Kulvar walked over to Brant and tossed him the metal ball. Brant had already sheathed his blade so he caught it with both hands. It was heavy. “This ball,” Kulvar said, “weighs about as much as a blade.” Then he took the ball from him and set it on the ground. Taking the tip of the stick, he shoved it into the hole, pushing it in until it was wedged tight. Then he pivoted the other end of the stick and handed it to Brant. “Lift it up. But do it with one hand.”
Brant stepped back; using his right hand he gripped the stick several feet from the end and attempted to lift the ball from the ground. The steel ball, its weight now stretched across most of the six foot pole, seemed ten times heavier. His grip tightened and the muscles on his forearms strained with the effort. Slowly, the ball rose several feet into the air, its weight bending the pole into a slight arc. He managed to lift it about waist high before he was forced to drop it.
By this time the men had gathered around them. Kulvar smiled. “How does that feel?” he asked.
“Heavy,” Brant said, unsure about the point of the lesson.
“Now, grip it at the very end and carry it to that tree,” he added, pointing to a small bonet tree, “and hit the ball against the trunk.”
Brant looked doubtful. He was barely able to lift the steel ball and he had choked up on the stick several hand spans. Now he wanted him to lift it further back on the stick. He wasn’t sure if he could. Gripping the stick tightly, he lifted with all his might. The ball rose a few inches off the ground. Straining, he tried harder, his forearm shaking. When he had the ball a foot off the ground he quickly started towards the tree. But he had scarcely taken two steps before he was forced to drop the ball, his forearms burning with exhaustion. “It can’t be done,” Brant said, rubbing his forearm.
Kulvar smiled and strode purposefully forward. With his right hand he gripped the stick, lifting it quickly to waist height. Then he moved to the tree, the heavy ball dancing on the slightly bent pole. He then stopped, braced his legs, and swung the ball into the tree. The heavy metal thudded into the trunk ten times before he finally dropped it.
“How did you do that?” Brant asked as he stepped towards him, clearly amazed.
“I trained to do it, as have my men.”
Kade joined them by the tree as the rest of the men departed, going back to their evening tasks. “But rest assured that we cannot hit the tree ten times,” Kade said, smiling. “Most of us would be lucky to perform that task five times.” It was the first time Brant had seen the man smile since he had met him. “Each one of us went through what you’re going through now…disbelief. We thought we were strong, and we were, but not strong enough, in the right places at least. In fact, I’m impressed. None of us could even lift the ball off the ground with the stick when we first tried. You are indeed stronger than most.”
“So what is the lesson here?” Brant asked, trying to tie it all together.
“Wrist strength is the key to being a deadly swordsman. Everything you have demonstrated to me is important. You need to know the proper moves, the correct counters to various attacks, but if you want to be deadly, seriously deadly, you have to strengthen the power of your forearms. I was able to kill Tangar, and beat you moments ago by using primarily my wrist. I used a subtle but extremely powerful movement to knock aside your sword and have my own at your neck. Think about it, Brant. If I’m strong enough, I can use the tip of my blade like that steel ball. With just a flick, I can redirect your blade, and with another flick I can find your throat. The movements are so inconspicuous that you barely feel them.”
“Until it’s too late,” Kade added.
“Will you teach me this?”
“I said I would. But I cannot teach you the moves until you strengthen your wrists. You are as good a swordsman as I have met, as skilled as some of my best men. But if you were to fight any one of them, you would be killed. Strengthen your wrists and forearms, then I will teach you.”
“I will do it.”
Kulvar turned to Kade. “Grab the ring.” Kade left and went to Kulvar’s horse. “Pick up the stick again,” Kulvar said, turning back to Brant. “This time choke up on the handle about half way.”
Brant reached down and grabbed the middle of the stick. This time he easily lifted the metal ball off the ground. “That is much easier,” he said.
“The closer you grip the stick to the ball, the easier it will be. You will have to slowly work on your strength, moving your hand further back on the stick as you gain strength.” Kade walked back to them and handed Kulvar a steel circle slightly larger than a man’s head. There was a chain on one end which Kulvar attached to a tree branch. The circle dangled before Brant at about waist height. “Now, lift the ball so it’s in the center of the circle.” Brant did so. “Now, using your wrist, flick the ball left and right, up and down, hitting it against the metal ring.” Brant did as he was instructed, the weight of the ball rapidly taking its toll on his tiring forearm. The metal rang out eight times before Brant was forced to drop the ball.
“That is very difficult,” he said, rubbing his arm.
“It is. You will need to do this with both arms, until you can control your movements and hit the ring in all directions while gripping the end of the stick. Then I will teach you how to use this new strength.”
Brant picked up the ball with his left hand, ringing the bell only twice before he had to drop it to the ground. His left arm was definitely weaker.
“Do not fret. You are stronger than any of us were when we started. It will come. Now, let us eat.”
Brant looked at the stick on the ground. “Go ahead without me.” He gripped it again, putting the ball in the center of the ring.
Kulvar Rand and Kade turned away, the ring of the metal behind them bringing a smile to their typically aloof expressions.
They traveled hard that entire week. Every evening Brant and Kulvar trained using the metal ball. He was definitely getting stronger, but realized that it would be months of hard work before he was strong enough to hit the tree five times.
When they arrived at Cythera Brant stared in awe at his surroundings. The massive city, constructed of white stone, had been built along the Dark Sea overlooking the Bitlis Strait, the narrow neck of water separating the Dark Sea and the Bitlis Sea. On a clear day one could look across the strait and see the edges of the Sil Desert. The grasslands surrounding the city were filled with numerous shops and dwellings, creating almost another town in itself. Several small rivers flowed from the Devlin Mountains across the steppes, merging together outside the city, where it meandered like a snake to flow into the Dark Sea. Along its banks hundreds of homes had been built before it passed in front of the north wall of the city, forming a moat that could only be crossed when the drawbridge was dropped. Beyond the outer village were several dozen farms, their expansive crops of grains and corn swaying in the evening breeze.
Kade and the rest of the Dygon guard were sent into the main city while Kulvar directed Brant off the main road to the city, and onto another road that flanked the river along which a large number of impressive homes had been built, large buildings constructed of heavy stone, surrounded by rock walls and expansive gardens.
“Where are we going?”
“I have an estate here, along the river. You will stay there while I report to the king,” Kulvar replied.
“Are all the homes here owned by noble families?”
“Yes. Property along the river is quite costly. Most of the homes you see are owned by noble families or wealthy merchants.”
“Are you from here?”
“No. My family is from Tanwen. We have homes here, in Cythera, as well as Kreb. We own land throughout Dy’ain and need to be able to manage and maintain our holdings. I live here most of the time as Cythera is my home base. But when we bring Kul-brite shipments to Tanwen and Kreb I will visit my family and my homes there.”
Brant could not comprehend the amount of wealth required to maintain that many homes. And the
homes they were riding by were huge, most several stories and constructed of sturdy stone. Windows were adorned with intricate shutters and an assortment of colorful flowers bloomed from stone planters along the sills.
They rode past several intersecting roads lined with more homes before Kulvar pulled up next to a house that dwarfed the others. A stone wall as tall as a man surrounded what looked like a three story mansion. An iron gate blocked the entrance and through the vertical bars Brant could see beds of flowers and exotic pruned trees lining an entrance to a large oak door, intricately carved with twining vines surrounding a beautiful leaded glass window.
A young boy, waiting beyond the gate, opened it for his master. Kulvar and Brant rode into the area beyond the gate, a small round courtyard paved with rare white marble, veined in threads of silver and gray. Several servants were there to take the horses. Two paths followed along the wall’s edge. One led directly to the main entrance, while the other looked like it led to the rear of the home. They dismounted and one servant led Brant’s horse down one path along the wall’s edge, presumably to stables that must have been located somewhere in the rear of the estate. Kulvar held the reins of his own horse.
The young boy who opened the gate bowed before them. “Greeting’s, Master Rand. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Ari. This is Brant Anwar and he will be our guest. Will you please make sure that he has several changes of clothes and put him in the room facing the river.” The second servant had taken Brant’s few belongings from the back of the horse and was now holding his bag, standing behind Ari. Ari was perhaps fifteen years old. He was dressed in simple yet clean clothes, such as those worn by a house servant. His wavy hair was dirty brown, cut just out of his eyes and long over the ears and neck. His light freckles, unique in these parts, gave him a kind quality, and combined with his pronounced dimples exemplified a young innocent boy.
“Of course, sir. Welcome to Rand Estate. It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Anwar,” Ari said, bowing low to Brant.
Brant smiled awkwardly as Kulvar looked on with a smile. “Please, Ari. Call me Brant. I am no master.”
Ari looked to Kulvar to see if that was appropriate. Kulvar winked at him. The boy’s smile broke through his proper façade, but he quickly reverted to his professional demeanor. “Very well. Brant, if you will please follow me. I will lead you to your room.”
“I need to meet with the king. I will not be back until late. Please make yourself at home,” Kulvar said to Brant. Then he looked at Ari. “Ari, please show Brant to the training yard and make sure he has what he needs.”
“It will be done.”
Brant turned to Kulvar as he mounted his horse again. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the hospitality.”
“You are welcome, Master Brant,” Kulvar said smiling. Then he turned his horse and rode out the gate.
“If you will please follow me,” Ari said, leading Brant towards the main entrance, the servant in tow carrying Brant’s dirty bag. Well this will be different, Brant thought. He couldn’t help but smile in anticipation.
Brant’s room was immaculate; nicer than anything he had ever experienced. And he got to sleep there. He was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that he was Kulvar Rand’s guest, sleeping under the same roof as the most skilled swordsman in the lands, perhaps in all of Corvell. His bed was huge and the feather filled mattress softer than anything he had ever slept on. The furniture was elegant, yet simple and functional, the wood polished to a brilliant sheen. But the most impressive part of the accommodations was the balcony. A double door opened out onto a narrow balcony overlooking plush gardens and the river beyond. The sun was setting, silhouetting the giant towers of the city, the tall spires tipped with fluttering flags. Gazing at the imposing city before him, with all its grandeur, made him feel insignificant, as if he were a worm in a farmer’s field.
Brant made his way downstairs. He wanted to look around outside and find the training area that Kulvar Rand had mentioned. He found Ari soon enough. Or perhaps Ari had found him, materializing from nowhere. Either way, the young boy led him outside, taking him through the gardens to the stables on the northern side of the property. Once there he showed him the weapons rack inside the expansive stables and explained to him that Master Rand usually practiced on the cobble stone courtyard in front of the large building. The space was large and flat. It would be perfect.
Ari was just about to leave when Brant asked him a question. “How long have you been working for Master Rand?”
The young boy turned and smiled. “Since I was ten. He found me in the streets and took me in.”
“You were an orphan?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you now, Ari?”
“I’m fourteen.”
Brant was surprised. He looked much younger. Perhaps it was his frail build but Brant would have guessed he was no more than twelve. But age can sometimes be hard to determine. After all, Brant was nearly twenty one but most people would guess he was approaching thirty. He had been forced to grow up faster than the average child, and his many years working the mines and then fighting in the arena had given him a more mature physical appearance than one his age. “What kind of work do you do here?”
Ari shrugged. “Anything that needs to be done. I clean, serve his guests, whatever he needs. Most of the servants here were once orphans, children found in the streets. He has given us a home and a purpose. Master Rand is a great man.”
Brant couldn’t disagree. From what he had witnessed so far he was indeed a man to emulate. Maybe someday he could be like him, helping others and serving a just king. “Thank you for showing me around.”
Ari bowed his head. “You are welcome. Let me know if you require anything else. Would you like dinner brought out here or served in your room?”
Brant looked back at the weapon’s rack in the barn. “I think I’ll eat out here if you don’t mind.”
Ari bowed again. “As you wish.” Then he turned and walked toward the main house.
***
It was the fourth day of the siege and they had agreed the night before that they would start a staggered retreat in the morning. The servants and non-combatants would leave first, taking carts filled with provisions, weapons, supplies, and anything else they did not want the Saricons to get their hands on. Then, throughout the day, the Legionnaires would retreat in groups, until none were left. Despite their retreat they had accomplished their goal. They estimated that they had killed five Saricons for every death they sustained.
The Saricons had continued to assault the western wall. Several times a day they marched men across the bridge, a shield wall before them, pushing forward through the onslaught of arrows and spears descending upon them from the defenders above. And although the enemy could throw their short spears with deadly accuracy even from behind the shield wall, the drawbridge was up and the span from the end of the floating bridge to the castle wall continued to elude them. On several occasions, however, the enemy managed to hit the wooden gate with their explosive clay balls, only to be extinguished by brave defenders, risking their lives by leaning over the edge to dump huge metal containers of water, attached to pivoting gears, over the edge of the wall. They were of ingenious design, and had been placed every several feet along the outside of the barbican just above the wooden drawbridge. They could be filled with water, and then turned with handles, the buckets pivoting on oiled gears, dumping gallons of water at a time on the gate, extinguishing the fires before they could fully ignite the wood. But the constant force of the fiery explosions were beginning to weaken the gate. It was time to leave.
Jarak was on the barbican with Serix and Captain Ral, creating devastating damage to the Saricons with their magical onslaught of a relentless barrage of lightning bolts and fireballs that rained down upon them. The Saricons had no defense against the calamitous power of the Aura Mages. Nonetheless the defenders had to be vigilant. The Saricons were extremely accurate with their th
rowing spears and several nearly struck Jarak, the displacement of air as they flew by reminding him to keep his head below the battlements. Jarak was dismayed to see some of the heavy spears find their marks, nearly impaling a handful of his men and knocking the brave warriors from the wall to the ground below.
Just as he ducked to avoid a spear, a warrior crept toward him from the stairs on the inside of the wall. He crouched low, having witnessed the efficiency of the Saricon spears. “My Prince, you are requested at the kitchen. Chef Jayla says it’s urgent.”
Jarak frowned. He had never been summoned by the chef before and he could think of no reason why she would need to speak with him. Whatever problem she had could be solved by another. But he also knew she would not request him if it were not important. After all, despite his efforts to get to know her, she rarely spoke to him. He had to admit his interest was piqued.
He quickly made his way to the kitchens and found Jayla and several servants filling wood boxes with supplies. They were part of the second wave leaving and they would be departing soon.
“You asked for me,” Jarak said as he entered.
The two servants bowed as Jayla looked up from the box. “I need you to see something,” she said, moving past him and down the narrow hall. He used to get perturbed with her brusque attitude and apparent insolence, but not anymore. Now he found it almost amusing. He followed her down the hall coming to steps that went to the cool cellar below. She descended and he followed.
The large room was damp and musty, but nearly empty. The dark room was dimly lit by several small lanterns, casting dancing shadows among the beams and discarded barrels throughout the cellar. They had already boxed up most of the supplies and what was left behind would be staying.
“Why am I here, Jayla?” Jarak asked. He was becoming impatient. For what purpose did she need him to leave the fighting to join her in some dank cellar?
The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall Page 31