Bloody Knuckles (And Other Tales) Read online

  Byron sputtered but did not reply. I could see his eyes appraising Inferno as we rode up. She was a fine piece of breeding, a good twenty hands tall, where Byron was only sixteen. Barrel-chested with a glossy sheen to her coat, I had to admit I felt a might bit envious of such a glorious steed. I immediately felt guilty. Byron had been with me nearly ten years and had never failed me. He might lack the girth and visual appeal of Inferno, but he was a trusty companion.

  Inferno eyes me curiously as I dismounted. “You wouldn’t happen to be the White Knight Justice, would you?” Her voice was sultry and low. I caught Byron shiver out of the corner of my eye. Thankfully my smile was hidden behind my visor.

  I nodded. “Indeed, and I have come for your master. No hard feelings. He has gone unchecked for far too long and like all things, his time has come to an end.”

  She whinnied softly and shook her head. “He’s in a foul mood, Justice. He noticed you were following us two days back and he’s been in a fury ever since. Be careful.”

  I turned away, then paused. “Why do you tell me these things, Inferno?”

  She whinnied again and turned her red eyes to Byron, the glowing orbs shining with amusement. “I happen to enjoy being chased.”

  The last thing I heard as I entered the tavern was Byron choking. The bath would have to wait. I couldn’t let Baleful’s evil continue any longer.

  The Crowing Rooster, as the sign above the door proclaimed the place, was typical fare for village taverns. Built by the very hands that raised the village up from out of farmland and nothing, it was simple wood tables and chairs, probably crafted by one of the local men. The sod was hard-packed beneath my feet, and at this time of day was nearly devoid of customers. A few dark-clothed foreigners sat in one corner, flipping coins to a skimpily dressed girl. I averted my eyes. Shameful, for a village girl to toss herself about in such a way. Still, everyone has to earn a living, and I contemplated the end of mine as my gaze finally came to rest upon the monstrosity at the bar.

  He was massive. I’m slightly over six feet tall and broader than most men across the shoulders, but next to Baleful I felt a dwarf. His armor was burnished, black as night, and the sword strapped to his back was easily as tall as I am. The bartender was sliding drinks down the bar towards Baleful, not even daring to get within his reach, and I wondered if perhaps I might have bitten off more than I could chew. I mustered my courage. What little of it I had left, in any case.

  He moved slightly as I approached, turning his head to look at me. His visor was up, and I could see the squareness of his unshaven jaw within. His lips curled into a sneer, and I swallowed. The innkeeper looked at me, then at Baleful, then back at me, then threw his towel down on the bar-top and disappeared through the back with the haste of a man rushing to stay ahead of the apocalypse.

  “So, the daring knight of virtue and justice finally shows his face.” Baleful’s voice dripped sarcasm, drawing out the words virtue and justice with particular disdain. “I wondered when you’d muster up the courage to actually catch up to me. You’ve been tailing me for nigh on three days now. Must be quite the Hero to have only taken three days to finally dare the approach. I wonder if it takes you this long with a woman as well?” His laughter was as deep as the night sky, and I wondered if it was just my imagination that I heard my armor rattling with the sound. I also felt the sting of anger. What did everyone have to challenge my virility? I craned my neck to look up at him, the rivets in my armor creaking slightly. I hadn’t had time to properly oil things in the last few days, which annoyed me even further.

  “For crimes against monstrosity, as well as humanity, I hereby challenge you, Baleful the Black Knight, to single combat.” That wasn’t right. I had meant to simply reply to his accusation with a list of charges, then enjoy a hot soak and a good night’s rest before I challenged him! The words coming out of my mouth surprised me. I braced a hand against the bar to keep myself from shaking.

  His jaw clenched within his helm. “Very well, Justice.” He spat my name as if it were a curse. “Outside, now.”

  I forced my body to move. Bone weary I was, and I’d gone about this all wrong. What in Heaven’s name had caused me to challenge him outright in the very instant I met him? I did indeed have righteous indignation over the violent acts of destruction I’d seen over the past days, as well as his reputation over the years to draw on, but challenging a man who is well rested when you are still saddle-sore and travel-weary is just suicidal. The worst part about it was that Baleful would probably want to do this the honorable way, despite his nature, which meant starting off with a joust and then progressing to melee. I hated jousting even more than I hated random acts of cruelty. My chain of thought was broken off as I collided with something solid filing the doorway. The clang of armor on armor resounded, and I realized that I had bounced off of Baleful himself, standing stock-still just outside of the doorway to the inn.

  “Inferno!” Baleful’s yell was loud enough to set the door of the inn trembling. I shouldered my way past the black knight and gasped at the scene before us at the hitching post. I sputtered and barked an order at Byron, but both horses were otherwise occupied to the extent that our cries of outrage went unnoticed.

  I looked at Baleful. He looked at me. We both shrugged.

  “Swords?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I always hated jousting anyway.”

  Fighting inside of full plate is a feat which should go down in history as either the most daring of all time, or the most stupid. While you are indeed protected against most blows, your movement is restricted in many ways, and though arrows and similar missiles may bounce off, a well-placed swing can send a man reeling to his knees, allowing his foe time to skewer him like a well-cooked piece of meat. Not to mention that dragons are notoriously cruel when it comes to dealing with Knights of any type, safe in the knowledge that they can easily feast upon smoked man-in-a-can, which is considered a rare delicacy by their kind. All of these thoughts went through my head at the instant Baleful’s massive weapon swung around and caught my right shoulder, sending me crashing into the side of the tavern with enough force to shake several of the timbers loose above, the roof caving in slightly as a result. My ears rang from the blow and I staggered away from the building, clutching my sword and shield with numbed fingers. My damn visor was blocking my vision and I whirled around, trying to catch sight of Baleful.

  A sudden whoosh of air whistled by the right side of my head and I turned in time to see Baleful following through with a massive blow that, had it landed, would probably have left my head in the dust. He was off-balance from his over-zealous swing, so I rammed my shield against his unprotected right side and shoved as hard as I could. He stumbled backwards several steps and I swung my sword at his shoulder, just barely denting the plate. He roared within his armor.

  “Is that all you have, pitiful Knight?” His voice was muffled inside of his helm, but I could hear the disdain. He truly felt that I was beneath him. I felt my ire rising. “Gods, I remember now why I left the Hero’s Guild all those years ago. Too many children being allowed in. Go home to your mother, child, before I disfigure you beyond the point of recognition.”

  I gritted my teeth and set myself, shield in front and sword at the ready. He would not goad me. Not today. I was tired, yes, but this man had been free for far too long, and his time was at an end. I would not allow his deeds go unpunished. He shrugged his shoulders at me and squared himself to advance. I swallowed one last time before it all went away.

  He roared and swung for my head. I ducked and moved around his side to try and get behind him. For all his size and strength, he was as slow as honey in winter, and that sword of his was throwing him off balance. I kicked at his legs from behind and he went down on one knee into the dirt. I took a slice at his neck as he began to rise, but my sword bounced off his helm and I was forced to step back as he swept that monstrosity of a blade at my legs. I needed to get him on the ground and skewer him, or that sword o
f his was going to peel my armor off like a potato skin. He easily had two feet of extra blade to mine, not to mention a good foot and a half of reach just in his arms. I was going to have to get him in the dirt, and the only way I could do that was by dancing around his blows. No easy task in full plate, coupled with my weariness from the journey. This wasn’t shaping up to be the fight I had imagined.

  He swung a mighty blow at my shoulders. I heaved my shield up and was driven to my knees by the force. He whirled his sword around his head for another swing and I rammed my shield up against his torso, causing him to step back a pace. I stood up and swung my sword at his left side, managing to rend his armor rather splendidly. He growled an obscenity at me and clobbered the side of my helm with his gauntleted fist, sending me reeling to the side. He threw his head back and laughed as I stumbled. I tasted blood in my mouth and threw caution to the wind as my rage consumed me. I tossed my shield to the ground and swung my sword with both hands at his closest knee. There was a resounding clang as sword met plate, a screech of metal on metal, and a sharp crack as his knee shattered with the force of my blow. His laughter turned to a roar of pain as he suddenly pitched forward.

  I did not waste time on decency, honor, or any of the things which the Hero’s Code dictates a Knight should follow. As he went down, his sword swinging blindly as his knee buckled, I kicked him in the back and sent him sprawling, face-first, in the dust. He yelled another obscenity at me but I ignored him as I pictured the blind troll Googa, the two baby dragons without wings, the hydra with only one head left, the constant spot on the reputation of the Hero’s Guild. All of these and more swirled within my mind as I drove my sword with all my strength into his back, skewering him to the ground. His breath left in a mighty gasp and his body heaved, wrenching the sword from my grasp and sending me staggering several steps backwards. I watched in awe as he rose to his feet, a great roar of pain issuing forth from his helmet, my sword sticking through his back and protruding a few inches out of his breastplate, his blood glistening darkly against the black of his armor. I looked around for something to use as a weapon, but there was nothing. I began to take several steps backwards as he advanced towards me, his arms spread wide in an embrace of death.

  He stopped, suddenly, and reached up to wrench his helmet free. He threw it to the ground. His curly black hair was matted to his scalp, wet with sweat, and he had not shaved in a week. He pointed a gauntleted fist at me. “Damn you, Justice. I was the only thing left in this world which gave your kind a purpose. And you’ve brought that all to an end. I hope you are satisfied with your selfishness.” He coughed then, red spittle upon his lips, and he grunted. “Damned hot out,” he muttered, and then crashed into the dust.

  There were no cheers, no rousing applause, no hands to clasp me on the back. None of the villagers had even bothered to break from their daily routine. I looked without pity upon his body. At least the Hero’s Guild could take one more notice off their list. And I had a head to deliver. But first, I needed a bath and a shave. I turned to see if my steed was available, only to find him still otherwise engaged. I heaved a sigh. Looked like I was walking to the bath house.

  I tried not to smell myself as I lurched in that direction. It was harder than you think.

  The Jarkath Blade

  By T.W. Anderson

  The following short story is set roughly 750 years prior to Echoes of the Past, the first volume in the Saga of Lucimia. It takes place during the height of the Great War against Sunaria, when the Aden’than were still in their prime with all of their powers at their disposal.

  The story as it was originally shown on the Saga of Lucimia website initially stopped after the Adena Freya confronts Ian in his room and he asks what must he do to keep his lover safe. From there, I toyed with the idea of expanding it into its own novella, but in the end I simply expanded it for inclusion into this anthology.

  A southern wind drifted in from across the bay, bringing with it the underlying scent of salt and fish. It stirred the drapes around the edge of the balcony entrance, and gently caressed the two tangled bodies that lay half-covered by the thin linen sheets.

  “You realize we’re dead men if Hisbral finds out,” the left-most of the pair said, chuckling softly. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, curling brown hair and stubbled beard with a frame that at one time was well-muscled but in recent years had been softened by less physical work. Scars criss-crossed the pale flesh of his back, chest, ribs, and torso.

  The second man smiled as he closed his eyes and stretched, his dark-toned and unmarked flesh contrasting against the white of the sheets. “Because I’m an Islander, or because I’m spoken for?”

  “Both”. The first man reached out and playfully smacked his companion on the flank, his whiter flesh stark against the darker of his partner.

  The second man’s smile faded slowly and his voice took on a serious tone. “Things have changed, Ian.” He sat up abruptly, and placed a hand on his lover’s shoulder. “I know you mean well, but you don’t know what it is like out there for my people right now.”

  Ian’s face clouded, his brow furrowing. “I’m not blind, Pascal.”

  The Islander smiled again. “Don’t take offence.” His hand caressed Ian’s stubbled jawline. “I merely meant that seeing is not the same as living it. The constant threats. The fears. We may not have the markings of Sunaria on our flesh, but the implications are there when people see us walking down the streets. Foreigner. Stranger. From across the water. Not to be trusted.”

  “This damned war has taken its toll on far too many liberties.” Ian grunted slightly as he pushed himself out of bed. He walked over to the cabinet on the far side of the room and chose a bottle out of several, then filled two glasses halfway full. The sharp scent of brandy wafted upwards. “These damned socialites living their cushioned existences. They would shit themselves at breakfast if they knew what was really going on across the sea.” He returned to the bed and handed one of the glasses to Pascal.

  The Islander accepted and took a long swallow, closing his eyes briefly as he savored the drink. “And that is why we must be careful. They may not know, but half-truths and rumors do more harm than good, and right now anyone not Lucimian is potentially an enemy in the eyes of the common people.”

  The lighter-skinned man swirled the liquid in his glass, staring at it in the faint moonlight for several moments. A brief flash of memory stirred, blood and sand and hot steel, flashes of lightning in a clear sky, men and horses alike cloven in two, the sharp scent of charred flesh still acridic even in memory. “War changes everything,” he muttered. He tossed the brandy back and drained it in a single swallow.

  Pascal did not reply, merely sipped his own in silence.

  Ian’s gaze roamed out towards the water. He placed his empty glass on the table next to the bed and strode out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing as he looked over Fingil Bay. There were hundreds of ships docked below, from merchants and river vessels prepping for travel up the Rithcull River to the Whitemist River, to several war galleons from the Royal Navy. They moved eerily on the water in the dead of night, lanterns aglow here and there with randomness, bobbing to and fro with the ebb and flow of the water and the wind.

  His gaze slid from the war ships up towards the palace, high above the rest of the city near the top of the hill that sloped down to the bay. It glowed faintly in the night as all Dwearhe-hewn stone from the Rithcullmarin Mountains did, a soft orange-rose hue that tinted the creamy white stone in the darkness. Did the royals sleep sound at night, behind those walls? Were they somehow protected from the deaths of those across the seas? Or were their dreams as plagued as his own? A scar on his left arm twitched suddenly, and he grimaced as the too-familiar imagery flashed again before his eyes: the blazing sun in an ever-cloudless sky, high against the dunes, the sand burning through his boots. Blood, sweat, the searing heat of his flaming blade as it cut, the lifeless eyes behind countless scarred and tattooed faces, the sc
reams as the emerald flames cut them from the thread of existence. The faces of his nightmares. He shivered and shook his head to clear the memory.

  Pascal was not wrong. But the Islander had also never seen first-hand the brutality of the Sunarians, or faced the undead hordes across the open sands. It had taken every shred of influence left at his disposal, and all of his coin, to ensure that he was neither discovered nor sent back. Five years was more than enough time served. He was more than happy to live out the rest of his years as a tavern owner, and leave the war to the damned. He gripped the edge of the balcony with all of his strength and clenched his teeth as he pushed the memories back into their rightful place. Deep down.

  It wasn’t the best location in Finglis Mirror, but it served its purpose. The Potter’s Quarter wasn’t known for its influence, but the people were solid, working class sorts. Which was why his dalliances with Pascal were such a risk from the commoner’s perspective; it was rare to see an Islander anywhere outside of the docks, and the way the common folk were stirred up by the daily criers against all thing strange and foreign... well, that was just one of the reasons they kept their meetings clandestine and under the cover of night.

  The other was the simple fact that Pascal was one of Hisbral’s finest wares, and Ian was sampling the wares for free. That brought a rare smile to his face, and he almost chuckled as he tossed a glance over his shoulder at his lover. The Islander had finished his brandy and appeared to be fast asleep. While it was an exaggeration that Hisbral would kill either one of them, a beating for Pascal would more than likely be in store if they were ever found out. So there was incentive all around to keep things quiet.

  And that’s how he preferred things. Nice and quiet. No blood, no violence, no death. Just good food, good wine, happy patrons, and a clean establishment. He gave the harbor one last look, cast a lingering glance at the moon as she slid slowly across the sky. It was another day tomorrow, and sleep was beginning to fog his mind. He lay down next to his partner, and closed his eyes to meet the faces in his dreams.