The Last Swordsman

by Benjamin Corman

  “Switch legs.”

  Nikolis obliged, and at first the change was a much-needed reprieve. However, it was only moments before the situation multiplied and grew worse. Now both legs ached from thigh to heel and his arms were going numb.

  “Rest,” said Drennen finally, and Nikolis collapsed to the ground. He didn’t move for many moments. “Count to two hundred, then start again. Raise each leg for a count of fifty, then switch. I have matters to attend to.”

  Arthur Drennen turned and left. It occurred to Nikolis that if he just stayed where he was, lying on the ground, the man would be none the wiser. He failed to see any element of value to what he was doing.

  Yet when he got to two hundred, the boy rose. He raised the pole out before him, lifted his leg and began to count. He had no idea what he was doing, or why he was doing it. All he knew was that he could, and he would, if it killed him.

  At midday he was brought another meal and wash-bucket from the same small man he had seen in the morning. He was given until the count of one thousand to eat and wash. He devoured as much of the food as he could and then dumped the bucket of cold water over his head. His muscles cramped up as the water hit them, but he managed to work the pain away with his hands. All the while he kept the mental count. He saw Drennen at a distance in the field, talking to a pair of men practicing with halberds, but knew he was watching.

  After his meal Nikolis rose again and resumed. His arms and legs were unbearably sore, but he clenched his teeth and did as he was instructed. When the sun was dipping low on the horizon, Drennen returned and told him to rest. After a few moments had passed he motioned Nikolis to stand and follow.

  The boy followed his new master back to the small tower beside the armory and made his way up the stairs. Every step sent a jolt of pain through his body: arms, legs, and back. When he got to his room he collapsed onto the bed. He was almost too exhausted to think about anything, even sleep, but when the room got dark his eyelids grew heavy.

  Nikolis woke the next morning to the familiar cawing of the ravens. The sun was just starting to crest the horizon, and at the door to his room another bucket and plate waited. He moved to get up but could only groan. His arms and legs were sore. It hurt to bend or flex them. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself off the pallet and landed on his feet.

  Pain seared up his legs, but he managed to stand. He moved over to the door, washed, and ate. He couldn’t believe how sore his body was just from holding a pole out and standing on one leg. Muscles ached that he hadn’t even known he had. It suddenly became impossible to imagine what a guardsman taking blows from weapons of steel felt like after a day of training.

  He waited for at least a quarter-hour in his room, but the master did not arrive. Finally, he decided to venture forth, making his way down the stairs and then out onto the green. Men in armor were marching back and forth or squared-off against one another. Off in the distance Nikolis could make out the wiry form of Arthur Drennen marching up and down a line of young recruits. His sharp, critical eyes were looking them up and down, inspecting them the same way he did Nikolis.

  The boy made his way out into the middle of the field. Even from far off he could see his pole sticking out of the ground, waiting for him. He marched up to it and took the shaft into his hands. He began his routine. Pole held out, one foot rising after the other, he practiced. Balance seemed to be coming easier. His arms and legs ached but exerting them almost felt good. He trained until midday, and then had his meal, counting as he was supposed to all the while. After he ate, he stood back up and resumed practicing.

  An hour or so later, he began to grow weary. His exuberance and determination were growing thin, and no longer provided enough to keep him going. Nikolis leaned on his pole for a few seconds, trying to gather the tatters of his strength, when he heard a low whirring sound. Pain seared across the back of his legs and he fell to his knees. He grabbed at his calves, wincing.

  When he looked up again, he saw Arthur Drennen standing over him, a smile on his face, an exposed blade in his hand. When the shock wore off, Nikolis inspected his legs, expecting to find blood. There was no wound, only a thin red welt forming on each thigh. It became clear that the master of arms had used the flat of his blade to hit him.

  As Drennen stared down at him, smirking, Nikolis didn’t move. He didn’t budge. The pain in his legs was fading, but an anger was flaring up inside

  After a few moments the mirth disappeared from Drennen’s face. His mouth became a thin line. “You may retire for the evening. However, do not be late again for your training. I excused you for your tardiness this morning, but I expect you out and about a half-hour before sunrise.”

  Gritting his teeth, Nikolis forced himself to nod, and then stood. Drennen clasped his hands behind his back, spun about, and walked away.

  The trek back to his room was long and painful. His legs had ached before, but now they burned. Arms hung limp at his sides and his hands and feet cramped. He climbed the stairs to his chamber, opened the door to his room, trudged across the floor, and slumped onto his pallet. He was sound asleep within moments.

  Predawn found a determined Nikolis up before the sun. The ravens always seemed to start their cawing right before it rose, and so they became his signal. Another day of training his balance and his strength came and went. New welts formed on his upper thighs from Drennen’s latest attack.

  The following day Nikolis prepared for this rear attack, keeping his gaze ever backward, determined to counter or avoid the move. However, a few hours after midday, the attack came from the front. The next day Nikolis kept his gaze all about, but Drennen waited longer than before, and the flat of his swift and silent blade still found its mark on the boy’s arm.

  No more reprieves were given after these attacks. Nikolis simply went on with his training. He was not given special consideration, and for some reason, he did not expect any. More confusing than that, was the fact that it didn’t bother him. Anger quickly transformed into determination to stop the master of arms’ attack.

  As he held out the staff and worked on his balance, he watched the guards in the field. He studied their forms and stances, watched how they moved and how they countered attacks and launched their assaults. He began to notice which were more skilled, or less, at what they did well and poorly. Some seemed talented, even graceful in their clunky armor. However, others could not maneuver at all in the bulk, falling over left and right, constantly crashing in a heap of chain or plate, when they lost their balance.

  On the sixth day, Nikolis was waiting all morning and afternoon for Drennen to appear. He didn’t let his guard down at any moment. He continued going through his exercises, but he also kept a constant vigil on all sides. To a small degree, his hard work paid off. He did see the master’s blade coming this time – a fraction of a second before it slapped off his right arm.

  “You’re too fast,” Nikolis groaned, rubbing at his latest welt.

  “You are too slow,” said Drennen. “You are using your eyes when you should be using your other senses. I evade your vision, yes, but what cannot be seen can be detected by other means.”

  The notion seemed odd to the boy. The entire time the master of arms had been sneaking up on him, he only sought to see the attack coming. What good would it do to use his other senses? He tried to remember the things his father had taught him. Not those about swordcraft or fighting, he had never known his father to have any knowledge about those sorts of things. Not until…until the day that changed everything.

  However, his father had taught him about farming and fishing, and told him stories of heroes long gone. He tried to remember all that he could. His father had once said, “The best way to learn anything is to try and do it. Observe others and observe yourself. Try what you can, and watch. But, don’t just watch. Sometimes your ears will tell you, what your eyes cannot.”

  For the rest of the day, Nikolis decided to listen. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Off in the field he cou
ld hear the usual noises: the crash of sword on sword, or poleaxe on plate. Birds moving about from tree to tree, singing. The occasional high-pitched screech of a squirrel sounded, and the voices of men in conversation came from somewhere off in the distance. All that he could say of the combat around him was that when one sword hit another, the sound didn’t precede the impact. What could that possibly mean? What good would it do him to know it?

  On the morning of the seventh day, he listened again. He went through his usual exercises, counting in his head, but he also listened. By midday, he had figured something out. The footfalls of the guardsmen moving into position preceded their swing, and therefore their action. For the rest of the day, Nikolis listened for footfalls. For quite some time none came. Then, when the sun was starting to dip low in the horizon, he heard the grass rustling. Very slowly and methodically, buried within the clash of two practicing guards, he heard something stir.

  It was hard to make out at first; it was distant, indistinct. All the other sounds around him sought to confuse things, but he concentrated, and he could hear it. Someone was approaching.

  As one of the two guards fighting off in the distant started a series of attacks at the other, the sound of metal on metal ringing out in the yard, the footfalls grew faster. Someone was charging toward him. From where? From the left…no the right. Nikolis swung around, bringing the pole up before him in his right hand. It intercepted the sword of Arthur Drennen as he charged in, splitting it in two. His blade broke through the pole and managed to slap the boy on the shoulder.

  It had gotten through, but he had intercepted the attack

  “Better,” Drennen said, with a smile. “But you’re still dead.”

  “That’s not fair,” Nikolis complained. “You had the stronger weapon. You’re bigger too.”

  Drennen sighed and shook his head. “Your weapon is not in your hands, you daft boy, nor is it in your arms or legs. It’s in here!” He poked a finger on his forehead. “Someone will always be bigger. Use your head, forget the rest.”

  “What sense does that make?” Nikolis asked, but Arthur Drennen was already walking away.

  Picking up what was left of the practice pole, Nikolis tried to go back to his routine. He thought that maybe he could continue by balancing the two halves in either hand, but that proved silly. There had to be somewhere he could get another one. Looking over to the armory, he thought it the best place to check.

  Inside the long, squat, structure the light was poor, but Nikolis could make out all sorts of arms and armor hung on pegs on the walls or sorted in racks. There were lances and swords, helmets, breastplates, bracers, and boots. Special harnesses and saddles were off in one corner, and older, rusting weapons were gathering dust on the wood floor, in another.

  “What you want?” a voice said from behind him.

  Nikolis turned about to face a pug-nosed boy, with dirty, blonde hair. He was a few years older than Nikolis, standing a head or two taller, with a wider, stockier build, and a round face. He was clothed in nearly the same roughspun as Nikolis, and he held a broom in his hand.

  “Sorry,” Nikolis said, “I’ve just never seen an armory before. Not in person, anyway. My father showed me a drawing once, a sketch really. It looked different.”

  The older boy sighed and shook his head. “This ain’t a proper armory, boy. This is just the field armory. The keep’s got a bigger one. Better blades and chain, ain’t all rusted and fallin’ apart like these are. This here’s just for practicing and training and such.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” said the other boy, “so what you need?”

  “I was just looking for a new practice pole.” He held up the two ends of his old one. “This one is broken.”

  “What you some sort of lordy playing at swords?”

  “No,” Nikolis responded, deciding to leave out any introductions. The mention of his name had done no good since leaving Lilton.

  “Master Drennen’s new ‘prentice, eh?”

  Nikolis hesitated, eyeing the boy with suspicion, but then nodded.

  “Well, my name’s Jak. If you need somethin’ I’ll get it for ya, I do for everyone else. But don’t be botherin’ me all day long. I got work to do too, ya know? Everyone’s always seemin’ to forget that.”

  “Thank you,” Nikolis said, watching Jak reach up above a set of wooden implements and grab down a pole very similar to his old one.

  After handing it to Nikolis, he turned and started pushing his broom across the floor, turning up piles of dust that spun and swirled in the few beams of light that managed their way in through cracks in the wood-planked walls.

  “What you starin’ at, boy?” Jak demanded, when Nikolis didn’t move. “Get off and get back to whatever you were doing, else the master’ll tan your hide, and mine as well. Get on, now.”

  Nikolis did as the older boy bid, exiting the field armory with his new pole, and heading back onto the green. He practiced for the rest of the day, holding the pole out, balancing, counting, listening, watching, and learning. It became somewhat of an amusement to see how many things he could do at the same time without losing his count or falling over.

  He hadn’t noticed Jak before, but he saw him about a lot now, sweeping the armory floor or out in the field. The boy was always moving, dragging large pails of water, or fetching this or that. Often, he would sit outside of the armory oiling or honing swords in the sun or replacing the leather thongs on breastplates or greaves beneath the shade of a tree.

  Master Drennen continued to move about the field, as well. Now, he could often be seen standing before a group of on-looking children dressed in all manner of finery. They sat on a large cloth stretched out on the ground and whispered to each other as armored men demonstrated various maneuvers before them. Most had a high air about them, but that did not stop the master of arms from shouting at any he noticed not paying attention.

  Drennen came and checked on Nikolis from time to time, and during one of those visits, he dared to ask who the children were. The master looked over his shoulder then turned back. “Never mind them, my boy. You just steer clear of those fellows, and you won’t have any trouble.”

  After training for most of the day, Nichols made his way over to Jak who was seated beneath the shade of a tall oak outside of the armory, taking a meal. The older boy raised an eyebrow at his approach but made no complaint as Nikolis plopped down beside him.

  “Hard day of work?” Nikolis asked, putting his back against the tree trunk.

  “Aren’t they all?” Jak questioned in answer. “I’d give my left leg for an easy day of work.” When Nikolis eyed him in confusion, scratching his head, he added, “Well, maybe not the whole leg. I’m too likely to get my wish with such a bargain. Maybe just from the knee down. That serve you better?”

  Puzzled, Nikolis could only stare and scratch his head again. After a few moments the stern look on Jak’s face softened a little, and he looked up from his meal.

  “How was yours?”

  “My what?” asked Nikolis.

  “Your day.”

  Nikolis shifted uncomfortably. “Not very well. I can’t see half of what Master Drennen is trying to show me, I’m sure, and no matter what I try I can’t counter his attack.”

  “Counter his attack? Where you get such fancy words?”

  “From my father, I guess.” He could almost speak of him now, without his eyes tearing and his stomach feeling hollow. “He mentioned such things from time to time. Mostly he just talked about farming, the harvest, where to plant – those sorts of things. But every once in a while, he’d mention the sword. Not directly, but in conversation or stories. I never imagined he’d been a guardsman here, though, in the king’s service.”

  “Aye, I see,” said Jak. “My father wasn’t good for much. Ran off a long time ago. But I can tell you a thing or two about countering.”

  Nikolis looked over at Jak, a bit surprised. “You can?”

  “Sure,” the older boy
replied. “I watch ‘em do it all day long.” He pointed out into the field, at the drilling guards.

  “What should I do?”

  “Well, you’re fighting with that pole there, right?”

  Nikolis nodded.

  “And Drennen, he’s got a sword. So, you have the weaker weapon. You can’t just bash it at his sword to block, you’ve got to turn it aside.”

  “Turn it aside?” asked Nikolis. “How?”

  “Look out there,” said Jak, pointing at two guardsmen squaring off against one another. “See, the first guard’s got a flail with a wooden haft, and the other a sword. That haft ain’t going to survive too many slices from a blade that size, so the guard with the flail will turn aside the sword or dodge out of the way of the attack completely. The latter’s easier, but the second is more deadly. Throw’s their arm out wide to come back in for an attack.”

  Nikolis watched the two guards sparring and observed that what Jak was saying was true. “Thank you,” he said, after watching for a few moments more. “I’ll have to pay more attention.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Jak grumbled, suddenly glum, and concentrating on his meal again.

  Nikolis furrowed his brow in confusion but decided to push on. He liked Jak, he thought, and wanted to keep him talking. “Who are those children out there?” he asked, pointing out to where Drennen was still instructing the group sitting on the outstretched cloth.

  “That lot? Nothing but a bunch of spoiled twits if you ask me. I would give my left leg to be in their slippers for a day. The whole thing.”

  Nikolis decided to ignore the fact that wearing slippers would be difficult if short a leg. “So, who are they?”

  Jak tossed the core of an apple on the ground and leaned back against the tree. “Sons of nobles, lesser officials and the lot. Bunch of high and mighty little sons of twerps if you ask me. Those two yellowed-haired ones there, the ones that you can’t right tell if they’re boys or girls, those are Laswicks. Bryce is the boy, on the right, and Lotte his sister is on the left.”