by Robert Ryan
Kubodin did not answer straight away, and Asana liked that. Someone who always had answers ready to hand had not pondered deeply and their responses were suspect.
“She may be fit for the task fate has set her. Many would break, but she may survive it. Maybe. I hope so. There is certainly no lack of willpower, and there is a quiet spark in her eyes. I like that.”
“Did you notice how she looked at Faran? There are strong feelings there.”
Kubodin grinned. “He has them too. They’re good for each other, those two. The loyalty between them is strong as iron.”
Asana wondered if there was more than loyalty and friendship between them. But whatever they had, it would be tested to the limit.
“What of the young man?”
“He is the hardest of all to judge. An anger burns in him, and that’s good. A man needs a fire in his belly if he wants to achieve anything.”
“But?” Asana asked.
“He’s hasty, I think. He hasn’t learned patience yet. From what you told me, he has reason enough for anger, but it could be his undoing. In my village, there’s a saying. Let the heart grow cold with anger. Meanwhile, forge a knife in the hottest coals, and when it is ready, sharpen it for three winters.”
Asana did not grin. He found Kubodin’s sayings inscrutable sometimes, but that one was clear enough.
“I agree. Yet he has the markings of greatness to him. If he lives long enough to come into his own.”
“And what is his destiny? You have not told me that.”
Asana wished he knew for certain, but at the moment he only guessed.
“I am not sure. Sometimes my visions are clear. Other times, they are not. With him, it is as though the path he walks goes into mist. I have caught only glimpses.”
Kubodin grunted. His manners were certainly lacking, but not his mind.
“What of the enemy?” the little man asked. “They’re the second half of the story, but I know little of them.”
It was a good question, and Asana considered his answer. His friend wanted to calculate the chances of victory his guests had, which was wise. But it was also futile, for destiny was moving among them, and strange things could happen.
“The enemy are the Kingshield Knights, as you know. And the king, also one of their order, who leads them.”
Kubodin grew impatient. “Yes, I know that. It’s what you told me before. But why are they doing this? From what I hear, they’re supposed to be a force of good in the world.”
“I was getting to that,” Asana said gently. “Patience.”
Kubodin gave him a sour look. The man was expert at that. He had more ranges of expression for sourness than most people could find for the entire range of human emotion.
“Have your people heard of Morleth Stones?” Asana asked.
“Oh, that’s bad. Very bad magic. The worst of magics.” The little man even shivered, as though just thinking of it somehow cast a shadow over him. “But I see now what has happened. I know the origin of the knights. Who hasn’t heard that tale? Even deep in the hills,” he muttered sarcastically. “The knights have used the stone and been subverted to its will.”
Asana had not thought of it like that before. His friend spoke as though the stone were alive. What else had a will, but the living? Yet it might be so.
“So my vision showed me. The knights grow strong, and they were fine warriors before that.”
Kubodin hugged his knees up to his chest. “Oh, this is even worse than I thought. Our guests are hunted by a great evil, and one that’ll grow stronger.”
“Yes,” Asana agreed. “Are they up to it?”
“Hey! Why ask me? I don’t see the visions you do.”
“I ask you because you are a shrewd judge of character.”
“Let me think,” Kubodin said. “I don’t know why you care anyway. You and your kind are always trying to plan ahead. It’s no way to live. If a poisonous snake crawls before your feet, cut off its head. If it bites and kills you instead, then you die. Why worry about either until it happens? But hey, what do I know?”
Asana now knew what his friend’s answer was. He just did not want to say it. He thought to spare him.
“Say what you think, Kubodin.”
“As if I always don’t. But since you ask, I’ll say this. For all their courage, and they must have a lot to have survived this long, they cannot win. But who cares? It’s the fight that counts. And this will be a good one.”
Asana gave the slightest of nods. That was also his assessment. They could not really hope to prevail against what came against them, but that was inevitable. Life itself was a battle of survival from cradle to the grave, and no one won that battle for long. It was the way of nature, and the end did not matter. It was what one did while alive that counted, and death and defeat did not change that. He had a feeling his guests, each of them in turn, would account for themselves well. As he would try to do.
“You will help me to help them, despite their chances?”
Kubodin grinned wickedly. “Of course! They’re my sort of people, and they’ll poke the enemy in the eye a few times. I like that!”
“Very well, then. First thing in the morning, I want you to scout around below the mountain. See if you find anything of note.”
“You think the enemy may have tracked them here?”
Asana’s vision had not been clear on this. He knew the enemy would find them. But he was not sure when, and it was best that way.
“I do not think so. But the wise man is prepared.”
Kubodin rose to his feet in one smooth motion. For all that he looked a shabby layabout, he was strong and lithe.
“Don’t start with the wise man stuff again.” He adjusted his axe in its belt loop. “I don’t think I’ll find anything. That lòhren isn’t the type to bring trouble to others. If she were followed, she wouldn’t have come here. But you do think the enemy will find them, sooner or later, yes?”
“Sooner or later,” Asana agreed.
Kubodin looked at him intently, as though he had just discerned something, then he turned on his heels and left.
It was past time to sleep. Well past it. But Asana sat in the High Chair and continued to think.
8. First Training
Early the next day, Faran and Ferla donned their armor. They had no idea what to expect of their new teacher, but first impressions counted and they wanted to be seen to be keen.
In truth, they were keen. This was a chance to learn from one of the greatest swordsmen alive. They had no doubt that he was better than the knights. All that remained was to learn as much from him as they could, and hope that they mastered enough of it so they could match the knights when the time came.
So it was that they retraced their steps from last night, going first to the central chamber where they had met their host. But he was not there, and they moved up the tunnel and out onto the mountaintop.
There was no sign of Kubodin, and Kareste remained below. But Asana was there, and the first rays of the sun were spearing the sky from the east.
“I trust you slept well?” Asana asked, rising from where he sat on the dewy grass.
“Yes, thank you,” Ferla answered.
Faran had slept well, but he was not sure about Asana. The man hid it, but he seemed tired as though he had not slept at all, and there was a troubled look to his gaze.
“In my country,” Asana told them, “the warrior limbers up at dawn, going through a series of exercises. Their purpose is for health, but a limber and strong body is a prerequisite to fine swordsmanship. Will you join me in this routine?”
It was worded as a question, but Faran sensed that this was a man used to being obeyed. So he nodded, and Ferla did likewise beside him.
“Then let us begin. Follow me as best you can.”
He moved ahead of them and faced the rising sun. His sword was not belted at his side, but rather lay on the grass nearby. They placed theirs next to it. Then moving slowly, and breath
ing deeply, he took them through a series of movements unlike anything Faran had seen before. They were smooth and graceful, yet at the same time pushed the body to its limits in terms of flexibility.
Nor were they easy. Some of the low stances made Faran’s legs tremble, and he knew he was far away from executing the movements with anything like the grace of this master. But he would try, and he would get better over time. He saw the value in this, for suppleness rather than brute strength was the hallmark of a good swordsman.
Asana did not teach. In this, he was different from Aranloth who often explained things. But now, if Faran wanted to learn, he must observe closely and mimic. Then, by slow reasoning of his own, work out why a thing was done the way it was and what benefits it would accrue.
When they were finished, Asana took them through it again. Then a third time, this time sometimes watching them and correcting their movements without words but a touch here and there on their limbs.
After the third time, Asana retrieved his sword and belted it.
“Tomorrow, do not wear your armor. There is value in getting used to wearing it at all times, but it restricts your movements in exercises such as this. But you will, of course, wear it when sword training.”
He eyed them closely. “Have you yet reached the point where you spar with real swords?”
“We have,” Ferla replied.
“Then it is time for me to see what your skill is. You may spar, but be careful.”
Faran drew his sword, and it felt good in his hand. But a grin was on Ferla’s face, and he knew she was enjoying this. They had not trained since the valley, and they both missed it.
Ferla swung an overhand blow at him, but at the last moment swayed and tilted, bringing the blade in at a sidewise angle.
She nearly hit him with the side of the blade, but he had seen her hips move and knew the change was coming. Just in time, he leaped back. He could not parry because she had caught him out in the wrong position, his arms raised to block the overhand strike that had never come.
He moved quickly, but she had anticipated his response and was upon him with great speed.
Three times he parried her blade, twice deflecting neatly and the third time forced into blocking with sheer force.
Her fourth strike struck him. It was a stab to the belly, and he felt the force of it through his armor although she withheld almost all its power.
They stepped back and started again. This time they circled each other, moving with slow sideways steps and looking for a weakness. Faran found none, but he attacked anyway. He turned from a sidestep into a lunge, and stabbed toward her. Deftly, she deflected his strike and sent a counterblow toward his helmed head.
He was ready for it, and he guided it away then shuffled forward and kicked at her knee. This caught her a glancing blow, and she grunted in surprise but was already out of reach for his follow up sword stroke.
They circled again, carefully assessing every move the other made, looking for a moment when their footing was off balance, or an opening presented itself in their sword guard.
But there was none. Instead, Asana clapped his hands and called for a halt.
He gazed at them impassively, his deep brown eyes revealing nothing of what he thought, but his words did.
“Aranloth trained you well. How long were you with him?”
“Last summer and winter,” Ferla told him.
“Remarkable,” Asana said softly. “Your skill is far above what it should be for so little time training. I have seen students study for years and not reach your attainment.”
Faran knew why, but he said nothing. It was magic that had done it, that ability Aranloth had to lay his mind over theirs and show them what was possible. That, and sparring the conjured images of swordsmen like Brand. How could they have failed to prosper under such tuition?
“Where is Aranloth?” Asana asked.
A wave of grief washed over Faran, and it was Ferla who answered.
“He is dead. The enemy killed him while we escaped.”
At that Asana raised an eyebrow. It was the most emotion Faran had seen him display.
“Are you sure of this? Aranloth is, well, frankly … he is a hard man to kill.”
“As sure as we can be. We escaped through an underground tunnel, and he was supposed to come through after us. But he never did, so he ended up facing the enemy all alone.”
Asana frowned. “Did you see his body?”
“No, but there was no way he could be alive.”
Asana shrugged. “We shall see. If he is dead, it is a greater loss to the world than you know. But I will not believe it myself. I cannot.”
Faran felt the same way. There was no hope, but it was true that they had seen no body.
Asana stepped closer. “May I examine your swords? They are not like any blades that I have seen before.”
Faran reversed his sword, and handed it over hilt first.
Asana took it carefully, holding it with something close to reverence. Whether he did that for all swords or just this one, Faran was not sure.
“It has a good balance,” Asana said, swinging it gently through the air. “The grip is good, the blade lighter than it looks.”
“It was forged by the ancient Letharn,” Faran told him.
“Well can I believe it. But how did you come by such blades?”
“Aranloth took us to the Tombs of the Letharn,” Ferla said. “There are many such blades there, but these he chose just for us.”
Asana let out a long and slow breath. “I have heard of such blades. Even as I have heard of the tombs. But I never thought to hold such a weapon. There is magic in the steel, yes?”
“There is,” Faran admitted. “But it’s no aid against other swordsmen. It’s only useful against sorcery.”
Asana sighed. “I would give much for a blade such as this. Then again, I would wish no other than the one I carry, that my forefathers carried before me.”
He returned the sword to Faran. “Use it well. May it protect you. You will find as I teach you that many of my techniques are designed for a lighter blade. But that is of no matter. The principles of swordsmanship are the same, and there is no such thing as a single and right technique. They all must be adapted to suit the blade you carry, and your natural strengths. Together, we will do just that.”
Something occurred to Faran. “You don’t seem to wear armor. Will that change things as well?”
Asana nodded approvingly. “A good question. Yes it will. Knowing that you may survive a thrust to the belly or a strike to the head because of chainmail or helm changes how you move. But again, we will work on these differences. I wear no armor, and that is a disadvantage. On the other hand, I have some modicum of skill, and my sword is sharper than yours. It can cut through bone, and armor is less an impediment than you might think to a sword such as mine.”
Faran could hardly believe that, yet the quiet little man did not seem at all the type to boast or make false claims.
“Follow me now,” Asana said, “and I will show you one of the patterns I know. It will better suit your blades than some others.”
He drew his sword, and for the first time Faran got a look at it. It was slightly shorter than his, and certainly narrower and thinner. It was not a blade meant for hacking into armor, but for quick slices and deadly thrusts. How sharp it was, he could not tell. But the steel glimmered wickedly, and Faran did not doubt that it was very, very sharp.
Asana spun and leapt, the blade flickering through the air and his every movement impossible grace.
Faran followed a moment later, trying to copy the move. Ferla did likewise beside him. Asana paused, holding his posture so they could study the angle of his limbs, the position of his body and the placement of his feet. Then he drove forward in another attack, this time a slash at an opponent’s neck.
This they followed also, adjusting their positions to try to match the master. And on their training proceeded, following him through the en
tire pattern. It was a beautiful form, made for lighter swords than their own, but with practice Faran knew they could master it, and also its subtleties. For it contained many movements that he was not sure the exact purpose of, but they seemed to be attacks designed to sever sword hands, nick arteries in the arm and puncture the great blood vessels of the neck, all with the slightest of movements disguised within larger strokes.
“That is enough for today,” Asana called. “I will think on your skills, and how to better them.”
“Thank you,” Ferla said.
Faran offered a bow.
“That is not the end of your training though. A limber body, and skill with weapons is not enough. In my country, a warrior, if he or she is to become the best, must also become a sage. A person of wisdom. For the true warrior knows why they fight, for whom and whether or not it is just. How else can they choose to participate?”
Aranloth had often said much the same thing, and Faran was glad of this turn. He liked the sword lessons, but even better was the strengthening of his mind. He was not, nor would ever be again, just the simple hunter who had roamed Dromdruin’s dark forests.
“Follow me,” Asana commanded.
He led them through the ring of trees and toward the south side of the plateau. The smudge on the horizon that was Halathar, the forest realm of the immortal elves, was much clearer today. The sky was blue and the air was clear. But up here, at this height, Faran knew that might change quickly. He wondered where Kubodin was, for he had seen no sign of him all morning, but he was sure the little man would show up. Faran was surprised to realize that he liked him.
Asana took them to the edge of the plateau, where there was a steep stretch down a rolling incline. On the precipice, was a little patch of grass. It was neatly cut by some tool, and the ground was flat. No doubt, this was Kubodin’s handiwork.
Asana sat, and gestured for Faran and Ferla to join him. They did so, taking up positions to either side and admiring the view.
“The Halathrin are wise,” Asana said softly. “They have withdrawn from the world and left troubles behind them. Here, on this mountain, I have done something similar.” He paused for a moment, and shifted his glance to Ferla first and then Faran. “Do you agree?”
