Death Comes To All (Book 1)

by Travis Kerr

  The rounded pummel blended into the hilt so well that it didn't have any catch points where the back of the swordsman's arm might snag and take away from the sword's momentum. The pummel was an oval ball about six inches from front to back and three inches wide, without any angles or edges. Unlike most other swords Roland had seen, it didn't have any sort of crosspiece of guard, though considering how the blade was shaped it made sense not to have one.

  "I'm impressed," Malik confessed. "It doesn't have ornamentation, but with a blade like this I think it gives a better impression without any. I have to admit it is truly a work of art. I think this blade might even be better than my own. You said you made this for a trog?"

  The smith shrugged. "His gold was as good as anyone's. Considering how he died I can imagine how he came across it, but it's not my job to question how my customers make their money. I'm going to do my best regardless of who pays me to do it. I won't have it said that I allowed a poor blade to ever leave my forge. I believe that's the reason you came to me in the first place, isn't it?"

  "It is," Malik agreed. "So is there a place we can test this blade? If it is as good as it appears than it shouldn't risk damaging it."

  "I have a room in the back where I practice with the finished blades before I sell them to the customers. To be honest I haven't tested this weapon. I'm a strong man, but not even I can wield this blade. I don't normally allow customers there, and it's not big enough for a real match, but it should make do for a quick test."

  The group followed Baldor through the door that led to his forge. As they walked through Roland glanced at the row of tools along the wall, each lovingly placed in its particular home on the wall.

  Most smiths start by creating their own tools that they use for their craft, Roland recalled.

  His father had a small workplace beside their barn that he would use to make and repair their farm tools. It included a forge and blacksmith's tools similar to these, though on a much smaller scale.

  They continued on to a different door leading out of the room. Only Malik and Roland were ushered in. The smith motioned to Tara to wait outside. Roland quickly understood the reason why. The room would have been large enough for all of them were they only planning on standing and talking, but not for swordplay. Anyone in that room could potentially be in danger if a swing missed its mark. Tara watched from the doorway beside the smith.

  "Alright," Malik laughed merrily as he often did at the prospect of a fight, even if it was only a short sparring match. "First let's see if you can handle your weapon while under attack. Remember to be careful of your balance, which will feel different than you're used to with the heavier weapon. Now defend yourself!"

  Malik jumped forward into a hard downward attack. Roland knew his companion wasn't fighting with his true speed and power, simply testing Roland's ability with the massive blade he wielded. Roland brought the blade up into a quick parry, then blocked the next three strikes in rapid succession.

  Malik was right, he quickly realized.

  The greater weight and slightly different balance of the larger blade made it more difficult to move the same way he had been before with the smaller, lighter sword Malik carried, or the wooden imitations he practiced with regularly.

  He noticed, however, that Malik's attacks barely affected the blade when he parried. It took less of an effort to keep Malik's strikes at bay. The man's smaller sword simply couldn't move his blade. Because of this he could parry much closer to his body than he would have been able to do with a smaller weapon.

  Malik stepped back after a moment. "Good. It seems that you can move into the defensive positions despite the weight. You should be able to defend yourself with it decently. You'll get better with the blade once you've gotten used to it."

  "I noticed that it was slower moving into the positions," Roland informed his companion. "When our blades struck, however, your attacks barely moved it. It felt as if you were barely touching my blade, though it looked like you put some power into a few of those strikes. I think I can get used to it. I'll have to change my fighting style a bit for it to move right though. It didn't quite feel right using the techniques you taught me."

  "No doubt you’re right," Malik admitted. "We will have to change your stance and fighting style to compensate for the heavier blade. I already suspected as much. Now let's see what it can do on offense.”

  “Alright,” Roland answered, shifting into one of the offensive stances Malik had taught him.

  “Just don't use your full strength just yet. Use the first set of strikes I taught you, and try to bring the second attack as quickly as you can. That way I can see if you can swing it effectively and how long it takes you to recover."

  Roland brought his blade into a shallow arc, putting only a small amount of his own strength into the attack. Malik quickly bought his own blade up to defend. The blades clashed with a loud ring, like the chiming of some great bell, and Roland stepped forward into the second strike. He suddenly stopped. His target was no longer there at all!

  Malik literally flew through the air, the force of the contact between their blades throwing him backward. His back hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, the air driven from his lungs by the impact. He barely managed to stay on his feet after he hit, gasping for breath and shaking his head vigorously.

  "I said not to use your full power!" Malik snapped as soon as he recovered enough to speak. "That blow could have cut me in half!"

  "I didn't!" Roland replied in dismay. "I hardly put any strength into that swing at all!"

  "It's my fault," Malik said quickly, his anger disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I greatly underestimated the striking power of that sword. The amount of weight it has combined with a fast attack can be devastating. How did it feel when you moved for the second strike and recovered the blade? Was it unwieldy? I couldn't see what happened after that first strike."

  It’s no wonder, Roland thought, but decided against saying it out loud.

  "It was a bit slow,” he answered instead, “but I could move it well enough. I think I could get used to it with practice."

  "Amazing," the smith said in shock. "I never thought I would ever see one of my blades become capable of such power. This sword is even greater than I had expected it to be. No doubt that has as much to do with the man wielding it as it does the weapon, but still."

  "As I said, it is truly a work of art," Malik said. Roland nodded in agreement. "The final decision though will have to be Roland's. So what do you think? Is this sword the right match for you?"

  Roland considered for only a moment before nodding. "I could think of no greater weapon."

  If it can throw Malik across a room like that, I wonder what it would do against a normal opponent?

  "Sold," Baldor declared. "Let us return to the shop up front and we'll make the exchange."

  They all headed back out to the front shop, where the smith smoothly fitted the sword back into its thick sheath. Roland handed over the promised price, and Malik helped him attach the blade to his back. They had to adjust the strap slightly, as it had been set to fit the larger frame of a trog, but the smith had made the strap to be easily adjustable, so it wasn't difficult. The blade felt strange to Roland; he had to move it several times once it was on his back to find the right position.

  Wearing it will take as much getting used to as wielding it will, he was certain.

  "I'm just glad that I was able to sell it," the smith commented happily. "It would have broke my heart if I had to destroy it. It might very well be one of my greatest creations. Any good sword needs a name, and it has always fallen on the first owner to name a blade. I never thought that this blade would have a name, at least not one I would ever know. Trogs don't often bother to name their blades, no matter how well they might be made. If you decide on a name please let me know. I would like to know what you would like to call my creation."

  "What do you think I should name it?" he asked
Malik.

  "It's not my weapon," Malik answered. "You don't have to name it now, but when you do I would suggest it be something that the blade represents to you. By taking on this weapon it becomes a part of who you are. Think of how it feels when you use it and in time it will name itself."

  Roland considered that. Something that is a part of who I am.

  He remembered something his mother told him when he was a child. A person is created by the life they have lived, she had said. Their past defines them and makes them who they are. Roland's past, however, was something he needed to keep hidden inside him if he was to stay with Malik and Tara. Using something that was a part of his past might not be wise.

  Malik had also said that he should think about how it felt when he wielded the blade. When he had defended with it the blade seemed as unyielding as a mountain, yet it had struck with greater force than a gale force wind. It had felt as if the power of a hurricane had rested in his hands, just waiting to be unleashed.

  What could ever exist that was stronger than mountains and more forceful than the mightiest of winds?

  Something else his mother had said once came to his mind. With sudden clarity he knew the blade's name. Perhaps it had always been its name, and had only been waiting for someone to see it for what it really was.

  "I don't have to think about it," Roland announced. "I already know the name of this sword. It is Ocean's Hand."

  Tara looked at him quizzically. Malik seemed thoughtful. "An unusual name," Malik commented. "How did you choose it?"

  "It was something that my mother said to me a long time ago. Mountains have always been thought of as the most powerful monuments of nature's strength, and kings have stood as the most powerful of men, but even the greatest of kings must bow before the awesome weight of the ocean. Mountains have toppled and entire civilizations lost with only one wave of the ocean's mighty hand."

  Baldor nodded. "That seems to be a very fitting name when you say it that way. I'm grateful that I have the chance to know it."

  Malik had to agree. He had felt the power of Ocean's Hand once already, and only a small portion of its full attack at that. Once Roland mastered his use of the blade, he would become a truly formidable opponent. Something that he hadn’t seen, that he hadn’t expected, had just clicked into place.

  "We should toast with a drink," the smith declared.

  "Perhaps later tonight if we are still here," Malik promised. "It's still a bit early for drinking, and we have other things to attend to at the moment. Your shop was only the first stop in several we need to make today. If all goes as planned we will be staying at the Gatortooth tonight. Come on over after you close up shop. If we won't be there I'll leave word with the waitress."

  "I know the place fairly well," the Canis smith replied. "The girl who works there is pleasant to talk to. She always seems to brighten the mood at the end of a hard day."

  Malik grinned in agreement. The group took their leave of the smith, heading directly to the next shop on their list. Roland was worried that he wouldn't have enough funds for the rest of the supplies he needed. He had spent more than half of his funds on the sword alone, after all.

  Would new clothes cost as much? he wondered.

  The first shop they stopped at sold mainly leather goods, which took Roland by surprise. He had expected Malik to lead the group to a cloth merchant, or perhaps one of the ports many tailors. His companion, however, had noticed another need that he thought needed to be addressed first.

  Roland's travel bag fit on his back in a particular way, but now that his sword rested there it would no longer fit him the same way. He would need a different bag to store his goods in. The group would need several extra bags for the trip as well. Tara knew where they would be going. She knew what they would need for the journey and the coming winter.

  She purchased the bags they needed for their journey to the Hut, and quickly said her goodbyes to the others. She had eyed the magically enhanced bags with longing, but followed Malik's instructions, and left them on the shelves. Roland could choose his own clothing without her assistance, and she had other matters that needed to be dealt with before the group would be ready to depart.

  She wasn't entirely sure what Malik had planned, but he had said he wanted everything ready in case they had to leave that night. He indicated it was in case something went wrong. Still, she knew him well enough to know that he had something in mind that could make such a move necessary.

  Roland picked out a new pack that would fit well over the sheath of his sword. At Malik's suggestion he added a black leather jerkin and thick, black leather breeches to his order. They would be far too warm to wear comfortably in the warmer months, but winter was close at hand. While he didn’t think that the leather would be very comfortable in any weather, he couldn’t think of any other reason that Malik would want him to buy them.

  Roland considered purchasing one of the magical packs for himself, but had to discard that idea. He only wanted one, however at a price of over sixty gold for the smallest of them they were far beyond his price range. He finished with a new pair of black leather boots, that covered his legs all the way up to his knees.

  From there Malik told him they would be going to the cloth merchant. Along the way he stopped to get a large bag of thick cut, heavily spiced jerky. Roland had assumed it was meant for later, but to his surprise Trick appeared as if from nowhere, looking for his breakfast. Malik chuckled and turned into a narrow alleyway between a merchant selling sweet smelling bread and another selling wooden plates and bowls.

  "I noticed Trick following us for the past half hour," he explained. "If he didn't get something in his stomach soon he might have done something that could have brought us some mischief. As it was he knew he was supposed to stay out of sight until we returned to the room tonight."

  Roland hadn't seen Trick at all until he joined them, though the dragonling had to have been nearby in order to appear the way he had. He was certain that the only one that could have seen him would have been Malik, who knew how to spot those places the dragonling would use to hide his presence.

  He would be able to see Trick no matter where he was, Roland suspected.

  The aroma of the bread shop became too much for Roland, who hadn't eaten anything that day either, so while Malik was busy feeding his little friend Roland bought two small onion buns from the merchant to eat while he waited. Other customers, and even people just wondering through the market, stared at the huge blade on his back as they passed him. He couldn't hear their whispered comments, but he could guess the sorts of things they would be saying.

  He finished the warm bread only a moment or two before Trick finished his breakfast. Trick flew off, presumably to return to their room in the inn, though Roland wasn't certain if that was really the case. The dragonling could have just as easily continued to follow them without his knowing.

  The two men continued to the clothing merchant two blocks away, where a young fawnling woman, the proprietor of the establishment, greeted them warmly. The woman was dressed in a light, mint-green dress that fell just passed her knees, accentuating her thin, shapely figure. Light tan fur covered her otherwise human looking face, her light brown, almond shaped eyes twinkled with unspoken kindness.

  "I'll be with you in a moment," she said airily as they walked into her store. Clothing of every style and color hung from racks all along the walls and on circular stands throughout the shop.

  His mother had always tailored his clothing, as well as his father's, her own, and occasionally even made clothes for neighbors who asked her for them. They wouldn't have ever been able to afford to have their clothes made for them.

  Where should I start? he wondered idly while he waited.

  He couldn't tell which clothing rack held articles made for men and which for women. There didn’t seem to be any sort of order to the room at all. He stood in the doorway until the woman finished carefully folding several light colored dresses that an older gentle
man was buying.

  "I'm sure your wife will love these dresses," he heard her assure the man as she ushered him out. "If she needs any adjustments done be sure to come back and I'll take care of them personally." She turned to Roland and Malik as the man left. "Yes gentlemen, how can I help you today? Perhaps a lovely dress for your wives, or a new tunic for yourselves?"

  "My friend here is looking for a few sets of clothes for himself," Malik answered cheerfully. "We'll be going on a long trip, and won't be near a tailor for some time. Perhaps a half dozen or so sets for regular wear, and a set or two for formal occasions. Earth-tones or black would be best I think. We'll be spending most of that time outdoors, so blending in is generally best if we want to avoid predatory animals or for when we are hunting ourselves. Do you have anything that would fit him in stock? It has to be something that will stand up to wear and tear."

  "A man who knows what he wants. I like that in a man, especially when that man is a customer. I think I have a few things that would fit him for daily wear, though I can only think of one good suit that might fit him. I don't get many customers of his build, so my stock in that size is limited. I think you're friend will like it. Most of the suit is black, with a dark blue trim. I'll get it for you."

  The woman went straight to a rack with dozens of garments hanging from it.

  How is she able to keep rack of where things are, he wondered in awe.

  All the racks looked the same to Drom. There wasn't any signs or pictures to mark off where things were kept.

  She must know where every piece of cloth in her store is by heart! He thought in wonder.