Last Messenger - Chapter 20

Chapter 20 - Aael

Aael woke early, the despair from last night still in his thoughts. But he forced it away, because today he would meet Washer, and everything needed to be perfect. He put on his cleanest cloths and ran out of the house, his stomach too queasy for breakfast. As the workshop came into view, he saw Bacchus.

Navigating the benches in the workshop, Aael walked up to Bacchus and patted him on the back. Twin blades sat on Bacchus’s bench, sheathed in the stone scabbards Aael had made.

“The scabbards are beautiful and using quartz was brilliant,” Bacchus said.

Aael flushed and his chest warmed at the words. The daggers would be visible through the translucent rock and would enhance the glow the daggers emitted. These scabbards were the first things he’d created of value, and he was proud of them. That other craftsman, especially one like Bacchus, recognized it, filled him with joy and chased away the last of last night’s misery.

“Thanks,” Aael said.

“I love the moonlight daggers.”

Aael looked at the scabbards with a critical eye. One sheath depicted the Sun, pierced by a dagger wielded by a giant figure that vaguely resembled Washer. The other sheath had the moon etched on it, and the moonlight consisted of tiny daggers which fell on a lone fig tree.

“They don’t compare to your daggers. No one has done this in centuries,” Aael said.

Bacchus laughed and slapped Aael’s back. “And now that they’re done, there is nothing to keep you out of trouble. It must worry the Abbot sick.”

Aael grinned, reached down, and pulled the dagger from the Sun sheath. There was resistance from the blade as it neared his skin, and he looked at Bacchus in surprise. “It’s stronger.”

Bacchus nodded. “I added another layer of dust. I could barely control the reaction, and I almost lost them both. Can you imagine?”

Aael raised the bottom of his shirt and held the dagger in its shadow. He whistled at the amount of light the dagger emitted. “They’re going to write songs about you.”

Bacchus looked down, his face red. In a short time, Aael would die of his disease or be killed by those who wanted his blood, while Bacchus would become a legend. Aael shook off the self-pity and jealousy and put the blade back. 

“I don’t like them,” Bacchus said.

Aael looked at Bacchus. “What?”

“I might have wanted to ruin them when I added more Moon Dust. Instead, I just strengthened them,” Bacchus whispered.

“How can you say that? No one remembers the last time someone accomplished this,” Aael said.

Bacchus shook his head. “Maybe there’s a reason they haven’t. These daggers feel wrong, like something inside wants out.”

Aael laughed and punched Bacchus’s shoulder. “And people think I’m crazy.”

“Let’s get rid of them,” Bacchus said.

Aael grabbed the daggers and held them up. “And disappoint Washer? We can’t do that.”

A distant yell from the direction of the Abbey’s main gate reached them, and Aael knew the moment had finally arrived. He would soon meet his hero in person. Blood rushed to his face and his heart hammered. 

“He’s here,” Aael said as he handed Bacchus the dagger with the sun sheath.

“Okay, let’s get this over with,” Bacchus said.

Aael had to wait for Bacchus every ten steps and clenched his teeth at the slow progress. He looked at the moon dagger to distract himself as he walked. His parents had loved the sheath, amazed at what he’d managed with the stone. It made him proud he could do something they couldn’t. His mom didn’t have the patience and his dad thought creativity too messy.

The chaos at the front gate came into view. Aael looked for Mia but didn’t see her. He hid his disappointment and focused on the visitors. There were at least twenty in Washer’s escort, all dark with tattoos. Four of them carried a covered litter. They kneeled in unison, the curtains parted, and Washer stepped out.

Washer’s oiled body glistened in the sunlight. His dark skin draped with tattoos colored in white, red, and yellow. A walking canvas, Washer displayed all the ways he could kill a man.

Aael noticed Washer’s hand. “Where are his bandages? It’s only been a week since the Championship match.”

Bacchus shrugged. “Maybe he heals fast.”

As they neared the group, Aael watched the Abbot approach Washer. Washer stood proud as the rest of his party bowed to the Abbot. The Champion looked in disdain at everyone around him and then stared down at the Abbot. A large crowd, maybe the whole Abbey, had come to see the legendary fighter.

The crowd parted for them and in a few rapid heartbeats Aael and Bacchus stopped behind the Abbot. Aael studied Washer’s tattoos, each of the inked weapons telling a story about its mastery.

Aael found Washer’s most famous tattoo. A sword that started at Washer’s right shoulder and crossed his chest and abdomen. The blade weaved in and out of the skin, like the sword had pierced him, reemerged, and pierced him again. And this close, Aael could see the scars where the sword entered and emerged from his body. Had Washer actually been impaled like that? The blade’s tip disappeared into an island on Washer’s hip. 

Washer held out his hands, and Aael studied the daggers tattooed there. A pommel rested in each of Washer’s palms, the daggers ending at his elbows. The blade on his right arm weaved like a snake across his skin, while the left curved like a scimitar.

“You are a week late, old man,” Washer said.

“Late implies a deadline, and I agreed to no such thing,” the Abbot responded.

Washer sliced the air with a hand. “My blades.”

The Abbot turned and nodded at them.

Aael swallowed, too numb to speak. His hand wraps were damp with sweat and snapped his hood forward and tried to stay calm.

The Abbot pulled Bacchus forward. “This is Bacchus Huthen, the creator of your Sun Blades. The first made in generations. And he did it twice.”

The Abbot gestured to Aael, and he stepped forward, holding the dagger out like an offering. He felt the vibration from the blade as it pushed against his hands.

Putting a hand on Aael’s shoulder, the Abbot continued. “This is Aael Merchett, who painstakingly made scabbards from clear stone so your daggers’ shine would never be hidden.”

Aael concentrated on his next breath and tried to hold his hands steady. Washer smelled like cinnamon and sage, and the scent smothered him. Breathing through his mouth, vertigo robbed him of his balance and he bent his knees, terrified of falling.

Washer approached Bacchus, who stood motionless, head down. Washer grabbed the weapon, freed the blade, and tossed the stone sheath to Bacchus. Aael gasped as Bacchus nearly dropped the sheath Aael had spent months carving.

Washer motioned to his entourage and two minions dashed forward, one held a red vial and the other a cloth covered object. Washer rotated the dagger through his fingers and Aael felt a twinge of fear. He’d never seen a dagger handled so casually.

Flipping the blade into the air, Washer snatched the pommel as it descended. He grunted but didn’t smile.

“Mageblood,” Washer said.

Aael tilted his head up to get a better view. A squat, dark haired man pulled the cloth off his hand and exposed an oblong item. The deep blackness marked it as Aln. Without warning, Washer threw the dagger and the squat man screamed and dropped to his knees. 

Washer strode to the injured man and jerked him the up by the arm. The blade had penetrated the Aln and impaled the holder’s hand, and blood dripped in a steady stream. The bleeding man gripped his wrist, either in pain or as a tourniquet, Aael couldn’t tell.

Aael flinched as Washer seized the Aln in one hand and yanked the blade free with the other. The man dropped to his knees again, pressed the bloody hand against his chest, and picked up the Aln with his good hand. He stood and bowed to Washer.

Washer slapped the dark-haired man and drove him to his knees a third time. “For screaming,” Washer said in a calm voice.

Aael’s stomach lurched when he saw the injured man’s face. Blood dribbled from a swollen lip and mixed with the blood that already covered the man’s chest. The squat man stood, bowed again, and moved back into the retinue.

Aael shifted his attention to Washer and almost vomited. Washer’s eyes were closed as he licked the blood off the blade. Aael had assumed Washer’s antics in the Blood Dance where part of an act, a persona to make him different and memorable. But Aael saw he was wrong, Washer loved it.

“Sun blood,” Washer barked.

A man hurried to Washer. He had a scar across his forehead that had faded with age. Avoiding eye contact he kneeled when he neared Washer. He raised the vial above his head and waited.

Washer took the vial and the scarred man fled to the safety of the pack. Aael wondered what kept them bound to a man they feared.

Cupping the vial, Washer brought the blade near it. The vial vibrated and then shot away from the dagger. Washer snatched the vial from the air and laughed.

“Acceptable,” Washer said.

Washer removed the dagger at his side and slid the new one into place. The blade sliced through the leather sheath and sank deep into the sand. Washer laughed again as he leaned over and retrieved the blade. He strode to Bacchus, grabbed the stone sheath, and attached it to his belt, sliding the dagger home.

Aael stopped breathing as Washer stepped in front him.