It had never been used before.
“Taking out the spear, eh?”
Dormael started and turned quickly, almost dropping the spear in his embarrassment. Allen stood in his doorway, two mugs of ale in hands and a warm smile on his face. “Just thought I’d pull it out and take a look at it, that’s all.”
“You should take it with you. It will make dad happy to see you carrying it.”
“Ah, I don’t know.”
“Why not? You know how to use the thing. So use it.”
“I’ve been carrying my staff for so long, now. I’m not used to the spear, and besides, it’s always been more of a keepsake for me than a weapon.”
Allen snorted, “That walking stick you carry around? Please, a good spear can be used for more than just fighting, you know. You can hunt with it, and if you’re good enough, you can throw it.”
“We both know I’m not that good.”
“I could teach you, or dad could. He gifted you with it for you for a reason. Carrying on his legacy and all that shit. Come on, bring it out. At least let dad see you carrying it around, it will put a smile on his face.”
“What am I supposed to do, then? Just heft it around with me, mug in one hand, spear in the other?” Dormael accented his sentence by grabbing the second mug from Allen’s hand and taking a long drink from it.
“How about a little sparring session? It’s been awhile since we crossed the spears. It’ll be fun.” Allen smiled and took a drink from his own mug, reaching out to touch the spear in Dormael’s hand as if testing it’s worth after all the years it spent in Dormael’s cabinet. “Besides, I want to see how good you’ve gotten. Or really, I just want to use my own skills to embarrass you a little in front of your little girlfriend downstairs.”
Dormael went a little red in the face, but couldn’t stop a laugh from escaping his mouth. “I’ve tried to tell D’Jenn, and now I’m telling you. Shawna and I are just friends.”
“So that’s why she almost kissed you out there on the road, eh? It was a bit of friendly necking.”
“She didn’t kiss me, it was just…a strange moment.”
“I know you’ve thought about her naked.”
Dormael made a startled, protesting noise in his throat, but couldn’t help but smile at that comment as well. He felt himself go even redder in the face. “Well I’m a man, aren’t I?”
“That’s debatable.”
“Fuck yourself, brother,” Dormael laughed.
“You do the same. Unless you fancy a tussle with that pretty redhead downstairs, that is.” Allen drained his mug and turned to leave Dormael’s room. “I’ll meet you out on the front lawn in ten minutes.”
Dormael almost reiterated that he wasn’t interested in a sparring match, but on second thought he let it lie. Allen stalked out into the hallway and Dormael heard his footsteps fade down the staircase. His brother had him well trapped. If he backed out now, he’d definitely lose a little face.
Dormael hefted the spear and headed for the door.
****
Ten minutes later he found himself facing off against Allen on the front lawn of the homestead. D’Jenn had performed the necessary magic on their weapons, effectively blunting them in case one was to accidentally stab the other. Dormael’s spear felt odd in his hands. The extra hand’s length of steel at the end was new to him, and the spike at the bottom provided a bit more weight, causing it to swing a little heavier than he was used to. He performed a few practice swings and stabs with the spear, trying to get a feel for it.
“Are you ready yet?” Allen stood some distance away from him, dressed in the same garb he was wearing earlier and hefting a spear of his own. It was made of a wood that was a lighter color than Dormael’s, and the blade was narrower, making it easier to throw. It also looked to be well used.
“Ready as I’m going to get, I guess,” Dormael replied, stretching his muscles to loosen them up. Shawna, D’Jenn, Kendall, and Saul all sat on the steps of the house, drinking mugs with tense, excited expressions on their faces. The grass was brown underfoot, and the sun was still high upon the horizon, casting a yellow-orange glow upon everything.
“Good. Defend yourself!”
Allen moved toward him, spear held low to his right side in one hand, balanced easily on the balls of his feet. To Dormael everything seemed to slow down, and his vision narrowed to focus on his brother, his peripheral sight blurring everything else into obscurity. He began to swing the spear in slow circles before him, the way Shawna had taught him to do with his staff. He crouched slightly, leaning forward and getting a lower center of gravity.
Allen struck low from his right, Dormael’s left, a straight stab and more of a feinting, half-hearted blow than anything else. Dormael’s spear turned it aside as he altered the course of his spinning defense slightly to intercept it. The wooden spear hafts clacked together in a sharp report.
Dormael was right, it had been a feint. Allen quickly spun around and stepped closer to him, bringing his own spear swinging backhanded in the other direction. Dormael moved without thinking, Shawna’s training kicking in. He ducked under the blow and let it fly over his head unchecked, instead opting to bring the blade of his spear around for a slashing attack of his own.
Allen proved to be faster than his attack, though, and his brother slipped backwards, narrowly escaping the blade but showing no signs of fear or surprise. He feinted a couple of long distance stabs, letting the haft of the spear out in his hands, then began to shuffle forward on quick and nimble feet, the straight attacks becoming more serious every second. Dormael was forced to backpedal, turning the stabs aside with quick spinning parries, his spear blade and spike whooshing through the air around him and making the muscles in his arms and shoulders burn with effort. The spears clacked violently together as they smacked each other upon haft and blade and sent shockwaves of force up the haft to vibrate in Dormael’s palms.
Allen had him on the run, and Dormael realized that if he didn’t get clear of those stabbing attacks, he’d be beaten. Thinking quickly, Dormael put a little more strength behind one of his parries, sending Allen’s spear a little wider than usual. He used the opening to rush his brother and aim a kick at Allen’s chest. This time Allen did look surprised.
Allen was no amateur, though. He threw himself backwards away from the kick, and rolled in the grass. Somehow he kept hold of his spear through the entire maneuver, and ended up on his feet a short distance from Dormael, weapon ready. Dormael let out a quick breath at his narrow escape, and Allen had a wide smile on his face. He loved the thrill of combat.
Dormael pressed his advantage, taking a cue from his brother. He jumped, stabbing down with his spear at Allen’s chest. Allen spun his own weapon in a high arc, turning the attack to the side and stepping backwards to get a little balance. Dormael spun and brought a high slash around at his brother’s head, trying to keep him on the run. Allen was again the faster, however, and before Dormael could react he rolled forward under the blow and shoved the haft of the spear sideways into Dormael’s stomach, driving the breath from him. Dormael huffed and spots appeared in his vision, but he reacted again by reflex, his actions the product of his training sessions with Shawna.
He rapped the butt end of his spear against the side of Allen’s head, sending his brother backwards but not taking him from his feet. Allen had managed to see the attack coming and roll slightly with it, checking it a bit and keeping the brunt of the force from hitting him. It did give Dormael time to suck in a chest full of air, though.
Damn, but Allen was fast.
Dormael attacked again, sucking painful breaths into his lungs and felt his strength beginning to flag, but he attacked all the same. He didn’t want Allen to gain the offensive again and put him on his ass. He had to work, and work hard. He stabbed and slashed again and again, his arms burning, his lungs filling with painful breaths but still seeming to be empty. Allen seemed to move without effort, his spear spinning around and darting
sideways or upwards to turn Dormael’s attacks uselessly to the side. The spear was growing heavy in Dormael’s hands.
Allen sensed it, like a wolf sensing that the hart was weak, and he used it against him. He rapped harder and harder on Dormael’s weapon, sending it a little wider each time, making it a little harder to hold – making Dormael more desperate with each stroke.
At last, he made the mistake Allen was waiting for. Reaching out harder than he intended, Dormael sent a stab at Allen’s legs. He’d meant it for his belly, but fatigue had betrayed his aim and the blow had ended up lower than he’d shot for. Allen was ready for it.
His brother smacked the spear haft, sending the point towards the earth, and Allen kept the pressure on. The spear thumped into the dirt and stuck fast. Before Dormael could pull it out, Allen slid his own spear haft up Dormael’s own, whacking his hands from his weapon as the spear haft hit his fingers. Dormael sucked in a breath and jerked his hands from the spear reflexively.
He felt the cold steel of Allen’s spear point rest upon his neck before he realized what had happened.
“Not bad, brother,” Allen said, not even breathing hard, the bastard, “But not good enough.”
Everyone seated on the front steps erupted into applause, and as he looked up Dormael noticed that the crowd had grown since the match had started. His mother and a sizable amount of workmen now stood there, clapping and cheering with everyone else. Dormael blew out a breath and shook his head.
“This is your area, brother,” Dormael said, “You’re even faster than I remember.”
“It takes a lot of training to stay on top,” Allen said, “Speaking of training; you’ve been working on your melee skills, as well. I can tell. That first exchange would have put you down the last time we sparred.”
“I’ve had a little help,” Dormael huffed, tucking his arms over his head to open up his lungs.
“Paying for lessons?”
“No.”
“What, then? Just practicing?”
“Actually,” Dormael huffed, “Shawna’s been helping me. D’Jenn and I have been sparring with her a little.”
“The girl?” Allen snorted quizzically, “You’ve been sparring with the redhead?”
“Don’t let that fool you, brother. She has the Mark of the Isles.”
Allen’s brows shot up with curiosity, and he turned to regard the crowd on the steps, just now coming down to talk to the brothers. He watched Shawna coming with professional interest – at least Dormael thought it was only professional interest – and leaned silently against his spear. Dormael bent and pulled his own weapon from the dirt and wiped the blade on the edge of his boot.
“Well done, sons,” Saul said, clapping them both on the back, “That was quite the display, there.”
“It always ends the same way,” Allen sighed mockingly, then punched Dormael in the shoulder. Dormael laughed with a hint of sourness in his voice.
“Don’t worry, old son,” Saul smiled, “You’re better than most with that spear, but Allen is just damned good.”
“Thanks, dad,” Dormael smiled, “I think.” D’Jenn came up at that moment with a skin of water and offered it to Dormael and Allen. They both drank deeply from the skin, taking turns until it was drained, and passed it back to D’Jenn who tossed it to a random workman in the dispersing crowd.
“So, Shawna,” Allen said, making the girl jump a little, “I hear you’re pretty good with a sword.” Allen’s tone was mildly mocking, mildly condescending, and mildly friendly all at once. Shawna’s eyes narrowed a bit and she rocked back on one hip, raising her chin in her most convincing noblewoman impression.
“Swords,” Shawna corrected, “I’m good with swords. Plural.”
“Care to test that out a little?” Allen offered, his smile showing more teeth than normal, “I mean, against a real fighter this time? That is, unless you’d like to go back to picking on wizards.”
The tension in the air grew thicker than butter, and everyone waited to see how Shawna would react. One of her eyebrows rose to an almost impossible height, and the glow of her cheeks heightened to a rosy shade. Dormael almost braced himself for the impact.
“May I see your wrists?” Shawna asked sweetly.
“Pardon me?” Allen said, his expression changing from confidence to confusion.
“Your wrists. May I see them?” Allen shrugged and pulled the sleeves of his loose white shirt up to his elbows and turned his wrists up so Shawna could look at them. Shawna peered closely at them, appearing to look for something, making little tsk-tsking noises the entire time.
“What’s wrong with my wrists?” Allen asked, his eyes still gleaming with mischief but a little of the machismo gone from his voice. He clearly didn’t know what to think.
“Oh, nothing,” Shawna shrugged, “It’s just that you don’t seem to have one of these.” Shawna pulled up one of her own sleeves and bared the Mark on her wrist; a sword pointing down at her palm next to a grapevine. “You see, this is a Mark of the Isles. So, until you get one, and you’re ready to go up against a real fighter – a Blademaster – then I suggest you go back to playing with sticks.”
The entire group burst out into uproarious laughter. Allen’s eyes lit up again with genuine mirth and he laughed just as heartily as everyone else. Shawna, though still slightly embarrassed at being called out, stood back with a self-satisfied look on her face and soaked up the appreciation. Saul clapped Allen on the shoulder and held his ribs with his other hand.
“Looks like she told you well, son,” Saul laughed, “Now, let’s get back inside and get some ale in our bellies, eh?”
Everyone cheered again for that.
The afternoon waned into evening and then into night, and Dormael found himself sitting around in a circle of friends and family and getting seriously drunk. They had taken up residence in the common room of the homestead, a spacious room of vaulted wooden ceilings and warm rugs built around a large fireplace that was made of red bricks. It was the first thing that had been constructed in the house, and just above the mantle there was an “H” built into the chimney with white bricks, contrasting with the red. Dormael gazed at it as he listened to his brother regale them all with stories of his many fights in the Gladiator’s Ring, and laughter and conversation washed through the room like water churning in a basin.
The fire cast his friends in a warm, orange glow. Kendall’s cleft chin and his strong jaw were sharply outlined and shadowed as he leaned close to Shawna and attempted for the fourth time tonight to try and flirt her out of her clothes. Shawna’s hair was an almost mirror-like reflection of the firelight, her red tresses shining brightly as polished copper as she turned him easily aside to other topics, again for the fourth time. Dormael smiled at the scene. D’Jenn’s eyes were bright and slightly glossy with the ale he was drinking as he gestured wildly at Allen, deep into some greatly exaggerated tale as one tried to outdo the other with stories of their many exploits. Saul sat smiling contentedly with his arm around Yanette, the two of them happy to just have this much family under their roof again. It reminded Dormael of old times.
As was customary at all Harlun gatherings, Saul eventually left the room and came back with three old guitars. Each was worn a bit, but Dormael knew them all to be superior sounding instruments. As Saul entered the room, D’Jenn promptly got up and left, then returned with his Doomba drum. The guitars were handed out – one to Dormael, another to Kendall, and the third and final guitar Saul took up himself. The hum of conversation slowly began to fade to low murmurs, and the room filled with anticipation.
Soon the noises of strings being tightened and tuned filled the spaces left by words spoken moments before. By unspoken agreement, each man tuned his guitar in turn; Kendall, Dormael, and finally Saul. D’Jenn tightened a few straps on his Doomba as well, though his ministrations didn’t quite interfere with the tuning of the stringed instruments. When all the instruments were tuned and everything squared away, a hush fell over e
veryone as Saul looked to Dormael, Dormael looked to Kendall, and Kendall finally looked to D’Jenn.
Smiling, D’Jenn began a lively, tapping rhythm on his Doomba.
The music began to coalesce, haltingly and uncertainly at first, but eventually the song came together like tributaries joining a river, with Dormael coming in to play along with the beat and Kendall and Saul joining in after getting a sense for the melodies. It was an old folk song, one that they all grew up singing as children, and it was a merry and lilting tune rife with major chords and bouncing drum beats. Kendall’s voice rang out in a clear tenor, with Saul and D’Jenn backing him up in baritone, and Dormael playing an accompaniment on guitar. Allen joined the singing as well, adding his own voice to the harmony. Eventually the stanzas gave way to a guitar solo, and Dormael took it with gusto, his fingers playing surely across the strings.
As the song ended applause erupted from Allen and the girls and Bethany laughed in her silvery little voice. The various families of the men who worked on the vineyard with Dormael’s parents had joined the party sometime during the song, drifting into the house in groups of twos, threes, and fours. They laughed and clapped along with everyone else.
The night drifted along in a warm, drunken haze for Dormael. There was music and dancing aplenty, and he eventually found himself taking spinning turns across the floor with Bethany, his mother, someone’s wholesomely pretty daughter that he didn’t know, and as the night wore on, he even danced with Shawna. She smiled and laughed as thought it was only a friendly dance, but when their bodies would come together she would squeeze him a little more tightly than the others, press up to him a little closer, and her eyes looked into his a few times with some veiled emotion that he couldn’t decipher. He was a little too drunk to dwell on it, though, and he simply tossed her around the floor in laughing circles and returned her flirtations with sideways smiles and squeezes of his own.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 49
