Kingdom's Vice Series: Journey to Alleria ( #1 2014) #Wattys2015

Chapter Thirty-Three

He has the blood of seven riders laced on the edge of his sword. He had slain them in under fifteen minutes, mostly to their own fault—tripping here or stumbling there, others having lost a limb or two to a wolf. Alec, Son of The Master is victorious, but not long after his first pile of bodies begin stacking, a man dressed in golden armour with white trimmings came out of the ashes, wielding a sword made of white gold.

Alec thought that perhaps the man had emerged from the body of the Phoenix, but he dismissed the notion the moment he saw the man’s stainless face. The man’s sword was dripping wet with blood, fresh blood. Either he cut himself out of the beast’s belly, or he had just come back from the slaughter. Either way, Alec fears him most certainly. His sword-hand shakes uncontrollably now as the man draws nearer.

‘Come Son of The Master!’ the man calls to him in a thunderous voice, ‘Come and face me like the hero you think you are! You’ve killed plenty of my men; more than enough to land you in the books of Old Tales! Surely, you’ve time to spare and more blood to spill on your account!’

Alec steps back, ‘I do not wish to fight you.’

The man scoffs, sticking the tip of his blade into the dirt and twisting it with a grin. ‘Pity...because I wish to fight,’ he pulls the blade up so the tip is level with Alec’s throat, ‘You.’

They circle each other slowly, their feet treading the ground with caution and stealth. It is a dance of death, so they call it. The last man standing would live, the man on his back would die. But, Yeoman, the Master Swordsman has a reputation for killing a man while the defeated rest on their knees.

‘You, a Kennah boy slays the Phoenix?’ Yeoman taunts, ‘Not without a little help from your magical friends across the Sea!’ he says it with heavy mockery, his breath as foul as his words. ‘You have courage, I’ll give you that,’ he nods, spinning his sword in his hand, ‘But courage alone will not save you!’

Alec continues to circle him, his eyes not leaving the man’s blade. ‘I am not alone,’ he grits through his teeth.

Yeoman wets his lips. ‘I’ll give you one last wish, boy, for it will be your last! Choose wisely!’

Alec steps in and strikes first, missing Yeoman’s armour by an inch. Yeoman replies with a swing of his sword; their blades clash.

‘I will not fall to the mercy of a man like you,’ Alec groans, pushing his blade against Yeoman’s with all his might. ‘I am not a coward; not anymore.’

Yeoman smiles and says, ‘You’ve yet to prove yourself worthy of wielding a sword!’ before striking back, sending Alec staggering back onto his heels. As he steadies himself, Yeoman strikes again, jumping up into the air, the blade cutting through the hot thick air like a knife through butter. Alec jumps out of the way and puts his blade between him and the swordsman.

‘Good block,’ Yeoman yells over the sound of grinding metal, ‘Not great, but enough to save you from losing an arm or a leg.’

Alec draws back his fist, the one with the pearls wrapped around his wrist and delivers one forceful punch. His fist collides with Yeoman’s jaw, sending the man backwards, clutching his face. The man turns his head and spits out a mixture of blood and bone.

‘You either fight with fists or blades, boy.’ He growls angrily, ‘I can kill you just as easily either way.’

Alec grips the pearls tighter, his fingers curled around the beads. He clings to them for strength as his hold on the hilt of his sword tightens too. He stands ready, his feet planted firmly on the dirt. He is ready this time. One Master to another. Only one will live.

~.~.~.~

The sun is blaring down on them without mercy. The scorched hills withstand the heat, but Meyn suffer under the unbearable weather. With no sign of water nearby other than the Sea, Alec’s sight is failing him. He mistakes a silver blade for a stream of water, and the pearls for a snake. He rips the string of pearls from his wrist and throws it into the sand, where it sits silently. He stumbles around in the desert, seeking the heart of Yeoman. Once he catches sight of him, he swings his arm, attempting to cut him at chest level, but Yeoman ducks and avoids the hit. When Yeoman stands again, he slashes a tear in Alec’s armour, letting the blood pool and stain his white undershirt. Alec touches a finger to the wound and winces.

‘You’re getting tired, Son of The Master!’ Yeoman yells, ‘Your people have deserted you; a pity, since there will be no-one here to see you fall!’

He kicks the boy to the ground, so he lies face-down in the sand. He kicks the sword away with the tip of his boot and grabs Alec by the hair, pushing his face further into the pit of burning sand. Alec cries for mercy, the sand spouting out from where his mouth is, his cries muffled.

‘What was that?’ Yeoman mocks, leaning in closer, ‘You’ve had enough? You’re a coward!’ Another push into the dirt. He drags him by his hair to his feet, and locks him in a cage of his arms. One arm is wrapped around his neck, the other pressed against the back of his neck. ‘One wrong move, boy, and I’ll snap your neck like a twig!’

The two of them wrestle around, Alec trying to twist his way out, and Yeoman simply enjoying his glorious moment of victory. Alec tries to think of a way out, an escape route. Yeoman is his map. He grabs onto the man’s waist and prepares himself for a hard impact, as he plans to throw himself backwards and use Yeoman as a landing cushion. But, just as his plans starts to fall together in one dynamic, inspired moment, the cruellest pain tears it away from him. He looks down and sees the tip of a golden blade protruding out of his chest. With a cry and a broken moan, the Son of The Master falls to his knees and Yeoman follows, his arm still looped around the boy’s neck.

‘This is the end of your line, boy.’ Yeoman hisses in his ear. ‘Any last words before you die?’

Alec thinks only of Skaya as the pain makes itself a home in his chest.

On his knees now, he is not a coward, but a hero.

The arms of death are outstretched and waiting for him. He will go to join his Fathers and his Fathers before him. It is a good death, he thinks to himself, an honourable one. It would be okay to go like this; Skaya knew he loved her, which is all she needs to know now.

His desires, however, cannot be denied, for he wanted that life more than anything: he wanted a life with her in it. He had experienced the bliss of marriage for only a few hours before his life was ready to be taken.

He closes his eyes and says nothing. He just awaits Yeoman’s swift delivery addressed to one Alec Taryenne Valdorien, Son of The Master of The Mines of Sardille.