Nikolis found the two he meant, and indeed it was hard to discern which was which. “Who are they the children of?”
“Old Laswick. Holds estates out in the country. His family’s been liegemen to the Rylands for a long time. They’re inseparable – that’s why she’s at the lesson. By the twins are a Chaswyn and a Camber. More noble’s children, none too interesting.”
“Who are the Rylands?” Nikolis asked.
Jak laughed out loud, clutching his sides. “Are you serious? Who are the Rylands? The Rylands are the rulers of the bloody realm, that’s all! Are you daft, boy? I heard you come right from the chambers of King Alginor, when you first came here. Perhaps it was all a lie.”
“I did come from the king,” said Nikolis. “I just didn’t know his proper name, I guess.”
“Yes, well he’s a Ryland. So is that boy there at the front of the lot of them. See him there? The golden-haired one in blue, with his nose so high in the air a rooster’s likely to perch on it.”
Nikolis looked over again and saw the boy Jak meant. He was tall and neat in appearance, perhaps twelve years of age. His head was tilted slightly upward, and he paid close attention to the men sparring in front of him. Nikolis wouldn’t say his nose itself was particularly higher in the air than anyone else that was looking up as they listened to their lecture, but he gathered it wasn’t worth questioning Jak as to what he meant. Instead he only asked, “Who is he?”
“That’s Prince Erad. The King’s son.”
“The King’s son?” Nikolis asked. “But he’s so young, and the King…well, he’s so old.”
“Aye,” said Jak, “and I’d keep my distance from him if I were you. The King got that one, his only son, from his second wife before she croaked. See the two guards off to the right? Those are the Prince’s guards.” Nikolis spotted two grey-coated men standing off a bit, under the shade of a tree. “The King’s rather protective of him. He almost married a third one. Wife that is. Now I hear she was…” The older boy’s voice trailed off for a moment, his eyes distant. He was staring off at nothing in particular.
“She was what, Jak? What is it?”
Jak shook his head and recovered. “She was young, that’s all. Just young. I, ah, I’d better get back to my work. The master’ll tan my hide if he sees me slacking any.”
Jak stood up and tossed the rest of his meal onto the ground. Nikolis stood as well, and as Jak turned back to the barracks, the young boy started back out into the field.
“Hey,” Jak called.
Nikolis turned around. “Yes?”
“What’s your name? I realized I never asked.”
“Nikolis.”
Jak smiled. “Alright, Nik. Be seeing you round.” Nikolis smiled in return and nodded. Jak disappeared into the building behind him and Nikolis went back out onto the field.
Nikolis took Jak’s words to heart. He watched for the things the older boy had pointed out and threw himself into his training. He studied the practicing guards around him, watched how they fought with one another. Drennen hadn’t tested him since the day he broke his pole, but he knew that he would come again.
It was rare to see one face off against another with a lesser weapon, but when they did, he watched how they parried or blocked. If a man with a larger weapon came at a man with a smaller, they would dodge most often, or if able, turn aside the larger blade. The unlucky guard who tried to block the blow, as Nikolis had, wound up with his arms shaking and his weapon falling from his grasp, more often than not.
Nikolis studied, concentrated, and practiced. He mimicked, perfected his balance, listened and watched. He also took note of the noble children practicing in the fields. Several times he saw Prince Erad himself, sparring with one or another of the boys of an age with him. He held a sword well and knew how to use it by all appearances. In fact, he never seemed to lose a match. He was confident and careful, the way Nikolis wished he was. He’d give anything to be able to handle a sword like that and to be able to walk about as if he wasn’t afraid of everything.
When the sun was near to the horizon on one particularly hot day, Nikolis heard those familiar footfalls approach once more. The wind was howling in his ears, but he could make out the distinct sound of tiny blades of grass being crushed underfoot.
Then the footfalls stopped, as they always did, and Nikolis tightened his grasp on his pole. The sudden rush of footsteps came then, and he searched with his ears and eyes for the direction of attack. His master was not predictable; he could change direction with little effort, avoiding detection. Is he left? No right. Now behind, the rush is not coming toward me, but circling around to the right.
Seconds passed as Nikolis too circled, but he could catch no glimpse of Drennen. Every time that he thought he had the correct direction, he found only the sun in his eyes, blinding him. Then, without warning, the tall, agile man was before him, steel coming down toward Nikolis’ exposed side.
The boy spun and pushed his pole up and away at Drennen’s blade. The blade slid off the pole, taking a shaving of wood with it, but it was deflected. The boy retreated a step, not wanting to give the master another opportunity to attack and held his pole out before him in both hands. He stood on his toes, awaiting the slightest movement from the man.
Arthur Drennen smiled and then laughed. It was a small, short laugh, and at first Nikolis thought the man was poking fun at him, thinking his chosen method of defense was silly. However, then he spoke, and Nikolis couldn’t help but smile as well. “Well done, my boy,” he said. “Perhaps there’s is a bit of your father in you, after all.”
CHAPTER THREE
The bear was chasing him. All about was darkness and shadow. The ground was covered in a mass of fallen leaves and pine needles. They crunched under foot, lifeless and dead, as he ran from his pursuer.
He rounded a corner and hid behind the great trunk of an old oak tree. Its bare branches twisted and snaked up into the moonless sky. Breath was coming to him hard, and in large gasps. He shut his mouth. Any noise would draw attention. Wide eyes scanned the landscape of dense trees about him.
Without warning the dark form was upon him again. He was running, breathing hard, legs and arms aching, pushing as far forward as he could go, as fast as he could make himself move. It wasn’t enough – the bear was gaining.
He pumped his legs harder and faster, pushed himself past every limit he ever thought he had. The charging creature behind him was starting to lag; he was outdistancing it. Then suddenly his foot caught in the curve of a root below, and he was falling, falling, falling. The footsteps of the great bear thundered behind him.
Spinning around, onto his back, he looked up just in time to see massive claws, protruding from sickly dark fur, engulf his vision, and then he was…
Awake. Nikolis bolted up in bed, eyes wide, sweat streaming down his face, heart pounding in his chest. He fought to stand, but his body was twisted awkwardly in the bed sheets and when he forced himself up, he only succeeding in falling over onto the floor. Pushing the sheets away, he stood and turned in a circle, looking about.
The room was bright. It was bare, empty, just as it had been since he arrived. The sun had already crested the horizon outside his window. There was no danger, the images of whatever dream he was having were fast fading.
It wasn’t until he saw the sunlight, really saw it, that recognition dawned. The sun was up and that meant…he was late. Nikolis shrugged out of his nightshirt and moved to the bucket of water that was always by the entrance to his room. He doused himself from head to toe then dressed. The master of arms had given him a pair of neat black breeches, a white shirt, and a pair of boots. They almost fit and were rather comfortable, now that he had grown used to them. It took great effort, but he ignored the plate of eggs and bacon that was calling to him from its place on the floor, and hurried from the room.
It had been three weeks since he passed Master Drennen’s first test, and it was decided that he would practice three times a day f
rom then on, for two hours at a time. Drennen had added a few new exercises to Nikolis’ routine, but nothing overly interesting. The master had said that he would have to watch Nikolis before he decided if he was ready to move on to the next lesson. “I’m not going to train just any lout to use the blade,” he had said. “The attitude, the devotion, the feeling, has to be right.” Nichols was still trying to sort out what all of that meant. He found himself constantly confused as of late, and often wondered if he understood anything at all.
After training, the rest of the day had been his to use, and he spent that time talking to Jak and helping him with his work in the armory. Despite the grueling tasks, he enjoyed work with the older boy. But all of that was changing today. He would still practice as scheduled, but the master had decided Nikolis had too much idle time on his hands. Something would have to fill that void, and that something was going to be duties in the keep.
Nikolis hadn’t set foot in the castle since the day he arrived, and it was now with trepidation that he made his way to the rear entrance. Drennen had given him the name of a man to report to for duties, a Master Littlefield, whom he could find near the kitchens.
A sinking feeling filled the pit of his stomach as he made his way through the small, arched doorway that led inside. He looked up as he entered, and the stone above soon blocked out the light of day. He pushed himself onward.
Inside, all manner of men and women were moving about. There were guardsmen in coats with swords at their waists, and those in mail carrying spears and wearing iron helms. There were lords and ladies in all sorts of finery and servants in dark livery.
He tried to ask a few of them for directions, but most passed him without even noticing he was there. Those that he did manage to get the attention of just gave him an absurd look and kept on with whatever they were doing. All of the servants walked around with their heads down, so none of them seemed to realize he was addressing them. He had thought to ask Jak where he should go, but then he hadn’t had the time to stop by the armory, what with waking up late. Should I make my way upstairs or look for a lower level? Where do they keep a kitchen in a castle?
Ahead, Nikolis noticed a great hall that he had never seen before. The ceiling reached up into obscurity, and all along it were square pillars of stone. A narrow red carpet ran up to the front, where a raised landing had been cut into the wall. In this massive alcove there were thrones very much like those in the king’s meeting chamber and banners of all types lined the walls.
At the fore, above the thrones, hung one of crimson that bore a golden crown. Directly to the left of this was a green banner, almost as large as the first, depicting a tall grey tower, with two smaller twins off in the distance to right and left. Beside that a blue banner hung, upon which was a sinuous white serpent. Directly to the right of the thrones was a black banner, with five white stars of varying size. Beside this, there was an obtrusive spot of bare wall, where nothing at all was hanging. Nikolis looked about and noticed there were two other bare spots, further down the walls as well.
Beyond these first few the walls were littered with other banners of varying cuts, colors and sigils. Nikolis recognized the seal of the Magistrate of Darry on one and another beside it that might have been for the Council of Darry, due to its similarity to the first. Many bore beasts, flowers, or birds, while others depicted various arms and armaments.
None of these he recognized in any real way, though they were all interesting and well crafted. He scoured over the images, colors and fabrics, some fringed with golden tassels or squares of dark cloth, all so large and magnificent he couldn’t help but study each and every one. Somewhere deep inside he almost wished that he had a sigil; that he belonged to some noble house of the realm. What would my crest be?
“The Hall of the Houses,” a voice sounded, from behind him. It echoed off of the high ceiling, reverberating about the walls. Nikolis turned around to see the speaker, a golden-haired young man of no more than twenty years, dressed in a fine blue coat and standing a few paces away. He smiled at Nikolis. “Grand, is it not? The King doesn’t use this hall much anymore. He’s old and tired and doesn’t like climbing up and down the stairs. Makes his bones ache, he says.”
Nikolis recognized the man; he was Lorre, the king’s nephew. Regent of something or other, I think. How should I address him? As Regent? Master? Or is there some other title used for a member of the royal family? Nikolis bowed as he had seen other servants and said, “Yes, it is grand, Regent Ryland.”
“Just Lorre, will do,” the man replied. “I am a regent only in title. That of the east, a land we as a kingdom do not claim dominion over. I am also barely a Ryland. If my mother, the late queen’s sister, hadn’t married one of King Alginor’s distant cousins, I wouldn’t be one at all.”
The young man walked up to the blank spot of wall at the front of the room and studied it. “House Ryland’s banner hung there once, though it was of a different inclination, then. That was long ago, when more than one crown rested upon the brow of a man.”
Lorre talked so knowingly of things Nikolis knew nothing about. It gave him an odd thirst to find out more about the history of the realm. He could almost see himself riding off into the country, in search of all there was to see and know.
“Where are you off to today, young Ledervane?” Lorre asked, when Nikolis made no effort in response. He knows who I am. That seemed odd, considering Lorre had left the audience chamber long before the boy had been introduced upon his arrival at the castle. Why would anyone know who I am?
“I’m looking for the kitchens, sir,” Nikolis said, after many moments of consideration as to how he should respond. He decided it was best not to use the young regent’s name, despite the fact that he had been told it was alright.
“They’re one level up,” Lorre replied, nodding toward the ceiling. “Hungry, are you?” The young man smiled, revealing perfect, white teeth. He clasped his hands behind his back.
“No.” His stomach grumbled. “I mean, well, I have to see Master Littlefield. For chores.”
“Chores?” asked Lorre, sighing. “Life is duty, is it not?”
Nikolis shifted uncomfortably, fighting to maintain a rigid posture. Everyone always seemed to stand tall and firm before lords or men of title. He had no idea what the man was talking about, nor what he should say in response, so the least he could do was look proper.
Lorre sighed again, lightly, and laughed. “You’re too young to think of such things. Yet…” he started, frowning, “too young for chores, I would think.” He scratched a small bit of golden stubble on his chin and looked off, apparently deep in thought.
Nikolis kept still as he stood in the spacious hall. He kept his hands at his sides, trying not to fidget. Finally, Lorre broke out of whatever spell he was under and smiled. “The eastern stair is down the left-hand hall over there,” he said, pointing toward one end of the room. “Climb that and get off at the first landing. The kitchens are down the hall to your right – the smell alone should guide you. You’ll find Master Littlefield in the back of the main kitchen. Good day to you, Nikolis.”
“Good day,” Nikolis managed, as Lorre Ryland made his way from the room. He waited until the regent was out of sight before hurrying to the end of the hall and taking the indicated passage. He was already late, so he thought it best to climb the stairs two at a time, which only resulted in him nearly colliding with a guardsman when he reached the top.
“Slow it down,” piped an older, grey-coated fellow, as Nikolis rushed past. He nodded and obeyed, forcing himself to move more slowly. When he was out of sight of the guard again, however, he stepped things up, hurrying in the direction Lorre had indicated.
As he rounded a corner at top speed, he slammed into something hard and went flying backward, onto the ground. When he looked up, a tall form stood over him, a mass of dark hair crowning a round head. It was a boy, perhaps a few years older than him, but much taller. His arms were thick, and there was already a bi
t of dark hair on his chin.
“I’m sorr–”
“Watch where you’re goin’,” the boy spat, looking down at Nikolis. He didn’t move to do anything else, just stared down at him, an angry look on his face, his eyes scoring over the fallen boy. Then his eyes widened, and his mouth hung open. “Are you…”
“I’m sorry, I really must be going,” said Nikolis, getting to his feet.
The tall boy growled and put a hand out, knocking him back to the floor.
Nikolis groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “What did you do–”
“Stay out of my way,” spat the boy, pushing him down again, before stepping over him and heading down the hall.
Nikolis got to his feet, brushing dirt from his clothes, and watching the retreating back of the strange, violent boy. What did I ever do to him?
Whatever might be wrong with the boy, he couldn’t think about it now. He could smell roasting food, and as much as it made his stomach begged to be filled, it also meant he was near the kitchens. The smell grew stronger as he moved down the hallway, soon coming to several doorways, the first of which led into a crude dining room of long wooden tables and benches. Servants in dark livery, or roughspun, sat at the tables eating and talking with one another.
When he entered the kitchen everyone inside seemed to ignore Nikolis, just as they had below. No one took especial notice of him. All of the cooks and servants looked terribly busy; sweat gleaming on their foreheads, grim looks of determination on their faces. His best bet seemed to be to ask one of the younger fellows for help, as they all seemed to be casually going about their work, paying no real attention to what they were doing. Every once in a while, a tall mean-looking man in a stained apron would yell at them to “pick it up,” and they would begin to work faster for a few moments. That was until he turned his back again, at which point they would go back to their former pace.
The Last Swordsman Page 5