The Sage Knight

by Robert Ryan

  She smiled at the man. “Oh yes. Mender here is an idiot, but he’s loyal to a fault. I assure you of that.”

  The soldier looked around. His expression was suddenly bored.

  “What of these others?” He pointed to the youths at the table. “Are they king’s men?”

  “I’ve seen no sign otherwise,” Menendil replied. “They drink and they pay and never a bad word has come out of their mouth in my hearing.”

  The soldier glanced at the men he commanded. They too seemed bored. Obviously, they had not noticed anything they should bring his attention to.

  “Would you like an ale, fine sir?” Menendil asked. Better to make out that he wanted these soldiers here.

  “We’re on duty, barkeep,” the soldier replied stiffly. “We don’t drink when there are traitors to find.”

  Menendil nodded briskly, hoping he was not overdoing it.

  “Of course, fine sir. I wouldn’t want to interfere with that. But you see, it’s good for business if soldiers are known to drink here. It keeps the riffraff away, and there are always plenty of those. If you stayed, even for just one, on the house mind you, it would show that this was a respectable establishment where ne’er-do-wells were unwelcome and where the king’s men were given the honor that’s their due.”

  The man looked like he was about to say no, but one of his men spoke up.

  “This is thirsty work, cap. We could all do with a rest, and a sip of something to wash away the dust of the street from our mouths.”

  Menendil knew from the marks on the leader’s uniform that he was a captain, but it was best his own military history did not come out, so he bowed deeply as though impressed by the rank.

  “To the bar then men, but one drink only mind. We have plenty of places to be right sharp.”

  Menendil drew a glass of his worst ale from the tap, and served the captain first. Norla began serving too, but to his chagrin she pulled the ale down from his best keg. These men were not worthy of that, and in his time the leader would never have made the grade as captain. They were nothing more than riffraff themselves, but he let none of his thoughts show and smiled obsequiously.

  He glanced at Norgril over in the corner. The man was seemingly asleep now, his head resting in his hands on the table. But he was positioned so that he could open a slit of an eye now and then and assess what was going on. But for now, hearing would be enough. The danger had passed unless someone said the wrong thing.

  Norgril was a good man to have around. The best. But the youths were not, and Menendil was glad to see them finally stand up and shuffle their way out.

  The soldiers watched them go. They did not say anything, but their eyes narrowed in suspicion. These were men just looking to find fault and to start a fight. They were the worst sort, and should never be given authority or swords. But these were the type of men now favored in the kingdom.

  The door closed behind the youths. He pictured them running once outside, and Menendil nodded as though satisfied.

  “Good,” he said. “They’ll spread the word that king’s men drink here, and the inn will become known as the place to be.”

  “More like,” the captain disagreed, “they’re off to find a lone man in an alley to rob now that drink has given them courage.”

  It was true, and Menendil marveled how easy it was for a man to find fault with others – the same fault a man possessed himself. For surely the captain was the sort to try robbing a lone man himself, so long as he had a few companions to back him up.

  “They did have the look of thieves to them,” Menendil muttered. “But their coin spends as well as anyone’s. All the more reason though to have such fine gentlemen as yourselves in a place like this. It keeps the peace and attracts better customers. So, if it pleases you, come by anytime and bring your soldiering friends with you. For you at least, the drinks will always be on the house.”

  That got the man’s attention. Menendil could almost see the thoughts spin and buzz in his head. He could do well out of this, and perhaps get free meals too. But while he was thinking these things he was not asking the wrong sort of questions and probing in a way that might reveal guilt.

  “Bah! I’m not here to source business for you, barkeep. I have a job to do, and a serious one. Yet it may be that I’ll come back from time to time.”

  The term barkeep was aggravating to Menendil, for he was the proprietor not an employee, but he let that pass. A time of reckoning was coming, and he could wait until then. When the seventh knight came … but now was not the time to think thoughts like that.

  The soldiers ended up drinking another round each, and showed signs of settling in to drink for the rest of the day. But the captain stirred them up, eventually.

  “Get to it, slackards!” he cried when they protested his decision to leave. A decision no doubt brought on by fear rather than choice, for the captain would be the one to answer to his superior officer if it were discovered they flouted their duties.

  The men took their displeasure out on Norgril as they moved to the door, kicking his chair and seemingly waking him up from a drunken stupor to splutter in surprise.

  But he was not surprised, and had they pushed it further several of them would have died in a heartbeat.

  Menendil sighed a breath of relief as the soldiers left and the door closed behind them. But no one spoke until he had looked through the window and watched them walk down the street.

  “Scum,” Norgril muttered, and his eyes seemed no longer blurry but burning with anger.

  Menendil knew how he felt. But it was his wife who first spoke.

  “You surely will get us killed,” she said softly.

  “You lied as well as I did, to prevent that,” Menendil answered.

  “Aye. That’s because I know nothing.”

  “Neither did they,” Norgril said. “It was a bluff, and no doubt one they try wherever they go to see how people react.”

  Norla sniffed. “It was a bluff, this time.”

  Menendil held his peace. She was right, and all three of them knew the risks. But he at least knew that the best place to hide was in plain sight. So where better to head the rebellion from than in a bar where the king’s men drank and that was under the shadow of the Tower of the Stone itself, and beneath the king’s very own nose?

  15. Accept Death

  Atop Nuril Faranar, the mountain weather was raging even as Faran watched.

  They were on the plateau, but at a part they seldom went to. On the northern side, near a sharp drop down from the peak was a flat area of stone rather than grass. It was like a table, flat and smooth, but as large as their normal training area.

  And it was for training that Asana had brought them here, yet that training was different from anything they had done before.

  “Training,” the master had told them, “is empty unless it has the characteristics of a real fight. You must feel under pressure. Circumstances must work against you. You must know fear, and deal with it. In this way a similitude to a real fight is achieved, and the training acquires shape and purpose.”

  Faran certainly felt fear now. What they were doing was dangerous. They had just begun to spar again after a short rest, and the stone beneath their feet as they fought was slick with moisture. At any moment one or the other might slip. More likely him, for Asana seemed poised as ever despite the conditions. But a slip while razor-sharp blades whirred through the air could mean death. Yet still they carried on. This was the realm their training had entered; a place where they pushed each other to the limits.

  At least, Faran was pushed to his limit, and therefore grew in skill. Asana was beyond his measure. Sparring Ferla, Faran knew what her skill was and that it was more than his own. But he could see where and by how much. Battling Asana was like looking into a lake whose bottom could not be fathomed.

  It was not just the slick stone and razor-like blades that made this dangerous. The sharp drop to one side was steep enough that falling probably meant dea
th. Yet there was also a buffeting wind that came and went and came again in unexpected gusts. With it was a driving whirl of clouds that brought little rain, yet they still roiled and shifted like a fog, but not like any Faran had seen before.

  They were in the midst of clouds themselves as they fought, for the top of the mountain was wreathed by a storm. Fortunately, there was no lightning. Yet. But goosebumps prickled on Faran’s skin and he was alive to every movement. For every movement might mean death.

  The shifting clouds parted momentarily, like a curtain, and Asana, only half visible before, suddenly leaped at him.

  Faran dropped low, seeking to avoid the blade and maintain his balance, but Asana deftly adjusted the angle of his attack and steel rang against steel.

  Moving forward into attack, Faran sent Asana into retreat, and somehow the man managed to look nimble in circumstances where most people would struggle even to walk.

  As quickly as he dared, Faran pressed his attack and Asana backed up toward the steep drop. But the man was full of surprises, and with a slash that turned out to be a feint, he dived and rolled to the side, coming up level with Faran and then darting behind him so that somehow Faran now had his own back to the deadly drop.

  It was a killing move in a real fight. He had been set up to be driven off the cliff. Worse, he realized that Asana had lured him into it from the beginning, pretending to be backed away toward the drop himself only so that he could maneuver as he had done and reverse their positions.

  From off to the side, Faran heard Ferla gasp. Whether it was in fear for his position, or at Asana’s incredible skill at reversing their positions, he was not sure.

  But there was no give in Faran. He could call the sparring off with a word or gesture, but he would not. Instead, he attacked.

  Momentarily, Asana seemed surprised. But he moved swiftly enough to deflect the blow. Only, it was a feint just as his own had been a little while before.

  Faran attempted what his teacher had done, leaping and rolling and coming to his feet again in one swift motion. He had not done it as neatly as Asana, and he had slipped during the process, yet still he had done it all with speed and agility. He was also well-positioned to fend off any blows if they came.

  Leaping and rolling was one thing. Coming to his feet and being ready to fight was another. A skilled enemy would be able to kill him there while he was vulnerable if he had not moved with speed and brought his guard up again. But he had done so.

  Not quickly enough, however. Asana had backed away from the edge himself, ensuring that they now faced each other with the drop to their side rather than Asana with his back to it.

  To Faran’s surprise, his mentor lowered his sword and laughed. It was such a rare thing to see.

  “Well done, Faran. We’ll call that a draw,” he said after a few moments.

  Faran did not think it was quite a draw. Asana could have had him in that brief moment where he slipped. Another opponent might not have been quick enough to take advantage of that, but Asana was. He had held back.

  It was something Asana did. He pushed students to their limits in order that they might learn, yet he did not overwhelm them with his superior skill, which would be demotivating.

  Asana must have sensed his doubt. “Truly, it was a genuine contest. I don’t say that lightly.”

  “Thank you, master.” Faran and Ferla had taken to calling the man master as was traditional in the lands of the Cheng. It was not quite the same as Osahka, but it was similar.

  “Your turn!” Asana called out to Ferla. He unbelted his sword though and picked two spears from the pile of weapons near where they trained. One of them, he threw to Ferla, and she grasped it out of the air with deft skill.

  “Swords are the best,” he said. “But all the weapons teach you better how to move. All the more so due to their differences. You must adapt, and adapting is learning.”

  Faran stepped out of the way. He was glad his turn was done, and he wished to be inside and out of this foul weather. But nothing could have prevented him from watching this. Ferla was good with the spear, and Asana, though skilled in everything he did, was the least skilled with the long weapons of spear, staff and halberd.

  The wind picked up again, and a spattering of rain pelted at them. The two combatants circled each other, weapons before them and gazes like the eyes of eagles.

  Ferla struck first. The tip of the spear drove forward toward Asana’s neck. He, and Aranloth also, taught them always to attack the vital areas. And with accuracy. The difference between hitting an opponent on the neck or the top of the shoulder was all the difference in the world.

  Asana flicked his spear out, the metal point coming into contact with Ferla’s shaft and deflecting it. This was the harder way to stop an attack. It was easier to use shaft against shaft because it gave more leeway for inaccuracy. Yet this way, it left a counterattack more open, and he used it.

  The tip of his spear ran down the shaft toward her fingers, but Ferla was ready and she rolled the spear over bringing it atop Asana’s and knocking his down.

  Once more she stabbed the weapon forward, this time striking toward the groin.

  Asana leaped back, taken by surprise with the speed of her recovery, and only just in time. She had nearly had him.

  The master stepped back, and momentarily slipped on the slick stone. It was no feint. Ferla darted forward, her spear slashing this time crosswise in a move intended to hit her opponent’s arm. This he managed to block, but it was only just in time and it was no deflection as he preferred but a block of shear strength.

  Asana regained his balance, but Ferla pressed her attack home while she had the advantage. Desperately, but silently, Faran cheered her on. She deserved a victory, for her skill was great and her courage greater to spar under these circumstances.

  Their spears cracked like whips and rattled with the force of block and parry, for they both attacked hard. This was not the graceful sparring that usually made up their training but a ferocious fight, only just a little way short of actual combat.

  The skill was incredible to watch, and Faran envied Ferla. She was as good with a spear as a sword, and she moved with the same deadly grace that Asana did.

  The master struck forward, the tip of the spear darting like a viper’s tongue, but Ferla had already evaded the blow before it was halfway delivered, her shaft slamming down on Asana’s and knocking it from his grip to rattle on the stone beneath their feet.

  She was already moving though before her opponent’s weapon hit the ground. The point of her own spear rested now at Asana’s throat.

  They stood perfectly still for a moment. Faran’s heart soared, and the wind buffeted them all driving a squall of rain before it.

  Ferla withdrew the spear, and Asana bowed to her. Despite his wet clothes and the foul weather, he still looked poised as ever.

  “You beat me, Ferla. And it has been long since that has happened, although Kubodin pushes me hard at times.”

  Ferla seemed shocked. “I really did, didn’t I?”

  “Indeed.” He gestured Faran to join them. “You have both learned quickly,” he continued. “More quickly than most that I have taught before, and some of those were very gifted. Be proud of yourselves. Your skill is above that of ordinary warriors. You are now in a group of elite fighters, and your names will spread over time.”

  They gathered their weapons together then, for they always brought several different types – spears, staffs, halberds, knives and maces. But Asana was not quite done with the lesson. As they hurried back toward the underground halls to get out of the weather, he kept speaking.

  “What you do now in sparring is as close as you can get to a real fight. But the gap is still large. Nothing can properly prepare you for that. Nothing. Fear surges. Your heart pounds. What you thought you knew, abandons you. Your confidence that was high becomes doubt instead. These things you should know, and accept. Think on it often, and it won’t catch you by surprise when the st
orm of death is upon you.”

  It wasn’t exactly encouraging, but Faran sensed the truth in the man’s words.

  “Is there a remedy for this beforehand? Some way to train for it that we’re not yet doing?” Ferla asked.

  “No, there’s nothing. But you must grasp this. Sometimes to win a fight you must embrace death. Accept it. Make your peace with that thought. For only then can you conquer fear. Fear holds you back in a fight. It steals strength from mind and body. It makes you hesitate. By embracing death, you give yourself the best chance to live.”

  Faran happened to be looking closely at Asana as he spoke, and he noticed the man’s eyes grow hard with determination.

  16. Down the Mountain

  The next day the weather had cleared. The sky was deep blue, without a single cloud, and it seemed as though it would stay that way.

  Faran loved it, and he loved more that he and Ferla were heading on a journey with Kubodin. Several times a year the little man took his mule down the mountain and to a small village to buy supplies. Mostly, the garden atop the mountain was enough, but they could not grow everything they needed there, especially flour and grains. This was a good time to go, the little man had announced at dawn that morning, and he had invited them.

  Asana did not object, and he said a break from training would do them good. It would help their bodies to heal from strains and allow overused muscles and ligaments a rest.

  So it was that they walked beside Kubodin’s mule as the sun rose and a cool, but not cold breeze blew. Kubodin rode, and he whistled and even sang little snatches of song in his native tongue as they went. It seemed that he was happy for the change of routine as well.

  Faran and Ferla did not wear their armor, but had their swords of course. They went nowhere unprepared. The swords would make them stand out more, but that could not be helped. The danger was slight though, for warriors were common enough.

  Kubodin had his axe, as usual. But his cheerful attitude was not normal. It seemed rather strange, but the little man was always unpredictable. Strange or otherwise though, Faran had grown to like him. Even his rough way of speaking. He was the opposite of Asana in nearly every way, but not the ways that mattered.