Guardians of the Keep

by Carol Berg

  And of course, once I remembered all these things, they did me no good at all. Neither Karon nor D’Natheil could suggest any escape from my captivity that V’Saro had not already dismissed. The terrors of my dreams were banished, but those of my days were grown far more desperate. With Gernald dead, Exeget could not get Seri and Gerick out, and the odds of my living until I could find a way to do so were depressingly slim. If I were to die, Seri would likely live out her days in this vile place, and Gerick would become the instrument the Lords had long desired. And that was only if I died undiscovered. I could well imagine the unpleasantness if my identity became known.

  So I could not die, and I could not be discovered, which meant I had to keep up my deception. The difficulty was that I didn’t know how long I could manage it, now I was myself again. I had no defense against Zhid compulsions. One misstep and they would have the truth out of me. And even more disturbing . . .I had to fight. I had to continue doing my best to kill whoever walked onto a training ground with me, and doubt that I would be capable of such an act consumed me.

  For so many years I had believed that nothing . . . nothing . . . was worth taking a life, certainly not the preservation of my own life, and not even the preservation of the lives I cherished most. I had not yet come to terms with the dreadful consequences of my idealism, but on that night in the slave pen of Zhev’Na, I told myself that I no longer had the luxury of choice. I was fighting a war, and my son’s life was bound up with the safety of two worlds. I just didn’t know if that would be enough when next I faced a living man with a sword in my hand.

  I could not sleep for thinking of Seri and Gerick and preparing myself for the morning. Daylight arrived far too soon. As always, I was led to the day’s sparring ground by the chain hooked to my collar. Gabdil again.

  “These keepers insist that you can fight, slave. I don’t believe it.” The big man grinned and tossed me a two-handed great-sword—my favorite weapon. “I think you are Dar’Nethi vermin who plays at swords the same way your people play at sorcery. The Lords of Zhev’Na will teach you one discipline, and I will teach you the other.”

  Anger stirred in my gut. No blank-eyed, unimaginative, misbegotten Zhid knew more of swordplay than the Prince of Avonar. I lifted the weapon up to the light, letting the sun glint along its shining edge, and then I pointed it at the empty eyes staring at me, as if to say “I’ll put it there,” and took my ready stance.

  V’Saro had been but a mask, a flimsy veneer of experience and memory painted over my soul, with skills and inclinations that were very much my own. The Dar’Nethi Healer’s invocation was at the core of V’Saro’s being, and he risked mutilation to comfort his injured cellmates, because I was Karon, a Healer incapable of any other response to their suffering. And V’Saro knew how to wield a sword with deadly precision because I was D’Natheil, who valued nothing in life save the art of combat. It might take me a full lifetime to become accustomed to this other set of habits and instincts existing alongside my own, but when I raised my sword on the first morning of my second life in Zhev’Na, I was glad he was with me. D’Natheil did not think. He fought. And so my life continued.

  “The Wargreve Damon has asked for this one?” The slavekeeper ticked off an item on his list.

  The slavemaster, hands clasped behind his back, chuckled. “The wargreve asked for a challenge. Says our stock is poor these days; threatens to report unfavorably to the gensei if he doesn’t break a sweat today. We’ll see what he thinks of V’Saro.” The slavemaster had begun visiting the stable often, especially on days I fought wager matches.

  The keeper flicked a finger at a slavehandler who unlocked the cell gate and motioned me to kneel with my hands behind my back so they could shackle them together. I threw the piece of half-eaten graybread back into my basket and complied. As my wristbands were linked together and the handler’s boot informed me it was time to stand, my stomach constricted in the now-familiar anxiety. Uncounted days had passed since I had learned my identity. Nothing had changed. I had to keep fighting. I had to keep winning.

  “Wargreve Damon is a brilliant warrior,” said the keeper.

  “If he takes this one, he’ll be almost as good as he thinks. Of course, if V’Saro takes Damon, we’ll have grief to pay to the gensei. But it might be worth it.”

  Most unsettling to hear my day’s opponent was the protégé of a gensei—a general. The nearest I’d come to death in my months in the slave pens had not been from a wound of my own, but on the day I had lamed the protégé of another gensei. Only the intervention of the slavemaster on behalf of “the Lords’ property” had kept me alive.

  My spirits sank even lower when I was delivered to the training ground and saw Damon. He was big and young, and as I was unshackled and given a weapon and a thinly padded leather tunic, I watched him use his long-sword to hack a thickly padded practice drum into as precise, thin slices as if he were slicing butter with a dagger. This one was good.

  “Is this the best you can do?” He surveyed my battered body and shabby turnout scornfully. “I said I wanted a challenge.”

  The handler bowed. “The slavemaster says to report any dissatisfaction.”

  We set right to work. Interesting. The young Zhid used incredible speed and brilliant instincts to mask abysmally poor technique. He was every bit the dangerous opponent I had judged him, but in the first hour I spotted a weakness in his defense. Stubborn and prideful, he would never evade or step away from a strike, but always chose to parry, assuming that his quickness would allow him to reset and counter. But his favorite parry was soft, his blade angled improperly, a blatant opening that would permit me to kill him easily. Yet, as I had learned before, killing the fool would be a risky proposition.

  The Zhid had no children, but they were inordinately possessive of other warriors they had taken on as protégés in a murderous perversion of Dar’Nethi mentoring. To injure the wargreve would draw the angry notice of a gensei, but if I didn’t exploit this weakness, Damon could very possibly wear me down enough to take me. An untenable situation.

  We completed an exercise.

  “Excellent, Damon,” said the young man’s Zhid swordmaster. “Perhaps a bit forceful, but excellent overall. Shall we try it again? Position, slave!”

  The swordmaster spent most of his time praising his pupil’s skills and little giving any meaningful critique. As the hours of practice passed, he showed no sign that he had noticed the glaring weakness so obvious to me.

  By the time we stopped for a midday rest period, the wargreve had scarcely broken a sweat. I walked over to the water barrel, waiting until my back was turned to gulp for air and leaning casually on the wall as I drank, as if I didn’t really need the support for my aching shoulders.

  “Position, slave!”

  I returned to the center of the courtyard. The heat beat on my head and shoulders like the hammer of Arot, the Leiran god who forged his own weapons to battle chaos. I had to act. I ducked a stroke that came near removing what hair the slavekeeper’s hacking had left me and made a wide spin that brought me up next to the swordmaster, well away from my opponent. Quickly I slapped the back of my hand to my lips. The swordmaster looked puzzled—such a thing was unusual in the middle of a match—but he held up his hand to stay the wargreve’s blade that hung unpleasantly close to my head.

  “What is it, dog? Surely you recall that a slave cannot yield?”

  “Swordmaster, there’s been a dreadful mistake. You cannot mean for me to fight this youth.”

  “A mistake?” snarled the wargreve, not giving his instructor a chance to respond. “Our profound apologies. If you’re mismatched, then you’ll just die all the sooner. I’ll just have to sacrifice the day’s training.”

  “I am not the one matched above his skill. We Dar’Nethi hold our honor dear. I’m sworn to fight to the best of my ability, and that I will do, but when I’ve been put up against a beginner, I must issue a warning. If this fight continues, you will be the one to die.
”

  The young man laughed harshly. “A beginner? I’ve not lost a match since I was transformed.”

  “I can well believe it, but I’d wager you’ve not fought one who was a swordmaster in his own right and sees the flaws in your training. I’ll take you before your swordmaster counts a hundred.”

  He snarled and raised his sword. “Raise your weapon, slave. Your futile existence ends here.”

  The swordmaster rubbed his jaw uneasily. If harm befell the young commander, the fellow would likely not see another sunrise. “Wait, Damon. . . . Tell me, slave, what do you see?”

  “A fatal flaw. If the wargreve will agree to instant immobility when I say halt, I’ll show you.”

  The two discussed it out of my hearing. Eventually—reluctantly—the wargreve agreed. My reputation carried some weight. So we began again, and I led him through the moves that would create my opening. Praying that his curiosity would outweigh his pride and stupidity, I called, “Halt!” The edge of my sword rested on the heart vein in his neck. If he had continued his move, he would have driven it home. He looked like death—even for a Zhid.

  “Though I delight in killing Zhid, I cannot fight one so overmatched,” I said, speaking slowly and deliberately so he couldn’t see how winded I was. I lowered my weapon.

  “I’ll show you who is overmatched, you insolent pig!” He came at me again. I led him again and cried, “Halt!” He dared not do otherwise. His glare might have ripped a hole in plate armor. My edge was in exactly the same spot as before. I thought it excellent that Damon was so well disciplined.

  “You must show him this move, slave,” said the swordmaster. “Command the slave to show you the move, Damon. Then you will be flawless.”

  I shook my head.

  “You dare refuse me?” said Damon, with a menacing glare.

  “I can show you this move, but you’ll be far from flawless. You’re a beginner, a brilliant one, but a beginner, nonetheless. I could move on you a hundred different ways and have the same result.” A slight exaggeration, to be sure, as I could scarcely lift my arms. “Speed and instinct will never best craft. Send me back, and pick a new sparring partner of your own level.”

  The Zhid’s glare of cold hatred shivered my gut. “For today I’ll send you back . . . but only for today. I’ll speak to the gensei”—he sneered and laid his hand on my collar—“but you’d best learn to control your impudent tongue. You are, and will ever be, a walking corpse. Am I right?”

  Doubled over in the dirt, retching, I nodded. No chance I could forget it.

  On the next day I was informed that my primary duty was now to be swordmaster to the Wargreve Damon. I would not be released from the pen and put under compulsions of obedience as might be expected, however, because I would still be assigned to fight matches as the Slavemaster of Zhev’Na would require. Evidently someone besides the surgeon Gorag had prospered on my longevity.

  Though I could not see where such a change might lead, it gave me a glimmer of hope. I was required to be out of the pen for most of the day, tethered in the fortress’s primary training ground, awaiting the wargreve’s pleasure. Damon trained for perhaps four hours a day, sometimes mornings, sometimes afternoons or evenings, and during that time I could allow myself to think of nothing else. But in the other hours, if I didn’t have an assigned match, I was able to watch the comings and goings of Drudges, slaves, and Zhid of all ranks. The training ground was surrounded on three sides by solid stone walls. The fourth side opened onto a vast stableyard. The slave pen was across the stableyard, beyond the forge and saddlery. Seri might be among the passersby sometime, but I wouldn’t admit to myself how I longed to see her again. It would be better not.

  Many Zhid officers shared the training ground with the Wargreve Damon. Knowing I was swordmaster to such a renowned warrior, they would ask me for pointers now and then. I made sure to ask Damon’s permission before responding, but he didn’t care. After a few weeks I had several pupils, although the wargreve always had priority.

  On one blistering afternoon I was huddled into the tiny strip of shade within reach of my tether chain. A warrior that was not one of the regulars brought in a new slave for a practice match. I hadn’t heard the new man’s name as yet, but I saluted him before he went to work. The slave, a compact, sturdy man, smiled and did the same. He was good, a little better than the Zhid, but the Zhid was quite unaffected by the terrible heat, whereas the slave was soon sweating profusely. As the match went on, the Dar’Nethi’s face grew pale. At every pause he would rub his eyes, and I could see his arms growing heavy and his breath beginning to labor.

  When the Zhid called a pause to try a new blade, I jumped to my feet and asked for permission to speak. “May I offer a pointer or two? As you know I am swordmaster to Wargreve Damon.” Volunteering for any duty was not my habit, but it might give the slave a chance to cool off.

  “I take no pointers from slaves,” said the Zhid with a snarl. “Damon is a fool to think a slave would teach anything worth hearing. You should all have your tongues removed.”

  The new slave was in the corner of the yard, fighting to keep water down, a sure sign of heat distress.

  “But you lean too far forward in every stance, leaving you off-balance and slow in your counter-strikes, a vulnerability I would not expect in a warrior of your rank.”

  “How dare you?” The warrior was near apoplectic, knowing full well that what I said was true, and that I had revealed it to his opponent. “I’ll show you my weakness. Give this insolent vermin a blade.”

  A stupid thing to do. I’d spent a rough morning with Damon and was scheduled for a wager match with my old friend Gabdil an hour before sunset. A small crowd of warriors and Drudges gathered to watch. Everyone was placing wagers while Damon’s slavehandler detached me from the wall and gave me the weapon the warrior had discarded. My opponent heard the bettors, and his face turned purple.

  The match took half an hour. The Zhid was as strong as a bull, and his technique wasn’t as bad as I’d implied. Happily, he decided to yield rather than make me kill him. When I knelt and spread my arms at his command, I steeled myself for a touch of the collar, but he chose a powerful kick in the belly instead.

  The forgotten slave sat in the corner to await the slavehandler, and while I worked to get air in my lungs, and my stomach returned to its proper place, he raised his open palms to me. A gracious gesture, though he was unlikely to be in the position to do anyone a service anytime soon. Most likely he could have taken care of himself—but perhaps not. He looked as sick as I felt.

  The swordmaster reattached my tether, and I leaned against the stone wall, watching the crowd break up. The sun was in my eyes, so I could not make out one figure that stayed longer than the rest, standing stock still in the middle of the moving mass of people. All I could see in the glare was that it was a Drudge. No red kerchief covering the hair, so it wasn’t a woman . . . wasn’t Seri. Soon everyone was gone, and I drifted off to sleep.

  The match with Gabdil went well. He gave me a painful slash on my back which made him feel accomplished, so that he wasn’t too angry when he had to yield. The wound wasn’t deep or in a place where it would cripple me, which pleased me. A number of people watched the match. Drudges, Zhid, slaves. Impossible to see through the sweat dripping in my eyes. The slavehandler bound my hands and led me back to the surgeon and my cell.

  Late that night, I dreamed of snow. Seri and I had loved walking in the snow. She preferred clear winter days when the light was so brittle it would shatter on the ice-glazed gardens of Windham. I loved the quiet, blue-gray days when the drifting flakes seemed to muffle and soften the harshness of the world. In this particular dream, I stood by a frozen lake in the high mountains, while Seri strolled along on the far side of it. I was trying to pick my way across the icy boulders that crowded the shoreline to get to her, but whenever I looked up, she had moved farther away. I wanted to call out to her, but I beat my hand against my mouth and no one would tel
l me I could speak. At last I decided that the only way to reach her was to cross the lake, so I stepped onto the ice, trying to avoid the center where the color warned me that the glaze was thin and treacherous. But I couldn’t see because it had started to snow, and the ice crystals pelted my face. . . .

  I brushed my hand against my face. It wasn’t snow, but straw. The cold was only the familiar dry chill of the desert night. I burrowed deeper in the straw, determined to find out if I made it across the lake, but a straw pricked my face again, and it was not the wind that whispered outside the bars of my cell. “Ssst.”

  I glanced around before I moved. No one stood in the aisle between the rows of cells, and the cells to either side of me were empty. With so few of us, they could keep us wide apart. So the sound was from outside the pen. Shifting sluggishly toward the outside, as anyone might while sleeping, I peered through the close-set bars . . . straight into a grimy, freckled face that split into a grin as I’d not seen in a lifetime.

  “Blazes! I knew it. Holy, great damn! I knew it all along . . . it’s you!”

  “Paulo!” Our exclamations were muffled whispers, but no less filled with astonishment.

  “I knew you weren’t dead. We both knew it, though we didn’t say it to nobody, not even to each other . . . and then today, when I saw you save that fellow’s life . . . blazes!”