“Raimie ended his life in cold blood!” Dim protested.
“It was in self-defense! I’d say that pulls the act under the purview of us both.”
“Technicalities…” Dim began.
“Would you two SHUT UP!” Raimie shouted, swinging his new sword in the direction their voices came from.
His blade passed through their faces, leaving not a single mark.
“Our agreement stipulates that we can appear when you’re by yourself, and I’d say you’re pretty well alone right now. What’s the problem?” Bright said in consternation.
“Yes, I’m alone. On purpose! I don’t want people near me at the moment,” Raimie replied gruffly, Silverblade’s point leveled at the two apparitions.
“But we’re not people,” Dim giggled.
Rage had a choke hold on Raimie’s throat.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” he roared past it, swinging the sword back in preparation to slice through them again.
Fear swelled in their eyes, and each retreated a single step.
“Raimie, no!”
“Wait!”
He slashed down, and the two momentarily disappeared. They popped into existence a short distance away, babbling some nonsense that Raimie couldn’t comprehend through the fury, and he followed, his blade pursuing them wherever they appeared. He thrust and twirled and jabbed and sliced, a hypnotic whirlwind of motion reminiscent of a violent dance.
His pupils widened once again, the irises barely rimming those black pits, and his technique increasingly resembled that of an experienced warrior rather than that of an amateur wildly and aimlessly swinging a sword. He lost track of time, lost himself to the melody until once again he spun to attack but his sword met steel. He skipped back a few steps to examine his new, unexpectedly real opponent.
“Raimie,” Kheled raised his hands but refused to release his blade, “you should stop now.”
“Why should I listen to you?” he snarled back. “You didn’t warn me about what was coming. I killed a man!”
“From what I understand, that man deserved to die,” Kheled replied, carefully attending to Ramie’s every motion. “He raped and strangled five women, two of whom were no older than fourteen.”
“Don’t try to justify it! You’ve no idea what I’ve been through!”
Anger flashed in Kheled’s eyes.
“Actually, I do,” he said through clenched, white teeth. “You’re not the only one to end another’s life. You think I don’t remember the first person I killed like it happened yesterday? And besides that, did you not see me running to my sister? Did you not see my village burning? It was my family, friends, and neighbors that died that day while yours still live. My life was destroyed, and the Council used my memory of that terrible day to manipulate you into killing another, allowing one of my most painful remembrances to be examined and judged by all of Allanovian.”
He’d ended up shouting by the time he was finished, and the break from the man’s normally calm demeanor startled Raimie silent.
“I know you’re hurting and that you’ve been through hell,” the healer continued quietly. “I’m not trying to discount your pain. I solely wish you to know that you’re not the only one, and you should try to remember that.”
Raimie tried to swallow past the dryness conquering his mouth.
“You’re right, of course,” he said, sheathing Silverblade. “I apologize for the outburst.”
He yelped as he released his grip on the hilt, immediately clutching his hands together.
“See, this is what I was worried about,” Kheled said, sheathing his own sword and striding forward. “Let me see them.”
He grabbed the Raimie’s hands none too gently and unwrapped the blood soaked bandages covering the healing wounds. He winced upon observing the exposed flesh.
Several of the stitches holding the new skin in place had ripped out, and the edges of flesh, freed from their sutures, dangled without restriction.
“Sit,” Kheled instructed him, one hand pointing to a rock near the bank and the other digging through the excessive amount of pockets sewn into his green cloak.
Raimie lowered himself to the rock’s surface with difficulty. He hadn’t realized how much he used his hands in everyday activities until this very moment, another reminder of how lucky he was that a highly skilled healer had decided to help him.
Where exactly would he be if Kheled hadn’t intervened? Dead. Raimie would be dead.
He placed his hands palm up on his knees for closer inspection. Meanwhile, Kheled arranged the items he’d retrieved from his pockets into a neat pile on a cloth he’d unfurled to cover the dirt. He knelt and gestured for Raimie’s wounded hands. The healer carefully peeled the loose skin back with a pair of tweezers.
“Thankfully infection hasn’t set in as of yet, and don’t worry. The majority of the blood on the bandages wasn’t yours,” he said, lowering the flap back into place. “Hold them over here.”
Once they were suspended over the empty earth, Kheled uncorked a bottle filled with a clear liquid and poured its contents over the wounds and his own hands. Raimie hissed with surprise. He hadn’t expected the stinging burn.
Ignoring the distressed noise, Kheled lifted his right hand and twisted it, bringing his fingers together in a pinching motion. A small flame appeared above his fingertips, and he slowly passed first the tweezers and then a long, curved needle through the fire. He uncorked another bottle filled with gut string, carefully grabbed a length with the tweezers, and expertly threaded it through the needle.
“You ready?” he asked Raimie, holding the prepared suture up with his left hand.
The young man gulped and reluctantly nodded. It didn’t matter how many times he needed stitches, the process never got easier.
Kheled firmly gripped Raimie’s hand to prevent the possibility of a flinch disrupting his work. He quickly and precisely sutured the loose skin back into place and smoothly moved on to the left once the right was finished. In no time at all, the experimental grafts looked good as new. Kheled carefully wrapped and pinned another gauze bandage around each hand.
“I’m going to requisition a pair of thick leather gloves for you. They should be worn near constantly in the next few weeks. You’ll require heavy use of your hands as you journey, and the gloves will reduce the damage such activity might inflict. I want you to avoid combat such as what I just witnessed, however, as much as possible.”
Raimie solemnly absorbed the instructions.
“What if someone attacks me?” he asked.
“Well obviously, your life takes priority over your hands,” Kheled chuckled. “I’m only asking you to limit that which you can control.
“But on the topic of combat,” he added, collecting his things, “I wasn’t aware that you were such an adept of martial form. Some of the techniques you were practicing aren’t included in the Zrelnach curriculum until the weeks leading up to accepting commissions. Where did you receive your training?”
“Um… I, I haven’t… I don’t have training,” Raimie stammered, careful to only use his wrists and elbows to propel himself off of the rock.
“Truly?” Kheled asked with doubt. “I suppose that might explain the initial awkwardness and the huge mistakes in form.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry. It’s the truth,” the healer shrugged. “I could show you what you were doing wrong and how to fix it. If you want, of course.”
“You just said to keep combat to a minimum!”
“True, but I meant armed combat. Training doesn’t necessarily require a sword, you know,” Kheled explained bemusedly. “In fact, most new students start with strength and stamina exercises, extremely boring work. The glamorous stuff doesn’t come until much later.”
“I’d be grateful for any help I can get,” Raimie admitted with a grimace.
“First lesson for you then,” Kheled said, taking off into the forest and motioning for Raimie to follow. “Caring for your body comes
first in all things. The body and its related functions are what provide life for you after all.
“You clean your sword and sharpen it every day, yes? It’s never left bloodied, condemned to rust in its sheath?”
“Of course!” Raimie lied.
Keeping Silverblade clean hadn’t even occurred to him, and Kheled’s hardly concealed smirk told him that the Eselan knew it.
“In much the same way, a warrior keeps his or her body in top condition through exercise, an adequate amount of sleep each night, and healthy eating habits. Your sword, bow or whatever else you may wield is your obvious weapon. Your body can, given enough time and training, become your secret one.
“And here we are.”
They burst through the brush into a small glade, Kheled confidently stepping over the final line of roots and Raimie stumbling along behind. The healer removed his cloak and shirt and roughly threw his arms back and forth.
“What are you doing?” Raimie asked.
“I thought you might like a brief introduction to practical training before we return to Allanovian,” Kheled said, continuing to stretch, “or would you rather wait until a bunch of strangers can watch us?”
“No, thank you! Away from prying eyes would be best,” Raimie replied and pulled off clothing, although he kept his own tunic in place.
He piled the bloody vest, pauldrons, and harnesses on top of Kheled’s to the healer’s obvious distaste, and Raimie hastily moved his things to the side.
“Thank you,” Kheled said with only a hint of sarcasm. “Go ahead and stretch. Let your body warm up, then show me your ready stance.”
Raimie complied, ending with raised fists.
“Spread your feet further apart,” the Eselan instructed from where he leaned with arms crossed against a trunk. “Your center of gravity should always adjust to where you’re stable as a rock. If you keep your feet as close to one another as they are now, it’d be child’s play for your enemy to knock you to the ground. And then you’re dead.”
Raimie shuffled his feet apart and lowered his stance. He did feel much more stable like this.
“Good,” Kheled nodded. “Now, throw a punch.”
Raimie pulled back and thrust his fist out halfheartedly.
“No! Stop!” the Eselan yelped. “You hit someone like that, and your wrist will shatter leaving you with a useless hand. And, once again, you’re dead.
“You’re further behind than I’d initially thought. Some of those moves you were practicing require at least minor training, but you’re throwing punches like a baby combatant.”
Raimie uncurled his fists and lowered them to his sides, palms flat against the thighs.
“That’s probably because, as I’ve said, I’ve never received training,” he kept his eyes fixed on a point above the healer’s shoulder. “I don’t mind starting from the beginning. In fact, I’d prefer it, but I need someone to show me what to do.”
Kheled’s admiring smile filled Raimie with relief. Sometimes the humble routine didn’t work quite the way that he thought it should, especially with regards to his grandfather. Fortunately, the healer seemed to appreciate it. He joined Raimie in the clearing.
“Then let’s begin with a more basic exercise. Do as I do.”
The Eselan slowly began a set of repetitive, flowing motions. Raimie followed along as best he could, and when they reached the end of the sequence, they began once more but at a faster pace. They went through the motions over and over until Raimie pushed past his initial clumsiness and fell into the sequence’s natural rhythm. Only then did the healer speak.
“This exercise helps stimulate blood flow and increase mental concentration,” he commented. “Most Esela start their day with these movements when they rise from bed.
“You’ll learn that the human technique with the blade is quite different from the Eselan. We believe in fluidity of motion, in using speed and grace to gain an upper hand in combat whereas human battle technique relies on strength and brute force to overcome opposition. That’s not to say that Esela can’t use a strong show of force or that humans can’t be graceful. In fact, some people, myself included, rely heavily on both techniques.
“You’ve somehow attained a basic understanding of some few Eselan forms based off of your earlier display, so we’ll focus on those first. Human fighting forms can come later, but I’ve no idea where you picked up what few skills you have.”
“I watched you,” Raimie murmured, carefully controlling his breathing so that the unfamiliar exercise didn’t leave him winded.
“You couldn’t have learned all of it from me knocking Dath off of his feet,” Kheled contested, perplexed.
“I learned how to knock a cocky kid on his ass from that, sure, but I gained the rest watching you fight… Teron, is it?”
The Eselan’s split second hesitation nearly disrupted the rhythm.
“You never did explain why you happened to be near Fissid right when we needed you, or how you got away from that fight without a scratch,” Raimie prompted.
Kheled led them through an entire set before responding.
“I was alerted to the forest fire and immediately traversed into human civilization to tend to survivors because, unlike other residents of this city, I understand Allanovian’s reliance on human goodwill for crops and other vittles. Also, I give a damn about human life.
“As to your other question, yes, I did collapse at the fight’s conclusion, and yes, I was wounded. It was stupid of me to turn my back on Teron so quickly, but the wound was only a scratch and has healed quite nicely. Not even a scar.”
The healer’s words were terse and aggravated, and Raimie was grateful to have received an answer in the first place.
“You learn quickly if you understood all of those techniques from observing a single fight. Your forms weren’t perfect, but they were still surprisingly good,” Kheled complimented.
Raimie grimaced. He didn’t want to share this particular bit of information, but he felt obligated now that the Eselan had opened up.
“I was much faster when I was a kid. Flip through a book and recall the third line down on page sixty-two fast. Then in my ninth year, there was an… accident. In the aftermath, my mother and I fell ill…”
He trailed off as the memory took over.
The procedure they’d undertaken in that strange room behind the stone doors had completely banished fever from him, and he skipped behind his father as they made their way to their new quarters.
“I’m sorry I fought those people, dad, but they scared me!” he said. “Were they angry?”
“No, son, they weren’t angry. I think they expected you to fight.”
That made him feel better. He didn’t like it when others were upset with him.
He tried to figure out how many days he’d been sick. Although they’d somewhat blurred together, he also remember each and every one with crystalline clarity, his brain’s unique ability intact even after the fever. They’d stayed in this strange, underground city for… five days. That meant today was his birthday!
His steps bounced even more at the realization. His father’s reticence suddenly took on a new meaning.
“Where are we going?” he asked coyly, hoping draw out whatever surprise his father had in store.
“To check on your mother.”
His glee dampened at the statement. His mother, who remained in the grips of fever…
Even that thought couldn’t fully erase his anticipation and excitement. Today was a special day, and he’d enjoy every second of it.
A quiet stillness held mama’s room captive. Their steps were like claps of thunder in that hushed silence.
The gray-eyed female who’d spoken to his father previously rose from beside the bed. She clasped her hands in front of her and resolutely met their eyes.
“I’m terribly sorry,” was all she said, and his father fell to his knees.
He bounced his eyes from him to her, more confused than he’d ever bee
n before. While his father pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes, he advanced on mama’s cot. She was so still.
“Mama,” he said, jostling her shoulder.
She needed to wake up so she could sing that special birthday song that she’d brought from her homeland. She refused to move.
“Mama, wake up.”
His father hesitantly rested a hand on his shoulder.
“She’s not going to wake, Raimie. She’s not with us anymore.”
Well, that was strange. He could see her right there. Why did his father think she’d left?
“If she’s gone, then where did she go?” he asked.
His father gasped a little sob and snatched him from the room.
“Raimie, she fought the fever but wasn’t strong enough. It won, and she-” a sob cut off the explanation temporarily. “She died, son.”
He wordlessly considered what his father had said.
“Mama’s dead?” he asked, and at his father’s nod, he reluctantly continued. “I killed my mother?”
His father gasped, voice robbed by his grief.
“I killed my mother,” he repeated with certainty.
He spun and fled.
Raimie coughed, arms flinging around his waist in a hug.
“There was a fever I recovered with a slower learning rate,” he continued huskily. “My mother died.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“It’s fine,” Raimie cut him off. “Is there another exercise we can-”
“Indeed,” the healer interrupted, seizing on the subject change.
Raimie mastered the rhythm of the second sequence after a single repeat, and his attention drifted, inevitably landing back on the significant lapse in his education. Which inevitably led his thoughts to the man attempting to fill in some of the educational gaps.
He held it together through a five-minute lull in the conversation, but after that long period of charged silence, Raimie couldn’t contain the questions from spilling forth once more, regardless of the consequences.
“How on earth did you find me in the middle of this enormous forest?”
The Undying Champions (The Eternal War Book 1) Page 21