Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  Parry and counter; thrust and block; the sparring continued, in its tentative, unnatural way.

  Durine had the stronger wrist, but Kelly had the better feeling of the blade, which is why Durine refused to let him ‘have the blade’, to let him feel what Durine was about to do next by the subtle pressures and movements of the two swords against one another just before or after a blow. Instead, he met every attack with a parry or counter, or disengaged. Durine had sparred against swordsmen who had had extensive training in the rapier before, and their ability to feel through the blade what their opponent was going to do could be easily countered simply by refusing to let them take the blade.

  Some other problems weren’t nearly so easy for Durine to dispense with.

  Kelly was a trifle faster, and his sideways stance perhaps gave him an extra inch of reach, but Durine was fast enough that it was always a danger that he would get past Kelly’s sword and close, and with his dagger, if he ever managed to get within the arc of Kelly’s sword, it would be all over in an instant, whether it was practice or a real fight.

  Durine let his swordtip drop just a little too much, and when Kelly feinted high, he took a half-step back while blocking. Kelly closed the distance in a lunge, a low-to-high line attack that Durine slipped, batting Kelly’s sword aside, then hacking down, hard, on his vulnerable arm, hard enough that Kelly dropped his sword.

  Reflexively, Durine slashed the air to his left with his dagger, then slashed Kelly once again, across the midsection, before taking two quick steps back.

  That wasn’t just sparring protocol–Durine had twice been cut by men who hadn’t quite yet realized that they were dead, and didn’t care to repeat that, not even in practice.

  Kelly scooped up his sword…

  ‘Halt!’ a firm voice called out.

  The Swordmaster stepped between them. Steven Argent had slipped into a practice tunic, but not yet donned his leggings, and he had a practice sword of his own tucked under one arm, careless of the way that it blackened his tunic there, as though he had no doubt that he would emerge from any bout unmarked.

  ‘Nicely done,’ he said, smiling thinly. ‘Run through that last sequence again, please. Slowly, if you will.’

  Durine and Kelly squared off again. They re-enacted their duel with Argent making comments, as if critiquing two students. It was now apparent he was fascinated with Durine’s style, ignoring duelling tradition and fighting the bout as if it were a combat situation. When Durine reached the point where he had marked the Captain’s tunic, Argent cried ‘Hold!’

  Turning to Kelly, he said, ‘Here’s where you made your mistake, Captain. He was already moving forwards when you lunged, and by the time you committed yourself to it, he was ready to parry in passing, and leave you open from guzzle to zorch.’ He frowned. ‘Neither fish nor fowl, as they say in Rillanon–you’re halfway between duelling and combat, both of you.’

  Baron Viztria gave a derisive sniff. ‘’Tis easy enough to impale oneself upon that flailing oaf’s blades, if one’s skill is no match for one’s opinion of oneself. That broadsword is otherwise useless.’

  The Swordmaster spun on him, white-lipped. ‘Practice bouts and duelling etiquette are one thing, while combat in the field is quite another.’

  Viztria made a dismissive gesture with a white lace handkerchief, muttering even lower, ‘If you say so, Swordmaster.’

  ‘If you think there’s no difference, Baron, go find five others who agree with you. I can line up with five of my soldiers with those broadswords you mock, and we’ll set them against the lot of you with your rapiers. We’ll soon see how clumsy and useless a heavy sword is when you’re not given either the time or space to execute a delicate crossover and riposte, sir.’

  He held Viztria’s gaze for a long time, until the Baron smiled and shrugged an apology.

  ‘I, of course, bow to your greater knowledge of such matters, Swordmaster,’ he said, and the way he ran a finger across the duelling scar over his left cheekbone was only vaguely insolent. ‘I proffer my most sincere apologies if I have in any way offended any of the noble company here.’

  Steven Argent blinked a couple of times, then nodded and let his jaw unclench. ‘Then let’s say no more about it…my lord,’ he said, turning back to Durine and Kelly. He had gone as far as his rank would permit in dressing down the Baron in public, and they both knew it. Another remark and Argent would face a displeased Vandros when he returned, as Viztria would no doubt lodge a complaint over the Swordmaster’s lack of manners in public. The Baron’s manner showed he too recognized this was a situation that could only get worse if he spoke, so he made a gesture of acquiescence, a flourish of his handkerchief, a slight bow of his head, then a practised turn and a stately walk away, clearing showing his back to the Swordmaster as he crossed to a chair, then slowly sat down.

  Argent watched him the entire way, locked eyes with him a moment, then turned to Kelly and Durine. ‘As I said, what you were doing was neither duelling nor combat. Let’s try it a little bit differently, this time. Back up, both of you–more, more, give yourselves some room. Fine.’

  A solid two score feet separated the two men. Not exactly what Durine would have called practice range. Argent instructed them both to make a charging run, as if in the line.

  Now, this was more familiar to Durine, despite his preference to avoid line-against-line; he set off in a slow run, his sword over his right shoulder, as though Kethol was in his usual place to the left, and Pirojil on the right, where he belonged.

  The obvious trick was to use a little robbed time at the end, to let the rest of the line clash first–and it was such an obvious trick that it was why a line attack required the trust of the men on both sides, because that move would probably save the life of the man who tried it, but cost the lives of the men on both sides of him, as the three of them simultaneously making that move together had indeed cost the lives of men to the left of Pirojil and to the right of Durine, all three times that Tom Garnett had ordered them into the line.

  As they closed, Durine slashed down and then up, catching Kelly’s blade and sweeping it out of the way. Almost–Kelly slashed back down at him, catching Durine on the right side, moments before Durine’s slash scored the Captain’s back, leaving behind a dark stripe from the blackened edge of the blade.

  Durine kept his feet, but Kelly tumbled to the ground, coming up quickly, on guard.

  ‘Halt!’ instructed Argent. He moved to stand between the two combatants, and motioned for them to approach. ‘Very nice,’ the Swordmaster said. ‘I’d call that a draw, and score the two of you as injured. Which means, of course, both sides lose a useful soldier–the winning side at least for several weeks, the losing side for the rest of his life, which would last until the end of battle, if that.’ He gestured toward a pair of nearby chairs. ‘Have a seat, you two–and Baron Viztria, would you honour me with a quick bout?’

  Viztria looked as if there were at least a hundred other places he’d rather be at that moment, but there was no graceful way he could decline after his arch remarks. With a feigned air of amusement, he consented and donned the practice jacket.

  Durine gratefully slumped into a chair, surprised at how he had to stop himself from trembling. Pirojil was quickly at his side, proffering a warm mug of mulled wine, and Durine drank it greedily, while he watched Steven Argent give a quick lesson in sabre work to Viztria. The Baron never came close to laying a blade on the Swordmaster. Then they switched from practice sabres to practice rapiers, and he dispatched the Baron every bit as quickly with the lighter, edgeless weapon.

  Viztria made a feeble attempt at a humorous remark about it being a bit of an off day as he withdrew from the practice floor with a less than graceful exit. Then, one by one, Steven Argent had a quick practice rapier bout with three of the other barons, including Morray.

  As Morray retired, Baron Verheyen said, ‘I’ll have a try with you, Swordmaster.’

  Argent nodded politely, but Durine
could see a shadow pass across the Swordmaster’s features. By reputation, Verheyen was the finest swordsman in the region, perhaps in the Western Realm. The look of quiet confidence that had marked Argent throughout the preceding four bouts was replaced with focused intensity as Verheyen quickly donned the practice tunic and helm.

  They took their places and the room fell quiet, for every captain and baron present sensed that this match would be far more serious than the previous ones. Upon the command to commence, Verheyen launched a furious attack, seeking to take the fatigued Swordmaster before he could marshal his defences. Argent might not have been Verheyen’s match in speed, but he was as practised a swordsman as lived in the Kingdom and he responded with studied efficiency.

  Durine watched closely with interest. He rarely saw this sort of swordwork–most of his experience involved dispatching someone as quickly as possible, by any means possible, including gouging eyes, kicks to the groin, or throwing dirt in the eyes. The form of the duel was alien to him, yet the artistry of the blade-work was seductive. Both men were masters of the rapier, and both knew every drill and exercise taught by the finest teachers from the Imperial School in Great Kesh to the Masters’ Court in Roldem.

  It was a thing of beauty, thought Durine. Verheyen held the edge in speed and footwork, but Argent knew more combinations and counters, so they stood evenly matched. Minutes seemed to drag on, as anticipation of a victory made the observers study every move, counter, and feigned attack. The room remained silent, save for the popping of wood in the hearth, and the sound of scuffling feet and steel upon steel.

  Back and forth the duel went, no man gaining a clear advantage. Durine considered it likely Verheyen would eventually win; his sword was faster and he was fresher than Argent.

  Even so, he was not prepared for the end, when it came. Verheyen launched a furious running attack that left him open to Argent’s counter, but when the Swordmaster moved to counter, Verheyen switched his blade and struck low, taking Argent hard across the knee.

  Grimacing, Steven Argent pulled off his sparring mask. ‘The match is yours, my lord.’

  Verheyen turned and removed his own mask. ‘Well fought, Swordmaster. I’ve not had such a test in years. You do honour to your office.’

  Argent nodded in acknowledgement. Then he crossed to sit down next to Durine, and nodded to him. The Swordmaster’s face gleamed in the flickering firelight, and his black hair was sweat-slickened against his head, but he was smiling.

  Durine sympathized with him. When in doubt, ‘do what you do well’ was not a bad rule to live by, and the Swordmaster was indeed a master with the blade. Durine thought that in an equal rematch, should Steven Argent be fresh or Verheyen fatigued, Argent stood a fair chance of winning.

  Talk burbled about Durine, and outside the storm howled. After a while, the Swordmaster removed his practice tunic, stood up and went to speak with the nobles, leaving the mercenary alone. Durine sat back, closed his eyes and just let the heat from the hearth wash over him, while the wine warmed his belly and his soul.

  All in all, he had had worse days.

  SIX

  Aftermath

  The storm had broken.

  The sky above the castle was a clear and royal blue, with only a distant trace of grey clouds near the horizon to the east, and just a wisp of distant, cottony whiteness in the west to mar the vista. In the wake of the storm, as though it had spent all its energy lashing LaMut, the cold air lay across the land exhausted, barely able to move.

  Dark columns of smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys throughout the city below, snaking crookedly into the air, nudged along by a breeze that was softer than a baby’s breath, although even more certainly colder than a paymaster’s heart. It drove the heat out of Kethol as he stood on the ramparts of the castle wall, careful not to snicker at the panting of the soldiers who were stamping down the snow on the walkway with the pointed farming spades that were, at best, ill-suited to the task. There were, of course, better tools for the purposes of clearing deep snow, but no one seemed to have them in LaMut. He had overheard several of the staff remark this blizzard had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. It had certainly been more than enough for his lifetime.

  A steady clang-clang-clang from the smithy over by the far wall probably spoke of the need for more snow shovels being remedied, Kethol guessed. It shouldn’t take the castle blacksmith long to hammer out a few broad-bladed, flat shovels, even with the necessity of additional mounts being reshoed with the clawed LaMutian horseshoes that Kethol had never seen anywhere else, and hoped never to see again.

  Below, the men of Tom Garnett’s company shivered in their cloaks as they saddled up for the morning patrol. Gouts of steam spurted from the horses’ nostrils as they whinnied their complaints at being forced out into snow that was currently up to their knees. That snow was quickly being packed down into something more firm by all the feet and hooves involved, and the only major snow removal operation in the inner keep had been accomplished with the clearing of enough snow from around the main gate to let it swing open, enabling the patrol to depart. The preparations were, unsurprisingly, taking much longer than usual.

  The riders worked in pairs to keep the horses steady long enough to saddle the mulish creatures, one man holding firmly onto the reins, while the other tightened the saddle girth, then tied down the rest of the gear even more carefully than usual.

  It would likely be a difficult patrol, although Kethol judged that the chances of combat were nearly non-existent–even if they managed to get beyond the city below, which was problematic at best. There was ice lurking beneath the soft-looking snow, and even a clawed horseshoe might slip on it. While a falling horse would not of necessity always break its leg, Tith-Onaka, the soldiers’ god, had a cruel sense of humour. Kethol decided that must explain the presence of a dozen unsaddled horses that were being led out of the stable. You normally didn’t take remounts with you on patrol, unless you expected to be gone for a long while and anticipated a horse going lame or having to be put down.

  It also explained the low curses from the stocky Horsemaster, Benjamin Deven, which Kethol couldn’t quite make out, but probably amounted to additional if unnecessary cautions to the riders to be careful with their mounts, as though the horses were the Horsemaster’s own children, and the soldiers merely unreliable nannies.

  The preparations for the patrol had been preceded, he knew, by a confrontation between Steven Argent and the Horsemaster. Kethol had gone up to the Aerie to speak with the Swordmaster, and perhaps pay a quick visit to Fantus–the little firedrake seemed to actually like him, for some reason or other–and had quickly retreated at the sound of voices inside, in a surprisingly loud argument over the question of even sending out a patrol right now.

  It was not Kethol’s problem, thankfully, but he could see both sides of the issue.

  The only good thing about the present situation that he could think of was that any enemy activity would be marked indelibly in the deep snow. Even if the Tsurani knew the old trick of a company marching single-file, while dragging branches behind them to obscure a trail–and they probably did–they weren’t stupid and this was their fourth winter: it was all so pristine and virgin white out there that it would be impossible to move unnoticed anywhere within tens of miles of LaMut. A force of any significant size would leave a trail even a city man could see.

  And while Kethol doubted there were any Tsurani closer than the Free Cities border, he did rather hope there were actually legions of Tsurani and Bugs out there…

  …and that their rotting carcasses would be found come the thaw.

  Not that he would be around to see them. For a moment he thought of a snug little inn somewhere…somewhere warm.

  The sound of soft footsteps crunching on the packed snow behind him drew him from his momentary reverie and he turned.

  Grodan, the leader of the Natalese Rangers, walked up, his grey cloak wrapped tightly about his long, lean frame. ‘Hail and good mornin
g, Kethol of wherever-you-happen-to-be-at-the-moment,’ he said.

  ‘Hail and a good morning to you, as well, Grodan of Natal.’ Kethol nodded. ‘I didn’t see you or the other two Rangers during the storm. You weren’t actually out in it, were you?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Grodan’s mouth twitched. ‘I’ve heard that you went out into it, to rescue Baron Morray.’

  Kethol shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much of a rescue, really.’ Why he was coming to Morray’s defence he didn’t quite know, but it would have seemed disloyal to let the Ranger’s implication stand unanswered, despite the fact that Kethol himself thought Morray an idiot to have willingly ventured out into the belly of the storm.

  Grodan was idly watching the city below, when a man, huddled deeply in a cloak, climbed out of a second-storey window from a half-buried row house on High Street, just the other side of the north gate. The man lost his grip on the windowsill and slid down the snowdrift, tumbling and rolling until he reached the bottom.

  Kethol could imagine the curses being uttered as the man got to his feet and tried to slap the snow from himself, but he was too far off for the sound to carry, despite the still air.

  The Ranger laughed. ‘Well, that’s quicker than digging himself out, eh?’ He sobered as he watched the people moving about on the streets below, making their way through the deep snow. ‘I hope there’s enough meat stored in the city; it’ll be weeks before there are any animals brought in to market.’

  That wasn’t one of Kethol’s worries. Any castle had to have enough preserved food in its storehouses not just to weather a winter, but to weather a siege, and Father Winter’s siege could not possibly go on long enough for him to be missing any meals, although he might quickly grow tired of a diet of pickled beef, if it took too long for livestock to reach LaMut from neighbouring farms and ranches. And given the severity of this last storm, it probably would take a while.