by Ember Lane
“Fifty-six,” Merl said, his hands on his knees and recovering his breath quite quickly.
“Then that’s enough. Being fit is one thing, being too tired to move is another.”
“I only know how t’run, nothin’ else. You’ve been quiet, Frank, not much help at all, if I’m honest. So I’ve been runnin’ while you’ve been thinkin’.”
Frank tensed but relaxed almost instantly. “Maybe I don’t want to let go of the old Merl. You ever think about that?”
“Ever since you met me, you wanted rid of the old Merl and a new one t’come walkin’ down the path. Now he’s here, you ain’t happy? The old Merl’s gotta go, Frank. You know that, and now I do too.” Merl rested his foot on the basket, stretching his back leg. “I feel it ‘n all, Frank. It ain’t somethin’ that I’m makin’ happen. It’s something that’s happening, and like driftwood in a swollen river, I got not choice but t’go with the flow.”
“But do you want to?”
“Me, Frank? I gotta a bit of growin’ up to do, I know that. Stoor Broderick might’a done me a turn keepin’ me hidden away, but he also stopped me from growin’ old. Can’t afford that no more, Frank, you know that. What about you?”
“Me?”
“I’m thinking you got a choice, you and Desmelda. You can help me, or you can watch and gripe an’ see me try. You ain’t helpin’ by bein’ quiet.”
Frank took out his pipe and packed it with leaf. He snapped his fingers and lit it, then began puffing fragrant smoke in and out to get it hot. “Tell me somethin’. What makes you think you can take on Daemon Mercer?”
Merl stood. He felt taller in his armor, and his muscles had grown tighter since he’d begun his daily running. He ran his arm under his dripping nose and flipped his soaked and freezing hair back. “Nothin, don’t think I have a prayer. The way it stands, he’ll have me dead in a tap—that is, if I don’t cut me own blinking head off with the katana-thing. That’s sharp as Deadpan Pete’s wit and twice as stabby.”
Frank’s grin appeared to surprise even Frank, who had been quite dour since the island. He covered it quickly with his hand, as if trying to hide it away. “Show me the sword.”
Merl equipped his katana, handing it to Frank, handle-end first. The Knight of Tintagel took the blade. He stood, walking a short distance away. Merl sat back in his place, the chill beginning to stiffen his bones.
“This blade,” Frank said, holding it across his open palms, “needs respect. You are wrong, though—you’re more likely to cut someone else’s head off than your own.” He flipped the blade up and caught it by its bound grip, then assumed a rigid, straight-backed stance. He launched into a series of moves that blurred both sword and man into one. Frank finally came to a rest, standing straight, sword at his side. “It’s wielder, however, has to earn that respect. Can I teach you how to use it? How? I can barely use it myself?”
Starturner leaned over the poop-deck’s balustrade, howling in laughter. “If that’s barely using it, I can’t steer a boat.”
Frank bowed to the giant. “You, sir, are a master steersman. My point is true, though. This is not my blade of choice. I can’t do it justice, because my hands don’t sit right on its grip. It is lighter than I’m used to, thinner, sleeker, curved, though much the same length. I can no more be a master of this than you can be a master of a fishing boat from Harrison’s Reach.”
“But you’ll teach Half-Lord?” Starturner asked, although it sounded a little like a statement too.
Stormsurfer joined in from behind. “I suppose that depends which half is the Lord. Most were never blessed up top, and some were too blessed below. It was like they had a hand in their own creation.”
Merl couldn’t make his mind up if he liked the nickname the giants had given him. Half-Lord. It sounded like an insult, but was probably meant as exactly what it was, a joke. Merl the Half-Lord, it really didn’t match all the rest of it. Merl of Morgan Mount, First Lord of the Lands of the Crescent Moon, Admiral of the Sea of the Stranded Fool, Dispenser of the Law, Defender of the Power, and… Half-Lord. Did it sit right? He scoffed. “Does it hell.” He brushed back his soaking hair again.
Merl stood.
Frank tossed him the katana, and Merl caught it easily. He swished it about a bit, but he nearly snapped his wrist in two as he became overconfident.
“First clue,” Frank said. “You fight with your whole body, not your hand, wrist, arm, or chest. Remember the ax, Merl, remember its grip. Your body, your brain, and your spirit, all of them count. Have you kept up your meditations?”
“Frank, please, you think I’ve had time lately? We’ve been—”
“Do your meditations, and I’ll teach you. Sit with Desmelda, and I’ll teach you. Be a friend to Billy, and I’ll teach you. Run around the deck more than fifty times, and I won’t. You need just any muscle, you need the right muscle.”
Frank produced Scaramanza. “This sword will teach you.” He tossed it at Quaiyl.
Since the Isle of One, Quaiyl had always been by Merl’s side. But ever since the seer had given him the swords, the construct seemed to be even closer. Billy had theorized that the construct didn’t trust Merl not to cut his own head off, a theory Merl didn’t disagree with, though apparently Frank did.
Quaiyl caught Scaramanza easily. The construct moved to the center of the deck as Frank cleared the way.
“I’ll teach you when you beat the construct.”
Merl approached Quaiyl. He set his stance the way Frank had once told him, though that had been taught with an axe in mind. Merl fumbled his way through his first clumsy strokes. Quaiyl countered all easily. Merl took a step back. He launched another assault—a furious in his mind, but simply defended by the construct. Starturner began slow clapping.
“Half a job for half a lord,” he chided.
Merl growled to himself, but bit his lip and readied another flurry.
Quaiyl inclined his head. Merl froze. It was the closest Quaiyl had ever come to an expression. Merl mimicked him, and a warmth spread through his mind. Quite what it was, he had no clue, but his grip on the katana suddenly became surer, like it was molded to his hands. Quaiyl straightened his head and raised Scaramanza.
“I think he’s ready,” Frank said, and Merl attacked again.
To him, it was an infinitely better attack. His strokes flowed. They landed against Scaramanza, barely deflected, more steered away with cold efficiency. It was like he knew swordplay just a little bit more. Merl stepped back. Quaiyl inclined his head again. Warmth flowed.
“How did you know?” Merl asked, sitting at the counter of the adventurer’s bar.
“Know what?” Frank answered,
“Please, Frank, you don’t have to go easy on me. How did you know that Quaiyl had it in him to teach me?” Merl took a slug of his ale and followed it up with a hearty spoonful of Desmelda’s broth.
He hadn’t beaten Quaiyl—quite the opposite, actually. He’d suffered humiliation after humiliation until Frank had called an end to it and put Merl out of his misery, although not before Starturner and Stormsurfer had worn their half-lord joke to the marrow of its bones. Merl suspected that they were currently reworking their taunt and readying it for the next day. It didn’t bother him. He had a new focus now, and he was intent on getting the most from every tap, turn, and phase of the trip so that he would be the best he possibly could be when they landed near Quintz.
Quintz loomed like a long-awaited dream. It was hidden in the Land of Orion, which occupied the southernmost part of the Lands of the Crescent Moon. According to Frank, it was a flat land of endless pasture, great flowing rivers, and spines of mountains that radiated out from the arc of its southeast tail. The vast grasslands were, by all accounts, very good at hiding a city that had been reduced to the size of an ant’s toe.
Frank mulled over Merl’s question. “Why wouldn’t he? It was something that you mentioned the seer had said.” The wizard drew up a stool. He toweled his coppery hair down, whic
h was still wet from a lukewarm bath. It was longer now than when Merl had first met him, coming down over his ear, and falling across his forehead. He’d shaved his chin, and that always seemed to signal he was looking forward and not back, as if it was some kind of ritual. Merl preferred Frank chirpy.
“Well?” Merl asked. “Are you gonna be all cryptic, or are you gonna finish your tale?”
Frank turned slightly, resting his elbow on the counter and looking Merl up and down. “You know, Merl, I’m not sure I like this new you. You’re not quite as…”
“Pliable,” Desmelda said, placing a pot of steaming broth under Frank’s nose. “He’s not nearly as pliable. It’s like he’s grown a…”
“Spine,” Billy said. “I had a donkey like it once. Most days it would do exactly what yer told it to do, like, an’ the next it looked at you with bugger off eyes and refused t’do a jot.”
“After you’re done pickin’ me apart, yer can answer the question,” Merl told them all. His mother had given him boots, and he intended to fill them. “Please.” It never hurt to be polite.
Frank turned back to the counter. “Well, the seer said that Quaiyl would only step in if you were in immediate danger. So, it stood to reason that he’d prevent you getting into immediate danger. Surely one way to do that would be to teach you to defend yourself? The beauty of it is, I’m not putting myself in any personal danger.”
“You, Frank? I doubt I’d get an attack to land on you.”
Frank scoffed.
“Oh, how sweet,” Desmelda said, but though her words sounded cheery, for some reason they reminded Merl of a knife stabbing you in the heart.
“I was more worried about Quaiyl attacking me if I was fighting you—even if we were sparring,” Frank told him.
Merl huffed. “Well, I’d best get good at sword-fighting because I’m sure I haven’t got an ounce of magic in me.”
“Often runs stronger in females,” Desmelda mused. “I wouldn’t read anything into it. Look at Frank, he didn’t have an ounce of magic in him either, until he got hit on the bonce. Now he has the mana pool of a three-week-old apprentice and the finesse of first-year pledge.”
“I’m flattered.” Frank drank his ale down, thumping his pot on the counter.
“Don’t be,” Desmelda said. “The point is, Merl, not every leader has magic. Those that haven’t make sure that they surround themselves with magic dealers. You will soon get to Quintz, and there you will see the great magic of the finest wizards in all the Lands of the Crescent Moon.Then you can make up your mind if you want to be surrounded by fools or witches.”
Desmelda smiled deviously.
“As far as I can see, if it’s not a binding vine or a bramble wall, it’s a little out of reach of a witch,” Frank growled in response, but then his eyes grew wide in triumph, before sagging back to resignation, and then to defeat, as if he was sure it would come.
“Really?” said Desmelda. “Well why don’t we have a wager?”
Frank had the look of a man that had been trapped and tied-up, and fully realized it. “Compelling though that might be, I’ve a new rule in life, which is that I don’t bet with witches conversant in spells of the mind. The main reason being that I do not wish to end up barking like a dune dog or any other such trick. I would rather cede the argument.”
“Well,” said Desmelda. “That’s two out of the three of you growing up the right way. Billy?”
Billy beamed, and then stretched and let out a yawn. “Don’t worry, Witchy Witch, I won’t be growin’ up any time soon. So, if you want to get inside my mind, well, good luck with that. It’s a dark and dangerous place and fulla weird stuff you’ll never see anywhere else in tha’ land.”
Desmelda paled. A shiver ran up her spine.
32
The land called Orion lay before them. It barely rose above the sea, a mere fringe of rich green with the hint of mountains lurking behind. They were so distant their peaks looked ghost-like, a mere shade of slightly darker sky-blue which shimmered and danced in the oppressive heat. Sailmaker had fashioned Desmelda a fan from two wicker sticks and his ever-adaptable sailcloth. She brushed the scant air before her, trying to drum up a cooling draft. They’d weighed anchor that previous eve, and now waited for Frank to finish sharpening his blade and Merl to complete a valiant effort at doing the same.
“Should have one of these,” Billy said, buffing his hammerhead with spit and sleeve. “Jus’ needs a good polish an’ you can get whackin’. Don’t even need the polishin’, if I’m honest, like.” He stared at Merl “Why ain’t you wearing your armor, Merl?”
Merl had his sail-cloth garb on, and mighty fine it felt too. Billy knew exactly why, but he was saying words for saying’s sake because he was nervous. Merl snapped his fingers and his sailcloth clothes vanished in favor of full armor. He snapped them again and changed back. “Frank wants us in cog neeto, wherever the heck that is, and I need to look normal t’get there.”
Billy eyed Merl suspiciously. “You takin’ tha pi—”
“Not me, Billy, not me.”
Stormsurfer let the rowboat over the side, and Frank and Merl stowed their blades. Merl stretched. It had been one hell of a journey, but he could almost smell Quintz. His training had proceeded well. True, he hadn’t yet come close to landing a blow on Quaiyl, but he had made progress. He hadn’t once been sat upon his ass during training—well, not that day, anyway. Mind, it was only morning. He was finding swordplay much more fluid, and his katana was beginning to feel like an extension of his arm, not some piece of foreign metal stuck to his hand.
He wasn’t a swordsman yet, but he was better, much better. Magic was a vast disappointment to him. He’d fancied the idea of firing blasts of it and smiting his enemies in brightly colored fire, but by not having to learn that, he’d had more time for his reading and his writing. Merl was still amazed how much pleasure both gave him, how such a simple thing could engross him so. Frank had also started teaching him mathematics, though he was a way away from of understanding that. With an absence of magic to teach, Desmelda had begun telling him about plants, herbs, and trees, and the varying healing and stamina potions that could be made from them.
Between all his learning, his circuits of the boat, and making a fuss of Gloomy Joe, Merl had had little time for anything else. He ate like a pig, and he slept like a log. His muscles had developed quickly, his body had tightened, and his skin had grown more weathered. But of all the things he had noticed about himself, it was the strange feeling that he wasn’t plain useless that he’d had the most trouble dealing with.
Merl hadn’t been ready for Billy’s griping, for his friend’s constant need to try and reinforce his superiority over him. Merl wasn’t sure how to handle it. No one had taught him that. Nor was he ready for Frank almost treating him like an equal, which he found equally disquieting, or Desmelda talking to him like he was her budding student. Merl wasn’t sure he was ready to come out from his shell, but he no longer felt comfortable in it either.
Frank clapped him around the shoulders. “In cog neeto,” he said, and laughed. “Now, remember what I told you. It is better for your enemies to underestimate you. You play the simple peasant boy right up until they blink and feel your katana separating their heads from their neck. That way, you’re clean, efficient, and leave no witnesses. But we avoid conflict if we possibly can. You let them talk down to you, but only while it’s to your advantage, then you show them what you’ve got, understand?”
“Until we get to Quintz,” Merl added.
“Especially once you get to Quintz,” Frank said. “The wizards will be the worst.”
Merl grunted. The katana appeared in his hand. “At least I can defend myself now.”
Frank smirked. “Don’t think you’re the first swordsman the wizards have come up against.” He paused. “Remember, they once had me to contend with.”
“Maybe we’ll get a show of their powerful magic,” Desmelda added, then hopped over the rope
ladder and descended into Stormsurfer’s rowboat. “Mayhap they’ll show us how they’ve unraveled the Powers of Arthur15479.”
“You think they’ll be zombays?” Merl asked, following the Witch of Falling Glen over Wave Walker’s side.
“Depends when Ricklefess became infected,” Frank said. “If Quintz is gone, then I don’t know what I’ll do.”
A heavy silence fell.
“I think I’m growing toes,” Mushroom proclaimed, and then hopped overboard and sailed down into the boat.
Quaiyl followed but said nothing as usual. The construct had continued to radiate knowledge. He’d bled it into Merl bit by bit as, if his knowledge was boundless and he could only allow a certain amount of it to pass to Merl at any one time. When it did infuse Merl, he’d felt a warming sensation, and knowledge appeared, but it was like a flower blooming rather than a knot of information unravelling. It was seamless, not the same as learning letters, and it was also unforgettable, ingrained in him the moment it warmed his soul.
Merl sat on the boat’s fore-thwart, unable to tear his gaze from the base of Mushroom’s stalk, which not only had developed toes, but was also growing some bony, calloused feet too. A small slit reached upward from them, like a crease between legs. Two nubs of fungus poked out from just underneath Mushroom’s face. Merl suspected they were arms, but he couldn’t look at Mushroom for too long because it plain hurt his head.
“Got a spare pair of boots for an ally in that fancy bracelet?” Mushroom asked.
Merl ignored him, choosing to look toward the coast. Stormsurfer began heaving at the oars, picking up a pace and cutting The Sea of the Stranded Fool like a sharp blade through rotted guts. The giant powered into a great estuary, his muscles glistening under the morning sun. The boat sped past vast reed banks, fringes of vibrant green overhanging. Birds circled overhead. Crocodiles bathed on mud banks, yawning lazily yet ominously. Pink flamingoes waded close to the shore. For all the growing Merl had done of late, he looked out over the gunwales like a wild-eyed child. This was a living land, a vibrant land, that rumbled to the sounds of wildebeest, and whispered with the sway of the tall grass.