Thornbear (Book 1)

by Michael G. Manning

  The tone of their sessions was changing as well. Cyhan no longer remained entirely silent; he began using demonstrations, along with short explanations.

  “You have learned silence,” he told Gram, “and that’s good, for silence is at the center of zan-zei. Now we begin to train your body and your mind.”

  Gram understood enough to wonder at that statement. “Won’t that interfere?”

  Cyhan’s face softened faintly, a sure sign that he had asked a good question. “Yes, and no. You will have to work hard to retain what you’ve learned, to keep the silence within. The silence is the animal, the unthinking part of you. It understands the world far better than your waking mind does, but in order for you to fight men, you must train your body. First I show you, then you practice what you’ve seen until your muscles remember it. Then your mind must forget, and allow the silence to control the flow.”

  “It sounds like going backward and then forward again.”

  “Exactly, now pay attention, there are four basic arm-locks you must learn…”

  The week progressed with more of the same. Hours filled with demonstrations and practice, endless repetition, and then they would stop. Gram would come prepared to learn more, but Cyhan might only ask him to sit again, or stand, meditating on silence, until his body faded from his awareness.

  Another week passed, and his teacher began to bring different weapons with him. One day it might be maces, or flails, the next day it would be the staff, or a great sword. In each case, as soon as Gram felt he had begun to get a feel for something, Cyhan would change the routine. They wore heavy mail on some occasions and nothing but simple clothes the next.

  The constant change was sometimes stressful, but whenever Gram became frustrated, his teacher would stop, and then Gram would be made to meditate again.

  Overall it was the most bizarre sort of training Gram could imagine.

  “You never let me master anything,” he complained one day, during one of the rare moments that his teacher allowed him to speak freely.

  “Mastery is an illusion that only serves to get you killed.”

  “So I’d be better off if I never learned anything then,” said Gram sarcastically.

  “I have fought for most of my life, and I have seen many ‘masters’. They are no different than anyone else, and they often die at the hand of someone who had never picked up a blade before. Mastery breeds confidence, and confidence leads to arrogance. You must learn enough to be confident, no matter what your weapon, or the place or time, but every fight must be treated as if it were the first, and last, fight of your life.

  “When I met your father, he was already a master swordsman, and his skill was always greater than mine with a blade, yet he rarely got the upper hand when we sparred. Do you know why?”

  Gram was surprised to hear the knight admit to any sort of inferiority, but he had learned enough to have a ‘feeling’ for the answer, though he couldn’t articulate it. He struggled for a minute before answering, “Because of the sword.”

  “Yes. He fought with the sword. He had been trained his entire life, to fight with it, and he was brilliant. But battle is about more than a sword, and you must learn to fight with more, the entire world is your weapon.”

  Even the mild criticism of his father irritated him, but the annoyance was tempered by Cyhan’s compliment. Gram had never heard Cyhan use the word ‘brilliant’ in any context ever before. He might say ‘good’ on rare occasions, but they were very rare. Normally, praise from the old veteran took the form of a neutral expression that indicated you might not be completely hopeless.

  When they finished that day, he waited until they were walking back and asked a new question. “Did you like my father?”

  Cyhan didn’t answer at first, taking a half a minute to think. “Not at first.”

  “But you did later?”

  “I thought he was a fool, but later I learned to respect him. It was years before I knew why I disliked him.”

  They were almost to the keep before he clarified the remark. “I disliked him because he still believed, in right and wrong, in goodness—and evil. I had given up on people, I lived only to satisfy my honor, sacrificing everything for a rigid code.”

  “Did you change your mind?”

  Cyhan sighed, “Not until the very end. He had to die before I learned the lesson he was teaching.”

  “Are you trying to teach that to me?” asked Gram, embarrassed even as he asked the question.

  The old warrior laughed, “Ha! No, that’s not something I can teach, nor do you need to learn it. You’re much like him. I’m just trying to make you a better fighter.”

  “Than him?”

  “Than me,” finished the big man.

  Chapter 17

  The weeks rolled by and Gram found himself completely absorbed by what he was learning. Most afternoons he spent with Cyhan, who made certain that every training session was different in some way. Although the constant change had bothered Gram at first, he began to grow comfortable with it, enjoying the challenge of adapting to new rules and situations. His relationship with Chad Grayson changed too.

  He began to spend some of his mornings with the hunter, roaming the land around Castle Cameron. He quickly discovered that despite the woodsman’s proclivity for drinking he preferred to be up early, very early, though he had an interesting explanation for it.

  “Shhh,” he told Gram one morning. “Ye’re too fuckin’ loud.”

  “Is there something close?”

  “No, ye’re just aggravatin’ me hangover. Why do ye think I like huntin’?”

  Gram hadn’t given it any thought, so he replied, “I just assumed you liked nature.” He kept his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Well, yeah, but another part of it is because people are so damn loud. Out here all I have to deal with are overenthusiastic songbirds. Some o’ those bastards really piss me off.” He paused as a lark broke the silence, as if to illustrate his point. Chad grimaced.

  Gram found himself struggling to contain a laugh.

  “Ye think I’m jokin’? I’m dead fuckin’ serious, boy,” said the hunter with a deadpan expression. “The only bright spot is that if I get really pissed off I can kill somethin’. Back in the castle if I get too aggravated and kill someone they’d put me chains. Out here, if I murder somethin’ I can take it back and like as not the cook will give me a fuckin’ medal.”

  Gram gave up and began to chortle.

  “Stop it boy!” said the hunter as he began to laugh as well. “Ye’re makin’ me laugh now, and it’s gonna make my head explode.”

  ***

  The Winter’s Dawn festival arrived but for the first time he could remember, Gram wasn’t particularly looking forward to it. It was an interruption. He had grown to enjoy his training sessions and the preparations for the festival disrupted that for several days prior to it, and would probably prevent him from training for a few days after as well.

  He dressed in some of his best clothes, a fine blue doublet with complementary leggings and soft black boots. He had never lacked for a good wardrobe. The belt he wore was ornamented with silver fittings and a matching black scabbard for his feast knife. A silver chain was the only jewelry he wore, and it complemented the blue of the doublet.

  “Even mother would be pleased,” he noted aloud, thinking of how she would have fussed over him if she had been there.

  A glance in the mirror showed him that his hair was a bit wild, but he didn’t care for the latest fashion, which was to oil it. He preferred it loose rather than in wet-looking ringlets.

  I don’t have anyone to impress anyway, he thought.

  He hadn’t seen Alyssa much of late, other than at mealtimes. He had spotted her once or twice, walking with Perry Draper. Each time she had caught his eye, smiling and seeming as if she were trying to communicate with him purely through her gaze, but then she would return her attention to Perry and he would be left wondering if he had imagined it.


  Gram went into Washbrook in the early afternoon and sampled some of the sweets that were being sold. While he was walking he encountered Matthew and the two of them soon made their way over to the stage near the Muddy Pig. There was already music in the air, but they were there to hear the story tellers. Some of the best from across the region would be there, weaving their tales and amusing captivated crowds.

  The two friends had always sought the story tellers first, once they were old enough to be allowed to roam freely anyway. The tales told would range from the oldest, retellings of legendary events and heroes of history, to the more recent, such as stories about the Count, or Dorian Thornbear.

  It was probably for that reason that Mordecai Illeniel rarely showed himself at the event until the evening’s music and dancing had taken over the foreground. Some of the tales embarrassed him, others saddened him, and on occasion they simply pissed him off. He had told Gram and his own children many times not to believe most of what they heard.

  Still, it was an attraction no young person could resist. One year they had had a famous story teller from the capital come, and Moira had been fascinated to hear a tale involving her namesake, Moira Centyr, during the war with Balinthor. The fact that the story involved her true mother, born over a thousand years before, made it a tale of particular interest to her.

  This year most of the story tellers were locals, from Lancaster or Washbrook, and the boys had already heard their stories many times before. They listened anyway, enjoying them again and committing the details to memory.

  As evening fell the musicians began to gather by the stage and rather than competing from separate corners of the village as they did during the day, they began taking turns, playing old songs and new alike. The bonfire was lit and Joe McDaniel’s began to sell libations to those sitting at the benches and tables set up near his tavern.

  The area around the bonfire was cleared and the music grew louder as people began to dance. Only the most confident of dancers came out in the beginning, but as the drinks flowed, more and more people joined in the merriment. When enough people had taken to their feet, a call went up for a song called ‘The Dunny Drover’, a popular song with a traditional dance all its own.

  They lined up in rows, men and women facing one another, and the air was soon full of the sound of stomping feet as they reinforced the beat of the song with their steps. Even Matthew, who wasn’t overly fond of dancing joined in for that one.

  After that dance was done, the music changed, someone had asked for a jig. Some of the dancers retired to their seats, leaving the floor open for those with the energy and skill required for the fast paced and complicated dances. Most of those were the young, but some, like Joe McDaniel’s himself, were older, spry veterans.

  Gram’s eyes were searching, hoping to find one of the village lasses that danced well. Daisy Wellham would have been his first choice, for she was a girl with quick feet and a strong sense of rhythm, but someone else found him before he spotted her.

  “There you are,” came Alyssa’s voice, sounding from behind him.

  “Well, hullo yourself,” said Gram, gracing her with a smile. He was in a fine mood, a natural product of the dancing he had done already.

  “You told me you dance, as I recall,” she said, a challenging glint in her eye.

  “I do, and have done,” he replied confidently. “I was just searching for an able partner.” He let his eyes drift past her, scanning the crowd for Daisy once more.

  Alyssa narrowed her eyes, “Do you take me so lightly, Master Thornbear?”

  He grinned widely, showing more teeth than usual. This was his place, and when it came to dancing he felt none of his normal shyness. “Begging your pardon, Lady Alyssa,” he responded, adding the honorific since she had used his, “I meant no offense, but this is ‘Rolly’s Jig’ they are playing. I’ll need a very competent partner to make it interesting.”

  She arched one brow, “Perhaps I could offer myself…”

  He laughed, enjoying the competitive look on her face. He already knew she wanted the dance, but he couldn’t help but needles her a bit more. “This is no waltz or courtly pavan. I would not wish to force you beyond your capacity.” His eyes glimmered with mirth as he spoke.

  “I’ll take your challenge, Gram, and pay you back threefold for your discourtesy,” she shot back, slipping her hand into his. There was a smile in her voice.

  Pulling her close he stepped into the rhythm and spun her out before the words had left her lips. She didn’t falter, though, her feet matched his own and soon they were cutting the ground in sharp patterns, dancing and treading in time with the music. Her head tilted, admiring him as they worked together and he returned the look.

  He quickly discovered that his partner was no novice when it came to music and movement. The jig was soon over and a strathspey followed right after, but Alyssa never missed a beat. She rolled and flowed with the song like moonlight on the top of a stream. She whispered in his ear as the dance brought her into his arms once again, “You’ll pay for what you said before.”

  Her breath sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn’t lose time with the beat. When the next opportunity came he replied in similar fashion, “You’re welcome to try.”

  An hour passed as they danced, oblivious to the envious stares of some in the crowd. The air grew hot as their bodies warmed with the constant and frenetic motion, but neither of them asked to rest or retire.

  The tradition amongst the musicians was to play until everyone had surrendered, unable to continue with the fast paced reels. Couples danced until they could no longer continue, and once everyone had taken their seats the players would relent and change to a slower melody, allowing the more moderate dancers to return.

  After the first hour had passed, Gram and Alyssa were still dancing. Most of the other couples had admitted defeat, but the two of them refused to give way. Robert Lethy and Daisy were the last remaining, but even they were flagging, their mincing steps beginning to slow. Eventually they left the floor.

  “It appears we have vanquished our foes,” said Gram as she came close again.

  Alyssa met his gaze with smoldering eyes, “I still have one opponent left.” Heat radiated from her like a stove and her face was flushed. Neither of them were damp, they were soaked, sweating heavily despite the crispness of the early fall air.

  Something in her voice set a fire within him, a new blaze he had never encountered before. The smell of her made him ache, and he knew he wanted her in a way that was far from innocent. Breathing hard, he kept dancing, knowing that once he stopped she would likely be gone.

  “Then I’ll have you dancing until you beg me to stop,” he replied.

  Minutes passed and the crowd clapped, keeping time as one by one the musicians gave up and stopped playing, fingers tired and aching. Only when the last one stopped playing and Joe McDaniel came forward did they finally give in.

  “For the sake of the sanity, let it be!” shouted Joe, stepping out with two large tankards. “You two have made yer point!” The crowd laughed and cheered, letting the clapping come to an end while Gram spun Alyssa around one final time and then caught her up in his arms.

  Breathless, she buried her face against his neck as he carried her to the benches where Matthew and Moira waited, watching them with open admiration. Joe was following them with the tankards, pleasing the crowd as he announced a free round of drinks as a prize for their performance.

  Alyssa was heavier than he expected, a product of the athletic musculature of her slender frame. She felt hot in his arms but he kept her body close, refusing to surrender their contact until he reached the benches. As he walked he could feel her lips against his throat, soft and warm, whether they were there by chance or deliberation he wasn’t sure. His imagination told him she was kissing him there, her tongue darting out to taste the salt on his skin. It had to be his imagination.

  The sharp thrill of her teeth on his skin ended his internal debate
.

  Not yet being sixteen, Gram had had little experience of women, though he had come to accept the youthful urges that came with maturity. He had felt passion before, briefly, when looking at some of the young women of the village, and he had seen it returned more than once, but he had never considered acting on it. His upbringing had taught him not to abuse women of lower station, for that was what it would surely be if he were to tup one of them. He knew well that he could only marry a woman of the proper class and dalliances with others would be a cruelty and something that could leave him with bastards.

  But Alyssa was no commoner, and she was fully knowledgeable of his circumstances, as well as her own.

  Lust rose in him like a raging beast, a force more powerful than he had ever imagined it could be, blotting out all other thoughts. He lowered her gently to her seat with hands that were barely restrained from doing far more, his eyes roving to places where he dared not allow his hands to wander. She returned the look with such avidity it might have been scandalous if someone had seen it, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips.

  That almost sent him beyond reason. He was leaning close, not having straightened back up yet, and for a moment he felt the urge to kiss her. To press her back against the table and…

  “…Gram!” said Matthew again. “Are you going deaf?”

  He glanced at his friend with a combination of guilt and annoyance. “Sorry, what?”

  Matthew held up the tankards that Joe McDaniel’s had passed to him. “Take these, I’m not going to hold them forever.”

  Moira glanced at her brother before rolling her eyes, amazed at his obliviousness. “You two were amazing out there!” she said to return the air to normal.

  Gram nodded as Alyssa replied, “Thank you.”

  Taking the heavy flagon from Matthew he lifted it and began to pour it down his throat, as if the cool ale could satisfy the intensity of his thirst. His eyes never left Alyssa, though. She was sipping her own tankard and making small talk already, but her gaze returned to him frequently. Eventually she brought the conversation back to him.