The Cavalier

by Jason McWhirter

  “Allindrian said that it was important to train your body first if you want to be a great swordsman,” replied Jonas.

  “The Blade Singer? You talked with her?” Sal asked, stopping and looking at him curiously.

  “Well, yes, we traveled with her and Master Landon’s caravan. We met with them on the road from Tarsis, that is how we ended up here,” Jonas said, unsure if he should say more.

  Sal, looking at the boys, obviously wanted to ask more. “Sometime I would like to hear this story. Did you get a chance to see her fight?” he asked, continuing to move forward.

  “We did. Our caravan was attacked by boargs,” Jonas added.

  Sal stopped again, looking at Jonas incredulously. Fil and Jonas looked at each other wondering if they had told too much. “Boargs, you say?” Sal continued skeptically.

  “Yes, boargs. Our entire town was destroyed by the beasts. We left to come here,” Fil replied, a hint of anger in his voice as the memory of the carnage crept back into his mind.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I did not mean to bring up ill thoughts. Did either of you get a chance to bring justice to their killers?”

  “We both fought,” replied Jonas lamely, not sure of what else to say.

  “But we still seek justice, which is why we are here,” interjected Fil.

  “I see,” said Sal, “I hope that someday you get that chance. What was the Blade Singer like?” Sal asked, unable to hide his excitement.

  “Incredible. She was so fast, moving from one boarg to another, her blade spinning in a blur. And it really makes a singing noise when she fights. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” Jonas replied with equal enthusiasm, thinking back to that night in the field.

  “Count yourselves lucky, apprentices. There are not many who can say they met a Blade Singer let alone fought next to one. They are very rare and unmatched in swordsmanship. I hope that someday I may have the chance to witness one in combat,” Sal said as he moved to the training field.

  The boys on the field were paired off, practicing various strikes, poses, and ripostes, some of which Jonas recognized from what Allindrian had taught them. These boys were more advanced however, which made sense to Jonas considering that they had been training for many months.

  A man wearing a light blue tunic and gray breeches faced them as they neared. He carried a long wooden sword and smiled as they approached. The man was lean and strong and his unshaven face was hard, like granite, with one long scar across his cheek.

  “Sal, how’s that bruise I gave you?” the man asked.

  Sal laughed heartily, shaking hands with the man in the warrior’s grip. “Not bad, Master Morgan, but I’ve been practicing the counter and you won’t bait me again.”

  “We shall have to test your confidence soon,” he replied, still smiling. Then he looked at Jonas and Fil and his smile disappeared. “Two new recruits I see. My name is Master Morgan and I will be your weapons instructor for the next two years. At that point, if you have shown promise, then you may be moved up to the advanced classes taught by Master Borum.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Fil Tanrey.”

  “And I am Jonas Kanrene. We are very glad to be here.”

  “Very good. Now I have work to do. I will see you both with your group tomorrow.” He moved away to correct an improper strike from one of the apprentices, leaving the boys and Sal watching the training.

  “Master Morgan is the best weapons expert we have, next to Master Borum, who I have not seen beaten, even by Prince Nelstrom.”

  “Does Master Borum bear the expert swordsman mark?” asked Jonas.

  “He does. The same as Prince Nelstrom. Let us go now; it won’t be long before your group will be at the mess hall. You both must be hungry and you need to meet your group members,” he said, leading the boys off the training field.

  ***

  The first year in Finarth was very exciting, but difficult as well. Their long days were split with early morning runs, work in the stables, training, more work, and then more training. They trained with sword, bow and spear. They learned how to ride and take care of a warhorse. They were taught the basics in formation fighting, shield work, and fighting from horseback, which is what the Finarthian Knights were known for. At night they would also perform chores in the castle, cleaning and serving the knights and royalty. Even Jonas hated that work as most of the cleaning revolved around scrubbing the kitchens, including the hundreds of pots and dishes used every day. Three nights a week each team also took classes on writing, reading, and history, the latter being Jonas’s favorite.

  It was exhausting work, but Jonas and Fil both thrived on it. For Fil hard work was a part of his life and for Jonas it was something that he had never been able to do, so they both took to it easily, quickly gaining the respect of the trainers and teachers.

  Jonas excelled even further. He couldn’t get enough work. His body did not want to rest. It was as if he were trying to make up for the many years that he couldn’t use his crippled form.

  At night, he would sneak out and run around the track until he was exhausted and he could barely move. That was the only way he could fall asleep. He was constantly hounded by nightmares and his mind didn’t seem to want to rest. He would wake up from restless nights and practice the various sword forms that he had been taught, slowly going over each movement until he had mastered it perfectly. Then he would practice them faster and faster until he didn’t have to think about them.

  He started to look like a man; his body grew tall and his adolescent frame started to take the shape of a seasoned warrior. The constant running and training strengthened his muscles and gave them that taut look, like a tightly strung bow. His face grew more angular as he lost his boy-like softness. But his shaggy brown hair and his gentle smile tempered the harder edges of his appearance.

  Fil changed as well. He grew several inches and bulked up with muscle, becoming stockier than Jonas, and more powerful. Jonas had moved forward in the direction of skill and endurance, while Fil and excelled in strength and power. Like all knights, he trained with a blade, but his weapon of choice was the spear. He learned to use it like a staff and his powerful arms and shoulders could throw the weapon great distances and with immense power. His strong stocky arms enabled him to excel at formation fighting where he used a shield and short infantry blade. It was grueling work to maintain proper shield position while using the heavy cutting blades designed for formation fighting. Strong arms and backs were necessary and Fil took to the skill naturally.

  They became very close with the members of their team. They knew that the blue team of the Stag was where most of the lowborn applicants were put. There weren’t as many members in their team since it was often difficult for a peasant to get a sponsor. There were eight boys in their group. Calden, a likeable young man just under eighteen winters, was their leader.

  Calden was the son of a beautiful herbalist who had befriended a rich lord. Everyone knew that there was a romantic liaison between the two, but Calden’s friends said nothing about it to him as it was a sore spot for the young apprentice. Calden’s mother was the lord’s mistress and it was something that Calden was not proud of. He was not overly skilled in weapons or running, but he was very bright and his personality made him a natural leader. He was tall with red curly hair like his mother. His father was a common soldier who had died in battle when he was born.

  Fil and Jonas were saddened to hear that Tumas, the boy they met on their first day in Finarth, was part of the black team, the Dragons. The Dragons were the upper echelon, the sons of the most powerful men in Finarth. They both liked Tumas and they were hoping that they would be on the same team, but he was highborn, and hence were separated

  Tumas’s group was led by Torgan, a mean, vindictive boy who despised commoners. He was the son of Prince Nelstrom, which put him high on the list for advancement. He was the same boy that Jonas saw running around the track on the first day. He was at
hletic and handsome and the girls swooned over him.

  Jonas and Torgan became enemies early on, for Torgan soon recognized Jonas was his only competition with a blade. Jonas tried to befriend him but it was useless. Torgan viewed Jonas as lowly and not deserving the right to become a knight, and nothing Jonas did could persuade him otherwise.

  ***

  Their second summer of training was exceptionally hot, making the days on the track more grueling than normal. On one of these hot days they were sparring with swords, and the hard work and heat exhaustion had everyone’s nerves strung tight.

  The blue team and the black team were working hard on their sword forms. Jonas was paired with Titus, the son of a rich lord who was close to the king. Titus was decent enough with the sword and was kind to Jonas. He was one of the few from the Dragon team, other than Tumas, who did not look down on the Stag team.

  Jonas had already touched Titus twice with his wooden sword, both killing blows to the chest. Titus was tiring, and sweating profusely, the salty wetness was dripping into his deep set eyes. Jonas was sweating as well, but his muscles still had life, and he danced lightly on the tips of his toes.

  Titus came in hard with a powerful downward stroke. Jonas, batting the sword aside, side stepped, smacking him lightly on the leg.

  “Good strike, Jonas,” Master Morgan said as he walked by. “Titus, go spar with Mulick and bring Torgan here.” Master Morgan turned to Jonas who was standing lightly with his wooden sword at his side. “Jonas, you’ve progressed well. Soon you will have to fight me to get a workout,” he said with a sly smile.

  “Thank you, Master Morgan,” Jonas said, happy with the praise, although doubting he would last more than a few heartbeats with Master Morgan. The man was astonishingly quick and he didn’t seem to tire.

  Torgan came running up to Morgan, his long powerful legs covering the distance easily. He was wearing the short sleeved Dragon tunic with light charcoal breeches. His jet black hair was trimmed in the usual fashion for royalty his age, short in the back and edges with bangs that were cut straight across the forehead.

  “Torgan, I want you to spar with, Jonas. Jonas has improved quickly and he needs a better opponent,” ordered Master Morgan.

  “Yes sir, Master Morgan,” replied Torgan eagerly.

  Morgan pivoted, turning to instruct the others.

  “Hey dung eater, you ready to feel a sting?” sneered Torgan as soon as Master Morgan was out of ear shot.

  “Torgan, I don’t know what I ever did to you, but I hold no animosity toward you,” replied Jonas.

  “It’s not what you did, but what you are. You have no right to be here. You are a peasant coward, not worthy to train as a knight.”

  “If the king sees fit to have us, then that should be good enough for you,” countered Jonas.

  “Well it’s not. Now get that sword up,” ordered Torgan, lunging at Jonas. Jonas stumbled back quickly just getting his wooden sword up in time to take the first strike. But Torgan was fast and his sword lightly brushed Jonas’s thigh with his second stroke.

  “First hit!” Torgan yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  And your last, thought Jonas, regaining his composure. They danced around for several minutes, neither opponent scoring a hit. They were both strong and fast and their blades made a rhythmic striking sound, like an axe chopping wood, every time they connected. Jonas had never fought against Torgan before so he was just going through the basic moves, analyzing his technique. Torgan was matching his skill smoothly and was utterly confident in his abilities. But he hadn’t fought Jonas yet, either. Nor had he snuck out at night to work on strengthening exercises and to go through the forms until they were second nature. But Jonas had, and this relentless practice for over a year had honed his muscles, his mind, and his sword work. Torgan believed he couldn’t be beaten, but Jonas believed otherwise.

  Slowly Jonas began to pick up the pace, moving his feet and his wooden sword faster and faster. Torgan matched his speed, but Jonas recognized the slow rise of fear on his face. They were both sweating profusely and Torgan was beginning to tire. Jonas’s powerful lungs and muscles, strengthened from constant training, kept him moving lightly on his feet.

  Jonas remembered Allindrian’s words about fighting a warrior who was stronger and in better shape… swordsmen must first master their strength, not their blade. A strong back, stomach, and arms will mean faster and more powerful strokes and those muscles are also needed to maintain balance. Your lungs must be strong in order to fight long drawn out battles

  Her advice rang in his head as he picked up the pace. Torgan lunged at him, slightly off balance, and Jonas thought he had him. He smacked his blade down hard but simultaneously he realized it was just a clever feint. Torgan, spinning his blade under Jonas’s strike, went to hit his exposed left thigh.

  Torgan would have had him if Jonas hadn’t reacted on instinct alone. He remembered the move Allindrian had taught him, flipping his wooden sword to his left hand and pivoting his left leg away from Torgan’s strike. Jonas was ambidextrous and he could use his left arm as well as his right.

  Torgan’s blade found only air as Jonas’s wooden sword struck him hard in the side. Torgan stumbled forward, but regained his balance quickly, glaring at Jonas with hatred. He launched a ferocious attack, swinging his wooden sword with all his strength. He was angry, which gave Jonas the advantage. He was able to calmly apply basic defensive moves to counter the ferocious attacks.

  Jonas waited for Torgan to tire before striking offensively again. Torgan lunged with his sword right at Jonas’s abdomen. He was tired and his strike was clumsy. Jonas sidestepped the blade, using his left leg to trip Torgan, who was already off balance, while simultaneously bringing his wooden sword down hard on Torgan’s back. Torgan, stumbling, hit the ground with a thud.

  Torgan slowly stood, glaring at Jonas with insurmountable fury. Jonas barely had time to react as Torgan, dropping his sword, tackled him. Torgan’s body barreled into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him as they both landed on the ground. Jonas got his hands up to his face to protect it from the strikes that he was sure were coming.

  Torgan’s fists beat down on him repeatedly, but they could not break through Jonas’s defenses. Jonas had learned from Master Morgan that if you get into a hand to hand fight, and end up on the ground, that you want to reduce the distance between you and your opponent. It will minimize the damage that they can do to you.

  So Jonas, in a brief lull between Torgan’s strikes at his face, quickly reached up, wrapped his arms around Torgan’s neck, and pulled his head down hard towards him, forcing their bodies together and making Torgan’s fists useless. Then Jonas pivoted, arched his neck, and used the ground as leverage to twist their bodies so he was now on top of Torgan. Immediately Jonas let go, leaping away from the enraged boy. By this time a crowd of apprentices had formed and Master Morgan had just made his way toward them.

  “You dirty peasant! You don’t even deserve to have the chance to fight me!” Torgan screamed, charging a second time.

  Master Morgan moved in a blur, striking Torgan hard in the shins with his wooden practice sword. Torgan, bellowing in pain, tripped face first onto the grass, holding his bruised and bleeding shins.

  “What are you doing, Torgan?” Morgan raged. “You are acting beneath your station. You are all apprentices to be knights of Finarth!” Morgan raised his voice as he addressed the group. “Someday you may be fighting next to each other, your swords protecting one another! How can you trust each other if you behave like this?”

  “I’m sorry, Master Morgan, I did not mean for it to happen. It will not happen again,” replied Jonas calmly.

  Torgan got up slowly, his anger still apparent as he glared at Jonas with open hatred.

  “What happened?” demanded Master Morgan.

  “It was both our faults, sir. He scored the first hit and then I scored the last. Our competitive spirit and equal skill fueled our anger and we lo
st control. I will try to control my anger next time, sir. I apologize,” Jonas said in an attempt to cover for Torgan, hoping that that kindness might reduce Torgan’s animosity towards him.

  “Is this correct, Torgan?” asked Master Morgan.

  Torgan eyed Jonas with barely concealed malice. “Yes, sir, that is correct. I am sorry, Master Morgan, for letting my anger control me.”

  “Good,” Mater Morgan said as he turned to the entire group. “Now since you all seem to have so much energy, give me twenty circuits around the track.”

  Nobody complained or said a word. They dropped their sticks and began jogging to the track, the hot midday sun baking their sweaty bodies as they ran.

  Jonas stayed back behind Torgan not wanting to be anywhere near the angry apprentice. He could sense the volatile emotions flow from him like giant waves in an ocean’s storm.

  Calden, his team leader, jogged up next to him. “It is not wise to make an enemy of the most powerful apprentice here, and heir to the Finarthian throne”.

  Jonas let out a frustrated sigh. “I did nothing but fight back, and I even covered for him,” Jonas said, exasperated.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have fought so well,” Calden reasoned as they continued around the track.

  “Let him win!” Jonas exclaimed in a tone that could not hide his disgust.

  Calden raised an eyebrow. “Maybe…I worry for you, Jonas. You do not want an enemy in the likes of him.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You’re right, but sometimes that is not enough,” Calden replied.

  Jonas, shaking his head in frustration, continued around the track in silence.

  Six

  Darkness Comes

  The Greever lifted its bony head from the winged beast on which it was feeding. Its nostrils flared, sniffing the air of his domain, the domain in of which he was the master, the killer that lived to hunt. As its bloody jaws tore rhythmically at the bone and flesh, the demon felt the distant tug of its master’s call, a call not heard in ages.