Free the Darkness (King's Dark Tidings Book 1) (6 page)

Rezkin threw on a simple but well-made green tunic made of
fine linen and brown wool pants with a heavy leather belt. He decided to be a
successful mercenary and don good quality but not ostentatious leather armor
and heavy boots. He used a leather thong to tie his shoulder-length slick,
black hair into a queue at his nape. Lastly, he pulled a heavy dark blue cloak
about his shoulders and secured it with a decorative silver clasp embossed with
a black raven.

Master Jaiardun had said that all mercenaries kept loot from
their exploits, so even poor mercenaries could be found wearing accessories too
rich for their station. Most of the loot, apparently, was sold to pay for drink
and women, from what his master said. It seemed like a waste of money to
Rezkin. Drink and women were so fluid, there one moment and gone the next
– at least from what he had heard. It did not seem like a sound
investment.

After stuffing several changes of clothes into a bag,
including one ensemble fit for a noble and one for night stealth, Rezkin headed
down to the armory. Not having known what he would be doing earlier that day,
he had selected weaponry used for practice. The weapons were kept sharp and in
good repair, but they were not the best weapons in the armory. Since Rezkin
doubted he would be coming back anytime soon, he took his time to select the
best assortment available. At first, he wondered if he should collect his
masters’ swords from the yard, for surely they would be the best quality, but
then his eyes landed on a pair of swords that he had never before seen in the
armory.

There was a longsword and a shortsword, a matching set, that
were of equal length to those he was most accustomed to using. The scabbards
were polished black with lacquer and unadorned. Pulling the longsword from its
sheath, he was nearly blown over with the splendor. The blade was streaked with
blue swirls that looked like melted topaz flowing amongst liquid silver, but it
had an edge finer than he had ever seen. The hand-and-a-half hilt was wrapped
in dark blue silk cord that matched his cloak and the crossguard and pommel
were both silver. The center of the pommel was slightly raised to a point like
a teardrop.

Rezkin held the blade in awe. He plucked the shortsword from
the rack and found it to be the same as the longsword. These were Sheyalin
blades! He had never thought to see one in his life. Sheyalin had been a Master
Swordsmith who lived and died over two hundred years prior. He had produced the
most exquisite blades ever created and no one had been able to match his
technique or quality in all the years since. The silver-blue swirls were unique
to the Sheyalin blades. These blades were quite literally worth a king’s
ransom.

All the remaining Sheyalin blades in the Kingdom of Ashai
were property of the crown. As such, the blades could only be bequeathed by the
king, in great honor, to the recipient. Each blade was catalogued and named,
and their bearers’ names were recorded much like the records of a family
bloodline. It was required by law for the blades to be returned to the crown
upon the bearer’s death. Ownership of the blades could never be revoked within
a bearer’s lifetime, even by the king, but neither could it be passed down to the
bearer’s heir. It was a death sentence for any but the rightful bearer to carry
a Sheyalin blade. The few remaining blades were precious and already too many
had been lost or secreted out of the kingdom.

Only a Swordmaster would dare to carry such a blade, anyway,
for fear of drawing unwanted attention. Anyone returning the blades to the
palace after the bearer’s death would receive a hefty reward. The reward was
meant to encourage people to return the blades, but the unfortunate side effect
was that the sword bearers were often targeted so the killers could claim the
rewards for the weapons. In response to this threat, a long-dead king had
issued a new law stating that anyone who returned a blade and was found guilty
of killing the bearer would receive the worst possible punishment. The murderer
would be tortured endlessly for years without hope of death.

Rezkin was suddenly wary of carrying these blades. He was
not concerned about thieves, but he did not want to attract the attention of
the Royal Guard or the king. Without the proper papers of ownership, any guards
who recognized the blades would be required to take him before the king. If he
resisted, they would be required to kill him – or at least
try
.
Rezkin did not want to meet the king. At least, not unless it was required of
him to fulfill his mysterious purpose. He could not just leave the blades here,
though. He would need to hide them.

Looking back at the scabbards, he noticed a small parchment
tied to the one belonging to the longsword. Rezkin pulled the parchment free
from the sheath. He unrolled the small note and read:

Certificate
of Authority

By Honor of the Great
King Bordran of Ashai, these two Sheyalin blades, Kingslayer the Longsword and
Bladesunder the Shortsword, are hereby bequeathed to
Rezkin (black hair, pale blue eyes,
six-feet three inches)
,
and with them all the rightful authority of a Sword Bearer of Ashai.”

Rezkin was astonished. These blades were meant for
him
!
The certificate was signed and sealed by the late King Bordran. No date was
given, and his name and description seemed to have been written by a different
hand. Equally strange, no title or surname was provided.

Even commoners were referred to in legal documents as Master
or Mistress
so-and-so
. In lieu of a surname, the town of birth, current
residence or the person’s occupation would be used – Master Jarin of
Spokeburrow or Mistress Evana Baker, for example. Rezkin had no occupation and
no idea where he was born. He assumed he was not born at the fortress since
there were no women. He did not even know if the fortress had a name. Rezkin
was just…Rezkin. Anyone reading these documents would have no idea how to treat
him. The lack of title was legally binding, and without one, he could be a
smith or the king, as far as anyone knew.

After contemplating the conundrum for a few moments, Rezkin
decided he understood. The masters must have somehow arranged for him to have
these weapons, and because he would not always be filling the same role or
living in the same location, they simply left it blank. The fact that he owned
these weapons at all was a source of confusion for him, though. There should
have been additional information after his name. It should have listed some
accomplishment of his or reason for the king bestowing this honor upon him. The
document
should
have explained his role or rights as a Sword Bearer, as
the bearers of these weapons were known.

Anyone carrying a Sheyalin by right had to have earned some
amount of trust or recognition by the king, and therefore, should have a
specified amount of authority. For example, he might be authorized to act as a
magistrate or carry information sealed by the crown. Rezkin’s did not specify
any authority. With this type of document, however, that did not automatically
imply he had no authority. It could equally mean that he had
every
authority. Even the king could not argue successfully for one interpretation or
the other.

Rezkin would have to keep this information to himself unless
it became absolutely necessary to provide the documents, per
Rule 123
– Do not seek praise or acknowledgement
and
Rule 57 – Remain
in the shadows when possible
. This latter
Rule
was meant both
literally and figuratively, depending on the situation. Rezkin could not afford
to attract undue attention to himself, lest it interfere with his purpose.

After strapping the swords to his waist he selected several
daggers, a set of throwing knives, a stiletto, a boot knife, a small cross bow
and quarrels, and a recurve bow and quiver of arrows. The bow he would use
mostly for hunting or shooting from horseback if he must. Next, he went to the
healer’s stores where all of the remedies and poisons were kept. Rezkin could
make his own, but this would save him a lot of time and effort, Plus, he was not
sure when he might have the time or supplies to make more. He packed away as
much as he could along with bandages, suturing materials, and other healing
necessities.

Before heading to the kitchens for food supplies, Rezkin
stopped in the masters’ office. He disabled the traps on the safe and picked
the lock. He collected all of the gold, silver and copper, which was much more
than was safe to carry at one time, but he would find a place to hide much of
it when he had a chance. A number of bank notes and account books were also in
the safe, and he stowed those in his pack as well.

After collecting his food, the young warrior made his way to
the stables where he saddled his horse and strapped down his pack. He also
packed a bag of oats for the horse, although there would be plenty of grazing
opportunities. His route should more or less follow the river if Farson was
headed toward the town, which was the only place the man could go. The fortress
was at the very edge of the settled part of the kingdom, and he did not imagine
for an instant that Farson would suddenly decide to become a hermit living in
the wilds. No, Farson would head toward civilization in hopes of losing Rezkin
among the masses.

Rezkin opened the other stalls so that the horses could
wander at will. Eventually they would get hungry enough to leave the gates in
search of food or water. Taking the reins he lead the battle charger out of the
stables toward the gate. The horse balked at the tangy, sour stench of blood,
but being a trained battle charger, he pushed forward anyway. Glancing around,
Rezkin realized he could not just leave things the way they were. There were
seven Swordmasters dead in the yard along with the other strikers who were
masters of various other weapons. Their swords and weapons would be
masterpieces, and it would be a terrible waste to leave them to the harsh
forces of nature.

Rezkin spent several moments collecting weapons and other
valuables from the dead men and stored them in the armory. None of the weapons
were as exquisite as his own, but he did select a few knives and a throwing ax
he particularly admired for himself. He secured the armory with the double
interlocking iron doors and multiple heavy Master-level locks. Since most of
the Lock Masters in the kingdom were dead in the yard, anyone else would
probably require a catapult to bust through the stone walls to get into the
facility. He doubted Farson would come back for anything.

Finally, around mid-morning Rezkin was on his way. Farson
had a two-hour head start, but Rezkin hoped he could catch up to him quickly
since Farson was on foot. Just as Rezkin suspected, Farson’s trail led him to
the river heading south toward the village of Perdony. After following Farson’s
tracks along the river for less than an hour, Rezkin spotted something unusual.
He dismounted to examine the perturbed mud. Farson’s tracks ambled all around
the site indicating he had stopped here. That was not what disturbed, Rezkin,
though. It was the drag marks leading into the water. Farson had boarded a
boat. It would have been a small boat, only big enough to fit three or four
people, but it was more than enough to get one man down the river quickly.

Rezkin was disheartened when he realized this was not going
to be a simple track and hunt. He had no doubt Farson would use the boat to get
as far away from Rezkin as he could as quickly as possible. Rezkin was going to
have to hunt him through the cities and across the kingdom. A tiny voice in the
back of his mind was begging for attention. It wondered why he had to hunt
Farson at all. Until today, everyone Rezkin had been ordered to kill had been
some kind of criminal, as far as he knew. Master Jaiardun did not always tell
him why he had to kill someone, but Master Peider did, and they were always terrible
people. Farson, though, had always struck Rezkin as an honorable and loyal man
who adhered to the
Rules
as much as possible. In fact, all of the
strikers could fit that description. Again, he felt a slight tightening in his
chest when he thought of the other strikers.

Rezkin shook his head. He could not afford to think like
this. His master’s last order was to kill the strikers, and that was what he
was supposed to do.
Then why were the masters fighting each other? What if
Master Jaiardun’s order was wrong?
Stop it,
he told himself. He
could not afford to question the orders, now. Maybe when he caught up with
Farson he could at least ask the man what in bloody hell was going on before he
killed him.

For the next seven days, Rezkin followed the river to
Perdony without incident. During his training, he had spent quite a bit of time
in the wild learning survival skills and hunting and tracking. About a half day
from the village, he encountered the first signs of people in the outworld. A
small cottage was set upon a clear hill covered in thick grasses. Milling
across the hill were fluffy white sheep. A barking dog ran around the sheep
nipping at their heels. Rezkin had never seen such a dog before. He had learned
to use dogs for hunting, but this dog did not seem to be trying to kill the
sheep.

At mid-afternoon, Rezkin got his first look at an outworlder
village. It was much like what he imagined, only everything was more colorful.
The homes were decorated with flowers in planters, and a few stalls selling
produce and other general goods were covered with bright cloth to block out the
sun. None of the men appeared to be armed, as far as he could tell, with the
exception of a few belt knives. One man carried a hoe propped on his shoulder,
but it was rusted and bent. The scruffy man was heading toward the smithy.