat and
another in the eye with his throwing knives. A third received a knife in the
chest, but the man was not yet ready to give. Rezkin ignored him for the moment
and took out the one to his left while he was still surprised. The striker
attacked Rezkin with a sword, while Rezkin’s hands were empty. After a brief
flurry of strikes and blows, Rezkin prevailed. He managed to get inside the
man’s guard to punch the striker in the throat. Rezkin reached up and jerked
the man’s head around snapping his neck.

From his right, the monster of a man with the knife
protruding from his chest was bearing down on Rezkin. Without even looking in
his direction, Rezkin lurched to the side. The young warrior spun around,
grabbed the knife embedded in the striker’s chest, drew it out with a
slurch
,
and slashed across the man’s throat. Blood surged forward, some of it spraying
across Rezkin’s face, the rest pouring down the man’s chest like a crimson
waterfall.

Rezkin shoved the burly man out of the way. He drew his
longsword with his right hand and his shortsword with his left before he dove
into the group of three strikers who were attempting to plan an organized
attack against him while he had been preoccupied with the others. The strikers
leapt back in surprise. Two of the strikers, Adona and Gant, were Swordmasters.
The third was renowned for developing a method of fighting with daggers that was
unmatched – except by Rezkin, of course.

As a matter of his training, he had been required to
practice and learn until he could best each of these men regularly. At times,
he would be required to fight multiple strikers, and he was usually successful,
although he did at times take injuries. None of those previous fights were to
the death, though. As he gained
Skills
, the men were ordered not to pull
their strikes. If they
could
score an injury or even kill him, then they
should. Rezkin had never been trying to kill any of these men, though. It
turned out not to be as difficult as he thought it would be.

Once Rezkin’s full
Skills
were unleashed, he seemed
unstoppable. He no longer had to worry about
accidentally
killing one of
his training partners. Still, it was not his normal style in training to
actually land a mortal blow to any of these men. Blades sliced through the air
with deafening clashes. Rezkin met each strike and slash when necessary and
dodged others. One opponent sliced high, while another struck low. When one
attempted to back away to gain room for a ranged attack, Rezkin would pull him
back into the fray or dance his partners around so they stayed between him and
the third assailant at all times.

Like maneuvering playing pieces on the Queen’s Gambit board,
Rezkin was finally able to place his opponents exactly where he wanted them.
With a little encouragement from his own strikes, he got each of them to strike
at him in just the right way. In one quick motion he spun, lashing both blades
outward, and two heads toppled to the ground followed by their bodies, which
crashed into the third from either side. Before he could recover, Rezkin ran
him through.

As Striker Adona fell to his knees, he looked up into
Rezkin’s pale blue eyes. His voice was strangled and weak, but his words were
clear. “Long live the king.” His lips curled into an ironic smile and he
laughed, which was cut short when a bubble of blood slithered up his throat.
“May he forever dwell in this darkness he has unleashed.” Adona pitched forward
and breathed no more.

Darkness? What darkness? And what has the king to do with
this?

Rezkin spun around seeking and searching, high and low.
Something was wrong. One was missing. He had kept careful track of his
opponents at all times, but one had managed to disappear while he was battling
the others – Striker Farson. The striker was nowhere to be seen. Since
the striker had apparently run away, he doubted the man would come back to face
him in the open now that his comrades were dead. Rezkin just hoped that he was
not secreted away somewhere waiting to take a shot at him from afar.

As Rezkin surveyed the courtyard, he noted that both of the
masters were also down. Master Jaiardun was obviously dead. He had been nearly
cut in half from shoulder to hip. Master Peider was lying not far from him. The
Master was struggling to breath and suffering from a fatal gut wound. Rezkin
rushed over and knelt beside him.

Master Peider grabbed his arm in a firm grip on his wrist.
Rezkin continued to glance around as he kept in mind that Farson was still a
threat. Peider strained to deliver one last message.

“You…are the only one…the only one, now, who knows of
you…except…” his words were garbled and clipped as Master Peider coughed up
blood. Rezkin could not understand what he said, but perhaps the old man knew
that Farson had survived. Peider’s grip on Rezkin tightened as if it was all he
could do to cling to life.

“
Rule 2
…[cough, cough]…
kill with
[cough]…
conscience
.”
Master Peider’s head spun in a vortex of ever encroaching darkness as he tried
to remember what he had been saying.
Yes, kill without conscience
. He
continued, “
Rule
[cough]
1 – Protect and
[cough, wheeze]
honor
…
your
…”
his words were cut off by another round of coughing.
King! Say it!,
Peider thought to himself. His world spun, and suddenly Peider was surrounded
by people from long, long past. He was a young boy. Other boys were all around
him. He was laughing, and they were laughing with him. Benson and Teyry were
there. It had been so long.
You are all here!
He smiled,
All of my…
and
somewhere far, far away in the waking world he said, “
friends.
”

Rezkin frowned as Peider released his last breath.
Friends?
What are friends?
It was not that he had never heard the word. Peider and
Jaiardun had taught him about many relationships between men. There were
partners, associates, allies, comrades, peers, lieges and vassals, to name a
few. A contract between and man and a woman was called
marriage
, which
resulted in the titles of
Husband
and
Wife
. All of these
relationships tended to be based on some written or oral contract of mutual
interest. A few, such as those pertaining to slaves and indentured servants,
were decidedly one-sided. Then, there were the familial relationships of blood
into which one had to be born – mothers, daughters, sisters, brothers,
fathers, sons, etc.

He had heard the term
friends
applied –
so-and-so
was a
friend
of
so-and-so
, but he never understood what the word
meant or how one obtained such a status. He looked around once again. Everyone
he knew was dead, except for Farson, and Rezkin knew enough that he was certain
an enemy was not a
friend
. How could he have
friends
if he and
Farson were the only ones left who knew of him?

Rezkin was more confused now than ever. Perhaps he truly was
not yet ready to be a full-grown big-man. He could not even understand what
Rule
1
meant, much less put it into practice. For that matter,
Rule 2
did
not make much sense either.
Kill with conscience
. What, for the sake of
the masters, was
conscience?
It did not sound like any weapon he had
been trained to use. And, why would there be a
Rule
to use only one
weapon when he had been trained to master
Skills
using many weapons.
Rule
233
clearly stated that
he
was the weapon, and anything else was actually
just a tool. So, maybe this
conscience
had something to do with
him
.
Maybe it was a type of knowledge.
Yes
,
that would make sense
.
But, where was he to gain this knowledge with the masters and strikers dead?

Farson might know. The masters had been secretive about
Rules
1
and
2
, but it was possible that Farson had been allowed this
knowledge. The only way to get Farson to talk, though, would be to torture him.
Farson certainly knew
Rule 3 – Reveal nothing
. Any amount of
torture Rezkin could inflict upon him would probably be for naught, and if
Farson
did
talk, it was unlikely he would be truthful. How could Rezkin
ever know if what he was told was accurate? No, he could not ask Farson.

Rezkin wandered among the bodies just to make sure they were
all truly dead. This whole situation made no sense. Why did he have to kill the
strikers? Why did the masters kill each other? In the end, he decided the only
way to get answers would be to adhere to
Rule 1
– Protect and
honor your friends
. Now, he just had to find these
friends
. Perhaps
he could ask
them
what
conscience
was. Surely, if they were the
subjects of
Rule 1
, they would know.

Rezkin headed back into the fortress to get some help with
disposing of the bodies. The only people left would be the cook, his two
assistants, and the healer’s two assistants. Peider had been the true healer in
the fortress, but he kept two others who provided healing when he was busy.
Upon entering the kitchen, Rezkin realized he would be getting no assistance.
The cook and his two assistants were all dead. Rezkin knew the healers would be
dead, as well, but he went to check anyway. Once he confirmed his suspicions,
he headed to the washroom. The young man had already come to the conclusion
that he could not take the time to bury everyone since he did not know Farson’s
intentions.

Rezkin had never thought Farson a coward, but Farson’s
disappearance was curious. He thought about it in terms he understood. Farson
had failed to kill him or even engage him as far as Rezkin could remember,
which would go against
Rule 258 – Obey your masters
and
176
– Finish your tasks.
But, had Farson been ordered to attack him?

Rezkin had been told to kill the strikers, but he did not
know that they had been ordered to kill him in return. So, Farson seemed to
have adhered to
Rule 245 – Retreat when you cannot win
, in which
case Farson had not broken any
Rules
. He had acted like a big-man by
holding to the
Rules
and
Skills,
and therefore, he had prevailed
by staying alive. Yes, Farson’s actions made sense, now. It was as it should
be. If the other strikers had remembered the
Rules
they, too, would be
alive. Well, maybe some of them...for a while. Rezkin
had
been ordered
to kill the strikers, so the young warrior would have to hunt down the missing
striker.

If Farson left the fortress, which Rezkin was fairly sure he
did, then the striker had gone into the outworld. Rezkin could not go to the
outworld covered in blood. It would raise alarms and draw attention. He would
need to clean himself and don outworld attire. He would also need money, food,
and supplies. Since he had practiced these
Skills
over and again, he
knew exactly where everything was located. As for where he would go, he would
start by following Farson’s trail. Farson would not risk an open confrontation
at this point, so Rezkin knew the man would keep running.

It was a week’s ride to the closest village, and Farson left
on foot. The fortress had three packhorses and a battle charger, but Farson
would not have had time to make it to the stables to obtain one, nor would he
have been able to open the gates in the courtyard and make his escape.

Rezkin was familiar with the battle charger from his
training. There had been times when each of the strikers had a battle charger
for use in training scenarios, but after he passed the
Skills
tests, the
other horses had been sold or returned to whence they came. At the thought of
the other strikers, he felt a sudden pang in his chest that he did not
understand. He was sure he had never felt it before. Perhaps he
was
injured during the battle, but he did not remember taking any hits to the
chest.

After bathing, Rezkin applied a healing salve and wrapped
the minor flesh wound on his bicep. He stood before the costume wardrobe trying
to decide his strategy. What should he wear? Should he pose as a tradesman or
merchant? Posing as a noble might be difficult since he did not know where he
was going and could not set up a suitable cover story. Hmm…a landless noble
maybe? The third cousin of a minor lord? Rezkin shook his head. Farson was not
a noble, as far as he knew, so it would do him no good to use the pretense. A
trader perhaps? Not so wealthy as to attract attention but well enough to
command respect. No, then people would wonder about his lack of goods, and
traders did not ride battle chargers. He certainly did not want to drag the
packhorses around just to satisfy the image. Farson was a warrior. It held to
reason that he might seek out other warriors for protection or assistance or
simply for a crowd in which to feel comfortable.

Rezkin could easily play the part of a warrior. Well, it
would not be a role, actually, since he
was
a warrior. At his age,
though, according to his masters…(again he felt that tightening in his
chest)…no one would believe him to be an officer unless he was a noble, which
brought him back to the problem of playing a noble. Rezkin could not afford to
get caught up in a draft or some lords’ boundary feud, so he could not be a
regular soldier. Hmm…a mercenary it was, then.