The Bladewitch

By Jason E. Thummel

She came from the west, emerging from the long shadows...the red sun that sat her shoulder painting her auburn hair with a nimbus of fire...
She was lean and muscled, her skin pale and fair; hair, worn loose, flew wildly and untamed about her head, dancing on winds that smelled of rain...

She is Kayla of Zyre, a priestess of the long-forgotten goddess Naith. With her country under brutal attack, and suffering the devastating effects of a mysterious plague, Kayla must once again invoke the goddess and take up arms to protect the very people that have turned from her.

For Kayla is the Bladewitch, the last of her kind, and she cannot fail...
No matter the cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason E. Thummel
• Release date: Aug 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301580392

Jason E. Thummel

Jason E. Thummel's work has appeared in Black Gate magazine, Flashing Swords, The Town Drunk, the anthologies Rage of the Behemoth and Magic and Mechanica, as well as in many other venues both online and in print. His contemporary flash fiction story "Contact," which was part of the charity project 100 Stories for Haiti, was later translated into Portuguese. He is the author of two hard-boiled, occult detective novels: The Spear of Destiny and Cult of Death, as well as a collection of 13 short stories of Heroic Fantasy titled In Savage Lands, the novella length collection The Harsh Suns, and the novel The Bladewitch.

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Also by Jason E. Thummel

In Savage Lands (Collection)

The Harsh Suns (novella)

The Duelist*

The Lance Chambers Mystery Series:

Spear of Destiny

Cult of Death

Portrait in Blood*

*forthcoming

Copyright © 2013 by Jason E. Thummel

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

All Rights Reserved.

August 2013

Smashwords Edition

Cover art by Didier Normand

Bosphorus font © 2006 by The Scriptorium, all rights reserved

For my family, as always.

Your individual and collective strength, determination and kindness will always be an inspiration, and an example toward which I can only aspire.

Table of Contents

Prologue: Thieves in the Night

1. Bitter Fruit

2. Demon of Steel and Stone

3. The Bladewitch

4. Revelations

5. A Good Omen

6. A Hollow Chorus

7. Journey's Beginning

8. The Warp and Weft of Fate

9. Death on Swift Wings

10. Touch of the Witch's Shadow

11. Intruder Exposed

12. Ash and Memory

13. Secret Beneath the Surface

14. Born of Myth and Rumor

15. New Course at Water's Edge

16. Circles in a Sea of Grass

17. No Matter Fate's Decree

18. Long Journey's End

19. From Ashes, New Beginnings

20. Herald of Night's Approach

21. Rest

Epilogue: Conversion

About the Author

Other works by this author

Prologue: Thieves in the Night

Come on, Vantu, Gulwan urged into the impenetrable darkness that surrounded him. Unseen branches scratched against his cheeks and hands as he shielded his eyes from their poking and prodding. Somewhere close he could hear the other man’s harsh breathing and muttered curses.

It’s too dark to see and we’ve been walking forever, Vantu replied. Just admit you’ve gotten us lost so we can forget this stupidity and go back to our post. They’ll not have noticed we’re gone, yet.

No, Gulwan said. It’s right up here, past where the road forks. I remember. It’s a temple, I tell you. It’ll be filled with gold. And women. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

Seen it when you were a child, Vantu replied. Who knows what lies ahead now? Besides, the women will have fled already. His voice had a pleading tone that fed Gulwan’s growing aggravation.

No, Gulwan snapped back, "they attend upon their foul goddess at all hours. They wouldn’t abandon the temple. Why would they? We’ve not ventured from the city these long days. We’ve posed no threat. The whole damned army is just sitting there like some fat merchant on his sacks of gold….

And soon, so can we. We’ll be rich in gold and flesh both, I tell you true. And so what if all the women have gone? They’ll be money enough to buy all the women we could ever want.

Gulwan heard the unmistakable sound of Vantu slip and fall. He sighed. Maybe he should have come alone. Vantu did nothing but complain and slow him down.

We’ll never get there at this rate, Vantu. Gulwan waited for inevitable curses and complaints of Vantu pulling himself to his feet. The silence grew. Vantu was lying there like a petulant child in protest, punishing him for trying to make them both rich. The man had the gratitude and manners of an urchin. Perhaps he really should just go on alone. Vantu could catch up if he wished.

Gulwan turned to go, but paused uncertainly. The stillness had changed. It grated against Gulwan’s subconscious but it took him a moment to finally realize that difference. The quiet was not just the absence of Vantu’s movement; the surrounding forest had gone still as well. The night sounds that had long since become familiar and faded into the background had suddenly disappeared entirely.

Vantu? he said quietly. His hand slipped to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

The blade was through Gulwan’s heart before he had time to react. He stared blankly down at the growing warmth that soaked his shirt. He struggled to call out to Vantu for help, but his lungs were frozen inside his burning chest. For a confused moment he thought to run, but instead his legs went limp and he fell.

A blotch of shadow detached itself from the surrounding night, a strange tapestry woven of blackness, warping the very night itself and enfolding it around whatever lay at its center. It came for Gulwan, filled his fading vision.

There is much to do before the new day begins, said a woman’s voice from within the nightmarish shroud.

1. Bitter Fruit

And who was it that found this? asked Captain Jumar of the soldier that bowed uncomfortably before him. His head felt as heavy as lead. The worries of trying to occupy a newly conquered and unfriendly city were sitting heavily on top of the sleeping draught of the night before. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, there was always the notion that the plague that infected the city, which he had been assured was harmless to him and his men, might be taking control of his body despite those assurances; that he was even now rotting from the inside out.

Early morning patrol, Sir. The soldier stood and paced beside the Captain’s horse as it resumed its walk. Long, thin spindles of tree branches reached into the trail and raked at the soldier, but the Captain made no effort to move and make room for him.

"And? Captain Jumar massaged his temples against their constant throb before resting his hand back on the saddle’s pommel. He sighed audibly in warning before continuing. I have no patience for a tight tongue this morning. Just be out with it, damn you." The gait of the horse was nauseating and his eyes burned with fatigue. The last thing he needed was to have to fish for information from some boot licking soldier too wary of saying the wrong thing.

"Of course, Sir. One of the shirkers, Gulwan, was familiar with the city as a boy. His uncle was involved in trade of some kind years ago.

Anyway, men who knew him reported that when Gulwan was in his cups, apparently, he often spouted off about a nearby temple of the goddess Naith, which he said was filled with statues of gold and silver that were adorned with precious jewels the size of your fist. That half naked nymphs and priestesses ran around, dressed in rare silks, reading from sacred scrolls and bedding any man that set foot there. That sort of thing.

Makes you wonder that the uncle would ever leave, Captain Jumar said to himself.

Most of the men ignored his drunken raves, the soldier continued, but not all. It appears that last night Gulwan and another man, Vantu, who had been taken in by the promise of easy riches and soft flesh, abandoned their post near the Gate of the Setting Sun and set out to find this temple. When they were missed, a patrol was sent immediately to track them. The soldier grew quiet again.

Captain Jumar reined in his horse and glared down at the soldier through bloodshot eyes and pounding head. His leather glove creaked ominously as the hand within tightened into a fist—a sound which did not go unnoticed by the soldier.

Well, Sir, the soldier hurried on, they found it, for a certainty. As for the rest, Sir, I think you should see it for yourself.

Captain Jumar bit back an angry retort. Instead, despite his condition, he kicked the horse into a trot and left the soldier behind in a cloud of early morning mist and trail dust.

He was already tired of this expedition outside the city walls. There was still too much to do within: piles of orders and reports awaiting his review and signature; dispatches to dictate and couriers to send; not to mention the continued enforcement of martial law—aided by a few well placed, and exceedingly public, hangings and beheadings to keep the inhabitants in check. The killing and conquest of the city had been the easy part. Now he was left with the thrice cursed and godless task of administration. There wasn’t time to be trotting about the countryside.

His promised reinforcements had yet to arrive and Captain Jumar was well aware that Zyre was a country known for its past martial skills. True, they were no longer the power they had once been and were now quite weak, but he was certain that they would not see this conquest go unanswered. He needed to subjugate the city, both body and soul, and entrench his forces quickly.

While the Emperor and his cadre of sorcerous advisors had assured the General that the plague would decimate the population and make any attempt at fielding armed resistance futile, Captain Jumar was not convinced. True, the fatal sickness had opened the city to them as no siege had ever managed, but he fully expected his depleted force to be surrounded at any time. He had, in fact, serious doubts that it was safe to be outside the walls even now. But he could not show his fear to the men, their morale was plummeting already.

The trail forked. Jumar paused briefly to survey the tracks before making his decision and taking the right path.

Pavers became visible beneath the grit of the trail as he continued, becoming more prevalent as he rode. Once, perhaps, a great road had led to this mysterious temple, but no longer. Now the stones were uneven and ill-tended, a skeletal course that led the way to an all but forgotten goddess that must have fallen far out of favor.

The lands between Jumar’s home and Zyre were filled with such ruins. Gods came and gods went, but the glory of battle raged forever. Of course so did administration.

Captain Jumar spat.

The footing became increasingly treacherous and the trees pressed in more tightly the farther along he went. Eventually, he was forced to dismount and lead his horse along the uneven cobbles. A cold breeze, foretelling an early winter, rustled the leaves and set the twisted limbs whispering.

The surrounding wood grew thick, deep and dark, almost swallowing both the trail and sunlight in their entirety. Captain Jumar’s hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.

Something was out there. Jumar could sense it.

He slowed to a crawl, stopping and listening often. His eyes were drawn toward sudden, unnatural absences of sound that appeared and moved in the wooded blanket about him. Even the wind had retreated as if fearing these stygian depths.

Those draughts are turning you into a paranoid old woman and doing you no favors, Captain Jumar thought.

Ahead he heard laughter, the welcome sound of soldiers talking. With it, the spell that had held him seemed to break. The canopy overhead began to thin, letting in a deluge of light and filling the air with birdsong. Normal woodland noise washed in and assured him, lending speed once more to his feet.

Captain Jumar broke from the trees into an unkempt clearing, filled with overgrown ornamental flower gardens and untamed, decorative trees. To his left stood a medium-sized stone structure that was obviously the temple, its façade partially obscured by some aggressive vines that grew almost to the column-supported entablature and pediment. Thankfully, the frieze that once adorned it was completely eroded. He had no desire to see the images of the Zyrian goddess, Naith.

Captain Jumar squinted against the sun and took in the area’s remains, his imagination returning the fallen walls and manmade designs to their prime. This hilltop had once been beautiful, he decided. The air was fragrant and crisp, and the view from the lone, columnar tower that thrust through the temple’s roof must have been breathtaking. The entire valley floor and city would be visible from within it, as would the entire range of hills as they fell away in forested swells.

The droning murmur of the men stopped. The sudden change brought Jumar from his reverie and back to the unpleasant present. He glared toward the knot of soldiers. They were standing at attention, waiting, and their dogged obedience irritated him and did nothing to improve his foul mood.

Can’t a man take five breaths without someone imposing, expecting something of him? Jumar thought.

He dropped the reins to let his mount wander and approached the distant gathering of men on foot. The faint, pleasant smell of flowers and evergreens in the courtyard that he had first noticed was overpowered by a cloying scent of over-ripened fruit as he drew nearer them.

A large Pauplo tree dominated the horizon behind the soldiers. Its ancient, gnarled branches were adorned with thousands of rotting fruits that had, for some unknown and unnatural reason, not fallen.

In strange mimicry, two men hanged from the tree as well.

Captain Jumar hesitated. The light became pale and thin. The pounding in his head intensified into a nauseating cadence. He did not want to go forward. Something primitive within him surged, and for a moment he felt as though he might flee. But he was an officer; his men were watching. There could be no sign of fear or cowardice.

Despite his initial reluctance, Jumar stepped closer.

Beneath the dangling bodies, small mounds of ash and soot, scorched boots and belts, showed where the men’s clothes had been piled and burned. Above the ashen mounds, the naked corpses slowly turned in the morning breeze, showing bodies that had been entirely covered with pictograms. Each magical symbol that had been carved into them was framed by red, puckered flesh.

Sorcery, Jumar whispered, and shuddered.

2. Demon of Steel and Stone

Kayla had followed the soldier’s course through the grotto, studying her enemy. He had the bearing and demeanor of an officer, sat his mount like a battle-tested soldier, and had the watchful, nervous nature of a man who knew he was being stalked. She remembered the way he had fearfully kept his hand on his sword’s hilt and smiled. It was good that he feared what he did not see.

The two would-be thieves would have done well to have been so cautious.

Now the leader stood and barked orders, looking harried and uneasy as he scanned the woods around the temple. Watchful. The soldiers did not seem so ill at ease as their commander, Kayla noted, and went about their tasks dutifully and efficiently, cutting and strapping saplings into sleds for hauling the dead away. Apparently the one who led them was more attuned to the magical energies which surrounded him and his men. That sensitivity was not a boon that would serve him well here, she thought, in this sacred space where all was consecrated to Naith, the Zyrian Goddess of Death.

Kayla turned her head to listen behind her, where the cave tapered back into the hilltop and became a passage to the temple. There were no sounds of approach, only the soft rustle of her horse’s tail, the gentle plink of its bridle, and the fading scent of its sweat. If men were coming, she would know.

Besides, there was little to fear from that quarter, she thought. The entrance at the other end was well hidden, its secret unknown outside the order. And she was the last. There would be none from which to torture the secret of the portal’s working.

But its shielded and furtive nature was no guarantee that it would not be discovered. After all, her adversaries had proven both intelligent and powerful, as well as belligerent. Who could have expected that they would discover sorceries to harness and control the ways of sickness and plague and inflict it on her people?

But that was what the dead had told her, and here at the long-forgotten seat of Naith’s power, where Death still held its dominion over the souls of those that had crossed, once the Rites of Hermecles had been performed, a soul could not lie.

Kayla heard excited shouting from below. She tangled her hand into the clinging undergrowth and tree roots that cascaded over the cavern’s entrance and eased them from her view, ignoring the tingling along her skin as small, web-like roots that coated the woody stems searched her flesh, probing for a means to burrow in. The yaru trees were hungry. The Small Death was coming, Naith’s gift, and they sought to hoard what they could before they slept for winter and dreamed of the re-birth of spring to come.

A soldier ran from the temple. He was waving his hands and gesturing back the way he had come. Kayla did not need to hear what was being said to know what transpired. The man that had searched the temple had only found the lure she’d meant for him to find: fresh offerings to Naith, candles and pungent herbs still smoldering in the skull censures that fronted the altar, and signs that the temple’s austere quarters had been recently occupied.

Let them come out from the city, let them wonder how many might be wandering these woods...waiting. Let them vainly search for resistance in the natural holdfasts of rock and forest, for each day they spent outside the city, each soldier furrowing through the lush and ominous foliage, was a brief respite for her people. She was the last priestess of Naith, a lone acolyte in a country that had all but forgotten, but