“Control yourself, little one,” his father said sternly, waiting for the squirming to cease before addressing the question. “It is a gift that you will only receive if I feel you have understood the lesson I am about to teach. Are you listening now?”
“Aye, Da.”
“That is good. Hear me now…”
Yohan’s father spoke then of discipline, of authority, of the essential need for rules and obedience. All lessons the boy had heard before, though only in the context of the home and family. Now he learned of an extended family, the community, the people of Parca and—more extensively, the soldiers who protected them. He listened to a story of a social contract between all women and men, and how the loss of one need not threaten the whole.
“People pass on like a river, but rules stay constant like the ocean. Find the code that makes sense for you, then live by it. Sometimes that code will be all you have to make sense of the world, when all else has let you down.
“Remember, to rely on yourself is strength; on others, folly.”
These, though, were separate thoughts, separate memories, spanning many childhood years and brought together by a tired mind seeking simple answers. Many separate memories, but all ended with one.
A knock on the door brought a sudden end to the lecture, along with an unexpected sigh. Never had Yohan seen his father less than fully in control of a moment, but now the sigh was followed by a momentary closing of the eyes and a break in the imperturbable facade.
“That will have to do, then,” he said, reopening his eyes and ignoring the repeated pounding at the sturdy hardwood portal. “Do you understand, little one?”
“Aye, Da.”
“I see you do not, but that is to be expected. I can only hope you will in time.”
“The door, Pa?”
“In a moment. First, do you want your gift?”
The disturbance at the door was becoming so loud, so foreign to young Yohan’s experience, that the son was no longer certain he did want the gift. Yet he nodded and looked reverentially at the sword and scabbard that had always been inseparably a part of his father’s persona. Not until later did he stop to question why the sacred object—not yet thought of as a weapon—was being passed from adult to child.
The child held on to that object for a very long time, well past the moment he came to understand that his father was never coming back. Sometimes objects are mere objects, but other times they are all we will ever have to remember with…
“What is that?” Patrik asked sharply.
Yohan opened his eyes. The sight of the harpa staring at him with flushing cheeks told Yohan what was in his hands even before he looked.
I should have told him, before. Yohan did not know what to say, so he said nothing.
“You’ve had that all along, even knowing I looked for it?”
Yohan stared at the thing, just a small blue and black rock. He should have thrown it away many tendays ago. Except it meant so much, and not only to the two men.
“You’re a thief.”
Yohan could not deny that, for he certainly felt like one.
“I was starting to see what others…what Summer saw in you. And now… Will you say nothing, as you always say nothing?”
Yohan searched for words that might help. The best he could do was minimize the damage. “When I took the stone, I knew not what it meant.”
“Yet you kept it even after you did.”
Yohan noticed Patrik’s hand slide over the pommel of his sword, where it paused. Yohan blinked, untroubled, for a swordfight was one problem Yohan knew how to resolve.
Overhead, the skies darkened with cloud. Even nature expressed its outrage at him.
The hand slipped away. Instead, Patrik held it out, palm open. “And now will you return it to its owner?”
Would that I could.
With great reluctance, Yohan held the sapphire out. Patrik snatched it away and turned his back, empty of words but full of resentment.
Yohan stood. “I am sorry, Patrik.” Looking up the trail, he scooped his shield and pack off the ground and slung them over his back. Then he resumed the long, eternal walk.
The discovery, the argument, and the anger were nothing compared to what lay ahead.
For once, he did not hear his companion fall in behind. Perhaps that was for the best. If he turned back now, the harpa might still survive this ordeal. And Yohan worked better on his own. He did not need friends.
The sudden tear surprised him enough to stop walking. He wiped his cheek, staring at the unexpected wetness, only a sign that the stress was starting to overflow. Then, turning back, he saw the flash of long blade just in time to throw himself out of the way.
He rolled and drew his sword in one smooth motion, discarding the pack on the way back to his feet. Then he stood, staring at the face of evil before him.
It had come over the ridge, silently as a bird despite its immense bulk, its horrible stench undetected until now.
What he had taken as a blade was actually one of two forelegs, now held up for display like the pose of a praying mantis. They might just as well have been actual swords, for their entire four-foot length was edged so sharply he wondered how it moved without cutting itself.
That question was answered when he saw the unexpected grace with which it balanced on its two clawed limbs, first launching itself in another attack, then whirling and spinning around before Yohan had time to turn his dodge into a counter.
During this second pause, he studied its skin for potential weaknesses. Scales covered most of the torso, thick hide and dark fur the rest. Nothing jumped out as an obvious target, which meant he would need to use trial and error—provided he could ever get his blade on the thing.
It leaped again, forcing him back. He dove once more, this time in the opposite direction, hoping it might favor one side over the other. It did not, and an aggressive thrust of his sword brought a defensive parry with one leg and an impossibly fast slash with the other, just catching Yohan’s shoulder as he attempted to pull back.
He barely felt the cut, at least at first. Then a glance showed severed chain and fresh blood, and shortly thereafter a rising of pain. Nothing dangerous in itself, but Yohan worried what the cumulative effect of a few such wounds would do to him. And wounds were an inevitability, given the speed, precision, and power of the thing before him.
Yohan needed his shield, that much was certain. He could feel the reassuring weight on his back, but he dared not take the time to unsling it.
Another swift pass, another lightning-fast cross of blades, another calculated pause. The opponent barely showed any effort. It was toying with him, no more, and he recognized it for what it was. A pure killing machine.
The beast smiled—or seemed to, though the long row of teeth maintained a perpetual look of amusement. As it lunged into another attack and the mouth opened, Yohan half-expected to hear a laugh.
Only when his blade sliced through the outer curve of that maw, and the creature abruptly recoiled, did Yohan rethink his first impression. He knew that cut had hurt, yet its unnerving expression was not altered. That’s just how it is, he decided. Best not to ascribe human emotions to the face of a demon.
At least the exchange bought him the time to get arm in shield, and a calmness settled in as soon as he felt the tautness of the strap. Now he could think again.
Fear flickered at the fringes of awareness, but he pushed it back. The mind could focus on only one idea at a time, and if panic ever reached the front it would block out all else. Instead he honed in on the demon’s movements, searching for patterns and habits—anything to give him a chance.
Reading an enemy came as natural to Yohan as a book to a scholar. This opponent, however, was unlike any he had ever encountered, for its behavior was a constant fluctuation between stillness and motion, the latter so fast as to be nearly a blur.
Nevertheless, after two more passes, Yohan believed he had the measure of the beast. It was certainl
y the fastest thing he had ever fought—animal, man, or other—yet he was not daunted. He had scored one wound, and could do so again. All he needed was an opportunity.
Patrik provided one. The rock he threw merely bounced off the scaly side, but the head turned in the new direction just long enough for Yohan to pounce. He dared not risk a penetration of any depth, for its body moved so quickly that he feared losing control of his weapon for even a fraction of a second. The demon twisted away from the thrust, and Yohan was barely able to duck under the swinging forearm. He attempted a counter of his own, felt his blade turn on the parry of the other leg, then threw himself back as it lunged forward in a new move. The claws of the back legs tore into the hard ground where he had just been standing, digging shallow gouges like a pair of spades.
This time, the two combatants did not pause. The exchange continued, one sequence flowing right into the next.
Another lunge with those claws, and Yohan sensed that the demon was off-balance. He seized the opportunity to close, hoping to get inside the effective range of those long-bladed arms. But any momentary vulnerability was quickly gone, and it danced backward and sideways almost too fast to keep up with, though he tried hard to stay near. Suddenly it stopped and lunged forward once more, maw open and teeth gnashing. Yohan maneuvered away just as the reaver had a moment before, backward then sideways, and the jaws clamped down on nothing but air.
At last they came to a stop two yards apart, studying each other intently. The beast’s head cocked to one side, as though considering its opponent in a new light. A steady stream of liquid ran from a cut in the side, though it gave no indication of noticing.
For his part, Yohan’s heartbeat was racing, his chest heaving from exertion. He fought to steady his breath, calm his tensed nerves, and relax his muscles for the next barrage.
Another rock bounced off the demon’s side. This time, it never took its attention away from Yohan.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the harpa running toward them. “Patrik, stop!” he called. “This thing will kill you in a heartbeat.”
The movement stopped, the man obeyed. “Yohan…”
“It’s all right. I can kill it.”
He liked to think the demon understood him. Whether that was true or not, it surged forward again, moving as quickly as ever.
He parried, feinted, blocked, and countered with as much precision as he had ever done in his life. And still he did not connect, instead finding himself turning away, stepping back, pushed further and further to the defense. The rare times he got in a swing of his own, Yohan not only failed to score a hit but was forced to burn more energy to escape the inevitable ripostes.
He simply could not get to it. So he would have to let it get to him.
The next time it lunged, back legs up and forward, claws out to shred and tear, Yohan stood his ground. He took the shock of its weight on his shield, thrusting forward with his sword as he was driven down to the ground. The air burst from his lungs on impact, leaving him gasping, and he felt those claws digging into the lower stretches of his chain mail.
But it had misplaced the jump badly, expecting him to move back rather than stop. The claws found their way to flesh, but Yohan was less aware of his own pain than he was of that he inflicted on the reaver. He had sensed the moment when his point stabbed through scale, and pushed as hard as he could manage given the awkwardness of falling, the sudden weakness of having the wind knocked out of him, and the immense weight now pressing down on his torso.
The hideous shrieking restored some strength to his muscles, and hope to his mind. His right arm pulled down and pushed up again, and the giant maw opened wide, the smile broadening, bile dripping like rain onto Yohan’s face. He turned his head to the side, desperate to get relief from the sickening odor emanating from its open mouth.
The big body twisted, ripping the sword from Yohan’s grip, so he used both hands to hold the shield between himself and the thrashing paroxysms of the beast. Its mouth clamped shut, over and over again, but could not get past the wooden partition between demon and man.
When it began to bounce up and down on him, he knew he had won. These new gyrations did more damage to the monster than to him, his sword wedged as it was in its vitals. The claws rent the air as much as Yohan now, its mouth whipped left and right in frustration, and he believed he was watching its throes of death.
He waited them out, careful not to expose himself until he was certain the final twitching was no cunning trick. Then he used the shield—nicked and battered, but still miraculously in one piece—to push the dead mass off to one side. He rolled to a side, then up to a knee, then caught his breath and steadied his uncertain balance. At last, putting an end to what seemed like hours on the ground, he rose to his feet.
His companion stared, silently, back and forth between soldier and demon.
“Thank you for the help, Patrik.”
The caravaneer turned away.
Yohan watched the man retrieve his pack and fiddle, then take to the trail again.
Which way will he go, forward or back?
Patrik came forward, toward Yohan. Then past, without saying a word.
There was no thrill of victory, no sense of accomplishment, no carryover surge of energy that often came after battle.
Yohan needed a break to recover, to dress his wounds and allow his muscles to rest. But no one had the luxury of time any more.
He found his own pack, surprisingly distant from the corpse of the monster he had killed. Somehow, the fight had covered far more ground than seemed possible.
He did not look back as he set out after Patrik.
They ate together in silence, a piece of dried apple and a sliver of jerky washed down with a few gulps of water.
Yohan stared up at the eve sky. “You’re right about the weather, harpa. It’s getting colder.”
Why that would be, he could not explain, for by the calendar summer had barely begun. He had long since given up trying to make sense of the seasons, other than to consider their practical effect on this quest.
The caravaneer did not seem inclined to respond, so Yohan continued to voice his worries alone. “I fear we will wish for winter clothing again, once in the mountains.”
But when he looked once more at his companion, he saw the man staring back. Yohan waited, and felt no small relief when his patience was rewarded.
Oddly, the harpa spoke of things in the past.
“Summer told me of a contest you were in…before. You and the other soldiers. How you lost on purpose, so your friend would look better in Meadow’s eyes.”
Yohan looked away. The memory—the reminder of Brody—was painful.
“I think she was wrong. Not that you didn’t lose on purpose, but the reason why. I think you did it so he could feel better about himself.”
“I never really thought about the why.”
The pause was too long. Yohan knew what was coming.
“She gave you the stone, did she not?”
Yohan did not know what to say, so he said nothing.
After some time, Patrik resumed the march.
As they made camp for what neither knew would be the last time, the mountains were so close they blocked out much of the sky. Clouds obscured the rest, and with it any sense of warmth or comfort the stars and moon might provide.
After so many days fighting off heat stroke, the two companions now shivered, as strong winds found the sweat on their bodies and in their clothes.
The sensible thing to do was huddle together for sleep, but the absence of conversation all eve prevented Yohan from voicing the suggestion. He worried as much about the harpa’s state of mind as he did the impending doom that awaited them both, and he wondered why that would be.
He had not yet found an answer when the other man broke the silence, beginning a conversation as full of pauses and stutters as it was of heavy words. Heavy, yet surprisingly emotionless words, as if the men were speaking of two others they had m
et on the long road, then long since departed.
“I should tell you, Soldier Yohan… I feel a sadness, but no shame. She chose a better man.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I never expected false humility from you. Your sympathy is not necessary.”
“Nay, you don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“I’m not good with words.”
“Try.”
“All right. You followed me into that tower, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Then we went back, and found what we found. I would as soon have left you behind as have your company. It’s not that I disliked you, but I thought you would slow me down when all I worried about was revenge and rescue.
“I struck a pace that any soldier would find difficult, and many would fail. I didn’t know how you did—I still don’t—but you kept that pace. A soldier trains his whole life for long marches; a caravaneer does not. And you did it without complaining, without asking for a break. I…admire your determination.
“You fight, though you’re no fighter. You did the thinking when my mind could not. You keep going, though you know that odds are we’ll be dead in a day, and though you travel with a man you must hate.”
“I don’t hate you, Soldier Yohan. I wanted to, but I find I’ve come to understand you too well.”
“I think this would be easier if you did.”
“Nay, I don’t believe that. These days have been hard for me, Yohan. But this helps.”
“These days have been hard for us both, Patrik. But I am glad you are here.”
“You love her, too, do you not?”
“I do.”
“Then promise me that we’ll save her.”
“That, I cannot do.”
“Why not? Don’t you owe me that much?”
“Aye. But it isn’t that simple. It goes against…let’s call it the code I believe in. I will not make a promise I don’t think I can keep.”
The long stopover at Threefork had been a blessed relief for Summer’s knee, but now that the group was on the march again her injury swelled and ached as though the pause had never happened.
Shield and Crown Page 24