House of Blades (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (10 page)

The shadow cocked his head in Simon’s direction, like a bird confronted by a worm. Then he stepped forward into the moonlight and began unwrapping a dark cloth from around his head. It had hidden his hair and mouth, leaving only his eyes uncovered. Simon assumed it was meant to keep the man as covered in darkness as possible, to make him harder to spot in the woods at night. So the fact that he was taking it off should be a good sign, right? Or it could mean that he wasn’t planning to leave any witnesses.

When he pulled away the cloth, one of Simon’s hopes was confirmed: he was just a man, if an odd-looking one. Judging by the smooth skin of his face, he was only twice Simon’s age, but his tangled, wiry hair was pure white. Clumps of it hung down into his face, obscuring his eyes.

But this wasn’t the man who had saved him when he was a child. Who was he, then? Or did this forest have more than one demon with a sword?

“You speak as if to a blind man,” he said. “I may not have the sharpest eyes, but when one man holds his knife to another, I begin to think that perhaps they are not the closest friends.” He was using a more normal speaking voice, now, but it still had something of a lilt to it. The white-haired man raised his left hand to his ear, and Simon saw that he held a doll: a little girl with long black hair, wearing a dress patterned in red flowers.

“What’s that, my dear? Oh-ho, it could be so.” He returned his attention to Simon. “She thinks that because you cannot see my eyes, perhaps you think I have none.” He lifted the doll to his face and used her wooden arm to pull aside the veil of his hair. He blinked out at Simon.

“You see?” he said. “Not so blind as you thought.” The swordsman let his hair drop and raised the sword to point at Simon. They stood perhaps ten feet apart, but the sword was so long it came within a foot of touching Simon’s chest. “Now, maybe the little mouse wants to tell us why it’s sleeping in
my
burrow.”

Simon tried to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I was looking for you.”

The man gave a mocking half-bow, somehow without moving his sword a hair. “Congratulations on your success.”

“I need your help. Overlord Malachi has taken some people from my village. I want to take them back.” He tried to sound as firm as possible, determined, as though he knew what he was doing.

“Then you have risked so much for so little,” the other man said. “I don’t leave my forest.” He pulled his sword back and turned as if to walk away.

“You don’t need to leave!” Simon cried. He was desperate now, and he wanted this man to see it, to see that it was important for him to listen. “I don’t want you to leave the forest. I’ve been here before; I’ve seen you kill Travelers. If you don’t help me...I mean, the first Damascan Traveler I meet is going to eat me alive.”

The man cocked his head again. “You have a sword,” he said. “Draw it.” Simon did, warily. The old leather of the hilt felt rough and heavy in his hand.

“Can you defend yourself?” the white-haired man asked. He flicked his long sword, and Simon’s blade rang with a shock that shook his whole upper body. It felt like someone had rung a tuning fork and shoved it against his bones. His wounded hands jerked back instinctively, and the sword fell to the ground.

“Pick it up again.” This time his voice was light, as if it were a suggestion. Simon did so.

“Now, can you attack?” The man spread his hands wide—one holding a hilt, the other a doll—leaving his chest bare in invitation.

After a moment’s hesitation, Simon rushed forward, stabbing his sword at the man’s heart. At the last second, the white-haired man vanished, sliding to one side and out of Simon’s view so fast that it looked like he had ceased to exist. Simon’s ankle snagged on the man’s foot, and he spilled to the ground, barely managing to toss his sword aside before he fell on it. He crashed into some roots and lay groaning on the forest floor.

He ached all over, his sliced cheek burned, and the ghost of his fear made him shake like his mother on one of her worst days. This was not working out as he had hoped.

The white-haired man leaned down beside Simon and held the doll in front of his face. Her painted eyes looked startled.

“Otoku is laughing at you, little mouse. Can you hear her?”

Shame and desperation drove Simon back to his feet, reaching for his dropped sword. “Let me try again.”

“If you like the taste of dirt so much, there are easier ways.”

“Please. One more time.”

The man sighed and stepped back, putting some distance between himself and Simon. He spoke to the doll again. “I’m sorry, my dear, but fools must learn every lesson thrice.”

He drove his blade into the ground at an angle, because only a giant could have driven it straight down, and set the doll gently on the ground beside it. “Don’t worry, dear one. This will only take a moment.”

He stepped out in front of Simon and beckoned with one hand. “Come, little mouse.”

Simon ran up and tried to sweep his sword at the other man’s stomach, but the man was too fast. He grabbed Simon’s wrist and twisted. The sudden pain and pressure were too much for Simon to resist, and he dropped his sword to the ground.

“Again,” Simon said, as soon as the older man released him. If this was what it took to get the Myrian prisoners back, he would do it every night for a thousand nights.

The man shook his white, shaggy head. “No,” he said. “It’s my turn to play.”

He kicked Simon’s short sword up off the ground and snagged it out of the air, then turned it on Simon in a blur of steel. The point of the sword pricked him in the shoulder, in the chest, on each arm. Simon tried to move away, but he couldn’t escape. The swordsman was just so
fast
; he kept Simon on his heels until his back pressed against a tree. Then the man put the blade’s point against Simon’s throat.

“I win again. Such an easy game.”

The man dropped the sword at Simon’s feet and walked away. He picked up his doll and brushed off her dress.

“One more time,” Simon said. He had already retrieved the sword.
 

With one hand, the other man extracted his huge blade from the ground. He shook his head. “You’re just too flimsy. You would break.”

“No, I won’t! Please!” But Simon could see he was getting nowhere. He tried a different tactic. “Is there someone else I could talk to? One of you who helped me before. He wore a cloak, and had a damaged sword. Please, could I speak with him?”

The swordsman froze on the brink of turning away. Simon actually caught a glimpse of one eye through the veil of white hair as he cocked his head back toward Simon. “Before?”

“When I was a child,” Simon said. “I was with my mother and father on the edge of the forest. We took shelter from a storm, and Travelers attacked. He saved us. Well, my mother and me.”

The man continued to stare. Finally, he said, “Hmmm. And your mother? You would leave her behind?”

Simon’s voice went hoarse, suddenly. “She’s dead. Another Traveler, from Overlord Malachi. I’m alone now.”

The other man sighed in a strangely musical fashion. “No, I’m sorry, it would be too cruel. Trust me when I say that you would not survive.”

“No, I will! I’ll do whatever I have to!”

“Go back to your burrow, little mouse.” The man’s last words drifted on the wind as he stepped into the shadows and vanished.

Simon rushed after him. He searched all night, but found no trace of anyone else in the woods. No footprints, no shred of cloth, no lingering bloodstain. By the time the sun came up, he had begun searching for trap doors or camouflaged tents.

As the rosy light of dawn filtered through the forest, Simon sank to his knees.

What was he supposed to do now?

C
HAPTER
S
IX
:

W
ELCOME
TO
V
ALINHALL

Simon went hungry for almost two more days before he found a patch of berries. A rust-colored squirrel munched on a few, so he figured they probably weren’t poisonous, but he was almost too hungry to care.

He took the edge off his appetite, wrapped an extra handful of berries in a little pouch made of leaves, and marked the spot with a patch of cloth he had cut from one of the dead slaves. He wanted to be able to find his way back to the berries when he needed to. He stopped by the creek for a quick drink, then made his way to his “hut”: a nest of dried leaves and dead branches that he had built against the thick trunk of an old tree. He had curled up inside it for the past two nights, trying to get some rest as he figured out a course of action.

Unfortunately, his only plan was to stay here and wait to see if the swordsman showed up again. He didn’t know where else to go to learn how to fight Travelers, and he refused to return to Myria. That mostly left staying here and waiting. At first Simon had tried to practice on his own; he had swung his sword until his hands bled, and now they were wrapped in bandages made from the clothing of dead men. The practice may or may not have done him any good, but his arms ached, and Simon took that as a sign of progress.

Now Simon slumped inside his hut, bandaged hands on the ground, sword resting beside him. The wood was peaceful, filled with birdsong and green-tinted light. A squirrel rummaged through the bushes beside him, and the wind flowed gently through the trees. If something didn’t happen soon, he was going to go crazy.
 

He popped a leftover berry in his mouth and shouted: “Hey! I’m still here! I’m not leaving!”

The volume of his voice surprised even him. He could barely remember ever yelling at someone out of anger or frustration.

“Do you hear me?” he called. “I’m staying here! I’m staying here until you help me!”

The squirrel ran off. Otherwise, nothing happened.

Simon clutched his limbs around him and leaned his head back against the tree. It was already cool in the forest, and night would fall in a few hours. Maybe he should catch some sleep now and move around in the dark, for the sake of warmth.

A doll’s painted face peeked around the edges of his hut. It wasn’t the same one as before; this one had short, curly blond hair, with a sky blue bonnet and matching dress. Its face was smirking and sly.

“What do you see, my dear? Is it a big squirrel, making nests and noise in my forest?”

Simon scrambled out of his nest of branches to see the white-haired man kneeling down, holding his doll at arm’s length. He had no sword with him this time.

Simon bowed in the man’s direction. “Please. I’m not going to leave until you teach me.”

The man cocked his head, like a curious sparrow. Simon still couldn’t see his eyes through his bangs, but he seemed puzzled. “Who is this, my dear?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to come back for almost three days,” Simon said.

“Aaahh, the little mouse. Three days, you say? One does lose track.”
 

“Oh,” Simon said. “Well, I—”

“What do you want to learn?”

“I told you. I want to be able to fight Travelers. I need to, to bring the people of my village back.”

The white-haired man held up a hand for silence, and with the other, raised the blue-dressed doll up to his ear. “Oh-ho, do you think so? I suppose. But—” he cut off as if interrupted, and his mouth twisted in distaste. “I do think that would be fair. But...No, of course not. Wise as the Maker, bright as the heavens, you are.” He began to stroke the doll’s blond hair.

It was probably Simon’s imagination, but he thought the doll’s painted face suddenly looked sick.

The man looked at Simon again, though his eyes were still hidden. “My conscience tells me I must ask you one more thing. Did the kingdom take many slaves from among you?”

Simon sensed an opportunity to win the man’s sympathy, so he hurried to answer. “Ten, that we know of.”

“Ten,” the man sighed. “They brought a spare. Time, it presses on and on. And we can never run from history.”

Simon’s heart clenched suddenly. “Do you know something?”

The white-haired man shook his head again. “This is not about me, little mouse, but about you. Is there not someone else who can teach you?”

Simon stared firmly at the place on the man’s face where he imagined his eyes must be. He tried to keep his gaze steady, to impress on the man the depth of his resolution and dedication. “I don’t have any talent. My friend ended up being a Traveler, and I guess he was born to it. I’m not like that. I came to you because I thought...I thought that, since you’re not a Traveler, you could teach anyone. But if you think I should study Traveling, I’ll do that.”

A tiny quirk appeared at the corner of the man’s mouth, and he walked into a clearing between several trees.

“You’ve got one thing right, little mouse, and one thing wrong. Yes, I can teach anyone. Not everyone learns it well, but I can teach them. But what makes you think—” he put a hand out to the side of his body, as if holding an invisible rod— “that I’m not a Traveler?”

The air shimmered in his hand and stretched in a line across the forest, like a seven-foot strip of heat haze. Starting at the far end, the haze stripped away, revealing inch after inch of blade, until finally the man held his absurdly long, slightly curved sword in one hand.

“This is my graceful beauty, Azura.” He held the flat of the blade up to his eyes and smiled fondly. “She’s got a cruel sense of humor and a nasty temper, but she cares for me like no one else.”

He turned his head to Simon. “She’s also the key to my Territory. If we wanted, we could take you there. Tell me why we would do that, little mouse.”

Hope bubbled up in Simon’s chest, but he knew he had to speak swiftly and well or lose his chance. The problem was, he didn’t know what would persuade this man. “Overlord Malachi captured people, innocent people, from my home. If you teach me, I’ll do what I can to bring them back.”

Kai studied him for a moment, bird-like. “But why you? Surely someone else is taking care of this. You are without power, little mouse. Why do you have to do anything at all?”