The evening sun began to fall, brandishing a fiery blade across the Western horizon which plunged into the Sundered Sea chased by the hungering darkness of the night sky. The Swordsman wove through his forms with monastic focus. A step, thrust. Two steps, parry, spin, step back. Thrust. A backward leap, crouch low, sheathe the blade. Large step forward, draw, and slice through.

  He continued his dance of death as the flaming blade of sunset was quenched beneath the great sea. Fewer and fewer guardsman remained. The sentries conducted shift change at twilight, and still the young knight worked through his forms. Thrust. Parry. Block. Dodge. Counter, step, step, step, spin, backstep, spin, parry, slash. His focus was absolute, the sword he called Redemption singing in his hand. The supernatural heat of the black blade traced flowing patterns of white wisps through the chilling Autumn air.

  Seventeen paces. He had noticed Lord Marrak's approach while he continued his forms. He allowed himself the luxury of completing his form, moving closer and farther from the approaching nobleman. Eighteen paces. Step, step, leap, downward slash. Twelve paces. The Swordsman stood tall, took a deep breath and slowly sheathed his sword, back still facing Lord Marrak. Ten paces. The Swordsman turned and faced the nobleman. The scars and tattoos on Marrak’s face lent his visage a ghastly form in the torchlight.

  Marrak paused, a bit surprised by the Knight's awareness. "Sorry to bother you during your forms, Sir."

  "Deceit is unbecoming, Lord Marrak. You had intended just this moment."

  Marrak's face twisted into a smile, as pleasant as his deformities would allow. "You aren't wrong, Sir. I figured it would be the best time to get you on your own." Marrak's hand rested on his longsword.

  "A duel? No. You are not the type, Eskin Shadowblade?"

  "You knew me?"

  The Swordsman merely nodded.

  "From the start?"

  Another nod.

  "Why not reveal it?"

  "Whatever your reason for joining the Kingsguard, you have presented no threat and claimed no lives that were not yours to take. I am not in the habit of starting fights with those loyal to the kingdom," the Swordsman punctuated his next statement with a knowing glare, "if not the King himself."

  Marrak laughed, his feet rooted to the spot. "You think I am not loyal."

  "I think you want peace like the rest of us, and you are frustrated with the King's lack of ability in rule."

  "You are well informed."

  "Intrigue, assassination, intelligence gathering. I, like you, was raised in these skills. The King may not be equipped for the more nefarious machinations of rulership, but that's why he has men like us. My ability at council is not the only reason I was sent for this position."

  "I've been at this game much longer than you, Swordsman, judging by your age. Though I am curious from what family you come, you do not look Buthani."

  "Our former, well, my former, profession may have its roots in the black sands of the Buthani deserts, but it reached its zenith upon the isles of the Silent Sea."

  Lord Marrak's eyes grew wide, a shifting unease crawling up his spine. As he spoke the name, he shuttered involuntarily, "Nakusora..."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The Swordsman nodded again, his stance at perfect ease.

  From a distance a voice was heard, "Stand up straight, dammit. Just because you are on night duty doesn't mean you can slack off." The slap of a leather gloved hand against an iron helmet echoed through the night.

  Whatever spell of thought Lord Marrak had come under, he gathered himself and looked toward the noise, away from the Swordsman. When his gaze returned, the young man was standing immediately in front of him, reached out his sword hand and set it on Marrak's sword arm shoulder. The fear in Marrak's eyes was writ plain for only a moment before the Swordsman spoke.

  "Not any longer, friend. That was my old name. You've nothing to fear from me so long as you keep your focus on the kingdom. Let me worry about protecting the King." And with that the Swordsman walked past the nobleman adding, "That's the General. Time to get him involved with our little discipline problem, don't you think?"

  Marrak nodded dumbly, barely restraining the quaking fear that bloomed like a deadly flower in his mind, as the Swordsman continued on into the Castle. Nakusora

  Marrak collected himself as the General entered the courtyard. Beneath the guise of sarcasm and criticality, Zimossa was a deep feeling man, one of infinite capacity for empathy. As his eye caught Marrak, he felt immediately the unsettled nature of the noble's heart, and headed straight toward him.

  "Lord Marrak, your guardsmen are not so vigilant as you might like. I'd give them a piece or two more of my mind, but you seem better placed. Shall we make the rounds, show them that even the leadership stays up nights when necessary?" His practiced nonchalance disarmed the otherwise guarded Marrak, forcing an unwitting smile.

  "As you wish General. They aren't army recruits though, remember, they've a more selective screening process than that." They began to walk toward the castle entrance.

  "That so? What criteria do you weigh most highly?"

  "Loyalty." Still they walked, passing the guard at the entrance who stood at perfect attention, already having been reprimanded once by the General.

  The General asked, "To whom, might I ask? Loyalty doesn't exist in a void, only in relation to a person, ideal, or group."

  "To the kingdom of course."

  "The problem with loyalty as your chief criterion is its malleability. Take the kingdom. What is the kingdom really? Is it the King? Is it a collection of principles? Is it the rule of law? Is it peace? Prosperity? Wealth? Power? Safety?"

  "To the King then."

  "Even more complex. The King is a man, of great power and authority, but a man, driven through with contradictions, failures, and competing desires. How does one display loyalty in all the myriad aspects of the King's desires? One could be loyal to the King's direct commands only, and miss the King's heart while another knows him well and remains loyal to his whims and desires, but not his larger goals. Loyalty is mercurial at best."

  "No wonder you've so many outpost commanders joining up with revolutionaries. You speak treason yourself," Marrak spoke wryly.

  The General's genial air steeled into a razor’s edge. "I speak no such thing, young man. Here I thought we were entertaining a discussion of philosophy of sorts. Let me speak plain. Loyalty to anything is mercurial. I contend that I would rather select on discipline and intellect. A loyal man may misconstrue his commander's orders and act out of a good intention in the wrong manner, but an intelligent and disciplined man will check his loyalty with his direct duty and toe the necessary line. Loyalty is a pretty word, and a valuable virtue, but alone, in all its good intentions, it is foolish. Loyalty is the leading cause of my deserters, and mine they are to punish. They placed their loyalty in an ideal which did not exist rather than disciplining their minds, calculating the costs, holding their oaths, and doing their duty."

  "Perhaps we disagree on terms, General, I meant…"

  The General cut him off, "the next words out of your mouth best be anything but 'no offense' because that's exactly what you intended." His tone was algid, sending gooseflesh up Marrak's arms.

  "Let us put down our weapons of wit then and speak to business. I have names of some of the deserters from your army." Lord Marrak produced a small rolled parchment from under his cloak, sealed with a wax emblem of a Lion, the general-use seal for kingdom business. "I trust you will put this to the best possible use."

  Zimossa grabbed the parchment and tucked it into his belt right next to his sword. "It will be handled. My men are like sons to me, and a good father disciplines his sons." He turned and strode away leaving Marrak standing in the long corridor adjoining the courtyard to the throne room.

  Funny, I never knew my father. The smile that curled his lips was half anger, half pity as it twisted the scars and markings on his face into grisly patterns in the dancing light of low burning braziers.