by JD Hart
An eternity later, Conner reached the top of the city wall. Gripping the lip with both hands, he frantically worked his tired legs to find enough purchase to compensate for arms no longer able to sustain his weight. Finally, he hooked his right leg over the ledge and clambered on top of the wall. His lungs labored for air; his muscles quivered. Pain coursed through every limb.
At last, he peered down. More than twenty guardsmen stood directly beneath, shouting and shaking their fists at him. Behind them, several hundred people stared blankly up. All of this, mixed with the colored huts and old, listing buildings farther on made the scene nothing short of outlandish. No clue what to do next, he laughed at them all.
The excitement rose in Bandit as the north line of guardsmen came into view, but still no farmer. Had he somehow slipped the trap? The guardsmen were nearly toe-to-toe with those from the south when an elderly merchant in one of the colorful market stalls shouted something and pointed up to his right. Following the man’s finger, with mouth agape, Bandit goggled at the farmer scaling the city wall. Not only had he never seen anyone do that before, he did not even know it was possible. He stood amid the forest of faces gazing at the incredible spectacle.
Feeling cocky for having just bested the entire city guard, for good measure Conner gave them all a bumptious salute—that unfortunately threw him off balance. To avoid tumbling back into the angry hornets’ nest he had worked so hard to get away from, he jerked backward. But his exhausted muscles failed him, and in a flurry of awkward spasms, he rolled past the back ledge of the wall.
The Eastland farmer disappeared over the wall and Bandit shook his head in new appreciation for the young man. He personally would have rather faced an enraged mob of guardsmen here than what waited on the other side of that wall. The thief laughed at the farmer’s spunk.
Bandit turned to leave, but the vise-like grip of gauntleted hands held him in place. He gazed up into the familiar face of the brawny guardsman he had encountered in the market, his surly grimace replaced with a smile that did nothing to improve the guard’s looks.
Conner braced himself for the consequences of his reckless action. He could only hope he would be healthy and conscious enough to slip away from the city before the guardsmen took up the chase once more. So the cushioning of his impact by a large, furry object caught him completely by surprise. Of course, this did not compare to the surprise of the animal upon whose back Conner had so rudely landed. Before he could move, the massive beast bolted, flipping him hard to the ground. Conner lifted his head and gazed at the backside of a very large bear.
Of course, he had heard enough stories about brown bears to be concerned. The fact that they preferred plants and berries did not preclude them eating mammals, especially ones who dropped in uninvited. And if breadth was any indication, this bear had dined on many a fatty food besides nuts. Cautiously, Conner backed away on hands and knees, hoping the bear saw his movement as amicable. He did not have to wait for a reaction. With amazing agility, the bear spun about. Its huge maw inches from Conner’s face, the bear roared. Tongue, teeth, and tonsils filled Conner’s view. Hot breath rushed across his face. Any caution remaining in him rapidly dissolved into complete and utter fear.
Sweat sparkled off the bodies in the late daylight. The array of Warriors aligned in front of Marcantos had not even been afforded time to pin their long hair back, so matted strands clung to their necks and stung their eyes. A hushed crowd of spectators pressed close, filling the cramped spaces in the keep’s ward where afternoon shade provided relief. The only creature truly content in the broiling heat was Marcantos’s bond, sunning himself against the western wall, snorting and twitching as he dreamed of chasing elk through a mountain pass.
To his left, Marcantos regarded Huffy, who gazed back with antipathy through bruised, swollen eyes, his broken nose bandaged to his face. He gauged the condition of the other Warriors in formation; each was beyond exhaustion, intent faces flush from the training. He nodded in satisfaction.
“Again!” he called out, assuming the low fighting stance, his thighs parallel to the ground, feet flat, arms wide with palms up. The formation of Warriors mirrored him; a few in the back grunted, legs quivering.
Marcantos closed his eyes and shifted his weight, extending his right leg to the side. Change begins with the stripping away of the heavy burdens and clutter of a complicated life. Sadly, these are the things people cling to most desperately, and yet they have no redeeming value in one’s improvement, his old sage would say. The moments wore on in the heat; the only sounds were those of labored breath and pained groans. He shifted his weight to his left.
A crescendo of shouts near the keep’s entrance grew steadily, finally breaking his concentration. Before Marcantos could bark his irritation, his bond let out a deafening roar. Surprise and anger coursed through their link. Instinctively, he spun about, drawing his sword in defense of his bond. Next to Copious squatted a lad in freeman clothes. Marcantos stepped forward, the boy turning about to run. But the sharp tip of Marcantos’s sword put that thought to rest.
Conner stiffened, his eyes focused on the sword pressed against his chest. Still, he could not help but admire the weapon’s masterful workmanship, from the dark, intricately woven patterns and symbols running the length of the polished blade to the inset insignia of the Warriors Order beneath the cross guard to the tightly woven leather grip and gold-inlaid pommel. It did not take a fighter to note that the muscled arm holding the sword belonged to someone quite skilled. Stripped to his waist, a gleam of sweat covered the well-toned and lithe body.
Conner’s gaze continued to the face of the sword owner, a man he judged to be thirty. Shoulder-length brown hair hung damp about his face. He wore a friendly smile that did not go to his eyes. And he stood quite at ease, regarding Conner as if considering whether to purchase a choice dinner steak.
The swordsman ran his point up Conner’s chest. Placing it under his chin, he pressed upward. Conner rose cautiously in response.
Adrenaline pulsed hard through his veins, blood pounded in his ears. His muscles shook as much from panic as from his climb. A practiced swordsman in front, an angry bear behind, and a hostile mob of city guardsmen over the wall, this was shaping up to be an adventure worthy of even Pauli’s praise. You can’t always change your circumstances, but you can change how you see them, his mother would say. But at that particular moment, every angle of the situation looked hopeless.
Marcantos studied the source of his bond’s irritation, guiding the boy up on his feet to get a better look. “Well, Copious, what catch did you drag home today?”
The bear growled irritably through a wide-mouthed yawn.
The boy appeared to be sincerely frightened, eyes frozen on Marcantos’s weapon. No doubt, the realization he had stepped into a pit of vipers was getting through.
Palastar really did need to improve the security in the keep! “Sergeant at Arms!” Marcantos called in irritation. “Who let this ... Eastlander,” he spat, “into the keep?”
A tall soldier at the entrance cleared his throat. “Apologies, my lord, but he did not come this way.”
“Then how ...” Marcantos scanned up the wall, measuring the distance. He could not recall ever hearing that Eastland farmers could climb walls barehanded. Such feats were reserved for certain ordermen. Another altercation broke out at the entrance, where a rugged sergeant of the city guard was foolishly attempting to force his way past the keep soldiers. “What do you want, Sergeant?” Marcantos asked loud enough to be heard over the argument.
The sergeant sneered and pushed past the two keep soldiers blocking his way. Poking a stubby finger in the direction of the Eastlander, he responded with the kind of Narwalen accent Marcantos found abrasive. “’im, mi’lord! He ’as been eludin’ us for near on most of the day. I am just glad my lord didn’t run ’im through yet, though he definitely ’as it comin’ to ’im.”
Marcantos knew the wretched man. A nasty fellow, he abused everyone
below in rank or status, and groveled at the feet of those above. He was the kind of person that made the Warrior’s stomach knot. After inspecting the Eastlander again, he spoke so all could hear. “So, what are you? A murderer? A thief?”
The city guardsman clarified, “Sire, he attacked a young lad in the marketplace, then resisted arrest.”
Marcantos shouted back, “I wasn’t talking to you, Sergeant!” The guardsman truly was insufferable. Eyes locked on the boy, he demanded, “Well? What? Speak!”
The boy swallowed hard, a hundred pairs of eyes upon him. “I am ... was passing through to the north, sir, and came into the city to acquire some supplies when the young boy he referred to attempted to pickpocket me.”
It was the look of fire in the boy’s eyes that most held Marcantos’s attention. “And here I always thought Cravenrock pickpockets were good at their practice.” Laughter erupted around the ward walls, but the boy did not reply. At least the boy had sense to know when to speak. So, an Eastlander boy entered the city, successfully prevented a Cravenrock thief from pickpocketing him, got away from the city guards, eluded them for hours, then climbed over a wall ten paces high using just his hands and feet. Well, if the boy was an Anarchic spy, he was a good one. The simplest explanations were most often correct. Still, Marcantos could not hand the boy over to the city guard without being certain. The local marshal would administer punishment for breaking Common Law, a simple slap on the wrists before letting him go. But if he was a spy, High Law of the Realm would have jurisdiction over him. Then Reina, the baroness of Cravenrock and cousin to the queen, would be forced to administer punishment. That made him smile. It would at least bring some excitement into his days of doldrums.
Marcantos stepped back. Turning his blade down, he tossed the sword toward the boy. “Catch,” he commanded, and observed the boy’s response. The boy’s hand shot out, easily finding the grip; but he remained motionless, uncertain what to do next. After a dozen heartbeats, Marcantos said to the boy, as if it were obvious, “I want you to attack me.”
The boy scanned the ward nervously.
A few Warriors shifted behind him, making the boy wary. “I believe I am already in enough trouble, sir. You should take this back.” He held the sword out to Marcantos.
“Humor me, Eastlander. You won’t get into any more trouble than you are in already. In fact, I’ll make you a promise. If you can make me yield with that sword, I will make sure the city guardsmen do not arrest you. You have my word.” He failed to mention that if a farm boy could best him with a sword, he would be arrested by the keep’s commander as a spy.
“What weapon will you use, sir?” the boy asked with apprehension.
“No weapon. I will fight as I am.” Marcantos raised his bare arms, showing he carried no weapons. He let the boy weigh each of his very few options. “Do we have a deal?”
The Eastlander shifted to the side to move clear of Copious, who sat on his haunches rubbing sleep from his face, the boy’s offense forgotten. The boy lifted the blade carefully between them. Committed, he said, “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”
Marcantos smiled back. “We seldom do.”
The Warrior did not move, intently focused on how the boy carried himself with sword in hand. Any Anarchist spy would at least be trained in basic fighting styles, if not advanced ones. Their training left telltale signs impossible to mask, even if the spy believed he knew how. By the time the boy moved, Marcantos was ready.
The sword flashed forward in an awkward thrust. Marcantos noted with slight interest that the boy’s feet were too close together to stop his forward momentum. And the edges of the blade were poorly positioned—vertically instead of horizontally—making him vulnerable to a counterattack. The sword shuddered as it neared his chest.
Marcantos twisted to his left, sidestepping the sword point. Slipping forward, his chest toward the outstretched blade, he ran his right forearm up the side. In one fluid motion, Marcantos slapped his right hand down on the upturned cross guard and pulled hard, bringing the boy off balance. Moving parallel with the blade, he brought his left arm up, driving his elbow into the boy’s forehead. The force snapped the boy’s head back; his body followed. Simultaneously, Marcantos twisted the cross guard toward him, wrenching the sword easily from the boy’s hand. The grip of the precisely balanced sword slid effortlessly into Marcantos’s right hand, point down and away, as the boy tumbled to the ground amid a rising cloud of dust. The Eastlander lay prone, legs splayed wide, attempting to shake the fog from his head.
Marcantos sheathed his sword. Certain the boy was not a spy, he waved the sergeant forward to take him.
The burly sergeant flashed a yellow, toothy grin, then lurched forward with several more city guardsmen to greedily collect their prize.
Marcantos stopped in front of the Warriors. They had clearly lost both their formation and their mental focus for more training, so he dismissed them with a wave. He would pick up again tomorrow, possibly moving on to the next set of forms.
Foxy stepped forward to let the guardsmen pass, clumsily lugging their half-conscious prisoner back to the keep’s entrance. Marcantos took in her form, the trim sleekness of her body, tightness of muscle, her catlike step.
She moved in close, measuring him as if unsure how to judge his actions. “You take unnecessary risks, and for what? To determine whether a farm boy is a spy?”
He filed away for later consideration her failure to recognize his superior rank and status. He would also find time to ask her why she had hesitated in her attack during their fight earlier that day. For now, he said, “Do not search for complex motives where there are none. Where is the adventure without risk? Besides, no truth worth uncovering was ever found without taking chances.” Scanning the ward, he found Copious rubbing his back against the wall near the entrance to the ward. He walked away, sensing Foxy’s eyes upon him.
The Bloodied Messenger
Friarwood brooded in the dark, secluded corner of the keep’s hall near the entrance to the ward while the afternoon’s events played out. He did not like crowds, and Marcantos was already gathering quite a collection of onlookers. That was no real surprise. Marcantos was not just a high-ranking member of the Warriors Order. He was not even just one of the few grandmaster Warriors under forty. He was, without question, the most skilled Warrior in over three hundred years. And it would be years before he reached his full potential.
Friarwood sneered at those who had come to gawk at the Warrior extraordinaire. What had attracted most of these cretins on a moment’s notice was not his mastery of the sword. Those who gawked were too stupid to recognize the beauty of true art in motion. No. It was that Marcantos would surely be Griffinrock’s next Champion of the Realm. As word spread that someone of his stature was in Cravenrock Keep’s ward teaching basic forms to those of the Warriors Order, it was bound to attract the curiosity of every fool who had a morning hour to waste and could bully their way into the keep.
An hour ago Friarwood had been numb. Now he was incensed. Nothing was entertaining about this business. He was forced to stand there sulking in the dark while the young man frittered away his hours with his new ... pets! It was enough to make his body ache.
For the fourth time that day, leaving no details unconsidered, he replayed how Marcantos had come to his quarters speaking of his agreement with Colonel Palastar to train all the keep’s Warriors for the next fortnight. Friarwood’s suspicions kept hanging on the part about Marcantos being honor-bound by his earlier actions in the ward, rendering two masters incapable of performing their duties. In Friarwood’s eyes, they deserved what they got, if not more.
A fortnight! He shook with rage.
Friarwood tapped his left forefinger to pursed lips in irritation. What had he missed? The glow of a black onyx stone with spiraling bands of deep blue inset on his large gold ring cast shifting shadows in the dark corner of the wall. He must extract something more useful from the young man to help understand his m
otives, his reasoning. He needed that understanding, because if he did not glean the logic, he would have to surmise the young man was starting to crumble under the duress of his training. And he did not want to consider that, not when they were so close to achieving his objectives.
Nor would Friarwood accept that being distracted by his other responsibilities might have jeopardized his primary assignment. The council of his true order would not appreciate that. He could juggle more than one knife. He clenched his hand tight, the sneer returning. He was so close! Watching Marcantos discover his prowess in using Anarchic Sight had been thrilling. The most challenging aspect, though also the most rewarding in a twisted way, had been training the great Warrior so that even he was unaware of what he was learning.
The dispersing crowd shook Friarwood from his worries. Fighting back a gnawing impatience, he moved to the entrance only to have a large city guardsman step on his foot while ineffectively directing two more through the portal. A dirty, semiconscious boy dangled between them.
“Here!” the guardsman rounded on whoever had gotten in his way. Recognition flooded the guard’s face and he immediately went into the bootlicking act typical of the city guard. “Extreme apologies, mi’lord Friarwood. I did not be seein’ you there in the entrance. We do be tryin’ to remove this spirited fellow from your graces, though, so please be forgivin’ us for any troubles.” He flashed a pathetic, cringing grin.
