Mona charged down the street toward the sound of battle. She turned corners recklessly, waving me around like a mad woman.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to die gloriously against the Brinn. I will be ashamed if I don’t die after—” She choked. “After what I have just done.”
“By charging down an open street?” Was I made by fools? I tempered my annoyance. She was no warrior. She wasn’t even holding my hilt properly.
“Mona,” I said as gently as I could. “Your death will not pay for our sins. We must save the city that everyone we slaughtered back at the forge loved so.”
“But the Master said that was folly.”
“It would be folly not to attempt at all.”
I knew my words rang true to her. I felt the resolve in her grip.
“What must I do?”
“Minimize our weaknesses,” I said, “which by my count is being overwhelmed by numbers and archers.”
“Master was shot even though he was holding you.”
“Exactly. I can’t defeat a volley of arrows. We need a position that is difficult to fire upon. We need a chokepoint.” The words came easily. I finally felt in my element. “Some narrow street or alley where the enemy’s numbers are funneled down to a manageable size.”
“Why do the numbers matter? You made me invincible against the entire forge.
I had not the heart to point out the forge was filled with artisans, not the trained soldiers of Brinn.
“Notice Mona that the forge was a small space,” I said instead. “We need something like that. I do not know the city. You do. You will have to guide me.”
She changed directions, darting down an alley and then another. The sound of violence was getting louder.
We crested over an incline and through her eyes, I caught my first glimpse of the Brinn swarming through the gate.
They were taller than Datrea’s defenders. The wild curls of Brinn hair loomed over Datrean metal helmets.
Their strange black scale armor was not forged, but the hide of some great draconic creature. They did not sing as Datrean armor did. Their red blades likewise sang the song of something dead. As we grew closer, I realized they were the blood-stained teeth of something monstrous.
I was disgusted with my opponent before I had even crossed blades with them. They did not make their tools; they just destroyed and carried about the corpses of their looted foes.
That was what they intended to do to Datrea, I realized. My makers’ city would be just another corpse for them to loot.
Mona felt my rage and all plans evaporated. We charged into the fray, swinging at the first head we saw.
But this was no city blacksmith.
Our opponent parried with his strange red fang of a sword. He was broad and tall and would have overpowered Mona any other night.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
But tonight, I was with her.
I scraped against the red blade and I heard the roar of the monster that it once had been. But it was long dead. A human hand guided its tooth now and he was fallible. We traded blows, dancing to a song only I could hear.
I followed my opponent's gaze. His eyes were a strange blue color, so unlike my wielder’s with which I saw the world. Those eyes gave away his moves and I matched him blow for blow. The exchange took moments, yet everything seemed to move slowly for me. I riposted right into his chest; he cried out, but he lived. His scaled armor protected his vital heart.
I needed to sever the head, so in five more moves, I had done that too.
Red tendrils leaped from his body to my blade and Mona heard my gasp. Until that moment, I had only eaten the lives of artisans who knew little of violence. Their “violent” memories were cruel children or abusive parents or rough lovemaking.
This…these were the memories of a soldier. His training, brutal and effective, was laid before me like a feast. I finally understood why my father designed me to absorb violent memories.
I learned of their war drill, their hunting trials, and their basic sword techniques. I learned the weaknesses of their armor. I did not have to decapitate them if I aimed at just the right point.
I slayed the next in seconds and the next before that one had even hit the ground.
It wasn’t enough. They surged through the city streets, in all directions and we could only fight those nearest to us.
But how to funnel them into a narrower space?
The defenders were steadily being pushed back. Mona stationed herself on the steps leading up to an alley.
“How do we get them to chase us down the alley?”
“With you,” Mona whispered.
We killed another and the fellow behind him laughed. “You fight well, warrior of Datrea”
“I am no warrior.” I felt Mona steel herself. “I am only a steelsinger!” She shouted so that anyone nearby would hear. “I hold the last blade forged by the great Daened of Datrea.”
That got people’s attention. My father’s name was famous, and dozens of faces were now staring at us.
Mona waved me in full view of their covetous gazes. “Behold Bonesong! Drenched in the blood of my entire order.”
“Could we perhaps not announce that as among my accomplishments?”
“It has given me, a lone blacksmith, the strength to fight you all! Take it from me if you dare!”
They dared. Dozens broke off from the main host and chased us down the alley. In that narrow space, I was death itself.
Brinn men tripped over the trail of bloody corpses I was making to try their hand at besting me. None did.
I was fast when they were slow; I was tireless when they were tired; I was skilled when they were outplayed. And what little they knew of war that I didn’t, I devoured with their life.
With each death, I felt stronger. With each death, I grew only more ravenous, and all at once, everyone who had followed us down the alleyway was dead
Mona panted, exhausted. Her body was not made for what I was putting her through, but my control over her muscles had become iron-tight. It didn’t matter if she gave out; I could keep her going.
We had to keep going. I burned with hope. It was possible. It was possible! My father had given me strength enough. We needed to find another alley. We needed to lure more. We needed to—a dagger impaled Mona’s heart. The dry heave that left her throat was a quiet and terrible sound.
Suddenly, she was dead and I was tumbling from her grip. The agony of her sudden absence tore through me and I was still stunned when I hit the stone street.
How? The enemy could not have gotten around to the other side in time. Mona had been certain of this.
And she was right.
The hand that closed around my hilt was familiar. It had carried me from workbench to anvil and back.
Wes.
The one apprentice who had the sense to run from the massacre in the forge. The last blacksmith of Datrea still standing. The poison of my allure must have called him back.
I steadied myself and tempered my grief. Wes killing his forgemate was a consequence of my curse. I could not blame him.
We lacked time for such feelings regardless
“We need to press forward, Wes,” I said to him. “The Brinn are surging deeper into the city.”
Instead, he turned back in the direction of the forge, ignoring me.
“That’s away from the battle! Do you know where it is you are heading?”
“We’re going back to the forge,” he said grimly.
“Why?”
“You need to be destroyed.”
Is Wes justified? Should Bonesong be destroyed?
