A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  Fighting the numbness that was fast spreading from his shoulder, he desperately brought his stick across his body in an artless parry. There was a resounding clack as wood met wood. A little flower of hope bloomed briefly. The next moment, petals went flying as a powerful stroke almost battered the stick from his hands.

  He tightened his grip, watching as the attacking sword skittered away from his defense, turned and swooped toward him again. He twisted desperately. There was another clack, the impact shivering up his arms. He twisted again and her next attack landed on his stick too, missing him.

  Her sword was suddenly everywhere at once, darting across his field of vision in a blur. He pushed himself to keep up but the violent clack! clack! drove him back, threatening his bloodless grip with every landed blow. His shoulders burned with the unaccustomed exertion, pain flaring from his injured arm with every jerky movement. Every hasty step sent a jolt of pain through his aching knee. His ears rung as the continuous cracking of wood, so close, stabbed at them. She drove him, herding him around the ring. Toying with him, he realized. Sudden anger, sparking from a wretchedly familiar place in him, flared to life and he felt his lips peel back from his teeth. Furious, he planted his feet, meeting her attacks head-on, swinging his own sword with mounting violence, heedless of the attacks she directed against him.

  Clack! Clack!

  He bulled forward. His anger blew impotently past her, turning to astonishment as she skipped effortlessly around his clumsy lunge. She moved with such blinding speed he was helpless to do anything but watch in growing horror as she darted in close to hammer an elbow into his jaw. His eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. The world drowned in an all encompassing ringing, as of a wet finger on a crystal rim.

  His eyes fell open. The ceiling of the court heaved slowly before him like a great ship. The world tilted around him. The pain where she’d clipped his ankle from under him crashed into him along with the floor. Air thumped from him. His head struck hard, momentarily stealing his vision. Nauseating light slowly drained away before his eyes. She stood over him, her stick raised above her head for the final blow.

  He felt sour hatred swirl in him. He gritted his teeth in a scowl as the sword started its decent.

  “Break,” came the inflectionless voice, muffled by the pained ringing. The stick halted in mid stroke. He stared at it defiantly, finally cutting his eyes past it to the masked face behind. There was a faint gleam of eye whites from beneath the protruding brow guard. She turned, as if he’d ceased to exist, and made her way back to her own line.

  The expressionless face of Crysopher replaced her above him.

  “I think,” the man mused, “we’d best spend your first day on how to properly hold a sword.”

  He barely heard the man. He couldn’t remember when last he’d felt anything but the bleak despair that had become so much a part of him. He could feel it, hovering on the edges of his thoughts even now. Almost anything was better. He’d take pain. Oh, yes. He’d take anger. He’d even take hatred. And he’d do it with a smile.

  “Hold on to that glint in your eye,” the master said from above him, leaving him to pick himself up, “and you might even survive.”

  CHAPTER 4 – NEW DAY

  “Cyrus!?!”

  The startled healer stumbled mid release. The throwing axe careened drunkenly to shatter a large beaker, a flood of viscous fluid carried stacked scrolls and assorted implements to the laboratory floor with an almighty racket.

  Justin, who’d just walked in, watched in astonishment as the healer straightened, glaring at the demolished beaker.

  “Tsk. And that had almost done fermenting.”

  “Cyrus…” he breathed in astonishment as the old priest, perhaps the most unlikely person ever to do so, hefted another throwing axe and took aim. “Is that an Atrian axe board?”

  “Maybe.”

  He peered at the new wall decoration from a safe distance.

  “And is that a Nemil death fetish nailed to it?”

  “Could be.”

  He stared at the snarled collection of hair, bones, teeth and twigs, stapled to the bullseye of the axe board. He shuddered to think where Cyrus had laid hands on an authentic death fetish – they were supposed to be buried with their owners. Before the settlement wars, Nemil shamans had fashioned them from the remains of slain family and enemies. As battle wards, they’d supposedly enticed death to bypass the wearer. The Temple had outlawed the practice, calling it idolatry. Modern Nemil had obediently eschewed it, though their coin purses often contain innocuous hairs, or bones or teeth.

  “Do I need to ask what you’re doing?”

  “Experiment,” Cyrus confirmed, sighting with one watery eye. “The next magical surge will be tomorrow around noon. If I can’t hit the fetish then, I’ll know it’s working…”

  “I see…” he drawled. A murder of flightless axes crowded the floor beneath the board and while the surrounding wall sported myriad new scars, the axe board itself was virtually unmarked. “You may have to rethink your test procedure,” he mused.

  His eyes shot wide as another thought occurred.

  “You weren’t doing this when Speaker Willionson was here, were you?” He’d just glimpsed the Assembly member leaving Cyrus’s laboratory a moment before.

  “Maybe,” Cyrus allowed, guiltily.

  “Cyrus!” he cried in disapproval.

  “At least he didn’t look in that drawer,” the healer defended.

  He turned toward the indicated drawer. “Why? What do you have in–”

  He could feel the blood rushing from his face.

  “–Cyrus you didn’t!” he wailed in despair. The healer chuckled nastily.

  In the drawer, swaddled in silk, lay a glossy sphere, smooth as finest glass but dun brown in color and just slightly too big to fit comfortably in one’s palm.

  A casual glance might mistake it for a glow globe. Justin knew better.

  “Meno Gorgis,” he identified with a groan.

  The Eye was a sacred artifact. Supposedly Allerius Prime had slain the fire breathing gorgoul and, as proof of his conquest, had cut it from the creature’s skull. It was supposed to be safely ensconced in an unbreakable crystal case in the Temple’s Primus Sanctori, displayed along with the prime’s weapons and armor.

  He hid his face at this newest blasphemy. “You replaced it with a fake?” he mumbled through his fingers.

  “Naturally,” Cyrus declared. “I can’t wait to see what it does during the surge!” the healer gushed, excited as a child. Albeit a child no sane parent would want within rock (or axe) throwing distance of anything valuable.

  “You,” he told his friend, “are going to get us both excommunicated.”

  And quite possibly burned at the stake, he added to himself.

  “There is no reward without risk,” Cyrus declared, awkwardly hurling the axe he held. The weapon struck the axe board – haft first – and kicked off into a lazy tumble.

  The old priest dodged with unexpected alacrity as the axe wheeled past. There was another crash somewhere off in the crowded laboratory. Cyrus straightened, twitching his robes into a more dignified drapery.

  “I’d say you’re due for a whole lot of reward then,” he couldn’t help laughing.

  “Why are you bothering me anyway?” Cyrus finally deigned to meet his eyes. “I’m busy.”

  “I know. That’s why a brought you this.” He handed the hide bound volume over. “I unearthed it amid some of my old things. I’d quite forgotten I had it.”

  The healer fished his spectacles from the front of his robes.

  “‘The Re-emergence of Magic by P. Lorant’,” Cyrus read. “Who in the dark places is ‘P. Lorant’?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Cyrus glared at the offending manual, finally peering up over his glasses.

  “Well my research is obviously going swimmingly. How’s your little project doing?”

  “Hah!”

  He lunged, slam
ming down with his lead foot and keeping his seirin level, making sure to keep his arms slightly bent. All around him, his classmates froze in identical poses.

  “Balance,” Master Crysopher was saying. “It is what stands between you and death. The full lunge overextends you. Never commit to it unless your opponent has lost both arms and, for preference, consciousness as well.”

  No one laughed. Master Crysopher didn’t make jokes.

  “Again!”

  Marco returned to his guard stance, copied by every other student in the court.

  “Nine!” the master shouted.

  “Hah!” echoed the entire class, lunging forward again.

  “Balance,” the master continued. “As a warrior, you are constantly balanced on the edge between life and death. Lose you balance and there is only one side you can come down on.Again!”

  They all pulled back into their starting positions.

  “Ten!”

  Marco lunged, paying extra attention to his center of balance.

  “Hah!” he shouted along with the class. Sweat matted in his eyebrows and slicked his hair to the back of his neck.

  “Are you tired yet?” Master Crysopher shouted.

  “No, master!” they chorused in unison.

  “Do you a want a brief rest?”

  “No, master!” he mouthed along with the rest. His arms were leaden and his lower back was on fire. He’d kill someone for a mouthful of water. A good thing that wasn’t an option. Everyone else in class was still better than him.

  “Good!” shouted the master. “Because you’ve had it easy! A real masha’na goes to battle in four stones worth of armor!”

  No one thought to question why anyone would want to outfit two dozen children in lamellar plate and chain. None of them here thought of themselves as children.

  “Again!”

  He drew himself back into his guard pose.

  “One!”

  “Hah!”

  “Two!”

  He lost himself in the flow and ebb of movement, the satisfying burn of muscle, his hot breath rasping in and out of his hoarse throat.

  “Hah!”

  “Hah!”

  The numbing repetition was bliss. It filled his mind from corner to cranny, leaving no room for despair, grief or any other emotion. It was just him, the seirin in his hands and the voice in his ears.

  “Hah!”

  He could still feel the wound left by everything that had happened to him. It lay like a brand across his soul. It was ugly. The edges pebbled and malformed and still tender to the touch. But it was healing. Slowly. He tried to avoid thinking about it whenever possible. But it wasn’t always possible and every now and then, her face would appear before his mind’s eye. And he hadn’t the heart to chase it away. Whenever that happened, his lungs would constrict and his concentration shatter. He took any punishment that came his way as a result of the lapse stolidly, refusing to explain what had happened. It was none of their business.

  “Hah!”

  He imagined his pain as a physical thing. He imagined it standing before him, smirking. He fleshed it with a seamed and scarred face that haunted his nightmares. He lunged.

  “Hah!”

  The seirin had started to tremble in his grip before master Crysopher finally called a halt.

  “Alright, that’s it for today. See you all tomorrow, bright and early.”

  There was a lessening of the tense atmosphere as people lowered their practice swords, turning to their neighbors to exchange a quiet word or stretching to try and work the obstinate kinks out of sore muscles. Many began to move gradually in the direction of the doors or the weapon racks.

  He lowered his seirin to his side, staring at the palm of his free hand. So much had changed in a few short months. Blisters had formed and broken and formed again. His hands were covered in the beginnings of monster calluses. He was stronger now. His heart was stronger. Almost strong enough to hold the memory of Sunny’s without buckling. He flexed his hand.

  But not quite yet.

  A familiar, hoarse laugh reached his ears and he looked up.

  Djenja stood some way away, talking animatedly with her two friends. Or one friend, depending on how you looked at it. The two Kenders were the twin daughters of some highborn Kender nobleman and alike as two peas in a pod. Their identically slight frames, canted black eyes, set in mirrored faces and chin length hair were the object of every male fantasy in the class. For him, their dusky skin merely served to highlight Djenja’s pale glow. She was a head taller than either of them. He’d developed a bit of an obsession with her, he knew. There was nothing romantic about it. But by beating him that first day, she’d set herself up in his mind as some kind of standard. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he was good enough to defeat her. Or at least equal her. Neither of which would be happening anytime soon. She was among the top three in the class and he was still on the bottom rung.He shook his head slightly in vexation.

  “Better give up on that idea,” a voice said lightly in his ear, making him jump.

  “Lokus!” he exclaimed, scowling at his friend. “Make some noise when you walk!”

  Lokus chortled in delight, showing perfect teeth.

  The willowy boy put an arm around his shoulder, turning him to point off to their left.

  “You see what happened to the last one who tried?”

  He looked. Lokus was pointing to Edriss, a thickset, pimply boy with a bandage wrapped about his head. His broken nose hadn’t mended completely yet.

  “He broke that wrestling with Wan,” Marco supplied.

  “He says,” Lokus corrected, tone leaving no doubt as to whom he suspected. “Have you noticed he no longer tries to talk to her?”

  “He used to talk to her?” He hadn’t known that.

  “Tried, I said,” Lokus chuckled. “And of course, Snicker and Giggle can’t keep a straight face whenever they look at him.”

  He transferred his gaze to the twins – Snicker and Giggle, as Lokus called them. In actuality they were the ladies Serenity and Generosity Kuwon. Or Sera and Gena, if you knew them, which he didn’t. He raised his eyes back to Djenja, only to find her unfriendly stare on him. Startled, he cut his eyes quickly away. Noticing, the twins giggled, though in Serenity’s case it was more of a snicker.

  “Ouch,” Lokus drawled into his ear in mock sympathy. “You want me to break your nose now and spare you the suspense?”

  He shrugged the taller boy off angrily.

  “It’s not like that,” he argued.

  “Uh huh,” Lokus nodded with overdone skepticism on his porcelain features. “Try telling her that.” Lokus stilled at his own words, his bright green eyes, big as a girl’s and with longer lashes, suddenly alight with inspiration.

  “Oh, no,” he forestalled desperately, seeing the idea take shape in his friend’s eyes. “Oh, no you don’t!”

  But of course that was exactly the wrong thing to say to Lokus, who whirled towards the three girls, happily waving one lean arm.

  “Hey–!”

  He managed to clamp a hand over Lokus’s mouth before the rest of the damning words could out. Awkwardly gripping his seirin as well as his friend, he forced Lokus’s waving arm down. But the other one shot up immediately, continuing the energetic wave. He bulled into the taller boy, using his greater weight to propel them towards the door. People stared as the two of them, locked in their awkward embrace, stumbled past. He could feel the three girl’s eyes on them as well and he hunched his shoulders.

  “Mmm hmpff!” Lokus mumbled in surrender when they were almost all the way to the exit. He stopped, glaring at his friend. Large, innocent eyes pleaded mutely with him.

  “Fine,” he said, releasing Lokus, who stood back to regard him seriously. Even sweat damped, the silvery blonde hair billowed, drawing many envious girls’ glances.

  The seriousness evaporated in a blink to be replaced by an impish grin. Lokus whirled, arm already upraised.

  “Hey, D
jen–”

  “Aagh!” he roared, tackling his friend out the door. With consummate grace Lokus tripped him and then they were wrestling. The willowy boy moved like an eel. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen anyone land a blow on Lokus. He’d be among the top students if he’d only take the training seriously for more than a breath at a time.

  Laughing, they tumbled out onto the outside landing. Somehow, Lokus managed to land on top of him, pinning him to the ground with one knee digging into the small of his back and a hand pressing his face to the wooden boards.

  He thumped the board next to him with a fist, venting his frustration.

  “Snake!” he accused, muffled because his lips were half-pressed to the boards.

  Lokus chortled delightedly.

  “Who’s the guy in the purple night dress?”

  Startled, he struggled against Lokus’s grip to raise his head.

  There, at the bottom of the stairs, waited a familiar figure.

  “Justin…”

  Sensing his sudden distress, Lokus let him scramble to his feet. He stared. It really was the keeper, standing patiently at the bottom of the stairs. His heart was suddenly beating a ragged tattoo against his ribcage. Lokus looked from him to the motionless priest.

  “I’ll just take this back inside, shall I?” Lokus offered, scooping up the seirin he’d dropped.

  He heard his friend depart but couldn’t take his eyes off the keeper. Breathing too fast, he started down the steps – he didn’t remember there being so many – and halted a careful half a dozen paces from the priest. Justin studied him carefully, eyes raking him up and down. A slow smile spread across the keeper’s face. It was the smile he remembered so well.

  “You look well,” Justin said.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded, aware that he was being rude. He wasn’t sure what his feelings were toward the keeper. He should be angry. He should feel betrayed. He was angry. And he did feel betrayed. But those emotions were uncomfortable, sharing space in his mind with the keeper.