HONOR
FOUND
Volume II of
The Spare Heir
Michael G. Southwick
Other Books by Michael G. Southwick
Honor Bound
Coming Soon
Honor Crowned
Special thanks to:
Cindy for her understanding and support
Michael for inspiring me
Keith for knocking off the rough edges
Pam for fixing all those little things
And so many others for motivating me to keep going
Chapter I
“What was I thinking?” Jorem thought. Snow swirled around him and the sky was a pale blue canapé with a fringe of small wispy gray clouds drifting lazily by. The snow was so deep that he felt as though he was walking through quicksand. With each step he sank down into the snow up to his knees. More than once he stumbled and fell head long into a drift. Ice crystals had formed on his eyelashes and eyebrows. Even though it was freezing out he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back.
At times the route he chose was so steep he was forced to crawl up the slope. Clawing his way through the underbrush Jorem struggled up the mountain. Every morning he had to reach the summit before he could return to the inn. It hadn’t sounded like such a bad thing during the harvest season. Then winter had come and it had snowed. Wistfully Jorem recalled the days he had spent at the heat of the forge. Now he had a new taskmaster. As he struggled on Jorem let his mind wander back to the day he had met Neth.
“I trust you’ve nothing of import for the next sevenday. You’ll need it to recover.” The words a stranger had spoken so long ago echoed in his mind. He hadn’t known what the stranger’s words had meant. He’d wondered just what had he gotten himself into. Looking back he wasn’t sure he would have made the same choices. Memories of the day Neth had come into his life filled his thoughts.
********
Finishing his lunch, Jorem returned to his room. After locking the door Jorem pulled out the key he kept tucked beneath his belt. Inserting the key into the lock he opened the old trunk that held his personal belongings. The trunk had not been opened since his first days at the inn nearly a year before.
Nestled in a corner was the box containing a power stone gifted to him by the old woman Sashia. Next to that were the clothing and armor he had brought with him on the trip from the capital. At first Jorem was startled by the fineness of the cloaks and breeches. The armor his father had gifted him still gleamed in even the dimmest light. The pommel of the sword glittered with precious stones. The grip was still wrapped in doeskin, so its gem-studded surface was hidden from view.
All of these things Jorem carefully set aside until the trunk was empty. Reaching behind the trunk, Jorem turned the hidden latch to release the false bottom, revealing the hidden treasures of a Prince. From the hidden compartment Jorem pulled out a set of worn, scarred leather armor. Next he pulled out the dull, battered sword and the rough leather helm. He looked at the old, tattered equipment and found it difficult to believe it had been nearly two years since he had secretly purchased it from a street vendor and smuggled it into the palace.
No one knew he had this equipment hidden away; at least he didn’t think anyone knew. When he was home at the castle he’d only taken it out late at night after everyone else was fast asleep. For hours he would sit and dream of being a great warrior. He had dreamt of charging off into the unknown to battle evil creatures and bands of villains. None of the equipment had fit well when he’d purchased it, but the excitement of having it had lent realism to his dreams.
With a moment’s hesitation, Jorem placed the precious cloaks and princely armor into the bottom of the trunk and replaced the false bottom. Quickly, be began donning the old armor. Two years ago the secretly stashed armor had been bulky and loose. Now it was so tight that he could hardly breathe. Obviously he would need to replace most everything if he were to do any serious training. The straps were all stretched to their maximum length and the helm felt like it was glued to his scalp. Apparently he had grown a bit since last he had worn them.
When Jorem arrived at the practice arena the lady mercenary was already there. She stood in the center of the yard with her arms folded, her head tilted slightly to one side. As he approached, her eyes followed him like a cat stalking a mouse. She was dressed in the same gray clothing she’d had on earlier. Something about the color of the fabric made her blend in with her surroundings. The color of the cloth didn’t change, but it managed to blend in with everything else.
When he reached her, he held out his hand in greeting. “I’m called Rim,” he said.
Without a word, she took two steps back and drew her sword. Jorem drew his sword and held it before him. Watch the eyes. Be aware of the rest, but watch the eyes. The lady’s sword tipped down slightly and she rushed him. Her sword went up and Jorem raised his own sword to block the expected blow. Something struck him in the chest and the next thing he new he was lying on his back. His chest felt as if he’d been struck by the smith’s hammer.
Shaking his head, Jorem looked at his hand. “Well at least I held on to my sword,” he thought. As he got back to his feet, he noticed that the lady still stood with her sword drawn. He remembered her sword striking his, but not how she had crossed the space between them. Nor could he figure out what had hit him in the chest. The woman didn’t even speak. She just stood there staring at him. No emotion showing, just a steady gaze of sky blue eyes. Her gaze was so intent that Jorem doubted she even blinked.
Once again he brought his sword up. “FOCUS!” he thought to himself. This time he was prepared for her rush. Poised and ready in the defensive stance Jeseph had taught him so long ago, he waited. Her sword tipped down the same as before. They were further apart this time so he saw her come at him in smooth yet furious leaps. Her sword rose to strike, his rose to block. The blow jarred him to the bottoms of his feet. He was just moving his sword back to guard position when he saw her leg twitch. Like a flash of lightning her foot struck him in the chest and sent him flying backwards.
“What a beautiful blue sky we have today,” he thought. He was on his back again. His chest felt like he’d been kicked by a mule and he had to look at his arm to be sure it was still there. He saw that his sword was still in his hand. “Great, I’m dead but I still have my sword.” Slowly he got back to his feet. His third try was better, but not by much. He was doing all right until she slipped his guard and punched him on the chin. For being slender and trim she packed quite a punch.
Jorem got up off of the ground yet again. He rubbed his chin at the point of impact and knew for certain he would have quite a bruise. The lady merc had sheathed her sword and stood with her arms folded, watching as he approached her. He was within an arm’s length of the woman when suddenly there was a sword in her hand. She held the tip of the blade firmly against Jorem’s throat.
“Who are you?” Her voice was something between a whisper and a purr.
“My name is Rim, “Jorem said. “You’re very good. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.”
“Small praise from a boy,” retorted the lady. “I had hoped to find someone better.” The blade pressed a little harder against his throat. “Answer the question.”
Jorem looked her in the eye and for a moment could not speak. Never had he seen such bright blue eyes. Bluer than the sky and they seemed to glow in the afternoon light. Feeling a bit foolish, he realized he was staring at her like an addled child.
“Forgive me,” Jorem said as calmly as he could. “I am a traveler just passing through. If you are looking for someone equal in skill I doubt that you will find anyone for several days’ ride.”
> The sword remained and her gaze turned to a glare. “I’ve only seen that style of defense from two types of opponents—royals and the royal guard. So which are you?”
Jorem hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to tell this stranger he was ‘Prince Jorem’. Besides, he had an idea that if he played this right, things might work to his advantage. This woman, whoever she might be, was more skilled with a blade than anyone he had ever seen. If the men in the inn wouldn’t even spar with her for fear of being injured, then she was likely better than any of them. Pertheron might be as good as she was, but not as fast.
The pressure of the blade at his neck increased ever so slightly. “I met a royal guardsman some time back,” Jorem said. “He was kind enough to spend time teaching me how to fight.”
The woman snorted in derision as she lowered her blade. “Well, unless you’re going to go around fighting royals, the only thing that style of sword work will get you is dead. Royals are all about honor and style. In a real fight it’s about killing or dying.”
Jorem rubbed his neck where the blade had been. He wasn’t at all surprised that his hand came away with a tinge of red on it. The thought that a mere flick of her blade would have left him headless sent a chill up his spine. That she considered his training with the guard useless bothered him more than a bit. He had never considered the possibility that his opponent might fight less than honorably. Her words made him realize that in a real battle there was little room for proper behavior. Bandits were after your purse and cared little for the method by which they obtained it.
“So you’re saying I’m the best around? What of the Duke’s son?” the lady mercenary asked. “I’ve heard he is a superb swordsman.”
“Indeed, he is good. Far better than I,” Jorem stated. “I’ve seen him spar a time or two. He’s good, but he’d be hard pressed to keep up with you. Not to mention he is not very open to female fighters.”
Anger smoldered in her eyes. “So you’re saying that I’m better than he, but that he will not lower himself to duel with a woman?” Her anger was so intense Jorem took a step back. “A warrior that stops improving is one step from the grave,” she snarled.
Jorem recalled something that Pentrothe had once told him. Without thinking, Jorem repeated the words as they came to his mind. “When one becomes the best at what one does, the only way to become better is to teach another.”
The lady looked him up and down. “Where did you hear that?”
Jorem looked at the ground and quietly said, “An old man who thought I could be more than what I was.” Looking back up at the lady, he decided to take the chance. “Will you teach me to handle a sword the way you do? I’d like to be that good and that fast.”
She considered his words for a while before she spoke. “I’ll have to think about it. I travel a lot in this business, and I’ll not be tied down by anyone.”
Jorem could see she was trying to talk herself out of the idea of teaching. He had to laugh at her words. “Lady, I am not asking for marriage vows, just to learn your skill with a sword.”
The corner of her mouth twitched in a light smile as she held out her hand. “My name is Neth. I’ve never taught another before and I’m not sure I have the patience for it. Meet me here tomorrow and I’ll let you know what I decide.”
Jorem wanted to leap with joy but resisted the urge. “I’ll be at the inn,” he said.
Neth reached out and flicked his ill-fitting armor. “If you have the coins to spare, get some better gear, gear that fits. This looks to have been through a few too many wars.” With that the lady turned and left.
Chapter II
Jorem spent the rest of the day shopping for armor that would serve his needs without appearing too costly. He also stopped by the smithy to see if Franks had any unfinished swords left. He wanted something with the weight of a real sword without the danger of an edge. The practice sword he had brought with him would work, but it had the royal crest emblazoned on it. Not to mention that he needed something for Neth as well. His neck itched every time he thought about Neth’s sword pressed against his skin.
It just happened that the smith still had two swords that had been left unfinished. Franks almost didn’t recognize Jorem with his hair cut so short. He was dressed like the soldiers at the inn and, unlike most of the time he was helping the smith, he was clean. After Jorem had explained to Franks that he was looking for a couple of practice swords the smith had happily rounded the edges of the two swords on a sharpening wheel. A few coins were exchanged and the deal was sealed.
In his previous wanderings around the town of Broughbor Jorem had spied a shop that specialized in armor. Broughbor was about a half marks walk from the Broken Arms Inn even though the inn was considered part of the town. After he dropped the practice swords off in his room at the inn he made the armor shop his second stop. As he stepped into the arms shop, the aroma of tanned leather and oils assailed his senses. A number of tables were piled high with an assortment of leather armor. Chain mail shirts were hung along one wall and various pieces of metal armor were stacked against another wall.
“Can I help you, young man?” a voice came from a corner of the room.
Jorem turned to find a mousy looking man with dull gray hair and a hooked nose peering over an odd wooden-framed contraption. The man had an unusual curved knife in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other. The frame he stood behind had a large brown piece of leather stretched onto it. The man wiped something off of the leather and walked around it to stand in front of Jorem. He was still holding the knife and absentmindedly wiped his other hand on his shirt.
“I’m looking for some armor,” Jorem replied as he glanced about the room.
The man smiled and waved his hand at the piles of armor. “Well, I’d say that you came to the right place. My name is Cob. I own the place and I made all of the armor that you see. What kind of armor did you have in mind?”
“Kind?” Jorem’s blank look said even more than his question.
He’d never even thought about there being different kinds of armor. The armor he had been given as a birthing gift from his father was the same as what his brothers wore. It wasn’t that much different from the armor the royal guard wore. It was a little fancier and polished a bit more, but basically the same design. Nothing he had read said anything about different types of armor.
“Well you wouldn’t want to be wearing heavy battle armor for scouting or skirmishing would you?” The man’s tone was somewhat mocking.
“I guess I never really thought about it,” Jorem confessed.
Cob looked at Jorem for a moment. Then he walked around him while looking up and down Jorem’s frame.
“By your build I’d say that you’re straight off of the farm,” he said bluntly. “By your speech I’d guess a little higher station. So what is it that you’re wanting to be—scout, archer, skirmisher or hack and bash?”
Jorem wasn’t sure what he should say. The man seemed to know what he was talking about so Jorem decided to answer with a question of his own.
“I’m just training right now,” he said. “So I don’t really have an answer to that. I’ll be training with a mercenary by the name of Neth. Perhaps you could make a suggestion.”
Cob’s eyebrows rose at Jorem’s words. “Nethira? The Nethira? How did you manage to talk Nethira into training you? Not to mention, why would you want Nethira to train you? She hasn’t the patience for training experienced soldiers, let alone a green pup, I mean beginner like you.”
“Well,” Jorem shrugged, “no one else would even spar with her so I suppose I can at least give her something to swing her sword at.”
The man shook his head. “Training with Neth, now that’s a new one. Well, in that case, I think you have two options. You can go with the heavy front line armor so you have half a chance to live through the experience, or you could go with the lighter skirmisher armor and hope that she misses once in a while.”
Jorem thought about the
way Neth had moved during their short bout. He wanted to learn to have that lightning speed and precision. If he wore heavy armor there was no way he would be able to move fast enough to keep up with her. He’d be more like a post than an opponent. The lighter gear would be the better choice, but would it offer enough protection? Jorem’s chest and chin were both still sore from Neth’s blows from earlier. If he were to receive that kind of punishment on a regular basis, he’d end up too battered and bruised to move.
“I think the lighter armor would be best,” Jorem said. “As for Neth missing, I don’t think I should count on that. Do you have something light that would give me a little more protection?”
Cob tilted his head to one side, squinted his eyes and pursed his lips. “Something like that could get rather pricey. You do plan on paying for the armor, right?”
Jorem smiled at the man’s question. “I’ve been saving up for some time. As long as the price is fair I don’t think it will be a problem. Biorne at the Broken Arms said you are an honest man.”
“That’s a good reputation to have,” Cob said, “and an easy one to lose.” He hesitated for a moment then continued. “It just so happens that a while back I made a unique set of armor. It’s not pretty and it’s too light for heavy battle. It’s not as light as a scout would prefer, but if you’ve the coin I think you’ll like it.”
As he spoke, Cob walked over to a pile of assorted armor near the back of the shop. He picked up the top item and laid it on the floor next to the pile. One by one the mousy man picked up each item and placed it in the new pile. Mail hauberks, chausses and coifs, gauntlets, heavy leather chest plates and leggings of all sizes were moved from one pile to the other. He was nearly to the bottom of the pile before he found what he was looking for.
Honor Found (The Spare Heir) Page 1
