by Chogan Swan
He loosened the lacing of his inner cloak and discarded it too. The chill in the room penetrated even though he wore a soft quilted undershirt, light mail, and over that a woolen tunic. He’d dressed for a fight and spent the early morning limbering his muscles and renewing his familiarity with a kryllsword. Perhaps Brynd and Luca would not be as prepared. Though they had to expect the challenge to be accepted, it was possible they might not have been ready to fight right away. Marshall would accept any advantage.
Brynd looked him over with a calculating gaze.
Marshall hefted the sword. The blade felt alive in his grasp and the pommel fit his hand as though made for it. He tried a different grip, and another ... perfect.
Across the hall Luca jeered, “Ha, the runt has a sword and a fight, and both are too big for him. Look, he doesn't even know how to hold it.”
Marshall signaled. He was ready. Few knew how to hold a kryllsword now; most people mistook it for a longer-than-usual sword. His job wasn’t to educate the fool, just kill him.
Arod clapped his hands.
Luca charged, screaming his hatred. Marshall resisted the urge to meet him head-on. He wanted to see Luca’s face when he stopped him cold, but it wasn't his best move. Instead he skipped aside and slid past the rush. The broadsword slashed over his head. Luca attempted to stop. Had he kept on, he might have escaped, but Marshall switched his hand to a cut-back grip and spun. Luca screamed again, this time with pain. Marshall's strike had severed rings in his chain mail and cut into his left arm.
Luca whirled, but Marshall was already across the room moving toward Brynd. In a cat swift glide, Marshall closed with Brynd. Marshall kept his sword in overhead guard position. He almost laughed at the puzzlement in Brynd's face; he’d clearly never encountered this style. Brynd attempted to beat the blade aside, but it eluded him. He lurched away, escaping a riposte to his shoulder by a hair's breadth.
Marshall advanced; his sword—hissed through the chill air—whirling from hand to hand, sometimes slashing with both. Brynd parried backpedaling, each time just soon enough. Marshall touched him seven times, blade ringing on his mail, driving him around the circle.
Luca had taken a moment to rip his shirt and tighten a strip around his cut; now he moved back into the fight.
Marshall moved right until he came up against the circle. The guards moved to enforce the boundary. If he stayed next to the border, it would protect him on one side. It was almost like having a friend by him if he didn't step over it. They’d try to trap him against the circle, but they’d have to move …. Luca edged over to line up for a push.
Without warning, Marshall charged Brynd. Brynd backpedaled, swearing. Luca rushed in for Marshall's flank. Marshall turned—viper swift—reversing his grip. Luca wasn't ready; Marshall slapped the broadsword from his grasp. The blade tumbled clanging across the floor. Marshall saw panic in Luca's eyes, but had no time to press the attack; Brynd leapt in behind him. With a sliding duck, Marshall rolled away.
Luca dashed for his sword.
Marshall sprang to deal with Brynd.
So far, he’d been able to keep them both from attacking at once. They were breathing hard. Though competent with their swords, soon conditioning would tell.
Marshall didn’t intend to push for a quick resolution; there would be less risk if he waited until their reflexes slowed and they wouldn't be as likely to get in a lucky blow.
He probed Brynd's defense, drawing him out. Brynd stayed conservative, trying to work out the patterns of Marshall's attack. Marshall grinned; it was late for that. Master variations with the kryllsword took years of study to anticipate. Marshall gave him a simple combination then repeated it.
Luca had retrieved his weapon and rushed back on Marshall's blind side. Marshall went through the combination again: high, low, side, thrust ... Brynd was anticipating. Marshall swatted Brynd's dagger out of his hand. It went twisting through the air towards Luca.
It wasn’t blind luck; Marshall intended for the dagger to fly towards Luca. It might slow him. But freakishly, the blade spun towards Luca's face. Luca dodged. Had he not, the knife would have struck pommel first. But, the movement brought the blade to his throat—where it lodged.
Luca paused, stunned for a moment, then he plucked the blade away as though eager to continue the fight. Red pumped from his throat and washed over his tunic. He sank to his knees, staring at Brynd in puzzlement. He whimpered—like a dog who doesn't understand his punishment—and fell on his face.
Brynd leaped back. “Sorcery!” he screamed. “Father, they've killed your son by magic. They'll destroy all of us if they can.”
Arod said nothing but turned to his scribes. They shook their heads. Arod turned back to Brynd.
Brynd knelt before Arod, careful to stay away from the circle. “Father, they're after the throne. They’ll kill us all. Please stop them or the kingdom is lost.”
Arod did not move, nor did his face change expression.
From his kneeling position, Brynd turned, and a small dagger flashed through the air. Marshall stepped aside, expecting it. The knife sailed past him between two guards and clattered against the wall. The lump in Brynd's boot had once been the subject of a running joke between Seth and Marshall, but now the joke was over.
Brynd, following up the throw with a charge, stopped when he saw Marshall ready and unrattled. Brynd stood for a moment, uncertain. His breath fogged from his lungs, and he shivered. For a moment, he looked like a lost boy then he threw down his sword.
“Pick it up!” Marshall hissed, shaking with anger. “Pick up the sword, you hell-spawned slug.”
Brynd shook his head, staring at the ground. “I withdraw my challenge.” Marshall snarled. In his own way, Brynd was a shrewd judge of character. Though he had little sense of mercy himself, he had a hope of survival if he was unarmed and unresisting,.
Marshall saw through the manipulation, but still couldn't move from warrior to executioner. He advanced and placed the razor edge of his blade to Brynd's neck. “You will not only withdraw challenge, but also all claim and association with this kingdom and pledge never to set foot in it again. This promise you will make before us here upon Jyrmak's staff.”
Jyrmak came and held the end of his staff out to Brynd.
“Grasp it,” said Marshall adding a feather's weight more pressure on his blade.
Brynd grasped the staff and shivered.
“Beware Brynd, you will be bound by this oath,” Jyrmak said. “Punishment, should you break it, will be terrible.”
“I withdraw challenge to this document and all claims to this kingdom. I swear to leave and not return.” Brynd's voice sounded as though he might choke on the words.
Arod gazed at Brynd, his expression a mix of pity and disappointment. “You no longer have my name. You must go as you have sworn.” Guards closed in on either side of him each grasped an arm and led him away, two more guards followed.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Jyrmak handed Marshall his cloak; “It might have been better if you had killed him,” said the wizard. “Already he plans revenge.”
Arod rose with a sigh. “All his life he has planned revenge for one slight or another—most of them created in his own mind.” He turned to the scribes. “Let the records end. Go. Make preparations for the funeral.”
The scribes stood and bowed, gathering their papers.
Arod turned to the captain of the guards. “Eradyl, have the body taken to the cliffs and build a pyre. The funeral will be at sunset.”
Then he signed for Marshall and Jyrmak to follow him and, with robes trailing, strode to the door. As they were leaving, four servants entered from a side door, two with water and scrub brushes and two with a stretcher and linen wrappings. The stones would soon be clean.
Arod strode down the halls to his private rooms where a fire blazed. He threw off his cloak and turned to Jyrmak. “Well, Jyrmak, everything happened just as you thought it would. They reacted in the worst way po
ssible. I’m glad Jyllanah wasn’t there to see it.” He sank into a chair. “Maybe if she had lived, they would have turned out better.”
“Sire, you raised them as lovingly as was ever possible. You know that,” Jyrmak said, his voice soft.
“Perhaps more love is always possible, old friend.” The King swiped at his eyes and took a deep breath.
“But it’s never enough when one-sided,” replied Jymak.
Arod rose from the chair and moved to the fire where a large covered tray waited in the warmth. “You fought well, Marshall,” he said. “It was an unhappy task, and I thank you for your help. You may keep the sword as your own.”
Marshall winced. He’d brought the sword with him—slung over his shoulder—without thinking. It had felt so natural at the time, but now he wondered at his effrontery.
“Thank you, Sire. The gift is much greater than the deed.”
“I’m certain it will serve me better in your hands than when I owned it so many years ago,” said the king. “But that was another time, another name.”
Marshall’s eyes opened wide. The name of the one who’d owned this sword two hundred years ago was a legend. He’d never connected Leyahn of the Isle with Arod. It had been so long ago, but Arod too was from Evelon, the long-lived race.
Marshal noted that Arod showed no trace of weakness now. Had it all been an act? Marshall shook his head in embarrassment. Of course, Arod had acted old just as Seth had acted weak.
A frantic knocking sounded at the door.
“Speak,” called Arod.
“Sire, two score of the guard are missing from their posts and the barracks.” The worried voice of the captain of the guard penetrated clearly through the door.
Arod gave a hard smile. “Carry on, Eradyl,” he called out to the door.
“Sire?”
“It's all right. You'll just have to change the duty roster.”
“Yes, sire,” said the captain, puzzled and unhappy but resigned as he left the door at an armor-clashing trot.
Jyrmak raised his eyebrows.
“Though Brynd doesn't know it, some of them are acting on my orders,” said Arod. “They will be back.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t try a sneak attack,” Marshall said.
“Brynd would not dare fight the binding I put on him yet,” Jyrmak said.
Arod nodded and lifted the cover from the platter. “Would you care for breakfast, Marshall?”
Jyrmak chuckled.
The platter was huge, so full of eggs, sausage, fruit and rolls that even Marshall was astonished. He laughed; it was clearly a conspiracy and a poke at his appetite, but challenges were ever a weakness of his.
He set the sword aside and picked up a fork. The gleam of battle smoldered in his eyes.
Chapter 8 (A Secret Place)
Three days of climbing through rugged terrain made Seth aware of muscles that—till now—he’d thought fit and cooperative. It seemed walking uphill required something different from running, riding, cliff climbing and weapon practice.
Around mid-day Kane led them to a tight-squeezing canyon. Seth would never have seen the entrance on his own. At a tight switchback, Kane unloaded the stallion, and Droga reared to turn the corner, balancing himself with taps of his front hooves on the canyon walls. Seth watched—his mouth hanging open.
“Sometimes he makes more money performing than I do,” Kane said, laughing. “Of course, afterwards he makes me buy oats.”
At the end of the crevice, they came out at a clearing next to a stream. Seth lowered himself onto a rock by a pool. He probed at a sore spot on his right foot, eyed the pool below and imagined plunging his feet in the cold water to wash away the ache. But then the skin on his feet would soften, and he’d end up with blisters tonight.
As he pondered this dilemma, he heard a far-off ringing. He hadn’t heard it before they came through the canyon where the stone walls blocked the sound. The ringing held two tones: a clear bell-like note that hung in the air and a melodious clashing, blending in various rhythms. The rhythms were familiar, but the tones seemed different—clearer, as if a musical instrument made them.
“Kane, I hear a smithy somewhere close.”
“The village of Raydcliffe stands near. We can stay there tonight with friends.”
“You come from Raydcliffe?”
Seth forgot his aches. Raydcliffe was the village where Gidrun was forged. Jyrmak said the people there led a simple life. They lived on what they gathered from the land and the income from the swords. If the outside world were to discover their location, their peace would be shattered as nations fought to secure the source of the swords of Raydcliffe. Kane's taking him here showed a sobering level of trust. Seth ran his thumb over Gidrun's hilt. On the crossbar was the Raydcliffe stamp, a flaming dragon holding sword and hammer, the Dragonsmith.
Kane dug through his saddlebags, searching for food and singing snatches of various songs. The songs always fit the situation. At the moment, it was The Hunt of the Starveling Wolves.
Kane didn't seem bothered with sore feet or legs. Seth hoped it wouldn't take too much longer to get toughened to the trail; the life of a wandering minstrel wasn’t for the fragile. He drew an oat biscuit from the food pouch and dipped it into his water.
While waiting for it to soften, he spotted watercress plants swaying in a pool—plucked not long ago he noted. Seth picked a handful of leaves. He was about to take half of them to Kane when he noticed the bushes a few yards away were moving without the help of the wind.
“Kane, come see what I've found,” he called.
Kane rose and came to sample the watercress.
Seth leaned close to him. “Something is in the bushes behind you.”
Kane nodded, finishing his mouthful of cress. “I keep the secret,” he called.
“What of him?” a wary voice answered.
“I vouch for him, of course.”
A boy stepped from the bushes followed by a girl. The boy was dark-skinned; His solemn brown eyes and his face spoke of responsibility. The girl was blonde and fair. Her eyes danced with mischief and Seth thought she must be both a treasure and a trial to her brother. By the way they moved together—each sure of the other's presence—Seth sensed they were twins. Both carried food-gathering tools made for cutting and digging on their belts and dressed in sturdy, plain-cut clothes of a dense rich weave. Seth smiled at the combination of simplicity and elegance. He’d seen the same cloth, studded with jewels, billowing around rich merchants in Gynt's most exclusive shops.
The boy raised his hand in greeting. “I am Ydall; my sister is Crystal.” He pulled a whistle from his shirt and blew three long notes. After a moment, two short trills answered from higher up the mountain. The boy blew a three-note phrase. The message repeated again several times in a chain up the mountain. Soon a reply came back. Kane grinned. Ydall relaxed. Seth knew the notes were a carried message, but the sequence also had a lilt that was intriguing. He pulled out his pear wood flute and played the whole series through then his fingers blurred as he trilled it fast like a meadow bird's call. Crystal laughed and clapped her hands in delight. Ydall smiled, forgetting for a moment that life was a serious affair.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
The ringing grew clearer as they climbed. When they rounded a large bluff of red granite; he noticed voices singing in rhythm with the hammer. Seth couldn't understand the words, but the language of the song seemed familiar. The sounds danced inside Seth's head almost merging with meaning, but they wouldn't come together. As they were stepping out of the forest's shadow, a voice sang out above the others.
By the stream, an anvil sat on a large wood block. The song came from a group of people gathered around the smithing. One voice carried, clear and clean, above the rest. It came from the swordsmith, a young woman, about Seth's height. The sword she worked shone red, with white flames flaring at the edges. Her hammer made it dance across the anvil. Sparks flew in showers at each stroke as her han
ds moved with skill and power. Her arms and back, rippled with a sheen from the heat of the forge and her work. The front of her muscular body hid behind a leather apron and chaps.
Then, the hammering stopped. The ringing of the anvil faded; the only sound remaining came from the running brook.
After a close inspection of the blade, she lifted it high and spoke a blessing on it. “... that it may shine true and hold back the darkness.”
At last Seth understood the words she spoke. Dragon.
She plunged the blade into the stream with a billowing and hissing of steam. The crowd stood reverent and quiet for the few minutes the blade took to cool. She raised the sword. Water streamed down its gleaming, unpolished length. With tremendous force, she smashed it on the anvil using the whole strength of her body. The blade rang a full seven times. Seven blows you’d never expect a sword to survive—to the base edge, the base flat, the middle edge, the middle flat, and out to the tip. The cheering crowd drowned the ringing of the last. The blade emerged whole—unshattered and unmarked.
Seth gasped; something besides simple steel held it together. He glanced at Gidrun with new respect.
The swordsmith turned full circle, holding the sword high as the crowd cheered and clapped in rhythm. As she turned, Seth saw eyes of deep green and a smile that flashed white in a face browned by sun. Children danced about the clearing. Someone splashed water from the brook onto the crowd and everyone joined the splashing and shouting. Seth laughed too.
“The final forging of a sword is a great occasion here,” Kane said.
“As it should be,” Seth said.
Crystal had scampered off when the splashing began, but now she returned dripping wet and leading a huge man who held her hand with a great gentle paw.
“Boaz,” cried Kane.
The big man shouted and, with a loud squelch, grabbed Kane in a mighty hug. They both laughed at the large wet spot he left.
“Allow me to introduce his royal highness, Seth Aradyl, co-regent of Gynt,” Kane said.