Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Were you really that powerful before?”

  Esrahaddon showed him a wicked smile. “Oh, my dear boy, you couldn’t begin to imagine.”

  Word of Thrace’s recovery quickly spread through the village. She was still a little groggy, but remarkably sound. She could see clearly, all her teeth were in her head, and she had an appetite. By midmorning, she was sitting up, eating soup. That day there was a decidedly different look in the villagers’ eyes. The unspoken thought in every mind was the same—the beast had attacked and no one had died.

  Most had seen the winged beast outlined in the brilliant green flames that night. Alongside each of them that morning walked a strange companion, a long-lost friend who had returned unexpectedly—hope.

  They got busy at dawn preparing more wood fires. They had a system down now and were able to build up the piles with just a few hours’ work. Suspecting that the beast—obviously able to see well in the dark—might not be able to see through thick smoke, Vince Griffin suggested they use smudge pots. For centuries, farmers had used smudge pots to drive off insects that threatened to devour their crops, and Dahlgren was no different. Old pots were promptly gathered and filled as if a cloud of locusts was on its way. At the same time, Hadrian, Tad Bothwick, and Kline Goodman began surveying the outbuildings of the lower bailey for the best shelters.

  Hadrian busied himself organizing small groups of men. One group started to expand the cellar they had found in the smokehouse, and another went to work digging a tunnel with the idea of trying to capture the beast. A huge serpent chasing a man might follow him into a tunnel, but if the tunnel gradually narrowed, they might be able to seal the exits before it realized its mistake. No weapon made by man might be able to slay it, but Hadrian guessed there were no restrictions on imprisoning the beast.

  Deacon Tomas was far from delighted with all the digging, cutting, and burning inside the castle grounds, but already it was clear that the villagers had found a new leader in Hadrian. Tomas remained quietly indoors caring for Thrace.

  “Hadrian?”

  He was washing at the well in the village, where he could find some privacy, when he looked up to see Theron.

  “Been doing some digging, I see,” the farmer said. “Dillon mentioned you had them making a tunnel. Pretty smart thinking.”

  “The odds of it working are slim,” Hadrian explained, dousing his face with handfuls of water. “But at least it’s a shot.”

  “Listen,” the farmer began with a pained look on his face, and then said nothing.

  “Thrace is doing well?” Hadrian asked after a minute or so.

  “She’s great, as solid as her old man,” he said proudly, thumping his own chest. “It’ll take more than a tree to break her. That’s the thing about us Woods. We might not look like it, but we’re a strong lot. It might take us a while, but we come back, and when we do, we’re stronger than ever. Thing is, we need something—you know—a reason. I didn’t have one—at least, I didn’t think I did. Thrace showed me different.”

  They stood facing each other in an awkward silence.

  “Listen,” Theron said again, and once more paused. “I’m not used to being beholden to anyone, you see. I’ve always paid my own way. I got what I have by work and lots of it. I don’t ask anyone’s help and I don’t apologize for the way I am, see?”

  Hadrian nodded.

  “But—well, a lot of what you said yesterday was true. Only today, some things are different—you follow? Thrace and me, we’re gonna be leaving this place just as soon as she’s able. I’m figuring a couple of days’ rest and she’ll be okay to travel. We’ll head south, maybe to Alburn or even Calis; I hear it stays warm longer there, better growing season. Anyway, that still leaves a few nights we’ll be here. A few more nights we’ll have to live under this shadow. I’m not gonna lose my little girl the way I lost the others. Now, I know an old farmer like me ain’t much good to her swinging a scythe or a pitchfork against that thing, but if it comes to that, it would be good if I knew how to fight proper. That way if it comes calling before we leave, at least there will be a chance. Now, I haven’t got much, but I do have some silver set aside and I was wondering if your offer to teach me how to fight was still good.”

  “First, we need to get something straight,” Hadrian told him sternly. “Your daughter already paid us in full to do whatever we could to help you, so you keep your silver for the trip south or I won’t teach you a thing. Agreed?”

  Theron hesitated, then nodded.

  “Good. Well, I suppose we can begin right now if you’re ready.”

  “Should we get your swords?” Theron asked.

  “That would be a problem, considering I put my swords on Millie last night and no one has seen her since, but that shouldn’t matter for now.”

  “Should I cut sticks, then?” the farmer asked.

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “How about sitting down and just listening? There’s a lot to learn before you’re ready to swing at anything.”

  Theron looked at Hadrian skeptically.

  “You want me to teach you, right? If I said I wanted you to teach me to be a great farmer in a few hours, what would you say?”

  Theron nodded in submission and sat down on the dirt not far from where Hadrian had first met Pearl. Hadrian slipped his shirt on, took a bucket, turned it over, and sat down in front of him.

  “As with everything, fighting takes practice. Anything can look easy if you’re watching someone who’s mastered whatever it is they are doing, but what you don’t see is the hours and years of effort that go into perfecting their craft. I am sure you can plow a field in a fraction of the time it would take me for this very reason. Sword fighting is no different. Practice will allow you to react without thought to events, and even to anticipate those events. It becomes a form of foresight, the ability to look into the future and know exactly what your opponent will do even before he does. Without practice, you’ll need to think too much. When fighting a more skilled opponent, even a split second of hesitation can get you killed.”

  “My opponent is a giant snake with wings,” Theron said.

  “And it has killed more than a score of men. Most certainly a more skilled opponent, wouldn’t you say? So practice is paramount. The question is, what do you need to practice?”

  “Swinging a sword, I should think.”

  “True, but that’s only a small part of it. If it were merely swinging a sword, everyone with two legs and at least one arm would be experts. No, there is much more to it. First, there is concentration, and that means more than just paying attention to the fight. It means not worrying about Thrace or thinking about your family, the past, or the future. It means focusing on what you are doing beyond all else. It might sound easy, but it isn’t. Next comes breathing.”

  “Breathing?” Theron asked dubiously.

  “Yeah, I know we breathe all the time, but sometimes we stop breathing or stop breathing correctly. Ever get startled and discover you were holding your breath? Ever find yourself panting when you’re really nervous or frightened? Some people can actually pass out that way. Trust me, in a real fight, you’ll be scared, and unless you train, you’ll end up breathing shallow or not at all. Less air saps your body of strength and makes it hard to think clearly. You’ll become tired and slow, something you can’t afford in a battle.”

  “So how do you breathe correctly?” Theron asked, still with a hint of sarcasm.

  “You have to breathe deep and slow even before you need to, before your exertion demands it. At first, it will be a conscious thought and it will feel counterproductive, even distracting. But over time, it will become second nature. It is also good to keep in mind that you have the most strength for a blow on an exhale. It adds power and focus to a stroke. Sometimes actually yelling or shouting helps. I’ll want you to do that during your training. I want to hear it when you swing. Later on, it won’t be necessary, although sometimes it can help to startle
your opponent.” Hadrian paused briefly and Theron noted the faint hint of a smile tug at his lips.

  “Next comes balance, and that means more than not falling down. Sadly, humans only have two feet. That’s only two points to support us. Pick up one and you are vulnerable. This is why you want to keep your feet on the ground. That doesn’t mean you don’t move, but when you move, you slide your feet rather than pick them up. You need to keep your weight forward, your knees slightly bent, and your balance on the balls of your feet rather than in your heels. Drawing your feet together reduces your two points of balance to one, so keep your feet apart, about shoulder width.

  “Timing is, of course, very important. I warn you now, you’ll be terrible at it to begin with, as timing improves with experience. You saw from swinging at me yesterday how frustrating it can be to swing and miss. Timing is what allows you to hit, and not only to hit, but also to do damage. You’ll learn to see patterns in movement. You’ll know when to expect an opening, or a weakness. Frequently you can anticipate an attack by watching how your opponent moves—the placement of his feet, the look in his eyes, a telltale drop of his shoulder, the tightening of a muscle.”

  “But I’m not fighting a person,” Theron interrupted. “And I don’t even think it has a shoulder.”

  “Even animals give signs about what they will do. They hunch up, twist and shift their weight, just like people. Such signals do not have to be obvious. Most skilled fighters will try to mask their intentions or, worse, purposely try to mislead you. They want to confuse your timing, throw you off balance, and make an opening for themselves. Of course, this is exactly what you want to do to them. If done well, your opponent sees the false move, but not the attack. The result—in your case—is a headless flying serpent.

  “The last thing to learn is the hardest. It can’t be taught. It can barely be explained. It is the idea that the fight—the battle—doesn’t really exist so much in your hands or your feet, but in your head. The real struggle is in your own mind. You must know you are going to win before you start the fight. You have to see it, smell it, and believe it utterly. It is a form of confidence, but you must guard against overconfidence. You have to be flexible—able to adapt in an instant and never allow yourself to give up. Without this, nothing else is possible. Unless you believe you’ll win, fear and hesitation will hold you down while your opponent kills you. Now, let’s get a couple of stout sticks and we will see how well you listened.”

  That night they lit the bonfires once more and everyone stayed sheltered in either the manor house or the cellar of the smokehouse. Royce and Hadrian were the only two moving outside and even they remained in the shelter of the smokehouse doorway, watching the night by bonfire light.

  “How’s Thrace doing?” Royce asked, his eyes on the sky.

  “Great considering the fact that she broke a tree branch with her head,” Hadrian replied as he sat on a barrel, cleaning a mutton bone of the last of its meat. “I even heard she was walking around asking to help with dinner.” He shook his head and smiled. “That girl, she’s something, that’s for sure. Hard to imagine it seeing her under that arch in Colnora, but she’s tough. The real change is in the old man. Theron says they plan on leaving in a day or two, as soon as Thrace can travel.”

  “So we’re out of a job?” Royce feigned disappointment.

  “Why, were you getting close?” Hadrian asked, throwing the bone away and wiping his hands on his vest.

  “Nope. I can’t figure out how to reach it.”

  “Tunnel?”

  “I thought of that, but I’ve been over every inch of the forest and the rocks and there’s nothing; no cave, no sunken dell, nothing that could be confused with a tunnel. I’m completely stumped on this.”

  “What about Esra? Doesn’t the wizard have any ideas?”

  “Maybe, but he’s being elusive. He’s hiding something. He wants access to that tower but won’t say why and avoids direct questions about it. Something happened to him here years ago. Something he doesn’t want to talk about. But maybe I can get him to open up more tomorrow if I let him know the Woods no longer require our services and that there is no reason for me to try anymore.”

  “Don’t you think he’ll see through that?”

  “See through what?” Royce asked. “Honestly, I’m giving it one more try tomorrow and if I can’t find something, I say we head out with Theron and Thrace.”

  Hadrian was silent.

  “What?” Royce asked.

  “I just hate to run out on them like that. I mean, they’re starting to turn it around now.”

  “You do this all the time. You get these lost causes under your skin—”

  “I’d like to remind you, coming here was your idea. I was in the process of declining the job, remember?”

  “Well, a lot can happen in a day; maybe I’ll find a way in tomorrow.”

  Hadrian stepped to the doorway and peered out. “The forest is loud. Looks like our friend isn’t coming to visit us tonight. Maybe Esrahaddon’s flames singed its wings and it’s dining on venison this evening.”

  “The fires won’t keep it away forever,” Royce said. “According to the wizard, the fires didn’t hurt it; they just confused it—bright lights do that, apparently. Only the sword in the tower can actually harm it. It will be back.”

  “Then we’d best take advantage of its absence and get a good night’s sleep.”

  Hadrian went down into the cellar, leaving Royce staring out at the night sky and the gathering clouds that crossed the stars. The wind was still up, whipping the trees and battering the fires. He could almost smell it: change was in the air and it was blowing their way.

  CHAPTER 8

  MYTHS AND LEGENDS

  Royce stood on the bank of the river in the early morning light, trying to skip stones out toward the tower. None of them made more than a single jump before the turbulent water consumed them. His most recent idea for reaching the tower centered on building a small boat and launching himself upriver in the hopes of landing on the rocky parapet before the massive current washed him over the falls. Although there was no clear landing ground for such an attempt, it might be possible if he caught the current just right and landed against the rock. The force of the water would likely smash the boat or drive it under when it met the wall, but he might be able to scramble onto the precipice before going over. The problem was even if he managed to perform this harrowing feat, there was no way back.

  He turned to see the wizard walking up the river trail. Perhaps to keep an eye on him but more likely to be on hand should he discover the entrance.

  “Morning,” the wizard said. “Any epiphanies today?”

  “Just one. There is no way to reach that tower.”

  Esrahaddon looked disappointed.

  “I have exhausted all the possibilities I can think of. Besides, Theron and Thrace are going to be leaving Dahlgren. I no longer have a reason to bang my head against this tower.”

  “I see,” Esrahaddon said, staring down at him. “What about the welfare of the village?”

  “Hardly my problem. This village shouldn’t even be here, remember? It’s a violation of the treaty. It would be best if all these people left.”

  “If we allow it to be wiped out, it could be seen as a sign of weakness and invite the elves to invade.”

  “And allowing the village to survive is breaking the treaty, resulting in the same possibility. Fortunately for me, I am not wearing a crown. I am not the emperor, or a king, so it’s not something I need to deal with.”

  “You’re just going to leave?”

  “Is there a reason for me to stay?”

  The wizard raised an eyebrow and looked long at the thief. “What do you want?” he asked at length.

  “Are you proposing to pay me now?”

  “We both know I have no money, but still you want something from me. What is it?”

  “The truth. What are you after? What happened here nine hundred years ago?”<
br />
  The wizard studied Royce for a moment and looked down at his feet. After a few minutes, he nodded. He walked over to a beech log that lay across the granite rock, and sat down. He looked out toward the water and the spray as if searching for something in the mist, something that was not there.

  “I was the youngest member of the Cenzars. We were the council of wizards that worked directly for the emperor. The greatest wizards the world had ever seen. There was also the Teshlors, comprised of the greatest of the emperor’s knights. Tradition dictated that a mentor from each council was to serve as teacher and full-time protector to the emperor’s son and heir. Because I was the youngest, it fell to me to be Nevrik’s Cenzar instructor, while Jerish Grelad was picked from the Teshlors. Jerish and I didn’t get along. Like most of the Teshlors, he held a distrust of wizards, and I thought little of him and his brutish, violent ways.

  “Nevrik, however, brought us together. Like his father, the emperor Nareion, Nevrik was a breed apart, and it was an honor to teach him. Jerish and I spent nearly all our time with Nevrik. I taught him lore, books, and the Art, while Jerish instructed him in the schools of combat and warfare. Though I still felt the practice of physical combat was beneath the emperor and his son, it was very clear that Jerish was as devoted to Nevrik as I was. In that middle ground, we found a foothold where we could stand together. When the emperor decided to break tradition and travel here to Avempartha with his son, we went along.”

  “Break tradition?”

  “It had been centuries since an emperor had spoken directly to the elves.”

  “After the war, there wasn’t tribute paid or anything like that?”