Deathbringer, p.1
Deathbringer, page 1
© 2023 by Blake Carpenter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without prior written permission of the copyright holder, except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law.
To request permissions, email blakecarpenterbooks@gmail.com
Cover art courtesy of Miblart. https://www.miblart.com
Contents
Dedication
Map of Agareth
1. ONE: A Day to Remember
2. TWO: Reborn
3. THREE: Revelations
4. FOUR: Resolute
5. FIVE: Unwanted Reunions
6. SIX: Departures
7. SEVEN: Unexpected Encounters
8. EIGHT: A Chance to Escape
9. NINE: Shattered Hope
10. TEN: Reminiscing
11. ELEVEN: Arrival in the White City
12. TWELVE: Taking Aim
13. THIRTEEN: The Arisrocrat
14. FOURTEEN: Taking Flight
15. FIFTEEN: The Black Heart
16. SIXTEEN: Negotiations
17. SEVENTEEN: The Bringer of Death
18. EPILOGUE: Fanatics and Farewells
GLOSSARY
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Dedication
To Pat, who believed in me.
Requiescat in pace.
1
ONE: A Day to Remember
Today was my wedding day: after years of waiting, months of planning, weeks of preparation and the agonizing days of anticipation, it was finally here. The sun was shining and a wild wind was gusting out of the west on a bright spring morning as I exited the kitchen door, nearly at a full run, almost tangling up in my skirts. My heart was in my throat, swollen and ready to burst from excitement, nervousness, anticipation and exhaustion all at the same time. I wanted to shout at something, to dance around in circles until I couldn’t stand up.
Everything was going to go right today. I was sure of that.
The whole farmyard was a crazed buzz of activity. All of the flower arrangements, both fresh and dried, were already hanging in their proper places. The cooked dishes for the guests were nearly finished; the smells of delicious things were wafting out of the windows of the main house kitchen. The common yard in-between the main house and the largest barn nearby was all set up for the ceremony. Everything was arranged and ordered, all down to the smallest detail.
The farmstead where I lived—a massive collection of larger communal houses, smaller private cottages, large barns where the animals were kept, storehouses, a silo for grain storage, and more—was far away from anything resembling civilization, which made getting spell-steel expensive. But the common yard had been freshly-tilled that morning with a new green-steel plow purchased especially for the occasion. I had watched in fascination as a pair of draft horses pulled the enchanted steel blade through the yard, at how the thick earth that turned over looked so rich and thick with a sweet scent, fresh and ready for planting. Now, it was already covered with a fresh coat of soft, short grass that felt wonderful between my toes.
A wooden platform near the center of the clearing was constructed where Pyotr and I would stand and speak our vows. Some of the younger children were playing games nearby, relieved of their chores for the day, climbing over the dried bales set up for seating or chasing each other through the rows, bored from waiting for the grown-ups to finish their work. While hurrying past the farthest barn, a pair of hands grabbed me from behind. I gasped from surprise before a pair of familiar lips pressed to mine, and that surprise melted into a slow moan instead.
A moment later, pulling back, I squinted up at a pair of impish blue eyes. “Pyotr!”
“Oh, Inga! It’s you!” he said, feigning innocent surprise. “Did they tell you I’m marrying the prettiest girl this side of South Woods today?”
I snorted and smacked his shoulder. “If any of the other women hear you’ve been sneaking kisses before the ceremony, I’ll hear about nothing else for a month.”
My future husband grinned at me. “Maybe we should do other things, too—that’ll really give them something to talk about.” I’d known Pyotr since we were children: when the other youngsters teased me for my mother’s insistence on physical and martial training, as well as learning to use a sword, Pyotr never joined in; when I struggled to keep up with my chores, Pyotr never hesitated to help.
His brown hair was combed back, showing off his wide, handsome face. It was traditional for a wife and her husband to not see each other on the wedding day until vows were exchanged. But I was the one who’d picked out his clothes and helped him dress that morning: a pressed white shirt to match my dress, his best trousers and a pair of polished boots.
I’d sewn most of my dress myself, although I had some help from other seamstresses on the farm. It had a modest neckline and a pair of white sashes wound about my waist. I’d bound my dark hair up with a marigold-colored ribbon, and wore a plain metal barrette behind my left ear. My own feet were bare, which was also traditional.
“You look very nice today, by the way,” he added.
“You always say that,” I said, resting my head to his chest. “The idea of ‘other things’ sounds lovely…but I can’t. There’s still so much left to do.”
“Well, I heard your mother was looking for you.”
My heart skipped. “She is? Now?”
“What do you think she wants?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed. “But I expect she thinks it’s important.”
“Maybe she thinks you need a serious discussion about what a new bride should be anticipating on her wedding night.” He gave me a sly wink.
I snorted a laugh. “I don’t need or want any sort of discussion about that, thank you!” I reached up on tiptoes to kiss his mouth—several times, for good measure. “But I should still make time to talk to her before the ceremony.”
“Outplayed by my own mother-in-law,” he answered with a dramatic sigh.
I reached up, stroking his cheek with a smile. “I suppose you’ll have to settle for second place just this once today.”
Pyotr rubbed his mouth, looking concerned. “Alright…but if your mother follows us home tonight, she has to sleep on the floor.”
I started to grin, but then he gave me a funny look. “What, what is it?” I said, feeling bashful. “Is something wrong?”
“You’ve got more straw in your hair.” My husband-to-be took hold of my ponytail in one hand, and with the other he pulled at several pale strands amongst the black hairs. “I guess we didn’t find all the pieces this morning after all.” Pyotr rubbed them between his fingers before he gave me a crafty smile.
I started to swear, but forced a laugh instead. Then I stole several more kisses to distract him before I slipped out of his arms, trying not to act too suspicious. “You should go check with Mistress Pol to make sure that everything is ready before the ceremony; she’s probably still huddled over one last concoction in the farmhouse kitchen. I’ll go see what Mother wants.”
“Don’t be long,” he said. Neither of us wanted to go, but we both knew our parting would be short-lived, so I hurried on.
My mother’s cottage was a small, one-room shack that was barely large enough for one person, much less two. I’d grown up in that tiny house, one of the smallest buildings on the farmstead, but that very night I’d be moving into a new cottage with Pyotr. The whole farmstead had come together to build it, and once it was finished, I’d been so proud of it that I’m sure I walked on air for a week. But even while the thought of leaving my old home for good was a welcome one, at the same time, I dreaded the thought of Mother being alone.
Ilyan Ivanova was waiting for me when I stepped inside. The curtains were drawn in spite of the sunny day outside. An oil lamp with a diminished glow sat on the bedside table. “There you are. Where have you been? Come in, and hurry. Close the door.” My mother was wildly gesturing, urging me to hurry inside, and she shut the door loudly behind me. The sky-blue dress she wore didn’t suit her, I thought—she was too thin, and her face looked too pinched, eyes dark and puffy underneath. Ilyan had never re-married after my father Sasha died when I was young. Even though she had never asked for my opinion, I always thought Mother’s stubborn insistence on spinsterhood was a mistake: Ilyan had a severe, untouchable beauty, the kind that didn’t belong on a farmstead on the northern end of nowhere. That air of aloofness always set her apart, and eventually the men-folk on the farm gave up on courting her.
“Hello, Mother. Can you get me another barrette, please?”
“What?” Mother had started pacing but stopped, frowning at me. “Why, what happened? Did someone see you?”
“Pyotr almost caught my hair changing again.” I lifted up the loose tail of hair from over my shoulder—just in the time it took to reach my mother’s cottage, more strands had turned pale, rather than the midnight black they should’ve been.
“Honestly.” Mother grumbled, reaching over to a small dish on the bedside table, next to the lamp. She fished out a small, metal barrette matching the one I already wore behind my ear, the same place where Mother had always worn one. “How many times have I told you to check yourself before you go out, Inga?”
“Yes, yes… I am going to have to tell him the truth eventually, Mother—you realize this.
My mother sniffed, looking unconvinced. “You’d be surprised what secrets a woman can keep to herself, dear.”
I didn’t answer, as I was in no mood to argue. With practiced fingers, I unsnapped the bright-steel barrette from behind my ear, watching in the cottage’s solitary mirror as the black in my hair bled away from scalp to tip as the illusionary magics of the spell-steel accessory faded. In another moment, my hair returned to its unlikely shade of pale gold. None of other farmsteaders had hair of that color; black was, by far, the most common hue.
I quickly fastened the new barrette in place. Once the thing snapped shut, the renewed black surged through the thick strands of hair, and in seconds the golden sheen was gone. I fully intended to tell Pyotr the truth about my hair tonight when we were finally alone, but I saw no reason to start an argument with Mother about that. I checked my face and hair, giving my ponytail a slight fluffing before turning around. “Just don’t threaten me with another can of shoe polish; I’d sooner shave it all off first.”
“Perish the thought,” Mother said, showing just a hint of a smile. Her hair had gone prematurely grey years earlier, but getting me a regular supply of spell-steel accessories proved costly on a commune farmworker’s pay. My barrettes were in constant use during daytime hours, so the ensorcelled steel usually lost its luster quickly, its magic fading after a few weeks. I grabbed a few extras, tucking them into an inner pocket of my dress for safekeeping; there was no guarantee I’d have a chance to slip away anytime soon.
“Well, I’m here,” I said. “What did you need to talk to me about?”
“Something important, Inga,” Mother said. “Sit down.”
I repressed another sigh while taking a seat on the edge of the old, rickety bed. “Mother, please. There’s so much going on, and so much left to do, and then Pyotr said you were looking for me—”
“No,” she said, cutting me off. “I said it was important, and this is—more than today, more than your wedding, all of it.”
“What?” I was shocked, even a little angry. “Today is the most important day of my life! What could matter more than that?”
Mother didn’t answer. She knelt down in front of a large, black steamer trunk sitting against the far wall. It had turned to muted grey from age, and was one of the few items that belonged to my grandparents. Both of them died from an outbreak of red fever, the same that killed my father and nearly half of the workers on the farmstead at the time.
“I’d planned on waiting to show this to you once you and your husband started giving me granddaughters to dote on, but…well.” Mother cut herself off, sounding agitated and impatient. Once she opened the heavy lid bound with tarnished brass, she hurriedly began to pull out piles of clothes, coats, and other keepsakes I recognized: faded finger paintings, small bags of dried flower buds, a threadbare doll I’d slept with for years. All were set aside, forgotten for the moment.
“Show me what? Did something happen?”
She looked at me and paused—it seemed to me that she wasn’t initially sure how to answer my question. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure…” She seemed flustered. “I don’t know.”
I was at a complete loss; I loved my mother, and while she was a mysterious sort of woman, this was too much, even for her. “What does that even mean?”
“Would that I knew myself.” With that enigmatic answer, Mother delicately twisted two of the intricate brass fixtures on the trunk’s front before she pressed down hard on them with both thumbs; I heard a muffled ‘click’ from inside. She reached inside, pulled away what I now saw was a false bottom, and carefully pulled out an object nearly a meter long, bound in frayed cloth and leather strings. My mother took the item up with delicate care, then turned and took a seat next to me on the bed, resting the wrapped item across her lap. “Inga, what do you remember about your grandparents?”
It was the last sort of question I’d expected. I blinked, casting my thoughts as far back as I could manage. “About Gramma Tasia? I…I don’t know, really.” Mother’s hard, intense stare cut off anymore of my objections and for a moment I concentrated very, very hard. “I remember you telling me she died along with Grampa Avgust and Papa when I was little. I also remember…you once told me Gramma hated farming, and that Grampa was the one who taught you how to use a sword. That’s how you taught me to use one.” I kept any opinions of just how much I intended to use that particular skill to myself.
“That’s right,” she said. “My Mama very much hated farming—she loathed having to get dirty for as long as she lived. But there’s an explanation for that…and it has to do with this.” Mother ran her fingers across the wrapped item, toying with the old leather cords tied around it. “Your grandmatron belonged to the family of someone very important—a noblewoman, someone I’ve never told you about before today.” She carefully unfastened the cords, which were drying out from age and starting to crack in places. “This belonged to that noblewoman, and your Gramma Tasia was given it before that woman died. When Tasia died, it became mine, and when I die, it will be yours.”
That revelation made my eyes go a little wide. “What? A noblewoman?” When she didn’t answer me, I added: “What is it?”
Mother took a hard glance at the curtains covering the windows, as though suspecting someone of lurking outside. Then she pulled the cloth away: wrapped inside was a sword with a blade of black enameled steel so dark it seemed to absorb the lamplight. The crosspiece was forged of twisted black iron or steel; the hilt was made of matching leather, wrapped in gold wire.
It was, without question, the most valuable looking thing I’d ever seen in my life.
“Winter’s blight!” I cursed aloud. “We own a sword?”
“Mm. Why do you think I insisted you learn how to use one?”
“Well… I mean, I didn’t know…” I reached out to touch the thing but hesitated at the last second; it didn’t look like the sort of thing someone like me had any business touching. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
“Because this weapon is a secret, Inga, as deep and dark a secret as we have.” Mother’s voice was as hard as the beaten metal lying across her lap. “Your Gramma swore me to secrecy, that I should never reveal or show it to anyone. Your Papa never knew it existed. No one can ever find out about this—not Mistress Pol, not Pyotr, no one.” Her eyes pinned me in place like a bug on a needle; I’m sure I stopped breathing for a moment. “I meant what I said about keeping secrets. When I die, this sword will become yours. When you finally have a daughter, you must tell her about it when the proper time comes. For two generations, our family’s carried this secret, and it must stay secret, no matter what. Do you understand?”
It took a great deal of self-control just to focus on what my mother was saying—my mind was abuzz with questions and confusion, processing everything she was trying to tell me. “Mother—”
“Do. You. Understand?” Her voice never rose in volume, but she was so insistent, so demanding of my obedience that I could hardly look at her without flinching.
“Yes, I understand!” I could see that my answer had satisfied her; the tension in her face, her entire body, lessened as she let out of a breath. “But what’s so special about it?” Now I did dare to touch the flat edge of the weapon. The metal was smooth under my fingertips, but it seemed almost warm to the touch, like a living thing. I pulled my hand away, quite sure I didn’t want to touch it a second time. “Is it…cursed, or something?”
“No, Inga, not cursed; this isn’t a bedtime story. I’ll try to tell you more about it later, but this much I can show you.” Mother picked up the sword by the hilt. The weapon looked quite heavy, but she took it up one-handed without struggling under the weight at all. I watched her set the edge against her arm just below the elbow, then she pulled back; when the blade opened the skin, I hissed and winced in sympathy as blood oozed from the wound. A moment later, the red line across my mother’s flesh began to knit itself closed right before my eyes. My hands flew to my mouth, smothering a gasp of surprise. The blood that had welled up remained as a crimson smear, but when I reached over, gently probing and pushing against the mended skin, it felt quite whole—Mother never even winced.
