by Tim Stead
Sithmaree rescued him from silence.
“Have you seen much action in the war, Prince Havil?” she asked.
“A little,” he replied. “We ambushed a Seth Yarra force trying to stir up trouble between Berash and Avilian, and since then I fought with Narak at Finchbeak Road, but apart from that it has mostly been waiting.”
“You like to fight,” she said. It wasn’t really a question, but he answered it.
“Yes. I suppose I do. I’m good at it. I was trained to fight, and to rule, but fighting comes more naturally.”
“Do you enjoy killing people?” she asked.
He stared at her, taken aback by the question. Nobody had ever asked him that before, and he found it a difficult question to answer. If he said yes it made him seem a monster, and he didn’t think he was that. If no, then what did that make him?
“War is unpleasant,” he said. “But it’s better to win than to lose.”
“But you enjoy it,” she said.
“I enjoy winning,” he said.
She was silent for a while, her eyes steady upon him as though she was weighing him.
“Something odd happened recently,” she said. “The Seth Yarra attacked Wolfguard. You didn’t know?” She saw the shock on his face. She shook her head as though surprised by his ignorance. “It turned out well enough,” she said. “Narak lost his steward, but nobody else of consequence. Anyway, the thing is that I fought in defence of Narak’s home.” Her hand touched the whip at her side. “I killed a lot of people. I’d never killed anyone before, but it was easy, and I found myself glad to be standing side by side with Jidian and Narak, and afterwards he said I’d done well.” She shrugged. “I enjoyed it.”
“To fight in defence of your home…”
“Not my home,” she cut him off. “I was staying there, but I have no feeling for the place.”
“Then why fight? You could have left easily enough?” It was a provocative question. If anyone had asked Havil why he didn’t run away from a fight he would have been deeply offended, but Sithmaree didn’t seem to care.
“I should have,” she nodded. “But Jidian insisted on fighting, and I couldn’t let him do it on his own.” She smiled a puzzled smile. “I like Jidian,” she said.
“So you enjoyed it, Deus.” Havil was beginning to wonder why she was talking to him like this. It was almost as though she was using him as a confessor, or more likely a sounding board. She didn’t seem troubled enough to confess anything.
“Yes, but not just the killing. It was the killing with others. The standing in line, holding back men who wanted us dead – a fellow feeling. I don’t know what to call it.”
“Camaraderie,” Havil said.
“It has a name then.”
“It is what binds soldiers together in time of war. It is a form of strength. Men who would never become friends in peacetime form bonds strong enough that they never break. It is as you say, odd, but also glorious.”
Sithmaree drained her glass.
“Well, I enjoyed that,” she said. He was unsure if she meant the wine or the conversation. “Shall we go and see your prisoner?”
Havil drained his own glass and got up to lead the way. She smiled at him again, and he felt the smile go right through him, like sunlight on a hot day.
“You’re an interesting man, Prince Havil,” she said. “A bit like Jidian, but with a brain.”
Again he was shocked at her irreverence, but supposed it was her right, being a god herself. He led the way down to the cellars where Marik was housed, setting a brisk pace, perhaps hoping that she would not speak to him again, and perhaps hoping that she would. He found her presence behind him both uncomfortable and exciting.
When they reached the cell he gestured to the guard and the man quickly unlocked the door. They went in.
Marik had heard them coming. He was sitting at the table looking expectantly at the door, but he was clearly unprepared for Sithmaree. His mouth fell open when she walked in after Havil. She took the seat opposite him and contrived to sit on the small, hard, wooden seat as though it were the most comfortable chair in the world.
“You’re Marik,” she said.
Marik swallowed and nodded. He seemed to be having some trouble finding his voice. Sithmaree put the leather document tube on the desk between them.
“Narak asked me to bring you these. You are to translate them.”
Marik nodded. “I want to,” he said.
Sithmaree smiled again. She took one end off the tube and poured a cascade of curled paper onto the table.
“Where shall we begin, Marik?” she asked.
Ten – The Hero
Jerac Fane balanced on the balls of his feet, sword stretched out in front of him, elbow slightly bent, his other hand behind his back to keep it out of the way. Two men stood opposite, and he flicked his gaze quickly between them, left and right, waiting for the slightest movement that might signal an attack.
It was the man on the left who moved first, thrusting low at his knee, which was the closest piece of Jerac. It should have turned into a feint, but just in case it didn’t he moved to parry, and as he expected the sword lifted, the thrust turning into a cut at his side. He was already moving away, tapping the blade so that it passed in front of him, and partially blocking the other man’s move which came hard on the heels of the first.
As the first attacker began to withdraw Jerac followed him and used the hilt of his sword to push him backwards, making him stumble. At the same time Jerac’s point passed over the second man’s sword, which now carved a wild arc as that man realised he’d been fooled, and struck him on the arm just above the elbow.
He stepped back and grinned.
“You’re damned fast, Fane,” Sergeant Lees said. “But you’ve got to learn economy. You can’t go pushing people around like that on a real battlefield.”
Jerac failed to see why. He said nothing though. It didn’t do to argue with sergeants. Instead he helped Bruin back to his feet. Kisanne, the man he’d struck on the arm, was rubbing the spot where Jerac’s wooden blade had caught him. There would be a fine bruise there tomorrow.
“Show off,” Kisanne accused him. Jerac didn’t mind. He’d been with the elite group for a week now, and he was the best of them. It was a new experience. He’d never been the best at anything in his life, and now he found that he was faster, stronger, and learned more quickly than anyone in the group. Lees even had him fighting against two others because nobody could touch him. He was the star pupil. He felt invincible. Some of the others didn’t like him too much. He was aware of that, and it was because he was so pleased with himself, because he revelled in his dominance, but he had their respect.
Now Lees pulled him to one side. He was used to this. The sergeant used him as a demonstrator. Lees was a fine swordsman, but he had quickly realised that Jerac was faster than him, and had told him plainly that if he learned his forms well enough he would be better that his teacher one day.
Lees called Kisanne out as well, and had him stand beside Jerac.
“Now we’re going to repeat what just happened, and I’m going to show you what Fane should have done.” He turned to Jerac. “You do what Bruin did, the thrust and cut, and Kisanne, you repeat your move.” He cast a warning glance at Jerac, a glance that said don’t try anything – don’t show off. “Now.”
Jerac thrust and cut, just as Bruin had done, but less quickly that he could have. The sergeant’s blade engaged briefly with his own and then somehow got past it and tapped him on the chest. Lees had moved away to the right, achieving the same distance as he’d done by moving forwards, but leaving the space between him and Kisanne clear. His blade then swept left and tapped Kisanne on the neck. He stepped back.
“You see?” he asked.
Jerac had to admit that the move was better. His way had Bruin on the ground and Kisanne crippled. Lees had killed both men with less effort. He nodded.
“Yes, sergeant.”
�
�So show me.” Lees moved beside Kisanne and took up a guard position. Jerac took up his own guard. This was easy for him. He thought that he learned faster because his eyes were faster than the others – he could see exactly what Lees did with his blade, with his wrist, with his body. It was as though everything slowed down when he concentrated.
Lees thrust at him, and Jerac met his blade. He’d long ago learned not to trust that the sergeant would do what he said he’d do, and so he didn’t anticipate the cut, but met it all the same, turning the sergeant’s point with the forte of his blade and knocking it aside, just as Lees had done. He touched the sergeant on the chest, moving aside to create space and avoid Kisanne’s attack. Kisanne did anticipate his move, and Jerac had to adapt, striking beneath and behind the swinging blade and touching Kisanne on the belly.
He stepped back again. Lees was smiling.
“Good,” the sergeant said. “Good. Neatly done.” It was praise indeed, and Kisanne looked even less happy.
He was aware that Lees was teaching him techniques for fighting two men while the rest of them were learning single combat. It was a huge compliment, and yet the smooth way he was doing it was all but invisible to the rest of them.
The sergeant pushed them back into the line. The sun was getting low, and he’d worked them hard all day, but it wasn’t over yet. Lees had them work on strength and stamina for the final half hour. Before that he usually talked to them.
“You’ve all improved,” he said. “Each and every one of you now knows how to handle a blade, and you wouldn’t disgrace yourselves on a line. You’re soldiers now, and most commanders would be glad to have you.” He paused, looking at the smiles on their faces. “But not me.” He added, and their faces fell. “You’re being trained to be an elite unit. That means you’ll fight in the worst places, be thrown into situations other men can’t handle.” He looked around the field at all the other groups scattered around.
“Tomorrow we’re going to start using shields. Now once round the field and then a hundred cuts with each arm at the posts, and no slacking. Anyone who gets round the field quicker than Fane gets a florin. Go!”
They ran. Jerac knew that the sergeant’s florin was safe. He always ran faster than the others. Just for a moment he was tempted to slow down, to finish last. It would cost Lees half a guinea if he did, but the sergeant would be angry with him for not trying. That was the rule here. You tried your hardest at everything. Lees insisted on it. Anything less and he might find himself back in a general unit. He didn’t want that.
It was a mile around the field, and they ran it in leather armour, still carrying their wooden swords. Jerac finished a hundred paces ahead of Bruin, who was always second. He went to one of the training posts and began to cut at the sacking, forehand and backhand, counting the blows. He’d reached fifty-two when his wooden sword broke.
“Again?” Lees said. “Here, use this.” He threw his own blade across and Jerac caught it. A steel blade? He’d never held one for more than a few seconds before. They’d been allowed to so they could feel that the weight of the practice swords was similar. Now he held the sergeant’s own blade.
He hacked at the post with renewed vigour, and this blade was sharp. Chips of wood and bits of sacking flew everywhere.
“Slow it down,” Lees said. “You’re not cutting down a tree.”
Jerac paused. He set himself again and began cutting with measured strokes. He reached a hundred and switched hands. It was another exercise that Lees insisted on. You had to be able to fight with either hand to be an elite soldier. Jerac favoured his right, but his left was coming along. He was a match for any of his fellows wrong handed.
He got to a hundred and stopped. He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t out of breath. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on his brow. He felt wonderful. He gave the blade back to Lees, offering him the hilt, and the sergeant took it, inspected the edge carefully and put it back in its scabbard.
“That’s it,” he told them. “You have liberty until dawn. Don’t get into any fights, don’t drink too much, uphold the honour of the Seventh Friend.”
They left. Most of the others walked back into the city in a group, talking amongst themselves. Jerac walked alone. He didn’t seem to have much in common with his fellows, which wasn’t surprising, he supposed, with him being close to seventy. There was also the issue of him being so much better than them, and making no effort to be modest about it. He should have done, but he couldn’t help himself.
There was a cavalry unit still on the field. They were playing some game designed to improve their skill, racing up and down the turf. He watched them for a while, regretting a little that he did not know how to ride. It looked very fine, the men and horses working together, and a horse was company of a sort, he supposed. There would be a bond between the riders and their beasts. He saw men pat their mounts in fond moments, the winners and the losers both, and he thought that it still finer that there was no blame between the two. The horse and the man, they lost or won, lived or died together.
He stayed there until dusk was heavy and the horses had all clattered their way over the bridge and headed back to the city. He walked slowly after them, feeling hungry and thirsty, savouring the feeling. He knew he could order what he wanted in the Seventh Friend, and that his hunger would be banished. To want something and have the power to grant yourself that wish was a sweet feeling indeed.
He passed through the gate and saw the torches and lamps being lit in the streets and all across the low city. The streets glittered in the light, reminding him of festival days, but Jerac knew that it was an illusion. Thousands of men were away fighting in the war, either with Lord Skal in Telas or with Lord Arbak in the north. Many of them would never be coming home, he believed.
So the city was empty. Streets that would once have been flooded with men returning home from their work, stopping for a chat with friends, buying a few things, spending money, were reduced to a trickle. The taverns and inns were struggling to survive. Life was hard.
Jerac took the most direct route to the Seventh Friend, cutting down back streets, passing close to the base of the divine city that loomed above him in the dark, then across a wealthier, even more deserted part of the city and back again towards the less salubrious streets where the Seventh Friend stood.
It was luck, really. If he had taken any other route the evening would have passed like any other, but he didn’t, and a few hundred paces short of the Inn he heard the ring of steel on steel. Somewhere nearby men were fighting.
He remembered Sergeant Lees telling him not to get into any fights, and he nearly turned away, but curiosity got the better of discretion and he headed quietly in the direction of the noise.
It was pretty much over by the time he got there. The street was badly lit, but Jerac’s eyes were good, now that he was young again, and he could see everything. There were five men on the ground, all dead as far as he could make out, and five more still standing. And there was a girl.
The girl was unarmed, and the five men were arrayed around her, swords drawn, closing in. They were going to kill her, or worse. He could see that she was well dressed, richly dressed, and quite pretty.
Don’t get into any fights, Lees had said, but he’d also exhorted them to uphold the honour of the regiment, and it seemed the very opposite of that to stand by while five armed men killed a girl. The old Alos might have walked away, but Jerac was a different man.
He hurried forwards as quietly as he could, and scooped up a blade from one of the fallen men. He hesitated, then picked up a second. He had no shield, and could fight with both hands, so why not?
Now he had a problem. How do you fight five men? They hadn’t seen him yet, and that was an advantage, but he had only seconds to act. They were close to the girl, and in moments she would be dead. He saw that she had drawn a knife, a small, pretty thing, but that would be little use against swords.
He struck without warning, driving a blade into the back of each of the
men closest to him. The steel went into their flesh easily, and he felt bones break. He was surprised by how easy it was. Both men fell, and at once the other three turned on him.
So far his strategy, if he could dignify it with the name, had worked well enough. He thought if he could distract them then the girl could run away. They were certainly distracted, and he had to dance backwards and fend off a rain of blows. He had no time to look and see what she was doing.
One of the three was trying to get behind him, and he knew he couldn’t allow that. He let his training take over and he took three quick steps, putting him close to the man trying to slip past and out of reach of the others for a moment. He delivered a vicious blow with his right, and to his surprise saw that it knocked the man’s arm back, leaving him quite unable to defend himself. Jerac killed him, and turned in time to face the other two. They didn’t look quite so confident now.
