Blood Tempered: Book 1 of the Sword Monk Saga

Blood Tempered: Part 35

Caida felt the fell magic being triggered. Within his own soul, a beast howled. Without thought, his sword was in his hands, ready to kill, kill everyone and every thing—

Protect.

A thousand thousand time he had chanted the Order's three tenets, until they had seeped into the marrow of his bones. Protect. Obey. Pray. And the first of them was to protect, not slay.

The witch's great spell scrabbled against his spirit, seeking a crack in which to insinuate itself. Everywhere the command to kill was rebuffed by the oath to protect.

Caida slowly rose from the bestial crouch he had taken, and the magic dismissed him in search of easier prey. There was no shortage of lesser souls for it to twist.

The first man Caida killed was one of Jaga's men. He did not know the mercenary's name. The armsman made eye contact and attacked instantly, running down the hall towards Caida without guile and only the most rudimentary tactics. Caida's blade flashed out, and the man practically impaled himself upon it. It was over in an instant. It was not a fight; it was just slaughter. Caida felt numb. All his training meant nothing when it came time to kill his first man. He might as well have been slaughtering a farm animal.

Still, the brief struggle attracted the attention of two more soldiers-turned-beasts. They rushed him, snarling at each other, each seeking to be the first to plunge their swords into his flesh.

Again Caida's blade flicked out, cutting two exposed throats with one pass. They were also Jaga's men.

Caida did not feel the Imperial magus take control of the spell from the unconscious Anya, nor did he sense how the mage altered it, turning it back upon its caster, so that every howling once-soldier had only one death it hungered for—the death of the one that had cast the spell in the first place.

Caida, having shaken the spell, did not know when it became twisted back upon Anya. But it was readily apparent when the afflicted warriors stopped killing each other and, howling their blood lust, began to seek the life of the woman he had sworn to protect. The only words that came from their raw throats were "Kill the witch!" They screamed it, over and over, ceaselessly, thousands of voices raised in murderous, sorcerous unison.

The Roumnans boiled up from below, Jaga's men poured down the stairs from above, and suddenly Caida was killing, killing, killing.

In moments he was fighting from behind a mound of the dead and dying. His opponents, frantic to get at their quarry, ripped down the pile of fallen and scrambled over the dead, teeth bared and eyes mad.

In a matter of seconds Caida had created another bulwark of bodies. It didn't matter, he realized. The Ardeshi and Roumnans together were ten thousand men, near enough.

He could kill and kill until he could no longer raise his arms. It would not be enough.

Caida did not know how long the struggle lasted, nor how many he slew. A hundred men? More? His arms trembled. His breath was a thing inadequate to the task of keeping him standing, it seemed. His greatsword, his soul, had lost its edge on the flesh and swords and armor of those he killed. It was a blood-drenched, ragged-nicked thing, and its weight was a terrible burden.

Slowly, Caida learned what despair truly felt like.

It made him battle all the more fiercely.

And then, suddenly, they stopped. All those feral faces, more demonic in their ensorcelled hate than any depiction of the demonic skinwalkers he had ever seen, suddenly went slack. Arms raised to smite suddenly dropped to sides, and weapons either hung slack in loose grips or dropped to the floor.

The witch's door opened, and she staggered out. Her eyes were bloodshot, and blood dripped from her nose.

She took a long look at the carnage outside her door. She took it in, and Caida's place in it.

"You did not succumb."

Caida had no words to say or breath to say them with. He shook his head.

"You defended me."

"I swore..." he said, raggedly.

"Outside Thunderhead is a magus. Even now we fight for control of the magic." She let out a sudden cough, and blood flew from her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of a hand. "I am not winning."

He leaned on his sword, fighting against his exhaustion.

"If you mean to defend me, the magus must die," she said.

Revulsion crawled over Caida's flesh. The thought of more killing brought hot, sour bile to the back of his throat. But he stood straight and lifted his sword to his shoulder.

"Where is he?" he asked.