Finding the politics of Argos to be even more formidable and underhanded than he had expected, Nikomedes turned the blunted, low-grade practice blade over in his hand to test its balance. The shield was serviceable, but nowhere near as fine as the one he had received in trade for Ektor’s sword. But upon seeing Kephus select weaponry from the few remaining pieces of practice gear in the armory, he had decided to do likewise.
“Are you prepared?” Kephus asked after working out the kinks in his muscular body and standing opposite Nikomedes in the middle of the empty floor.
Nikomedes nodded, “I am.”
Kephus assumed a low crouch before circling to his left. Nikomedes used a traditional, right-handed stance as he obliged by mirroring the guard commander’s movements. When Kastor Kephus shifted position, Nikomedes easily matched the motion without missing a beat. This continued for several exchanges as the two men began the age-old dance which can only take place between men of valor.
However, Nikomedes was determined not to reveal his true ability to Kephus, so he moved more stiffly than was natural for him to do. He moved more like Kephus did, which was not to say it was without agility or fluidity, but it was certainly not the graceful motions he had learned while sparring with Felix.
He knew there was a very real chance that he would need to fight this man in the future, and he suspected that Kephus, too, was holding back his real ability.
“Good footwork,” Kephus grunted before lunging with a bizarre, but well-controlled, series of attacks. The first few clearly missed on purpose, coming up several inches short of Nikomedes’ body with their designed arcs. But Nikomedes was not about to reveal his superior dexterity, so he stepped into the sixth blow rather than away from it, and blocked solidly with his shield.
It was not the type of move he would use in a real fight, but it allowed him to gauge Kephus’ speed as the other man followed up by sweeping his right foot toward Nikomedes’ left ankle.
But again, rather than stepping into the blow, Nikomedes shot forward behind his shield and was rewarded with the crack of hardened wood striking hardened wood as Kastor Kephus easily blocked the shield bash.
With Kephus moving backward, Nikomedes made deliberate, but textbook attacks, alternating between stabs and swipes while deflecting the other man’s equally textbook parries.
Around the room they went, neither one committing a mistake in the unbroken chain of predictable moves which told each man that the other knew more than just the basics of swordplay, having clearly mastered them.
When they finally broke apart, Nikomedes had counted no fewer than eighty distinct blows, and even he found his muscles beginning to burn after the unbroken string of attacks finally gave way to a pause.
“Not bad,” Kephus said, circling to his right before Nikomedes did likewise. “There’s value in making no mistakes, but it’s not enough to earn what you want. For that,” he grunted before launching another series of strange attacks while saying, “you have to take risks.”
Nikomedes easily blocked the attacks, but as they came one after another he could tell that the other man was gauging him with his attacks. He had resumed his initial pattern of missing on purpose, and Nikomedes waited impatiently for an opportunity to move the match to the next level to dispense with the formalities.
When the opening came, he lashed out with his right leg aimed at Kephus’ left knee. The other man blocked the kick with his shield, but seemed understandably surprised by the power behind the blow. Not many men, in Nikomedes’ experience, could deliver a shot like he could.
With Kephus’ shield out of position, Nikomedes launched a series of almost painfully slow, but thoroughly devastating attacks. He battered Kephus’ shield repeatedly while the other man backpedaled and worked to establish a stable base of footwork so as to begin a counterattack of his own.
Nikomedes very nearly cornered the older warrior, who was likely fifteen to twenty years his elder, with the furious assault. Before he did so, an especially brutal overhand blow from his practice sword saw the shield in Kephus’ hands shatter into three pieces which hung limply together by the metal which had previous bound them into one.
Backing away, Nikomedes drew deep, steady breaths as the other man discarded the shield and grudged, “A lucky hit.”
Collecting another shield, Kephus spun his own sword over in his hands. “So you’re strong,” the guard commander allowed, “I suppose you think that makes you special?”
Before Nikomedes could reply, Kephus lashed out with blinding speed, stabbing his sword at Nikomedes’ throat. Parrying the blow with his sword, Nikomedes’ reflexes were certainly equal to the task of defending against the unexpectedly quick lunge, but he forced himself to measure his movements after his reflexes had inadvertently revealed a measure of his real speed.
“Not just strong, eh?” Kephus snorted before lashing out with another blindingly quick strike. This one struck Nikomedes’ shield hard enough to force his feet out of their previous position in order to maintain his posture. “Interesting,” the older man growled, firing a quartet of strikes which resulted in blow-parry-blow-parry. The attacks were aimed more to maneuver Nikomedes’ feet than they were actually meant to land, and again Nikomedes was faced with the reality that this man was better than he had expected.
Growling in mild frustration, Nikomedes gave ground to the other man. Kephus took up the empty floor between them as soon as Nikomedes’ backward-moving feet created it. He hoped to entice Kephus into overextending, but to his dismay the other man refused to oblige.
Kastor Kephus kept his attacks measured and steady, making no attempts to end the duel quickly but, by doing so, he provided no such opportunities for Nikomedes.
With a sudden, explosive move, Kephus spun his body a half turn and slammed his sword into Nikomedes’ shield, cleaving it from top to bottom a few inches below the mid-line.
Nikomedes scowled as the other man backed away, gesturing to the neat line of practice shields leaning against the rack. Dropping the shattered pieces of his shield, Nikomedes was far from alarmed to find that one of the doors had opened and several guardsmen stood outside, paying close attention to the sparring match as the two men resumed their positions in the center of the room.
While Nikomedes would dearly have liked to give Kephus everything he had, to establish his skills before his peers rather than to continue the farce of a contest, he knew that doing so would surrender his most precious edge. So he kept his movements measured and stiff—stiff for him, at least—as he lowered into a fighting crouch.
“No more games,” Kephus growled. “Show me what you can do, boy.”
“Very well,” Nikomedes replied, tightening his grip on the practice blade—a blade which was already bent slightly at the foible. “But it will be quick.”
Kephus snorted before lunging at him with a well-concealed feint. Nikomedes gave ground yet again, but this time his body was tensed in preparation for the first opening which was presented. He needed to conceal the truth of his speed, but he also needed to land a would-be killing blow against the other man.
It would be difficult, but by no means more difficult than defeating the kraken—let alone Kratos.
He fired a series of his own feints which Kephus easily saw for what they were, and on the third such blow—which was a left knee aimed at the inner edge of Kephus’ shield, knocking it briefly out of position—Nikomedes was surprised to see a clever, lunging attack originate from behind the other man’s moving body. Kephus used his torso to mask the true movement of his sword arm, driving only with his arm to provide the power of the thrust rather than using his feet, as was proper technique.
But proper technique or not, Nikomedes knew that his opening had arrived. Lunging forward and attempting to step out of Kephus’ sword path, he swiped his blade down in a short, powerful chop aimed at Kephus’ neck. He was more than a little surprised to find the other man’s blade bury itself against his codpiece at the same instant that
his own slammed down into Kephus’ metal gorget.
The two staggered back from each other before Kephus went to his knees. Before his first knee had touched the ground, Nikomedes did likewise, succumbing to the powerful force of the blow against his most vulnerable spot.
They looked across the practice floor at each other and Kephus nodded grudgingly, “A fine move.”
“Not as fine as yours,” Nikomedes admitted honestly. Had he not possessed slightly superior length of limb and a noticeable, yet still mostly unrevealed, advantage in speed there was little chance he could have landed his own blow before Kephus’ blade had struck him in the groin.
“You learn things after a few years,” the other man grunted, standing to his feet and turning pointedly to the guardsmen at the door. “Don’t you have patrols to make?!” he barked irritably, causing the men to scatter with quickly masked looks of amusement on their faces.
Once they cleared from the doorway, Kephus nodded approvingly before setting the practice gear aside. Nikomedes did likewise, and the other man offered his hand in the universal gesture of friendship and respect.
“You’ll do,” Kephus said with a nod. “But no collection of physical gifts and fancy footwork will prove sufficient to the task before you.”
Nikomedes snorted, returning the other man’s vice-like grip with one of equal—or, possibly, slightly greater—measure. “What happens next?”
“Next,” Kephus said, turning to the door as he wiped the sweat from his face and neck with a nearby rag, “we find you a bunk.”
Chapter XIV: Rescuing the Lost Lady
It had been six months since Nikomedes had joined the Argosian guardsmen, and he found his anxiety growing as each day passed and he found himself no closer to his goal.
But Kephus had been explicit in his suggestion that Nikomedes bide his time, serve in the patrols, and make no attempt to raise his standing until the time was right.
During recent weeks, Kephus had assured him that the opportunity he sought was soon approaching, since it was now the height of summer and raiders would appear on the outer borders of the Hold. It was their custom to pick off the weaker farmholds, or intercept wagons and caravans which bore the fruits of the year’s crops, and the first of those caravans had already begun to arrive at the citadel.
So Nikomedes’ group of six guardsmen, of which he was merely a lowly soldier, made their patrol near one of the more heavily-embattled regions of the Hold. It was nestled against a series of creeks which had thawed not long after Nikomedes’ second arrival at the citadel, and they had made their way along those creeks in search of camp signs which might suggest a band of raiders had been lying in wait nearby.
It was mid-morning when they discovered such a sign. The patrol’s leader—a man named Vasikus, who was fiercely loyal to Kastor Kephus and knew at least some small portion of his plans to usurp Hypatios Nykator as Argos’ Protector—waited while Nikomedes and another soldier returned with evidence of the activity.
“Scraps of cloth, freshly-cooked animal bones, and poorly-concealed fire pits,” Vasikus nodded. “We are close; those bones would have been taken by scavenging animals after no more than two days’ time.”
They made their way to the nearest hilltop and scanned the area for any signs of untoward activity, initially seeing nothing. After moving to a second hilltop, however, Nikomedes spotted a brief burst of motion on the horizon. There was no mistaking it for what it was: a man ducking behind a jagged outcrop of rock a hundred meters or so from their position, and that man had worn at least partially metal armor.
“I have seen it as well, Nikomedes,” Vasikus assured him in a casual tone as he turned pointedly from the source of the motion, prompting Nikomedes to do likewise. “You are our fastest runner, but Homer is nearly your equal in speed while his sword arm is clearly not. Go to the nearest guard tower, Homer,” Vasikus ordered, causing the other man to nod in acknowledgment. “Take Commodus down to the creek bed while the rest of us move forward. When we’ve crested that hill, Commodus should return to us while you make for the tower to alert them of the enemy’s location.”
“Yes sir,” Homer replied before doing as instructed.
Vasikus turned to Nikomedes and tilted his head in the direction of the now-vanished figure. “You take point, Nikomedes.”
Nodding silently, Nikomedes gripped his shield and made off for the outcrop of rock at a measured pace that quickly, but not too quickly, took him from the other three guardsmen.
After a few minutes he came to the place where he had sighted the figure, but no one was present. It was only after cresting the hill on which the outcrop of rock was located that he saw his suspicions confirmed.
On one of the few well-packed roads which wound between the rolling, rocky hills where Nikomedes’ group had patrolled for the past several days were a handful of bodies strewn across the path. Even from several hundred meters, Nikomedes could see that a not-insignificant amount of blood had been shed, but the wagons and carts which they had presumably been bringing to Argos were nowhere to be seen.
It was then that he heard a noise, and he turned to see a small face withdraw behind the rocks. It was clearly the face of a child, but Nikomedes was wary in spite of the apparently innocent figure.
“Come out, child,” he said in a clear tone. When nothing happened, he repeated more patiently, “I am not here to harm you. Come out—now!” he barked, his voice cracking like a whip on the last word.
A small girl—who could have been no more than six years old—crept out from behind the rocks after hearing his command. She had mud all over her face and clothes. Her eyes were red—likely from weeping—and she trembled all over as she stood silently beside the rock where she had hidden.
“Are you alone?” Nikomedes asked as he approached.
She nodded numbly, prompting Nikomedes to approach and scan the nearby rocks. Finding nothing untoward, he knelt beside her and gave her a quick inspection. He saw no blood on her clothing, and her skin was still flush, so he had no reason to suspect she was injured.
“Were you among those people?” he asked, gesturing to the bodies on the road at the foot of the hill.
She nodded again, this time appearing fractionally more alert.
“The men who attacked, where did they go?” he asked, knowing that a softer hand than his own would be needed to coax much information from the girl, but also knowing that she was the only source of information he had to work with.
She stared numbly without replying and Nikomedes drew a short breath as his heartbeat quickened in anticipation of the coming battle.
“What is your name?” he asked as gently as he could manage.
“Olympia,” she replied, her eyes seeming to fully lock with his for the first time.
“Olympia,” he repeated with an approving nod, “that is a strong name. Are you a strong girl?”
She nodded several times, now giving him her fullest attention.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” he asked, looking over his shoulder to see the rest of his patrol coming around the final bend.
“My brother was born two weeks ago,” she explained proudly, “but mama was too sick, so we were taking her and my baby brother to the healers. We were also bringing our crop to the market—“
The little girl froze mid-sentence and her face contorted into a look of absolute, unmasked agony as the reality of her situation hit her with the force of a rampaging Stone Rhino, and Nikomedes awkwardly held the girl as she screamed a wordless lament which was accompanied by an uncontrolled flow of tears.
“What happened?” asked Vasikus loud enough to be heard over the girl’s crying. He and his men had run the last few dozen meters to Nikomedes’ position and drawn their weapons.
Nikomedes pointed to the wagons below, and Vasikus grimaced as he took in the scene.
“Take the girl,” Nikomedes instructed one of the other members of the troupe. The other man did not immediately respond, so Niko
medes picked up the girl and thrust her into the guardsman’s arms. “Take her!” he repeated, his voice barely above a growl, and the other man reluctantly accepted.
“How many are there?” Vasikus asked after they had moved away from the crying girl.
“I do not know,” Nikomedes replied as he tightened the straps of his armor until his armor felt like a second skin. “But they would not have gone in the direction of the citadel,” he said with certainty, to which Vasikus nodded in agreement, “and they may have a sick woman and newborn baby with them.”
“Let’s take a look at the bodies,” Vasikus said grimly, and they made their way down the hill to the scene of the massacre.
The tally was made in just a few minutes, revealing twenty one bodies in all—many of which still had arrows sticking from them—and it was clear that the group which had been attacked was largely composed of one family.
The father of the young children lay dead amid a pile of three raiders—raiders who, to Nikomedes’ sudden relief, were not from Blue Fang Pass—and it looked as though his eldest sons had each taken a raider with them as well.
But the total number of dead raiders ended at five, with the rest of the casualties being the victims of the sneak attack. Nikomedes actually paused as he realized for the very first time that he had never been forced to participate in any raiding actions during his time as Kratos’ war slave.
It was an unexpected thought—and one which would bear further reflection, since it suggested at least some measure of magnanimity on Kratos’ part—but for the time being he had a duty to discharge.
“The tracks mark at least a dozen raiders making off with the wagons,” Vasikus said with bitter disappointment. “Even with surprise and terrain on our side, it would be nearly impossible for the four of us to take them—especially with archers among them.”
The Forge of Men Page 21