“What?” the old king barked. Bushy white eyebrows went up in surprise. “I have never laid claim to any lands east of the White, why should they wish to beg anything of me?’
“Well, you see, Your Grace,” the young man said, his face turning red, “they draw water from the river. If you dam it, they say they will not be able to continue planting. They have a very late harvesting season it seems, and they divert water from the river by means of these clever little channels– ”
“The Lakemen need the river?” the king boomed, interrupting him. “They live around one of the largest bodies of fresh water in all the realm! What need they of the White?”
“Well, you see, they believe the lake is sacred, Your Grace. They do not draw water for drinking or planting from it. They–”
“Ha,” the king barked, interrupting him again. “Sacred water is it? I put you, nephew of my late wife’s ilk, in charge of reporting to me the happenings of the east, made you Regent of the East in title, and this is what you bring me? Sacred water? Ha! Sacred water is of little concern to me.”
The young man forced a smile. “Well, Your Grace, it is of great concern to the Lakemen. If we were to but dam a little lower, perhaps closer to the Kingspear–”
“The river is too wide farther south. Let the Lakemen come and bend knee to me, before I grant them favors.” The king stood then, raising a clenched fist. “Let them come and lay the matter before me in this very room. Then perhaps I will do something about it.”
“They are a very private people,” the young man said. “They do not often venture far from their lands.”
“Until they do the dam goes up as planned. It is only for a period of a few weeks anyhow. After that the White will most likely be frozen from the northern front to Darry.”
“As you say, Your Grace.”
“Now, off with you Lorre. Come back when you have some news of import from the east.”
The young man bowed and turned. He set his jaw and made his way out of the chamber. The man in blue seated beside the king stirred. The only hairs remaining on his head were curls of grey at his temples, which he seemed to be constantly twirling with a finger. He was a short man with an ample stomach, which preceded the rest of his body when he pushed himself up into a standing position. “The next issue before us, Your Grace, is–”
“Not now, Filson,” the king said. “A matter of greater importance has come to my attention.” His gaze suddenly found Rowen Dunn when he said that. “Clear the court.”
Lords and ladies looked up as the king made this announcement, and their mouths went slightly agape. Affronted expressions crossed their faces. When they realized that no further elaboration was coming, they shook their heads and started to make for the doors.
Filson made a formal announcement despite the fact that everyone was already leaving, as that was apparently his duty. A few men were asked to stay, among them a man identified as Steward Trin Remton and another as Master of Arms Arthur Drennen.
“Rowen Dunn. You took a long time in getting back,” the king said, when everyone except those mentioned had left the room. The two grey-coated men beside the throne had also remained, as did the man called Filson. “I suppose you have a message for me?”
Dunn stepped forward and presented the king with a rolled parchment sealed in dark wax. “I am sorry for my delay in returning, Your Grace. The Magistrate is often slow in putting his thoughts to parchment.”
“Ha,” the king barked. “I’d suspect the reason for your delay to be that you found yourself a bit of a good time in Darry. That is if I didn’t know you to be a man of your word, and the Magistrate to indeed be a man of slow wit.”
Dunn only nodded his head, his face a set expression of seriousness. The boy stood behind him, hoping he wouldn’t be seen past the larger form. He clutched his father’s sword hilt in his grasp, finding some minor comfort there.
“Such dreary news always comes from the south,” the king drawled, after he had perused the note. He said it in a way that made him seem almost bored, tired, so much in contrast to the fire and anger of a few minutes ago. “Nothing much of interest, only more matters to worry about and attend to. It appears that Lord Casserly will not be making the visit I requested of him. No time before the winter, he says, and other…complications.”
The gathered men stood and listened to the king ramble on, standing respectfully erect. The boy studied the men remaining in the chamber. The one identified as the steward of the household, Trin Remton, was a man of middle years with mousy brown hair and a thick moustache and beard. He had broad shoulders and wore a dark tunic.
Beside him the master of arms, Arthur Drennen, stood as relaxed as a standing man could. Despite the fact that he looked proper and fit, there seemed to be stealth about him. He reminded the boy of a cat on his father’s farm, ready to pounce at any minute – muscled, yet lithe, tall, and yet quick. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, but the boy had no doubt that he could get to the sheathed sword at his waist in the blink of an eye. He had a sharp nose, under which was a neat, black mustache, that pointed at the ends, and his eyes were dark and alive. The rest of his face was clean-shaven, and he was dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt, black breeches, and black boots shined to perfection. A pair of dark gloves were tucked into his belt.
“Well, if that is all,” the king said to Dunn, when he was done complaining, “then you may depart to your chamber. I am sure you are much in need of rest. Take a few days respite, before returning to your duties. Now Trin,” the king said turning to the taller man, “we are still in need of a large quantity of pork and beef, salted and prepared, before the winter come…”
“Pardon, Your Grace,” Dunn interrupted. “There is another matter.”
The old king looked back to the guardsman. “Oh? Yes?”
Dunn turned about and brought the boy forward. The boy shrunk away as several sets of eyes began to inspect him. His brow felt hot and his palms began to sweat around the half-sword that he now worried in his hands.
The old king looked the boy up and down, frowning at him. “Who is this, Dunn?”
“Your Grace, this boy was found in the forests surrounding Lilton.” he replied, going on to retell the story of how the boy and his parents were discovered and then brought along to Darry to see the magistrate. “The Magistrate asked me to bring them along to you. For, as it were, your judgment.”
“What has this boy and two dead farmers to do with me, Dunn?” The king sat up in his throne, hands clawing at the armrests.
“You see, Your Grace, this boy is the son of Edward Ledervane. Ledervane and his…wife…were the ones that were killed…killed by the bear.”
For a second the king looked suddenly much older than before. His eyelids drooped and his shoulders slumped. He sat like this for many moments and then seemed to recover, sitting tall in his throne again. The boy saw something in his eyes, something he did not recognize at first. The king did not look surprised, instead anger, not the impatience of earlier, but true anger, seemed to grip him. His eyes smoldered as he looked at the boy.
“How do we know this is Ledervane’s boy?” the king asked. Then his eyes found the sword in the boy’s grasp, traced the sweep of steel about the hilt. He remained quiet for some time, his eyes staring off, seeming to see something else, something distant.
The king finally managed, “The bodies–”
“Should be arriving in a day or two–”
“–will be buried in the Beggar’s Court. In marked graves.”
The room went silent. Dunn and Remton shook their heads, while Filson, who was still seated by the king’s side, couldn’t help but let his lips twitch up in a nervous smile. Arthur Drennen now stared down at his feet, his hands still firmly clasped behind his back. No one said a word, no one moved.
The king stared down at the floor and uttered no words for some time. He then whispered, “You may go.” Remton turned to leave, and so did Dunn for a moment, befo
re he appeared to think better of it.
“What of the boy?” the old guard ventured.
The king looked up. There was fury in his eyes so intense that Dunn took a step back. His gaze found the boy this time. The boy started to imagine the worst possible things happening to him, all of the horrors of execution he had ever heard of, as best as a boy who had never seen such things, could. He saw himself beheaded, thrown from a tower, drawn and quartered…and he didn’t even know why.
Smoldering eyes flared to life again. There were the imaginings of a thousand new horrors in that look. There was anger in them, but also a hunger. As if this tall, withered, man might devour him with a look. “This boy,” the king fumed, “This spawn of those contemptable…those traitorous…he will be…he will…”
“I will take him,” Arthur Drennen offered, stepping forward.
The king looked up. “What?”
The master of arms stepped forward. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but I could take the boy…into my tutelage. I have not had an apprentice or squire in some years. I train only the guards and the nobles’ children, now. I have the time.”
“Apprentice to you?” the king asked. He suddenly looked worn and tired. He ran the back of his hand across his brow.
“Well, he already has the grasp down,” Drennen said, raising an eyebrow toward the sword the boy still held firmly in his fist. Remton stifled a laugh and then looked about. Dunn only shivered.
After many moments passed, the old king looked up again. “Yes, yes, take him. Take him away. For now. All of you…be gone.”
Remton turned and went, and then the boy watched Rowen Dunn do the same. The old guard did turn back as he crested the threshold and looked back to the boy. He stood idle for a moment and then was gone. Arthur Drennen walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Would you like that?” he asked. “To train with me, to learn the things your father once did?”
The last thing the boy wanted to do was stay in the same town, let alone castle, as the man that had given him that look of utter hatred. Only trouble lay in that direction. But perhaps if he did stay, he could prove himself. Prove that he was not what they said his parents were. Find out what had happened and show the many people that seemed to think ill of his family that they were wrong. After long contemplation, he looked up at Drennen and nodded.
The master of arms patted the boy on the head, and then asked, “What is your name?”
The boy caught the old king watching him at that. There was malice in his eyes, still. It made him want to run, to hide, to disappear, anything to get away from where he was and what was happening. Then he remembered the Brujo’s words, the last thing he had said to him before he had disappeared. Remember them.
The boy looked away from the king and up at Arthur Drennen again. He said, “I’m Nikolis Ledervane.”
CHAPTER TWO
Nikolis woke to the sound of ravens cawing outside his window. Perched on the sill were two of the big, black birds. He rolled off of his pallet and they turned to regard him with dark eyes. Moving over to the window did not startle them.
Outside the sky was still dark. Hints of orange sunlight were just starting to show amongst dark clouds of blue and purple. The rear castle yard stretched before him, the grass looking pale in the morning light. He stood inside a small, stone tower attached to some sort of armory, long and wide. Across the way, there was a large stable and a smithy, and to the left of that was the barracks. All of this Drennen had shown to him the other day, before taking him to his new chamber.
The room that was now his home was small and nearly empty, except for a sleeping pallet in the corner and a tarnished candelabrum set with the stubs of four candles, trails of dry wax in drips down its base. It was cold, but there was a hearth along the far wall which, though it looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, was still serviceable.
“This chamber belonged to another young student, once,” Drennen had said when he first showed the room to Nikolis. “Not much, but it will do.”
A small man dressed in brown roughspun entered the room, disturbing his thoughts, and dropped a bucket and a plate on the floor, and then backed out, without a word. Nikolis took the bucket and dunked his head into the cold water. He scrubbed at his hands and arms and pushed his hair back. It was a mass of knots and tangles, but he tried his best to sort things out.
The plate held two boiled eggs, some overcooked, crisp, bacon, a helping of boiled carrots, and a scoop of some mashed concoction he couldn’t quite identify. Despite some suspicion, Nikolis’ grumbling stomach got the better of him and he plowed into the food with abandon. It felt so good to eat well-prepared food again, he found himself licking the plate clean in the end. It was all fresh and cooked, not salted or dried as he had endured in his days on the road.
As he was finishing up, a knock sounded at the door, and it promptly swung open. Arthur Drennen stepped into the room, dressed exactly as he always seemed to be. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.
Nikolis nodded.
“Come then, we begin.” Without another word he left the room and Nikolis, as if compelled by some unseen force, moved to follow. Before they had gone more than a few paces, however, Drennen turned around. “There are some things you will have to leave behind,” he said, nodding toward the sword hilt tucked into Nikolis’ belt. The boy looked down at it and traced its length with his eyes. He had never left it, not since that day. Even at night he curled up around the hilt, as he once had a stuffed bear his mother had sewn for him.
Arthur Drennen extended his arm and opened his hand. Nikolis started to shake his head, but the tall man shot him a look that brooked no argument. Despite himself, Nikolis put the hilt into the larger man’s grasp. Drennen moved back into the room, over to the hearth, and with one, sharp, thrust embedded it into the mantle. “There will be a time and a place for you to reclaim it. There will be a time and a place for you to earn it, as your father did.”
Nikolis watched the master of arms leave the room again, too stunned for a moment to move, and then hurried after him. They walked down the spiraling tower stairs and out onto the green before the barracks.
The sun had still not entirely crested the horizon. In the middle of the field there
was a thin, wooden pole stuck into the ground. Drennen walked to the spot and turned about. He took hold of the pole and inspected it, before handing it to Nikolis. Despite the fact that he had thought he would be learning the sword, the prospect of using any weapon interested him.
“There is more to learning the blade than many would think,” Drennen announced, as if in answer. “What’s more, there is a lot more to becoming a swordsman than just learning the blade. Knowing how to handle it is one of many steps. There are a great many skills one must learn, and a great many lessons.”
The master of arms paused then and there seemed a definite expectation that Nikolis digest those words. Nikolis thought them over, turned them about. What is he trying to say? The lithe man was watching him now in silence. He looked the boy up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. He barely moved.
“Your father had a wit about him. He was a quick study with the sword as well, easily having mastered it by the time he was a young man. There was, perhaps, a time when no one could best him, man to man. You may have a bit of that talent, but there’s no reason to assume such things.”
Nikolis studied the master of arms. He set his jaw. The thought passed through his mind that he could be every bit as good a swordsman as his father seemed to have been. Who is this man to tell me I cannot?
When no verbal response came from the boy, Drennen instructed, “Hold the pole out before you in both hands. Extend your arms.”
Nikolis did as he was told. Many moments passed. The master of arms said nothing else and after only a few minutes has passed Nikolis’ arms began to grow tired, then to ache. His arms started to droop.
“Uh, uh, uh.” Drennen shook his head.
Nikolis forc
ed his arms back up. No order had been given to rest. Suddenly time was not moving as fast as it had before. All he wanted to do was drop his arms, but for some reason he didn’t want to disappoint his new master, didn’t wanted to prove him wrong.
The sun continued to rise as he stood motionless, arms outstretched. Soon light was filtering past tree branches, and bluebirds and sparrows were flitting about, singing their songs. Men started to stir in the barracks and then guardsmen appeared, to begin their training. Weapons and armor clanged off of one another, ringing out in the morning air.
Nikolis’ arms began to feel as if they were on fire and sweat dripped down his back. He forced himself to remain steady. He had completed more difficult tasks than this, helping his father on the farm. How hard could it be? Drennen couldn’t make him go on for much longer.
“Are you tired?” Drennen asked, after what seemed like an eternity. Nikolis nodded. “Rest.”
Nikolis dropped his arms and sat on the ground. They throbbed. Drennen handed him a skin of water and the boy drank it down and then handed it back.
Drennen took it and had a gulp of his own. “Ready?” he asked, after only a few moments had passed. Nikolis couldn’t believe the man was already asking him to resume again, but at least they would be starting another lesson. What he was learning by holding sticks out in front of him was a mystery, despite the fact that it was harder than he would have thought.
“Hold the pole out before you,”
Nikolis’ eyes went wide. “Again?”
“Why would I lie? This is neither the time nor place for jest.”
Nikolis held the pole out. In seconds, his arms were aching again.
“Now,” the master of arms said, “raise your left leg.”
They boy did as he told, wavering back and forth in an attempt to keep his balance. He nearly fell over at first, but soon he was able to keep his back and leg straight. Although soon enough his legs were starting to ache: his left from being held up and his right from holding all the weight of his body. His knee felt as if it would buckle at any moment.
The Last Swordsman Page 3