Spirit Sword

by Sam Ford

  Jazreal dodged to her left and back, but Cale was already there, corralling her back toward the road. He taught her to look ahead, to count the steps in her mind. For every move there were countermoves. But they were not infinite. Wherever she moved, there were only so many things Cale could do in response. It was an exercise of the mind as much as the arm.

  Right now things did not look well. If he kept pushing her, she would end up right where he wanted her in just a few steps. She couldn't see a way out, and she knew Cale knew this. So she did the unexpected. She thrust forward and with a mad swing, aiming for the side of his head.

  He wasn't there. Instead, she’d over-extended herself and staggered forward. Cale sidestepped her, holding his sword behind his back. Out of the corner of her eye he was completely exposed, and yet she’d just sailed on past, unable to stop herself. A quick thwack on her bottom with the flat of Cale's blade and she landed face first in the dirt.

  "You cheated!" She came up sputtering. Cale was standing over her with a smile like a dog being praised by its master.

  "No I didn't." He extended a hand in offering. "You fought faster, but I thought faster."

  Jazreal knocked his hand away and stood on her own. Cale was a nice boy, but that was the problem. He was nice to a fault. Happy, eager to please, he had trouble seeing deception from those right in front of him. He really was still just a boy.

  Even if a cute one at that.

  "Let's get back on the road." Jazreal picked up her sword.

  Training blades were normally blunted to be safer for the trainees. Even then, when two swords clashed, steel against steel, or against the iron of an oaken shield, it left the blades dinged, cracked and obtuse. Yet Jazreal and Cale were using their red swords, and they maintained their razor's edge. Even Jazreal's pitted and scarred blade kept a honed edge which was deadly sharp. She asked Cale about it and he just shrugged.

  The pair mounted Horse and once more set off down the road. The day was hot and somewhat humid, accounting for their perspiration. Jazreal took a long swig from the water skin and then handed the canteen back to Cale. For most of their journey, he'd kept his hands around her waist and his chin on her shoulder. By this point though, he was more confident around horses. She was used to it, so she did not mind. At times it was almost a comfort. Today it was too hot.

  "Back off." She shouldered his chin away, the brim of his hat flicking the back of her head.

  "I can't get any air," he complained. "Your hair is in my face."

  "Too bad."

  "Why is it so long, anyway?" She felt a tug on her hair.

  "Don't play with my hair," she warned. "Cale, stop it."

  "What?" He laughed, and then put his chin back where it had been. "Are we there yet?"

  Jazreal sighed. "I do not know where we are going. I am merely following the road."

  "I wasn't asking you."

  "Oh. Right." She’d forgotten about his all-seeing magic sword.

  They passed another group of travelers on the road walking the same direction. These seemed to be more peasants, shoddily dressed with little in the way of supplies. The mothers held a lost, desperate look in their eyes, while the children were all scared, usually clinging to their mothers' skirts. What men there were seethed with anger. They had passed the first of the refugees a few days back and Cale had given them the last of their cheese, much to the scolding of Jazreal, who wanted to avoid the groups at all costs. Now, farther down the road and hundreds of refugees later, they were little more than a counting game and a welcome distraction. Though Jazreal still kept to the other side of the road when she passed them.

  "They look worser than wearing." Jazreal watched this latest group. A mother and her three children, all of whom appeared close to exhaustion, struggled forward.

  "The expression is worse for wear. And yeah, they do."

  The sadness in Cale's voice was audible. These were his people. Had he not met Jazreal, he would have been in the same spot. "Sword says most of these people are from villages which were attacked. I can still smell the soot on some of them."

  Jazreal could, as well. "I wonder why?"

  "The same reason your tribe was attacked?" he guessed.

  Her knuckles tightened on the reins. "And why is that?"

  "I don't know. That's what we're trying to find out."

  That evening they camped at a bend along the river amidst nearly a dozen other refugees. It appeared this was a good place to rest. There was no threat of rain, so they didn't bother seeking shelter, but instead slept under the stars. There was a small gathering around the communal campfire and everyone brought something to contribute for supper. Cale offered the last of their beans, and some kind soul provided a brush turkey. Wild onions were thrown into the pot with some salt and foraged rosemary and plums.

  The group was somewhat better off than the peasantry, as five were men and three had horses, both of whom were often killed or sent into slavery. One of the men in the group was a minstrel with a lute. He played for the group around the roaring campfire. He knew all the songs of the people.

  There was even another Indian present, some plump old squaw, but she was of a different tribe and so did not speak Jazreal's language. This irritated Jazreal for reasons she could not explain and she avoided her for the rest of the night.

  A gray-haired, one-armed man who owned a vineyard and passed around a skin of strawberry wine, the very last of his crop. As the night wore on and the children went to bed, the songs grew louder and the laughter more boisterous. Cale sang and danced while Jazreal clapped in time. Then, after she'd had entirely too much wine, Jazreal danced under the moon in memory of her people.

  Soon even that died down and the needs of revelry gave way to the needs of sleep. A few of the adults held out longer, discussing the affairs of the world around the dwindling campfire, while one man and woman copulated loudly just outside the light.

  Time to leave. Jazreal dragged Cale back to their camp, laughing and staggering all the way. They had hitched Horse farther away from the others--they didn't want to be caught unawares in the middle of the night.

  "I had so much fun!" Cale laughed, falling onto his bedroll.

  "I as well. For the first time in weeks I feel... happy."

  "Yeah. It's nice to have a distraction from everything that's wrong in the world. To be reminded everything will be okay. You just have to have faith." Cale smiled up at her. "Well, goodnight."

  Jazreal stood there listening to the sounds of the night. The frogs and owls and crickets held a concert of their own, setting a musical backdrop under a glowing white moon. The wind touched the grass, whispering across the fields and through the trees, dancing to the delight of all living things.

  And in the distance, far, far away, a lone wolf howled. But there was no reply, no pack to answer. A coyote yipped in response, but it was not of the wolf's kin and so there was no retort.

  Jazreal watched Cale sleep. Though they had shared the same horrific experiences, he always slept so peacefully--no night terrors, no fear of being assaulted in the dark. He had complete faith in that sword of his to protect him.

  Jazreal wanted that. She wanted the assurance and faith that someone would love her and watch over her. Maybe that would keep her nightmares away, for once. Jazreal puffed up her cheeks. They had taken to sleeping on opposite sides of the campfire. Her anger and distrust became habit, but she did not like it. Maybe it was the wine talking, but she was lonely. She was not used to sleeping alone, usually having shared a bed with Lydia or Old Mother or some other family member. They were there to protect you from evil spirits.

  But Cale was not family, and he was a boy. She could not ask him. Could she?

  "Um, Cale?" She shook him awake, her bedroll in hand. "Cale?"

  "Huh? Whazat?" Cale rubbed his eyes.

  "I, um... can I sleep with you?"

  "Sure, Tully." Cale lifted his blanket.

  Tully. That's right--Cale had grown up sleeping with h
is sisters. He wasn't used to being alone either, Jazreal realized as she spread her bedroll next to his and crawled under the blanket. This wasn't weird at all. He was already asleep again before she even got settled. Though the night was remarkably chilly for one sleeping alone, curling under the same blanket provided too much warmth for two people. Jazreal snuggled closer, watching Cale's face in the dim firelight. She moved a chestnut lock of hair behind his ear.

  Ancestors of old, his lips are cute, Jazreal thought to herself. And he has a few freckles, just like me.

  A wave of heat hit her and she looked down in panic, afraid she'd been bitten by a snake. Instead Cale's sword lay between them, radiating plenty of heat. Jazreal hesitantly laid her hand on it, almost too hot to touch.

  "Here to protect him, even in sleep, huh?" She looked at the sword and back at Cale, pursing her lips. Then she closed her eyes and, for the first time in nearly a month, slept a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

  The next morning was shrouded in fog, a thin layer of frost clung to the leaves in the trees, heralding the end of summer. The winemaker had died in his sleep. They buried him under a tree and the party disbanded without so much as a parting prayer.

  Jazreal was the last to leave his grave. She'd been standing there so long, lost in thought that Cale finally had to pull her away. She mounted Horse behind Cale and looked at the empty wineskin in her hand as they rode away.

  It made her incredibly sad, this last of the summer wine.

  Chapter XVIII

  Lost

  "You are most fortunate, Ranger Galway," the physician attendant assured him while his assistant wrapped his face in silk gauze. "Any higher and you would have lost the eye."

  "I am aware." Galway's voice was like gravel.

  He rode into Farrange after dark, looking like death warmed over. The Rangers had treated him, given him a room in accordance with his station and sent the camp healer to look after him. They held him down while they cleaned his face with boiling wine, applied a poultice of candle bush and avocado, and bound his face tightly in muslin. The amount of honeyed wine he’d consumed made his head spin, but he would not have been able to sleep without it. Suffice it to say, it had not been a good night.

  It was now three days later. The physician and his assistant were examining his stitches. There was some swelling and puss, so leeches and saltwater would be applied. Another fun night ahead.

  "Oh, to have seen the fight. I have already heard the bards practicing the song. It must have been such a glorious battle."

  "Battles are rarely glorious," Galway instructed through clenched teeth. "You said there was a message?"

  "Yes, of course. Two, in fact. Chief Ranger Jaster wishes an update on your current whereabouts. He was quite wroth when he heard you’d returned to Farrange alone. Do you think he might come here?"

  "No. You don't have enough feathered pillows."

  "Quite right you are, sir. Very funny, most masterful Ranger."

  "I'm not a Master anymore."

  "Forgive, noble Ranger."

  "And the second?" The assistant forced his face back into the light, annoyed that he kept moving. Galway's head hurt, this physician annoyed him, and he was tired. He wanted this over and done with.

  "Oh, yes. It simply says to meet in the training hall at your earliest available succor."

  "Who's it from?"

  "Why dear me, they did not say. Shall I inquire for you, Ranger Galway?"

  "No." Galway winced as the girl brushed against his face. "Get out."

  "But we have not yet finished the dressing."

  "She hasn't finished." He nodded to the girl seated at his side. "You've just been standing there. Leave."

  "Of course, Ranger Galway. I shall follow up with you succedent supper." The healer bowed deeply and backed out of the room.

  "Infuriating man."

  The physician was a tall, skinny man with a long face and oily black hair who talked entirely too much. He reminded Galway of a weasel living safely in a pit of Razorheads--the snakes knew they were in more danger than the weasel. Galway did not trust him half as far as he could throw him.

  The Nubian still working on his face didn't bother him. A beautiful girl with skin the color of oiled lignum, she was a freed slave if those gauges in her ears were any indication. She didn't talk much; that's what happens when you have your tongue cut out as a child.

  He sent her away once she’d finished, enjoying the sway of her hips as she left. Then he lay back on the bed to think. Chewing coca leaves helped with the pain.

  His failure left him in no position to do much of anything. He had been sent to find a sword. It was safe to say he’d found it, and then some. More than he counted on, in fact. Because of that, three Rangers had paid the ultimate price. They were horrible Rangers, in Galway's estimation as an instructor, but they were Rangers still. Their bodies had been retrieved the next morning and a local search party found no trace of the boy. Not that Galway had expected them to. Brutus had to be fished out of the river, but Yvette and Alexi were laid out to find, as if they'd been given last rites. The Rangers also found the shallow grave of the Indian girl he had killed, and no doubt had desecrated her corpse. Galway was none too happy about that, either.

  So where did this leave Galway? He knew the sword did exist, and more importantly, he had a trail he could follow. Unfortunately, he was now several days behind and had a lack of any Rangers at all, let alone any who could really track.

  Galway pined, for the hundredth time--what he wouldn't give for a few Rangers from Skytree to show these self-obsessed functionaries how it was done. But all that still left the question of what to do now?

  There was a knock at the door and Galway sat up. In walked a man Galway knew well. Tall, black hair and maybe half his age.

  "Dagger?"

  "Hello, Galway. How are you?" They clasped hands.

  "Dag, my lad! It's great to see you! What are you doing here?"

  "Oh, you know. I was in the territory and heard you got roughed up a bit. I came to see what all the fuss was about."

  Colt 'Dagger' Smith, or Dag to his friends, was a Ranger Galway had personally trained many years ago. He had practically been part of Galway's family, being best friends with his own child. He ranged trail most of the time--it was rare to see him in any town, let alone Farrange.

  "Let me guess. I should have seen the other guy, right?"

  "She's dead." Galway still wasn't sure how he felt about that. Killing little girls had never sat well with him. This one would haunt him, even if she had almost killed him in return. "Indian squaw nearly took my head off."

  "You have to watch out for those Indians. Best to just scalp them or keep your distance, because they will get the drop on you." Dag sat down. "But you knew that."

  "They got the drop on three of my Rangers."

  "I heard. I also heard a few in particular may have had it coming." Dagger's contempt for city Rangers was well-known and widely-circulated knowledge.

  "A few. Yvette could have been fair, if she had been sent to Skytree."

  "Yvette shouldn't have been sent anywhere. I know you've a soft spot for blonds, but she should have remained a consort and kept her mouth shut. And when that uppity lord sent her away, she should have had the decency to drink her hemlock tea that is oh-so-popular with the ladies at court."

  "Lad."

  "What?"

  "Give it a rest." Galway rested his head in his hands, momentarily forgetting about his face, and winced.

  "You alright, boss?"

  "I've gotten myself into something I shouldn't have. It was an easy job, too easy. I thought they’d finally recognized my deeds and would reward me. Come in out of the rain, you know? Maybe be reinstated as a Master Ranger or an instructor. I see now they only wanted someone with a history, so if I failed they can blame it on me."

  "So don't fail."

  "Not as easy as that, lad."

  "Want to talk about it?" Dagger sounded concerned.
He was also an incorrigible gossip.

  "If I could, you would already know."

  "Right."

  "I need your help."

  "Just name it." Dag perked up.

  Galway thought hard for a moment. "Put together some names--a team of people we know who I can trust. I need dependable, skilled and most importantly, loyal. We may have a kill order soon."

  "Sure, boss. You know you've got me."

  "You're at the top of the list."

  "When do you need them by?" Dagger was silently listing off names on his fingers. He was very smart but had a tendency to whisper aloud the thoughts in his head.

  "Not right now. Hopefully not at all. But if this goes pear-shaped, I will need them soon. Oh, and do you know where Bria is?"

  Dagger stopped mumbling and stared at Galway. "Yes..." he answered slowly."She's in Indian Territory, last I heard."

  "Do you think you can track her down?"

  "I'm one of a handful of Rangers who can find her even when she doesn't want to be found. You know that. It should take me eight or nine days, depending on the trail. But boss, I don't think she'll help you."

  Galway shook his head. "Too long, anyway. But put her on the list."

  "You sure?"

  "I'm sure." Galway sighed. We all have to come in from the rain sometime, he thought. "Get back to me in a few days with the results, will you?"

  "Sure thing." Dag stood and turned back at the doorway. "It's good to see you again, Galway. And... I’m sorry. For everything that happened."

  "Yeah." Galway spit the coca into a wastebasket. "You're sorry, I'm sorry, everyone's sorry, lad. We're just a sorry bunch of Rangers."

  "I mean it."

  "I know. It doesn't change the past." He sighed, standing to his feet. He steadied himself, still dizzy. "Go get that list."

  Dagger left without saying a word, leaving Galway alone once more. Lunch would be soon and his stomach growled at the thought. He needed to see what this meeting was about, however. He had the feeling he wouldn't have much of an appetite once it was over.

  Farrange was large for a Ranger camp, more of a town than an outpost. Wooden planks made up the streets, while shops and houses lined the road, staffed by civilians and retired Rangers. Though no city hall or temple, the town boasted an impressive array of blacksmiths and general stores to supply adventurers on their travels. The westernmost of the towns north of King's Crown, it made a good jumping off point for raids into Nubia or the Red Nations. It was also the closest supply depot to The Mine. While it outpaced Skytree in size and wealth, the Rangers of Farrange had forgotten their roots, forsaking their school in the face of material gain. Galway had faced that particular dilemma once before, and he had blinked.