by Scott Baron
Hozark’s little smile was the only warning she had before he launched into an attack, his sword flashing through the air with a deadly whistle. Demelza, however, had expected the move and was already weaving her way clear while her own blade rang out against his in a deflecting parry.
The two began circling one another, taking small swings from time to time, testing one another’s defensive reactions and boundaries.
“Master Hozark and the new lady are fighting!” one of the young aspirants informed the others in an excited hush as he raced into one of the nearby practice areas.
“What was that?” their teacher said, looking up from his instruction. “You know not to interrupt training.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re right, sir.”
“Then to the pole with you. Left foot only. And stand atop it until you are told to come down.”
“Yes, sir,” the youth said, then paused. “It’s just, Master Hozark and the woman who arrived today are fighting in the sparring arena. And he is using his vespus blade.”
The teacher did not show surprise. A Wampeh Ghalian is always in control of his emotions. Or at least the outward expression of them. But this was an opportunity too good to miss. Master Hozark had been a bit reluctant to instruct the younger students, but if not by hands-on training, he could still teach them quite a lot by their simple observation.
“Hold that order,” he said. “Disregard the pole. You did well. Now, class, come. We are going to watch one of the greatest living swordsmen of the Ghalian at work.”
Hozark and Demelza both had a fine sheen of sweat on them when the small group of students entered the arena and moved silently to the walls. Both noticed the new arrivals, of course, but they had been immediately recognized as students and gauged as no threat, allowing the pair to continue their fight without missing a beat.
If anything, they upped their tempo just a little.
It was a master class in swordplay, with some of the most impressive and unusual techniques being displayed, to the great joy of the young students. Oohs and aahs occasionally escaped their young lips, the stoic, silent nature of the Ghalian having not yet been completely drilled into the recent arrivals.
With a flick of the wrist, Hozark opened a little cut on Demelza’s left arm. Nothing a simple healing spell wouldn’t fix after practice. He moved again, feinting a low strike but cutting high, drawing blood on her right as well.
The two locked eyes, sharing an amused smile. This was the Ghalian way. Train as hard as you can, knowing your wounds will be healed afterward. And more importantly, the more you sweat and bleed in training, the less you die in battle.
Hozark shifted his stance, alternating to a style that Demelza was not entirely familiar with. But Master Orkut’s lessons rang out in her head, the result of hours upon hours of repetition driving them home.
Do not fight the wielder. Fight the blade.
Anyone else would have felt the cold sting of vespus metal when Hozark made a quick little lunge, but Demelza instinctively pivoted. Pivoted in a way that actually managed to take the master Ghalian by surprise, and try as he might to adjust mid-stroke, the young woman’s blade made contact, drawing blood as it grazed his chest.
The students gasped.
Hozark held up one hand, pausing the combat. He looked at the cut and then at the woman who had dealt it to him. It had been a long time since any but Samara had managed to touch him in single combat with a blade.
“Nicely done,” he said. “Very nicely done.” He turned to the students. “No one is infallible. Not even one of the Five. You have learned a lot today about swordplay, but that lesson is even more important. Anyone can fall, no matter how skilled they may be, as Sister Demelza just demonstrated with her most unusual style.”
“Thank you, Master Hozark.”
“No, thank you. This is a valuable lesson for the youths,” he replied. “Now, you all get back to your training. Demelza and I have much to discuss.”
The students all filed out of the room, a slight buzz about what they’d just seen in the air around them.
“Come here. Let me heal those,” Hozark said, sliding on a konus powered especially strongly with healer’s power. “I’ve never seen that technique before. Most unusual.”
“It was something Master Orkut showed me,” she replied. “He said, do not fight the sword’s wielder, but the sword itself, for all blades have certain ways they move and react, no matter what the person swinging it may be trying to do.”
Hozark smiled, then broke into a little laugh. “Oh, that is marvelous. Orkut, you surprise me yet again.”
He finished repairing the wounds he’d given his friend, then turned the konus to his own bloody chest. All in a day’s training, he mused. And he’d been much more seriously wounded on many other training sessions in his early years.
But being in a Ghalian training house meant all of the tools of their order were at his disposal. No need to use up the stolen magic still flowing in his system from the last power user he’d slain. Instead, he kept that reserve completely intact, instead drawing from one of the many healing devices kept on the premises.
“So, Demelza, I know you did not come here merely to enjoy a bit of sparring with me, though that was indeed most enjoyable.”
“No. I have a message from Orkut,” she said, pulling a small envelope with the bladesmith’s seal on it. A little bit of blood was smeared on the edges. “Oops. Sorry,” she said with a little chuckle.
Hozark grinned and opened the letter, quickly reading the contents.
“Orkut says we are required at once. A favor that he owes a very powerful friend. One who will pay us handsomely, and a man of great resources.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Demelza said.
“And it will be the Council we will be up against,” Hozark added.
“Oh. In that case, perhaps it might be at least a little bit bad,” she corrected.
Hozark’s brow furrowed slightly. “You know, everyone seems to be having issues with the Council of late, and not just us. But why this man? And why now?”
“I do not know. I was simply told to come fetch you and to fly you to wherever it is we are supposed to go. The location was to be included in that letter.”
“It was.”
“Master Orkut also said we are to enter the facility under cover. No one is to know we are there.”
“As is our usual way. Very well,” Hozark said.
“So, what’s the layout? Did he tell you that much?”
“It is a residential estate tower. Very opulent, from what I can tell.”
“Access point?”
“The best ingress will be the lone floating garden located outside of his main chambers.”
“Floating gardens, eh? They really must be wealthy. That’s a serious amount of magic to maintain,” Demelza mused.
“Indeed. But they only possess one at the moment. Other gardens are being built, but the completed one is the only place strong enough to support our shimmer ship.”
“I assume we’ll be picking up Uzabud and Laskar on the way?”
Hozark pondered a moment. “No, I think not. We do not yet know if we will be needing his assistance. And he is currently recreating with Laskar on Tyalius. We should leave him alone for the time being and let him have his fun.”
Chapter Eleven
The wet smack of the fist bouncing off of Bud’s face echoed in the stone chamber. He was tied to a chair, which was, in turn, firmly secured to the floor. There would be no overturning it and scrambling to his feet to escape, as he had already done once before.
Bud was a slippery one, but this was one bind he would not so easily maneuver out of.
Another punch, this time to the gut, sent the wind out of his lungs with a painful whoosh of forced air. The goon at the other end of that meaty fist stepped back to watch the poor man gasp for breath as his diaphragm spasmed from the blow.
Put simply, Bud was being beaten to
a pulp.
This was supposed to be a vacation. Some R&R. A chance for him and his copilot to get some much-needed downtime to recharge their exhausted selves after some pretty significant adventuring with their Wampeh Ghalian friends.
Of course, they’d taken a couple of minor smuggling jobs on the way to the resort world. But neither had been anything significant, and certainly not anything that would have resulted in the current state of affairs. No, that had been entirely the product of a bit too much alcohol, and a bit too much bravado on the former space pirate’s part.
The pained wheeze of Uzabud’s attempts to catch his breath lessened as his lungs finally relaxed and filled with air. A tiny sigh of relief escaped his lips. Just as a fist contacted them yet again.
“Oh, come on already! At least let me catch my breath!” Bud whined, spitting blood onto the floor.
“No rest for you, friend,” the man said. “Boss’s orders.”
“Seriously? It wasn’t even my fault. I mean, how was I supposed to know she was his wife? It was an honest mistake.”
“You were found inside his wife.”
“Well, yeah. But have you seen her? I mean, can you blame me? And if she was married, why didn’t she say anything?”
The man said nothing, merely rolling his shoulders to loosen up. Beating a prisoner was tiring work, after all.
“Wait a minute. This isn’t the first time she’s done this, is it?”
Again, the man said nothing, but a slight twitch of his eyebrow told Bud all he needed to know.
“If this is a regular thing with her, then their marriage is what needs to be worked over, not me. So why are you stuck down here getting all sweaty and tired over something that was obviously not my fault? It’s not fair to either of us.”
Whether or not the hired muscle sympathized with him was anyone’s guess, but he was certainly going to do his job, whatever his personal opinions might have been.
Another punch to the gut left Bud retching in pain. There was no point in laying on more blows until he had regained his composure, though, so the meaty-fisted man took a step back and poured himself a glass of water while he waited for the captive to recover his composure once again.
Bud was no stranger to fights, and this was in no way the first, nor would it be the last, time he would be on the receiving end of an angry fist. But torture was still something he did his best to avoid.
Bar brawls and the like were one thing. This was something far less common. And he was not amused.
“Really, can’t we work something out?” he said as he regained the ability to speak. “I’m a trader. Surely there’s something you must want. I’ve got my fingers in a lot of things.”
“Like the boss’s wife,” he replied, another punch smacking off of Bud’s face.
It sucked, being beaten like this. But Bud had to console himself that at least this was a good old-fashioned ass kicking with fists rather than some cruel torture with all manner of nasty spells. Now those were the worst.
The poor pilot was preparing himself for the next round of blows when he was granted a most welcome reprieve. A rather buxom and quite tall serving wench in a flowing gown and rather heavy makeup carried a tray of refreshments into the room.
“I was sent to bring you something to eat, and a bit of chilled Azlip juice. Beating a prisoner can be thirsty work, after all.”
Uzabud turned to look at the visitor as best he could from his poor vantage point tied to a chair. Something about her voice was familiar. But with all the beating and whatnot, his senses were a little bit foggy at the moment. The way she was positioned, he couldn’t get a good look, though he did see a small pile of tempting food, and some frosty cold refreshments.
“I have water enough for my needs,” the man said, grabbing a snack from the tray. “But I will take you up on one of those pastries.”
He downed the first in a few large bites, smacking his lips as he ate. Bud hated loud eaters, but wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Not bad,” the large man said, taking another and shoving it in his food hole with gusto.
Again with the awful noises. Bud almost wished he would start beating him again, just to make the sound stop.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of this nice, refreshing Azlip juice? It really is a fantastic palate cleanser, and it does wonders for your libido.”
Bud cocked his head. He’d never heard that about Azlip juice.
“Nah, I’m fine with my water,” the man said.
“Well, that’s a pity,” the serving wench replied, then threw a vicious punch to the man’s throat.
He coughed and sputtered, gagging from the blow, unable to call for help, and likewise unable to cast a single defensive spell. Without the ability to form the words, no matter how practiced he was with a spell, it simply would not work.
The tray rang out a loud gong as it met the side of the man’s head, dropping him to the ground in a crumpled heap. Bud watched in amazement as the woman then crouched and gagged the unconscious man, then quickly bound his hands and feet.
“You should have taken the juice,” the woman said, now in a much deeper voice.
A voice Uzabud knew well.
“Laskar?”
“Hey, Bud,” his copilot said as he set to work untying his friend.
“Took you long enough. And what the hell are you wearing?”
“A disguise, dumb ass. And if you hadn’t gone and gotten yourself thrown in the deepest cell in the place, I wouldn’t have had to pull this together and it all would have gone a lot faster. You really pissed that guy off, didn’t you? What did we say about the man running things on this planet?”
“Steer clear. I know.”
“And yet, here we are. Not cool, Bud.”
“But did you see her? I mean, come on, man.”
“And you knew full well she was married to the most feared man in the system, yet you just had to go and––”
“Oh, give me a break. You know you would have if you had the chance,” Bud interrupted with a pained smile as he rubbed his rope-bruised wrists. “She just had eyes for me, is all.”
Laskar relented and shared the grin. “Well, maybe. But that’s not the point,” he said as the bindings around Bud’s ankles came free.
Uzabud rose to his feet, wincing in pain and clutching his side as he stood.
“Oof, I think he may have broken a rib.”
“We can get it fixed once we’re out of here and far, far away from this system.”
“Yeah, right. Uh, Laskar?”
“Yeah, Bud?”
“About that. It looked like this place was pretty well guarded when they brought me in. Exactly how many more guards do we have to deal with out there?”
“Oh, so now you care about the odds.”
“How many?”
The horribly disguised man hesitated a moment. “Seventeen,” he finally said.
“Shit.”
“Sixteen, if you don’t count this guy,” he said, nudging the man at his feet.
“Oh, now I feel so much better. Those odds are a cake walk,” Bud grumbled. “Man, we are so screwed.”
Laskar pulled a pack from beneath his flowing gown and tossed it to his friend. “No, it’s okay,” he said with a ridiculous grin. “I have a plan.”
Chapter Twelve
“You call this a plan?” Bud grumbled as he adjusted the enormous fake breasts Laskar had hastily fashioned to fill out the pilot’s gown. “This is ridiculous. No one will buy it.”
“They will. I got in, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you were coming in, not trying to go out. And you were carrying food. Everyone is nicer to people with food.”
“I’m telling you, it’ll work. Now, come on, hold still. I’ve almost got it.”
The two men had moved the downed goon from the floor to the chair his former target had been tied to. Now it was his turn, though not for a pummeling. Though Bud might have been tempted to land more than just
the punch or two he meted out on the man as he began to rouse, they simply didn’t have the time for proper retribution.
And, truth be told, Bud really didn’t hold it against the guy. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was just doing his job. And with a boss like his, it was best to not ask too many questions.
Of course, being found trussed up in his own torture cell would not go over well. Bud punched him once more, reasoning the additional bruising now might spare him a worse fate later.
He wanted the man hurt, sure, but not dead. That would have been a bit much for something as relatively benign as this had been. Yes, the beating had sucked, but he’d suffered worse in his day.
That is, unless that eventual fate was on the menu for him had he stayed a captive. Then he might have considered something a bit more Draconian. But without proof of that, he was not going to add cold-blooded murder to his long list of criminal history.
In any case, the goon needed to be restrained, and the chair did provide a convenient, secure means of keeping him from raising a ruckus. And if there were some sounds of struggle that happened to make their way out of the chamber, it would appear as if it was just another beating underway. Nothing to see here. Move along.
Laskar adjusted the false bosom within Bud’s dress one more time, then stepped back to admire his handiwork, like a painter assessing their masterpiece. He stared a long moment, then gave a satisfied nod.
“Oh yeah. That’s perfect.”
Bud hefted the bulges filling out his gown. “Did you need to make them so big? This is ridiculous. They don’t even look real.”
“They look real enough. Trust me, I’ve seen my fair share.”
“Are you bragging? During a rescue?”
“Not bragging,” Laskar said defensively. “Just stating the facts.”
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“Ridiculously amazing, you mean. Admit it, I’m a most impressive man.”
Bud sighed. Laskar had been a rather insufferable egoist as long as he’d known him, and now it looked like there would be a new cockiness feather added to that cap.
