by Paul Lytle
With his fist he struck the floor where he was kneeling. He should not be overcome by circumstances – that was what all of his sword training was about. Nothing should be able to pull his concentration astray. A true warrior should be ever focused, for nothing that happened on a battlefield was expected.
He stood and went to his window. The area surrounding the Thanes’ barracks was a rather wealthy one, and so most of what Ayrim could see from his second floor window were other second floors. And yet he looked down into the quiet alleyway, appreciating the stillness of the night. The spearman stationed below his window seemed to be sitting, likely taking a break. The night would be a long one for him, the boy understood. Just like it would be a long one for Ayrim Iylin. But no, he realized, his eyes peering deeper into the shadows. The guard wasn’t sitting. He was leaning upon the opposite home, but not in a sitting manner, but more as though he were slumping against it. The soldier’s spear lay strewn upon the ground, and the man himself was strewn against the wall, his head leaning oddly to the side.
The spearman was dead.
Ayrim backed away, looking to his bed. It was there – his sword. Gerill had allowed weapons upstairs this one time, knowing that it would protect the young man perhaps better than the spearmen would. He leapt for the weapon as the window noiselessly fell apart like a wilted flower. In a moment there was only a hole in the wall, and not even Ayrim would have noticed if he had not been watching the thing happen.
The ern climbed up the wall and stepped upon the sill, crouching low inside the frame as he looked inside. The room was dark, and the beast could not see all the way across, despite his strong night vision. But also was it quiet, suggesting that the inhabitant was still asleep. The Magic had been utterly noiseless, as had the ern’s ascent, so perhaps the boy was still in bed. The abomination stepped forward, its naked foot touching the cold ground.
And Ayrim was upon him, leaping from the shadows of the corner with blade flashing, once, twice, and then a third time was the ern attacked before it could even raise its own blade. Pale blood spilt upon the floor, and Ayrim ran from the room, knowing that the monsters did not usually travel alone. “Ern, ern!” he yelled, running down the stairs at three steps in a stride, but he did not wait until Gerill or Jeslin woke. It was him the ern sought, and he would not endanger his family by cowering inside. He had to lead them off toward the walls, where the guards were concentrated.
He crossed the threshold, moving so quickly that he almost didn’t notice the second spearman, dead beside the doorstep. The archer was likely fallen as well, but Ayrim could not stop to make certain. He sped across the street, anything to get away from the house, yelling, “Ern!” as he went. His neighbors needed to be awakened. The guards needed to be notified. But above all, Ayrim yelled so that the ern themselves might hear, and be drawn away from the others of his home.
It worked, for when Ayrim turned the next corner, they suddenly appeared before him – a pair of the pale creatures. In the darkness, the swordsman almost mistook them for men, but no man could be so white, and the sharp teeth and claws eventually revealed themselves to Ayrim, and he knew. They carried axes, both of them, and they growled and hissed at the young man.
So Ayrim turned back, only to find another four gaining on him from that direction. Six in all, each armed with sword or axe, each charging after him. Horror gripped him with cold and clammy hands, for though he had practiced fighting often with warriors, only very rarely had he even seen an ern before that night, at least not since the battle in which his father died. It was rare he left the city, and only then to Gerill’s farm, and most were slain before getting within two miles of Saparen. Of the ones he had seen, most were corpses, and only two or three had he seen while still living. But here were six, and he was alone. His hands sweat so much that his sword nearly slipped out, and yet he held on as the forces drew nearer to him. Breathe! He had to gain control. His life would depend on it.
At last one of the four from behind him charged, sword squealing as it was swung. Ayrim’s mouth went dry as he watched, doing nothing, and then instinct took control of his being. It was part of his early lessons, one of the first moves he learned as he was memorizing Exercise One from Cynus Branford’s book. Duck and swipe. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until he did, and the ern’s blade cut the air over his head as his body folded over itself. In the same movement did his own sword spring out, and he swung backhanded at the ern. The beast backed away in time, but the series was not over. The swordsman stepped forward, jabbing twice, but both blows were turned to the side, but not a chance did the ern had to strike, for Ayrim had improvised into Exercise Thirty-Eight, and with a flick of his wrist was the ern’s blade knocked aside. Iylin’s sword was on the inside suddenly, and, continuing his motion, he swiped the weapon across, ripping open the ern’s throat.
He didn’t pause to admire his work, for he knew the others would be fast upon him; he turned again to the pair carrying axes, and only just in time did he see them, for already were their axes coming down against him. One he caught upon his sword, and the other he sidestepped. The heavy weapon thudded against the ground, and with a shove he was away from the first ern and headed toward the next. This was a combination of three separate Exercises, but it ended with his blade to its hilt in an ern’s chest, while he was kicking the other once again away.
The final three caught up by that time, and the quartet of monsters surrounded the quick swordsman, and yet Ayrim didn’t pause. With a single swing did he block two attacks, and then to the other side of the circle he flew, jabbing his sword into the pale leg of one of the ern, then pulling it back into the belly of another. The latter would not survive to attack again, but though the first was not terribly wounded, the shock of the blow caused him to recoil, and Ayrim had an opening.
Through the breach he ran, leaving three dead ern behind him, but three more living ones were following closely. Again he called out his warning, but the town was slow in answering. South he led them, toward the pier, down wide streets and narrow alleys alike, trying to keep the monstrosities guessing until he had a chance to kill one or two more. They were not terribly good fighters, these ern, but together, Ayrim knew, they could overcome him.
And then the southern wall appeared before him, the narrow catwalk and the low battlements that looked over the lake behind the town. But where were the guards? Ayrim knew that the complement of soldiers was light this time of the night, but between the tall houses in Flarow’s Den could he see no one.
“Ern!” he yelled once more, ducking around the corner and running parallel with the wall. He was growing weary, but the ern did not seem to be. Faster and faster they came, catching up with him.
And then there was a whistle in the night, and an ern tumbled over himself and into the dirt of the wide road. Ayrim swung around, and the first beast was nearer to him than he thought. He instantly brought his sword up, but it was batted away by its axe. The bodies collided and tumbled to the street, and Iylin desperately clutched onto his sword, swinging it around at his attack. So too was the axe coming, but the man was a second quicker. The blade pierced flesh; the ern rolled away in pain, and Ayrim scooted across the ground after him. In a moment his sword was embedded in the ern’s back.
The last ern was running at him, though, and Ayrim Iylin got to his feet as quickly as he could. But another whistle cut into the night, and the swordsman watched an arrow embedded itself into the ern’s hip in a splash of pale blood. The beast’s momentum kept him coming, and a second arrow was shot into its neck. Only then did the ern fall, and it spilt its pink blood into the dirt like its allies had done before.
Ayrim sighed heavily, but it was some time before he finally looked up at the wall, where the lone archer stood, guarding his hometown from enemies. His job had been performed well, for the ern lay dead on the streets, and Iylin was safe.
Chapter 15
&nbs
p; “Ayrim!” called a voice from just down the street, and Gerill Hyte was approaching, sword wielded. The older man’s eyes darted about the streets, but no ern remained, only the people of Saparen, emerging from their homes to investigate the noises. Some ran forward to examine the ern and the survivors, and some held back, waiting, watching. Iylin dropped his own blade out of weariness and collapsed into the Thane’s arms. “Are you wounded?” questioned Gerill.
“No,” said the young swordsman.
“I followed as quickly as I was able, but you were too fast for me.”
“Jeslin?”
“The ern never came inside the house.”
“I am glad.”
“Ayrim,” Gerill took the boy by the shoulders, looking him directly in the eyes. In Gerill’s own eyes did Iylin see something of amazement or even awe. The Thane continued, “I saw part of that fight against the six ern as I was running to you. Never before have I seen someone fight like that. I know the book by heart, but some of those moves I have never witnessed.”
“I don’t know,” Ayrim said. “I didn’t think, I just fought.”
“Amazing,” was all Gerill could say in response. “You have touched the heart of swordplay, son. I am a Master, and I know Branford’s book better than any man in this town, but I cannot blend the moves in such a way. I would have fallen in that battle, Ayrim. Six would likely have been too many for me. I could not have done what you did, to improvise between a hundred Exercises as though you were creating original ones.”
The archer had come down from the wall in the aftermath of the battle, and he arrived then, interrupting the conversation. His bow was still strung, and he seemed ready at any moment to retrieve another arrow. He was only a couple of years older than Ayrim, and his beard was light upon his thin face. The warrior was built for no other weapon except the bow, for he was thin and lanky, and did not seem to have the strength of body necessary for a sword or spear. Strength of arm, yes, but not of body. And yet he had already proven himself quick, and his strength was at least enough to pull the bowstring taunt, which was not the simple task that some of the melee fighters liked to suggest.
“Is anyone hurt?” he asked. Like Gerill, he too was wary of the shadows, and watching the area more than looking at Ayrim.
“I am fine,” Ayrim said, “thanks to you.” He clasped the archer’s wrist, saying, “I owe you my life. I am Ayrim Iylin. My father, Master Gerill Hyte.”
“My lord,” the archer bowed before the Thane. “Of course I know of the two of you. I am Dariel Sterwet.”
Also did Gerill take the man’s wrist, and he said, “You have saved my son, and I am eternally in your debt.”
“He was doing well enough alone,” Sterwet shook his head. “I only helped bring about the finish more quickly. I’m afraid I hesitated a little at the beginning. Ern in the town – I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.”
“Only once have I seen it myself,” Gerill said, “and that was the invasion. They had to destroy the walls to achieve it.”
“Have they done so today?” Ayrim said. “They used the Absence at the house.”
“Did they?” Gerill’s breath was caught. “I will call upon the soldiers to check the walls. But I think otherwise. I fear that they have found another way into Saparen. Come, we three must speak with the Baron immediately.”
Chapter 16
The Baron’s son, Dravin, the Ignist, arrived in the hall first. He still wore his sleeping garments, but his sword hung at his side. Some of the guards stationed inside the keep swore that the young man slept with the blade at his hip, but rumors from certain women in the town decidedly refuted that claim. But the boy was only rarely seen without it, and he practiced his technique almost as much as Ayrim did, though he did not have the natural talent of the young Iylin.
Dravin Verios had hardened in the last years, becoming ever more focused and humorless. Already did he lead a regiment of spearmen, despite the fact that his young age would forbid a normal boy from even joining the group. But Dravin’s rank did nothing to weaken the guard, for his men were trained to be nothing more or less than warriors, and every moment of their lives was dedicated to protecting Saparen. That division, “the First Rank,” as Dravin had named them, were perfect soldiers, even if their dedication had made them rather dull men. A soldier, in Dravin’s view, was neither kind nor cruel. He should not be affected by maidens in distress any more than they should hate ern. They were machines, like a waterwheel, built for a task. The Baron’s son himself scarcely, if ever, joked, and everyone quickly recognized that his philosophy was nothing if not lived out personally.
The First Rank was the pride of the spearmen, and yet the group had not been sent to the Last Stand, as so many others had. Baron Dravor always met his quota of soldiers demanded by the King, and so he said that the First Rank was not needed in the west, and Saparen would make better use of the strong guard, for the memory of the Battle of the Osilar Young remained fresh with the people, even if it had been waged fifteen years before. Such was the Baron’s claim, but most suspected that the reason the First Rank remained in Saparen was simply Dravin. The famous Ignist might have at last revealed a weakness, for though he would, at a mere request, go to the Last Stand himself and run naked through the enemy camp just for the chance that he might wound a single soldier of the opposing side, he wavered when it came to the life of his own son.
The younger Verios hardly had time to express his welcomes to the visitors before Dravor himself appeared. He had slipped on a tunic and breeches, but no sword hung at his side. Yes, both men were devout Ignists, but their choices in attire said much about them. Both were warriors and diplomats, and yet one was warrior first, and the other leaned more toward diplomacy as he aged. Of those present, only Gerill remembered how Dravor stood at the head of his army during the Battle of the Osilar Young, and the change he saw in his lord caused him no small amount of sadness. An Ignist the Baron remained, and he would still fight if given the chance, but Gerill could see the fire beginning to wane.
Dravor Verios neared forty in years, and those years had caused a decline in his strength, more so than might have been expected of the fiery young Baron. A series of illnesses a few years before had aged the Baron more than he should have aged, and his once thick form had been tamed somewhat. He had worked very hard to regain his strength, and the man was still more firm than nearly anyone in town, but he wasn’t the man he once was. Still would he himself lead his men into battle if another army were to attack Saparen, but he would not likely fare so well as he did in the last attack. He had, in fact, requested to join his King at the Last Stand, but Regis Trosalan himself forbid it, saying that Saparen had need of the Baron more than the war did. It had been a blow to Verios’ ego, but he remained at his home dutifully. In fact, the message alone had caused another decline in the man, for he began to worry that his time was already past. His long hair was growing grey, and his clothes were growing a little tighter around the belly, even if it was still tight around his chest. It was often said that the worst fate for an Ignist was to grow old. It was certainly true for the Baron.
“Gerill, Ayrim,” said Dravor, smiling politely. No, Gerill thought suddenly. Verios was not the warrior he once was, but he was still as kind and loyal a man. The son was by far the better warrior, but not much else had the elder Verios lost to time. “It is good to see you well. The soldiers gave me a quick report, and when I heard that ern had come for you, I feared the worst.”
“After the way I saw my son handle a blade tonight,” the Thane said, “I doubt that an army of ern could even wound him.”
“Truly?” asked young Dravin, grinning slightly. It was the only time he ever grinned, when the subject of conversation turned to swordplay or soldiering. He brought his hand down upon Ayrim’s shoulder in a sign of admiration, proud to hear that the boy had performed so well. Still were the two friends, even if their i
nterests led them in rather different directions.
Baron Verios continued, speaking to the archer, “And you slew two of them yourself?”
“Aye, sire. I am Dariel Sterwet, archer of the third division.”
“Ha!” laughed Dravor, and he said, “I am glad I decided to send the second division to the King instead of the third. Who knows what might have happened had I chosen otherwise.”
“I imagine,” said Dariel, not without humor, “that Master Ayrim would have fared well enough alone.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Baron. “But ern inside the town concerns me greatly. I certainly got no report of ern activity around the city, and the guards told me of none trying to enter the town.”
“The First Rank guards the gates, father,” said Dravin, insulted by the presence of the ern. His meaning was clear enough. His spearmen made it a matter of honor to know every person who entered or left the gates. To question their thoroughness was to question the soldiers themselves.
“The gates are guarded well,” Gerill agreed, “but what of the walls? Thinner have we left our defenses as the King requires more for the war.”
“Yes,” agreed the elder Verios. “We patrol as best we can, but six of eight divisions of spearmen have been taken west, and five of the archer regiments. I have lengthened the shift upon the wall to half a day, and yet still do we not have enough, not if I am to continue scouting the area as well.
“And yet,” continued the Baron, “I do not see how seven ern might climb the wall without anyone noticing. Until the attack tonight, none of my soldiers have been reported missing or slain, so the ern have not simply done away with witnesses. And nor has my wall been breached since the battle so many years ago.
“And then there is the matter of scouting. Finding Ayrim would be a simple matter, even for ern, for everyone in town knows our young swordsman. Locating him would be as simple as finding Dravin here. But what of the boy last night? Ern cannot simply wander around the square acquiring information. Yes, it has been confirmed that they possess, at least to a degree, the power of the Absence, but the Absence only destroys, it cannot provide them with locations of children in this city of mine. Ern should not have been able to find that boy.”