Three of Swords

by Michael Jason Brandt

“What I’d prefer is to not give up on my mission so soon, King Anton. Surely you can defend your capital?”

  “We must hope so, young prince.” He sighed. “Very well. You may remain and wait. But I cannot spare time for you. I will have a suite prepared to make your stay pleasant, but I cannot say when—or if—we will be able to resume discussions of this marriage.”

  “Understandable, King Anton.” Sensing an end to the audience, Nico bowed. He watched Captain Gornada begin to whisper into Anton’s ear.

  Nico looked at Renard. “I think we should go to the barracks, first.”

  “Aye.”

  Nico informed Captain Bayard of the situation, leaving out many of the political details.

  “So, Captain, you will be cooped up here until this conflict is resolved.”

  Bayard nodded.

  Nico could feel the eyes of the others watching them. He had pulled the captain aside and spoken quietly, but he suspected they were picking up the tone of things well enough. Their stares made him uncomfortable, and Manus and Driscol did not help matters by looking his way without attempting to conceal their disapproval.

  “One more thing. The Asturians are anxious for something to hold against us. A reason to turn us away, or even imprison me. We must be on our absolute best behavior. Understood?”

  “Aye, Commander.”

  Nico considered naming names, or giving specific suggestions, but ultimately decided that the far more experienced officer would likely meet such interference with resentment.

  “Very well. I’ll keep you informed of changes as they occur. Dismissed, Captain.”

  Nico turned to Renard, who had been by his side the entire time. Whether he was paying attention, however, was another thing. Nico was once again reminded that the man should be home, enjoying retirement and his well-deserved pension.

  “Well, old friend. I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

  The mustache curled. “Believe me, Boy, I wouldn’t miss this for all the beer in Neublusten.”

  Chapter Six

  Everdawn

  JAK CREPT through the undergrowth on the balls of his feet, the thin leather of his boots producing such imperceptible footfalls that even he could barely hear them. Avoiding the sweeping branches that threatened to give him away, he stalked closer and closer to the clearing where his target lurked. Jak could see the figure now, crouched in the high grass, attention drawn toward something at his feet, his back to the unperceived threat.

  Jak inched closer, his speed diminishing as cautiousness increased. A few more steps and he would be close enough to pounce. He lifted his arms slowly, palms open, as the figure began to stand.

  “You are as loud as a bear, Jak,” Kevik laughed, turning at last to face him.

  “Devil’s breath,” Jak muttered as he emerged from the brush. “I thought I had you this time.”

  Jak was disappointed, but hardly surprised. He had never been able to sneak up on his lifelong friend, no matter how stealthily he moved. Or thought he moved—clearly, his own ears lacked the requisite sensitivity.

  The disappointment was mild, however. Just one more indication that he was never intended to be the hero. That was a distinction for others, such as his current companion.

  “You brought us some breakfast?” Kevik asked, eying the small pack slung over Jak’s shoulder.

  “I did. One whole loaf from the oven, berries and melon from the garden.”

  “Great. I was getting hungry while I waited.”

  Jak began to remove the contents of the pack, his lips subconsciously forming a broad smile, barely containing his excitement. Now that he was clear of the woods he could see the two practice swords propped against a nearby stump. Kevik had offered not only to spar with him, just like old times, but to teach him some of the strikes and counters he had learned at the academy. To do so was, strictly speaking, forbidden. But it was also the only way that Jak would ever learn of them. As a lowly housethrall—the lowest tier on the social order—he was forever barred from entry to institutions like the training academies. The thought of being taught techniques known by only a handful of warriors in the entire empire was a temptation worth the risk of punishment.

  His anxiousness to get started outweighed any hunger of his own, so he impatiently watched Kevik gobble down all the food intended for both of them.

  “Did my parents give you a hard time for taking this from the kitchen?”

  "Nay, your da left for work early this morn. Your ma is hosting company. But Kleo asked me where I was going. I thought she might stop me, but as soon as I mentioned your name she let me go.”

  Kevik grinned. “She’s a good sort, when she isn’t trying to be like Mother. She’s just finding her place in the world. Like all of us.”

  Jak nodded. The girl had become noticeably less hostile toward him since the incident at Harvest Festival. He doubted the goodwill would last, however.

  A thoughtful reverie had overtaken his friend, very like a trance. Jak had seen Kevik lost in his thoughts more and more often in the two tendays since the crying incident—the reason for which Jak still did not understand. Growing up, Kevik had always been an audacious youth, often to the point of recklessness. A little reflection was probably an improvement for him. Yet something about the change unsettled Jak, as Kevik’s face did not wear these moments well. Lines of strain or worry frequently appeared, making him seem years older.

  Jak wondered if he, too, looked like this when lost in thought. Which was a common situation for him, even though as he got older he worked harder to not overthink things quite so much. The two of them were becoming more like each other—not an entirely displeasing notion.

  Then Kevik snapped out of the reflective mood, his face lighting up with sudden enthusiasm. “Are you ready to do this? Your muscles haven’t gone too soft?”

  “Hardly. I’ve been practicing on my own. I think I can take you this time.”

  Jak wished Kevik’s laughter was a little less ebullient.

  “You have been practicing, I can tell.” Kevik smiled. “You’re quicker than I remember.”

  Jak picked himself up from the ground, as he had done countless times. He appreciated the kindness, even if the praise was unmerited. They had been at it for only an hour, and Jak was already as sore as he could ever remember being.

  Breathing heavily, he resumed his fighting stance. Kevik did the same, albeit without the same loud wheezing.

  As usual, harkening back to their younger days, Kevik allowed Jak to instigate attacks and dictate the tempo of the sparring. Jak knew perfectly well the reason for that deference. Kevik could defeat him at will, and neither would get much out of the experience if it amounted to nothing more than a few seconds per clash. Jak tried hard to challenge his more talented opponent, but every swing was met by a perfectly timed parry, every thrust turned away or easily sidestepped.

  Occasionally, Kevik would take advantage of holes in Jak’s defense to score a hit on the counterattack, always followed by a quick explanation and suggestion for improvement. Jak was used to being disarmed, tripped, and pummeled. Every session with Kevik ended with the housethrall bleeding from minor cuts and bruised from repeated blows, and this time would certainly be no different.

  He really did not mind. Each scratch contributed to making him better. Not that he was ever likely to be good by imperial standards, but Jak wanted to be able to hold his own against the level of competition found in Shady Glen.

  He lunged forward and their wooden swords clashed again. The din the blunt edges produced rang through the clearing and nearby woods. The two combatants were oblivious to all else.

  A parry led to another of Kevik’s quick counterattacks. This time Jak was ready—he had, in fact, made his own halfhearted attack in anticipation of such a move. Since he had no hope of breaking down Kevik’s defenses while the other stayed on his back foot, the only chance to score a hit of his own was when his opponent shifted forward. Now Jak sensed that opening, the
right leg suddenly exposed, and arced his weapon toward it. Before the weapon got close, however, Kevik’s sword came down hard on his knuckles, and Jak dropped his wood at the sudden agony.

  His face twisted, partly in pain but mostly in dejection at the failure. He had thought he was onto something, and it had backfired miserably. Now staring down at his hands, he stuck the knuckles in his mouth to suck away the fresh flow of blood.

  Kevik chuckled again. “Thought you would try a new one on me, eh? You’re not the first. I’ve seen them all in the last year.”

  Jak was pleased to hear that his friend was doing so well at the academy, but that did not take any of the sting out of this setback, figuratively or literally. It would be a few minutes before he could even hold his sword again. He sat on the ground, back to a fallen oak, and continued to lick his wound.

  Kevik half-leaned, half-sat on the trunk and stared into the distance. “I’ve always admired your insight, Jak. Can I get your advice on something?”

  “Anything. You know that.”

  “It’s about Calla.”

  Jak nodded, waiting, his sore fingers forgotten. He had the feeling this was going to be important.

  “You know there are a lot of nobles at the academy. Dealing with them has not always been easy.”

  Jak did not see what that had to do with Calla, but continued to nod, knowing the point would come in time.

  “They looked down on me, Jak. It’s the first time in my life that’s ever happened to me. My da is clerk here, so everyone knows us and treats us with respect. But a village clerk is nothing to those people. They’re all the sons of landgraves and barons and dukes. I might as well be a housethrall to them. No offense—my best friend is a housethrall—but I want you to know how they see me.”

  Jak was far more pleased to hear that Kevik considered him his best friend than he was offended about the slight. After all, it was true.

  “I hated the way they made me feel. I still hate it. And I don’t want my children to ever experience that. Not if I can help it.”

  I understand. It’s not a pleasant experience, always being reminded of your place.

  Kevik hesitated, unsure how to progress. Then he sighed. “Well, I met a lot of their families, there in Varborg. Most of them are from that city, or the nearby areas. Much closer than here. You wouldn’t believe how remote Everdawn seems from the capital.”

  Aye, I would.

  “A lot of the students look down on me, still. But after a year, some of them have become like friends. They’ve introduced me to their parents, and their brothers and sisters.”

  Now Jak understood where this was heading. He even felt a small, unexpected spark of anger inside.

  “During the first year, all the newcomers live together in a barracks. But after a year, we get to move to small apartments, two students in each. My roommate, Yinesa—he’s a Linizan—has a sister, Anzia. She’s headstrong and pretty, like Kleo. I think being around her was the first time I ever remember getting shy. I thought for sure I came off like an ass’s ass, but Yinesa told me afterward that she likes me.” He shook his head at the absurdity.

  “You think that marrying into nobility will solve your problem,” Jak said, careful not to let a hint of reproach enter his tone. Kevik was still his master, after all.

  “Nay, I think they’ll always look down on me,” Kevik said sadly. “I’m thinking of my children.”

  That made sense. Considering his own situation, Jak could hardly dismiss the importance birth placed on one’s social livelihood. He himself would give almost anything to spare his own children from being thralls. Presuming he ever had any children, of course.

  But one thing—perhaps the only thing—Jak would not give up was the perfect girl.

  “Have you spoken to Calla of this?” he asked.

  “Great Theus, nay!”

  “Do you know what would happen if you tried?”

  “She would murder me?”

  “Nay. If you tried.”

  Kevik considered a moment. Jak waited until his friend came up with the answer. “I would change my mind.”

  “She’s special, Kevik.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do. But it helps to be reminded, sometimes.” He looked up into the sky. “It’s just been…more difficult than I let on.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Jak asked. Part of him hoped to find out what demons had been plaguing his friend ever since his return. Another part of him, however, dreaded what he might learn.

  “Here they are at last, Hinch,” said a voice.

  “I don’t know, Gallo. They look like they might want some privacy.” The gibing tone made the inference clear.

  Jak needed a moment to recognize the two young men who were stepping into the clearing. They were the ones who had bullied Kleo and Tila, until Jak, Riff, and Kevik had in turn bullied them away. Jak did not know which nearby village they were from, but was reasonably certain it could not have been too close. He had never seen them before the festival, and was surprised now to see them again. Apparently, the shame of the last encounter had festered these last tendays for them to have come back all this way.

  Whether the other boys wished to fight or simply intimidate was unclear, but either way Jak found it hard to be worried. These two clods clearly did not know who they were fooling with. Even though his muscles still ached and his fingers still bled, Jak grinned at the prospect of sparring with them. Kevik the Conquerer could probably handle them both on his own, but Jak welcomed the chance to test himself against a beatable opponent for a change.

  Their misguided bluster was ironic. “Sorry to interrupt…whatever you were doing,” Gallo snarled. “But we have unfinished business.”

  “Go away,” Kevik said, in a tone one might use with a bothersome housefly.

  “Stand up!” Hinch cried out. He was half a head shorter than his companion. Both of them were thick—in the body as well as the mind—but Gallo was bigger all around, and far more muscular. He had close-cropped hair, while Hinch’s hung long and loose.

  Kevik sighed as he stood, picking up his practice sword from the ground. Jak took the other and stood beside him.

  “You didn’t know you were messing with a blacksmith’s son,” Gallo said, spreading his legs and flexing his muscles. He dropped a large bundle of dark burlap on the ground with a heavy clanking, then he and Hinch each drew a weapon from it. The two of them now held swords of their own, and not the wooden practice variety. Jak could see they were iron—poorly constructed, but sturdier and far deadlier than the blunt ones he and Kevik had at their disposal.

  “You’re a fool,” Kevik said. “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

  “Of course,” Gallo barked, clearly annoyed that the confrontation was not going the way he expected. “Hinch, ready to teach these two a lesson about cutting pricks off?”

  “Aye,” the other growled, although he clearly was not.

  Jak took a step away from Kevik, then another, giving his friend plenty of room to maneuver. His eyes were on Hinch, who stepped with him, matching his lateral movement. That was good, as far as Jak was concerned. He had wanted to make sure that the two others could not both attack Kevik at the same time—probably the only tactic that would give them a prayer of a chance. Now all Jak had to do was delay long enough for Gallo to be disarmed, and then the fight would be over.

  Jak did as he learned from countless times watching Kevik—he stayed in a defensive posture, allowing his opponent to initiate contact. At first, Hinch seemed to be in no hurry to do so, and the two of them simply circled in small, cautious steps. But the sound of steel on wood close by indicated that Gallo had found the courage to press on. Whether stemming from sudden bravado or pride, Jak’s opponent at last decided to attack. He brought his sword forward in a two-handed swing, arcing toward the center of Jak’s weapon as if hoping to chop it in half.

  Jak had invited the clumsy move by the way
he extended his own sword. Now he quickly dipped it out of the way, allowed Hinch’s momentum to pull him off-balance, and whacked the other boy hard in the knee. Hinch dropped the metal sword in order to clutch his leg with both hands as he fell to the ground with a cry.

  Hardly winded, Jak kicked his opponent’s blade some distance away, just to make sure the boy did not get any second thoughts. Then he turned toward the other two, doubtful that his help would be needed.

  Sure enough, Gallo was on his knees already, one hand holding an injured shoulder. He glared up at Kevik, who had the wooden sword in one hand and the iron in the other, both pointed at the pitiful figure. Jak smiled and took a step toward the two of them, just as Kevik pushed the iron blade straight into Gallo’s chest. It came out the back, soaked in red. Kevik let go of the handle, and the bully tumbled over.

  Jak gasped for breath but was unable to find any. His lungs felt that they had lost the capacity to inflate no matter how wide his mouth gaped open.

  He forced himself forward again, toward his friend. Kevik was staring at the unmoving body, clearly stunned by what he had done. That was a relief. For just a second, Jak had worried that the other might smile.

  Jak squeezed his fists tightly, then released them. He realized he had dropped his own sword somewhere along the way. One more clench and then he exhaled heavily. His mind was functioning again. Racing, but functioning.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. A silly question, intended only to break the silence.

  Kevik’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide and wild. “Jak, I killed him.”

  That could not be denied, so Jak did not attempt to. “Are you all right?” he repeated. “Did he hit you somewhere?” Jak hoped there was an explanation for what had happened. A spontaneous act of self-preservation, rather than murder.

  But Kevik shook his head. Clearly, he was fine. Physically, in any case. He looked at the boy he had just slain. “What should we do?”

  “We’ll explain that these bullies started it—”

  But Kevik was already shaking his head. “They’ll expel me, Jak. From the academy.”