On The Edge of Blades (Chapter 1)

Chapter 1: New Beginnings

Daruín donned the soft linen robes. Tonight, would be his last night of wanting, of needing. He would not be powerless, never again…

The complex series of passages that ran through the low slums had been Daruín’s home for as long as he could remember. He had been a street urchin here, an orphan, until Father Aelius had saved him.

Daruín remembered the decrepit orphanage. How the Father spoke of power and of wealth. How he told them they could be kings and wizards and heroes. How his eyes had glinted crimson and how his robes had flowed like a red river. He remembered how the man had brought him out of that evil place.

The young boy stepped forwards. The familiar stench of iron was heavy in the air, and his heart pounded faster than the soft pitter patter of the rain outside. Daruín would never return to the bottom layer.

The faint candlelight flickered around the pool and his hands trembled. He stepped forwards, a part of him wishing it was not necessary. The Father had told him that he would not die like the others, but he was still afraid.

With every breath he could taste the iron on his tongue. Daruín stepped forwards, sinking into the pool of blood. He began to shiver.

He felt the cold pain, but, as he sunk deeper, it disappeared. His head plunged into the liquid, he closed his eyes, and, as his breath escaped him, Daruín felt something else.

A warm sensation enveloped his body as if he had been dunked in a thick coating of honey. It was oddly pleasant if not intoxicating, and over many hours it began to change him. Slowly, his ears sharpened, and his brown eyes sparked with a hint of red. The crimson stained robe fused to his skin and his muscles grew more robust.

The transformation slowed, and a sudden urge overcame the boy. His mouth opened, the iron-flavor washing over his tongue in waves. The Father was right, he had survived. He was no longer Daruín the orphan, Daruín the beggar, Daruín of the deepest layer. No, he was powerful, he was Bloodbound, he could be a king, a master, and he would rule The City.

In one powerful kick Daruín shot upwards through the thick and cold blood. One more and he flew from the half-empty pool.

The small chamber was bright, but the candles had long been extinguished. In two steps Daruín left the room. The hallway was devoid of life, save for the drops of blood dripping from Daruín’s undressed form. They were supposed to be there, the Father, the priests, everyone.  

He turned looking in through an open doorway; on the floor were three bodies: a priest and two acolytes each stabbed through the chest. He had known them, not well, but he had known them.

Daruín checked room after room and was met only with piles of stabbed and bleeding corpses. In the library, in the armory, even in the kitchen, someone had gutted them all.

Daruín collapsed onto the floor; he had known these people; they had taken him in when no one else would even look; many of them were orphans themselves, and… they were gone.

Bloodbound bleeding out, he hadn’t thought it possible. Tears fell from his eyes just as the rain dripped down from above.

A harsh voice came from a nearby room, and Daruín rose shakily to his feet.

“You have ruined, you have abused your power, you have promoted murder and tyranny, tell me Bloodbound why should I not run you through?”

“Because your kind are no better. Because you are afraid of the truth you cannot see.” It was Father Aelius’ voice.

“That’s not good enough.”

Daruín entered the room, and he watched. Watched as a black-clad figure drove a sword straight through the Father’s heart, as his red robes wilted like a dying rose to the floor, and as the crimson fire of promise in his eyes faded to nothing.  

Daruín looked at the brooding figure, “Why? Why did you do this?”, his voice cracked and whimpered, “How could you kill so many?”

The hooded figure turned away from the Father, pulling the sword from his corpse and letting the blade drop to the floor, “Bloodbound are a scourge, leeching and draining and stealing, you’re worse than scum.”

“I am not scum.”

Rage flowing through him, Daruín could not understand. Just as he was born again, the figure had taken everything from him. He should have been a king. Face contorted and teeth barred, he clenched a fist and charged. The figure waved a hand and the black sword flew from the ground like an arrow, cleaving straight through Daruín’s shoulder.

And the floor shook as he fell. The figure stood only feet away from Daruín, and ever so slowly the young Bloodbound clawed himself up from the cold floor. Daruín was clothed in a coat of sweat and each breath was a struggle. Yet, he hobbled towards the figure once more, rage fueling his desperation, desperation fueling his every step. He wanted it to die, to die painfully and slowly. Wanted it to bleed. He lunged forward, but the black sword shot through his back, and Daruín fell, never to stand again…

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Syra pulled her sword from the remains of the last blood cultist. Catching the hilt in her gloved hand, she carefully brushed the flakes of dried blood from the blade.

“These blood cults,” Syra whispered to herself, “why is it always this messy?”

She was supposed to be happy. That they were winning and soon there would be no more Bloodbound. There would be no more kidnappings, no more slaughters, no more death; the city would be safe- at least, for a moment.

They told her she was hero, but she felt a butcher in a slaughterhouse. They were the enemy and that they were ruinous and that they needed to be eradicated, but so many were little more than children…

Syra pulled her hood further over her shaven head as she climbed the ladder. The entrance had been hidden beneath the floorboards of an abandoned tavern, and the guild had spent weeks looking for it.

Pushing on the trapdoor, Syra climbed out. The tavern was vacant save for the broken bottles that littered the floor. The unpleasant smell of mold and rot permeated the air and the tired floorboards had hardly seen worse days. Syra walked out from the cavity that had once housed a door and into the bottom layer.

She walked through the buried streets, making no effort to conceal her appearance -no one was mad enough to rile an armed Bladebound, not even in the deepest underground.

The bottom layer was a worn and tired place full of worn-down people. It was a part of The City that Syra did not like to remember.

All around her were faces of the past, the drunken man, the starving child, the lonely mother, the desperate, the hungry, she had been taken from them long ago. Lifted up from the rabble and polished and sharpened. They could not touch her; she was from the top layer now. Syra reached the stairs, and the guard let her pass and she began the long climb.

She ascended the many layers of the ancient quarry long ago turned city. And shacks and tents became homes, and dusty taverns became inns, and restaurants and beggars became merchants as she rose through layers of The City.

The upper layers of The City were made of brick and marble and a perfume of grandeur hung in the air. Syra walked to the guildhall. It was late at night and raining and the smooth streets were empty. 

Within the spacious hall, chipped swords, shattered daggers, and broken weapons of all types hung on dark walls, and a black and gold trim framed hundreds of portraits that each hung alongside an ancient weapon. The guildhall had been constructed hundreds of years ago. It was a place of remembrance.

Syra turned into one of the many practice rooms lined with wooden dummies. She clutched her weapon, feeling the warm hilt in her palm. The room was dark save for the street-lanterns whose faint light bled through the windows.

The blade purred in wordless anticipation, as she ran through countless forms: left swipe, right swipe, feint, faster, left swipe, riposte, faster, lunge, swipe, parry, faster, faster, faster. She could feel her sword through the binding and as she worked her thoughts disappeared.

After many hours Syra’s muscles burned in pain, and when the glorious sun peeked above the horizon the young woman was asleep on the hard-wooden floor of the training room.

“Bladebound Syra,” a gruff voice rustled her awake, “would you mind sleeping in another training room? We will be using this one.” A half-giggle emerged from one of the acolytes behind the instructor. 

“Yes, of course,” Syra grabbed the sword and limped away. She considered finding another training room, but there was too much left to do.

It was a warm humid morning, and the city was cloaked in a layer of fog. Looking out the window, Syra watched the sidewalks begin to fill with people and heard the streets begin to resonate with the clicking of hooves. From her small room in the guildhall, she could almost see the bottom of the ancient mines that stretched deep into the ground.

There was a time long ago, when the mines had been used for mining, but that time was before The City. Now, they served a different purpose. The layers had been the only solution, the only way to preserve order, to preserve The City.

She had changed from her black robes into a simple grey tunic embroidered with the black and gold guild crest. And, she walked to the guildmaster’s quarters.

With every step Syra’s hand twitched and her mind raced. There was no precedent for what she wanted to do. She imagined herself as one of the founders. She was stuck in a cycle of unchanging death. There was only one way left. She would be bold…

The guildmaster’s door was a standard wooden door, but what lay behind its squeaky hinges and oxidized handle was anything but.

“Bladebound Syra it is good to see you,” the Guildmaster looked up from his desk and his face was as a blank and wrinkled as old canvas. “I have heard the mission was a success?”.

“As always guildmaster, they have been removed.”

“Well done,” the guildmaster responded. “But, you do not look right. What weighs you?”

“I-I don’t know,” Syra stuttered. “I don’t know if I can be a weapon anymore. Every time I kill it is starting to feel more and more like murder.”

“Remember Bladebound: everything has its price. Most die young, they pay all at once. The ones that survive, we keep paying every day.”

“Will it ever end?”

“What?”

“Everything, the fighting, the blood, the hate, when will it end?” Syra knew the answer, but she needed to hear it from someone else.

“It will never end. As long as we serve the guild there can be no end.” The Guildmaster’s voice grew cold and bleak.

“Then, I do not know if I can serve the guild.” Syra stumbled for eloquent words and found only the blunt truth.

“But you must serve the guild, it is your duty, it is your oath. We need everyone.”

“I have paid my debts. I paid them in blood and in pain and in sorrow and…, I’m done killing children.” Syra felt a tear beginning to form, but she crushed the urge. This was no time for crying.

“We can give you other assignments if you are unhappy with your current situation,” the Guildmaster stated.

“I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not.” The Guildmaster placed a hand on his crimson scabbard.

“You would stop me?”

Silence sat impatiently as the guildmaster twiddled a finger around the hilt of his blade.

“Do not make this decision, the moment you leave the guild your weapon will not come with you, and-” Syra wrapped two fingers around her blade’s ebony hilt.

“and you will be no better than any of them out there.” The guildmaster’s voice was ice cold.

“And no worse…,” Syra finished.

Syra dropped her sword, and the blade rang like a deadly bell against the floor. The guildmaster had his back to her and she began to leave the room. The man opened his mouth to say something, but the door closed and Syra was gone.

The young woman walked through the hallways. Each one held dozens of different memories, and every time she stopped walking to have a final look, she almost turned back.

She walked through the guildhall. The gaze of a hundred of portraits looked down upon her as she left. She would not have a portrait, not anymore. But, it did not bother her, Syra was free, and she was powerless. For the first time, she didn’t know what she would do, and she didn’t care. Syra walked away from the guildhall; she didn’t look back…