Chapter 1 Cache
Cache slung around his dull sword, focusing on the carefully curated training sequence before him, but his mind was elsewhere. He was sure of only two things: he would be king of Wiscard, regardless of his elder brother, and playing with fake swords wouldn't get him any closer to that goal. The fight was uninspired and dull; the young squire he was sparring with was terrified of hitting him.
An older man with a large beer belly scratched at his chin, his eyebrows pulled together, and his lips formed a thin line across his round face. Despite not holding a sword in years, he was tasked with training Cache.
"Your heart doesn't seem to be in it today, young prince," Enit said. "If you go out into a battle with that attitude, you will be dead. We can't have that, can we?"
Cache turned to him, his jaw set. "Never mind that. This heat is unbearable," he said. "I need a break."
Enit heaved a heavy sigh, placed his hands on his hips, and shook his head. "Very well," he said.
Cache exited the sandy pit they used for swordplay. His father constructed the circular glass dome with no roof specifically for Cache's love of swords and need for fencing.
Cache stretched as he kicked the sand while walking. Today wouldn't have been so bad, but he heard a word about a new shipment of swords. Cache was too excited to focus on the squire with his subpar skills. The new sword was made from Gaxan bone, the only thing he cared about.
They had banished the Gaxans from the land a long time ago. They were monsters, giants with skin tougher than metal and teeth larger than Cache stood. Adding a sword made from the bones of an enemy such as that would only be shadowed by the fact that he didn't slaughter the beast himself.
He slipped through the glass dome's doorway and plopped the practice sword into the slot on the wall next to his carefully collected. The fake sword refused to glint like the others. They were deadly, and the phony sword was not.
Cache had the servants build an extra slot beside his other swords for the Gaxan bone blade. It was said to be larger than regular swords. He removed his padding and threw his blue wool tunic over his white linen shirt. The Tunic was expertly crafted with maroon and golden embroidery. It stopped just above his elbows and fell to just below his knees. Though it flowed in the gentle breeze, it still hung close to his slim but muscular form. He stomped the sand off his black leather boots and strode into the castle.
The halls of the Wiscard castle were like no other Cache had ever seen. The castle's floors were made of polished white marble, which made it impossible to walk down without runners down the middle. He smirked. Too many had fallen before they got the maroon and gold rugs.
The walls were decorated with the soft, flickering golden light of kings of the past and their respective families. The hologram photos presented slideshows. The kings stood tall and proud and regal, usually with a hand gripping their coats over their hearts or the hilt of their swords. Their pictures would glow and then dissolve into the queens. Their noses stuck up; an air of superiority wafted from the glowing light.
They are all like that, he thought. Bossy, noisy, and indifferent to anyone and everyone.
The photo changed to their kids. Most looked the same, with few skin, hair, and eye color variations. The hologram clones were haunting, their smiles stiff and forced. Each one stood with backs so straight it hurt to look at. They had to be. Prim and proper were the main things drilled into the heads of royal children.
Cache stopped at the hologram that introduced his family. His father, King Ryn, stared back at him as if daring him to do something. His dark hair had a tint of red to it, coupled with his deep brown eyes. He appeared warm and welcoming, but his chiseled features had a sharp edge, a warning not to test him. The king looked every bit of the role he played.
His father disappeared, replaced by his mother, Queen Cyka. He appeared closer to her in relation than his father. Although some said he was a few shades lighter, Cache took her strong nose and blonde hair. He had the same stern scowl as she did.
Cache was still confused about where he got his eyes. They were nothing like the rest of his family. His brother had told him that he had been sick as a baby and that sickness carried with it the ability to change one's eye color to a golden, sunflower yellow, a sign of the infection. His mother said it was a genetic defect. Either way, the strange color had encouraged bullying from a young age.
The last slide snapped into view. His parents stood side by side, turned slightly away from each other. King Ryn was on the right, and Queen Cyka was on the left. Naholon, his elder brother, stood between them with a grinning Illiad, their baby sister, on his right. The siblings clung to their father, but Cache stood beside his mother, half a step away from the family dynamic. Cache raised his hand to touch the photo, but his fingers slipped through the fragments of light, causing the image to flicker.
Footfalls echoed off the walls. They were hurried and soft. If it hadn't been so quiet, he might have missed them. The noise covered his limbs in ice and set his heartbeat to quicken. He pulled away from the photo and turned towards the sound. No one came down this corridor. It was secluded and away from the rest of the hubbub in the castle. Cache had considered sectioning his domain away from reality.
The footsteps got closer and closer until a young woman rounded the corner. She kept her eyes down, glancing at the small vile in her hand before shoving it into her pocket. Cache's breath hitched in his throat, causing a slight noise to emit with his exhalation. She skirted to a stop, her black eyes wide in shock as she took in the prince.
Cache had to stop himself from gawking at the woman. He clamped his mouth shut to keep it from flopping like a fish out of water. The dark hue of purple skin and black eyes had already confirmed that she was alien to Cache, but something about the cascade of black braids that fell over her shoulder or how she carried her slender build had also proved that he found her incredibly attractive. Galaxies peppered her skin with tiny white freckles.
He smiled. She was just as startled as he was. He chuckled, "You seem a little lost, miss."
"Your Highness," she dipped low, her long braids falling over her shoulder. "Forgive me, I didn't realize… usually there isn't anyone here. I didn't mean to intrude."
Cache nodded. "Yes, well… They built this corridor for my training. There shouldn't be anyone here. Which begs the question, why are you here?"
She traced the pattern on the carpet with her eyes as if it would answer for her. "I was sent to grab some cleaning supplies. This is just a quicker way to get them… I'm sorry," she stammered, squeezing her hands tighter together, refusing to move from her bowed position.
Cache tilted his head to the side as his eyes focused on her left pocket, where she had the vial. He lowered his voice in case anyone else was where they shouldn't be, even if he thought it was unlikely: "Is that what's inside your pocket? Cleaning supplies?"
She shook her head. "N-no, Your Highness… I— I haven't made it to the cleaning supplies."
"So, what is that?"
"It's medicine," —her hands shook as they were clamped so tight together — "for my master," she added quickly. "He's had a cough for the last few days and asked me to fetch it along with the cleaning supplies."
"Who is your master?"
Her muscles twitched as if she was fighting to keep herself planted where she was. "Nobleman Ivuni…" Even though she whispered the name, it still dripped like poison from her lips.
Cache's eyebrows shot up. "That weasel Ivuni isn't feeling well? Odd… especially considering I just saw him earlier this morning. He seemed healthy as a horse." Cache didn't like how she shook in place, her eyes darting across the carpet, not daring to connect with him.
"Horses can be misleading," she muttered, a hint of annoyance waved up at him. Her eyes snapped to his before darting back to the floor. "Your Highness," she added.
Cache couldn't stop the shudder that wrecked his body when those deep abyss she had for eyes looked right at him. She was daring and brave. Most servants wouldn't dare look at him. The anger and fear in her eyes shook him to his core. It was as though she had peaked into his soul, searching for answers to questions he couldn't fathom. "W-what's—" Cache cleared his throat and deepened his voice to regain control of the conversation. "What's your name?"
She stayed quiet for a moment longer than usual when asked that question. "Varsa."
The pause suggested that she was lying, perhaps trying to keep him from telling Ivuni about the interaction. However, when she said Varsa, he knew it was her proper name.
"That's a Tek'arc name…" he said more to himself than anyone. He rubbed his clean-shaven face. "I haven't seen many of your… race anymore."
Her jaw was so tightly clenched that he was surprised she wasn't breaking teeth. "We are a dying breed…" she pushed through clenched teeth, biting her tongue to stop herself from saying any more than necessary.
Her rigid stance poked at his chest. He took a moment, careful with his words, "That's unfortunate… Varsa." He liked how her name flowed out of his mouth like a gentle stream. "The Tek'arcs were a warrior breed. They were some of the best fighters known. I'm sure you are just as skilled. It's a shame that…" He shook his head. "Never mind."
Confusion sewed her brows together. She peeked at his face, studying it through the pieces of hair that had fallen from her braids during her long workday. The tension in her body relaxed a bit, and curiosity slid into the place of her fear and rage. She straightened her back, keeping her tilted head low still. Her eyes forever remained glued to the ground. "You know of our kind…? Most get us confused with the Lukric."
Cache's face scrunched together. A laugh escaped him. "The Lukric? You're joking. Though most scholars would disagree, they're not even the same color or as strong. They died out because they couldn't wield a sword to save their life. The Tek'arc," — Cache couldn't stop the excitement in his voice — "are natural warriors. They have generations upon generations of sword skills they passed down. Weaponry is like… literally in your blood. I wish—" He cut himself off, catching the thought before he blurted it out.
It's not a bad idea, he thought. And I would get to learn more about her kind.
Cache licked his lips, his rambling dried out his mouth. He crossed his arms to hide his clammy palms from her. He peered down his nose at her, trying to read the barricade between them.
"If I had a Tek'arc tutor instead, my skills would be unmatched." The silence weighed on them. Her refusal to comment set his nerves on fire. He rubbed the back of his neck. A blush burned his cheeks.
"I apologize, Your Highness," she said. Her unamused, monotoned words shattered his excitement with expert precision. "I need to get back to work," she whispered. Her face became stone, still and emotionless.
Cache didn't want her to leave him yet. She was the most exciting thing that happened to him all day, and he wasn't sure what to think. "Ivuni can wait. He wouldn't dare say anything to you if your time was spent with the prince." The corners of his mouth twisted upwards as a new plan formed in his mind. "I was heading out to the trading district," —he straightened up and squared his shoulders to appear in charge— "I want you to accompany me there."
She locked eyes with his, standing straight up. She cleared her throat to hide her scoff. "You're right. He wouldn't say anything." She glared at him and took a small step back. "I really should be going, Your Highness…"
Cache rummaged through his thoughts to find the best way to get the woman to stay. He could command her as her prince, and she would have to comply, but Cache had no desire to make her a puppet. He wanted her to want to go with him. He was surprised she wasn't jumping at a chance to ignore her daily duties.
He conjured up the only word he wasn't used to saying to anyone, "Please." He plastered a smile on his face to make it sound less whiny. "I insist. They have a new sword I want to add to my collection, and due to your expertise, I would love to hear your opinion. I assure you that Ivuni wouldn't disobey me, even in private. I have ears and eyes everywhere."
She dropped her head again, letting his words rattle through her. After a deep breath, she nodded her response.
Excitement ran a finger up his spine, sending shivers down his limbs. Her response wasn't as thrilled as he had wanted, but he would take what he got. He motioned her forward to walk beside him. Servants and slaves weren't allowed to walk in step with those of a higher class, but Cache wanted her to be comfortable around him. He wanted her to know that he saw her as an equal for the moment. Varsa's stumble forward, hesitation slowing every step, told Cache that gaining her trust wasn't as simple as having a mediocre conversation.
Cache chuckled, his smile growing as she loosened up her tense posture. He traced the patterns her braids made, able to clearly see everything. The top of her head barely reached his chest. He liked how her dark braids swayed with each sure step. Cache was careful to not reach out to touch them, but he wanted to. To a Tek'arc, braids were a symbol of power and strength. They would only remove their braids when defeated in battle. He was surprised she wore them. They had been outlawed by his great-grandfather.
"You're an odd one…" she mumbled more to herself than to him as she stepped up to his side.
"Says the purple dwarf," he poked back, curious how playful he could push the conversation.
She wrinkled her nose. "I am no dwarf," she said. Her eyes grew wide before they locked back to the floor. "My apologies. You are right… I am rather short."
Cache sighed and placed his hands behind his head. "Stop that. I'm sick of everyone being so fake. We're in the privacy of our own company, so say what you want. I won't chop off your head just because you have an opinion, Varsa." He loved the sound of her name. It slipped out so effortlessly.
She bit the inside of her cheek. Anger clenched her jaw and tightened the muscles in her arms. "How do I feel?" She glanced at him, narrowed her eyes, and leaned towards him. "I feel like this is a trap." She let the words hang in the air. She narrowed her eyes before regaining a proper stance, putting space between them. "Your Highness," she added, spite dripping from every syllable, setting her jaw again.
"Oh, because it is." Cache stopped at the metal door before them and turned to face her directly. "A trap because I want company, and you were the unlucky one who crossed paths with me down a usually unoccupied corridor." He smiled down at her tense expression. "A slave may not have rights here, but you are safe in my presence. I just want an opinion on a sword, that's all."
They stood at the door, neither of them moving. It was a game of chicken to see who would break first. She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest, leaning on the leg closer to the door. She smirked. "By all means," — she swept an arm outward towards the door — "lead the way."
Cache paused, a little complex as he hadn't opened doors for himself in quite some time, much less for anyone else. He jerked out his hand for the handle and opened it wide to let the sunlight seep through. He motioned her forward with a smirk.
"My hero," she said, placing a hand over her heart. She rolled her eyes before matching his smirk, peering over at him as she walked past him and out the door. He wanted authenticity. He would have it.
Cache led her down the cobblestone path through the garden, a path he often used to escape the confines of the castle and its prying eyes. The air was thick with the sweet scent of rosemary and ripe fruit, mingling with the fresh aroma of blooming flowers. Purple blossoms swayed gently in the soft breeze near the pond's sparkling edge.
As he walked, his thoughts kept drifting to Varsa. Her purple skin and black braids contrasted sharply with the lush greenery around them, making her stand out even more. Her black eyes were unreadable, her demeanor composed and resolute. Cache's curiosity was piqued by her mysterious presence, an intriguing enigma that both fascinated and perplexed him, yet he reminded himself of their different worlds and the current tension between them.
Behind a wall of tall bushes was a gate that Cache reached in to unlatch. He widened the bushes, creating an opening. "Go on," he said.
Varsa glanced behind her before slipping through to the other side of the gate. As she ducked under the branches, her hand steadied itself on Cache's arm, a firm touch that lingered longer than he expected. He followed her through and latched the door behind them, checking down the dirt paths on either side. "Coast is clear," he announced with a smile.
He reached for her hand, but she instinctively pulled away, her expression wary. After a brief pause, he turned his palm to the sky, asking silently instead of demanding. She rolled her eyes and allowed him to take her hand. Together, they sprinted across the open space to the forest line. The path led straight into the trading district, providing a route that avoided the many eyes of the city. Varsa kept pace beside him, her initial resistance fading as they moved in unison, their goal precise and their steps swift.
When the trees overshadowed them, he said, "If you ever need a quick escape from the castle, through that corridor and out that gate would be your best bet. I've been using it since childhood and have never been caught." He glanced at her. "You're welcome to use it. I know… the housing for the—" Cache cleared his throat. "The housing for the slaves is on the other side of the trading district."
"I… are you testing me?" she asked. "What kind of prince would show his slaves how to escape?"
Cache let her question linger in the air for a while before answering under his breath, "A shitty one, I suppose." He shrugged. "Use it, don't use it. The offer is there if you want it. No one will know whether you do or don't." The trees opened to dilapidated shacks made from old, molded wood. Cache pointed ahead, "There. The vendor comes every few months from a town on the coast. He's located at the end. Come on!"
Varsa took in the trading post around her. Everyone was so loud, and all the stalls held new and shiny items, half of which she had no clue how to use. It was different from the trades they had in their district. "What's so special about this one vendor?" she asked. "Besides, 'he has swords,' I mean."
"He has specialty swords. Swords that other vendors wouldn't touch." He looked down at her with a slight smirk. "Banned swords." He nodded towards the vendor as they approached. "The one I want is made of Gaxan bone."
"Banned swords…" she mumbled. "Wait, he has one made of Gaxan bone? How is that possible? Gaxan bone is too strong to forge…"
"The bone isn't the problem. It's that thick skin you have to get through first. They have to peel that away, and then you have green bones resembling emeralds." Cache shrugged. "Well… you're somewhat correct. Forging the bone is a difficult process too, but tracking the large bastards and killing them is the hardest part." He opened the door of the shop they had arrived at and made a mocking bow. "Ladies first."
"Such a gentleman," she said. He set her nerves on fire. Electricity sparked through her with each word, warning her to be careful. It wouldn't be the first time her mouth got her in trouble. His odd behaviors and ways of acting were foreign to her. He was pleasant but demanding. Varsa wasn't sure if she liked it, but she enjoyed dropping the overly polite act to those of a higher caliber. The semblance of freedom was intoxicating, even if it was fleeting and uncertain.
Cache followed in behind her with a smile on his face. He passed her and went straight to the counter, where a large alien stood. The alien was a member of a nearly extinct sea-dwelling species, primarily enslaved to the fishing boats and seafood industries.
The alien's face was striking and unsettling: a cluster of tan tentacles surrounded his features, each moving independently. His skin was a mottled blue-green, reminiscent of deep ocean waters, and his eyes were large and dark, with an otherworldly glimmer. Faint, bioluminescent markings traced intricate patterns across his skin, glowing softly in the dim light of the shop. The scent of saltwater and brine clung to him.
Each of his ten tentacles was in constant motion, displaying a level of dexterity that was mesmerizing to watch. Two of them were polishing the dagger, their movements precise and practiced. Another tentacle reached for a whetstone, ready to sharpen the blade to perfection. Two more tentacles were coiled around various tools on the counter, holding them at the ready. The remaining tentacles hung by his side, occasionally twitching or flexing as if they had a life of their own.
Cache couldn't recall the breed's name, but the sight of the tan tentacles around the alien's face and neck was unforgettable. He wished he could erase the image from his mind, yet he was also deeply intrigued by the creature's tragic history and remarkable adaptability. Despite his circumstances, the alien had become a master swordmaker, using his unique physiology to craft weapons of unparalleled quality.
"Prince Cache of Wiscard," the man said. His gaze shifted past Cache to Varsa, a hint of disdain in his eyes. You've never brought a companion into my store, especially someone of her kind."
"What's a Phaga doing this far inland?" Varsa asked, wrinkling her nose. "Don't fish like you need water to live?"
The Phaga man lifted a large tin bucket filled with water with a bright blue hue and bits of seaweed floating inside. "This lasts me for a couple of weeks when I use it sparingly," he explained, setting the bucket down. "Be wary of such company, Your Highness. The Tek'arc were bred to lure you in with their beauty but then cut your throat in your sleep. No good lay is worth your life, sir."
"Please, I would kill him before he had a chance to get me in bed," Varsa retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. Her focus was entirely on the Phaga, forgetting Cache was even there. "I heard you had an emerald sword."
Cache was a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing in silent astonishment at the Phaga's comments about sleeping with Varsa. The heat rising to his cheeks and neck made him too nervous to speak properly. He stuttered out, "T-the Gaxan sword…"
The Phaga made a muttering sound and bent down under the bar. He pulled out a long sword with a hilt wrapped in bleached white leather and a long-curved blade. He focused his attention on Cache. "One of a kind, Your Highness. It has taken blood from the Gaxan and two of my curators. This sword has a name now." He took a step back for dramatic effect. "They call it Elmesh, the End of Giants."
Cache instinctively touched the blade, his fingers trailing up until the sword curved. He noticed intricate markings engraved into the cool, smooth surface, written in a language he didn't recognize. The blade was jagged to the curve, indicating that it would be a deadly force of nature in battle.
"Varsa, touch these markings. Do you know this language?" he asked, motioning for her to lift her hand toward the sword.
Varsa reached out to touch the blade but hesitated, pulling back at the last moment. "I really shouldn't," she said, glancing up at the Phaga, who was huffing and puffing. His large, round eyes bore into her hovering hand, his tentacles twitching. "I wouldn't want to tarnish it."
Cache pulled out a bag of coins and poured it onto the counter. The Phaga's eyes widened in surprise. Cache nodded once. "That should be more than enough to pay for such an item." He turned to Varsa. "Please," he urged, motioning towards the sword again. "Touch the engraving here and see if you can make sense of it."
"Yes, let's see if you can read my language," the merchant said, laughing.
Varsa extended her hand once more, her fingers grazing the engraved markings. As her eyes scanned the unfamiliar symbols. She couldn't help the grin that spread across her face as she took up the blade to look closer at it. She ran her finger over the grooves etched into the bone, pulling it close to her eyes.
The engravings were expertly carved, their rough edges catching the skin on her thumb as she traced them. She glanced at the seller and then back at Cache. "Vzit eux tuaj. Come and take them. That's what it says." She held the sword up, marveling at the elegant curve and how it easily sliced through the air. The weapon could balance on its tip without wavering, a testament to its exceptional craftsmanship. The engravings worked harmoniously with the form of the hilt, creating a deadly counterweight to the curve.
"Lijep miecz. It's a deadly weapon," she said, nodding to the Phaga before carefully placing it back on the counter. "I wouldn't want to be an enemy facing it."
The Phaga chuckled. "Deadly and smart. It's… actually nice to hear my native tongue." He looked down at the blade and back at Varsa. "Thank you."
Varsa smiled and nodded. Native tongues had been replaced by human English, often leaving the newer generation in the dark about their language and heritage. This was ushered in by the kings and queens of old. It ensured culture was pervasive, a subtle form of control that eroded the rich histories of various alien species. Even in places like Wiscard, where hundreds of different aliens mingled, the only language you would hear on the street was human. Signs and public notices were exclusively English, and traditional festivals or customs were rare sights.
"You're not too bad… you know, for a fish," she said, teasingly. Her grin stretched from ear to ear. "Did you make any of these swords yourself? I see the nicks on your forearms."
Varsa's eyes scanned the shop, taking in the array of weapons displayed. Each sword, dagger, and spear was unique, hinting at the meticulous craftsmanship behind them. The markings on the old Phaga's forearms were telltale signs of a master at work, each scar a story of creation and precision.
"Girl, don't ask me silly questions," the Phaga smiled at Varsa. "You know damn well that all blades that enter this shop are made in this shop." He huffed out, "By yours truly."
"How long have you been making them? They are excellently crafted."
Cache interrupted the man before he could speak, "He's been doing this since I've been a child. I got what I wanted here. Are you ready to go?" Cache didn't like the attention shifting to only Varsa and the Phaga man. The jealous tinge was new to him. He grabbed the sword and placed it in the carefully crafted sheath he had made once he learned of its existence months ago.
The Phaga crossed his arms. "Good day to you, Prince Cache." He nodded to Varsa. "You too."
"Toinen i morgen," she said, waving to him as she walked out the door. Her smile fell once they were outside. "I made you mad…" she finally said after a few seconds.
Cache didn't answer her immediately as they walked back down the path. He heard Varsa but wasn't sure how to respond. Jealousy was a new emotion for him; he had everything handed to him on a silver platter.
"I'm not mad at you," he said, his voice low. He turned his head toward her. "I know that vial isn't for your master. Are you… sick?"
Varsa clamped her mouth shut and shook her head. She glued her eyes to her feet, not wanting him to continue with the line of questioning. "It's not for me," she whispered.
"Will you not tell me?" Cache slowed his pace, knowing that she would.
"My… family is sick." She stammered. "The disease that has been wiping us out? My… I— I just… I have to get it back home."
Cache stopped at the forest line and turned to her. "We need to part ways here. The housing district is in the opposite direction." He turned to her. "You didn't see me today, and I saw nothing. Do you understand?"
Varsa opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn't cover what she wanted to say to him. He turned to leave, and she grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. She bounced on the balls of her feet, staring at the ground before giving him a quick hug. She pulled away, looked into his eyes, and nodded. "Thank you," she said, pouring every ounce of gratefulness into the words before taking off down the street.
Cache was frozen in place, watching her walk away until he couldn't see her anymore. Cache doesn't remember the last time he was ever hugged. His father was decent towards him but never affectionate, his mother acted indifferent to Cache, and he never saw his siblings enough to form any bond with them to want to be affectionate. Cache traced his forearm where her fingers once laid.
"I should be the one thanking you," he whispered to no one.
Thank you for reading the first chapter of Bellum Inferre. Your support means the world to us! This is a works in progress, and still has a long way to go.