Legend of the Swords: War

by Jason Derleth

  Ryan winced. “Don’t be like that. This isn’t my choice. You know if we were doing what I wanted, we’d probably both be with our parents now.” He smiled wryly.

  Edmund snorted. “Yeah. Whether they’re dead or captured, if we had run into the forest that night, we would have probably joined them.” He looked up at Ryan. “You remember what we were talking about, on the way home, right before the fire?”

  “How could I forget?” He laughed. “You were telling me that you were going to choose to be a woodsman for your profession.”

  “Yeah, well, it was a good idea!”

  He picked up his sword, which was identical to the one Ryan had received earlier. “I don’t know … this metal feels so cold. I like the wooden ones better.”

  “Heh. Maybe you should sing to it a bit.” Ryan’s lips curled. “Your singing made my shoulder feel better. I think it might have been more powerful than the poultice.”

  Edmund ducked his head, but Ryan could see him smiling.

  Ryan stuck out his hand. “Whatever you do, keep me in your thoughts," he said.

  “Thanks, Ryan.” Edmund looked up as he shook Ryan’s hand. “I will.”

  Ryan turned sharply and rushed out of the room. He heard Edmund’s voice in quiet song behind him.

  * * *

  It was relatively warm at dawn the next day, and the squires had lined up in a row with all of the horses under their care. They wore what armor they had been given, and all of them had their swords strapped on. Ryan had stayed up late to finish sharpening his. The rain from the night before had left the delicious smell of wet earth, but the dawn star shone brightly, low in the sky. The clouds had gone.

  The knights came out of their building one by one. Armand was one of the first ones out, wearing his shining chain mail, shield strapped across his back. He had a pair of highly ornate grieves covering his shins. He inspected Ryan’s work: the horses were brushed, their packs tightly closed. He nodded curtly before motioning Ryan to assist him in mounting.

  The knights formed up ranks. Armand was behind Gregory, but in front of William, the third Crown. The rest of the knights were behind the Crowns. The each squire was beside his knight. When they were all in line, the lead Crown yelled, “Move out!” and they rode out of the abbey.

  This abbey they had been training at was near Forest Cairn, one of the six Great Forests, and its lands bordered the river Gredarin. The river’s waters flowed out of the mountains far in the north, meandered through the Cairn and onto the plains before spilling into Lake Gigno, a large lake a bit further south that was fed by several rivers. It was to the southeast they rode, towards the river’s path, and towards the Triols.

  The rain that had fallen the night before kept the dust down while they rode. The ground was still wet, though, and mud covered the horse’s hooves. Crown Gregory kept the pace at a light trot, so they would cover a lot ground through the morning hours.

  The road—more of a well-ridden path—didn’t meander much. There was no reason for it to, on flat ground like the plains. Occasionally, it did turn, or it would slowly bear to one side or another. It was monotonous, looking out at the green grass that was growing more than two feet tall. There wasn’t much wind, but the breezes that did come ruffled the heads of the grass in waves. An occasional oak tree dotted the otherwise tired landscape, although the Great Forest was visible as a dark line on the horizon to the north. Any direction shifts that the road had seemed to be keeping the forest just in sight.

  After about an hour, they slowed to a walk to rest the horses for a few minutes. Despite the few hours of practice, Ryan was already getting saddle sore. His legs were tired, too, from trying to minimize the bouncing from trotting for so long. He looked back, and saw pained expressions on most of the other squires as well. The knights seemed bored. It was slow going, trotting for so long, but the horses wouldn’t last very long if they rode faster. Even a canter would tire them out after a few miles.

  Crown Knight William pointed out a few of the more obvious plants along the way—the grass, he said, was a kind of wheat. They had been eating bread made out of it since they had got to the Abbey. The oak trees had been cut down a long time ago, when the Abbey had been more prosperous. For the past few dozen years, they had farmed the grain and milled it to flour, which they sold to the few locals and the occasional traveler.

  He pointed out things that Ryan missed, plants and animals that thrived on the plain. There were gophers, and some other burrowing animals. William even had an eye for insects that were flying about, and explained that the insects could tell you a lot about the weather, the birds that no doubt ate them, and even the ability of the dirt to grow crops. He stopped the troop and showed them all what he meant by digging a small hole with his sword—Armand’s sour expression showed that he clearly did not approve of shoveling dirt with a weapon, but he didn’t say anything. William showed everyone the worms that were crawling through the soil, and explained how it was good for the plants.

  The sun slowly rose in the sky. They slowed the horses to a walk every hour, and Ryan would try to relax his muscles. He could sense his body getting tired already. His stomach muscles pulling his torso forward, his back was holding him above the horse’s neck, and his legs had to hold on to the horse’s body.

  He started experimenting with his body, looking carefully at what he was doing in an effort to minimize what his farming experiences told him would be serious pain the next day. He realized that his left side felt worse than his right—he had been favoring his right side, sitting on his left side. He tightened his right side, bringing himself to center, and immediately felt more solid. He played with how far forward he was leaning. Too far, and it was tough to keep himself from falling onto the neck of the horse; not far enough, and he felt very insecure, rocking with each step of the horse. When he was in the right spot, the horse seemed to react to his knee pressure more quickly.

  They stopped for lunch right after when the Sun was at its zenith. The Sun had baked the morning’s mud into hard clay. It was quite warm, so they went a little ways off the road to eat under one of the large oaks. When they finally stopped the horses under the tree, Ryan saw that he wasn’t alone with his straining on the horse. In fact, every single squire was to stiff to walk normally when they got off their horse. Ryan was the best of the lot; his experimentation in the saddle seemed to have paid off. The knights thought their feeble, bow-legged attempts at movement were hilarious; some of them were kind enough to get lunch for their squires while the squires sat down. Armand wasn’t so kind.

  “Squire, bring my lunch to the other side of the tree.” He looked over to the other two Crowns, who were pulling food out of their bags. “You two are too easy on your squires.” He turned back to Ryan. “Boy, get these two noble knights food as well.” He slung a wineskin over his shoulder, and put his arms around the other two knights, pulling them away from their saddlebags despite their protests.

  Ryan loaded a small sack with some bread, fruit, cheese and dried meat, then hobbled over to the other knight’s horses. Their squires looked on, clearly more exhausted than he, as he put more food into his bag. He then picked up a skin of water and walked out to the knights with their food. As he walked, he felt the function in his legs rapidly returning.

  The knights were deep in conversation, and continued speaking while Ryan served them.

  “Gregory,” Armand was saying, “I think it’s absurd. The Triols can’t have gotten as far as they are supposed to have gotten. They would have had to leave while there was still snow on the mountains. How would they have gotten over the pass?”

  Gregory was a thick knight, short, with a full black beard. He had a bit of girth, but underneath the soft-looking exterior were strong muscles. Ryan knew because they had propelled a sword into his body every time he had sparred with Gregory. The man was a master swordsman, and that was why he led the group.

  Gregory thought for a moment before responding. “Well, something�
��s attacking the villages. I’ll be damned if it’s not the Triols.”

  “Do they have any Singers?” William asked.

  The other two were silent for a while, but finally Gregory responded. “We think so, but nobody knows for sure. We know that they have had certain … advantages, that would only have come from help from their kind.” He sighed. “Triol is a large country. I think it’s safe to assume they have some sorcerers. I worry that they have one of the Talented ones, though. I think they know where they’re going.”

  Ryan’s face must have shown puzzlement; William touched Armand’s shoulder and said: “Your squire looks confused. Have you not schooled him on the Singers?”

  Armand looked at Ryan, then grunted. “Didn’t seem important.” He turned back to his food.

  Gregory sighed and addressed Ryan directly. “Ryan, important things that Armand deems unimportant could fill a book. I’m sorry, we should have had a unit-wide meeting to fill everyone in. Not all of you squires have the same experience with … oddities like the Singers.”

  “I know of the singers, Sir Gregory,” Ryan said. “I don’t know much about them, though.”

  “The Singers are sages, learned men and women, who have shown an ability to manipulate part of the world through the use of their mind.” He shrugged. “Some call them sorcerers, others call them devils, for how else could they have gotten their powers? They call themselves ‘the Singers’ because their power comes from song.

  “You can usually tell when you’re dealing with a Singer because of the robes that they wear. They all use different colors, depending on preference, but the robes are straight, hooded, made of a single color, have multiple stripes on the shoulders made of felt, and are tied with a piece of rope.

  “What I fear most is that they have a Searcher with them,” Gregory continued. “A special kind of Sorcerer that helps locate something that has been lost. Searchers are very rare.” He drew himself up a bit straighter, and raised his eyebrows. “I have never even met one, though I have met one or two Singers.”

  William smiled. “My fellow knight is very proud, methinks. We have thirty Singers fighting with the army. It is something to be proud of: together, they are like a thousand men.”

  Armand mumbled something around his food, and nodded.

  Gregory nodded too. “Yes, I agree with you, Armand. More like two, or even five thousand men, if they are experienced in assisting an army.” He turned back to Ryan. “A few have chosen to serve the king directly, as guards and advisors. They remain in his keep.”

  Armand swallowed quickly, and interjected: “I don’t trust them.” He seemed quite angry. “Especially those who assist the king. How can we be sure that they really will help us?” He spat on the ground. “Bloody sorcerers. Why can’t they pick up an honest blade?

  Armand looked up at Ryan. “Well, squire, are you done serving us? We need to continue our conversation now, and explaining every little detail to you is going to take too long.” He looked at the meal they had just had and saw they were almost done. “Go rouse the squires and get them ready, we’ll leave in fifteen minutes.”

  Gregory cleared his throat. “Armand?” he said coldly. “I believe that I’m in command of this unit?” Armand seemed unrepentant, but nodded.

  Gregory turned to Ryan and said, a bit more gently: “Squire, please let everyone know that we’ll do some stretches and take a few minutes to help better learn how to ride long distances before we continue. They should be ready for the exercises in about fifteen minutes.”

  As Ryan walked away, he heard only the beginning of Gregory’s next sentence.

  Gregory said, “If they do have Singers helping them, it might be possible to strike from a distance, but—”

  William cut him off. Ryan could barely hear him as he said, “Maybe it’s good we’re searching for the Swords.”

  Armand laughed so suddenly he sprayed food out of his mouth. “The Swords are a myth…” but then he was too far away and couldn’t make out what else was said.

  * * *

  It took three days before the squires could ride all day without muscle pain, but long before that could happen, the chafing started. The insides of their calves, and some of the squires’ knees were nearly bleeding after the second day. There was another lecture before they started on the third day, again about proper riding posture—but this time, Gregory told them not to let their legs swing, and to move any buckles or straps that were touching their legs. For the worst afflicted, crown Gregory had brought two pairs of chaps, which solved the problem for them immediately. The rest had to suffer.

  Ryan was doing fine. The time he had spent playing with his posture had paid off. His legs didn’t swing, and no buckles were in his way. Ryan thought that Armand noticed that he was doing fairly well—at least he noticed Armand looking at him several times—but there was no praise, or compliment. Not even a grunt.

  I suppose I don’t really expect anything positive from Armand, any more, Ryan thought to himself. He doesn’t seem happy that I’m here, even though I just want to help. He looked over to the knight in question, riding next to him. I’ll just have to do even better.

  Crown William again began pointing out variations in the local vegetation as the road finally turned south. In a few hours, they were climbing gentle hills. The grass disappeared, replaced by shrubs and some sort of flowering succulent that grew near to the ground. William explained that the change in vegetation was due to the rolling hills, which, along with the river, changed the way the wind eddied, and the Sun fell. The succulent seemed harmless, he explained, but the flower was actually made entirely of brightly colored thorns.

  “It’s good to watch yourself around the river Gredarin, lads.” He gestured south, over the hills. “She is not kind to people who are careless. I think it’s her influence that makes these flowers so dangerous.”

  Soon, the road reached the river Gredarin. As they crested the hill and saw the river for the first time, William gasped audibly. He rode up to Gregory and the two began speaking lowly.

  It was a large river. Just upriver from the road, it over two hundred feet across, with river grass growing deeply in its eddies. It was black, and cold seemed to radiate off of it. The road intersected the river in a narrow part, where some small, flat islands lay. The rapid flow formed bow waves off of the islands—but since the river’s flow never varied, and the ‘bows’ of the islands neither rose nor fell, those waves stood still. It was unnatural that so much movement resulted in something that flowed, but did not change.

  Tall grasses and strange, warped trees grew on the islands. The trees’ foliage had a muted green color, as if they hadn’t been getting enough water despite the fact that their roots were sitting in a living river. A thick moss colored somewhere between green and black grew on the north side of the trees right at the waterline. There were several small wooden bridges connecting the islands, and a pathway had been hacked through the plants on the islands that the bridges touched.

  Ryan could feel the tension in the knights, unconsciously echoed in their squires. Perhaps it was the river, or perhaps they were getting closer to the enemy—perhaps close enough for the Singers to strike? Something was different with the feel of the group after they had come into sight of the Gredarin.

  William looked around at the group. “The moss here has swelling buds. I believe it will bloom tonight, several years before I expected.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s a good thing we left the others. If we had marched all the way here we would have missed it," he said. “Once the Sun sets completely, the moss at the base of these trees will … flower.” He looked around at them.

  Ryan felt that he wasn’t telling the full story about what would happen, but he was intrigued. William had demonstrated quite a bit of knowledge about plants along the trip.

  Gregory looked at the river, then at the knights gathered around him. “We all know this river’s dangerous, especially here, on the road.” He shook his head. “I
mislike being here during the night, but we’ve come far out of our way for this.”

  Ryan tilted his head a bit, curious at the reaction. It was a large river, and dark, but certainly they weren’t in serious danger?

  William nodded. “The flowers bloom for only a few minutes after full darkness.” He breathed deeply and calmly, which seemed to calm Ryan, and released some of the tension. “They glow, and can be pressed for a small amount of juice—no more than a drop or two. If drunk, or poured into an open wound, this juice can heal wounds in a trice.” He finally turned to Gregory. “It will be very useful once we meet the Triols.

  “I can only guess that it’s blooming early because we are here.” Gregory raised his eyebrows, and peered at Gregory. “It must be fate. Or one of the God’s hands.”

  Armand made a sound not unlike a horse’s whinny. “There are many Gods. How do we know that this one likes us?” He laughed. “How do we know that it wasn’t the God of chaos? Or the God of death?”

  Gregory considered for a moment, and came to a decision. “We will cross the river, and camp on the far side. A few of us will come back to the river at dusk to collect flowers.”

  Armand snorted again.

  Gregory smiled. “And, you, Armand, will lead the way.”

  Armand rolled his eyes, then shoved Ryan towards his horse.

  “You’re coming with us, boy," he said, between gritted teeth. “I don’t care if Gregory splits me in two. If you weren’t feeling fear before today, the river will make you feel it tonight.”

  * * *

  The river was flowing quickly. Its speed splashed black water up the sides of the islands, and a fine mist covered the bridges. The wood was extremely slippery, so they dismounted and led the horses in single file.

  Ryan peered over the edge of every bridge, but the water was impenetrable. The only thing that he saw was the distorted shadow of his own head.

  They gained the far side of the river without serious incident; slipping on the slick wood caused the only troubles. For such an imposing, foreboding river, it seemed to be easily tamed by the careful engineering of bridges.