The captain’s strained expression indicated that going back to Haldessa didn’t sit well with him at all. “What do you suggest, then?” he asked.
Iren shook his head, sure he wasn’t hearing right. Amroth was taking orders from Rondel?
“Fan out to the edge of the campsite and form a perimeter,” Rondel commanded. “We’ll each have to fight five of them. Not great odds, but all of us have faced worse. Except the child.”
Iren gulped at her reference to him. The cold way Rondel put it drove home what he had avoided thinking about until now. Everyone else, likely including their enemies, had battled before. Apparently, even the doddering windbag had seen combat. He alone would enter this fight a total novice.
“I have faith in him,” Amroth said. “Iren’s no child, and he won’t die as easily as this.”
Cursing repeatedly under his breath, Iren tried for the captain’s sake at least to look brave. Following Rondel’s instructions, they spread out.
The old woman stood to Iren’s right, and Amroth positioned himself to the left. Balear took the opposite side of the hill. Iren, meanwhile, felt paralyzed. His hands grew so sweaty he feared he might drop his father’s sword the moment he tried to swing it.
As the four took their positions, their enemies suddenly threw the sod off their backs and charged the hill at full speed. The steel of their weapons glinted in the moonlight. Iren tried hard not to think about what would happen if he screwed up. At the same time, a perverse kind of curiosity took him, wondering what it would feel like to have a sword cut him in two.
He was pretty sure he didn’t want to find out.
Then he had no more time for thought, because the first attacker reached him, lunging forward with a long, narrow sword. Panicking, Iren leapt back, avoiding the blow but leaving him far out of range to counterattack. His breath came in gasps, not from exhaustion but terror. He knew he would die. There was a huge difference between swinging a mop at imaginary opponents inside the Tower of Divinion and wielding a sword against a real person trying to kill you. He didn’t stand a chance.
Then again, maybe he did. He kept dodging, weaving, and retreating. He blocked only when absolutely necessary. With his foe’s greater reach, Iren couldn’t get close enough to attack, but even so, his opponent hadn’t landed a strike yet either. Indeed, after the time spent under the sod, the charge up the hill, and the first series of strikes, the bandit looked exhausted. He was sweating profusely and breathing hard, even though they’d only been fighting for a few seconds.
Iren no longer panted; his breath came as steadily as on a gentle stroll. Soon his initial panic evaporated, and the fight became almost like a dance in Haldessa Castle’s grand hall. Conscious thought faded away, and his body reacted on its own, shifting in time to music only he could hear. When the second opponent reached him, he just adjusted the tempo to match his pace to that of his two foes. Iren couldn’t understand it. These enemies obviously knew how to fight, yet he found their techniques absurdly predictable. The instant one of them committed to an attack, Iren’s block was already waiting for it.
Then the rhythm faltered. The first bandit’s stance shifted. It was a momentary lapse, but Iren recognized it as a weakness in his enemy’s left leg. For the first time, Iren attacked. He swung his sword from the outside, intentionally aiming for the thief’s blade. Metal crashed against metal, and the force jerked his foe’s sword hard to the left. The man’s weakened knee gave under the strain, and when it did, Iren quickly flicked his blade and struck him in the side, just above the right hip.
Blood spattered the hill, and the man screamed as he dropped to the ground. Without hesitation, Iren followed through on his attack, striking down on the fallen thief’s throat.
The screaming stopped.
Iren’s second opponent paused briefly at the loss of his comrade, but he quickly redoubled his efforts. There was no time for Iren to contemplate that he had just killed a man, had just ended someone’s life the same way the Quodivar leader had ended his parents’. The dance of battle prevented such thoughts. Soon two more bandits joined in, forcing Iren to face three enemies at once. His eyes glazed over. It was like viewing someone else fight for his life. He watched passively, as from a great distance, while he slew his three assailants without getting so much as a scratch.
When his foes lay dead around him, he took a moment to recover and observe the battlefield. He couldn’t see Balear, but he heard clashes from over the hill. Rondel and Amroth both still struggled against their foes as well. Iren was amazed. Somehow, without any fighting experience, he had defeated his foes more quickly than Lodia’s finest warriors.
A rustle downhill distracted him. He whipped around, looking for an enemy, but he saw only grass.
Sharp pain filled his lower left leg, and he collapsed. His mistake came to him immediately. Rondel said there were five opponents for each of them, but he’d only killed four. The fifth man, whom he’d completely forgotten, had remained hidden. Once Iren was distracted, the thief had used a long knife to slit Iren’s hamstring.
Iren howled as his blood leached over the hill. The bandit stood over him, triumphant. Iren tried to swing his sword, but the thief quickly threw his knife down and pierced Iren’s arm, pinning it to the ground and forcing him to drop the blade. Blinding agony overwhelmed him, and he thought he would black out. Through dim vision, he saw his enemy draw a second knife and stab it toward Iren’s head.
Instead of his own dying screams, however, Iren heard a strange gurgling noise. A thin steel point protruded from the thief’s chest. It withdrew a second later, and the man’s hot blood cascaded onto Iren’s prone form.
Iren panted. He couldn’t believe he had survived, though as he felt the burning pain in his left arm and leg, he knew he was severely, perhaps mortally, wounded. Then, despite his injuries, he noticed something that made all thoughts of death vanish from his mind.
The thief’s limp body dropped, revealing Iren’s savior. Rondel stood over him, holding her dagger with its triangular, double-sided blade that ended in a lethal point. It was not the weapon itself that shocked Iren, however, but the way Rondel held it: in her left hand.
He had no time to ask her about it. Without speaking, Rondel sheathed her dagger and knelt to examine Iren’s wounds. After a quick once-over she retrieved his father’s sword and pressed its hilt into his left hand, wrapping his fingers around it. “Keep hold of that, no matter how much it hurts,” she said.
She sounded calm, but her words made Iren despair. Everyone knew a warrior died with his weapon. Even dying of old age, a Lodian Castle Guard member always wanted a blade in his hands at the time of his passing.
If Rondel was the least bit concerned about him, though, she hid it well. In fact, considering twenty bandits had just ambushed them, she looked remarkably at ease. She breathed normally, and she didn’t have a bead of sweat on her. Without the slightest hint of doubt, she called to Amroth and Balear, who had finished dealing with their opponents. Balear had received a small wound to his right arm but nothing threatening. Amroth, as expected, remained unhurt.
The captain ran over, eyes wild. “What happened to him?” he cried.
Rondel shrugged nonchalantly, and Iren noticed that her grin had returned. “You brought along quite the bumbler in this one.”
From his spot on the ground, Iren growled, “How can you joke at a time like this? Don’t you realize I’m about to die here?”
The irritating hag kept right on smirking. “What do you mean, whiner? You don’t have any injuries.”
He glared at her, confused and furious. She’d seen his wounds. She’d handed him his sword, a sure sign he would perish. How dare she pretend he had no injuries while he lay here in searing pain!
Then it hit him. He’d gotten so angry at Rondel that he’d forgotten the pain. Now he remembered. That was the right word for it, too, because he no longer felt any. Gingerly, he reached down with his right hand and felt where he knew the knife
had cut him.
There was no wound.
He uttered a cry and leapt to his feet, which amazed him all the more. He couldn’t explain it. All too clearly, he recalled the intense agony of both strikes. He could feel blood on the back of his leg, and on his left arm too. He could see tears in his pants and shirt where the knife had sliced through them. The injuries themselves, though, no longer existed.
Iren stared at Rondel, open-mouthed. “I know the thief cut me. I should have died. How could I heal just like that?”
The hag folded her arms. “As if I would know, you Left freak.” She spat the last two words to emphasize them, but even so, he noticed that she didn’t look at him as she did.
“Devil magic, if you ask me,” Balear offered. Amroth, Iren, and even Rondel shot him dirty looks. “What? It’s as good an explanation as any.”
Shaking her head, Rondel replied defensively, “You all should listen to your elders more. I told you, didn’t I? He didn’t have any injuries.”
Iren eyed her shrewdly. “You’re lying,” he said. “You know I got injured, and you know how I recovered. What’s more, you’ve been lying to us from the start. I saw which hand you used to finish off that bandit. Rondel, you’re a Left!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ryokaiten
Nobody got any more sleep that night. Rondel stormed off, refusing to speak to anyone. Amroth busied himself surveying their fallen assailants and concluding that they were, in all likelihood, Quodivar. Balear made himself useful by shouting at Iren about what an idiot he was.
“Well of course she walked away!” he bellowed. “Luckily for you, she didn’t do anything else. If you accused me of being a Left, I’d probably kill you. Also, what a useless fighter you turned out to be! Honestly, if you can’t take this mission seriously, you should just turn around and go back to Haldessa.”
“Enough, Balear,” Amroth’s sharp retort carried over the hill. “Hurry and get the horses loaded. I can’t stand the smell of this carnage. Dark or not, we’re leaving.”
Everyone hurried to follow his command. Iren felt Balear’s hard gaze on him, but he only had eyes for Rondel. The cantankerous bat was decidedly avoiding him.
The four set off wordlessly, though more for safety than anything else. They had killed a large group of Quodivar, but they couldn’t relax. If anything, it meant more bandits could easily have hidden themselves nearby.
Fortunately, they encountered no resistance the rest of the night. As day dawned and they returned to the road, Balear at last broke the silence. He said, “Capta . . . Amroth, you seriously don’t intend to let Iren continue traveling with us, do you? Aside from the fact that he’s a devil-child, he’s clearly worthless in a fight.”
Not bothering to turn around, Amroth countered, “The first time you held a sword, could you have slain four enemies in a row?”
Balear had already opened his mouth to speak but promptly shut it.
Continuing, Amroth said, “Iren performed excellently last night, and having experienced his first battle, he’ll be all the more prepared the next time. Right?” He turned and gave Iren a warm expression.
Truthfully, Iren didn’t want to think about last night, and he really didn’t want to think about having to fight again. The feeling of cutting down another person, the look on their face as they realized they were going to die and never see anyone they cared about ever again . . . it was too much. Back at the castle, he had never thought twice about teasing people. Even at his worst, though, he had never wanted to kill any of them.
He tried to justify it. Those Quodivar would have murdered him. If he hadn’t defended himself, he’d be dead. That didn’t make him feel any better. Quite the contrary, it made him realize that to survive this mission, he’d likely have to kill again. It sickened him. Even the thought of slaying the Quodivar leader bothered him. Up until last night, he had looked forward to exacting revenge on the man who had killed his parents. Now he doubted himself. If and when he finally confronted his enemy, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to attack.
But Amroth’s look was so kind that Iren couldn’t stand to let the captain down, so he simply replied, “Yes, I’ll be ready.”
Amroth nodded, apparently deciding the matter resolved. Balear didn’t seem happy about it, but he followed Amroth’s lead and fell silent once again.
Iren next turned to Rondel, who brought up the rear and looked rather less chipper than on the previous day. A stoic glare replaced her earlier smile. One thing about her hadn’t changed, though. She was still drinking, this time from a large bottle of Tacumsahen rum.
“So will you tell me the truth?” Iren asked.
Rondel finished taking a long gulp before replying sharply, “The truth?”
“You used your left hand to kill that bandit.”
The old woman rolled her eyes. In her high, airy voice she countered, “If you want to live, I suggest you learn how to fight with both hands. Also, you should learn more respect and social graces. Otherwise, you’re bound to upset someone.”
Iren found it ironic that someone like Rondel would chastise him for lacking manners, but he supposed she had a point. That said, she still hadn’t answered his question. He asked her again, but she refused to speak. After pestering her for over an hour, he finally gave up the matter.
That night they camped just inside a small thicket. Rondel’s dour mood had lifted a bit, and her usual dumb smirk had returned. When Amroth asked her to gather firewood, she responded, “Oh, sure, send a frail old woman like me. I’ll break a hip hauling logs around. Make one of these strapping young lads do it.”
Amroth glared, but Iren was simply glad things had returned to normal. As annoying as he found the sarcastic, drunken Rondel, the cold, serious Rondel that could make even Amroth follow her orders just plain scared him. He’d take the clown any day.
“Fine, fine,” she grumbled, “but don’t blame me if I have a heart attack off in the woods. You’d be in a sore spot then.”
Sighing, Amroth relented. “All right, but I won’t let you get out of it. Take Iren with you.” Amroth leaned close so only Iren could hear. “And while you’re out there, for all our sakes, apologize!”
Iren didn’t feel like fetching wood. He was already so tired from the battle and two days of riding that he could barely move. He also had no desire whatsoever to apologize to Rondel, especially when she called, “Well hurry up, you Left whippersnapper! The firewood won’t gather itself. Honestly, kids these days!”
“Slave-driving witch,” he grumbled as he forced himself to his feet and followed her into the thicket.
Other travelers had picked the area around their campsite clean, so Rondel and Iren had to venture far to find any downed wood. Soon they passed well out of view and earshot of the others. All the while, Rondel drank from her latest bottle, a hip flask she’d concealed under her baggy clothes. After hiking for about twenty minutes, Rondel stopped abruptly and whipped around. Her grin was gone. “We’ve come far enough.” Her voice dropped in pitch to the same cold level as last night during the attack.
Her sudden change unnerved Iren; she was almost two different people. Her breath still smelled like alcohol though. “Far enough for what?” he asked.
“I meant what I said earlier. You should learn proper manners. For instance, did you ever think that I might not want to answer your questions with those two around?” She pointed back in the direction of camp.
Iren stopped. In truth, no, he hadn’t thought that at all. He just had a question and wanted it answered.
Pressing her thumb and forefinger into her temple, Rondel said, “I guess subtlety isn’t your strength, is it? All right. Yes, I’m a Left, but humans made up that horrid term. The real name for us is Maantecs. We’re a different species.”
Iren scrunched up his face. Maantec . . . finally, he had a name for what he was.
Rondel continued, “You already know the discerning feature. Every human, whether from Lodia or Tacu
msah, is right-handed. In the same way, all Maantecs are left-handed. If you want to hide your Maantec heritage, you’d better learn how to use your right hand.”
Iren sat on a fallen log, staring blankly at the ferns on the forest floor. After a long pause he said, “I thought I was the only Left in the world. How many of us are there?”
At this, Rondel sighed, took a swig from her flask, and raised her gaze to the treetops. “No idea. I’ve wandered over most of Raa, but I’ve hardly ever seen another Maantec in all my journeys. A thousand years ago, though, no race surpassed our might, or at least, so we believed. Maantecs have speed, strength, and reaction times beyond humans. That’s why you easily defeated those Quodivar despite your total lack of experience. However, our skills made us arrogant. We began a war to subdue all the other species, but they rose against us. At the end of that war, the few Maantecs who remained were defeated and scattered. Our species has slowly declined ever since.”
“How?” Iren asked. “If we get wounded, our bodies heal the injury almost instantly.”
Rondel shook her head. “No, only your body will do that, and only because of that sword.”
Iren pulled his father’s blade from its sheath. “You made me hold this last night after I got injured. Why?”
Drawing her dagger, Rondel held it before Iren. “Let’s try an experiment. Sheathe your sword, then slide your finger along the edge of my dagger.”
Though nervous about the idea of intentionally wounding himself, Iren did as instructed. The pain was swift and surprisingly light; the sharp blade carved easily through flesh. He held up his finger, watching for the healing power to take effect. A minute passed, but he continued to bleed.
“You’re vulnerable, just as I am,” Rondel explained. “That healing ability has nothing to do with you. To finish our experiment, touch the hilt of your sword.”
Iren obeyed, and a few seconds later, his wound closed. Staring in astonishment first at his healed finger and then at his weapon, he stammered, “The sword healed me? How?”
The Wings of Dragons: Book One of the Dragoon Saga Page 6