Son of None: Blade's Servant, #1

By Stephen Reece

A dark medieval fantasy story delving into themes of redemption and alcoholism.
 
When an innocent farm boy is violently thrust into a life of crime, he makes a desperate flight from justice to the city. Along the way, he gains a pair of magical daggers and some deadly lessons in survival that drive him to drink. As he struggles to pull himself together he finds his life torn by an invading army and a forbidden love affair. 
It seems every time Thom makes an honorable choice circumstances conspire to turn it to ruin, as he is captured by the enemy, his affair found out, and the consequences of the first crime he ever committed finally catch up to him. With the help of a kindly priest, he has the chance to reflect on his life before he must pay the ultimate price.
 
Will redemption come too late to save a kingdom, and his soul?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Reece
• Release date: Sep 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988810803

Stephen Reece

Pacific Northwest native Steve Reece blends both personal past and professional passion into his fantasy and science fiction writing. A technology expert by day, community volunteer with the homeless in his free time, Steve pours his experience with addiction and redemption into his debut novel in the hopes that it both entertains and challenges readers. When he’s not writing, working, or volunteering, Steve enjoys fishing, hiking, and other outdoor sports. For updates about the Blade’s Servant series and Steve’s other projects, visit www.stephenreece.com

Book preview

Chapter One

Isurrendered for the benefit of all. I should have fought.

My doubts rage in my head as I sit in my prison cell. Soon the hangman will come and my days will end. No amount of gold could save me from the gallows now, nor would any one pay if they could. I want to be at peace with the consequences of my choices, maybe now, in the end, I am. I stand by my choices and where they have led me. They have led me to a prison cell, magically enhanced, so that if I try even the most trivial of spells, pain shoots through my body, surrounded by church mages and a legion of the king's finest warriors.

I laugh as I write this. Has any other of the king's prisoners warranted such an expense? I have escaped the grasp of many adversaries over my few years, the king took no chances. I find my gloating hollow, as I have not found a way to escape. The bitter irony is not lost on me. Were it not for me, the church would not possess the spell that keeps me from using magic. I am a prisoner of my own success.

The birds start to sing outside my cell window as a ray of sunlight ushers in the end of the night. A day of promise and life begins, except for me. The birds do not care for the troubles of men, they sing for the new day, my last day.

My name is Thom son of None, and I am but a farmer from Taggert County who aroused the ire of the king of Neela, the Holy Church, and an invading empire. I am a farmer, a thief, a lover of queens, and a murderer, and today I die for my crimes. The Holy Church of Neela allowed me to write my confession for the archives before my execution and confess I did. I have perfect memory and I left nothing out.

Karl, one of my guards, enters my cell with my last meal. It is a kindness from Count Taggert—or a cruelty. A last fine meal to remind the condemned what they will never get again. Taggert does not give every criminal a last meal. I warrant one.

Did you finish it? Karl glances at my manuscript.

Finishing it now.

Karl shook his head. It's not right that you hang for this. Everyone knows you were just protecting your sister.

I shrug. The sheriff was Count Taggert's cousin. I will not get justice.

I do regret some of my past choices, especially those I made while drunk, but not killing the sheriff. He took my sister from me, from my family, and I made him pay.

Karl is one of the last people I expected to get sympathy from, but he had been good to me since I arrived, as good as a guard can be. As we grew up together, Karl and I did not see eye to eye—fist to eye many times, but not eye to eye.

I would think you would be glad to see me hang.

Karl looked pained. Funny how we grow up, eventually. Those things we fought over. Karl shook his head. So silly now.

Karl rubbed his nose and smiled. I don't think my nose will ever be the same again. He grew serious. Jada is getting married. They'll be engaged for two years. She's the last of your siblings to marry. To a wealthy shopkeeper's only son at that! Raul is growing winter wheat on the farm and your mother lives there still. As you might know, Trevor married Adela. They are expecting their second child. How about that, eh?

My sister, Adela, had always liked Trevor. I am happy for them.

Karl sets down the meal and exits. I decide to eat. It is a fine piece of pork, with potatoes and deep red carrots. I eat what I can of it. I think about my past actions, about my remaining regret: that I will die on the end of Count Taggert's rope, instead of that sniveling coward dying on the end of my blade. Taggert is a disgrace to his title and to nobility, may the love of my life bring him down and cut him off from the people.

I hear the prison door open. I look down the long hall. A hooded man steps in. My time is up.

The hangman comes.

Chapter Two

P ut your back into it, said my father, Dylan. Your weight splits the wood.

At eight years old, I did not weigh much more than the chunk of wood I chopped. I set the ax down and dabbed sweat from my forehead. Can we stop now?

My father looked over the pile of wood. We need to finish all that today if we are to be gone a week. Otherwise, your mother and siblings will not have enough wood to get by.

I scrunched my face and cocked my head. Can't they chop the wood?

My father frowned and rubbed his chin. He always did that when I disappointed him. They have their jobs. We have ours. If they did our job, their jobs would not get done.

My father hefted his ax and split a piece of wood in one swing. I hefted my ax, took a swing, and got a satisfying crack in the chunk. Rolling my aching shoulders, I prepared another swing then hesitated.

Maybe we can finish in the morning and leave for hunting after that. I looked at my father hopefully.

Come now, this wood is so dry that if you even give it a cross look, it will split.

I narrowed my eyes and snarled at the chunk of wood. Nothing happened.

My father shook his head and massaged the back of his neck. It is a once in a lifetime opportunity to draw a hunting tag for Count Byron's woods. We will not squander it.

I frowned and rubbed my chin. I don't see why we can't hunt there whenever we want.

The woods belong to the count, and all that is in them.

I scowled. But the woods are so big and there are so many animals. Why should they all belong to him?

It's not about what we think the count needs or deserves. It is about right and wrong. The lands are his and to take from them without permission is stealing. The Creator has taught us not to steal.

So, it was stealing according to God. My young mind could not understand why hunting in the woods meant stealing. The priest taught us at the church that all of nature belonged to the Creator. If it belonged to the Creator, then how could it also belong to the count? It did not feel like stealing to me. I shrugged then hefted my ax.

We continued splitting wood, the sound of the ax and of chirping crickets the only sounds in the growing darkness. My father outpaced me ten to one. Shortly after dark we finished with the satisfaction only found by a job well done. We each took an armload of wood and walked into the house. Greeted by the comforting smells of goat stew and smoke, we crossed the small room and stacked the wood by the stone hearth. Candles cast the house in a dim yellow glow where my mother and my sisters, Mira and Adela, worked at setting the table. My younger brother, Raul, sat in the middle of the room playing with a small set of wood blocks.

Mira looked at us and smiled. Dinner is ready.

Black curly hair, like our mother's, framed Mira's pale face as her sparkling deep brown eyes watched us. She had a smile that would infect the rest of us, and she always found a reason to laugh. All my siblings had my mother's black hair. Only I had the sandy brown hair of my dad.

We gathered at the table and my dad offered a blessing for the meal and we ate. I wolfed down two bowls of stew and two hunks of fresh baked bread.

You are hungry, Thom, said my mother.

A working man's got to eat, answered my father.

Indeed, he does. My mother looked at my younger sister, Adela. Go pour your father his ale.

My six-year-old sister hopped down from her chair and grabbed my father's favorite mug. She then poured him an ale from the small keg in the back of the house.

And all of you will study your letters before bed, said my mother.

I groaned. The studying did not bother me so much as Mira bothered me when we studied. Being nine years old, it bothered her that I learned so fast and knew more words than her. She always tried to correct me and put me back in my place. I did not know then that having a memory like mine was exceptional.

After an hour of study, I climbed up to the rafters and into bed. Too excited for the morning, I tossed and listened to my parents talking below.

The blight has taken our land. We'll not have a harvest this year. My father's deep voice rumbled as he spoke.

Mother sighed. Last year we had so little we could barely pay the count's lease.

I know. This year we will have nothing.

We will be homeless. My mother sounded pleading.

No. After the hunt, Zeb and I are going to the coal mines in Gaml County. We will work the winter and I will return in time for spring planting.

My mother gasped. Not the mines! They steal the life out of you. You will die from the black cough.

It is only for the winter.

You don't know if they will hire you.

King Wassim needs coal for the forges for his war. Besides, Zeb has a friend who is a foreman there.

I curled in a ball around my pillow. My dad was leaving? The thought made my stomach feel like a deep pit. I did not know what the black cough was, but it scared my mother, so it scared me. I clutched my pillow tighter as tears wet my cheeks. Tormented dreams haunted me that night.

The next morning, we rode out as dawn broke. I rode our small mare, Tuffy, Father on his gelding, Smoke. Sade, our old pack horse, followed on a lead.

We ventured a day and a half into the woods then set up camp. Tall maples surrounded us, the leaves turning brilliant yellows, reds, and oranges as autumn set in. Birch and mighty oaks grew among the maples.

My father looked thoughtfully at the trees. Get your bow, let's get it sighted.

I took my bow out of its leather wrap. Carved from the same oaks that grew in the woods, the deep wood grain ran up its limbs. I ran my hand over the grip. It felt right in my hands. I retrieved a hemp bow string and slipped one end into the nock. Slightly bending the bow, I slipped the other end of the string into its nock as well.

My father pointed to a birch with a large black burl. Sight your bow on that.

I nocked an arrow and aimed for the burl. My shot flew high and to the right.

My father gently pushed the upper limb of my bow. A little more rotation on the bow.

I tipped the bow a bit and let the arrow settle down on the shelf. I drew the arrow back to my anchor point and sighted my target. I let the arrow fly and it struck the center of the burl.

Your practice has paid off. You have a real knack for this, said my father.

I beamed at the praise. I pulled another arrow out, but my father stopped me.

Save the rest for the hunt. My father ruffled my hair. Now, go find your arrows.

I'm going to get a big elk! I yelled as I scurried off.

After I returned with one of the two arrows, we left the horses at camp and worked our way to a gully my father had been told of. There the trees thinned, leading to a wide clearing. The Copper Stream slowed forming a lazy eddy. Using available branches and brush we constructed a shelter.

Remember, how you held the bow. You take the first shot. Father looked out over the clearing as he spoke, arms folded across his chest.

I could not stand still as I looked out. I want to get my own elk!

Putting his arm around me, my father looked at me and smiled. I bet you will. Remember, the count has given us permission to take a bull, but we are to leave the cows alone.

The next morning, while it was still dark, we dressed in mottled clothes. We applied paints to our faces and hands, and oils that would hide our smell. We then hiked from camp back to the shelter and waited. The first day we saw several cows come down to drink. When the sun drew low, we returned to our campsite. The next day we returned to the shelter just as a hint of light spread in the black sky. The cows returned to the water and bugled. It did not take long for several bulls to crash through the brush and into the clearing. They fought for their rightful place among the herd.

I raised my bow and my father pushed it back down, a soft smile on his lips. We watched the fight unfold. The smallest bulls scattered first, then two remained. They lowered their antlers and charged, the larger one pushing the smaller back. Steam rolled out of their nostrils as they huffed. They broke off then the larger one lunged again. In time, the smaller bull retreated to the trees.

The victorious bull moved among the cows and came around near us, presenting his side. I followed my father's lead in drawing my bow. I watched him then he nodded at me. I sighted on the bull and let my arrow fly. It struck just behind the front leg.

The bull reared then bolted into the trees, scattering the cows. We plunged out of the shelter and followed. My legs burned as we tracked our quarry, broken branches and spilled blood showing the way.

We tracked the bull to where it had laid down, laboring to takes its final breaths. After my father killed the elk, I waited with it while my father retrieved Sade from the campsite.

The flies started to gather over the corpse. I tried shooing them off, before surrendering and moving away onto a patch of ground crawling vines. I heard rustling in the nearby brush and my heart rate accelerated. I pulled my bow from its harness and freed an arrow. If something wanted my elk, it would take an arrow from me first.

I heard more sound from another direction. I scooted my back to the trunk of a towering maple. Then more noise came from the path the elk had made. I readied my arrow. Then my father appeared from the brush, Sade in tow.

I lowered my bow.

My father cocked his head to the side. Everything all right, Thom?

I looked up to his face, my eyes wide. There were noises. All around.

My father paused.

Then he continued to bring the horse in. There are many animals in the woods. Don't let the sounds spook you. You could have shot me or Sade.

I'm sorry. I'll be more brave next time. I looked at the ground as I spoke.

Father touched my shoulder. You're plenty brave. Let's get this elk dressed before it gets dark and the wolves come looking for an easy meal.

We had just separated the foreleg when the rustling returned. I looked up. The shadows danced in the depths of the woods. My father stood up, holding tight to his hunting dagger.

Four men emerged from the woods. They wore the livery of Count Byron. Wear and weather had taken its toll on their clothes. Their pants and boots did not match the rest of their uniforms, betraying them as bandits, rather than the count's men. One man stepped forward. He stared at my father, then at me, with cold blue eyes. His dirt brown hair hung in greasy strings around his face.

Poaching is a capital offense, said the greasy man.

We have a permit, returned my father.

Two more men emerged on our sides, bows drawn. The greasy man stroked his beard. We'll see about that.

Run, whispered my dad.

But—

Run!

I sprinted back down the elk trail. An arrow flew over my head and into the brush. I kept running. I glanced back once to see a man gaining on me, and behind him my father falling under two men.

I shed my bow and quiver from my back and pumped my legs. I could hear the man gaining. I needed to get off the elk trail.  Spying a small opening in a thicket I dove in, thorns and brambles tearing at my clothes and skin. I crawled farther back, taking whatever path opened to me.

The sound of my pursuer, cursing and struggling, grew distant. I kept moving long after the sounds of pursuit vanished. Eventually, weary and sore, I found a small alcove in the brush and settled down. My water skin bore scratches but no leaks. I took a deep drink then waited for my father to find me. Night settled in and my dread grew when my father did not come. Eventually I fell asleep.

I slept fitfully that night, shivering in the cold autumn air. In the morning I ventured out.

Even in my panic, I could remember the landmarks of my journey in the brush. My memory served me well. I crawled and walked my way back to the elk trail. There I found my bow and quiver.

Hoping my father waited for me, I crept back to the elk. I found him lying on his back, lifeless eyes staring at the sky. At age eight, I had seen death before. I was home when my grandfather died at a ripe old age, and a year later when my grandma followed. My bottom lip quivered, and my stomach knotted. Tears burned my eyes. I tried to hug my father and felt how cold he had grown. Near him lay one of the bandits, my father's hunting dagger in his neck. I pulled the dagger free, cleaned it, and secured it in my belt. Then I vomited into the brush.

The bull had been thoroughly dressed and flies swarmed the carcass. I could not find my father's bow. Tears still flowing I started a careful walk back to the camp, stopping at the stream to refill my water skin.

The bandits had ransacked the camp. They took the horses and all the supplies. I followed the route we had taken and made my way back to town. What took a day and a half by horse took three days on foot.

When I arrived, it was night.

Chapter Three

Three years passed , dragging out as our family struggled and failed to farm the blighted land. Our neighbors fared no better. The hole left in our family after my father's death never truly healed, and my nightmares of that day never ceased. Yet our family needed provisions, and at age eleven, it fell to me.

Being eleven years old, it would appear perfectly normal for me to be running through the woods. I did have a good reason for my haste: the sheriff's men dogged my heels for poaching a deer. The three years since my father's murder had been cruel to us. The land failed to produce, and we had fallen behind on the count's lease. Taggert su Byron would soon replace Count Byron, and he was known as a hard man. I, on the other hand, took a hard stand on his woods. If Byron wanted his lease payments, I would sell his own deer and elk skins to pay it. Until today, I had gotten away with it.

My pack slowed me, but I refused to give up my venison and deer skin. I had only taken what I could carry, lamenting the amount of food I left on the carcass. The sounds of my pursuers drew closer. If they saw me, it would be over. They could search from home to home and find me, if they did not recognize me on sight.

As it was, I led them deeper into the woods; the direction a bandit might go. The thought of bandits chilled me. It had taken a year after my father's death before I would even cross the tree-line into the woods. I vowed to myself that when I found the men who murdered my father, I would kill each one of them. I knew the Creator would not approve. Yet He let it happen, so what say did He have in the matter?

My backpack snagged on a branch, stopping me. I tugged and yanked on it, but it failed to move. The sheriff's men drew closer. Reluctantly I shrugged out of the straps and left the pack hanging. So much for food. I kept the armload of skins, cursing my bad luck.

I came out of a copse of trees at a nameless creek. I followed it upstream then found a tree to climb. Getting as high as possible, I waited. Soon the sheriff's men emerged.

Spread out, find his trail, said one of the men.

One of the men held my backpack. That was a good pack. I had stolen it earlier in the summer from a trade caravan. That was no easy task. The caravans hired guards who watched the wagons day and night. I learned that the skills my father taught me for hunting worked for thieving also—such a loss.

A group of three neared my tree. I counted on my mottled clothes to do their job. One man, with a large chest and even larger gut, sat on the ground and leaned against the trunk. He gasped deep breaths then took out his pipe and stuffed it.

You men go on up and see where his trail continues. Report back to me, the man huffed.

Yes, Sergeant.

The faint smell of tobacco smoke drifted up to me as we each waited. As the sun dropped low the men returned.

No sign of him.

He must have gone downstream. Let's meet up with the others and make camp.

I could smell the smoke from their campfire in the night, as well as the smell of my deer cooking. My stomach rumbled. I finished my water by the time the gibbous moon arched overhead. The stream invited me down. I resisted and spent a cold night in the tree.

In the morning the patrol continued north in search of me, making my trek back to town uneventful. I stashed the skin behind the woodpile.

Where have you been? I was worried sick, said my mother as I came in the door.

I shrugged. I camped in the woods.

Without telling me? I have warned you before not to do that.

I rolled my eyes and fetched myself a hot cup of tea. It wasn't planned. I ventured too deep, and it got dark. I'm fine, Mom.

Mira turned to me and placed her hands on her hips. He didn't do his chores again.

I opened my mouth to answer but my mother cut me off. I am well aware of his chores.

She turned her gaze back to me. You have two days of wood to chop.

I didn't sleep well last night. I'd like to rest first.

Mother shook her head. That is not my concern. Get out there and get started on that wood.

I nodded, hunched my shoulders, and stepped out of our house. The wood pile looked small. If we did not get some money soon to buy more, it would be a cold winter. Before my father died, we would get our permit from the count and cut our own tree. I finished chopping enough for today by noon and returned inside to eat.

After lunch I got to work fleshing and salting the skin. A few days later I rolled it and put it in my old satchel to take to Jorge's.

My younger brother Raul stopped me at the door.

Mom, he's leaving again. Though nearly four years younger than me he stood only half a head shorter than me and weighed almost as much as I did. He had our mother's dark hair and our dad's blue eyes.

My mother placed her hands on her hips and frowned. Thom, you have chores to do.

I've split today's wood. I'll do the rest when I get back.  Jorge is paying me to sweep his shop and sort some new furs. Jorge kept shop in Ryderton, the town our farm served, or would have served had our land not been blighted.

Jada, my sister born nine months after my father died, ran up and clutched my leg. She giggled as I swung her around. Then I pried her free and exited.

I journeyed into town. The hard dirt road, rutted by wagons, turned to cobblestone about a mile from the gates. Farms dotted the countryside. The city gates would be open this time of day. The town served as the county seat and the count's castle dominated the landscape. Ryderton boasted a population of over seven thousand.

A stone wall protected the town, controlled by oak and iron gates: the North Gate, and the West Gate. I entered via the North Gate and followed Main Street to the market district. There I found Jorge's. I expected to make enough money to replace the salt I used and show payment for work for three or four outings. I could not give my mother the money all at once lest she grow suspicious.

While I drew away from the church after my father's death, my mother grew more devout. She would not have me stealing and poaching.

I burst