Before he’d left home, his mother had told him that what had happened to his father wasn’t his fault, her argument founded on the fact that he was only eight years old when the tragedy had occurred. He listened to every word, but dismissed them out of hand.
Because it was his fault. His age was irrelevant. He was swordmarked, a fact only his father, mother, and he knew. Despite the power coursing through his body, he didn’t so much as lift a finger to help his father. Not when they dragged him through the streets, nor when they tied him to the post. And, finally, not when the king slid a blade through his father’s skin and muscle, piercing his heart.
Instead, he’d cowered in fear, afraid even to look away.
Never again, he thought now, watching his captain approach the ragtag group of soldiers keeping warm by the fire. It was bitterly cold, the air itself seeming to have teeth, biting at any scrap of exposed flesh. Then again, it was no different than any other northern winter, and it was said that northerners were born with thicker skin than those living south of the Mournful Mountains.
We also have thicker clothing, David mused, still watching the captain stride toward them, his head angled down and away from the icy wind, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He wore a dark greatcoat secured with bright silver buttons down the front. A greatcoat such as that was useful for blocking the wind, but too bulky to fight in. His captain’s uniform would be tucked away beneath it, just in case their camp was attacked, an all-too-likely possibility south of the mountains. And under the uniform would be several other layers, the last few of which would rarely be removed, unless one wanted to lose a limb or two to frostbite.
Captain Stapleton was a roughshod man of thirty-five, an impressive age to reach for a career soldier fighting on the frontlines. His age alone ensured the respect of his men. He had a thick brown beard that crept up his cheeks almost to his eyes, and a mop of brown hair that flopped from under his woolen cap across his forehead. Spider-webbing from his left eye was a white starburst scar—“The mace almost took my eye!” David had heard him say a dozen times to new recruits when asked.
Then again, there were few in his troop who didn’t have a scar or ten.
David, even at only sixteen, already had more scars than most. Then again, the men—most of whom were twice his age—gathered around the fire with him all had more scars than most. This was because they were part of an elite group of battle-hardened warriors known as “the Blade” who saw more time in the fiercest battles than any other soldiers.
David had volunteered for the group within a year of joining the army, when he was only thirteen, a decade younger than their greenest member.
They’d laughed in his face.
Three years later, they didn’t laugh anymore.
They were his brothers. He trusted them with his life. And they trusted him.
“Men, you have an assignment,” Captain Stapleton said now. At first there had been jokes about David’s age, referring to him as ‘boy’ or ‘lad’, but those had ended years earlier. No one doubted he was a man anymore.
“Unless it involves the butcher’s daughter and a skin of mead, I’m out,” one man said, grinning like a banshee. He was Torp, a smash-nosed ogre of a man who was as wide as he was tall. He always said he was out, but he always came along anyways, just for the hell of it.
“I can’t promise anyone’s daughter,” Stapleton said, “but there will be mead for those who return.”
“In that case,” Torp said. “Push me in the right direction and I’ll bludgeon whatever happens to be in my way.”
The rest of the fellows laughed. One of the others, Grigor, pulled Torp to his feet, spun him around and shoved him hard toward the fire.
Torp, more agile than he looked, managed to dance around the hot coals, getting a face full of smoke in the process. He coughed and blustered and spat out a wad of gray phlegm.
The captain waited patiently, trying to hide his own amusement. He was used to their antics by now, and he wouldn’t reprimand them. The risks these men took afforded them certain…liberties…that the other soldiers didn’t enjoy. Like extra rations of mead and meat.
For David, it meant being sent into dangerous situations again and again and again. Each time he emerged with new scars, but the pain never managed to erase the scar he’d earned on his heart when his father had died with him looking on.
“What’s the mission?” he asked, suddenly feeling anxious to get on with it.
Heads turned his way, but they didn’t linger. The men of this company had learned long ago not to ask why David was so keen to throw himself into the fire.
The captain said, “Norris. The king wants to push our advantage.”
David’s teeth ground together. This was different. They’d finally won Raider’s Pass, finally broken through the eastern lines and held the front. But an attack on enemy soil? It was unnecessary, a blatant attempt by the Dread King to show his power.
He was reaching too far for the apple. If he wasn’t careful, the huntsman’s axe would take his arm.
Logically, David knew, Norris was the next target if they were going to continue their southward campaign. But the city was well-fortified and those who dwelt there were notoriously tough, especially when defending their domain.
Hell, anyone who lived on a border these days was as tough as dried yak meat.
Hence, the mission, David thought. We’ll be slaughtered.
Something turned inside him, but it wasn’t fear. It was the same strange urge he’d felt since he watched his father die.
The urge to die too.
He hated feeling this way. It was why he’d had to leave his mother all alone, why he’d joined the army, why he’d volunteered for the Blade in the first place.
But he wouldn’t just lay down, no. If he was going to die, someone would need to beat him. That was the only way to prove he wasn’t special, that the mark on his back was nothing but a weird birthmark that happened to only appear when torchlight was shone upon it.
Not a mark of power. Anything but that.
David shook his head, dimly aware that a conversation had been carrying on around him while he was lost in his thoughts.
“…infiltrate the first wall, somehow sneak across the kill zone with just the eight of us, breach the second wall, and take out the lord of the town? Is that what you’re saying?” It was Torp again, his gruff voice accompanied by the tinkling of icicles in his thick beard.
“You understand your orders exactly,” the captain said, refusing to give an inch.
Torp laughed. “I see why you came to the Blade. We’re just the men for the job.”
Yes. Yes, we are, David thought. “For the crown!” he bellowed, raising a gloved fist in the air.
His comrades echoed the cheer, though he was fairly certain none of them meant it. They didn’t do this for some king halfway across the realm. They fought because it was in their blood, a need that could only be sated by battle and victory.
Under a canopy of clouds in the black of night, Norris might’ve been naught but a hill rising up in the distance, the only evidence of its structure the four tall watchtowers poking up from each corner. A high outer wall connected them.
If the walls or towers were manned, the watchmen were well-hidden.
They’d begun their march several hours earlier, sticking to the shadow of the Mournful Mountains. This time of year, the mountains were snow-covered, walls of white that extended as far as the eye could see in either direction. From the base, the carpet of white continued all the way to Norris and beyond.
They wore armor, but it was painted white, from grieves to chest plates to helmets. Even their boots were painted. The lower portion of each man’s face was covered by a white scarf tied tight. Only their eyes were visible.
Grigor, who was the Blade’s unofficial leader, dropped onto all fours as they angled away from the slopes. They would crawl the rest of the way, elbows and knees.
A muffled shuffling sou
nd rose up as the rest of the men followed suit, but the sound didn’t carry—the armor had been padded around the edges.
Cold snow melted and seeped through the cracks in David’s armor, but it didn’t bother him. Being cold was part of life as a soldier of the north. Heated by his body, the moisture felt more like sweat than anything.
Thankfully, the snow wasn’t as thick as it could be this deep in the season. They dug through it, plowing with their hands as they inched forward. Elbows and knees, push, push, push…
Silence ruled the night.
Torches flickered atop the city walls.
The clouds broke for a moment and Grigor raised a hand to pause their crawl. A swathe of green moonlight swept over the city of Norris, backlighting several shadowy forms moving across the walls.
“Flatten,” Grigor hissed, but most of the men, David included, were already burrowed tightly against the snowy landscape, their grim stares meeting. David happened to be facing Torp, and the barrel-built man’s eyes shone with mirth. If he wasn’t a soldier, he’d be locked up as a madman, David thought. Still, he’d take him on his side of a skirmish any day of the year.
Ice crystals sparkled like crushed emeralds as the moonlight passed overhead.
The city remained silent. Their camouflage had passed the test.
Thick clouds pregnant with unfallen snow blotted out the light once more.
They crawled onward.
The king is no fool, David thought, his back pressed against Norris’s outer wall. If they’d marched a full force on the city, the fortifications would’ve ensured hundreds would die before they ever got close enough to breach the first wall.
A small specialized company, however, like the Blade, allowed the element of surprise. Still, they would be outnumbered a hundred to one if they were discovered. Stealth was the key to this mission, not strength.
Grigor moved from man to man, whispering his orders directly into their ears. They’d already hashed out the basics of the plan, but they all knew plans could change based on circumstances. “East corner.” Grigor’s breath was warm against David’s ear. He nodded. For now, the plan was unchanged.
Like a wraith, he moved noiselessly, staying close to the wall. He wasn’t concerned about being seen—the watchmen would be focused outward. Other men moved in different directions, some in front, some behind. One man for each tower; one man for each wall. Almost like the spokes inside a cart wheel. If a man was caught alone, he could pretend to be a solo operation, giving the others the opportunity to escape, or even to continue the mission.
The east tower rose above him like a black cliff.
David’s heart beat faster, but not out of fear. It was anticipation. Of battle, of the swordmark flaring on his back, of the possibility of death, the only punishment left for him.
He began to climb.
The soles of his boots were studded with metal spikes, and each hand gripped razor-sharp knives used by woodsmen for cutting bone and tendon. He took turns with the knives, jamming them between the edges of the log wall, digging his toes in with each step upward.
He was a good climber, probably the third best in the company, which was why he was scaling one of the towers.
Halfway up, he paused to get his bearings, glancing left and right. Torp, one of the weaker climbers, was perhaps a quarter of the way to the top of the northeastern wall. David couldn’t quite make out the progress of the form on the opposite side.
Below, the land was so dark it might’ve been the black waters of an ancient ocean.
Above, he saw the faint outline of pale fingers resting over the edge of the watchtower. At worst, the watchman would have a bow strapped to his back and a sword within arm’s reach. At best, he wouldn’t have a weapon close enough to grab. After all, even in times of war a hundred uneventful nights might pass without a single battle.
David resumed his climb, until he began to worry the watchman would be able to hear his breathing or the sound of his knives against the wood. With the patience of a spider, he waited for the situation to change.
He was so close now he could see the dirt under the man’s fingernails.
After what felt like an eternity, his legs began to tire, and he could feel the spikes losing their purchase on the wood, scraping downward. His arms were strong, but no one could hang forever. Soon they began to tremble. He would need to readjust his position soon.
But those pale fingers remained overhead, occasionally drumming the wood. A deep yawn murmured through the night. One of the hands lifted into the air, presumably to cover the offending mouth. The other hand rose as well, stretching to the sky.
David Dietrich made his move.
If he’d been asked to explain how his swordmark worked, David wouldn’t have been able to. It was like he’d stolen someone else’s body the moment he drew his sword—someone stronger, faster, more expert—and this time was no different.
The sword slid smoothly from his scabbard as he abandoned one of the climbing knives, which continued to protrude from the wall.
He dug his spiked boots into the wood and leapt, swinging his non-sword hand overhead, stabbing the other climbing knife into the highest slot he could reach, pulling upward with all his might, the knife bending under his weight.
The metal might’ve broken if he’d continued dangling from it, but he was already gone, springing upward where the watchman had heard the commotion. The man leaned over, his eyes widening, displaying broad black pupils used to long hours staring into abject darkness.
David hated how easy it was for him to separate the man’s throat.
Choking on his own blood, the man barely made a sound as David caught him with his offhand and gently laid him onto the top of the tower, which was surrounded by wooden ramparts.
Glancing around the small square space, David felt sick. There were no weapons save for a rack containing several bows and a barrel full of fletched arrows. The man never had a chance.
David wondered whether he had a family. He wondered whether he was a good man.
Both questions he would never get to ask him.
Why did I kill him? Because the king ordered me to? No, he couldn’t even use that excuse. The king had only ordered the Blade to kill the lord of the city, not to kill any of the soldiers. Though it was probably implied.
He would’ve killed me if I didn’t kill him. That excuse was just as flimsy. With his swordmark, he could best any man one-on-one a hundred times out of a hundred. A thousand out of a thousand.
I should’ve knocked him out.
But then he might’ve awoken before we completed the mission. I would’ve been risking the lives of my friends, my brothers.
David hated this. This doubt. This kind of killing. It was different when your lands were being attacked. Killing was survival. Killing was the only choice. But now they were the ones attacking. Threatening. They were the invaders.
He took a deep breath. Now wasn’t the time, not when the rest of his company had presumably secured their own positions. If not, the city’s warning bells would’ve already been sounded.
Which likely meant that eight easterners, including the man sprawled before him in a pool of his own blood, were dead.
He released his breath, watching the hot air mist outward, form ghostlike fingers, and then disappear.
He slid his thumb along the hilt of his sword, which felt more like a natural extension of his hand than a weapon.
He bent down and opened the hatch to the tower’s ladder, trying not to notice the way the blood dripped from cracks and crevices in the wood.
The space between the inner and outer wall was known as the kill zone, and David had heard countless stories of battles lost in the very space he was now sprinting across, as easily as an antelope bounding through a spring meadow.
Had they breached the outer wall with an army, arrows would now be falling like rain, waterfalls of boiling water and tar tumbling over the ramparts, and legions of defenders charging throu
gh the secondary gates.
Instead, his approach was unfettered, unnoticed, the second wall looming ahead, not as tall as the first, its surface pocked with scars telling the story of countless battles. Battles which the wall had won, its foes laid low in the mud and snow.
Not tonight. Tonight, the Blade would cut deep into the heart of its city, a swift unassailable blow.
Reaching the second wall, David drew another climbing knife but didn’t sheath his sword. Instead, he climbed with one arm and both legs, while continuing to grip his blade. He made short work of the wall, peering over the edge.
No movement.
Wait.
There!
A dark form breached the wall. Then another, and another, and another still.
All around the wall, the members of the Blade slipped over, unmolested.
Unseen.
Wraiths, all of us, David thought. The undead.
He hauled himself over the edge, crouch-walked across the wall, and slung his legs over the opposite side. Finding a ladder would take too long. Now that they had breached the city’s two main defenses, time was of the essence. The sooner they got in and out, the better.
He half-slid, half-climbed down the wall, landing softly in a snowdrift. The snow inside the city had been shoveled, pushed against the sides of the wall in large, sloped hills, leaving the inner village with only a dusting of white, like powdered sugar on a cake.
Something struck David as strange: Why were there no guards atop the second wall?
As he stared at the rows of structures laid out neat and orderly beyond the main courtyard, he puzzled over this question. Obviously if an enemy army was attacking, both walls would be full of archers, but he supposed it made sense that at night the focus would be on detecting their foes. If the enemy was spotted, the alarm would sound and hundreds of men would climb onto the walls in a matter of seconds.