“Thank you for the dance,” he said and walked away.
A small harrumph followed him, but as Ryle climbed the stairs at the back of the room, he spotted Yandra disappearing back into the crowd, probably looking for her next dance partner.
He breathed a sigh of relief, and stalked to his room.
Sleep was nowhere to be found. Ryle’s head and stomach spun in equal measures, and he lay there, failing to corral thoughts of the day past.
He thought about how Ambry looked like Casyne, and his chest filled with a new ache. Leagues now stretched between them, with only memories to bridge the void. Casyne, who’d saved him, kept him upright, kept him moving forward.
Rather than bring any comfort, a new pain rose.
Yandra.
Shame filled his head. He hated himself for letting her get so close, and not hating how she’d felt swaying against him. He cursed his stupidity, wanting to blame the mugs of ale and wine, and knowing he couldn’t.
He longed to see Casyne, but was glad she hadn’t witnessed the spectacle he’d made of himself. Ashamed and lonely, he wondered how long until, or if, he’d see her again. Waiting in the shadows of the room, Vastroth, Gearspire, and all the rest loomed dark and frightening. All of it tied to a Praeter hostage, one who needed their help to save her and everyone else.
The feather comforter that had looked so wonderful before lay hot and suffocating around him. Ryle’s head pounded while his guts roiled. He’d never sleep, not like this. He kicked the blankets off, and staggered to his feet.
Practice was peace and serenity. Quiet moments formed of the calm he rode in the kenten while a sword whispered in his hands, and the air fell in parted curtains around him. The Professor hadn’t let him touch a live blade until Ryle had found that place. It had taken a year. He’d called Ryle a quick study.
At least that was the idea when he didn’t have half a barrel of ale sloshing inside. A minute passed before the room settled about him.
It wouldn’t be the same without a sword, but he’d trained without a blade. He still knew those motions. He took his stance at the foot of the bed, open hands up before him.
The quiet called, but distant. His mind wasn’t clear. Not even close. Sweat ran down along his ribs. His mouth felt as stuffy as the room and tasted of spoiled sweetness.
This was no way to begin.
The Professor would’ve heaped scorn on him for beginning an exercise in such a state. Even over so many leagues, Ryle felt it pile hot on his neck, and winced before he closed his eyes.
It was a beginner’s technique, but he’d put himself here so maybe it was where he needed to be.
Professor Mero’s voice came back to him. “Nothing penetrates the center.” A gong reverberated. “Nothing but the self.” A boom. “Only you can break you own calm.” Drums beaten without rhythm. “None of these are anything to you.” The clashing of cymbals. “The outside world does not exist. There is you, your sword, and your opponent. Nothing else!”
Ryle took a breath and there it was, the kenten’s quiet calm. He slipped into it and opened his eyes. The clouds in his head parted, the stagger in his steps dropped away, the sting in his wounds faded.
He smiled and began the first movement.
Ryle’s center dropped away and he exhaled a long breath. Sweat ran down his cheek, but his heart and stomach were calm. He smiled and turned back to his bed. The movements had felt smooth. Despite his lessened state he hadn’t stumbled or missed a step. It was enough.
As he collapsed on the edge of the mattress, Ryle gripped the pendant around his neck. Coolness soothed his skin, and he savored the peace he now felt at Casyne’s memory. He hoped that a dim reflection in a stranger’s face wasn’t the closest he’d get to her again. If he kept his wits about him from here on, maybe he’d measure up and make it through.
“One day, I’ll be back,” he whispered to the dark room. “I have to fix things. And then I’ll come back for you.”
A creak from the next room signaled Lastrahn’s return. Dawn waited a few hours away. At the thought, exhaustion fell upon him anew.
He was crawling under the covers when new sounds intruded on the silence. Voices raised outside. Celebrations still going on he thought for a moment, before the voices turned to shouts. Angry ones.
Ryle stepped to the window and peered down. Below the slope of the roof he saw the small courtyard in front of the inn illuminated by the lanterns alongside the front door. A group of at least eight men clustered there. He made out no faces, but their orange uniforms were clear enough. Xaviel to a man.
His heart no longer felt so calm.
They stood with their backs to the door of the inn. Facing them across a dozen paces was a single broad-shouldered figure in a great coat.
Apparently the champion hadn’t returned after all.
More shouts. Louder.
Raking muck.
There were too many stairs back down to the front door, and chaff knew how many people still celebrating. That left a terrible idea.
Ryle pushed open the windows and stepped out onto the roof.
As his feet sought purchase on the cedar shingles, a familiar voice drifted up from below.
“Oh, I know who the hell you are,” Sergeant Kot said. “And I don’t give a good shit. You should’ve stayed in the inn. Now you’re going to pay for laying your hands on Xaviel men. Ain’t that right?”
Ryle couldn’t help the growl that tore from his lips. It was drowned out by the rough cheer that went up as swords flashed in the lantern light.
CHAPTER 17
The soldiers advanced on Lastrahn en masse. He didn’t move.
Ryle didn’t think eight on one were terrible odds for his master, even if Lastrahn remained unarmed since he’d left Exequor behind for the party, but he wasn’t about to stand by and find out. Not when he had a chance for a little payback of his own.
He clambered down the roof, moving as quickly as he could while not making a huge ruckus or falling to an ignominious death. Luckily for him, it hadn’t rained in weeks, so the shingles were bone dry under his bare feet.
He came to the edge of the first roof, swung his legs over, and dropped to the second story. At the same moment, the first soldier to reach Lastrahn, a tall man wearing a rusty helmet, struck with his short blade.
Lastrahn swayed back, avoiding the blow, and hit the man across the cheek. The soldier spun away. And Lastrahn stumbled on the follow through.
What the hex?
Ryle scrambled crab like to the edge of the roof.
The next soldier stabbed at Lastrahn. It was close, but the champion twisted past the blow, and slammed an elbow across the back of his attacker’s neck. He staggered again.
Oh, muck. Apparently Lastrahn wasn’t as impervious to drink as Ryle thought.
Ryle kicked over the edge of the roof. The drop was further than he’d anticipated, and he flailed his arms before landing hard on the final roof. Pain shot through his feet, but he managed to stay upright.
Below, Lastrahn was visibly swaying on his feet. Ryle felt the soldiers smile in the dark. They advanced again.
These shingles were drier, looser. They rattled and slid with his descent. He slipped, and crept faster. He didn’t have time to worry about the noise.
Two soldiers swept in on Lastrahn at the same time. He smashed a shoulder into one, sending him tumbling away. The other tried an awkward chop but was too close and got tangled with the champion.
Ryle reached the edge and looked on the courtyard four paces below. One of the soldiers peered up blinking in the bright light cast by the lantern hanging below the eve.
Ryle grabbed his center tight, and jumped.
Cool air whispered past. Lantern light cast the soldier’s young face into planes of light and shadow. The soldier tried to raise his sword but it caught the hem of his oversized orange uniform. Then it was too late.
Ryle crashed into the soldier knees first, smashing him to the paving ston
es. The man’s ribs cracked and his breath left him in a whoosh. His helmeted skull head clanged off the ground.
Ryle’s arm tensed, ready to add another blow, but the man was already unconscious. He scooped up the soldier’s sword and rolled forward off of him. As he came to his feet he examined the weapon in the lantern light. Cheap steel, half a pace long, double-edged. It looked sharp in only the broadest sense. The weapon was a piece of crap, but it was still a weapon, and there were opponents waiting. With some disgust, Ryle flipped the sword into sixth position—held reversed in one hand, blade up along the back of his arm.
Lastrahn had a soldier down and slammed a kick into his gut. That left six on their feet. Two looked injured, one had lost his sword. Only four remained real threats, and three of them were between him and his master. They were disorganized, focused entirely on Lastrahn. Ryle could sneak up, drop them like cattle one by one; the line of attack stood out in his mind. So simple, so easy. Only it would take too long. He needed to get them off Lastrahn. And honestly, this would be more fun.
“Hey, muck lickers,” Ryle said.
The trio between him and Lastrahn turned. All three were thick of shoulders and gut, and of a height with him. All wore leather armor over dirty Xaviel uniforms, and they had their short swords out. The middle man was Sergeant Kot.
For an instant Ryle’s mind replaced Ambry’s face with Casyne’s. Anger lapped against his calm. He felt himself smile.
For a moment they simply stared, as if wondering where Ryle had come from. Behind them, the uninjured soldier with a sword warily circled Lastrahn while his friends sought better angles on the champion.
“Forget your shirt?” Kot asked.
Ryle wanted to laugh. The fat prick had no plow sucking clue who he was. He supposed five years, a hand span in height, and twenty pounds of muscle would do that.
The soldier on his right chuckled. “Looks like he fell off his horse. Check out the bandages.”
“You sack stains get one chance to walk away,” Ryle said, really hoping they wouldn’t take it.
Kot didn’t disappoint.
“Sarge?” the soldier on his left asked.
Kot spit. “He was there too, with the big one.”
The soldier’s lips curled into a sullen sneer and he advanced.
After all the screw-ups, and mysteries, and failed attempts to do anything useful, this was something Ryle knew. He might’ve never been so happy to get in a fight.
The soldier stalked in, his sword arm cocked back. Ryle was there before he swung, blade up across his forearm. The soldier’s sword glanced off Ryle’s, and before he could react, Ryle stabbed him through the right side of his chest.
A gargling sound poured from his mouth as he fell. His sword spilled from limp fingers.
On the other side of Kot, the unarmed soldier leapt on Lastrahn’s back.
The next soldier tried a clumsy lunge, but Ryle twisted past the attack and rammed his sword through the man’s shoulder blade. The man collapsed with a scream.
Lastrahn threw his attacker to the ground and kicked him across the face. It looked like it hurt.
Kot clenched his jaw and spun his sword through a couple patterns. After all these years he was still a brute. His technique was terrible.
The last two soldiers hadn’t been in the group who freed Ambry’s attackers. So as much as he hated to, he’d put them out of the fight and left it at that. They’d probably live if they got attention fast enough.
Kot was another matter. The way he’d demanded the attacker’s freedom while ignoring Ambry still burned in Ryle’s brain. And that wasn’t all. Older, bloodier images, echoed behind it.
He deserved to die for all of them.
The fallen soldiers writhed on the ground. One moaned.
“Should train your men better,” Ryle said.
Kot’s sword faltered. He squinted. “I know you?”
Ryle hoped so. He gripped the sword tighter, battling a hot surge of anger.
Out in the shadows the remaining three soldiers had finally gotten smart and decided to coordinate an attack. One soldier approached Lastrahn, while his buddies sought flanking angles.
Lastrahn, still swaying, eyed the man directly before him. If he noticed the other two, he showed no sign of it.
Ryle’s gut tightened beneath his calm. For a champion, this bunch should be less exhausting than a stroll in the park, but tonight Lastrahn wasn’t the same force that had cleared the bar in Shelling with nothing more than words. He looked almost human.
“Come on! Whoever you are,” Kot snarled.
Ryle’s thoughts of punishing Kot tore apart. His heart sagged. He couldn’t risk leaving the other three for Lastrahn. He had to end this quickly and help Lastrahn.
“Sarge!” said a new voice from the corner of the inn.
On instinct, Ryle pivoted enough to bring the speaker into view without losing sight of Kot.
A quartet of Xaviel soldiers rounded the side of the inn and stopped half a dozen paces away, hands on the grips of their sheathed swords.
“He ain’t out back,” one of them said.
“No shit, Offe!” Kot snapped. “Hepa, you, Rassi, and Offe handle this waste of skin. Heder, to me. We’re going to deal with the big bastard!”
Four swords hissed from their homes to seek new residences. Kot spat and turned for Lastrahn. Heder jogged off at an angle to join the larger fight. Hepa, Rassi, and Offe approached, their eyes darting across their fallen comrades.
Sweat broke out along the back of Ryle’s neck. Most of these men looked like dumb louts. All except Hepa.
Kot hadn’t joined Xaviel alone.
His memories of the short, lean man weren’t as bloody as those of Kot. But no less frightening. Amongst Kilgren’s wild bandits, Hepa was like the dead-eyed Mirkther. Quiet, reserved, controlled. Ryle now understood this was from decades of experience, probably as a professional soldier before he became a bandit.
Ryle was pretty sure he could take him, but could he do it before the other five overwhelmed Lastrahn? He let himself have one curse then tightened his center down tight.
The trio, directed by Hepa at their center, spread out as they advanced. Ryle had been right to be worried. Hepa’s expression never wavered past concerned as the group came on at a controlled pace.
Ryle flipped his sword into seventh position, blade down along the side of his leg.
Hepa’s gaze flicked to the blade and back to Ryle’s face. His head cocked.
Behind Ryle, voices shouted, someone yelled, and then feet pounded. He couldn’t afford any more of this slow approach business. He charged.
Offe, the soldier on the left jumped back, eyes wide. Hepa didn’t. He brought his sword up in both hands and bent his knees further.
Ryle feinted toward Hepa, then leapt for Offe on the left. The soldier was still off balance, and tried an overhand strike, but it was weak and badly timed. Ryle shoulder checked him toward Hepa and cut out his hamstring.
Offe grabbed his leg and fell. Hepa grimaced but circled his fallen comrade without missing a beat. Ryle expected nothing less.
This gave him a brief view of Lastrahn. Another soldier was down, clutching his arm and Lastrahn was still on his feet, but that was the end of the good news. Three soldiers rushed him at once. Then Ryle lost track of his master as the third soldier, Rassi, flanked him while Hepa seized the moment, forcing Ryle to defend the first real strikes of the night.
The old veteran struck with control. Slashing through tight, conservative blows. The movements of a man who’d fought for many years. Not risking a killing blow, not overextending, just driving Ryle back.
Footsteps, heavy breaths behind him. Ryle cut through Hepa’s next attack and danced away narrowly avoiding Rassi’s slashing sword.
Out in the dark, a man screamed.
Ryle tightened his grip on his borrowed sword. He had moments left to end this.
The two stood soldiers nearly shoulder to shoulder; Hepa
on his left, Rassi on his right. Ryle waded in, slashing at one then the other.
Behind him, someone roared. Maybe Lastrahn? He did his best to ignore the sound.
His opponents worked well together, moving in unison. If there had been a handful more soldiers of this quality Ryle might’ve been in trouble. But there were only two of them, and for all their discipline, they weren’t fast enough. Ryle kept striking, keeping them both off balance while he watched for an opening.
A loud, buzzing, crack filled the dark courtyard behind Ryle, and a bright flash whited out Rassi’s features. The soldier’s eyes snapped wide.
Ryle badly wanted to know what the hex had just happened behind him, but both his opponents were looking past him. He almost felt bad, but an opening was an opening. In quick succession, he slammed the sword’s pommel into Rassi’s temple and then Hepa’s jaw. Both men fell limp. Hepa deserved a finishing blow, he wasn’t the sort to leave alive, but once again, time wasn’t on Ryle’s side.
He spun, bringing his sword up. Already feeling very late for whatever had occurred behind him.
All of the soldiers were down, none of them moving, and Lastrahn slumped against a hitching post. A smell like hot metal washed across Ryle’s face making his sinuses tingle, and a sharp jangling, like a rattling chain, filled the air.
What in the mucking hex?
He swept his gaze over the courtyard, the street, and the shadows on all sides. Nothing. A brief flicker of motion atop the building opposite the inn drew his eyes. A thin cloud drifted across stars there. Nothing more.
With the sounds of fighting gone, he heard the singing and laughing inside the inn. A donkey brayed in the distance. A door closed several streets away.
Ryle frowned, but lowered the sword and released his center.
Every drop of strength he’d held on to poured out of him. He felt exhausted to his bones. The sword hung like it was cast of lead. His knees shook, his poor bare feet ached along with many other places on his body.
Ryle took a shaky breath and crossed to the champion.
Gearspire: Advent Page 15