Sword Saint

  Sword Saint

  by Michael Wallace

  Copyright ©2018 Michael Wallace

  Balsalom Publishing

  Cover art by Félix Ortiz

  Welcome to a fantasy world torn by demons and demigods, where Narina, a sword master of the Bladedancer Temple, is called to join a larger conflict: the rise of the legendary Sword Saint, a warrior with the ability to single-handedly defeat an entire army.

  The Sword Saint Series:

  Book One: Sword Saint

  Book Two: Crowlord

  Book Three: Shadow Walker

  Book Four: Bladedancer

  Chapter One

  The farmer refused to pay. He hadn’t said as much aloud, not yet, but Andras could tell by a subtle shifting in the man’s posture as Ruven carried up another bamboo pole laden with rats, the ends dipping with the weight as the boy struggled under the load. Andras’s son laid the pole carefully next to the three other poles, then trudged back toward the barn and manure pile that had been the source of the rat harvest.

  “Them’s a lot of rats,” the farmer said. “Big, ugly buggers, too.”

  Andras drove his spade into the ground and leaned against it. It was late afternoon, and the sun was dipping toward the far mountain wall, but the day seemed to be gaining heat with the dispersal of the clouds, and steam rose from the damp ground. The air smelled of wet manure, of chickens, of freshly plowed earth, all soaked in the rain that had fallen most of the day. It had been heavy, dirty work, and Andras, his son, and the dogs were all filthy and exhausted.

  “One hundred and twenty-seven, to be exact,” he said.

  “Some of ’em is only half-rats, though. Can’t help but notice that.”

  As if in response, one of the dogs whined. They were waiting, panting behind him, with Notch and her boys in the middle—all terriers—and the two lurchers on the outside. Blood flecked their muzzles, and not all of it was rat blood. This lot of vermin had been big, and there were some fighters. It had been mostly work for the terriers, who dug the rats from their holes, shook them, and stretched them, while the lurchers chased down the occasional runner or finished off the wounded, tossed aside by the terriers in their eagerness to get back into the action.

  Andras had known it would be good work even before he located the rat nests. This fellow was careless with his chicken feeders and had visible chinks in the stone foundation around his rice granary, and there was spare lumber, untrimmed brush, and other places for rodents to take cover.

  “The lurchers get hungry,” Andras said. “Get a sort of bloodlust in them. They’re still waiting to be fed. Hard to keep them from taking a bite or two.”

  Actually, it was Notch who was most likely to snarf down the younger rats when she thought Andras wasn’t paying attention, but it was useful to draw attention to the two bigger dogs, who carried a lean, ravenous look regardless of how well they’d been fed. Lurchers were bred that way. Made them good runners, and skinny enough to get into ditches.

  The farmer—a fellow by the name of Valter—scratched at his balding pate. His face had that windswept, reddened look of mountain people, and burst capillaries in his nose indicated a man who liked his rice wine. They were heavy onion eaters up here, too. Pickled, boiled, raw, stewed, or smoked, the mountain people consumed them with every meal, and the farmer and his offspring all carried a whiff of it about them, as if it exuded from their pores.

  Apart from the untidy, rat-friendly elements, Valter’s freehold was a prosperous looking farm. In addition to onions and livestock, he had several paddies for growing the long-grain highlands rice, irrigated from ditches that carried water from a clean mountain river. The river flowed from the ice-capped peaks and never ran dry, even when the plains below lay parched and cracked with drought. At the moment, the rice was ankle high and brilliant green. Looked like a good harvest was in the offing.

  A ram with curved horns sat on the farmhouse porch, tied off by one of Valter’s sons after it tried to challenge Andras’s dogs. Barrels and basins in various stages of repair surrounded the animal. There were no glass panes in the windows of the house, only shutters that had been thrown open to reveal a front room filled with more clutter. The turf covering the roof looked in need of trimming.

  The unkempt look of the main house, along with the visible fecundity of both the farm and farmer—if the eight or ten older children running around were anything to go by—suggested that Valter’s wife had likely died, and probably in childbirth. It was a common story here in the highlands. These people hewed to traditional roles, with the farm run by the man and the business and family matters managed by the woman, including the upkeep of the house itself.

  Valter’s land was one of several dozen freeholds that stretched up the canyon between the river and the post road. The sword temples above kept the road clear of brigands, and the crowlords of the plains knew better than to bring their eternal squabbling up to bother the temples, who valued their independence above all else, and would punish any who disturbed their peace. It was as safe a place to live and work as any.

  Ruven trudged up bent under another pole. The rats—tied off by the boy’s quick fingers—swung on their tails and turned in lazy circles. The boy gave a grunt as he lowered it, and straightened his back with a wince. He was strong for his age, but only ten years old, and boy and father had traveled nine miles by foot yesterday, with plenty of climbs and descents on the cobbled post road. After eight days of travel, along with ratting, father, son, and dogs could all use a rest.

  Now that they’d finally approached their destination—not this man’s farm, that was for sure—they could slow down. Wait. And watch. Their business in the canyon—their true business—had nothing to do with rats.

  Valter’s farm had a good view of the post road to the north, which was the primary reason for ratting it. Nevertheless, Andras fully intended to receive every last coin owed him. He needed the money, in fact.

  “How many rats did you say?” the farmer asked. “A hundred?”

  “One hundred and twenty-seven.”

  “Huh. Strange.”

  Ruven met his father’s eye as he turned with his boots slapping at the muddy ground, and his raised eyebrow showed that he, too, had caught what this fellow was about to attempt. Clever boy, like his mother. The determined set to his mouth was Terezia’s, too, as was his way of cocking his head when he had a question. Andras couldn’t see those echoes of the boy’s mother without a stab of loss deep in his belly, almost a physical pain.

  “Thing is,” the farmer continued, “I got cats. Seven of ’em. So you can see why I’m surprised.”

  “I know it. Saw an orange tom go tearing away when he caught sight of my dogs.” Andras shrugged to show what he thought of the cats. “I’m sure you’ve got a few good mousers, but they aren’t the bravest, are they? And you’re breeding big rats up here—they bit my dogs up something. You ever think of caging a few and shipping them down to Lord Zoltan’s dungeons?”

  “Caging rats?” Valter frowned, as if thinking Andras was serious, then shook his head dismissively as he realized he was being jibed. “Maybe that old tom ain’t done as good a job as he should. But I see plenty of dead rats around—that’s my point. Them cats gotta be keeping the vermin thinned better than that. Can’t scarcely believe there’d be so many as one hundred and whatever it was. I was thinking more like twenty, thirty tops.”

  “That’s why my son is hauling them up from the embankment where they were nesting,” Andras said. “So you can count them. So we can get paid. So I can feed my dogs, patch my boots, and keep my boy’s belly full. So we can get on the road and back to work.”

  “I’ll give you two moons. That’s worth twenty brassies, more or less.”

  “Tw
enty? Hardly. Not up here, and not in the lowlands, either. Not since Zoltan’s mines drove down the price of silver, which is twelve years now. You owe me three moons, four brassies—I’ll give you the last two dead rats for free.”

  “Anyway, a lot of them rats was only pups, and some of the rats are half gone.”

  “We’ve been on the road. The dogs were hungry.”

  Narrowed eyes. “Yeah? How do I know you didn’t chop them up to make ’em look double? Two silver moons. That’s my offer.”

  Andras tightened his grip on the spade handle. “We had an agreement, and you’re a fool if you try to break it. There’s food to buy, dogs to feed, and tolls to pay. I’ll have that coin one way or another.”

  “Listen, ratter,” Valter said, his voice hardening. “You better think long and hard if you’re fixing to try something. I got three grown boys who’ll come at my beck, come running with scythes and hammers. There’s one of you, and you got a child to think about, don’t you? Isn’t that what you was saying? Keep him safe, won’t you?” He spat at the ground. “Anyhow, I won’t be cheated. Wouldn’t be surprised if you brought some of them dead rats with you from the last place you ratted.”

  Andras whistled. Two low and short, followed by one long. His seven dogs had been sitting on their haunches or lolling in the mud, as if eager to get even more filthy to make the post-ratting wash in the river more refreshing. Now they sprang to their feet and growled, with the big dogs, Stretch and Skinny Lad, sounding especially menacing with their low voices. Valter’s eyes widened, and he took a step back.

  “A word from me and my lurchers will be at your throat,” Andras said. “And did you see the terriers stretching rats like bits of rug? A snap of my fingers and they’ll stretch your ball sack the same. Now give me my damn money.”

  The man lifted his hands. “Look here, I don’t want no trouble. I don’t have my harvest money yet, and I don’t have any three moons and four to give you.” His stubborn tone was gone, and now he sounded only petulant.

  “You’ve got something put away. You farmers always do, else you’ll starve.” Andras held out a dirt-crusted hand, palm callused and nails worn. “Bring it out and pay up.”

  “But I gotta keep a few coins. The tool man hasn’t been by yet this year—and there’s always something needs repair, and I need to pay a water engineer to come fix my sluices. That’ll cost me two moons right there. My draft horse needs shoeing, too.”

  “Not my problem. Sell your ram. Go work your neighbor’s field for wages. Send your daughter down to the village with eggs to peddle. I did my work, and I’ll be paid for it, too. Fire demons drag you down if you think otherwise.”

  “They’re just rats—why you have to charge so much for a few hours’ work?”

  “I’ve been here since dawn. Two of us working in rain and mud and manure, and there’s dogs to care for and bellies to fill.”

  The truth was, Andras and Ruven had run out of food except for a few dried apples and a handful of beans. Andras had been pushing hard to climb the mountains in order to reach the temple of the bladedancers. Not much time to stop and do ratting. Only twice since leaving Riverrun, in fact.

  The first time ratting, they’d worked long and hard one day for a measly sixteen rats. That was Andras’s fault. Should have been obvious from the tidy way that fellow had kept his property. The haystacks had obviously been moved about, the pig troughs were fairly clean, and the chicken coops were in good repair with none of the easy entrances for rats to thieve eggs. Little brush, no spare boards lying around, either. A clean farm kept rats away.

  The second freehold was more promising, and they left with good coin, but the next day Andras noticed his son limping. Ruven wasn’t merely footsore; he’d grown out of his boots. He could walk barefoot this time of the year, his feet hardening on the hard surface of the post road, but there was no way that Andras would let him out ratting without good footwear.

  Ratting was filthy, bloody work, and he wouldn’t see his son take ill because he was too stingy to spend his coin to take care of the boy’s feet. But cobblers charged money, too, and by the time they’d returned to the post road after a quick stop in one of the villages, Andras’s pockets were empty, and they still had many miles to go before reaching the realm of the bladedancers.

  The work today—barring the unpleasant detail of pay—had been what Andras called dig and smoke, the most sure kind of ratting. It only took a few minutes walking the farm and fields to identify where the rats were holed up. The first was a series of smaller nests in the banks of the rice paddies. Ruven stuffed hay into holes, Andras lit them on fire, and the dogs waited for the smoked-out rats to make a run for it, then gave them a shake and stretch.

  That had cleared out about thirty rats. A few abandoned pups might be left behind, but they wouldn’t last long without care from the adults.

  The second, bigger nest was close to the barn, where Valter collected his manure, unwisely placed between the pig troughs and the chicken coops, with easy access for the rats to work their way into the granaries and root cellars on higher ground above the farmhouse.

  Father and son had worked their way methodically up and down the manure, with Andras turning over the entire pile spade by spade. Notch and her boys pounced and shook, with most rats broken and dead before they’d even freed themselves from the overturned manure.

  Sometimes, with a dozen rats all breaking at the same time, there were runners. Ruven whistled and snapped to direct Stretch and Skinny Lad, and the two lurchers got every would-be escapee but one, a damned lucky rat who somehow got into the rice paddy before Stretch could run it down. All in all, satisfying work, and important for the farmer. That many rats, constantly breeding, could devastate a man’s harvest. Spread disease, too, the vermin.

  As for what he’d do with his coin, he’d take his son and dogs back to the village around the last bend and get them all some proper food—meat and bread for boy and father, and some bones and gizzards for the dogs. The dogs couldn’t live on rats alone, after all. Then come back up, take their place west of here, and watch the pathway to the bladedancer temple.

  Andras didn’t intend to budge from his demands, but at that moment, Ruven hustled up with the second to last pole of dead rats slung across his shoulders. The boy had been flagging the last couple of days. In addition to the long time on the road and the meager rations, they were now several thousand feet into the mountains, and neither boy nor father had yet adjusted to the thin air.

  But now Ruven was flushed with excitement as he tossed the pole of rats to the ground. “Da, there’s men on the road. Riders.” He took a ragged breath. “Coming up the road fast. Spears, swords.”

  Andras took his son by the shoulders. “How long have we got?”

  Another gasp. “Close. Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

  “Demons and demigods!” Valter cursed. He clutched at his breast, most likely at a little wooden or metal medallion in the shape of a dragon talon that highland people carried for luck. “It’s brigands. What are they doing up here?”

  Andras held out his hand. “Give me my coin. Three moons and four brassies.”

  “Blast you, I’ve got to get indoors, and my children too.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing you could do. You can’t fight them, you can’t defend yourself. Take your family into the forest by the river and wait until they’re gone.”

  “But my farm. My stock. My fields.”

  “If they want it, they’ll take it. And you’ll die, too.”

  The farmer cast his gaze about, and something changed in his eyes as he took in his farm and realized how vulnerable he was. No doubt thought about his livestock and his children. The house itself didn’t look defensible, and the paddies were green and easily trampled. His only hope was to hide and hope the riders stayed on the road. A small army would destroy it all just by stomping through. And the wrong sort of army might just set fire to the house and barns and slaughter the livestock for sp
ort.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Valter said, his voice strangled.

  Looking at him, Andras couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. Years of labor, most likely the work of generations, and everything he owned or would ever own was right here on these few acres. These freeholders were prosperous enough under the enforced peace of the temples, but even up here, the small were vulnerable to the whims of the strong. And a man with land and family was a man who could lose everything in an instant.

  Andras remembered that Valter had been attempting to cheat him, and he hardened his voice. “My money. You either give it to me, or I’ll tell those brigands you’ve buried a chest of silver somewhere around here. Good silver coin, even a bit of gold. Not sure where you hid it, though. Maybe under the floorboards of the house. Could be buried in the rice paddies, though.”

  Valter’s face paled. “They’ll kill me for that.”

  “And you tried to skin me. You’d have watched me and my son starve because you were a cheat who wouldn’t pay what he’d agreed.”

  For a moment it looked like the farmer would stand his ground, and then Andras would be faced with the prospect of following through with his threat, seeing a man potentially tortured and killed for the sake of some dead rats, while men tore his farm apart looking for a supposed cache of silver and gold. A sound came from the road, the clomp of hooves, close enough to echo off the mountain passes surrounding them.

  At last Valter reached a hand into his jacket and pulled out a small leather pouch with a drawstring. He’d been carrying the coin all along, the crook. He yanked open the drawstring with an angry look and slapped down the coins one after another onto Andras’s outstretched palm. Three silver moons, each the size of a man’s thumbnail, and four larger brass pennies, the old faces of crowlords worn nearly unrecognizable after generations of being passed from hand to hand.

  Valter practically snarled. “Take it, you ratter, and get your ugly son and your filthy dogs off my land. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the hell out of this canyon and never return.”