“It will be another three months to complete the outfit,” Garech said, his words bringing Aydrian from his perplexing, yet amusing, private thoughts.
“And its weight when finished?” Sadye asked.
“Considerable, no doubt,” Garech admitted. “But it will be perfectly distributed, I assure you, and our young warrior here will hardly feel it.”
“Will feel it not at all,” Aydrian corrected, “or will not wear it.”
“Master De’Unnero was not ambiguous when he commanded that you be protected, boy,” Garech replied. “I have outfitted Allheart knights, and their armor is nothing short of legendary; and yet, even the shining plate of the Allhearts will pale beside this suit I will construct for you. Because I will be with you, every journey, ready to alter as needed, I can make it so much finer, so much less bulky. There will be no armor in all the world to match this.”
Aydrian didn’t doubt him, and, indeed, he was pleased by Garech’s confidence. Hire the best craftsmen and let them do their work, was Marcalo De’Unnero’s formula for gaining true power, one that Aydrian was following. Another thought concerning the armor did occur to Aydrian, though. Garech was the best armorer available—else he never would have served the King in outfitting Allhearts—but there was another type of armor of which the man had little understanding.
“If I gave you gemstones to set in the metal, could you do so without harming the integrity of the stones?” Aydrian asked.
“Oh, a pretty one, are you?” Garech asked with a chuckle, apparently seeing Aydrian’s request as nothing more than a measure of vanity.
Aydrian looked at Sadye, at the glowing fires in her eyes, and knew that she understood the true hopes behind his suggestion. How could she not, considering the gemstone-enhanced instrument she carried?
“Yes, a pretty one,” he answered Garech.
“It will be shiny enough,” the armorer replied, still not catching on to the truth of Aydrian’s intentions. “Master De’Unnero has demanded only the finest metals, and with exquisite polish, all silver and gold trimmed. You will blind the enemy when the sun gleams off your suit, boy!”
“Gemstones,” Aydrian said quietly, deliberately. “I will instruct you as to where to put them.”
Garech stepped back, obviously unused to taking orders about the design of his work. He looked over at Sadye, though, and saw her nodding her head; and then he glanced back the other way, to where he had put the small bag of gems that he had been paid for his services—more wealth than Garech had ever known, than he had dared believe he would ever see.
Aydrian saw the armorer’s looks and knew that he would get his way without further discussion.
He was back at the shop Olin had constructed for Garech in the lower level of St. Bondabruce again the next day, and the day after that, and so on for the next two weeks. Every day, Aydrian awoke hoping that De’Unnero would return with some more pressing business to get him out of the tedious duty; he didn’t see the point of the exacting fittings anyway, since he figured that the inclusion of the gemstones on the armor was all the advantage he would ever need. But every time he wavered, Sadye was there, scolding him and reminding him pointedly that everything rested upon keeping him safe.
“Be honored that we go to such expense and trouble for you,” she always said, to which Aydrian always merely shrugged.
The only excitement for the young ranger came near the very end of the fittings, when Abbot Olin unexpectedly entered, along with another man whom Aydrian did not know, a hugely muscled man with the woolly hair and dark skin of a southern Behrenese. On his back was strapped a huge sword, the blade slightly curving and with no crosspiece separating hilt from blade.
“At last, I have found a weapon befitting a king,” Olin announced, and he nodded to the large man, who pulled the sword from his back, presenting it reverently before him.
Aydrian didn’t come down from the pedestal where Garech had been fitting him, but he did stare intently at the obviously fabulous sword, its blade shining, and its edge, he noted when the large man turned it, incredibly fine.
Aydrian glanced at Sadye, who was already looking his way, her expression prompting patience, though both knew that the sword Aydrian now beheld would find few, if any, equals.
“Forged by Ramous Sou-dabayda,” Abbot Olin said solemnly, as if that name should carry great weight.
Aydrian’s expression showed that he did not understand its significance.
“He was the master weaponsmith of all of Behren,” Abbot Olin explained; and it was Garech Callowag, and not Aydrian, who snorted derisively.
The big man narrowed his eyes threateningly at the armorer.
“Behrenese never outdid us in weapons and armor,” Garech remarked.
“Not in quantity, no,” said Abbot Olin, “for they have far fewer materials with which to work. To find fuel for the forge is enough of a task in Behren, where there grow few trees.
“But in quality,” the old abbot went on, his eyes gleaming, “there can be little doubt concerning the brilliance of the old Behrenese techniques, such as the wrapping of the metal—as in this sword—a thousand times.”
Aydrian studied the sword more closely.
“Yes!” Olin declared. “It is a wrapped, and not a solid blade, so that each cut, each wear does not dull the edge but sharpens it!” He looked at the huge man and motioned him toward Aydrian. “Take it!” Olin instructed the young ranger eagerly. “Take it and feel the balance, the power.”
Aydrian lifted the blade up in one hand and swung it easily, then caught it with both hands and snapped it back, a powerful, chopping motion. It was indeed a magnificent weapon, graceful with its delicate curve. Yet it was just that curve, and that edge that would keep it forever sharp, that made Aydrian certain that this weapon could not even serve him as backup for the magnificent Tempest. This sword was a slashing weapon, like its heavier cousins carried by the men of Honce-the-Bear. But Aydrian’s style was one of thrust and stab, back and forth rather than circular motions, and for that style, for bi’nelle dasada, only the lighter silverel weapons forged by the Touel’alfar would suffice.
“A fine weapon,” he said, tossing the sword back to the huge man, whose expression immediately became crestfallen. “My compliments to Ramous Sou-dabayda.”
“It is yours!” Abbot Olin insisted.
“It is not mine, nor would I ever deign to carry it,” Aydrian corrected. “It does not suit me.”
“A weapon befitting a king!” Olin cried. “Any king, of any kingdom! Do you deny it because it was made in Behren and not Honce-the-Bear?”
Aydrian smiled wryly and studied the old abbot, who was practically trembling at Aydrian’s refusal. Olin was showing himself clearly, the young ranger knew, in light of what De’Unnero had told him about Olin. This was a perfect example of why Abbot Olin did not win the position of father abbot, why the others of the Abellican Church, the Church of Honce-the-Bear, feared putting him in any position of power. For Olin’s heart was tied to the southern kingdom. All things Behrenese appealed to him in a very basic way, an emotional level that likely he didn’t even understand. Wouldn’t Olin be thrilled to see the King of Honce-the-Bear carrying a Behrenese weapon to the celebrations of state?
“I refuse it because it does not fit my fighting style,” Aydrian calmly explained. “With such a sword, even one as beautifully crafted as that blade, I would be ineffective in battle. I refuse it because I will not placate your desires at the potential cost of my own life.”
Abbot Olin’s eyes widened so much that it seemed to Aydrian that they might fall out of his head, and Sadye’s hissing intake of breath reminded the young ranger that he might now be pushing things a bit too far.
“There are no greater warriors in all the world than the Behrenese Chezhou-Lei,” Abbot Olin stated.
“Trained in a specific style,” Aydrian tried to explain.
“A style you would do well to learn!” Olin insisted and he looked at
the huge man and clapped his hands sharply.
The Behrenese held the sword vertically before him, finding his center and his balance. Then he started a routine, very different from Aydrian’s morning sword dance and yet, very similar in purpose: building a flowing memory into his muscles so that he could execute complicated movements with hardly a thought and with extreme speed. The dance moved along, gaining momentum, ending with the huge man moving side to side and diagonally forward and back with blinding speed and precision.
And then it ended, abruptly, the warrior back in his centered pose, sword presented before him. Olin wore a wide grin; Sadye even clapped.
“A Chezhou-Lei?” Aydrian asked.
“Indeed,” said Olin. “You would do well to learn.”
Aydrian didn’t deny that—learning different techniques would likely allow him to incorporate some of the movements to complement his own style, but neither did he believe these lessons to be any pressing matter. For in watching the display, he had noted many openings in the man’s defense that bi’nelle dasada could exploit.
“I think not,” Aydrian remarked casually, and he nodded for Garech to continue with his fitting.
Out of the corner of his eye, Aydrian saw that Abbot Olin was fuming. “There are no finer warriors in all the world—” the old abbot started to protest.
“There are!” Aydrian interrupted, and it was not just Olin but also the Chezhou warrior whose eyes went wide with shock and outrage. “And they are called rangers.” He thought to add that Marcalo De’Unnero, too, could likely defeat any of the Chezhou-Lei, but he held silent, knowing that elevating even a warrior trained in the Abellican Church above Olin’s beloved Behrenese would provoke the old abbot more.
“I appreciate your attempt, Abbot Olin,” Aydrian said calmly a moment later, the tension still thick in the air, “but I respectfully refuse your offer. When I find the time, perhaps I will take some training in this impressive battle style, but never would it replace that which I already know.”
“You speak the foolishness of youthful pride,” Olin insisted.
Aydrian chuckled. “I have seen your style, thus I can measure it against my own,” he replied with confidence. “You have not seen me fight.”
Abbot Olin’s face went very grim. “Then show me,” he said in a low and threatening voice, and he nodded again to his warrior companion, who stepped back, eyeing Aydrian intently, his sword extended in salute.
“This is not the time …” Sadye started to complain, her voice and expression full of concern for Aydrian. “You would have them fight without armor, with real weapons?”
“That is the way Behrenese Chezhou-Lei hone their skills,” Abbot Olin coldly replied. “Some are wounded, some even killed, but that is the price of perfection.”
Aydrian hopped down from the pedestal, smiling widely, eager for the challenge. He started to the side of the room, where he had set Tempest, but Sadye caught him by the arm and, with a look full of concern, shook her head. “There is too much to be lost,” she said to Aydrian and to Abbot Olin. “Our plans cannot be undone because of your desire to prove the superiority of the ways of the Behrenese, Abbot Olin, nor by Aydrian’s youthful pride in not refusing the challenge.”
A long and uncomfortable moment slipped by.
“No, of course not,” Abbot Olin remarked, eyeing Aydrian intently, with the young ranger returning the look tenfold.
“I’ll not take the Chezhou sword,” Aydrian remarked. “There is no equal for Tempest in the world, unless it is another of the ranger swords, whose whereabouts are not known.”
“The choice, of course, is yours, Master Aydrian,” said Abbot Olin, and he bowed and started out of the room, motioning for his companion to follow.
“You have little confidence in me,” Aydrian said to Sadye.
“Are you so certain?” the woman replied.
“You have seen my swordplay,” Aydrian remarked, ignoring her. “Do you not believe that I could have beaten him?”
“It is irrelevant, for in any case, the greater cause would have suffered,” Sadye explained. “Abbot Olin does not want to learn the truth of the strengths or weaknesses of the Behrenese ways. He is grounded in the traditions of the southern kingdom, and showing him the folly of his ways would do little to strengthen his devotion to our cause. Can you not understand that?”
Aydrian gave her a smile—one that intentionally conveyed admiration and agreement—then he moved back to the pedestal where Garech was waiting.
“You should have skewered the thug,” Garech remarked under his breath, and Aydrian, glancing back at Sadye, nearly laughed aloud.
“I did not believe that you would join us,” Abbot Olin said to Aydrian later that same day. The old abbot and his Chezhou-Lei companion stood in the private courtyard, the place where Olin meditated after vespers, behind St. Bondabruce. He had mentioned to Aydrian that he would be here, and that the young man was welcome to join him. Though he had said nothing more than that, both Olin and Aydrian had understood the truth of the invitation.
“Did Sadye not warn you of the danger?” Olin asked.
“The danger to me or to you?” Aydrian replied, and Olin’s chuckle sounded more like a wheeze.
“I knew that you could not ignore the challenge,” the old man said with a superior air. “I understand the ways of the warrior, I assure you, young Aydrian. I know that you would risk all the grand schemes, all our hopes, would risk your very life, to prove your prowess. And now I have brought you an unexpected challenge, because you, like so many of the people of Honce-the-Bear, who fancy that the world ends at their borders, think to measure yourself only against the known, never considering the unknown. You think yourself as great a warrior as exists in all the world, yet you have no understanding of the Chezhou-Lei.”
More than you understand, Aydrian thought, recalling the warrior’s sword display, but he kept silent and tried hard not to grin.
“Or of the ways of the Alpinadorans,” Abbot Olin went on, “or of the powries—have you ever even seen a powrie, young warrior?”
Aydrian didn’t bother to answer, was hardly listening to Olin at that point, having turned his attention to his challenger, the muscled Chezhou-Lei warrior. He recognized the intensity on the man’s face and knew, from some books he had looked through in the library that same day, that the Chezhou-Lei took this type of contest as seriously as they took real battle. Every fight was a contest of pride and a test of one’s limits.
Aydrian felt exactly the same way.
Abbot Olin rambled on, speaking of the various philosophical differences between the cultures concerning war and training, concerning the role of the warrior and of the Church in society. Had he been paying closer attention, Aydrian might have garnered some valuable understanding of the old abbot’s frustrations with the Abellican Church, some better hint of the vision that Olin wanted to see brought to reality. For in Behren, unlike Honce-the-Bear, the yatol priests were the god-chosen leaders of every aspect of the lives of their subjects, the only shepherds of an obedient flock, while the Abellicans had to share their power with the King.
Aydrian wasn’t considering any of that now, though, wasn’t even hearing Olin’s words, and neither, obviously, was the Chezhou-Lei warrior. The muscled man bowed his head in respect to his young opponent—and when he did, Aydrian noted a scar creasing his mat of woolly black hair.
Battle hardened, no doubt.
Aydrian assumed a similar pose and nodded deferentially. He was waiting for some signal—from Olin, he figured—that the fight should begin, but his nod, apparently, was all that his opponent needed to see.
On charged the Chezhou-Lei fiercely, his magnificent sword whipping in circular cuts and going from hand to hand so quickly that it seemed to be drawing a figure eight in the air before him.
The viciousness of that initial assault, a sudden and brutal attempt to end the fight before it ever truly began, did catch Aydrian off his guard and nearly cost him hi
s pride and a sizeable chunk of his flesh! He had expected some sort of introductory dance, a measured attack followed by a measured response, so that each could better understand the abilities of the other.
Chezhou-Lei doctrine, foreign to Aydrian, demanded that a fight be finished in seconds, not minutes.
And so it almost was, and only the young warrior’s quick reflexes—ducking and dodging side to side ahead of the blade’s progress, then suddenly under it, combined with two wild parries of Tempest that somehow connected enough to slow the assault—kept Aydrian fighting.
He came out of his next ducking maneuver with his feet finally positioned in a proper bi’nelle dasada stance, and he wasted no time but skittered back, his upper body not moving at all, but set in a perfectly balanced defensive position.
The Chezhou-Lei’s sword continued its dazzling work, then he passed it behind his back, flipping it to his other hand. He came out of the move with a straightforward, stabbing charge, that could have worked only if Aydrian had remained mesmerized by the behind-the-back movement.
He was not. The elves had taught Aydrian to dismiss the distractions, to focus on only the movements that counted; and so as the burly warrior rushed forward, sword extended, Tempest stabbed out and slapped the side of the blade.
Again, only Aydrian’s superior reflexes saved him, for then he learned the value of a curving blade, a blade that could, with a subtle twist, defeat a parry by sliding along it.
Aydrian brought Tempest across his body immediately, then slapped it out much harder than normal, forcing the curved blade far away from his vulnerable flesh.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 102
