Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons)

by Jacobs, Teddy

  Sword Bearer (Book One, Return of the Dragons)

  By Teddy Jacobs

  Copyright 2012 Teddy Jacobs

  All rights reserved.

  www.teddyjacobs.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Author’s Note

  Sneak preview of WIND RIDER, book II of Return of the Dragons

  Chapter I

  You swing a staff until you’re ready to swing a sword. Then you go on all kinds of adventures — fighting monsters, casting spells and saving damsels in distress. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work, but I didn’t believe a word of it.

  Maybe it really was like that a long time ago. But I didn’t remember my father ever saving a damsel, fighting a monster, or even swinging a sword. He didn’t even carry a sword, although he did help me swing a cane when I was younger.

  So I swung my staff because I was supposed to, though I knew one day I’d become a diplomat like my father — using my voice and my mind instead of my muscles and my magic.

  But I swung the staff for other reasons too. It helped me forget how people looked at me funny in the corridors of the castle, forget how lonely I was sometimes locked up in the study. It gave me a reason to wake up early every morning, even when I had nothing else to look forward to.

  Today was different, though.

  Today Giancarlo was going to let me swing a sword, even if it was only a wooden blade.

  Maybe it was because I was finally sixteen. Maybe he thought I was ready to fight some of those monsters that I’d never seen and didn’t even believe in. I never got a chance to ask him.

  Giancarlo helped me put on the hardened leather breastplate, codpiece and leggings. It is a little embarrassing to have someone help you dress. But if everything isn’t properly adjusted, you risk getting pinched somewhere tender when you’re swinging a staff. I’d learned that the hard way.

  “Follow me, Anders,” Giancarlo said, finally satisfied. “We’ll spar down by the river, on the practice field.”

  Giancarlo sped along, and I hurried after him. If it weren’t for the bobbing light of the lantern, I would have lost him several times. The armor slowed me a little. But that wasn’t the only reason. There were other problems with my body besides pimples and out of control black curly hair. Even though I had strong arms from morning practice, I was still out of shape. I had been thin and fast once, when I was younger. But that was before the magic, before I was cooped up in the castle.

  So I jogged awkwardly, short of breath, feeling the armor pinch me a little, for all of Giancarlo’s fussing.

  You could hear my sigh of relief as we arrived. I couldn’t help being jealous of Giancarlo. He was fast and thin, and seemed to glide effortlessly across the grass.

  There were torches lit around the practice field. Seven torches, in a circle. The sky was still dark, although dawn was rapidly approaching.

  I tried to catch my breath.

  The river flowed by quietly. Insects were singing.

  Everything else was asleep, or maybe just scared off by my noisy breathing.

  Giancarlo put down his torch, and a long bag that hung from his shoulder. He opened the bag and pulled out five blades of different lengths and design.

  “Pick them all up and see which one feels right,” he said. “You’ll need to learn to fight with whatever is handy. But it’s better to be armed with something that fits you. Look at them first, maybe, and see if one speaks to you. They don’t talk to me, mind you, but I’m no sorcerer.”

  I looked at the swords, lying there in the dirt. On the dark packed earth their wooden fire hardened blades were barely visible. I couldn’t see anything special, but I was excited to swing something besides a quarterstaff or a cane.

  I squinted at them, wanting to see something, or hear something, anything at all. One of the blades in the center seemed to glint a little, a sparkle of green around its silver pommel and wooden blade.

  I bent over and grabbed the pommel.

  Just like that, I heard this sweet girl’s voice in my head: gruss dich.

  Whoa. Was this some kind of greeting?

  I squeezed the pommel in return. This weird buzzing sensation ran up through the grip to my arm, shoulder, chest and then all through my body.

  This was definitely a change. Things were looking up. I think maybe I even smiled a little.

  The blade felt like a real sword in my hands. I swung it around some, feeling the balance. Could it really be just wood? The silver pommel tingled in my fingers. The wood was hard and dark.

  I ran my finger along the edge, stopped suddenly. Ouch.

  I sucked the finger, tasted blood. “Is there magic in this wood?”

  Giancarlo shrugged. “Magic interests me little and I know less of it. There may be a bit of magic in these blades; they were made for sorcerers, and they almost never break. And they’re sharp, as you seem to have noticed.”

  The silver pommel warmed in my hand, and I felt a throbbing pulse.

  “This pommel, though,” I said. “There’s magic, here.”

  Giancarlo cleared his throat. “That was your father’s. He refused to carry it, and your uncle wanted it; but now, it’s yours.”

  My uncle was a taboo subject in my family. No one talked about him. It was like he had just disappeared from everyone’s memory back when I was little, just before we moved to Tuscany.

  “What do you mean, my uncle wanted it? Did you know my uncle?”

  “I thought I knew him,” Giancarlo said, frowning. “But I was mistaken. I trained him a little, when he was young, but I don’t think I ever knew who he really was.” Giancarlo shook his head. “Before you, it was your grandfather’s, and your great-grandfather’s pommel, that you have in your hand.”

  Later I would wish I’d asked him more questions about my uncle. But Giancarlo didn’t seem to want to talk about him, and I never liked to upset my blademaster. He could get really moody.

  “This same pommel?” I asked instead. “But didn’t they have a real sword?”

  “Your grandfather explained it to me. The silver pommel passes down each generation. When the bearer grows too old to bear it, the blade breaks. A hardened blade of wood serves the next bearer until adulthood; and then a sword of steel; always with the same pommel. I know little of magic — my wife’s the witch in the family — but it must be a good sign that you picked it out on the first try, without having to touch the others. I take it the swords speak to you, after all.”

  I nodded, excited to get on with this now. The blade felt eager in my hand.

  “Old blades have many secrets,” he continued. “We trust them with our lives, as others have trusted them. Come now, Anders, let’s spar. We’ll see if there’s any hidden strength in you.”

  “You wouldn’t be so strong if you were locked up in a room,” I said defensively. I guess it was that hidden strength comment that got to me. Or maybe it was the lack of my morning tea. In any case, I was cranky.

  But he just shrugged. “So, your mother keeps you inside too much. You eat a little too much to compensate for your lack of excitement. We all have excuses, son. But if someone attacks you, you better be ready to fight.”

  Giancarlo bent over, and picked up one of the other blades.

  “Who is going to attack me if I’m locked up in my ro
om all day?” I asked.

  “Life is full of surprises, not all of them pleasant,” Giancarlo said. “Now give me your best. We spar until first blood. If your blade has anything new to teach you, maybe I will learn something too.”

  He bowed, and I bowed to him.

  I spoke the same words I’d said every morning for over a year now.

  “May our blades be sharp, and our bladework true.”

  This was the first time they really meant something. We were sparring not with wooden poles but with blades.

  Until first blood.

  Giancarlo nodded. “Let the wisdom of the blade teach us our daily lesson.”

  He brought up his sword, and I did the same. Behind my back, the sun began to rise. I could feel its warm light on the back of my neck, as I swung my sword and the sweat began to flow, stinging my face.

  But I felt stronger, more coordinated, even with the armor. Like the blade was an extension of my arm, I felt like I could just reach over and touch Giancarlo.

  But I couldn’t. Giancarlo was too quick, and I spent most of the time knocking away his attacks. Several of them went past my guard. Soon I was feeling bruised, slow and stupid.

  Then, suddenly, came a crashing blow, the side of Giancarlo’s sword slamming into my ribs, and I fell to the ground, on my bottom. Talk about embarrassing. I felt my face turn hotter, if that was possible, and tried to get up as quickly as possible.

  But a shooting pain in my side made me sit right back down on the ground.

  Giancarlo stopped suddenly.

  “You graceless, self-absorbed boy. You worry more about the pimples on your face than the sword in your hand. You let shame and pain and anger distract you. In battle, you won’t be ashamed, or embarrassed. You won’t be wincing in pain. You’ll be dead, or seriously wounded.”

  “Alright, then kill me, put me out of my misery,” I said.

  Giancarlo seemed to fight off a smile.

  “Stand up,” he said. “And focus on two things. My blade and yours. Squint, do your wizardly nonsense, say your words of power, do whatever you need, but fix those two lines in your mind and defend yourself. Our bodies are just extensions of these two blades. Focus on the blades and the bodies will follow.”

  I got back up. My muscles cried out for mercy under my bruises. Really, it wasn’t just getting hit that was hurting me.

  Swinging the wooden sword was making me sore too.

  Tomorrow I was going to be in agony, but I didn’t care. There was no one in the world I wanted to impress more than Giancarlo, not even my father. And here I was instead making a fool of myself.

  It wasn’t fair. I hadn’t chosen to be locked in my room half my life, forced to study instead of exercise.

  Here I was getting upset. If I couldn’t control my own feelings, how could I expect to win a sword fight?

  I took a deep breath, let it out. Three times. Three, that’s a magic number.

  I looked at the blades the way I did earlier, when I had picked mine up.

  I had to concentrate really hard. My vision blurred and I almost gave up. I’d always been good at giving up. But I saw in the background Giancarlo waiting patiently. I squinted some more and everything swam out of focus. Then I saw a glimmer. It was elusive, fading and then brightening. I focused on it, my eyes squinting madly. My eyes burned, and there was a prickling in my forehead. I tried to relax and concentrate at the same time, to forget all the pain in my arms and side.

  I closed my eyes, took one last deep breath, let it out nice and slow.

  When I opened my eyes again, everything came into focus. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Not only could I see Giancarlo clearly, but our blades as well. My blade was a shimmering emerald green line that continued up my arm.

  Giancarlo’s blade was a pale blue line of fire, but it stopped at his hand.

  For the first time, I realized I had an advantage, being magical. Even though Giancarlo was three times as old, three times as strong and three times as experienced as I am.

  So I didn’t blink. I didn’t feel bad about my abilities. I just spoke a word: kraft, and felt my arms and legs grow stronger. I stood up straight and smiled at Giancarlo, and bowed. We began again.

  I squinted and concentrated on where the blue and green lines met. My arm moved quicker than before. Thanks to magic, I felt almost as fast as my blademaster.

  But the magic didn’t make the bruises hurt any less, and didn’t slow down Giancarlo any either.

  He rained blows down upon me and I parried desperately.

  I still needed the sword’s knowledge. But how could I learn from it?

  My arms were tiring again. Soon I was slowing down.

  I was about ready to throw the sword down and give up. How could I get the silly thing to work its magic?

  Maybe that was what did it, me focusing my anger and impatience on the blade.

  All I know is one moment I was squeezing the pommel, angry at my sword for not telling me its secrets, and the next moment, the blade spoke.

  Not with words, but with blows.

  I parried, parried, struck.

  The blows were like music, and the sword was teaching me a new song. As I struck and parried I heard real music then — the sword hummed in my hands.

  The pommel grew warmer, and the music louder and quicker. I heard words, and at first I couldn’t understand them. Maybe they were some old northern tongue, but they were definitely instructions, instructions my body understood even if my mind didn’t.

  Somehow I think the song the sword was singing was the song of my blood. My body moved with the song. My sword arm danced. It felt like I was swept up in something much bigger than myself, like I was just an instrument in a huge orchestra playing a symphony of movement.

  Suddenly I stopped.

  My blade had cut the blademaster’s forehead, above his right eyebrow. Blood was pouring into Giancarlo’s eyes, down his face. I felt sick in my stomach, felt my sword arm start trembling. I wanted to turn away, but Giancarlo was smiling. Smiling at me, Anders Tomason. And holding out his hand.

  We shook, and I felt my trembling hand calm as he squeezed it with his vise-like grip.

  “So you heard it, did you?” Giancarlo said. “I remember your father doing the same crazy dance. How I would love to hear such strange music, make such wondrous steps and fanciful bladework.”

  I shook my head. “It was the magic, Giancarlo. I’ll never be half-way as good as you.”

  Giancarlo put his arm against his forehead to slow the blood. “The music came quick to you,” he said. “If I remember right, it took your father several weeks, and he had clear instructions on how to go about it from your grandfather.”

  He let his arm down from his forehead and blood flowed again down his face.

  “I’m a right mess,” he said, moving his arm up again. “I better get this blood cleaned up and have Ana stitch me up. She has a witch’s gift for healing, and knows a few spells, although her parents could never afford to get her tutored.”

  He picked up the rest of the swords and put them in the bag, slung the bag across his shoulder and started to walk off.

  “What about this sword?” I called out after him, holding up the blade, missing him already. I had a strange feeling about what would happen in the days that followed.

  “Happy birthday, Anders,” Giancarlo called back, stopping for a moment. “The sword is yours now.”

  I felt a surge of joy that overpowered everything else.

  My own sword.

  What could be a better birthday gift?

  I buckled on the scabbard, sheathed the sword. When I looked up, Giancarlo was still standing there, looking like he was trying to remember something as he staunched his blood in the early light.

  Suddenly his face brightened.

  “Oh, and by the way, your father wants to see you.”

  I groaned.

  Chapter II

  For a while now my father and I had avoided e
ach other. That way, he didn’t have to make excuses about why he never found time to do anything with me, to take me anywhere or teach me anything, and I didn’t have to hear about what a disappointment I was in my studies.

  So, when my father asked to see me, my first reaction was curiosity. I mean, it was my birthday, but had he asked to see me on my fifteenth birthday? On my fourteenth?

  There was a mirror framed by two small oil lamps in the hall just outside my father’s room. I stared at it for a moment before I walked in. My dark hair was all over the place. I ran my hand through it idly, trying to put it in order, push it back away from my forehead. I doubted my father would even look at me, but I didn’t want to be sent to the castle barber.

  My green eyes stared back at me. I tried to smile but couldn’t help looking for all the new pimples that I could feel forming under my bumpy skin. Just thinking about it made it worse. But my father was waiting — I could almost feel his impatience floating in the air outside the room.

  I walked in.

  He was already at work. The light of the candles reflected off his bald head. Not that his skin was unusually shiny, or anything. He had nice, clean normal skin. Whoever’s skin I had, it wasn’t my father’s. His hair was blond, too, what was left of it. So I didn’t have my father’s hair either. Sometimes I thought the only thing I had from my father was his impatience.

  There were papers and maps spread out all over his desk. Ever since we had moved to a new castle after my grandfather’s death — leaving King Lowen in the far North so my father could be a diplomatic liaison in Tuscany — my father had been pushing paper around. As liaison he was always busy, but never seemed to be doing anything, at least nothing like what I read about in books. Instead he was writing letters or talking to people on some diplomatic “mission” most of the time. When I was younger, a little after we had moved South, I had imagined he was a spy. Now I had no more illusions.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  My father looked up. “I take it things went well this morning?”

  I fingered the sword pommel, self-consciously. “I didn’t mean to, father, but somehow I cut him.”