The Dragon Knight's Soul (The Dragon Knight Series Book 4)

by D. C. Clemens

  On top of that, Master Shepley, as several spectators called him, gave those unfamiliar with the proper form of arm-wrestling a few quick tips to make sure they did not hurt themselves when they put all their energy into one arm. This gave him less of an advantage and so made it all the more impressive when he won.

  Most of his competitors were not the ornately dressed ones, but their less prosperous, gruffer friends or bodyguards. A few tried two or three times to pin his hand, convinced they could tire out their frailer looking opponent. However, he so far carried more endurance than the six men he faced. Except for the two minute break the rules provided him, Shepley did not get a lot of rest after the arm brawls, so he must have had an incredibly deep prana reserve or a master level of proficiency, or a combination of both.

  I figured my father or Eudon could beat him, but they had at least another decade or more to hone their prana over a man that must not have been older than thirty. Shepley also did not strike me as a warrior. Not one to be feared at any rate. His light brown hair fell over his beady, naturally watery eyes like the uncombed fur of those big shaggy dogs. His pale skin had not seen the light of day for the last several weeks or months, and that natural shell looked as smooth and unscathed as a newborn’s. How did he achieve such strength if not through sheer toil?

  I looked for ways he might be cheating, such as a prana crystal giving him a surplus of power or a rune draining his opponent’s energy. I dismissed those possibilities after a loser accused Shepley of them. A basement guard stood nearby and answered that Master Shepley passed inspection every time he set up shop at this inn. Those who observed the matches also supported Shepley’s claim to honesty. As far as I heard, the slack Shepley never spoke up himself.

  I knew I’d lose, but I had to experience his strength up close. Once the two others ahead of me lost, I walked up to the table and bet a bronze standard.

  Taking the coin, a mellow Shepley asked, “Not very confident in yourself, are you?”

  “Brute strength isn’t my forte. Now, if you want to challenge me in flame or blade, I’d bet everything on me right now.”

  Lifting a mug of ale from the floor to take a sip, he asked, “How much is that?”

  “Enough to tempt you to tell me your secret.”

  “Doubt that. I’ve turned down many an offer to teach the youngins of wealthy folk. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  We leaned in, put our right legs forward, placed our elbows down, and locked hands. The inn guard was in charge of starting the match once both participants declared themselves ready. I figured most contenders made the mistake of sending too much prana into their arm too early, so on the guard’s verbal signal to begin, I only sent half the prana I could apply to my employed limb.

  Already my method appeared ill-conceived when my forearm was pushed two-thirds of the way to the table half a second later. I recovered in time to stop his progress, but that required a wasteful surge of prana. All I did from there was to keep sending prana to keep my hand in the same angle. Though it looked bad for me, over ten seconds in this position still had me lasting longer than most of this evening’s rivals. Fifteen seconds and Shepley’s face wrinkled, an expression only one another forced out of him.

  The back of my hand smacked the tabletop to end the match. I never had to direct so much prana to one specific body part for so long before it numbed. Guessing he would resist telling me his secret with everyone around, I decided to let him be. I would keep an eye out for an opportunity to speak with him alone.

  For the time being, I checked on Ghevont and Gerard at their table. I expected them to be low on coin, but they essentially had the same amount. As the knight explained, Ghevont read bluffs well and strategized with the best of them, but his own face and words lacked tact, so he won a round as often as he lost them.

  So without a dearth of coin compelling us to leave, I joined them on another table, this one involving a game called liar’s dice. Unlike the oracle game, this one had simpler rules, yet it kept an engaging level of strategy and deception. I especially enjoyed when someone called me a liar and turned out to be wrong. It was even better when I called someone else a liar and the dice proved me right. I had become quite hooked by the end of the third round. I didn’t even realize Ghevont had moved on to another game until Gerard and I ordered two sandwiches of meat and cheese before the fourth round started.

  “Can you keep something just between us?” Gerard asked me.

  “You know me, I’m a blabbermouth.”

  The knight reached behind his left hip and pulled out a small, curved pipe made from a dark briar wood. He called over a wench and ordered tobacco. As we waited for the shavings to be delivered, he said, “I understand why you don’t drink, but this you should try. It takes a few puffs to get used to, but once you do, you’ll wonder how you lived without it.”

  “So it’s something else I have to worry about losing.”

  “For some it gets bad as that, but I’ve noticed it only happens when someone gets an unbroken supply of the stuff. Not something we often have in our travels. Besides, I’m offering for those nerves of yours. We didn’t train much today, and I’m guessing it’s why you came down here in the first place.”

  “You’re not entirely wrong…” To the wench that brought the tobacco, I asked, “You have a spare pipe?”

  Moments later and Gerard showed me the intricacies of pipe smoking. I learned to pack the tobacco so it became full but not tight, to let the first flame die out before relighting it, and to draw the smoke slowly without breathing it into my lungs. It was all about relaxing and taking my time. Perhaps due to smoke already in the air, it did not take me long to get used to the burning sweetness in my mouth. I still wouldn’t say I enjoyed the dry flavor, but twenty minutes after taking my first real draw, a warm calmness did extend to my insides. I thought it appropriate for a dragon knight to bear such a smolder within themselves.

  My time on this table would have lasted beyond the sixth round if an announcement did not get the attention of the bettors. The shouted message informed everyone that the ring matches were about to begin. Most of the patrons rushed to get to the first-come, first-served chairs circling the ring. Others stood behind them or on top of the tables and chairs they pushed closer to the crowd, furniture now free since the table games ended for this main event.

  Just as the void in my memory deterred me from getting drunk, so did my experience in the Advent’s to-the-death fighting pit make me averse to watching animals or men fighting for sport. I thus stayed in my seat drinking plain water with Gerard. I did note that Ghevont and Shepley tried to get a view of the upcoming matches, with the scholar attempting to find out what his mind should be paying attention to the most.

  My own mind was primed to ignore the matches altogether, but my interest in the matter grew when a blonde haired wench with a robust voice stood on top of a bench. She bid everyone to shut the fuck up so she could introduce the first pair of participants. After looking at the scroll she held, she introduced them by saying, “First up is Haijen Burnig, second eldest son of Grug Burnig! For those unfamiliar with the esteemed father, Grug is that drunk lard-ass ready to fuck the first dog he sees!”

  “Whiiches why I’mmm t-thinking of f-f-fucking your ass!” responded someone in the crowd.

  A resounding shout of agreement.

  “All right, settle down, ya bunch of no good lechers. As you can see, Haijen is already showing off his father’s paunch. That big gut should give him an edge over our second hopeful, Brock Shepley! Skinny like his father over there, but his frame is misleading if he’s anything like the parent. Haijen has won… let’s see… seventeen of his twenty-five bouts here. He turns fourteen in two months, so it’ll be one of the last times we see him in this humble little ol’ ring of ours. Brock is twelve and yet untested here, but his father assures me he’s ready to give us a show!”

  Everyone rose their tankards and hollered.

  “Betting on c
hildren?” said Gerard. “I’m glad Odet isn’t here.”

  “Why? Because she might have the balls to stop it?”

  Giving me a sidelong look, he said, “I could get her down here, if you wish.”

  On the verge of ordering more than water, I answered, “No, you were right the first time. Fighting pits just don’t bring out the best in me.”

  “Rules are simple, boys,” continued the announcer. “Pin your opponent to the ground longer than five seconds and you win! Do whatever you can to carry out that goal. We keep going until one of you can’t. Place your bets for round one now!”

  According to the declarations and shouts I heard over the next half hour, Haijen confirmed that bulk and experience won out more often than not. For the sake of those placing stakes on him, Brock snuck in a win when the chubbier youngster couldn’t catch his breath in time. Regardless, the crowd was pleased to get to the next pair of more evenly matched children.

  Brock expelled himself from the mob to get to his waiting parent. The child’s shorter, darker hair grew straighter than his father’s, but he did share his small eyes and pale skin. Otherwise, the boy’s bruised face and nicked body made it difficult to tell how he really looked like. Some of his soon-to-be scabs were covered up when his father put on a tunic for him. Uninterested in the next matches, the duo made for the stairs.

  Slapping Gerard’s shoulder and putting my pipe down, I said, “Stay with Ghevont.”

  I followed the father and his child out of the basement. Wanting more privacy than the first floor offered, I waited to see whether they headed for a room or went outside. They went outside.

  A few feet outside the entrance, in a quiet street under the light of stars and torches, I asked, “Master Shepley, do you have a moment?”

  He stopped and apathetically turned around. “Ah, I don’t do rematches outside. Or were you the one who wanted to know my secret?”

  “Secret. You’re not a warrior, I take it.”

  “You take it correctly.”

  “Then why train your strength so much?”

  “You and the other challengers keep giving me the reason.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “My father.”

  “And you’re teaching your son?”

  Resting a hand on Brock’s head, he said, “That’s how it goes, right?”

  “What will it take for you to tell me how you trained?”

  “My own castle. A nice one.”

  “With servants,” said Brock.

  “Ah, yes, we mustn’t forget the servants.”

  “Are you worried I’m going to spread your family secret?” I asked.

  “I’d be more worried about the technique killing you before you got the chance to spread it.”

  “Killing me, huh? And you’re not worried about your son? Your father wasn’t worried about it killing you?”

  “Yes, but fathers can keep a close eye on their sons. You’ll probably push yourself too far if I tell you what to do, then your death is on my hands. And even if you do master it, you’ll use it to shed blood. I like to keep my hands free of blood, thank you.”

  “You’re right, I do plan to shed blood. In fact, I already have…” I pushed back my cloak and rolled up the left sleeve of my shirt. I next unwound the cloth covering my forearm, revealing the chain-teeth I normally went out of my way to hide from people. “This is a fiend’s tail. Its corruption coursed inside me while I battled in the fighting pit my captors dropped me in. Unlike your son’s experience, my fighting pit lasted until something died. Now I go after these cultists with every intent to shed blood.”

  “Cultists? Do you mean the Advent?”

  “Aye.”

  “Alslana’s old king stopped by here not so long ago to warn us about them. You from Alslana?”

  Rewrapping the cloth, I replied, “I have allies there.”

  He shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry for what the cult did to you, but that only means you shouldn’t take risks when you’re in the middle of your revenge mission.”

  “Risks? Every time I fight I risk pulling out the corruption still sealed within me. I risk the lives of the people I care about in this mission of mine. I risk a damn lot every damn day, so tell me what I risk this time.”

  The father hung his head. “Fine, fine, but keep this to yourself.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Yeah, sure. Go home, Brock. Tell your mother I’ll be there soon.”

  “She’ll want to know why you’re not with me.”

  “Then tell her the truth. Go.” Watching his child slink off into the dark, he asked, “You listenin’?”

  “Aye.”

  He looked back at me. “Good, ‘cause I’m only sayin’ this once. The technique is simple, almost laughably so. That’s what makes it dangerous, you see. Most people put all the prana they can into their feats of strength, but that takes a long time to perfect. My father learned of a better way, an older way.”

  “How’d he do that?”

  “A Somesh lord hired some locals to clean out Flatwick Castle before he moved into the long abandoned place. My old man so happened to be clearing the cellar when he found a cupboard full of old scrolls. Most turned to dust at his touch, but a couple of ‘em could still be read without breaking, so he took ‘em and read ‘em. One described this old technique that taught men to lift full grown horses over their heads. My father so happened to be the gullible type.”

  “But then it so happened to work.”

  “Well, he couldn’t lift full grown horses, but still. With great strength came great visions of the future. To this day I remember him talking to my mother about our family becoming the next great clan of the Glims. How kings from all across Orda would seek to learn from him. Then his brother died. The scroll warned him, but that didn’t stop him from trying to teach his kin. The danger finally dawned on him.”

  “But he still taught you?”

  “Too late to stop me from learning, though I stopped for a few months. Anyway, it broke my old man’s vision for the future. Didn’t want to end up killing half his people to give the surviving half the ability to lift a little more weight. He focused on making sure I didn’t push myself to death.”

  “But you’re teaching Brock.”

  “Couldn’t help myself. My boy was a wild one from the beginning. The easiest way to get him to listen to me was by showing him what strength I could impart to him. I had to keep my end of the deal when he actually started listenin’ to me. Hope you’re no wild one.”

  “I’ve never been accused of it.”

  “I’m serious. Your heart always needs to stay calm and steady in the beginning so that my technique doesn’t overwhelm it.”

  “I’m at my calmest while training.”

  “Is that so?” He ran his hand through his hair, getting the longer clumps out of the way. “Like I said, most people pour their prana all at once into their punch or kick. Makes sense, except they’re missin’ a step, which means they’re doing more work than they need to.”

  “Wait, you’re saying adding an extra step means less work?”

  “That’s right. Thanks to godly wisdom, people know our blood connects us with our soul. Without blood, we die, and losing blood means losing prana. So what pushes this all-important essence of life?”

  “Uh, the heart?”

  “Exactly. Send prana to your heart first. Once it’s there, your heart’s natural beats can help push your prana in a way your mind alone cannot. Timing is important for both the effect and for safety. You cannot collect and keep a whole heap of prana in your heart for longer than a couple of beats. Doing so will make it flutter worse than the first time you put your dick in a woman. Er, you have done that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I don’t have to change my example. Listen, you first have to get good at feeling your heartbeats in as many circumstances as you can think of, that way you never have to send your prana in blindly. Get really good at
sensing the opening between beats. Use that opening to collect the prana in your chest and then release that power to wherever you’re sending it to on the very next beat.”

  “How long before that gets me results?”

  “Patience. As soon as you time it perfectly you’ll experience your prana rushing out to your muscle or spell, and that’s the problem. My uncle suddenly thought he mastered the technique and sent too much prana too quickly. Got a heart attack trying to lift one of those big barrels of wine. Stay on the steady course. Master this technique before you throw a punch or lift a cup. Master it in your training with sword or spell before you ever use it in a real fight. Wait until your mind turns the technique into a habit. It’ll be tempting to speed up the process, but wait until habit has set in before taking those next steps.”

  “And how long did it take for your mind to make it a habit?”

  “Three, four years. Though I was pretty young and had no warrior’s instincts.”

  “Is the fighting pit supposed to give your son a warrior’s instincts?”

  “You really aren’t from here. People in the Glims don’t consider those fighting pits training grounds for warriors. It’s simply something for boys to do and men to bet on.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “Just repeating the word ‘patience.’ The heart does enough work. Let it adjust for as long as it needs.”

  “I swear not to die by a heart attack, Master Shepley. Thank you for…”

  “Uh, something wrong?”

  I turned back to face him. “Sorry. I thought I heard a familiar… Never mind. I’ll leave you to your family.”