“My father was no—”
“Wait,” said Palin, rising to his feet. “If what you say is true, then the sword…?”
Modwyn paused, his mouth partially open. “Well… I guess the sword would still be there, my lord, still buried in the catacombs beneath the ruins of Serina’s fortress—on an island your family now owns.”
Chapter 5
Dilan
Dilan gasped for breath. His shoulders were on fire, and sweat ran into his eyes, stinging him. They had been drilling for hours with wasters, wooden practice swords, and he was tiring. His opponent, Owen, was both skilled and fast, despite his size, and he was giving Dilan a challenge. Dilan forced himself to concentrate, to ignore his discomfort and focus on the swordplay, shifting fluidly between stances, stepping forward on the attack or back and to the sides when parrying.
The light was beginning to fade in the early evening. The entire garrison, more than a hundred men-at-arms, drilled in the large stone courtyard of Castle Dain. Dilan’s linen undertunic, beneath his padded leather top and ring-mail coat, was soaked in sweat and chafing. He kept his wooden round shield held high before him while he lashed out with his waster again and again, trying to get past Owen’s shield and sword.
“All right, that’s enough for now,” called out Keep-Captain Awde. “Drop your wasters and plant your asses on the ground.”
The men chatted in relief, happy for the break.
“Finally,” said Fin, joining Owen and Dilan as they settled themselves on the stones of the courtyard.
Most of the men were still cool to Dilan, but Owen and Fin had accepted him readily enough, likely because of Dilan saving Owen’s life. Young boys moved among them, handing out waterskins and apples. Dilan drank deeply and helped himself to an apple, biting into it as the boy moved farther down the line.
“He always drill you like this?” Dilan asked.
Fin snorted. “Aye, but this is more than usual.” The young man was tall and rangy, with a big nose and ears, a pleasant enough sort with a sly sense of humor.
“Much cause for fighting around here?” Dilan asked.
Owen shook his head, removed his half-helm, and ran his fingers through his short blond hair. “No, but we can stand together in a fine shield wall… if we ever have to.”
“Best hope you never have to,” Dilan said and bit into his apple.
Keep-Captain Awde walked down the line of men, his eyes drifting over them. All conversation stopped, and the men watched him expectantly. From all the tales his brother Artur had told him of the legendary Brice Awde, Dilan had expected the man to be eight feet tall and carved from granite, yet he seemed like any other man and younger than Dilan would have expected. Tall and fit, with a swordsman’s shoulders, Awde moved confidently before them. As he walked past them, Dilan noticed a large, ugly scar running down the right side of Awde’s neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his ring-mail coat.
Awde addressed the men. “Pay attention.” He didn’t yell, but his voice still rang clearly. “Before we finish for the night, I want to discuss timing and countertiming. Now, before you grumble that you’re all a bunch of hardened killers and already know how to fight, hear me out.”
A soft chatter of chuckles passed among the men, and they grinned at one another. He had missed that feeling, Dilan realized, the camaraderie of other warriors. Oh, Artur, why didn’t you just let me go and save yourself?
“Range and timing are everything in warfare,” Awde continued. “If you understand range and timing, you can develop an intuitive sense for countertiming.” As he spoke, the keep-captain drew his sword and held it above his head with both hands on the hilt, striking out with a downward cut from the high guard to emphasize his point. “What you need is to be able to sense, from an opponent’s attack, the exact right moment to move—forward, back, sideways—so that you evade his strike while at the same time counterstriking. To the untrained eye, it looks like you’ve both struck at the exact same moment, yet your cut hits and his misses—wonderful luck!
“But…” He paused, pointing his sword across their ranks. “There is no such thing as luck—not in battle. What’s truly happened is you’ve anticipated your opponent’s attack and moved in such a way that—even without parrying—his strike misses and yours hits. Not luck, not fate—just an understanding of range and timing, but this skill doesn’t come easily. You have to develop it over time.
“You develop this understanding by practicing against opponents armed with different weapons. Most men you fight will be carrying spears or axes, rarely ever swords. Make no mistake, while swords are the king of the battlefield—and I have personally seen men cut in two from a single sword blow—most men can’t afford swords. Count yourselves lucky you have jobs where we give them to you.”
The men laughed at this, rubbing sore arms and shoulders.
“So,” continued the keep-captain, motioning to the young boys—who ran forward with bundles of wooden spears, polearms, axes, and daggers in their thin arms and lay them out in piles before the men—“let’s go again, but this time, one of you fights with shield and sword while the other uses different weapons. Move slowly. Get a feel for each weapon’s reach and speed. Focus on the counterstrike. The very moment your opponent commits to an attack—you attack him, but move in such a way that you evade his blow while yours strikes. Be patient. It’s going to take a long, long time to develop.”
Dilan and the others climbed to their feet. Owen picked up a spear, its tip blunted, and squared off against Dilan, who held his shield before him, his waster in the middle guard, near his hip, to protect his sword hand behind his shield.
For the next half hour, they drilled. They took turns attacking with different weapons and practicing their countercuts. Dilan had already had some experience at the drill, and he helped Owen. When the keep-captain finally called an end to the training, Dilan was nearly exhausted. The young boys came by again to hand out waterskins, and Dilan clasped Owen on the back as the man drank, causing him to swallow badly and cough.
“That was well done, Owen,” he said. “You’ve some skill.”
Owen snorted. “You learn to fight like that in the Ram?”
“My brother as well.”
Owen handed him the waterskin. “I’m jealous. You’ve been places, seen the world. I’ve never been past the southern border of the duchy. What was it like in the east?”
“I’d rather not—”
“He doesn’t want to tell you about it, Horse-boy, cause he’s a piece-of-shit coward and a liar,” a mocking voice said from behind them.
Dilan felt his face heat. Turning, he saw two of the larger garrison soldiers, Marlin Ornkey and Hooper Tibs. In the days since he had joined the garrison, he had already had the displeasure of meeting both of them, the local big men, the would-be bullies. Marlin, the one who had spoken, was a huge, heavyset man with ruddy cheeks and a thick brown beard at least a hand’s length long. He stood there with a shit-eating grin on his ugly face. His friend Hooper, almost as big, stood just behind him. Hooper had a misshapen nose that had been broken too many times and piglike eyes that shone with glee, as if he were having the time of his life.
“This one weren’t ever in the Rams,” Hooper said. “Never met a man from Shellat’s Fief what weren’t an ass-raping liar-coward.”
Dilan, making sure his balance was evenly distributed, faced the two men. “Which is it, then? Am I a liar, a coward, or an ass rapist? I’m confused.”
Hooper’s little eyes narrowed in confusion. “Huh?”
Marlin stepped closer, putting his face right in front of Dilan. “That’s a big mouth you have, deserter.”
Dilan screwed up his face in disgust as he took a step back, waving his hand in front of his mouth. “Craftsman’s love, man—your breath! I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be your dick that goes in the sheep’s ass, not your tongue.”
Marlin’s face turned bright scarlet. “What?”
“He’s sayi
ng,” said Owen, moving up beside Dilan, “that you don’t need foreplay. The sheep doesn’t care. Is that what you mean, Dilan?”
“Well, I don’t really know,” said Dilan, ready to move. “I don’t fuck sheep.”
Owen snorted. “I don’t know anything about sheep-fucking either, but I imagine you don’t really need the foreplay. Just catch ’em first.”
Fin joined them then, standing on the other side of Dilan. “Are these two bragging about sheep-fucking again? I just don’t see the appeal, but to each his own, I guess.”
Marlin’s eyes narrowed, and a trace of fear replaced the anger as he glanced from Owen to Dilan to Fin. “You sure you want to do this, Horse-boy?” he asked Owen. “I’m not your brother.”
“That true, Marlin?” Fin asked. “You got to catch them first?”
“What? Fuck you!” Marlin spat the words out, turning to glare at Fin.
“I thought you fucked sheep,” said Dilan.
“See, here’s the thing, Dilan,” said Owen. “You don’t know about sheep foreplay because you’re not an ugly-ass sheep-fucker with shit in his beard and his tiny dick in his hand. And, yeah, Marlin, I’m sure.”
Marlin smiled cruelly, shaking his head. “You think you’re so clever, but you’re nothing more than a coward. Prophet’s Bridge, my ass. You probably ran off long before that.” Marlin turned and jammed a thick finger in Owen’s chest. “And you, Horse-boy, you mark my words, your new girlfriend will run again—probably when we need him most.”
“Make your move,” said Dilan, blood pounding in his ears. “Make your move or be on your way.”
Hooper reached out and grabbed Marlin’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Don’t. Not here.” He smirked at Dilan. “Another time, coward.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dilan said.
“Neither am I,” said Owen.
“We,” said Fin.
Marlin pointed a thick finger at them. “You’re all gonna be sorry.” Spit flew from his mouth.
Fin bleated like a sheep, and all three of them laughed as Marlin and Hooper stormed off.
Chapter 6
Danika
Danika paced the wooden floorboards of the castle’s modest library, her thoughts a whirlwind. Nearby, his head lowered in concentration, Palin sat at a table, reading by candlelight, occasionally scowling or whispering to himself. Three long rows of wooden bookstands, each filled with hundreds of dust-covered books, sat against the walls. Castle Dain’s library boasted the finest collection of books in the north, she knew, but Palin was still not going to find what he wanted.
The yellowed journal he was reading was the official ledger of their uncle Stron’s steward, recording the last days of the war against Serina’s undead army almost fifty years before. She had read the journal herself years earlier and still remembered what it contained—almost nothing of value. The individual entries within the journal were very detailed, highlighting the shipborne assault upon Greywynne Island; the monsters within Feldwyn Swamp; the siege of Serina’s fortress; and finally, the battle in the Great Crypt where Serina herself had finally been defeated—where, according to Modwyn, their father had abandoned his own brother, leaving him buried alive as the ceiling collapsed.
Palin sat back, closed the weathered journal, and rubbed his eyes. “She was awake, you know. Serina was waiting for them when they went belowground—even though the sun was up. I thought Blood Fiends had to sleep during the day.”
Danika shook her head. “Palin… who knows of such things?”
He nodded, softly bobbing his head. “There’s nothing more in here, nothing about… after she died.”
“I told you before, the man who wrote that journal wasn’t there, wasn’t in the Great Crypt. He was a steward. He wrote what father told him to.”
“I thought maybe… maybe there was something, some clue that would help…”
“This all happened long before either of us was even born. Let it go. The past no longer matters.”
Palin snorted. “No longer matters? It matters. Do you believe him?” His eyes met hers, beseeching. “Do you think father could do this thing, abandon his own brother?”
“I don’t like our new physician,” she said. “But he has no reason I can think of to lie to us. He has no connection to the north. And this new version of events, father’s deathbed confession… It would explain why father never spoke of that day.”
“But to abandon his own brother—just to become duke!”
“I don’t believe that was the case, no matter what father may have said. Who knows what lies he convinced himself of over the years. But I think… maybe, maybe he did… run away. Maybe he was always carrying this shame.”
Palin wiped his eyes. He looked so tired, so worn out. Kneeling down beside him, she placed her hand on his knee. “Palin, our father was a good man. You must know that. We weren’t in the Great Crypt with him when he confronted her. It must have been terrifying. They say that there was a—I don’t know—an unholy aura that surrounded her. They called it the Dread. Many other men ran from her presence. But… abandoning his own brother to become duke? Father was never that ambitious.”
He sighed. “You’ve got the right of that. When I was seven, I saw him confront the elder Lord Wolm, back when the miserable old bastard was still alive. He came to the castle to discuss an incident between our troops.” Palin snorted. “Incident. Everyone knew his troops had attacked ours, murdering two of them. I was sure father was going to kill him for it.”
“I remember that,” said Danika. “I’m surprised you do.”
“I remember it far too well. I wanted to see father be the great man I knew he must really be. After all, he was the hero who helped kill Serina, the only survivor. So I hid behind one of the doors and spied through the keyhole.” Palin’s shoulders trembled. “Father was so… so… not what I wanted him to be. Wolm treated him with contempt, insulted him, insulted mother, you… all of us. He dared father to fight him, called him craven. He spat in father’s face before he left, laughing at him.”
She sighed. Placing her head against his, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Our father was a gentle man, Palin, not a warrior. Why must men be beasts in order to be great?”
“We need to regain our honor. We lost it on that damned island.”
“We lost nothing.”
He frowned. “You don’t—”
“Understand?” She stood up and backed away. “I don’t understand honor? Why? Because I’m a woman? Oh no, brother, I understand honor all too well.”
“I didn’t mean that—”
“Where was the king that day? Where were the Wolms, the other noble families? Stron and father saved the Kingdom of Conarck when no one else would, when everyone else was too frightened.”
“The other families tried,” he said.
“Tried and gave up. Tried and decided her undead army was unstoppable. We kept fighting—our family, the Dains—the northern lions. At the end, only we stood against her. Stron beggared our family paying the army. And for what? The king never repaid our debts despite promises he would. Now, our family’s wealth is a fraction of what it once was, and so much of our land now belongs to others.” She turned away and approached the stained-glass window to put her forehead against it, cool against her skin. “Why?”
“The sword,” Palin said softly, getting up and standing behind her. “The king blamed father for losing Sight-Bringer. He still blames our family.”
She snorted. “Blood Fiends’ Bane, the Sword of Justice—what rubbish. Always just a sword.”
“Not to the king, not to the people, not to the other noble families. We lost a holy relic that day, one that the king had only loaned to us to stop Serina. We lost our honor with it.”
Turning, she stared at him in challenge. “No, Palin, we didn’t. We don’t need to prove anything.”
He shook his head. “If I can dig out the catacombs, give Sight-Bringer back to the king—”
“Palin, those islanders hate us. They blame us for killing Serina, their queen. The king may have given us Greywynne Island, but those people have only ever been loyal to her and her family. They won’t help us.”
“I need the sword to be duke. If not, Harold—”
“The king won’t favor our idiot cousin. The line of succession is clear. You are the only son of the last Duke of Wolfrey. We don’t need some stupid Illthori sword.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand what the sword means. You’re not a warrior.”
She laughed, unkindly perhaps, then regretted it when she saw him blush. “Warriors, Palin? Which warriors? Our king, all those cowards who refused to fight Serina?”
“That was almost a half century ago. They’re not the same nobles.”
“It’s the same king! Now he’s just an old fool instead of a young one.”
“Old or not, our cousin gains favor at his court while I look like a child here. I need something to solidify my claim.”
She shook her head. “No, you don’t!”
“I can’t take the chance. Besides, think about it… Sight-Bringer? After all these years. How can we not go after it? Just think how grateful the king would be. The Holy Three Illthori artifacts—Crown, Rod, and Sword—would be reunited. He might even finally honor our war debts.”
She bit her lower lip and stared at him. He really believes that, doesn’t he? Is he right? Am I wrong? “Palin, if he ever had any intention to, the king would have honored his debts forty-eight years ago.” She approached the table and let her fingers drift over the flaking pages of the book. “Besides, this late in the summer, it’s too late for sea travel.”
“Not if we leave right away.”
“Do you really want to risk getting stuck on that stupid island once the weather turns? Do you want to spend an entire winter in that little fort with Wendel Dert? The man is an insufferable ass.”
“But a competent one. If nothing else, the Greywynne Islanders provide us with more salted fish than we could ever eat. And our trade with the Histari is profitable.”
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 4
