Blood Tempered: Book 1 of the Sword Monk Saga

Blood Tempered: Part 37

Ramesh Herkh was on hands and knees in the grass at the top of the hill, his forehead pressed into the pages of the Book, lost to the mundane world. Around him, the corpses of the Imperial soldiers lay scattered. Two of them had been burnt to a crisp—Herkh's own work. The rest had been slaughtered more conventionally by Bulwer, who was now thoroughly done with playing the servant. Bulwer stared at Herkh's exposed neck and could not keep from thinking how easy it would be to shove a stiletto into it. He refrained. The witch's magic was not a joke of a thing, and Herkh had managed to co-opt it, which meant that Herkh was not a joke of a magus, however unpleasant a person he might be. Bulwer's only honest concern was for the Book. The Book was being used properly, and was in no danger.

Bulwer had his own protections against sorcery, of course, and so had not succumbed to the witch's spell. Ramesh Herkh the same. Surprisingly, the apprentice, Velor, had also been unaffected by the spell. Bulwer hadn't thought the boy strong enough in the Art to shake it, but he had. It was a pity he'd drawn such a useless master.

Velor was leaning against a tree, shaking. He'd got done puking some time ago. Bulwer doubted he'd ever seen anyone killed, nor had a magic crazed soldier intent on slaying him before. Bulwer had taken the man down before he'd ventilated the pimply apprentice. The man's hot blood had spurted out and drenched the poor lad, who'd been frozen in fear and screaming at the time. More than a little blood had got in the young man's mouth, thus the vomiting. Well, that and nerves, like as not.

The apprentice suddenly went stiff.

"What is it?" called Bulwer, and in response the lad pointed at the base of the hill.

Bulwer turned, and saw a tall, blood-drenched man with a greatsword walking towards them. His pace was deliberate, and he knew where he was going. He was still some distance away, but Bulwer recognized the Andine by his shaved head and robes. And as the sword-monk got closer, Bulwer saw that the man's face was as bleak as any he had ever seen.

Bulwer had seen much of humanity, and much of that in distress, fear, panic, despair and harsh resolve. He saw all of that and more on the young sword monk's face. He knew that the monk was there to kill or be killed.

Bulwer planted himself in the holy man's path.

The monk stopped a few paces short of engagement range and gave Bulwer a hollow-eyed look that took in everything.

"I have no quarrel with you, guardian," the monk said in a soft voice. "Stand aside."

"I am an imperial agent," Bulwer replied, "as are you. Turn away."

"You are in service to the College of Magi, guardian, and protect the Book, not its bearer. I serve Andos, and have taken a vow, at the emperor's behest, to protect the one the magus is now trying to kill."

"The magus was sent, at the emperor's behest, to end the threat the Roumnan witch represents."

The monk gave a bleak smile. "It seems the emperor is of two minds on this matter."

Bulwer shrugged. "You should go to Aeternox and seek clarification."

"Will you stand aside?" the monk asked.

Bulwer replied by raising his dirk and short sword to a guard position.

The monk sighed, shifted his stance, and raised his battered greatsword, point skyward, to his shoulder.

The first exchange of blows left the monk bleeding from a shallow gash along his ribs. He was clearly exhausted, and slow to interpose his heavy blade. Far too slow.

"Turn away," Bulwer repeated.

"Come, and let's be done," the monk replied.

With an unusual reluctance, Bulwer launched himself at the foe once again, sword high to block or deflect the monk's weapon, dirk low to strike at legs or abdomen. Bulwer was snake-quick.

To his surprise, he was not quick enough. The monk dropped to the ground in a low crouch and swept Bulwer's feet out from under him with a brutal, lightning fast kick. It happened so quickly that Bulwer had the fleeting thought that the monk had been pretending exhaustion.

He landed hard on his back, but was rolling away almost before his body touched earth. But the monk's speed, and the reach of his greatsword, proved too much. The great sword's tip found him as he sprang to his feet. It slipped between his ribs and found his heart.

Bulwer's last thoughts, before the darkness rushed up to swallow him, was how much he hated dying, and how he still had nine sodding years of this rubbish to endure before his indenture to the College of Magi expired.