Ryan looked at his friend’s purple and black bruises. Several of them were the size of his hand.
“Maybe they can’t use padding because it would make us soft?” Ryan reasoned. He looked out the tent flap, where the shadows of several other young men fell as they returned. “Maybe they’re trying to prepare us, make us strong enough for battle, so they make us hurt?”
“Maybe they just like hurting people,” Edmund said, darkly.
“I don’t think they’re hurting us ‘cause they like to. There must be a reason.” Ryan groaned, slid to the edge of his blankets, and stood up. “C’mon, we’d better get our stuff put away. You know the sergeant isn’t going to like it if he comes back with the rest of our group and finds us slacking off.”
“But he told us to go slack off!” Edmund sputtered.
Ryan smiled. “That’s what he said, but I doubt that’s what he really meant.” He patted Edmund gently. “C’mon, if I’ve got enough energy to put our things away, I know you do—and if we’re going to keep getting a little bit of slack, we’ve got to stay on top of things.”
Edmund snorted. “What’s the use of getting slack if you don’t use it?”
Despite his words, he got up, opened his pack, and started folding his jerkin.
* * *
There were twelve of them in training, arranged in two rows, holding their shields high, and keeping their wooden swords pointed at their partner’s chest.
Kind of like our dancing in Middleton’s harvest festival. Ryan remembered, not without a pang of loss. All we’re doing is learning new dances.
“Repeat after me, you weak little maggots!” The sergeant grinned, enjoying his colorful language. “I will not drop my guard today!”
“I will not drop my guard today!”
“My shield is my friend!”
“My shield is my friend!”
“Okay, we’re going to try to learn three new things today. How to defend against a …”
Chanting back the instructions didn’t take any thought, and Ryan struggled to pay attention. He seemed to be able to figure things out pretty well, evidenced by the fact he had fewer bruises than the other boys. He just made sure that he wasn’t stepping on his “dance partner’s” feet—unless he meant to, of course, battle was kind of different from dancing, in the end—and the movements of his hands, the blocks, the shield bumps, the sword swinging in to give his partner a nice “thwack!” on the head, these things were easy.
“All right, you weaklings got what we’re doing today? I want you to do a simple high swing, followed by an attempt to push your opponent off his balance! Do that five times each! After that, normal rules apply, if it’s light, call ‘light’ and keep fighting; if it’s a good shot to a limb, you can’t use that limb until combat is over; if it’s a good shot to the head or chest, you’re out!
“Go!”
As usual, Ryan and Edmund started out together, and they were relatively soft on each other. Ryan went first, swinging his sword up to the side, then down. Edmund simply lifted his shield out to the side, deflecting the wooden blade to the side. Ryan stepped in and pushed his shield into Edmund’s center, which was left open from the shield’s sword block. Edmund pushed back with the hilt of his sword, and Ryan paused.
“What?” Edmund said. “You didn’t push hard enough, I wasn’t close to off balance.”
Ryan sighed and stepped back, squaring off again. Edmund assumed his guard position, and Ryan swung again. Edmund deflected the blow easily, and Ryan pushed in with his shield, again too gently for Edmund. They squared off a third time.
This time, when Edmund’s hand touched Ryan’s shield, Ryan flung his shield out to the side, carrying Edmund’s hand—and sword—with it. Meanwhile, Ryan had taken advantage of his sword’s bouncing off of Edmund’s shield, and used the momentum to loop it down, out, and over the top of Edmund’s shield. Edmund tried to bring his shield up, but he was too late: Ryan’s sword gently—but not too gently—bounced off the top of Edmund’s head.
The sergeant watched all of this from the sidelines. While Edmund rubbed the crown of his head and Ryan laughed at his friend’s hurt expression, he picked up a training sword and quietly walked up behind Ryan. Edmund’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, and Ryan turned around.
“En guard!” the sergeant yelled, pointing his wooden sword at Ryan’s chest while Edmund backed away.
Awakened
The man woke up. Somehow, waking up seemed … unusual.
People were chanting. He tried to open his eyes to look, but the lids seemed glued shut. He tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but his arms were so weak they felt like they had been tied to the table. Maybe they had been? He wiggled his fingers, rocked his hands back and forth, but felt no restraints.
Someone spoke. It seemed to be from a faraway place, echoing, and difficult to understand. A few of the words were so garbled that he had to guess.
“You will be weak for a few days, my new friend. You were further along the path of disease than anyone we have ever called. We were not sure that you could return, despite the fact that you clearly wanted to.”
A hand brushed his eyelids, which came unstuck. Suddenly, he was looking into the crinkled, smiling eyes of a man. They were blue, but not like the sea after a storm—more like the lighter blue of the sky on a warm summer’s day.
The blue-eyed man lifted the awakened man’s head, and tipped some rose-scented water into his mouth. The water was cool, and swallowing was the only thing that seemed to come naturally.
“Rest, now, and know joy. You have survived, which in this time of war is no small thing. Most men who walk the path do not return.” He paused, and tilted his head. “You must have had great reason.”
Great reason…I wonder what he means? He thought to himself. His eyelids seemed already to be growing heavy, but they snapped open widely as he realized that his mind seemed empty.
“What troubles you enough to open your eyes, my new friend? You need rest,” the man said with a deep and soothing voice.
“I … I don’t remember anything.” The prone man’s voice was full of worry, despite his nearly emotionless face.
“Nothing?” He seemed surprised for a moment, but then nodded. “That is unusual, but not unheard of.” The man paused for a moment, considering. “Perhaps it is important for you not to know. Perhaps you had gone too far along the path when we called you back. Or, perhaps, you will remember all in due time.
The old man stood up. “But there is nothing you can do about it now. Sleep, my new friend. Tomorrow is a new day. A new day for your new life.”
* * *
When he awoke, it was evening. There were no people in his room, chanting or otherwise. He noticed a book and a glass of water on the table next to him, and found to his surprise that he was able to reach out and grab the glass with relative ease. He craned his neck upward, trying to sit up, but did not have the strength. He rolled slightly to the side, and managed to put the corner of his mouth on the glass, and drank down the rose water without taking a breath. He felt a surge of energy after drinking, and managed to roll onto his side, then push himself up into a sitting position.
There was a chair in the corner of the room. On it hung some fresh clothing. He realized that he was naked, and that his skin was pink, fresh, and clean. Embarrassed that he had needed to be bathed like a mewling babe, he got up and limped over to the chair before he realized that he shouldn’t be strong enough to do so. He paused, shirt in hand, and gave a lopsided smile.
“The damn fool didn’t know it couldn’t be done, so he went ahead and did it,” he muttered to the empty room. He was feeling much better, and so quickly. Maybe that chanting had something to do with it? Or the rose water? Or the … place where he was?
There was a polished silver mirror nearby. He staggered over to it. He was not unhandsome, he thought, as he ran a hand through his black hair. It was of medium length, and fell in loose curls against his nec
k. A broad jaw framed a wide mouth, and deep blue eyes looked back out of the mirror. Was there a scar on his face? Glare from the window covered it. He leaned in closer to the mirror, but found that the scar was actually on the mirror. His eyes glanced into the reflection of the outdoors that had been obscuring the mark on the mirror.
Come to think of it, where am I, anyway? He turned around and looked out the window. The terrain was mountainous, with fir trees that had snow on them—but it was nondescript. He shrugged, and then stuffed his feet through the loose pants, dropped the shirt over his head.
There was a knock on the door. He invited whomever it was to come in; the old man with the light blue eyes stepped through.
“Feeling better, I see?” he said, smiling. He was overweight, but his flashing, bright eyes showed an unexpected energy that ran deep.
“I can limp a few steps now. I didn’t even think about my weakness, when I saw the clothing.” He blushed. “I’m sorry, it looked like I had to be bathed.”
The man nodded. “You were quite a mess when you came in. But I’m being rude.” He extended his hand. “My name is Matthew.”
The man slowly reached out and took Matthew’s hand, his eyes downcast. “I’m afraid I don’t remember my name.”
Matthew grinned. “Do not worry! We’ve been calling you ‘The Sleeper.’ I think we can change that to ‘Awakened,’ what do you think?”
“Awakened?” The look of puzzlement on his face must have been clear. Matthew raised his eyebrows apologetically.
“We weren’t sure if you would awake.” He smiled kindly. “You spent nearly a month on that bed.”
“A month.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Your eyes are as big as saucers, Awakened.” The corners of Matthew’s eyes crinkled as he smiled reassuringly. “These things can take time. Rest was called for, this past month—and it is still called for. We will have you on your way soon enough, and then you can get back to what you were doing before your illness.” He sat down on the edge of the small bed. “The clothes you were wearing were unusable. Those clothes are yours to keep.” He placed his hand on the book that lay near the bed. “This book is a history, and contains many names; feel free to peruse it to help you choose a name.
“We are also cleaning and sharpening your sword. Sister Joan was sorely disappointed with your blade; she said that it appeared as if it were made entirely of rust.” Matthew chuckled. “She is polishing it up, and making a scabbard to fit.”
“If it is a blade of rust,” the Awakened grunted, “then perhaps we should just throw it away, and find a new one.”
“Do not worry for the blade, Awakened.” Matthew smiled. “I believe that Sister Joan has been chosen to heal weapons in the same way that I have been chosen to heal people. It is a valuable skill, in times like these.” He tilted his head a bit to the side, his smile broadening as he spoke of Joan. “And I believe that your blade may have been special in some way. It had writing carved in it that we did not recognize. Sister Joan will repair it.” He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. Suddenly, his face broke into a huge grin. “I believe that her reaction upon seeing it was similar to a hungry cat upon seeing a dead sparrow—perhaps a bit disconcerting to the rest of us, but a happy reaction for her. Your blade will likely be better than new.” His smile faded. “That is, when you finally receive it.”
The Awakened turned to look at Matthew, then ducked his head. “Thank you. How can I ever repay you? Did I have any money?”
Matthew chuckled. “No, sir, you did not—but we don’t need money here. The local farmers tithe grain to us, and we make some of our own vegetables. We are here to serve, our healing waters are here for whomever recognizes that they are needed. You recognized it and managed to get here, despite your condition.”
“Do you know what disease I had?” He sounded hopeful, but frightened nonetheless.
Matthew frowned. The expression didn’t seem to suit his face. “No, we don’t really know. We’ve seen this sort of thing before, but never really been able to put a name on it. I apologize.” His face lit up again as he continued. “It doesn’t really matter, though, you’re here and you’re alive. We can give you a bit of vitlach, the healing rose water, before you leave, and a very modest amount of money. You had a sword; there is a war in the valley, perhaps you came here from there.” His eyebrows knitted, his smile faded. “Perhaps you are still needed down there. I don’t know.”
The Awakened turned back toward the window. “Well, thank you again. I will never be able to repay what you’ve done.”
Matthew stood up and walked over to the man, sharing the view out of the window. After a moment, he spoke softly. “There is one thing that you can do, although not for us. Help other people, since we have helped you. Do what’s right, for them and for yourself.”
“Of course, Matthew.” The Awakened focused on Matthew’s reflection in the glass. There was something more behind Matthew’s eyes. He seemed concerned, and on the edge of speaking, so the Awakened spoke again.
“What is it, Matthew?” he asked.
Matthew’s tension increased a bit. “During that month that you were unable to wake, you spoke in your sleep. What you had to say wasn’t always … pleasant.”
The Awakened turned towards Matthew, his expression mixed with emotions. His eyebrows were knitted together with worry, but his mouth was open, eager to ask for any hope of his past life. “What did I say?”
Matthew shook his head. “You were mostly expressing regret. Saying things like ‘I should have done it differently.’ There was nothing specific, nothing to help you remember, I’m afraid.” He shuddered. “But the tone in which you said it was terrible. Full of fear.”
“Well, I certainly don’t feel that way now.” The awakened still looked worried. “I feel like…well, like a good person, you know? What could I have done that would engender such regret and fear?”
Matthew paused for a moment. Then, he clapped the Awakened’s shoulder. “Be light of heart, my friend. I’m sure that you will be a fine man, and you will remember what is meant for you to remember. After all,” he said, with a sad grin, “sometimes it is better to forget.” He turned to leave.
* * *
It took a week of recuperation to get well enough that he could walk for more than a few minutes without becoming winded. He slept a lot, and he received instruction in light stretching exercises that helped rapidly rebuild some of his lost strength. Of course, the vitlach seemed to help quite a bit too.
After seven days had passed, and after an exercise session, Matthew visited him again, carrying a long bag with him which he set beside the door.
“I see that you’ve recovered your color, Awakened.” Matthew smiled, his eyes crinkling. “I hear that you can touch your toes now! Now that is real progress.” He winked.
The Awakened laughed along with Matthew. “Yes, I can.” He bent over and leaned over, knees locked, and put his palms on the floor.
“Your palms on the floor! I had but imagined that you could touch your toes with your fingertips!” Matthew bent over, but his large belly got in the way. His fingers dangled inches above his toes. “You have achieved the Nirvana of Noodles, you are more flexible than a tired old monk!”
They both grinned, and the Awakened sat down. His smile slowly faded. “I may have recovered flexibility in my body, but my mind hasn’t recovered in the same way—I still don’t remember anything.”
Matthew sighed. “I was afraid of that.” He shook his head gently, and cast his gaze downward. “I fear that you will never know who you used to be. Or what is perhaps worse, that if your memory does come back, it will be due to a shock of similar magnitude to the one that sent you here.”
“A shock similar to the disease that almost killed me?” They stood in silence for a moment until Matthew grinned again. Somehow his grin, his crinkled light blue eyes, had the power to banish worry from the room.
“Well,” he said to the Awakened,
“there are other things to worry about—and to be happy about! You must choose a name today, for tomorrow you will leave and try to find a new way in the world.” He glanced over toward the door before exclaiming, “Oh! And I brought your sword. Sister Joan spent quite a lot of time on it, and wished for you to know that she enjoyed the work. She seemed to think that it had a nearly perfect blade, before it became rusty.” He shook his head, clearly in awe of what the Sister had done. “She truly has a talent with metal.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the package he had put near the door. “Why don’t you take a look at her handiwork?”
The Awakened stood and approached the bag, made of red felt. He opened the drawstring and drew a broad-bladed bastard sword out of the bag. Its new sheath was made of thick leather, embossed with representations of knot-like patterns all down its length, along with a collar of carved steel depicting two dragons chasing each other around the blade’s entrance. The hilt was long, and was wrapped with silver wire, made of lighter gauge wires twisted together. Strangely, there was no pommel, and the slightly rounded cross guard was steel polished so that it shone. There was a small blue stone inset in the middle of the cross guard, with matching stones on the ends.
He tossed the bag onto the bed, and drew the sword from its sheath. The blade glinted and gleamed as if it held light within itself. It seemed flawless, as if no rust had ever touched it. He tested the edge with his thumb; he could feel each ridge of his fingerprint catching on its sharpness. The metal of the sword seemed to have been carefully forged: its surface was mirror-smooth and deep, as if it had been hot liquid metal one moment, then somehow frozen in time and space. The symbols reflected light strangely, their dark corners almost absorbing light.
There were markings on the flat of the blade, but in a language he did not know. He brought the blade close to his eyes, examining the runes closely. Cold seemed to flow off of the blade, making his eyes water. He turned towards Matthew and raised his eyebrows.
Legend of the Swords: War Page 2