Glaive: Blade of a Flower

1

A Little Girl

Glaive Grimstone was ready to die. He walked through the slums of Galloway and waited for the last thin ring around his wrist to fade away. Once it was gone, he would be dead. He had not added to his lifeforce, his e’lan, in many years.

A person of this world, Zem’Alam, could live forever. He or she only needed to maintain their e’lan and avoid an unnatural death. Once they reached adulthood, bodies ceased to physically change as time passed. Unlike animals who became frail as they got older, a person did not age once the e’lan took root.

Three hundred years earlier, Glaive had feared death like most. When the rings indicated he had less than a year to live, he became anxious. He panicked. He rarely let the e’lan get to that point, however, and he risked his life on raids in Rimeland and slaughtered others to extend his own time. He took contracts to kill powerful men and women and assimilated their energy into his own. But now he preferred to let the e’lan run its course.

He no longer clung tightly to the world, running madly from horrifying life after death of the Three Hells. Instead, he strolled wearily to their gates.

The midday summer sun beat down on Glaive. He passed rickety buildings with his shoulders slumped. Structures with rotting, dangling, or missing wood boards were common in this ghetto. The decayed wooden roof shingles were poorly patched if patched at all. The pervasive smell of rot and dung once gave him pause, but now he was simply desensitized to it.

The sounds of this slum were uninspiring. A man with a chronic cough cared nothing for his infection. An urchin begged with a tin cup and asked for a silver note or two. A violent drunk shouted and blamed his wife for his own failures. A woman hooked on kefbutter or dried black-caps rambled nonsense. Glaive heard moans, cries, curses, and catcalls, some of the latter even directed at him. But no laughter. If it existed in these parts, he did not hear it.

The slums were where most people with dwindling e’lan rings lived. Many wore short-sleeved or sleeveless shirts which displayed their proximity to death. The message was that it would not be worth an attempt to steal their e’lan. After all, even in the slums everyone carried a blade, and the risk outweighed the possibility of meager rewards.

Glaive walked with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His button-up shirt which used to be a crisp white had turned several shades of brown and grey as dirt and grime settled in over years of hard wear. His pants were also plain and brown. His clothes were not fancy, though his entire outfit was clearly higher quality than the rags worn by other slum folks.

A plain short sword hung from his belt on his left side. On the right, he had a small pouch which carried his Keener card deck and related game chips.

As he meandered between poor excuses for housing, Glaive wondered what his last breath would feel like. Would it hurt to pass in this manner? Had he given enough spirit to Zem’Alam over the years so his mind could spend eternity in only the First Hell of the Three? As he wandered into an alleyway he saw two men corner a little girl. Their backs were to him.

Aren’t you a pretty thing? one of the thugs said to the girl. How about you come with us and keep us company?

Yeah, the other one chimed in. We have candy back at our place.

The little girl trembled. Her wide eyes brimmed with tears. She balled her hands into tiny fists. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

Glaive’s mind told him to leave, but his body wouldn’t budge. He looked down, surprised to see his hand on the hilt of his sword. What am I doing? Glaive thought.

One of the men reached a hand to the girl.

That’s close enough, Glaive said. His voice cracked. It sounded strange to him as he hadn’t used it much as of late.

The thugs turned and drew their swords. One snarled and showed he was missing more than a few teeth. What have we here? A hero? he said.

Look at his ink, Bumper, the other one pointed out. Barely a thread there. He motioned at Glaive’s wrist.

Probably just a boy who hasn’t been able to earn more, Bumper said. Easy pickings, Earl.

Easy pickings, Earl said, smiling. I get his boots. They look like they’d fit me real nice. We’ll split the money from his sword and cards.

Glaive glanced down at his soft leather boots. He liked these boots. A multipurpose knife was strapped around each of his calves and tucked into each. Hold on now, he said. I’m sure we can… before he could complete his sentence, Bumper charged at him.

Glaive spun to the side. While he was in the middle of his spin, he drew his sword smoothly. He flowed with the momentum of his turn and slashed horizontally, removing Bumper’s head from his body. It all happened in the space of half a breath.

Power rushed into Glaive as his body assimilated the dead man’s e’lan. The thin line around Glaive’s wrist thickened and multiplied. Now, three dark rings appeared around Glaive’s left forearm.

Earl glanced at the body on the cobblestone road then focused on the severed head at Glaive’s feet. Blood pooled all around the corpse.

Glaive cursed as he stepped to get out of the puddle. Then he stood at the ready position, sword pointed at the shocked thug. Easy pickings, Glaive said dully.

Earl attacked. His movements were much faster than normally possible.

He’s burning e’lan, Glaive thought. To counter that burst of speed and power, Glaive did a short, quick, controlled burn of his own. He had little to spare. He barely parried the overhand strike, but it was enough to pull Earl completely off balance and stumbling forward. Glaive took full advantage of the opening and slashed a deep gash across Earl’s back.

Earl spun with a wild horizontal swing. Glaive easily ducked under the attack and thrust his sword deep into Earl’s gut. Earl collapsed to the cobblestones, and Glaive ended the man’s misery with a stab to the heart.

More power poured into Glaive as he pulled his sword from the corpse. He glanced at the lifeforce rings on his forearm, and they were bolder than before. He frowned.

He bent over one of the corpses and used the man’s tattered cloak to clean his sword. After he sheathed the blade, he rifled through the dead men’s pouches for their Keener card decks. He glanced through the cards, took one from each, and slid them into his own pocket.

Do you want any of these? Glaive said as he held the rest out for the little girl. She did not move. She was still as a stone. He shrugged and casually tossed the stack onto one of the bodies. The cards scattered and some slid off into the pool of blood.

He went through the rest of the pockets. He came away with a couple silver notes that totaled forty geldarian, and stuffed them into the same pocket as the two cards he just looted. He stood up straight and rolled his head in a circle to loosen the tension in his neck.

He did not take their swords or boot knives. They were poorly balanced and made of low quality steel. He could have sold the lot for a couple hundred geldarian, but it wasn’t worth the hassle. Another poor soul who came across this mess could have it.

Glaive turned and walked away. His posture was a little better than it was moments ago, but not by much. His shoulders still slumped, but now he was conscious of it. He started down an alleyway in the direction of the shoddy docks.

He heard the sound of feet shuffling along behind him. He paused. Without turning he said gruffly, Go home, kid, and started forward again.

Glaive heard the steps again. He turned around and saw the girl only a few paces away. He drew up to his full height then sighed. She was short. The top of the child’s head came up to Glaive’s elbow. He knelt down to be at eye level with her.

She was in a shadow earlier. Now that she was out in full sunlight he saw her features more clearly. She was clean as if this were her first day out in the slums. Her clothes were very fine although she was still dressed in her nightgown. Perhaps a noble’s daughter? Glaive thought. A leather thong cord was looped around her skinny neck like a necklace. Whatever ornament it held was hidden under the gown.

The wavy, platinum blonde hair was a tangled mess on her head and came down past her shoulders. Her eyes were large and set into a round face with pale skin that made the unusual color more prominent. He did not notice in the bloody alleyway, but the girl’s eyes were a deep and dark shade of purple. They were wonderful and striking.

Tears welled up in her eyes. My guardian… she said in a soft voice, cut short by a sob.

Glaive worried that the little girl had recently been made into an orphan. Orphans had grim futures ahead of them. Unless there was another family member that cared, other adults only saw a child as a future source of e’lan. The moment an orphan’s e’lan rings manifested… Easy pickings. He frowned. Ellie had always wanted a daughter.

Listen, you don’t want to follow me, Glaive said. I am well on my way to the Three Hells. Go home. He repeated more gently.

2

Cleaver’s Tavern

Glaive stood inside Cleaver’s empty tavern, ten paces from the wall with the stone hearth. The wall on both sides of the hearth was wooden. Painted in white on the wooden wall boards to the right of the hearth was a lifesize silhouette of a person. Various gashes and dents peppered the wood; most were inside the silhouette. It was a practice target for throwing knives.

Glaive drew one of his boot knives. It was double-edged dreadsteel with a fine rosewood handle. He flipped it in the air a couple times to test the balance. Each time it fell he caught the knife by the handle with ease. He stood relaxed, rolled his head and then his shoulders. He aimed for the head and imagined it was a Rimeland raider charging toward him. He drew back the knife then whipped his arm forward and released.

Thwack! The point buried deep in the wood. The throw was wide, left of the silhouette, a foot outside of where the shoulder was painted. Shit! Glaive said.

He drew his other boot knife and repeated the routine. This time his throw went wide right, a hand-width outside of the painted head. Tal’Gathra take me! he cursed.

You stink! a big and muscular man called out from behind the bar. He was almost a foot taller than Glaive and had a full, long, and neatly tied beard that came down to his chest. The big man was armed with a large dreadsteel meat cleaver. It rested neatly in a holster strapped to his right thigh. In more ways than one, Grim. You don’t even have the decency to have a bath before gracing my fine establishment. I can smell you from here.

The bar was crafted out of solid Lizavetian oak by a master carpenter. It was old now, but back when it was new it rivalled the woodwork at any upscale establishment.

Stop distracting me, Cleave! I’m about to kill this Rimeland scum, Glaive said.

Cleaver unholstered his blade and flicked it horizontally toward the target. It flew flat as a dinner plate, and the corner of the broad blade bit deep into the target’s neck. If the outline were a real person, there was no doubt in Glaive’s mind that the cleaver would have severed its head.

Don’t worry, Glaive. I got ‘em, the big man said, then gave a toothy grin and a thumbs-up sign.

Glaive pried the knives from the wall and sheathed them. He also removed the cleaver and hefted it a few times before walking over to Cleaver to return it. It had no tip but the cutting edge was razor sharp.

Glaive and Cleaver were best friends and had known each other for close to three-hundred years. Two-hundred years ago, Cleaver was first-fellow at Glaive and Ellie’s wedding ceremony. One-hundred years ago, Cleaver grieved with Glaive at her funeral. Cleaver spoke the sending words. They were with each other through most of their happiest and saddest memories. Long periods of time could pass without them seeing each other, but the bond never faded.

Cleaver’s tavern was located on the outskirts of the slum, a block away from the minor docks. Every coastal city in the small country of Lizavet, Galloway included, had docks that were used for unsavory business separate from the main harbor. The minor docks were often poorly constructed or in disrepair, but there was more hustle-and-bustle around the area around sundown. It was the prime location for Cleaver’s business.

The tavern was in better shape than most of the buildings in the slums. For the two friends it had been one of their dreams to own a tavern. Glaive and Cleaver had invested two-hundred-thousand geldarian for the license and deed to the property, and spent years of blood and sweat, and over a hundred-thousand more to repair, renovate, and furnish the place. Most of the money went into the sturdy bar and secret storage room in the cellar.

Glaive had stopped in recently for a final goodbye. Before that, over two years had passed since they last saw each other, and at that meeting they had fought about Glaive’s decision to let his e’lan run out. Cleaver mocked him, Glaive gave him a black eye, and Cleaver broke Glaive’s nose and cracked his rib.

What’s the latest news? Glaive settled onto a barstool and asked Cleaver.

Wait a moment. Last span we were sobbing into our cups, you had a thin sliver of ink on your arm, and you were days away from death! Cleaver said as his voice raised in pitch and volume. His eyes briefly flickered to the left then he pointed at Glaive’s arm. And now you come in here with a few bands. It looks like you bought yourself another few months. You can’t just stroll in and ‘what’s the latest news’ me. Cleaver mocked.

First of all, I wasn’t sobbing. I was a stoic bastion of strength, Glaive sat up taller. Second of all, you had the better of our exchange two years ago, and I realized that I wanted a rematch. I couldn’t go into the Three Hells knowing I lost a fistfight to you. Now, what’s the latest news?

Cleaver sighed, resigned. Fine, we’ll do this your way, he said. Let’s see. Roy Traverse challenged Crow for his seat. You hear that one yet?

No. I assume this resulted in his death like every other High Noble that crossed swords with Crow in the last thousand years, Glaive said with a shrug. So his wife, Helen, is probably running Fangfall now. She’s always been the sword-arm of the pair.

The country of Lizavet had five major cities, all on the coast. A High Noble governed each city. Galloway was the capital and governed by Bezael Crow, the Prime High Noble of Lizavet. Due to the contract between the royalty, the Prime High Noble had to accept any challenge issued by one of the other four High Nobles. The challenger chose the time and place of the duel.

A thousand years ago, the challenge was common. It eventually died down when Crow proved he was godlike with a blade. Duels with him only lasted seconds unless he felt like toying with his prey.

Well he did die, but he didn’t fight. He actually appointed a champion. Shortly after the match, Roy died of a fast poison, Cleaver said. Before he thought to burn e’lan to counter it, it was far too late and his heart stopped.

Huh. I didn’t think people were still stupid enough to champion for those duels, Glaive said thoughtfully. What else you got?

Just last night I had a customer tell me Helen was tipped off about a raid. They set a trap in Fangfall and killed a whole boatload of Rimelanders. The poor young-blood said he pissed himself, hid in a supply depot, and had his small boat stolen in the chaos.

A lot of interesting things happened to Helen this past month, Glaive mused.

Ain’t that the truth, Cleaver said. Let’s see… This might not be news to you. The True Empire has been placing larger and larger orders of dreadsteel swords. It sounds like they are ramping up to invade the Four Kingdoms or even the Empire of Light. Cleaver said.

Looks like Lizavet is doing a brisk business, Glaive said. A good boost to our economy.

Dreadsteel was made from special iron ore mined from the Dread Peaks, mountains on the southern border of Lizavet. Lizavet was the best and only place to mine the ore on this side of Zem’Alam, and the Lizavetian people had become efficient at mining and smelting. They were masters at working the metal, and their swords were desired in the other parts of the world.

I don’t know. Rumor has it that Emperor Truth has gone crazy. Taking on more and more wives, and screwing as many as he had time for… and the endurance too, I suppose, every single day. They say he keeps his daughters, but sells his sons to e’lan slavers or farmers, Cleaver said.

Slavers and Farmers both dealt in the e’lan business but operated very differently.

Slavers trained a slave to obey orders without question. The slaves were taught to fight with incredible skill and ferocity. An adult slave would take part in raids to accumulate e’lan. The slaver then killed the slave for the e’lan, or sold him or her at high price. The obvious risk was that the slave died during a raid. But the ruthless way they were raised and trained left hardly any chance of disobedience or flight.

Farmers would not train their stock, often orphans picked from the street. Once a child reached adulthood, it was either harvested immediately or sold. The price was dependent on the number of rings that appeared. They were weak and easily controlled. Women had it the worst. Some were kept alive to breed.

Listen, Glaive, I’m super happy that you decided to live longer. I don’t want to have another fight with you and I don’t want to cry into another ale with you. I honestly thought you were already dead and I came to terms with it, Cleaver said. In the name of Zem’Alam, I even said sending words for you just last night.

Thanks, Cleave.

No. You don’t get it, his eyes flickered left again. I want you to die happy, Cleaver said. If this is just a phase, I’m thinking we buy you a whore. Before Glaive could get a word out, Cleaver held up a hand to stop him. Hear me out, Grim. We buy you a whore and you burn out all your e’lan while sexing her up. You would die in the end and she would have had the ride of her life. She would also have a fantastic story. She screwed Glaive the Grim, the most overpriced mercenary in Galloway, to his death. Cleaver’s face was deadpan for a few moments. Then he broke out into a huge grin.

Godammit, Cleave! Glaive said.

But seriously, how do I know you’re truly back? Cleaver began. And before I burst, can we please address the elephant in the room? His eyes shifted left then back at Glaive again. He pointed at the little girl with platinum blonde hair sitting casually in a barstool. She swung her feet back and forth. Are we going to keep chatting along like she doesn’t matter?

Glaive glanced at the girl, and then back to Cleaver, stone-faced.

She is… irrelephant.

Cleaver’s shoulders slumped. Since you’re making terrible puns again, you must really be back.

3

Beautiful and Noble

Cleaver set down a bowl of hot beef stew and fresh bread with butter in front of the little girl. She wolfed it down and used the bread to mop the bowl clean.

What’s your name, little one? Cleaver asked.

Glaive wondered why he didn’t think to ask that when he agreed to this mess. Was he going to call her ‘little girl’ the whole time?

Iris, she said softly.

It suits you. Glaive said.

What were those things you took from those men’s pouches? Everyone seems to have them, Iris asked and motioned to the pouches at Glaive’s and Cleaver’s belts.

Cleaver cocked an eyebrow at Glaive. Glaive had almost forgotten. He pulled out the two cards he pillaged from Earl and Bumper. You don’t know what these are? I thought all six year-olds knew about Keener already. He looked at Cleaver. I got them for you! I figured you could use them.

I’m eight, thank you very much, she said.

By eight you should have seen people play Keener at least a couple times, Glaive said.

It’s a revenue machine for the Empire, Cleaver said. When someone from Lizavet referred to the ‘Empire’ they typically meant the True Empire. Lizavetians rarely spoke of the Empire of Light. The True Empire had a firm grip on both Rimeland and Lizavet. Currency and contracts were the two shackles the True Empire had on these eastern countries.

The True Empire minted the currency used in that part of the world, the geldarian notes, by developing a way to imbue silver and gold ink with e’lan. It was nearly impossible to counterfeit. Anyone with matured e’lan could tell if a note was authentic by the sensation felt when it was held. The same ink was used to stamp Keener cards.

The Empire’s banks in each major city regulated and circulated the minted items.

Nobody was certain when contracts became so woven into daily life, but the Empire’s Oath Enforcer agency had been the power behind them as long as anyone could remember. Like the banks, they had offices in all the major cities and smaller branches in most large towns and villages. The agency operated independently from the local governments; outside the local laws of Rimeland and Lizavet. The agents didn’t enforce the law, rather, they enforced deals between individuals. Any contract made and sealed with e’lan needed to be fulfilled. If a contract was broken, an agent called a cleaner met with the parties involved. If the breaching party could not make the harmed party whole, there would be consequences. Often, this would mean execution.

The two arms were deeply entrenched in Rimelander and Lizavetian culture and society. There was no way for either nation to act against the Empire without destabilizing their own country. Both were, were in many ways, part of the True Empire.

Come now, Cleaver! That’s not entirely true, Glaive said then turned his attention to Iris. We can teach you the basics. But it takes a long time to master and sometimes even longer to get the perfect cards for your deck. They aren’t cheap. Some are very expensive and rare to find.

Cleaver sighed and pulled a crate out from under the bar. He dropped it unceremoniously onto the bar. It was filled with various cards that he had accumulated over the years.

Don’t put your grubby paws on these cards, Grim. After we teach the young miss, you are having a bath. Go start boiling water. Cleaver pointed to the kitchen doorway and continued the lesson as Glaive left the room.

The kitchen smelled wonderfully of beef stew. There was a cast iron stove with an attached oven and a neat space underneath to store firewood. A pantry stored many of the commonly used foodstuffs such as spices, a large sack of uncooked rice, and bread. Cabinets held large pots and pans. The wood countertop was similar to the floors. The boards mismatched in color, but they were solid and functional. A knife set of six was neatly arranged in a block on the counter. Glaive knew Cleaver. He would not use any blade made out of inferior steel; only dreadsteel would do.

The stove already burned hot to keep the stew warm, and Glaive moved the pot to the countertop. He filled a separate, much larger pot with a couple buckets of water from the kitchen barrel, and returned to the barroom while the water warmed.

In Keener, you have a commander, Cleaver said as he sifted through the crate and handed Iris a few