Merin nodded. Can’t stop. If I think too long . . . He strode forward, walking up the gangplank toward the ship’s deck.
A group of confused sailors watched him approach. They had stopped their work, the sudden dockside crowd drawing their attention. As Merin crested the plank and stepped onto the ship’s deck, he could feel them studying him, marking his clothing—which, despite being worn from his extended captivity, was still obviously that of a nobleman. They muttered to each other in their unfamiliar tongue, and he could feel them connecting the color of his cloak to the glyph on its back.
He summoned his Blade to help move the inferences along. The weapon’s appearance sparked another bout of conversation among the sailors, and one of them soon scampered off toward a cabin doorway.
Barely five anxious heartbeats passed before a group of cloaked forms strode from the cabin. Their heraldry was white, their clothing rich but bearing the typical Veden blockishness. Their ages varied from youthful to distinguished, and each wore the same square-cut beard favored by Veden fashion.
Three of the five wore Shardplate. Merin exhaled slowly in disappointment—he had hoped he wouldn’t have to face that particular disadvantage.
You can do this, he told himself. Just face them one at a time. Five duels in a row, against far more experienced swordsmen, three of them in Plate . . .
Gritting his teeth resolutely, he lifted his Blade and pointed it at the Shardbearer whose Plate looked the most lavish, an older man with a grizzled, commanding face. It was probably best to face their most skilled man first, when Merin was still fresh. Afterward, perhaps the others would be honorable enough to let him don the defeated man’s Plate before the next bout began.
Assuming, of course, Merin won the first duel.
Uncertain whether or not the man spoke Aleth, Merin fell into a dueling posture.
The five Vedens regarded each other with perplexed eyes. “What is this?” one of them finally asked in heavily-accented Aleth.
“I challenge you,” Merin said. “I am Merin Kholin, Shardbearer of the court of Lord Dalenar Kholin.”
“You challenge who?” asked a younger Shardbearer in silver and white Plate.
“All of you,” Merin said. “One at a time, beginning with the older man in green and white.”
The men regarded each other with bemused expressions. The older man at the front said something to his companions, and the group laughed, glancing at Merin derisively.
The older man waved his companions back, stepping forward and summoning a burst of white smoke from his palm. Blades were raised, and the duel began.
Sweat wetted Merin’s grip, and the sudden reality of what he was doing struck him. Aredor couldn’t protect him this time. There was no refuge of a friendly army, no companion at his side to watch for enemy spears. He was alone.
His enemy studied him carefully, wind curling around his form. This will be my first true duel, Merin realized nervously. He glanced down at his bracelet. He felt . . . like he was cheating somehow by watching the winds. This was no ad-hoc battle, this was a formal duel. There were rules, Protocol.
Vasher would tell him it didn’t matter, that he should use every available advantage. But what would Lord Dalenar say?
Merin didn’t need to think very long at that question. As his opponent advanced, still watching, Merin carefully unclipped the bracelet and let the air return to painful clarity around him. He could almost hear Vasher cursing him a fool in the back of his mind, but . . . what he did felt right. He barely had time to stuff the bracelet into his cloak pocket before his opponent struck.
The Veden attacked with a series of sharp, precise blows. Merin hadn’t studied the Dueling Forms enough to know which style the man used, but it was very efficient, moving with blurring—yet controlled—speed. Fortunately, Merin’s training knew what to do even if he consciously did not. Merin was surprised to find himself in one piece at the end of the exchange.
The Veden’s eyes took on an appreciative glint as he withdrew slightly, still studying Merin. The next exchange came with even more vigor, and again Merin surprised himself by parrying or dodging each blow. He even returned a slash of his own, smacking his Blade against his opponent’s forearm.
The blow would have sheared off a regular man’s hand, but it struck only a glancing blow on the Plate—not even making a proper dent. His opponent moved with Plate-enhanced strength, whipping his forearm to the side as Merin connected, pushing back Merin’s Blade and throwing Merin off-balance.
Merin didn’t try to maintain his footing, instead allowing himself to be pushed back. The Veden smirked, falling into an aggressive stance and pressing his advantage. The fight began in earnest.
And again, Merin felt it—the old feeling of inadequacy. Merin just wasn’t good enough. When fighting the assassins with Aredor, or even when he had sparred with Vasher’s friends, Merin had felt the same way. The forms Vasher had taught him felt flawed—they just didn’t quite fit. They hadn’t become intuitive enough, Merin knew. The weren’t a part of him.
Because of that he would lose this duel. And because of his loss, the Aleth armies would soon find themselves flanked by an unexpected foe. The kingdom could very well fall because Merin hadn’t managed to learn his dueling forms well enough.
He was already weakening—each blocked blow was delivered by Plate-enhanced arms. He wouldn’t be able to—
The opening came so quickly that Merin didn’t consider. He spun away from the Veden’s latest blow, an uncharacteristically wide strike. Though Merin couldn’t see the wind, he could almost feel it as he spun, letting the motion propel his Blade.
The Veden turned too late. Merin’s Blade smashed into the side of the man’s helmet, marring the beautifully-guilded metal.
The form knew what to do next. As the Veden stumbled in surprise, Merin continued his motion, spinning one more time and delivering a second blow at exactly the same angle as the first. Air whistled around his Blade as it approached the Veden’s head.
At the last moment, Merin turned the Blade down and let it crack against the helmet in a slightly lower position. The already off-balance Veden stumbled to his knees, the wood groaning beneath him.
When the man re-oriented himself, he found Merin standing beside him, Blade raised as if to strike the helm a third time. Both knew that this time Merin wouldn’t avert the blow from the weakened section of Shardplate.
“Yield,” Merin ordered.
The Veden glanced toward his own Blade, which had slipped from dazed fingers. Then he eyed Merin’s upraised weapon. “I yield,” he hissed in angered shame, glancing down at the deck.
Merin stepped back, shocked. I won. It felt like a fluke—there had been no careful planning, no strategy. He had simply seen an opening, and his body had attacked reflexively. All of his opponent’s clever precision meant naught before Merin’s fortunate strike.
The aging Veden warrior obviously thought something similar. His eyes were dark with anger as he stood and retrieved his Blade.
“I demand your Plate and Blade as spoils,” Merin said. “I’ll put the Plate on, then I’ll duel you,” he said, pointing at the younger man in silver and white.
The other four Shardbearers looked as stunned as Merin felt. Well, they would each soon have an opportunity to focus their anger. Merin tried not to think too hard about the fact that he still had four bouts to go. At least now he would be able to withstand a hit or two.
He glanced to the side to check on the status of his Shardplate. The Veden man had only removed the broken helm. He made no move to take off the rest, however. Instead, he was regarding Merin with a disgusted look.
“I demand your Plate and Blade as . . .” Merin began, speaking slower. He trailed off, however, as he saw the look in the man’s face.
Something was wrong. The Veden glanced at the other four, then growled something in his native tongue. There was a brief moment of silence.
Then all four attacked at once.
>
Merin cried out, screaming something about Protocol, but it was obvious that these men had no intention of obeying etiquette. Merin ducked backward as Shardblades began to appear, swinging at the first man who came into range. The man’s Blade hadn’t appeared yet, but he wore Plate, and he took the blow with an upraised arm—stalling Merin while the others armed themselves. Anxious sailors ducked out of the way as Merin tried to jump toward the gangplank, but the Veden in silver and white rammed into Merin from the side, throwing him to the deck.
Merin grunted in pain, holding his Blade up to keep from cutting himself as he slid across the slick wood, propelled into a half-tumble by the Shardbearer’s blow.
Merin wheezed, trying to catch his breath. Smoke dissipated, and soon all five men held glimmering Blades. Merin regarded them with stupefaction, still amazed that they would so blatantly break Protocol. Vasher’s disappointed voice seemed to whisper a condemnation to him. You should have expected this. In battle, honor belongs to the victor. Men will do whatever they have to in order to win. Use every advantage . . .
Merin scrambled to his feet, lifting his Blade to block a blow while he reached inside his cloak pocket.
As soon as his fingers touched jade, the winds returned to him.
He pushed away his foe, hurriedly clasped on the bracelet, then raised his Blade to block a second attack. A third struck at him from the side, and Merin’s Blade seemed to flow naturally into a parry, turning the man’s weapon.
Something happened that moment as he fought. The broad, exaggerated swings Vasher had taught him had always seemed too wide to Merin—almost as if they were supposed to be beautiful flourishes instead of attacks or parries. Yet facing down five men at once, Merin’s form seemed to take on a new, flowing quality. It wasn’t just the wind—in fact, this didn’t seem to have anything to do with the wind at all. His wide swings kept multiple enemies at a distance, and the rounded flourishes helped each swipe curve into the next, carrying Merin in a continuous and fluid defense.
Everything seemed to fit—all of the holes in his form, all of the inconsistencies and awkwardness. It had never been him after all. It had been the form.
I’m an idiot. Vasher explained it to me once, and I never paused to think what he meant. He didn’t train me to duel.
He trained me to fight.
The winds spoke to him. Merin could feel them, could sense when bodies disturbed their flow. Incorporating this knowledge into his form, he blocked attacks he couldn’t see. He moved smoothly from one strike to another.
He stood squarely in the middle of five opponents—and for one graceful, convergent moment, he fought them all at once.
“They broke protocol!” Shinri hissed.
Renarin nodded as if this were an expected event. They stood beside the regents atop a nearby ship, one that sat just a bit higher in the water, affording them a view of Merin’s deck.
“But I know that man,” Shinri said. “Lord Denvashacha is one of the most respected noblemen in Vedenar! His reputation is spotless!”
Renarin shook his head. “When this is over, he’ll just claim that Merin broke Protocol first, and that he ordered the other Shardbearers forward in retribution. That’s usually how it happens.”
“But . . .” Shinri trailed off, forcing down her anger. “We have to do something,” she said frantically, turning to run down the ramp.
Renarin caught her on the arm. It was an oddly tender gesture, but it only reminded her of the last time he had touched her—the time when he had grabbed her and pulled her free from the Oathgate’s control opal. Kidnapping her.
She shook herself free, but Renarin had her attention. “Look,” he requested.
She turned back toward the other ship, where poor Merin was so horribly outnumbered. She expected to find him dead already.
Instead she was treated to a sight that left her standing stunned in the cool southern winds. Merin stood at the exact center of a ring of Shardbearers, wearing no Plate, practically defenseless.
And he was winning anyway.
Or perhaps not winning. But he was certainly holding his own. The five honorless Vedens struck at him repeatedly, their attacks showing frustration. Yet Merin blocked each blow. Every strike, whether swung alone or in tandem, was turned aside. Merin moved with surreal grace, moving to parry each attack almost before it began. He spun, never facing just one man, somehow never seeming to leave his back exposed. His were not the motions of a man desperate; he bore none of the frantic tension one would expect. Instead he fought with elegant superiority. Almost as if he weren’t flesh at all, but like . . .
“He moves like the winds themselves,” whispered Tamar, the Head Regent, who stood beside her. “By the Almighty—he doesn’t just speak like a king. He fights like one too.”
Merin was in trouble. He held his opponents at bay for the moment, but it took the sum of his concentration and skills to do so.
And he was getting tired.
The combined power of Vasher’s dueling style and Merin’s ability to feel the winds was great, but the Veden Shardbearers still had three suits of Plate. Their blows shook his arm, and facing them all at once forced Merin to focus completely on defense. Eventually he would fail to block a blow.
In addition, there was still a slight problem with his form. He couldn’t understand what it was. His parries would build toward a single, careful attack—but each of these attacks was easily blocked. He felt that he was still missing something—a secret of the form. Why would it have such obvious strikes? He felt as if each of these capstone blows should hit, yet he logically knew that there was little chance of them getting past his enemy’s defenses.
He couldn’t continue to fight as he was—he needed to divide the Vedens up. Striking with one final flourishing blow, Merin spun and ducked to the side, breaking between the two unarmored Shardbearers. He felt the winds brush his leg, and knew he had just barely missed having his foot sheared free. He jumped, pushing with senses he was only beginning to be aware of, and his wrist blazed with a sudden pain. The winds spun behind him, blowing him forward, carrying him a little farther than he should have been able to jump, pushing him a little faster than he should have been able to go.
He landed on the gangplank and jumped again, whipping his Shardblade beneath him as he did so. The weapon easily sliced through the wood, and Merin landed on the docks below to hear the splash of two gangplank halves dropping into the water behind him.
He spun as the docks thumped, a plated form easily dropping the twenty feet to land beside him. Merin could see the other two Shardplate-bearing Vedens preparing to jump, but the two unarmored men had paused beside the railing, judging the distance skeptically. One called to a solider, presumably demanding a rope, as the final Plated Veden leaped over the side.
Merin ducked a swipe from the Shardbearer in silver, swinging his own Blade downward—toward the docks themselves. Merin’s blade cut a massive gash in the planks, then he ducked to the side as the falling Shardbearer landed beside him. There was a satisfying crack as the weakened wood split, followed by a yelp of surprise—one that cut off in a splashing gurgle as the Shardbearer’s corner of the dock collapsed into the water.
Merin spun to face his two opponents. The young Shardbearer in silver jumped forward, trying to thrust through Merin’s faceplate. Pain flared in Merin’s wrist as he commanded the winds, pushing himself to the side. The threatening Blade whistled in the air just a fingerlength from Merin’s ear, but the wind shoved Merin just out of the way.
Merin brought up his own weapon mid-dodge, pushing his arms with the force of a river of wind. Where the Veden’s weapon had whistled, Merin’s wind-driven blade roared. It connected with Plate and kept going, ripping through the Awakened metal with a force even Merin hadn’t anticipated.
The pain from his wrist was nearly overwhelming. Merin collapsed to the ground, completing his dodge, as his opponent fell to the docks in two pieces. Merin gasped in agony, his left hand—the
one bearing the bracelet—spasming rigidly. There wasn’t time to pause, however. He stumbled to his feet, holding his Blade in one hand and lurching away from the fallen man.
The final Plated Shardbearer, the older man Merin had fought originally, paused quietly, looking down at the dead man. There was both wonder and fury in his expression. Merin didn’t look down, though he knew what he would have seen had he done so. Somehow, he had cut through the Shardplate as if it weren’t there, killing the younger man as easily as one would a common solider.
The aging Shardbearer raised an unhelmed face toward Merin, rage burning in his eyes. He raised his Blade.
Merin backed away, moving toward the dock’s edge. He felt and heard the splashing near the dock’s side, and moved over to see the Shardbearer who had fallen into the ocean climbing up onto the docks. He no longer wore his Plate, of course, though he still carried his Blade. With a mercilessness that would have impressed his old spear commanders, Merin jumped toward the man and swung.
The sodden man didn’t even have time to react. Both corpse and Blade fell back into the churning waters, and Merin looked as the two men above finally began to descend on a rope ladder. Merin tried to get close enough to swing at them while they were climbing, but the elder Shardbearer immediately launched an attack, drawing Merin’s attention.
The man was good. Either the death of the younger man had encouraged him, or he just hadn’t taken Merin seriously before, for this offensive was measurably more potent than the previous attacks. It bore the fuel of a man’s fury, and Merin’s pained and exhausted body was reacting more and more slowly. He barely turned aside the blows, and each parry came more slowly.
The two other men approached from behind—Merin could feel their movements on the wind. His sword arm was depleted, and his other hand burned so much it was barely usable. He had to attack. He had to—
A fist—the Shardbearer’s fist—came at him unexpectedly. Merin cursed, reflexively gathering the winds to push it away.
They failed. Somehow, the Shardplate resisted the winds, deflecting them.
The Way of Kings Prime Page 76