Righty felt his blood pressure drop considerably, but there was one test left, and if he heard something like The final version, where you can actually turn it into a real sword is going to take a bit longer than I thought, he was going to be furious.
Nonetheless, he asked Pitkins, “And the business size?”
Righty had no idea what Pitkins did because he kept direct eye contact with Righty the whole time, but he suddenly heard a series of clicks and sliding parts, and what he then saw in front of him was the most beastly, fearsome, yet beautiful weapon he had ever seen in his life.
Aesthetics met functionality in a way he hadn’t even dreamed possible. Six feet of steel sparkling with every tiny reflection from the sun spilling in through the window nearby met an imposing hilt. Gold adorned the top, as well as several incrusted jewels, which also sparkled.
For a moment, Righty stood in worshipful silence, realizing he was looking at something he was going to carry and practice with every day for the rest of his life. He almost felt afraid to even ask to touch it. It seemed too good for him, regardless of the fact he had paid every last falon a month ago.
Pitkins seemed to sense his reticence, and so he handed it to Righty.
As he put the hilt into his hand, he felt the way he supposed some fathers feel upon holding their firstborn child for the first time. He had to suppose because Eddie had been born during his drinking days, and it had been several days since his birth when he managed to sober up enough for Janie to even let him near him, and even when he had he felt like it was just another mouth to feed.
Righty nearly gasped as he felt the texture of the hilt. It was mostly smooth, but with just a slight amount of roughness, which he assumed was to prevent it from sliding out of his hand during a fight. Ever so carefully, he touched the edge of the blade with his finger. A small trickle of blood suddenly emerged. He decided no further examinations of the weapon’s sharpness were necessary.
He slowly performed the sword movements he had learned a month ago from Pitkins, as if he might somehow damage the sword if he made one false move. He immediately noticed the increased weight of the weapon. It wasn’t too heavy for him to move, but he felt himself straining slightly.
Pitkins seemed to read his thoughts.
“You may just be the strongest individual for whom I’ve ever crafted a sword. As for that sword I sold you last month—you were the first person I’ve ever seen who could comfortably wield it in those basic maneuvers. In fact, too easily, it looked like to me.
“I’m a firm believer that if a person who is new to swords is investing in a weapon that he wants to last him a lifetime it is good to start out with a sword that is slightly heavier than what he is comfortable with. The reason is that as you practice with it more and more you are going to develop greater wrist and arm strength. I believe it will ultimately be to your advantage to have the heaviest sword you can wield fluidly because the heavier the sword the greater its effect upon impact. If you practice with it faithfully, within a few weeks it will start to feel more comfortable to you, and after a couple months the weight should no longer be an issue. After that, it will just be a matter of perfecting the techniques themselves.”
“How do I close it,” Righty asked.
Pitkins showed him two ridges on either side of the hilt at its very base, safely away from where he would be gripping the sword during actual use. Righty grabbed the two ridges on squeezed hard. To his amazement, the sword quickly retracted back to its dagger length. He squeezed it again, and he had his monstrous weapon back.
“As for concealment,” Pitkins began, and he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and then removed a harness he had had there, “just put this on. The sheath goes squarely down your spine. The top of the hilt will be hidden by your collar. One easy reach back, one quick squeeze, and you’ll be holding something that will make any potential highwayman think twice before wanting to tangle with you.”
Righty grinned and extended his hand.
“You, sir, are a genius,” he told Pitkins.
Pitkins shook his hand. He noticed a warlike gleam in Righty’s eyes, but he didn’t think too much of it, having spent a lifetime around soldiers who often got the same look when intoxicated with the acquisition of a new weapon.
“There’s just one problem,” Righty said.
Pitkins looked at him.
“I don’t know how to use this thing. I’m more likely to cut my head off than a robber’s.”
Pitkins laughed.
“Will you teach me?”
As soon as Righty noticed Pitkins face turn pensive, he began taking out wads of cash.
Pitkins interrupted him, “All right. That isn’t something I normally do, but I like you, Mr. Simmers. It takes guts to not only travel here twice for the purpose of buying and bringing back a sword to The Land of No Swords but to also want to learn how to use it. As I said last time, it’s not really about the money, but your willingness to part with your money shows me you’re serious. It’ll be a thousand falons per one-hour lesson.”
“What are we waiting for?” Righty said, good-naturedly, putting ten one-hundred-falon bills into Pitkins hand. “The most frequent I can come is twice a month.”
Pitkins managed to suppress the gasp that almost erupted from within. He had expected something more along the lines of once every other month. This guy must have one top-notch horse to be able to travel that kind of distance twice a month.
“Follow me,” Pitkins said.
Pitkins went into a separate room. It was large and spacious and covered with a canvas mat. Righty noticed Pitkins taking off his boots and then bowing before stepping onto the mat, and he didn’t have to be told to do the same. Righty was awestruck at the beautiful collection of weaponry adorning the walls. Axes, swords, maces, and battle hammers hung there, and he wondered what stories they would tell if they could speak.
Pitkins first had Righty go through the series of sword movements he had taught him last time. He made a few minor corrections to Righty’s technique, but privately he was awestruck at how close to absolute perfection Righty had come with the techniques in a mere month.
Then, he taught Righty a half-dozen more. Once the hour was up, they walked back to the shop entrance.
“Would the same time two weeks from now be satisfactory, Sir Pitkins?” Righty asked.
“Absolutely, Mr. Simmers.”
They shook hands. Righty then retracted the blade down to dagger size and put it back into its sheath. He did so carefully, not wanting to slice his shirt, but it was a movement he planned on perfecting soon enough, as well as accessing the weapon.
As he left the shop and began walking back towards the woods, he was amazed at how comfortable the weapon was. He felt no annoying bounce against his back. He felt no uncomfortable squeeze from the harness or pinching of skin. And there was no telltale clanging either. He realized that perhaps the one drawback—if it could be called such—to the weapon, sheath, and harness was that they were so comfortable he wasn’t sure if he would even notice if the sword was suddenly stolen from him.
As he approached Harold, it was Harold who was now anxious with curiosity.
He said nothing at first, but his face asked more than enough questions.
Then, after an awkward silence, Harold said, “Well?”
Carefully, Righty pulled the weapon out of its sheath.
Harold burst out laughing.
“I hope it gets bigger because from what I saw during your last fight the man who nearly disemboweled you had a sword about three times the size of that dagger.”
A sudden springing motion from the weapon exposing six feet of razor-sharp steel wiped the smile from Harold’s face immediately.
For the first time, he looked at Righty as someone more than a temporary project while waiting for the return of Master. He realized one stroke from this weapon, and if he didn’t fly away fast enough, it would lop his head clean off.
“I told you
he was the best,” Harold said quietly.
He felt a bit unnerved by the ferocity in Righty’s eyes. He could tell he loved the feeling of that weapon in his hands and the thought of what he could do with it.
“Will we be returning to Ringsetter now, sir?” Harold asked, calling him “sir” for the first time and realizing simultaneously it would be the norm from now on.
Righty slowly sheathed the weapon and then got on Harold’s back.
He had big plans for his future. Mastery of this weapon was first. Then, bigger plans. Much bigger.
End of Mr. Brass
The Swordsman (volume three of the series The Republic of Selegania).
This book is a work of fiction. All names and places are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2014 by Daniel Lawlis
All rights reserved.
© Peterkozikowski | Dreamstime.com - Sword Photo
(Adjustments to photos made by Daniel Lawlis)
The Swordsman
Chapter 1
Many a child yearns for a material possession, only to promptly shed his interest once it is obtained. Children carry this talent into adulthood in all but the rarest of circumstances.
Righty, however, latched onto interests like a boa constrictor around its prey absorbing it whole. Thus, it had been with bare-knuckle boxing, then with drinking, and now with his sword. Three sweaty hours each morning in the seclusion of the forest he maneuvered his sword through the air, paying careful attention to every angle, every thrust, every turn, as if he were a musician preparing to perform before thousands.
Every return trip to Sodorf to meet with Pitkins brought more knowledge for him to master and the slightest of corrections in the techniques he had been practicing, which Pitkins noted with private astonishment to be nearly perfect. For the first time, Pitkins also privately began musing about the character of the man he was training to be a flawless killing machine. Having expected him to return for fewer than a handful of lessons, he knew at the end of six months of impeccable punctuality and dedication on the part of his student that he was going to be creating one of the deadliest men that ever lived.
Pitkins had seen many a dazzling swordsman in his day. Both the quick, adroit genius of the small warrior and the prodigious power of the large. But never had he seen such perfect matrimony between strength and skill as he was witnessing in the nascent perfection of Righty’s craft. He attributed no small amount of it to the footwork Righty had learned during his years of boxing, but he knew that could not explain all. There was a single-mindedness in Righty’s soul whenever he practiced or listened under Pitkins’ tutelage, and the quick absorption and application of any instruction given revealed an uncanny aptitude for the craft, unlike anything he had ever seen.
While this alone would have impressed Pitkins considerably, his cognizance of the unseemly brute strength of the man—proof enough of which existed in his ability to move about with one hand like a twig a monstrous sword Pitkins could not move comfortably with two—caused him to feel an occasional sense of dread as to what this man could be capable of. But belying these facts was a calm sense of humility that Righty projected, which disarmed Pitkins sufficiently to convince him to continue training him in the use of his sword.
But where Pitkins saw nascent perfection, Righty saw only huge flaws that needed to be improved considerably; and while Pitkins occasionally felt dread at what this man could become, Righty himself had lived in a constant state of dread ever since the day he nearly lost his life six months ago in the ambush.
He had been the biggest, baddest guy to patronize the bars of Ringsetter during his tenure as town drunk, and while he had occasionally taken a lump or two on the head, he had never felt his life to be in danger. But six months ago, lying on the ground, knee disabled, head throbbing, he knew he had looked death in the eye, and that had it not been for the improbable arrival of a theretofore unknown protector he most certainly would have been bludgeoned or hacked to death while he lay whimpering on the ground like an injured pup. It had haunted his dreams by night and his thoughts by day. He despised the weakness he felt in that moment. The helplessness.
He knew that he was going to have to cash in his chips and use the money he had saved up or approach this new endeavor with far greater preparation. The way he saw it, “greater preparation” required a two-pronged approach: increasing the deadliness of his own mind and body and fortifying himself with stronger allies. The former was being accomplished by the practice of swordsmanship. How to accomplish the latter perplexed him.
He supposed he could bring Spider and Tats to Pitkins’ shop and ask him to give them sword lessons, but this was no simple matter. First, he suspected Pitkins would see them for the thugs they were immediately, as a result of which Pitkins might suspend even Righty’s lessons. Pitkins didn’t strike him as the kind of person who would knowingly teach thugs to improve their prowess at violence.
Secondly, there was the issue of transportation. He had been grateful Pitkins didn’t fit into the inquisitive category and had never inquired about this. No doubt assuming he was traveling a couple days each way by horseback, Pitkins surely had no idea Righty was flying high above the sky and then walking from the nearby woods. And Righty would be damned if he would allow anyone to know about Harold, which of course meant the way Pitkins assumed Righty was travelling would in fact have to be the way Tats and Spider would travel, which would be an intolerably long journey, given that they did not live near the border of Sodorf, as he did.
You could teach them.
The thought surprised him, as it was practical and yet had escaped serious consideration thus far.
But can I trust them?
He suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted Tats and Spider to become efficient killing machines. After all, if trust were measured in grains of sand, no teaspoon was small enough to be filled with the trust Righty had for them. They had made headway by staying at his side when they were ambushed, but not too long before they themselves had attempted to rob him.
They look up to you.
He distrusted that thought, as it was too flattering.
(but is it?)
They had witnessed him crack heads on several occasions, and he suspected they just might feel some sense of admiration for a man many times their better in the realm of fisticuffs. He had himself been in their shoes admiring prominent boxers when he was just learning how to throw a jab.
His mind set aside this conundrum for the moment as he finished up this morning’s three hours of sword practice. Sweat dripped from every pore like water from a sieve, pouring down his shirtless chest to his pants, which by now made him look as if he had just stepped out of a river after his boat had capsized.
He had barely met with Spider and Tats over the last six months. What had been becoming a set of trips per week to meet with them had dwindled to a mere meeting per month, which they did at the very edge of Sivingdel. He had been too spooked to return to the junkyard, which had once been their regular meeting spot.
And he had brought less merchandise too. He had become spooked of everything. What would happen if he was ambushed again? What would happen if he made too much money to bury or inconspicuously deposit in the bank? What would happen when his seeds one day ran out? In brief, his beating had changed his bright, can-do world into a terrifying maze full of horrors.
He realized that at the standard of living he had been accustomed to for most of his life he could stop selling right now and live comfortably for the rest of his life, spending his leisure hours as he pleased. With the money he was earning from his store, he could even buy something nice on occasion. Had this been offered to him on a platter while he was slaving away in the lumberyard, he would have accepted it greedily or been hesitant to believe it was even real, so heavenly it would have seemed.
Yet his appetite for power had been whetted by the experience of seeing significant cash flowing into his possession, a
nd even in his darkest hours of despair a grain remained of what had once been an unshakable feeling of destiny. It was vague and ill-defined, but he knew it involved greatness. And hiding away in his house or passing the days and the months and the years on his porch until the day he breathed his last was not greatness.
Thus, he sometimes wondered why he ever even entertained the prospect of quitting when he knew in his heart of hearts it was not even a remote possibility. And besides his sense of destiny, he also remembered the promise he had made.
Chapter 2
Thus, it was, although he wasn’t scheduled to meet with Spider for about three weeks with a paltry delivery, he decided impulsively right then and there that Monday morning to go blitzing in with twenty pounds worth, far more than he had ever brought.
He noticed Harold studying him carefully as he began packing away the 320 large bulbs into a hefty sack.
The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four Page 38