“Aye, different accounts from experienced witch hunters, as ye say. Remembering these, I went to prepare. So, I went to the butcher’s house and bought myself a few gallons of goat’s blood, which I later painted myself with.”
“Trusting to the expertise.”
“Aye, trusting to the expertise. But first, I also thought of getting myself some better luck, and so I went to have a look for some hare paws.”
“Which are known to bring luck, of course.”
“Aye, and there was this huntsman in the village who had just caught a few of the critters. Which was as well, since killing the hare yerself makes for bad luck.”
“So, instead, you bought some hare paws?”
“Well..” Molgrimin tilted his head a bit back and forth. “I bought a hare.”
“Naturally. You wouldn’t pay for just the paws.”
“Nay. So, I had this hare, right, and I came to be thinking, ‘Why should I have to chop it up?’”
“Of course. Logically, the whole hare should give more luck.”
“Aye, it seemed as likely as not.” Molgrimin shrugged. “So, I took the whole hare and tied it around my neck on a leather cord.”
“Like any lucky charm, only bigger and therefore more potent,” Nathelion observed.
Molgrimin threw out his hands. “Like any lucky charm, as ye say, just a bit more potent.”
“Okay, so you had your charm, and you were painted in goat’s blood. What then?”
“First, I waited until nightfall,” Molgrimin said. “And then I set out into the woods with my sword and a few bottles of spirits.”
“Useful things on any adventure.”
“Aye, I carried the essentials.” Molgrimin gave a decisive nod.
“And did you find this witch’s cabin?”
“I found a cabin,” Molgrimin said. “It was a small cottage, really, with a henhouse and some sheds. Smoke was rising from the chimney, I remember.”
“She might have been cooking some demonic brew,” Nathelion speculated.
“Some demonic brew, as ye say. I saw at once an unholy air about it all.”
“So, did you storm in?”
“I thought about storming in, aye, and catching her at her vile witchery. But then I thought, ‘What if she runs?’”
“A very likely possibility, warded as you were,” Nathelion said. “What did you do then?”
“Well, I had the bottles of spirits, and I had heard that spellcasters are fearful of fire...so I poured it in a circle around the cabin.”
“And then you set the ring on fire?”
“Aye, I had my cinder-box in my pocket, so I set the circle on fire.”
“So, there was now a fire around the cabin?”
“Oh, a big fire, it was,” the moinguir assured him, gesturing grandly with his arms. “The whole forest was wreathed in light and dancing shadows!”
“Appropriate for a witch hunt, of course.”
“Then I thought about storming in. I hesitated, though.”
“She would be expecting you to storm in,” Nathelion stated. “So, what did you do instead?”
“Well, I thought I’d be the cleverer of us. So, I took one of the bottles of spirits, put a piece of burning cloth in the flask’s mouth...and tossed it in through the window.”
“You tossed it in through the window?” Nathelion exclaimed. “What happened?”
“My plan worked. The hag ran out, screaming awfully.”
“So, you had set an old woman’s house on fire,” Nathelion said in disbelief. “And now she finds herself within a ring of fire together with a blood-soaked moinguir.”
“Aye, and there was the hare,” Molgrimin reminded him.
Nathelion corrected himself. “A blood-soaked moinguir with a dead hare around his neck.”
“And with a sword.”
“How did she react?” He had to hear this.
“She screamed louder. She actually frightened me a bit,” the moinguir confessed.
“Of course she did. She was an evil witch, after all.”
“Aye,” Molgrimin said. “She looked quite terrifying, really, with all of them shadows in her face. From the fire, you know.”
“The fire that you had started, yes. What did you do next?”
“Well, since this was my first epic encounter, I thought it would be proper of me to say something really memorable and brave, aye, for posterity. So, I glared at her and said that now she would truly see what hell looks like. Just from the top of my head! I was quite happy with that.”
“You said that?” Nathelion didn’t know what to believe. “She must have been terrified!”
“Quite terrified, aye,” Molgrimin admitted.
“So, when did you realize that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea?”
“Well,” the moinguir said. “I had expected that the witch would try to cast some spells on me, but she mostly kept screaming. Aye, and she shouted for someone. Apparently, she had a son.”
“Ah, so the son comes to the rescue.”
“Aye, quite a sturdy lad comes bursting out of one of the sheds, and he grabs a big cudgel to have at me.”
“So, do you...fight him?”
“By now, I figure that maybe I’ve made a mistake, and I don’t feel fully comfortable fighting the lad, seeing as I’ve just put their house on fire.”
“You run,” Nathelion guessed.
“Aye, I can’t very well stand about and wait for him to reach me if I want to avoid bloodshed.”
“But the fire...?” Nathelion reminded him.
“Aye, see, I was too short to avoid the flames, so my boots started burning. It didn’t slow me down, though, and I had shaken the lad by the time I reached the village.”
“You ran to the village?”
“Aye, not so clever that, as it turned out. You see, my boots were still burning, and I was still covered in blood.”
“That must have been quite a sight,” Nathelion observed.
“The villagers came out of their houses and seemed to mistake me for some kind of monster. They screamed, ‘Goblin, goblin!’ Aye, and then everything became a whirl of hay forks and torches quick enough to make you think they kept the things in their boots!”
“Was it not difficult to get away?” Nathelion wondered, imagining the small moinguir being chased by that mob.
“It was, it was. I barely reached my mount in time. They’d have been sorrier if they had caught me, though!”
“And then you rode away, a bit differently than you had imagined,” Nathelion finished for him.
“Aye,” Molgrimin said. “I had expected the witch to be a challenge. But the part with the farmers hounding me and all the running and such, nay, that I hadn’t expected.”
“So, the adventure didn’t give you very much?” Nathelion asked in conclusion.
“Well, I guess...no, but the hare made for a good meal, so I don’t regret that bit.”
“But the old lady... You burned her house down.”
“Aye, that was a bit unfortunate. But in my defense...”
“You acted on good faith.”
“Good faith!” Molgrimin insisted. “Of course, I was a bit drunk at the time.”
Nathelion shook his head. “So, what do you believe happened to the old lady and her son?”
“Well, their house was a smoldering pile of ashes when I returned to have a look. Meh, ye needn’t worry. I left them with enough coin to have them living in a mansion,” Molgrimin said, and then he mumbled, “Bloody expensive hare.”
“A very...endearing adventure, Molgrimin.” Nathelion cracked up. “Very endearing.”
Molgrimin chuckled and shrugged. “Well, that’s what an adventurer’s life is like, is it not? Things won’t always go the way ye planned.”
“I guess you’re right, Molgrimin. I guess sometimes they go so insanely far from what’s planned that you wonder how it was even possible.”
“Aye, precisely like that!” Molgrimin ag
reed. “But tell me of yer adventures, Nathan. Anything similar ever happened to ye?”
Nathelion snorted a laugh, but then his mind turned glum. “No, Molgrimin. No,” he said, his voice drifting away. “My story is not like yours, I’m afraid. It has precious little laughter.”
Molgrimin unexpectedly came to share his somber mood. “I know of darkness, too, Nathan,” he said in a low voice. “More than ye might believe. More than ye would ever want to believe.” Nathelion glanced sideways at the dwarf and saw that the moinguir’s grieving orange eyes had come to stare away into the distance. They glittered with unshed tears. “Whole lot of darkness...” the dwarf whispered.
What burden are you hiding, little warrior? Nathelion wondered. Then a voice pulled him out of his reflection.
”Nightshadow, will you come here?” It was Sir Conrad. His sparring with the squire had come to a sudden stop, and both were looking at him. Immediately, Nathelion felt alarmed.
What does he want of me? And what should he do? He couldn’t just say, “No, I’d rather sit here.” But if he went over there, maybe they’d ask him to spar with them. He’d be utterly destroyed then, revealed and ridiculed as the sorry imposter that he was. I can’t spar. I can’t fight. Bloody hell, don’t let them ask me to fight!
He couldn’t just remain seated, however. He got up and walked towards them as slowly as he could without looking ridiculous, stalling for time. It felt like he was going to the gallows after having worked up every ounce of courage to keep his dignity.
Sir Conrad watched him thoughtfully and then made an inviting gesture when he approached. “I thought, since you are a swordsman, you could show us some techniques. I have been trying to teach Tim here to counter an attack, but every time he successfully parries or avoids a blow...well, he keeps avoiding.”
Nathelion nodded, trying to keep his cool. “I saw,” he said as knowingly as he could, glancing at the squire, who lowered his eyes in shame.
“Good. Then you can show him what he did wrong.”
Now what pile of muck did I just step in? Nathelion thought, cursing himself. There was no way out of it now. He could have excused himself at once, perhaps, but now... Dammit! He was going to have to show the squire how to fight, a squire who no doubt had had years of training already. By the divines, let me sound convincing.
For a moment he stood mute, utterly confused as to what he’d say. Sir Conrad was looking at him, and soon, Tim also dared look up.
“Well, as I see it...” Nathelion began, clearing his throat. It was time to be incomprehensible. “Tim is too rigidly keeping to the patterns, no doubt fearful of displeasing a harsh tutor. What he should do is relax. The real secret to martial prowess is to free yourself of constraint...” Sir Conrad was frowning at him. It’s working, keep going, don’t lose your thread. “Achieving this means, in essence, that your physical self doesn’t move after fully formulated thoughts — since articulated thought is often too slow in any given situation entailing deadly violence. Rather, you should move quite efficiently to a deeper beat.”
There was silence.
“And this means what, exactly?” the knight asked, his blunt question taking Nathelion aback.
“Uh...” His thoughts raced for an answer. “The spine makes the call,” he said, and then he nodded to himself. “That’s what gives you speed and sequence. The spine, not the brain.”
“Well...” Sir Conrad weighed his words. “That was all very...theoretical, indeed. Will you, perhaps, show us some technique?”
“Of course,” Nathelion said, freeing his sword. “But remember, practicing techniques is just a way to increase your body’s awareness of options, as well as tempering it to their execution. They are not for you to consciously apply in combat. You should never try this.”
“As you say,” Sir Conrad said, sounding a bit confused. “Now, maybe you could show Tim one of these...sequences. A parry and an attack, perhaps?”
“Yes, all very well.” Nathelion stretched his arm and moved his sword in the air a bit, hoping that some way of counterattacking would come to him. Maybe if you...you do a little bit like this...and then you just, follow the motion, a small step in, so, yes, and then a slight whirl around with the other hand...
“What was that?” Sir Conrad asked. “That which you just did. You used your free hand? Did you punch?”
“Ah, well...” Nathelion’s mind was racing. “Certainly. Most opponents only have their eyes on your sword. It works especially well with a shield or a gauntleted fist. But, ah, the duelists of Savu...” That was its name, wasn’t it? That damn island I read about. “The duelists prefer a sword in their main hand and a dagger in the other. When they execute this technique, you’ll have that slim blade slitting your throat or punching through your temple.”
“Really? You have trained as a duelist on Savu?” Sir Conrad sounded suspicious.
“Yes,” Nathelion said, suddenly — madly — challenging the knight to call him a liar. I am lying!
Astonishingly enough, the knight only nodded after having met Nathelion’s eyes briefly. “Can you show us that technique again?”
“Of course.”
For some reason, Nathelion went through it much more smoothly now, as if he had truly been practicing the move for a considerable amount of time. It came naturally to him now that he had clarified its use to himself and to the other two. He impressed himself with how quick he was. First the parry, his sword pushing aside that of his enemy, preferably making him lose balance. Then a step in, same motion, whirl around your shoulder, quick, and slam the imagined dagger into the foe’s head before he sees it coming.
Sir Conrad was silent at his repeated demonstration. “Tim, try that,” he then said softly, and the squire began to ape Nathelion’s moves.
Nathelion stopped to watch him. “That’s good, Tim, but you mustn’t hesitate after the parry. It will likely get you killed,” What am I saying? This will get him killed! “It is all the same motion. You are not done until your foe is dead. Parry, step, turn, stab — don’t think, just do it.” For what it was worth, the boy quickly improved, going through that rapid sequence with balance and speed.
“Enough, Tim,” Sir Conrad said, making the boy stop in the middle of the technique. He turned to Nathelion and drew his sword. Real steel. “Such techniques are all very good for practice. I have always found the direct and simple things to be best in actual combat, where such flashy showcasing is more likely to cost you your life. Show me how you deal with these blows.” The knight began to approach him, his sharp blade ready to slash and puncture, and Nathelion was at once filled with dread.
I’m dead. He thought, backing away slowly. The knight thinks I’m a blademaster. He won’t hold back. And that’s a real sword in his hand. His eyes were fixated on Sir Conrad’s deadly weapon. Should I call out and tell him that I’m not who he thinks? Damn it, I must. I’ll die!
The knight seemed to have such contempt for death that he would not bother with safety gear. But Nathelion had never had a chance to join him in that mentality, and to him, the peril was quite distressing. I will die. I must tell him. He was given no time, for suddenly, the knight moved — without warning — and his sword came whirling through the air...only to be checked by Nathelion’s blade.
He had flung his own sword up somehow, as quickly as his heart had jumped, and now he did not waste the blink of an eye in that perilous deadlock. His legs moving to some impulse of fear that thought could not catch up to, he danced away, past the knight. His feet moved faster than they had ever done before in his life, and then he was behind Sir Conrad.
The knight laughed loudly, lowering his sword to turn to his gaping squire. “See that, Tim?” he said. “That’s the kind of reflexes you train all your life to attain. Bloody speedster. You’ll work with it at noon, too, Tim.” The knight straightened and sheathed his sword. “Now I think we should be off.”
The squire’s amazed look lingered as the two walked away to the horses,
but Nathelion remained where he stood, his heart pounding wildly. The rush of fear had driven him like nothing else, and he’d just followed it. He had been quick. He felt dizzy even trying to recall the motions — all had been a blur — and yet, in the moment, he had felt strangely centered.
Over by the stump and the rock, he caught sight of Molgrimin standing with arms crossed, nodding at him with a big grin.
I’m not a warrior, you fool. I’m a farmhand!
For some reason, though, he couldn’t help but grin back.
10
A Knight’s Valor
They mostly kept within eyeshot of the mighty Valdmer as they rode, a river with waters that ran deep and dark. That river would snake all the way through eastern Undran until finally joining the southern sea, Nathelion knew. He marveled at its width, the trees on its farther bank seeming like small grasses over the distance. He saw a few deer come down to have water, too, but something soon frightened the shy animals, and they swiftly fled. There were swans in the waters as well. The graceful white birds glided along the river like ice figures. Yet the brooding sky stood in contrast to that tranquility. It cast everything in a shadow of unease.
Sir Conrad was again at the fore with Tim, and he guided them without hesitation through their course. They left the Valdmer behind as it trailed away, and soon thereafter, they turned to follow a countryside road that had them passing farms and spinning windmills. Nathelion looked at most things with appreciation as they rode, for to him, every sight was new and precious simply for not being Widowswood. He reveled in this wondrous opportunity to go far and to go quickly into distances he’d never thought he’d reach. Alwarul seemed mostly concerned, though, riding quietly and with an absent look in his eyes. Troubled creases had taken residence in his brow. No doubt, the old man was plagued by some of his more vivid fantasies. Nathelion felt sorry for him, knowing well how burdened he must be with all those grim convictions in his head. Maybe the “wizard” would be able to cheer up once he could imagine completing the “quest” they were upon. Indeed, perhaps there would be some way to overthrow the “Queen Beyond” who had invaded Alwarul’s mind. For now, though, Nathelion could do little to ease the old man’s burden. Trying to talk him into just ignoring it would no doubt trigger some powerful counterreaction. Best not to go there.
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 11
