On Borrowed Luck (The Chanmyr Chronicles Book 1)

by TJ Muir

  Kirrin woke up feeling foggy and sore. One eye only opened halfway, and the whole side of his head pounded. He reached up to touch his left temple, and winced. The pain and swelling had surpassed anything he had received from the likes of Aldon and his crew. Barrel-chest was a full grown man and fought with a force he had never experienced before. Aldon fought with a petty spite, and never crossed the line where the intent was to maim or disable Kirrin.

  “How bad does it look?” he asked when Kip brought him lunch.

  Kip glanced up as he placed a bowl of soup and bread on the table next to Kirrin’s bed. “It h’aint so bad. A right good shiner, for sure. How’s them ribs feelin?”

  Kirrin hadn’t gotten to the point of doing his normal post-fight body-scan yet. He tried to sit up in bed; his whole body was stiff. He flexed each hand, and looked down at the purple bruising and swelling around his knuckles. He didn’t think anything was broken. He lifted each hand, bent elbows, moved each shoulder. A sharp pain stabbed his left side. He turned each way slightly, testing his ribs.

  “I think they might be cracked,” he said. “Hands aren’t too bad. Shoulders stiff but okay. Kidneys bruised.”

  “Ya hain’t pissin any blood are ya?” Kip asked.

  “Dunno yet,” Kirrin said, knowing the drill.

  “Try some of the broth,” Kip said. “Cook made it up for you, has garlic and herbs in it to help you feel better. An’ the bread is soft, so you can chew it without much work.” He pushed the bowl closer to Kirrin. “An you don’ have ta work for the next coupla days. It’s taken care of, til yer up for it.”

  Kirrin nodded, appreciating the concern, even if it wasn’t quite as comforting as his mother’s care. He had thought about asking to be taken home after the fight, but if his mother saw him looking like that, drunk and pounded, she would ship him off anywhere far away. He couldn’t bear to see that look in her eyes. Besides, he felt like he had really impressed the So’har and now, hopefully, he had earned Kip and Duffy’s respect.

  He spent the next few days reading and sleeping. Miral came by to see how he was doing. Kirrin cringed, hoping this would not be a regular occurrence. She sat on the far end of his bed, perched on the corner.

  “How does it feel?” she asked, a little shocked, but sounding impressed.

  “Not too bad, now, so long as I don’t move too quickly.” His hand went to his ribs as he spoke, testing them to see. He winced slightly as he hit the sorest area. “It’ll be fine.”

  She chatted randomly for a little while. At first it was easy to nod slightly and agree, but after a while the prattling began to wear on him. He stifled a yawn.

  “Oh, you probably need to get your rest,” she said, full of concern. “I won’t stay. You should sleep. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll come back later, after barn chores are done-- if you want?”

  Kirrin yawned again, harder, deeper, and longer than he actually felt, and let his eyes half-close as he nodded. “Okay,” he said, trying to sound sleepy, realizing he didn’t need to pretend.

  A few days later, Duffy proclaimed him healed- at least enough that he was presentable and told him the So’har expected him.

  Kirrin could find his way through the house on his own now, and so felt silly following the steward to Hak’kar’s study, but he understood this was how things were done.

  Hak’kar was sitting at his desk like always. He glanced up, acknowledging Kirrin’s presence when they entered the room, and then returned to his writing. Kirrin tried not to fidget. He had a feeling he might be in trouble. It hadn’t occurred to him the So’har might disapprove of the fighting matches. He assumed if Kip and Duffy had initiated it then it must be allowed. Now, he began to question that.

  It wasn’t long before Hak’kar put the pen down and looked up, motioning for Kirrin to approach the desk. He watched Kirrin closely, standing up and coming around to the far side of the desk. His head tilted as he examined Kirrin’s face, a hand under Kirrin’s chin, tilting his head back and turning it to the side.

  “A ferocious fighter, from what I hear,” he said. “But your face looks horrific.”

  Kirrin shrugged, lifting his good shoulder slightly. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Was Hak’kar impressed he had fought, and won? Or was Hak’kar upset at the beating Kirrin had taken?

  “It isn’t as bad as it looks, So’har,” Kirrin said.

  “Ha!” he barked a laugh. “That does not mean much, given the state of your face.” Hak’kar wiped his hand on a napkin as he returned to his seat, putting the desk between them. He looked down at his hand, then tossed the soiled cloth onto his desk. He sat back in his chair, considering Kirrin.

  “Do you like to fight?” the So’har asked.

  The question caught Kirrin off guard. He started to scratch an itch above his eye, and a sudden pain made him cringe. He tried again, more carefully this time. He looked down, watched his feet for a minute, then up again, and shook his head. “No sir. I enjoy wrestling and practicing with the others, but that isn’t the same as fighting. I didn’t like getting beat all the time. But I don’t like being the one beating, either.”

  The So’har continued to watch Kirrin closely. Then he nodded, as if to himself, and pushed a pile of papers to the side. “I have packages and messages that need delivering. Go see Cook for salve to put on those cuts. Get the swelling down and the bruises tended to. Come back when you’re presentable.” He flicked his hand in dismissal as he turned his attention back to his desk.

  Kirrin went straight to Cook, who was less sympathetic to his injuries. “Damn fool idiot, following after those two that h’aint got the sense of a jackass in a storm.”

  That was more than Kirrin had heard Cook say in the whole time he had known him-- that wasn’t cooking-related. Cook bustled about in the storage room, pounding, crushing, and cooking, the ingredients needed to make the salve to ease Kirrin’s bruising.

  He instructed Kirrin to soak his hands in a special salt, while he plastered his ribs with herbs, wrapping them up. Then he poured apple vinegar into a hot pot and made Kirrin breathe in the steam, putting a towel over his head. “This will ease the swelling behind your nose and in your lungs,” he said. “Will make it easier to breathe, and keep your lungs from congesting.”

  When he was done administering to Kirrin, Cook sent him off with a cup of willow tea for the pain, telling him to come back after dinner and he would check his bandages.

  SOFT BREAK

  A few days after that, Kirrin was back in the kitchen, helping with prep work. His hands were a bit stiff, but he managed okay. After breakfast was sent out and day-prep was done, Kirrin started to head to the back room. Cook put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

  “No lifting or strain,” he said.

  “I’ll be careful. I promise,” Kirrin said. “I won’t undo the work you did.”

  Cook shook his head. “Prep only. At’s on orders.”

  “Orders?” Kirrin asked, bewildered.

  “As come from the house,” Cook said, nodding over his shoulder.

  Kirrin sucked on his teeth. “Well, what am I supposed to do, then?”

  Cook shrugged. “Hain’t my business. I’s told nothing heavy. Prep only.”

  Kirrin knew Cook well enough to know he wouldn’t have asked questions, wouldn’t pry. “I feel bad, though,” Kirrin said, even though dishes were his least favorite part of the job.

  Cook grunted, but had already turned away, lugging a crate of onions onto the prep table. Kirrin shrugged to himself, and headed outside. The sun was pleasantly warm and the fresh air felt good. He stopped to wash up, realizing he felt tired. He looked around, wondering what he should do. If washing pots was off the list, he was pretty sure cutting wood or wrestling weren’t going to be allowed, either.

  After a short nap, Kirrin went to the smithy and began putting new edges on the scythe and shears.

  “You are the young fighter?” a voice asked, right behind him.

  Kirrin ju
mped, almost gashing himself on the shears.

  “Not a very attuned warrior,” the man said, his slight accent suggesting he was from the south.

  Kirrin turned around, angry. “By the nine hells, you idiot, walking up behind a man with sharp objects.”

  Even bigger surprise, because it was not a man, but a woman. It was a bit unusual, now he thought about it, that he didn’t see a lot of women on the estate.

  She was taller than Kirrin, and lean, a sandy blond braid curled neatly over her shoulder. Dark blue eyes that gave her an intense stare. She flicked a glance at the shears. “A good cut would be a lesson earned.”

  “And what if I turned round and used them on you?” Kirrin asked, as he sized the woman up. She didn’t look like much, to be walking in and using a rude tone like that.

  “Would you care to try?” she asked, running a finger lazily along the workbench.

  “What do you want?” Kirrin asked, hoping to get rid of her quickly. Her casual arrogance bothered him.

  “I was sent to find you. But I fear my time here is being wasted,” she said, tone dripping with disdain.

  “Who sent you? Do Kip or Duffy want me?”

  She sniffed, picked up a knife Kirrin had edged, running a finger along the blade. With the flick of a wrist she threw the knife. Kirrin felt a slight puff of air as it flew past his head before it hit the post behind him with a soft thunk. The tip buried itself dead center of a keyring hanging on a peg.

  Kirrin’s eyes widened. He looked at the knife, then back at the stranger. It wasn’t the throw that impressed Kirrin as much as the quiet manner she had.

  “I was sent to train the young fighter. I assume that’s you.”

  “Train me for what? And sent by who?” Kirrin asked. “I have Kip and Duffy to teach me.”

  She folded her knuckles into a half-fist, examining her nails. “Sent by the So’har himself. And if your face is any indication, he sent me just in time. Your training has clearly been lacking a certain… finesse.”

  Kirrin opened his mouth to protest. “That’s not fair. I wasn’t ready for the fight, and the guy was way bigger than me.”

  “One should always be ready for a fight, and size is no excuse for receiving the kind of lesson your face has received.”

  “And what are you supposed to do?”

  “I am to turn a blunt object into a finely sharpened blade.”

  Kirrin scoffed, and started to stand. “Well, why don’t we go a few rounds and see what you can do, first?”

  Before Kirrin could get to his feet, she grabbed hold of his wrist, turning him in a half-circle and then moving one hand to his elbow, bringing him to his knees.

  Kirrin’s jaw dropped. No fuss, the tiniest movement, and he was incapacitated. She pressed a point on his wrist, and then pressed at his elbow-- just enough pressure on each joint to demonstrate her point.

  “We will train every morning, before and after breakfast.”

  Kirrin nodded.

  She eased Kirrin’s arm, letting him get up. He rubbed his arm and wrist. “Where?” he asked, looking up, but she was gone already, as silently as she had arrived.

  SOFT BREAK

  The next morning Kirrin went outside to find the woman leaning against the shed near his room, waiting for him.

  “Come,” she said, turning and walking off.

  She led Kirrin back behind the sheep barn to a small stand of trees, and turned to face him. “The key to everything is balance. That is the first rule. Balance in all things.”

  Kirrin nodded. “Sure. Okay.” He figured whatever she was planning for him it shouldn’t be too hard, seeing as he had fairly good balance already. “Ummm,” he began, “What do I call you?”

  “My name is Shor’el Ch’Hikk,” she said. “But you will call me Master.”

  Kirrin chewed his lip, then shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”

  Master Ch’Hikk leaned to the side and in another lightning move, swung her leg in a semi-circle, low. Kirrin landed on his backside with a thud.

  “Second rule. Respect.”

  Kirrin climbed to his feet, glaring at his new ‘teacher.’ But Hak’kar had set this up, so he had no real choice but to go along with it. “My apologies,” Kirrin said, nodding respectfully to the master.

  Ch’Hikk nodded curtly in return. “First, we train the body to move. We teach m'retsun. Routines that focus body, mind and energy. Start like this, fist and hand over heart, and bow to Travan, warrior son of Chayan.”

  Ch’hikk led Kirrin through twenty poses, as she called them. Each move connected to the one before it, flowing. Kirrin shifted from one foot to the other, turning and changing directions, hands stretching out, drawing back. They did this several times, Ch’hikk naming each movement, reinforcing it as they went. After the fourth run, Kirrin could name the names along with Ch’hikk as they went. She nodded her approval, the slightest dip of her chin.

  “Go now. Return after breakfast,” Ch’hikk said.

  Cook insisted on checking Kirrin over, and then set him up with the prep work, cutting potatoes and shredding carrots and cabbage as well as onions and garlic.

  After breakfast and a quick wash, Kirrin headed back to the grove, where the Master was waiting. Kirrin suppressed a shudder, wondering if she had even moved since he left.

  The master nodded and bowed to Kirrin, and he returned the courtesy. She led him through the routine again, facing him this time so they mirrored each other. Kirrin liked that, he could mimic the angle and range of each pose much more easily. After the second run-through, he felt pretty good, smiling to himself.

  “Now practice,” Ch’hikk said.

  Kirrin almost protested that they had been practicing, but kept quiet, having learned his lesson already. Ch’hikk turned partway, extending her arm. Kirrin looked around Ch’hikk, and saw a thin stump on the ground. It was barely a foot wide and about two feet tall.

  “What? Are we splitting wood now?” Kirrin asked.

  That earned him a slap on the back of his head he didn’t see coming.

  “M'retsun,” Ch’hikk said, pointing at the stump.

  Kirrin looked at her in disbelief, but held his tongue as he walked over and stepped up on the stump. Ch’hikk stood facing him, fist over heart, and bowed. Kirrin mirrored her, as before. Then went again through the paces she had taught him, making it to the fourth pose before he lost his balance and fell.

  Ch’hikk said nothing, just waited for Kirrin to climb back up, and then started again from the beginning. Kirrin lost track of the number of times he fell before he made it all the way to the end of the m'retsun.

  Ch’hikk nodded, her usual dip of the chin, bowed, and walked away.

  Kirrin climbed down from the stump, only then realizing how exhausted he was. He was so tired he didn’t even want to bother with lunch, he just wanted to go back to his room and lay down for a little while.

  Miral corralled him as he passed the sheep barn. “What are you doing out in the woods?” she asked, skipping up from behind him.

  “I was just practicing,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t start trying to hang all over him again. He really wasn’t that sore, but he didn’t feel like dealing with her flirting at the moment.

  “Practicing what?”

  Kirrin paused. He didn’t know precisely what he was learning, or if it was intended to be public knowledge. “Some exercises. To help with wrestling.”

  “Oh. Does that mean you’re going to fight again?”

  Kirrin almost missed a step. Was that what this was about? Was Hak’kar trying to turn him into his pet fighter? “I don’t know.” He frowned. “Look, I’m really tired and don’t feel that great, so I’m gonna go lay down, okay?”

  “Okay.” She fell back a step, a wounded look on her face.

  A guilty feeling stabbed at Kirrin.. “I’ll come see you later, if I feel better, okay?”

  She smiled brightly, lightly brushing her lips across his before running.

  Back in h
is room, Kirrin collapsed onto the bed, face down, and fell asleep before he could even think about trying to get more comfortable.

  SOFT BREAK

  “What are you doing up there?” Miral called up to Kirrin, who was standing on the ridge pole.