He hopped off the platform and disappeared into the crowd.
The two men circled each other. Vigdis feinted at his shoulder and then lunged low. Ronan batted the attempt away and sighed.
“Did Gawinn teach you anything?”
Vigdis laughed. Pivoted and tested another approach.
“Not going to fall asleep up here, are you?” he said.
“I’ve often wondered exactly how good he is.”
Another lunge, parry. Sunlight flashed on steel.
“Oh, he’s good. He never stinted on teaching—drilled us like the terror he is—but he could take any of his Guards, dagger to our swords.”
Their swords clashed, clattered, and fell apart.
“That good?”
“Aye. Told us he learned the craft as a lad from two masters. His father, the old captain before him.”
The sun was overhead. Underfoot, their shadows sprang together and then whirled away, circling on the wood planking.
“Who was the other? Some graybeard sergeant?”
“No. Man named Cullan Farrow. Head of a horse-thieving clan. The regent buys his horses from that lot, he does. You heard of ‘em?”
“A bit here and there. Best thieves in all Tormay.”
“Wonder we’ve never had ‘em in the Guild,” said Vigdis. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. His blade swept up.
Absentmindedly, Ronan parried, his body sliding through the countless rhythms of the sword. Countless, lad—that’s what his father had always said. All to be worked into your body’s memory; you’ll never cease learning them. The countless rhythms of the sword, just as there are countless rhythms to the way of the hawk on the air, the snake on the rock, and the deer on the plain. And then there’s your mother, he’d sometimes say, smiling—you think learning swordplay’s hard? Try learning the ways of a woman.
“Heard tell you might be back on the ups with the Guild.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
A breeze blew across his face and, for a moment, the sweat stink of the crowd was gone and there was only the salt of the sea. He ducked a blow and watched his blade drift through the air, almost as if it were being wielded by another arm then his own. The edge touched Vigdis’ shoulder and then drifted away. The crowd whooped and hollered in amusement.
Touch—you’re dead. He heard his father’s voice whisper in his mind.
“Dammit, Ronan!”
Vigdis scowled and brought his blade down in a reckless, whistling arc. A stupid blow, as it gave plenty of time for another to duck under and bury their blade in the attacker’s ribs. Ronan merely blocked and winced as the shock of the blow rattled his arm.
“Are you even trying?”
“Sorry.”
He blinked, shook his head, and then advanced on Vigdis. It was over in a matter of moments. The blade in his hand became a living, darting thing—a steel snake striking repeatedly, lancing past Vigdis’ frantic guard. For every rhythm there is a counter rhythm. For man, there is woman. For the day, there is the night. For the sea, there is the land. For the light, there is the darkness, and with each pairing there is a constant ebb and flow, a tide that ceaselessly washes back and forth.
Only the end of time will see where the ebb lands. Perhaps the place is appointed, but who are we to know?
His father’s words whispered in his mind.
With one last swing he drove Vigdis off the edge of the planking. He did not hear the mocking cheers of the crowd, for his eyes were blank, his ears dumb. Thirteen years spent silencing that voice, and here it was back again in precise intonation and word.
“Right, then,” said the innkeeper. “You want to hold your place?”
Ronan nodded.
“Any challengers?” called the innkeeper. He stood with fists planted at his waist and surveyed the crowd. The faces around them blurred together into one mass in the sunshine. A murmur rose and grew into an angry roar.
“We ain’t stupid!” yelled someone. “As if there’s anyone could take the Knife!”
“Aye!”
“He ain’t the Knife no more!”
“Who cares! He can still fight! Let’s see you get up there if you're so brave!”
“Kick him off and let normal folks get back at it!”
“Any challengers?” bellowed the innkeeper.
The crowd fell silent, eyes glaring and shifting restlessly about. The innkeeper turned to Ronan and shrugged.
“I’ll challenge!”
Ronan knew the voice immediately. He sighed.
“My lord Bridd,” he said, bowing. The lad stood below the edge of the platform, face flushed red.
“I’ll challenge,” repeated the regent’s nephew. He scrambled up and stood in front of Ronan. They were of the same height.
“You’ve fought already. Perhaps you should rest and—”
“I said, I’ll challenge!” Arodilac spoke through clenched teeth.
“Anger and swordplay is a poor mix,” said Ronan.
“Swords, innkeeper!”
“Swords!” yelled the innkeeper.
Arodilac fought with a fury and passion that seemed scarcely possible for someone of his age. His initial attack drove Ronan to the edge of the platform, so surprised was he. The crowd bellowed with approval. A hand grabbed his ankle and yanked, but he kicked back and felt his boot connect with someone’s face.
How old was the lad? Sixteen—perhaps seventeen. Surely he himself hadn’t been able to summon up such anger at that age. But he had. He had been just the same.
“What did you do to her?” said Arodilac. The roar of the crowd and the clangor of their swords was so loud that Ronan had to strain to hear him.
“Who?”
But he knew who.
“She won’t see me! She returns my letters!”
“Perhaps she’s no longer interested in you,” said Ronan.
Their swords whirled, inscribing twin arcs in the air, and met with a resounding clang. Shadows, but the boy had strong wrists. Given enough time and discipline, he’d make an excellent swordsman.
“What did you say to her, you scoundrel!”
Ronan flushed.
“You forget. Your uncle hired me for a job. I cleaned up your mess—that’s what I did—so don’t press me. I don’t take kindly to playing nursemaid for spoiled brats.”
Arodilac turned an even brighter shade of red at that. His teeth snapped together with a click audible even over the clangor of their blades.
“Maybe it was just a job to you!” he spat. “And maybe I’m a just child to you—but what of her? Did the job include trampling her heart? What did you say—what did you tell her, damn you! She won’t see me!”
“Does Owain Gawinn teach the sword or the art of conversation? In either case, he’s failed.”
The lad snarled at that and threw himself forward in such a wild flurry of strokes that the onlookers at the platform’s edge were forced to dodge the swinging blade.
“Enough,” said Ronan.
He reached out and caught the other’s sword wrist. His hand moved so quickly that scarcely a person among the onlookers saw the motion. The sword fell free from Arodilac’s hand and the boy struggled in the merciless grip—face white with outrage, his mouth gaping, and gone mute. In one quick jerk, Ronan spun him around and ran him right off the platform, heaving him into the air at the edge so that he fell hard, arms and legs sprawling onto the people below. The boy let out a yell as he flew through the air, echoed by those misfortunate enough to be in his path, but they were instantly drowned out by the roar of laughter that erupted from the yard.
The innkeeper clambered up onto the platform.
“Second win for Ronan!” he called aloud. He turned and spoke quietly. “Though not a single bet taken for that round. You’ll get no cut from the house and you’ll not get another idiot up here soon.”
“Try,” said Ronan.
The innkeeper shrugged.
“All, right, then!” he shouted. “W
ho’ll challenge?!”
“Might as well grab a sandcat’s tail!” someone yelled in response.
“Toss ‘im off! He’s the bleeding Knife, for shadow’s sake!”
“I tell you, he ain’t! Not anymore!”
“Well, if you think that changes things, then get up there and take his sword away, you stupid git!”
Ronan held up his hand for silence.
“Ten to one odds,” he said. “I’ll give ten to one odds for anyone.”
The crowd shuffled its feet. Men looked uneasily at each other. Vigdis, slouched in a corner on the top step, grinned and shook his head.
“Well, lad,” said the innkeeper. “Ain’t no one here going against you.”
“Pardon me, good sir, but I would try this man’s skill.”
As if one creature possessing a hundred heads, the entire crowd turned, all heads swiveling together. Two men stood at the tavern backdoor. The two looked a pair, alike in build, coloring and dress. They had hair like corn silk bleached to near white by a relentless sun. Their skin was the hue of old wood, burnished brown by that same sun and, as if they took all their colors from the heavens, their eyes were as blue as a summer’s sky.
“Harthians,” said someone.
The two men made their way down the steps. The crowd jostled around them. Already, bets were being taken. The scratch of chalk on slate filled the air as oddsmakers noted wagers. The taller of the two Harthians stepped up onto the platform. He surveyed the yard with bright eyes and then turned to Ronan and innkeeper.
“I am new to your fair city and, as such, not conversant with your games of skill. If you would instruct me in the rules, I would be grateful.”
“Well, m’lord,” said the innkeeper. “Ain’t much to it. No killing strokes. First man to give up or get booted off the planks loses, see?”
“Yes, I suppose I do see. Stio—” This was said to the other Harthian who stood at the platform’s edge. “Stio, I think this the tonic to clear my head of dances and dinners.”
“May I remind you, Eaomod,” said this other, “that we must return to the castle at the hour’s end. The regent has promised a race, and you were desirous of testing your steed’s mettle.”
He spoke calmly and clearly, as if the two were alone. The crowd stared, entranced. The oddsmen paused in their rounds. The serving girls gazed hopelessly at the two. Even the young nobles in the corner blinked, wide-eyed.
“Time enough, Stio. Time enough. Now, good sir,” said the Harthian, smiling at Ronan, “I am called Eaomod. I would know your name before we begin.”
“He’s the bleedin’ Knife!” someone yelled from the crowd.
“He’s Ronan of Aum!” shouted another.
The Harthian’s eyebrows raised. “With Aum a haunt of jackals and owls for how many hundreds of years now?”
Ronan grinned. “A man has to come from somewhere.”
Eaomod regarded the innkeeper’s swords with disfavor.
“These, good sir, are suited for chopping firewood and it would be dismal sport indeed, waving such crudities about. Have you nothing better?”
“N-nothing, m’lord,” stammered the innkeeper.
“Stio. Lend me your blade.”
Stio drew a sword from under his cloak. It was a long, lovely, deadly-looking thing, twin to the sword that Eaomod himself produced. He handed them both to Ronan.
“Choose, my friend, and then let us begin.”
“Here now,” said the innkeeper. “You can’t do that. No edges. Blunt weapons, see?”
“Truly?” said the Harthian. “But surely one of your skill, friend Ronan, would not mind?”
Ronan shrugged and weighed the swords in his hands. They were beautiful weapons, light and graceful and obviously forged by the same master hand. He offered Eaomod’s own back to him. As far as he could tell, there was no difference between the two swords.
“No edges,” protested the innkeeper. “Lord Gawinn will close my place.”
“Let ‘em fight!” shouted an onlooker.
“Aye! Get off the planks, you fat plonk, and let ‘em have at it!”
The innkeeper threw his hands in the air and clambered off the platform. Eaomod unclasped his cloak and tossed it down to his friend.
“Now,” he said. His eyes sparkled.
“Would you care for a wager, m’ lord?” said Ronan.
The Harthian shook his head, smiling. “In Harth, it is only for the sake of war or love that we fight. And today, this is for love of the sword. Though, if you throw me into the crowd in such manner as that unfortunate boy received, we shall fight again, but then for the sake of our own private war.”
Ronan smiled in turn, swallowing his disappointment.
“First blood?” he said.
“First blood,” said the other.
“All right, then.”
In that first moment, Ronan knew he faced a master swordsman. The Harthian did not waste a finger’s breadth of needless movement. He drifted just out of reach, wavering and insubstantial in the noonday sun. He seemed a thing of dream, moving to some peculiar music whose rhythm only he heard, but the sword in his grasp was sure and swift. Ronan circled around him like a hungry sandcat.
The crowd hushed into silence. A few of the older men there, those who had fought in the Errant Wars, knew what they watched might not be seen again in their lives. And those who were untutored in such skill instinctively knew what they saw was some strange rarity.
Sunlight glittered and flashed on steel. The blades described circles and arcs and angles, creating a myriad of fantastic tableaus that existed in the air over the platform, springing into being one instant, only to be replaced the next instant with another succession of whirls and lines. Here was the perfect, steel-colored circle of a many-spoked wheel throwing off a dazzle of light. Here was the abrupt unfolding of a lady’s fan, opening with a clatter and formed of light and air and iron death. And there was a strange flower grown of loops and whorls and deadly clashing petals.
Eaomod’s smile grew broader as they fought.
“You fight marvelously well, friend Ronan,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Ronan parried a bewildering succession of blows. He was not conversant with the style of the other’s swordplay and he wondered if it was peculiar to Harth. He had never been to Harth, except as a child.
“I confess myself curious, friend Ronan.”
“Is that so?”
“It is acknowledged in all of Tormay that there are nine true masters of the sword. The Lord Captain of your fair city is one of them, of course, though I have yet the pleasure to see his skill. My old teacher is another, even in his dotage and with death his patient attendant.”
The blades whistled through the air. Sunlight shone hot and white in Eaomod’s hair.
“And who is your teacher?”
“The blademaster of the house of Oran. Lorcannan Nan.”
“Ah.” Now things were starting to make sense.
“The other seven, naturally, are the seven lords of Harlech, but it is only our elders who have seen their skill, for the lords of Harlech only draw their swords when they ride to war.”
“True.”
“Perhaps, one day, I shall be so happy as to see their skill, but—alas—I would not wish such a fate on Tormay, even though, since childhood, I have been trained for battle. Most days, peace is better than war. Forgive me, I digress.”
“You’ve named your nine. I’ve heard of ‘em.”
The sun was high in the sky and just tipped into the beginning of its downward slide. In the yard, it seemed that only the two men on the platform moved, like bright gods who had stepped down from the heavens and so found themselves darting through the sluggish currents of human time, while all those who stood around them could only gaze in unblinking silence. The gods flickered faster than thought—lunge and parry and wheeling around each other in succession after succession.
“Yes, but I have heard tell of two ot
hers.”
“I haven’t. If war comes again to these lands, then I hope your nine’ll prove enough.”
“There’s a peculiar family that travels the breadth of Tormay, trading in horses and the training of them. They have an ill repute, for it’s said they steal their horses if they can’t have them for gold.”
“Sounds like a dodgy bunch.”
“They’re called the Farrows. Once, when my old teacher had been drinking and inclined to talk, he did say that no man lives in all of Tormay able to stand before the sword of the head of that family, Cullan Farrow. No man.”
“Haven’t heard of him.”
“No? And he’s supposed to have a son that will one day surpass his father’s skill. Declan is his name. Even in Harth, the minstrels tell the story of Declan Farrow and how he rescued the daughter of the duke of Vomaro. He was only a boy when he tracked the ogres to their lair and slew them in that dark haunt. Are you conversant with this tale, my friend?”
“I’ve heard the story. Who hasn’t? All minstrels are drunkards and liars.”
The blades sang through the air, punctuated by a tattoo of ringing tones—vicious hammer strikes—as sword met sword. Ronan pressed his attack and Eaomod smiled.
“It is time!” called Stio from beside the platform.
Eaomod stepped back and lowered his sword. Ronan paused in mid-lunge. The crowd came alive a surge. They howled in protest.
“First blood! First blood!”
Eaomod bowed slightly and then his hand flashed out, catching hold of Ronan’s sword. He held it up. Blood dripped from his palm.
“Here is your satisfaction!”
The crowd howled again, but in delight. A roar of applause went up.
“Poorly done, my lord,” said Ronan, laughing. “I’ve never defeated someone with such a weak cut before.”
“Never before has the Prince of Harth been defeated by such a paltry loss of blood.”
And the Prince of Harth, for that was who he was, smiled and bowed. Ronan held out his hand. The Prince looked somewhat bemused, but then he gripped the other’s hand.
“I am still not fluent in your northern ways,” he said.
“Another day, my lord,” said Ronan. “We’ll have to have another go. It’s been a long time since an opponent made me think.”
The Shadow at the Gate Page 21
