The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  Brant looked at Kaan with concern. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Kaan smiled. “Don’t worry, you will not even touch me.”

  Brant’s smile disappeared. His fights had given him an abundance of confidence, and he was not accustomed to anyone addressing him with such bravado. He had to admit that he didn’t like it. “Very well, but I did warn you.”

  Kaan smiled, and calmly lifted his blade.

  Brant came at him quickly, thinking there was no way for the older man to keep up with his speed. Using all his strength he swung his sword down towards Kaan’s head. He wasn’t trying to hit him of course, confident that Kaan could block the blade. But Kaan did not react as Brant had anticipated. Instead of lifting his sword to block the blow, Kaan rushed forward under the attack, smacking Brant’s exposed belly with the flat of his blade.

  Brant grunted but recovered quickly and spun around. He growled and swung his sword sideways, turning the sword in his hand so he would strike Kaan with the flat of the blade. He was aiming for Kaan’s midsection thinking there would be no way he could avoid the blow. He was partially correct. Kaan made no attempt to evade the stroke. Instead, he lifted his blade, blocking the blow. But then he used the tip of his sword and spun it around Brant’s blade, using the momentum of Brant’s attack against him and pushing the blade to the side and away from him. As Brant rushed by, he quickly smacked him across his thigh.

  “Control your movements. You are attacking on strength and speed alone,” Kaan instructed. “It is throwing you off balance. It is not always the bigger, stronger, swordsman that wins. Try to control your swings and stay on the tips of your toes.”

  Brant ran at him again, but this time he stopped, pulling up short, swinging his sword down toward Kaan’s thigh. Kaan blocked the attack easily, reversing direction and angling his blade towards Brant’s stomach. This time Brant’s sword strike was controlled, his strong arms stopping the movement once it was blocked and his body adjusted, now staying on his toes to keep his balance. When Kaan’s blade angled back toward him, he was able to leap back, narrowly avoiding it.

  Kaan stepped back, smiling. “Very good. You controlled your movement that time. You are a quick learner.”

  Brant lowered the tip of his blade, his adrenaline dissipating. He would have to learn to control his anger. It was a good lesson. “It doesn’t feel like it,” he said, rubbing the bruise forming on his thigh. “You are very good.”

  “I’m decent. But there are many swordsmen far superior to me.”

  “Like Kulvar Rand?” Brant asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  Kaan laughed. “Yes, like Kulvar Rand. That man is the deadliest man I know.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “I have, when I was in the Legion.”

  “I too have met him.”

  “Who is Kulvar Rand?” Tobias asked, moving to stand next to his father.

  “He is a Dygon Guard, and the best swordsman I have ever seen.” He looked at Brant curiously. “How did you meet him?”

  “He arrived at the mine where I was working the day my father died. There were twenty Dygon Guard there to pick up some Kul-brite.”

  “I see. But there is another warrior nearly as deadly with a sword as Kulvar. His name is Tolvanus, and he is captain of the guard in Kreb.” Kaan laughed. “The man is small in stature, but you’d think he’s a giant when he fights. He protects the king’s chamberlain in Kreb.”

  “What is a chamberlain?” Brant asked. He was embarrassed he knew so little, but felt comfortable enough in Kaan’s presence to ask.

  “There are two of them…lords, appointed by King Enden Dormath to rule Kreb and Tanwen in his place.”

  “Supper’s ready!” Jana yelled from the house.

  None of them needed any urging, the smells from the kitchen had been whetting their appetites even as they fought.

  ***

  It had taken nearly three weeks for the caravan to reach Lyone. True to his word, King Enden had sent his son, along with five hundred fresh troops, to the remote garrison. The trek had been long and tedious, with nothing for Prince Jarak to do other than stare at endless grasslands, dreaming of sweet Sofia’s soft bosom.

  He had only been to Lyone once, as a child, and he remembered very little of it. The garrison was built along the Pelm River, strategically placed at the only possible crossing point. Even so, a floating bridge had been built that spanned the river, and the garrison had been erected at the entry point into the lands of Dy’ain. The garrison was basically a keep surrounded by walls. The west wall had a large drawbridge that opened onto the floating bridge. The east wall had one entrance; it too was protected by a heavy gate built of thick timbers reinforced with bands of iron. The walls of the keep were forty feet high and ten feet thick, constructed of giant slabs of basalt that had been barged down from Elwyn. At any one time the garrison housed five thousand troops. The castle built in the middle of the keep was the home of Jarak’s uncle, Daricon, and his family, as well as the families of the various officers that were periodically stationed there. Barracks, supply rooms, stables, and offices, surrounded the central castle, all protected by the keep’s sturdy walls.

  Lyone had been a war zone for over six Cyns. Dy’ain’s relationship with Kael had been peaceful for the last two Cyns, but it hadn’t always been that way. Under the leadership of a particularly brutal king, the Kaelians had tried to invade Dy’ain on numerous occasions, lured by the wealth of the Kul-brite mines. But each time they were kept at bay, and Lyone, reinforced by troops from Cythera, was the main reason for their failure. But when that Kaelian king had died, and his son took over, relationships had improved; the new king realized that trade during peace was much more lucrative than war. Occasionally the nomadic Schulgs attacked the outpost for no other reason than to test the sharpness of their blades, or to introduce the skills of warfare to their young warriors. But today the threat came from the Saricons, who had already conquered Fara. In fact, King Enden had signed a treaty with King Kaleck of Kael, and together their armies had kept the Saricons from taking any more land in Kael, and consequently from crossing into the lands of Dy’ain. Daricon Dormath had been placed at Lyone fifteen years ago when he was only twenty five years old, his sole responsibility to keep the western borders of Dy’ain safe. And now Jarak was to join him in this endeavor. He was not looking forward to it.

  The caravan was quickly brought inside the keep’s walls where the soldiers went about their duties with practiced efficiency. Servants appeared and took the horses, feeding and watering them before brushing them down for the evening. Supplies were unpacked; soldiers were dispersed to their barracks, and more quickly than Jarak thought possible everything in the courtyard was back to normal.

  As the last of the carts were being moved from the courtyard, Daricon, accompanied by two officers, came over to greet them. Several servants had unpacked their bags and were standing behind Jarak and Serix waiting for their orders.

  “By the fates, Jarak, it has been a long time!” Daricon exclaimed.

  Jarak turned to see his uncle approach from the direction of the barracks. He was a tall man, with long arms and legs. He wore the armor of a Legionnaire officer, a golden cape fluttering behind him as he walked across the stone courtyard. At his hip was a long sword. He had a two day’s growth of hair on his face, and his long dark hair was held back with a leather band, from which a few strands had escaped and clung to his sweaty forehead. Anyone could see that Jarak was related to him as they looked like father and son.

  “Uncle, it is good to see you,” he announced, as he held out his hand in greeting. The last time he had seen his uncle was nearly ten years ago. He remembered very little about him, and he felt a bit awkward at the moment.

  Daricon grunted, slapping his hand away as if it were a sword. “Bahh! What is wrong with you, boy?” Smiling, he reached out and grabbed Jarak, holding him tightly in a bear hug. “In Argon’s name you have grown. You look
like a man.”

  “I am a man,” Jarak laughed, his awkwardness crushed by the strength of his uncle’s embrace.

  Daricon released him, holding him at arm’s length. “Well, we shall see about that,” he said, his smile all but disappearing.

  Jarak was impressed by his uncle’s strength. Daricon had made quite a name for himself at Lyone, and was considered to be the best swordsman in the land next to Kulvar Rand. Like Jarak’s father, his uncle was a Merger, and if the stories he’d heard were true he was a very powerful one.

  “My Lord, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Serix said with a bow.

  “The pleasure is mine, Serix,” Daricon replied. He reached out and shook the mage’s hand. “And I must say that we could use your skill. Here, I’d like you both to meet Captain Hagen, and Colonel Lorth. They are my commanding officers.”

  Serix and Jarak shook their hands. Captain Hagen had a stocky build that looked powerful, his hazel eyes critically appraising them both. His hair was thick and black, cut short in the infantry style, and Jarak guessed that he might have some Schulg blood in him. Colonel Lorth was one of the largest men that Jarak had ever seen, nearly two heads taller than Captain Hagen. He looked extremely powerful, his trim waist accentuating his broad shoulders and large muscular frame. Both warriors wore the same Legionnaire armor and carried long swords.

  “It is nearly time for supper. Let’s get you two settled in and we can talk over a warm meal. A bath has been prepared, which I’m sure you could both use.” Daricon turned to the servants holding their bags. “Take them to their rooms.”

  As the door shut behind him, Jarak looked about the drab room. He sighed in frustration. The room was small and lacked the more elegant furnishings and décor that he was accustomed to. At least it was warm, he thought, gazing at the blazing fire in front of the bed. There was an anteroom through an arched opening that housed the chamber pot and a large copper tub filled with steaming water. A table and two chairs were nestled in the corner of the room next to a door that opened onto a small balcony. On one wall was a large armoire flanked by two dressers with three drawers each. Plum colored tapestries embroidered with House Dormath’s family crest hung on the wall flanking the fireplace.

  Jarak moved to the balcony door and walked out into the cool evening air. The sun was beginning to set and he had to admit the view was beautiful, with streaks of red and orange brushed across the skyline. His room faced the river and all he could see beyond were the rolling grasslands of Kael.

  His brief reverie was broken by the sound of some sort of commotion below him. He peered down over the railing. Below him was a training yard that separated one of the large barracks from the inner castle, and dancing around the cobblestones was a woman, her long auburn hair tied back into a single tail. She wore loose fitting black pants and a tan tunic cinched tight with a leather belt over a long sleeve white shirt. She held a long sword in her right hand, and appeared to be practicing various positions of swordplay, her feet smoothly gliding over the flat stones, her sword arm expertly going through the movements. He recognized her skill, as he himself had being trained in the same sword formations.

  “Who are you?” he whispered to himself.

  As if she heard him, she finished a spin, ending the movement perfectly, and stood up straight with her sword held erect before her. And it just so happened that she managed to end up facing him when she stopped. He got a good look at her face and he was struck by her unique beauty. Her body was more muscular, lacking the curve of full breasts and wide hips, than the women he was accustomed to, but it did not seem to detract from her femininity. Large brown eyes stared straight ahead with fierce concentration. The warm bronze of her skin was flawless, smooth and glowing in the soft light of the setting sun. And there was no denying that the fullness of her lips only enhanced her appeal.

  He stepped back from the railing not wanting her to see him spying on her. Maybe this won’t be so bad, he thought as he walked into the room toward his warm bath.

  The vaulted dining room was spacious but simply adorned, like everything else Jarak had thus far seen. The accommodations at Lyone were nothing like the royal palace in Dy’ain. Though sturdy and useful, everything here was simple, lacking the fancy embellishments that were overly prevalent at the king’s castle. A large oak table occupied the rectangular room, above which hung a huge iron chandelier with flickering candles that cast dancing shadows below. Six oil lanterns hung from iron hooks embedded into the stone walls, their orange light giving the room a warm glow. The large dining hall was further illuminated by two large stone fireplaces at opposite ends of the room, their heavy oak mantles simple and unadorned. Four foot logs burned brightly in their hearths, making the room feel warm and cozy.

  One wall was dominated by a giant painting depicting an ancient battle. The opposite wall was almost completely covered by a heavy crimson tapestry expertly embroidered in gold thread with the symbol of Argon and Felina. The gold symbol was round with two intersecting lines, one pointing east and west, and the other north and south. The end of each line protruded just past the circle and ended in an arrow point. The arrows symbolized the all-encompassing power of Argon and Felina, extending in all directions. On each wall were two suits of silver armor, each statue holding a long spear, as if they were guarding the guests while they ate. Although the dining hall was relatively simple, and lacked the elegance of a royal castle, Jarak found it warm and comfortable nonetheless.

  In attendance were Daricon and his wife, Mylena, their two young sons, Tye and Colgan, who appeared to be about eight and ten. Serix was also there, along with the two officers he had already met, Hagen and Lorth. But Jarak’s eyes were drawn to the young girl sitting between the two officers. He recognized her. It was the same girl he had seen on the training grounds before his bath.

  As introductions were quickly made, Jarak was not surprised to learn that the girl, Ca’tel, was the daughter of Captain Hagen. They looked very much alike, the same stocky, powerful build, wide face, and large green eyes. But somehow Ca’tel made it all look beautiful, while Captain Hagen had the harsher, more rugged look of a typical stoic military officer. Jarak had to admit however, that Ca’tel, despite her female persuasions, looked every bit as tough, and after witnessing her skill on the training yard, knew that she probably was.

  After introductions, everyone sat down, eager to sample the warm rice soup that sat waiting for them. Jarak was pleased that he had been given a seat opposite Ca’tel. Wine was poured and conversation began almost immediately.

  Daricon spoke first. “Jarak, I have just read the letter your father gave me. Did you read it yourself?”

  Jarak took a sip of his wine. “I have not,” he replied. “It was sealed.”

  “So you tried to read it?” Ca’tel asked bluntly, ignoring the warning glance from her father who sat next to her.

  Jarak looked at her, giving her his best smile. “I did, Ca’tel.”

  “Call me Cat,” she said plainly.

  This time her father nudged her arm. “I’m sorry, my Prince. My daughter has not spent much time at court and I’m afraid she lacks the proper formality.”

  Prince Jarak looked around the room with his most charming smile. “As you can see, Captain Hagen, we are not at court, and I do not think that this garrison requires much formality.” He then looked directly at Ca’tel. “Cat it is.”

  “This garrison,” Daricon quickly replied, “at the command of your father, will be your home for the next three years, as it has been my home for the last fifteen. So I suggest that you treat it with respect. You will learn, Prince,” his voice as hard as steel, “that these walls will become your best friend. They have protected our lands for hundreds of years. Your father has asked that I teach you how to lead, how to earn respect, and that I introduce you to the intricacies of war. He believes that as the future king you will need to learn these things, and you cannot do so through books and theory. I happen to agree with him.” D
aricon paused and drained the remaining wine from his goblet. His eyes bored into Jarak’s. “Are you ready for this?”

  Jarak looked about the table. All eyes were on him. He had no idea if he was ready for it, but he knew he had no choice. “I will do what is necessary.” He wanted to change the topic of discussion, so he turned to Daricon’s wife sitting quietly next to him. “Lady Mylena, I have heard about you from my father, but your beauty far surpasses what I’ve heard from court gossip.

  Mylena smiled, looking up from her soup. “Thank you, my Prince. We are very excited to have you here with us.” Jarak was not exaggerating. His uncle’s wife was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her most striking features were her stature and her hair, both atypical of the region. She was tall, nearly as tall as Daricon, with flaxen blonde hair, very rare in these parts. And her skin was much lighter, almost pale, with blue eyes like crystal clear ocean pools floating in her creamy flawless skin. Her features were angular, yet elegant, with high cheekbones and lips the color of a light red wine. Jarak noticed that she didn’t wear any color around her eyes, or on her lips. Her beauty was unparalleled without added enhancements. He had heard rumors about how she and his uncle had met, and Jarak was beginning to wonder if they were true. It was rumored that she had Saricon blood in her, and by the looks of it that seemed like a realistic possibility.

  “How did you and my uncle meet?” he asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. By this time the empty soup bowls were being taken away and an appetizer was set before them. It looked, and smelled, like some sort of white fish. It rested on a thick slice of fried bread, and a warm butter sauce was drizzled over the top.

  “It was a long time ago,” Mylena said. “My family and I were traveling from Fara to Eltus, fleeing the wars and the Saricons who had already taken my city. I was only fifteen at the time, but I remember it clearly. We were attacked on the road by a patrol of Saricons and my family was killed.”

  “How did you survive?”