by Damien Lake
“That is not Duke Tilus’ fault! Only true cowards would target people around their enemy! It only goes to show what a great man he is that they cannot touch Duke Tilus!”
“We were hardly blaming him, lad,” Dietrik soothed.
“Those criminals need to be dealt with! I would never want Duke Tilus to forgo his stance on corruption solely for my benefit!” The future baron rolled his shoulders to throw off an invisible weight. “But he hasn’t, and he won’t. Duke Tilus is not a man to waver from his beliefs.”
Landon said, “I surmised as much during our discussion with his seneschal. Despite his soft words, he painted a picture of a determined man.”
Clearly surprised, Hilliard’s eyes widened. “Seneschal Locke? Soft?” He broke into laughter, ending with the remark, “I have never heard him described so!”
“He treated us with respect and thoughtfulness.”
“That is because he wanted something,” Hilliard nodded judiciously, arms crossed over his chest. “He wanted you to sweep us away from Spirratta on the sands of time.”
Marik remembered the moment of tension when Kineta had challenged Locke, while Landon answered, “Unfortunately, none of us has the ability to ride a sandglass grain and freeze time in its tracks. I take it he is not usually so cordial?”
“To guests, he most certainly is. But you never want to him to think that a problem around the estate was caused by you. Especially when he’s as busy as he has been of late.”
“Trouble with the thieves?”
“No, they have been quiet for quite a while. I had meant that in addition to his normal duties, he has needed to manage the details concerning the men lost during the war, and correspondence from all our fathers has been coming in nearly every day for months by messenger.”
“Have the three of you caused him that many extra headaches all by yourselves?” Dietrik asked, sounding impressed. “Your fathers must not trust him to see to the details overmuch.”
Hilliard waved his hand. “Not only myself, Eberhard and Valerian. Nine of us are competing in the tournament. The other six departed with their family’s guardsmen.”
“I see,” Landon mused aloud. “Then you’ll be meeting with them in Thoenar?”
“Well…” The embarrassed hesitancy re-entered the youth’s tone. “We are staying at separate inns, so I imagine I won’t see them until the tournament commences.”
To take his mind off the financial state of his father’s barony, Kerwin started asking him about Thoenar.
“Yes, I’ve been there twice before. Both times with father.”
“You have any idea where I might find a good architect? I only need advice, so I don’t need one who designs palaces or like that. I don’t need one who’ll charge me a palace either.”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you there. Yet I’ll wager one could be found without difficulty.”
Dietrik leaned closer. “Be careful how you phrase things around this man. You’ll lose your purse.”
“Don’t go giving him wrong ideas about me, Dietrik! I’ve never cheated anyone in my life.”
“What are you talking about?”
They spent the rest of that afternoon retelling their favorite stories, Kerwin talking most. Hilliard was in awe over Kerwin’s catapult gold mine. The gambler still refused to reveal, even to his friends, exactly how much coin he had won.
Time passed quickly and before they realized it the afternoon gave way to evening. It relieved Marik to see Oxfields come into view when the light shifted to a glowing orange, precisely where the town should be according to the map provided by Locke. Their journey’s every step had been charted. If the man had been required to map out routes for nine separate groups, Marik could understand why he might have been irritable of late.
Oxfields was a largish town, twice the size of Marik’s hometown, Tattersfield. He glanced about before entering the town proper, noting that horses and cows were the only livestock at hand. The oxen, assuming there must be a few for the town to warrant its name, were elsewhere.
Their fine mounts drew the townsfolk’s casual attention as they rode. Their charted inn lay off the main road, a sizable building under the creative sobriquet of, ‘The Oxfields Inn’. The stables were part of the main structure around to the rear. When they dismounted in the inn’s private yard, Marik’s paranoia leapt to the fore as a man dashed from the shadows toward him.
Caught in mid-dismount, he was unable to fumble for his sword when the man closed. Marik actually saw a long knife in his hands, poised to slash, before its bearer smiled, revealing several missing teeth. Landon spoke to the stableman while Marik shook his head to clear the cobwebs out. The man slid his horse brush into a back loop on his belt.
After they settled in their rooms, Marik concluded that he needed to work off his energy with a hard sword practice. Maybe then he would stop jumping at every scrape. He poked his head in to see the common room on the way past. It was cleaned regularly. Dinner would start being served at nightfall. Also, no blasted minstrels, thank the gods!
A rail fence surrounded the stable yard behind the inn. Horses coming in or going out meant the yard was in use. He walked to the furthest corner where a lone birch tree stood. No pells, straw dummies or sparring partners were to be had. In light of their lack, he fell back on the mental exercises that had served him well.
With his sword held ready, eyes closed, he visualized four different enemies surrounding him, imbuing them with as much realism as his mental abilities could project. When he was satisfied that the constructs were capable of no more or less than a genuine, physical foe, he set them in motion, working as a team to attack him. Thanks to all the imagery practice Tollaf forced him through, these mental exercises were more realistic than ever.
Through countless marks of trial and error, he had worked out numerous movement patterns for his foes. Letting them run wild meant one or two would come to a halt after his attention drifted. Also, becoming skilled at defeating enemies who always followed the same movements would never advance his swordsmanship past a certain point. Despite knowing what they would do, his concentration shifted among them, so the blows from each were as difficult to deal with as fighting real-life opponents.
Sweat dripped from his brow due to the hard effort of both fighting off four enemies and the mental strain required to create them. Marik worked his seventh pattern, pushing his body to defend against the second and fourth foes, when something soft struck his head. He opened his eyes while his feet strove for balance. Dietrik and Hilliard watched from several feet away. His friend consumed an orange, a rare treat, part of the peal now bouncing off Marik’s boots.
“What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing, mate. Our young charge spied you playing around from his window and wanted to come watch.”
Hilliard added, “Dietrik would not let me come outside alone, and insisted on accompanying me.”
“Good,” Marik responded. “Do me a favor and don’t go anywhere without one of us. Probably nothing would happen, but our job is to not take that chance.”
The youth agreed with a nod. “Your duty is to see to my welfare. I have no intention of interfering with your duty.”
Marik smiled, wanting to impart his appreciation for such acceptance. “I’m glad you think that way. It makes it easier on both of us.”
“I wanted to see you practice. In our correspondence, father has told me what a great fighter you were against the Noliers.”
He felt like groaning. Instead he said, “I wouldn’t say that. I’m not much better than anyone else, right Dietrik?”
Dietrik glanced back, one eye a gimlet commentary.
“Right, Dietrik?” Marik glared at him.
“I suppose you could say that, mate.” Addressing Hilliard, he added, “Though he likes to practice quite a lot, so his edge is a tad sharper than most.”
“But father says you defeated the lord of the Nolier Knights in open combat!”
“Listen
,” Marik said mater-of-factly. He refused to let the youth see him as a living tavern tale. “You haven’t been in a massive battle. Let me tell you that nothing happens the way you want it to. I was fighting for my own skin when our paths happened to cross, and I didn’t beat that knight alone. I had help from a great fighter with more talent than me.”
“That is true,” Dietrik allowed. “Colbey is a force of nature with his sword in his hands.”
“And without it,” Marik stated. “The point is, I’m only a mercenary. Better than some, not so good as others. If I’m alive, it’s because I’m lucky.”
Hilliard clearly doubted that, yet he also seemed as though he would keep from pestering Marik about the incident every time they had a free moment together. Hopefully, it would be enough.
“Be that as it may, I’ve never seen anyone handle a sword in quite the fashion you just did. What school was that?”
“School?”
“Oh, perhaps you have a different name for it. Um…what style of combat were you practicing?”
On the road, Hilliard had impressed Marik with how unlike the other nobles he was. Apparently the boy had not entirely escaped his blueblood upraising. “The style of smash-and-slash.”
Confusion settled over Hilliard. Dietrik elucidated. “Form and proper stance have limited use on a true field of combat. Our fighting styles are a hodgepodge of devious wiles and power strikes. Whatever does the trick, that is to say.”
“The trick being to kill and not be killed at the same time,” Marik concluded.
“Then where did you learn to wield a sword?” Hilliard asked. The concept of a patchwork collage of fighting maneuvers sat ill at ease with him. “Surely a sword instructor must have taught you a style as a basis.”
Marik chopped the air with his palm. “Us common-born types have to make do with whatever we can.”
“How have you survived, then?” The young noble was legitimately interested rather than merely being polite.
“As I said before, I’m a lucky one. My first teacher taught me what he knew, then I moved on. Most aspiring mercs don’t survive.”
Hilliard plunged deep into thought only to emerge a moment later. “Will you please show me your fighting style? Your instructor probably didn’t know the name of his school. I might be able to tell you what it is!”
Marik opened his mouth to ask why he was so fixated on this style issue. Dietrik placed a hand on his arm before he could speak. “A moment, if you will. Please excuse us for a moment,” he said, tugging Marik several steps away.
“What is it?” Marik asked in a whisper.
“I could see that whatever you were about to say might upset him,” Dietrik whispered back.
“Upset him? I wasn’t going to insult him!”
“I know you wouldn’t, but that is not what I meant. I didn’t want you to say anything to challenge his world.”
“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Think for a moment. He has spent his entire life behind walls, taught about the world by whichever scholars his father or the duke had on hand.”
“And?”
“And I am certain he has been taught a rich load of theory, but schooling is short on realism. It is a common enough symptom of the aristocracy. This is a good example. According to what his swordmaster must have taught, in his world sword fighting has rules, principles and set procedures. He is struggling to make what we do fit into his model of the world.”
Marik shrugged. “If you’re right, then he needs to learn the truth sooner or later.”
“Then let it be later. Our duty is not to wake him up to the reality of anything, but to protect him. If we keep him happy and content, our job will be so much the easier.”
“I’m not a nursemaid.”
“And he is not a child. He’s a good lad, in many ways. So play to his views for the moment. I’m sure he will gradually learn the difference between theory and fact as time moves on.”
Gritting his teeth and scratching his head, Marik decided, to the hells with it. When they turned back he saw Hilliard had faced away from the huddled pair, respecting their wishes for privacy though the conversation obvious centered on him. How many other nobles’ sons would have behaved in that manner? Dietrik was right. Hilliard was a good lad, and Marik could play along out of gratitude for the lucky seven Lady Fate had rolled him on Her dice.
“Very well then! I’ll start with the basics, and you can tell me if I’m smarter than I think.”
Hilliard smiled happily at the outcome. He took a place under the tree and watched Marik run through a series of basic strikes, slower than normal so his audience could observe the details.
“This is very odd,” Hilliard commented much later when the light faded. “At times your movements strike me as hailing from the Iantha Long Sword Defense, yet then the next could be from nothing but the Standard Galemaran Legion training program. And your feet almost always move in the Jutsinn School patterns, except when you execute a following strike after a defensive posture! And that one ready stance! That is nothing I have ever seen before.” The young noble was intrigued, deep in thought, working to solve a puzzle set before him.
“I’ve picked things up here and there as I go along.”
“Here and there…” Hilliard shut out the world while mulling this conundrum.
Human sounds increased from their lodgings. They must have started serving dinner in the common room. “I think that’s enough for tonight. Let’s eat.”
Marik led the way while Dietrik guided a still musing Hilliard by one hand on his shoulder.
* * * * *
Dietrik, Landon and Hayden also became enmeshed in fighting demonstrations over the next several days. Their styles, each unique to their wielders, fascinated Hilliard. The more he struggled to untangle the origins of each, the more animated he became, escalating the simple initial inquiry into a full-scale investigative project.
“At least he’s happy,” Landon commented to Marik. His sword skills being the weakest among them, he drew the least questions. Apparently skill with a bow interested the young noble less than skill with a sword. “And that makes him tractable.”
Marik wanted to be angry at Hilliard’s constant questions, as a hard-bitten mercenary ought to be expected to. Except he was not. Much of what Hilliard shared was interesting. These historical bits and details of particular sword masters did nothing to improve his swordsmanship, yet they were intriguing. He had always known there was more to fighting than simply swinging his blade. That knowledge lent him a superior attitude when watching bumbling idiots get sent away during the entrance trials.
Still, he had never quite grasped exactly how much that simple statement could encompass. He equated his earlier views to looking at an oak and knowing certain trees grew leaves while others grew needles.
An offhand comment from Hilliard prompted Kerwin to inquire, “Exactly how many sword instructors did you have in Spirratta?”
“Oh, eight…no nine! I forgot Stannish.”
“Nine?”
Hilliard missed Kerwin’s incredulous tone. “Stannish is my rapier instructor. Pollack and Bubuor instructed me in several long sword styles hailing from Rubia, Olander and Gusturief. Most of the Perrisan sword styles center on scimitars, which I don’t use, so I did not have Hallack for an instructor. But most of the fosterlings skip him.”
He continued, casually mentioning his various instructors in other areas of his education as well, as if having so many dedicated to his future welfare were perfectly normal. The mercenaries looked at each other behind his back. They held their comments.
Around them, the road steadily filled. The good time they made on the Steelpin’s southern reaches was now cut short by the need to guide their mounts around every manner of traveler. Half of Galemar must be clogging the roads, walking to the tournament, the citizens outnumbering the refugees. Marik worried that their schedule would be pushed back until a closer examination of
Locke’s instructions showed the seneschal had calculated even these delays in.
The majority of their fellow travelers were afoot. They carried only packs strapped to their backs. Others rode by cart, the flatbeds loaded with every type of goods, most concealed beneath wide canvas tarps. Only their little group stood out in the crowds.
Ten days after departing Spirratta, they reached the intersection where the Steelpin crossed the Capitol Highway. Construction of the highway had begun during the third king of the Cerella family’s reign. The major road currently stretched across three-quarters of Galemar. Paving smoothed half its length, the laying of stones still proceeding to the present day by prisoner work gangs.
Fortunately, the section near the Steelpin had been completed two hundred years previous. Their speed improved once they joined the flow northward.
Capitol Highway was actually three roads side-by-side. The central road, paved with stone and carefully maintained whenever damaged, stretched fifteen feet wide. To either side, hard-packed dirt paths paralleled, seven to ten feet wide depending on locations.
The highwayguards constantly rode the king’s highway. They were out in force to maintain the peace with so many traveling to Thoenar. Their primary duty demanded they clear the central road of walkers since the paved surface was reserved for mounted riders, carts and carriages. Though horses in greater numbers graced this major road than had the Steelpin, all were headed north at roughly the same speed. Without the foot traffic to contend with, their pace increased substantially.
Once a day they encountered a toll across the highway’s paved section. At two coppers a rider, four coppers a cart and ten a carriage, it hardly taxed their expense purse. Besides, the funds were provided for beforehand by Janus. Marik handed over the coins with no hesitation. Other travelers chose to delay the lines by indulging in loud complaints regarding the pedestrians to either side, none of whom were required to pay the toll.
“It is simple economics,” Hilliard paused to explain to the first such loudmouth. “The cost of building and maintaining the road must come from somewhere. As those on foot are not materially degrading the road by traveling upon it, it is only right that they be exempt from such tolls. The alternative is to raise the township taxes collected each year, but is it fair to tax people who have never made use of this road?”