The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  Cat had been scooting frantically away from the warrior, her sword held protectively before her ready to block the downward stroke. It was then that her father, faster than she thought possible, had stabbed her attacker in the thigh before reengaging his own opponent. The man before her howled and grabbed his injured leg, temporarily thwarting his attack. He had given her a moment of reprieve, and she capitalized on it. Spinning her legs under her body, she jumped up on her knee, her sword arcing across the Saricon’s leg, slicing him just under the metal plate on his thigh, opening up a deep red gash above his kneecap. Howling for a second time, he withdrew his right leg, only to find her sword reversing direction, this time cutting across his stomach, where her blade opened a terrible cut below the protection of his armor. He stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with pain. But his pain quickly turned to fury and in two heartbeats he had lifted his axe, screaming maniacally, and bringing the weapon down towards her head.

  Cat hadn’t a moment to think; she reacted solely on instinct, remembering the training her father had drilled into her since she could lift a sword. He had always taught her that, when fighting a man in armor, especially if he were larger, to always look for openings. The body, he instructed, had several weak points. The inner thigh where the femoral artery ran was always a key target, along with the neck and head. The heart of course was always a target, but that was usually protected. The spot that many warriors forgot, and which was typically vulnerable, was the spot just under the armpit. As he lifted his huge axe, Cat pivoted to his side and jumped forward, aiming the sharp point at the soft spot under the arm. She was lucky that he was left handed, giving her a proper attacking angle with her right hand. Like her father, she too was incredibly fast, and her blade found its mark, plunging in deep. She had angled it perfectly, slicing between his ribs and piercing his heart. Just as quickly, she withdrew her blade and the man fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

  Before she could catch her breath another Legionnaire had fought his way to her, and together they surged forward, trying to keep her father on her left flank.

  Farther down the line, Jarak fought like a crazed man, knowing that to do anything else would mean his death. He had suffered a small cut on his right arm, he was drenched with sweat, and his armor was splattered with blood. He had killed well over a dozen with his spells, although he could not be sure, and just recently had dispatched an enemy with his sword. His own men fell around him, their screams muffled by the howls of the Saricons. Serix was on his left and he knew that Captain Ral was on his right, sensing him but no longer able to see him. He had exhausted the energy he had pulled from Endler Ral and was too focused on staying alive to get more. Drawing energy while fighting was possible, but Jarak did not have the experience yet and was worried that any lapse in concentration would end in his death. But he could feel the Channeler’s aura energy and was prepared to draw on it when he could.

  Suddenly the man he was fighting, reacting to a yell behind him, pivoted away, revealing a giant Saricon with long blonde hair encrusted with blood, rush at him with amazing speed. Jarak barely had time to lift his sword. Nonetheless he had just enough time to catch a glimpse of his attacker’s eyes…and they were glowing green.

  The man, evidently one of their leaders, had enacted his Fury. Jarak lifted his sword, madly trying to block the sword wielded by the warrior. They exchanged several blows, their swords clashing together, but Jarak could not match his strength and speed. The Saricon’s blade sliced across his cuirass, the force of the blow denting his armor and throwing him to the side.

  Two Legionnaires, sensing his danger, rushed in to cover his flanks. But the crazed Saricon was screaming the name of his god, his body and sword nothing but a blur of movement, and within moments they were both dead, and he turned his attention again to Jarak.

  His brave men had given him several moments of reprieve, and he used it to task more energy from Captain Ral. He knew he didn’t have time to construct a complicated spell, so he did the first thing that came to him. It was a simple spell that all beginning mages learned and he could enact it almost instantly. Just as the Saricon’s sword came at him, Jarak lifted his sword to block it, simultaneously pushing his left arm forward, propelling a small amount of energy into the warrior’s chest. To the armored Saricon it would have felt as if an invisible fist had just punched him. It did no real damage, but it caused him to hesitate, just for a moment. Jarak wasted no time. He thrust his sword forward into the stunned warrior’s stomach. His blade sunk into his flesh, but then he saw stars as the man’s fist found his jaw. He hadn’t even seen it coming, but in a flash he was stumbling away, his sword left behind in the man’s gut.

  In his daze he saw a bright flash of lightning, followed by the smell of cooked flesh assaulting his senses. Falling to his knee he put his right hand out to stabilize his body.

  “Are you okay?” A voice came from his left. It was Endler Ral. Jarak momentarily shook off the dizziness, and looked up, half expecting to see the crazed Saricon, his sword lifted and ready to cleave his face. But that didn’t happen. In fact, the Saricon war leader lay sprawled and unmoving on the ground, his body blackened and smoking in spots. Serix stood before him, residual lightning arcing across the fingertips of his left hand.

  Endler helped him to his feet. “I’m fine, I think.” Around them the fighting had suddenly stopped. It was surreal to Jarak. For what seemed like an eternity, even though he knew it was mere moments, the chaos and sounds of war had echoed in his head, and now, his body drained, it was eerily quiet.

  Serix stepped toward him, his armor covered in gore. But he seemed unhurt. He lifted Jarak’s chin, inspecting the damage. “A nasty cut, but I think you’ll be fine.”

  If Jarak could have seen his face, he probably would have been shocked. The powerful punch had opened a deep ragged cut along his jawline, which was bleeding profusely, painting the side of his face and neck crimson. Luckily for him, it looked worse than it was.

  “Let us see to our wounded,” Captain Endler suggested, stepping away to do just that.

  Serix stepped closer to Jarak. “I know you are tired. We all are,” he added, dropping his voice to a whisper. “But now is when you should walk among your men, talking with them and checking on their well-being. They will see you wounded, and your courage and strength will make them proud, a feeling they desperately need right now, with so many of their friends and comrades dead around them.”

  Jarak took a deep breath to steady himself. His chin hurt, but clearly others were much worse, and despite his drained body he knew that Serix was right. “I will do my best.” He stepped away on shaking legs, hoping that he had the energy to do as Serix suggested.

  “And Jarak,” Serix said, forcing him to turn and look at him. “You did well. I am proud of you. Your father would be proud of you. I am honored to have fought with you.” Serix bowed his head before he turned away to deal with the horrors of war.

  Jarak made his way through the battlefield. He was tired, drained both physically and emotionally, but no amount of exhaustion could compare with the devastation that he saw around him. Bodies were strewn about, lying at awkward angles, covered in the gore of battle. Vacant eyes, expressionless, devoid of that once present spark that signified life, stared back at him. He tried to ignore them, focusing instead on the living. He made the rounds talking with his men, and providing what aid he could before moving on. Officers were organizing the removal of the dead, stacking the enemy warriors in big piles to be burned. Their own men would be buried with honor higher up on the banks, away from the floodplain. They had a lot of work to do.

  Suddenly Cat appeared beside him looking worried when she saw his jaw. He had been holding a piece of his cape that he had torn off against the wound and it was saturated with blood. But he smiled when he saw her, the images of the dead finally replaced with something akin to joy, and an immense relief that she was alive.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. She tried to hide it,
but Jarak could tell that she was gratified to see him; perhaps feeling the same emotions as he, that they had both made it through the fight intact.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Better than some. How are you?”

  She took a deep breath. She was covered with the same sweat, grime, and dried blood of battle that all those who had taken part in the fight had endured, but she seemed to be uninjured. “I’m alive.” That was all she said, not wanting to bring up the memories of the battle.

  “My Prince, I am happy to see you,” Captain Hagen said, bowing his head as he approached. Unlike his daughter, who had only been splattered relatively lightly with the visual evidence of battle, he had generous streaks of blood across his cuirass. His face, too, was smeared crimson, though it looked as if none of it was his own.

  “And I you. How did it go on this side?”

  Captain Hagen frowned. “We lost more than you would have thought considering we outnumbered them five to one. I’ll hand it to the Saricons…they know how to fight.”

  Jarak nodded his head in agreement. “Let us see to our men so we can get home. I’m sure Daricon is eager to hear what happened.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the Captain replied, stepping away to issue orders.

  Cat looked up at Jarak. “You better get that stitched up.”

  “I will. I want to see to my men first.”

  She looked at him seriously, appraising him, and if Jarak hadn’t known better he would have sworn she was looking at someone else. Smiling again, she turned to help her father.

  ***

  Brant was told that the trip to Cythera would take them a week. The morning they left Kaan’s cabin they stopped at Bygon to resupply. Every day they rode hard, stopping in the evening to camp and rest the horses. Brant had to clean his wounds several times each day and reapply fresh bandages. The salve seemed to be working and the pain was slowly receding. The lacerations, not so deep to begin with, slowly closed up and started forming thick scabs.

  Brant now knew what Kaan and Kulvar Rand had been laughing about the night before they departed. They had only been half way into the first day when he started to feel a slow ache grow along his inner thighs and buttocks. That ache grew until it felt like a blacksmith was pounding on his inner thighs, each jolt of the horse a powerful swing of the hammer. Brant did not complain, knowing that to do so would cause him to lose respect amongst the toughest fighting men in all of Dy’ain. The Dygon Guard rode hard each day, their eyes ever alert, their expressions revealing little emotion. Idle conversation was minimal. They were all business.

  On the third evening of their journey they had again set up camp after the long day’s ride. Ten warriors sat around several fires, the sun having long ago bedded down for the night. The warriors carried a tightly woven waterproofed cloth that Brant had never seen before. They rolled them up tight, along with their sleeping blankets, and carried them on the back of their saddles. On evenings when rain was unlikely, they simply laid them out on the ground to provide a dry place to lay their blankets. If rain looked imminent, then they would erect small tents from the cloth, each one large enough for two men. They had spent countless nights setting up camp and they went about their chores with practiced precision, saying very little, each man knowing his role. This night was clear, with a cloud of sparkling stars illuminating the night and casting soft shadows on the ground.

  Brant had begun to feel a bit out of place. The men were not unfriendly but none went out of their way to talk with him. But then again they did not talk much amongst themselves. They had just eaten a meal of cooked beans with salted ham and slices of bread. Brant looked across the fire to Kulvar, finding the courage to break the silence. He had been thinking about this since the fight with Tangar.

  “Master Rand,” Brant began, not sure what to call him. “How did you beat Tangar so easily?”

  At their fire sat Kade, second in command, along with two other warriors, Dayd and Horst. They were both big men, their dark hair shaved short exposing their scalps. Brant had noticed that all the Dygon Guards had their hair similarly trimmed. But they looked very different despite that commonality. Dayd was the ugliest and toughest looking man Brant had ever seen, with a scrunched up face and narrow eyes surrounded by deep lines, etched from years in the elements; most prominent among them were those across his forehead that made him look as if he were permanently frowning. His large mouth and huge jaw looked fitting compared to the size of his massively thick neck. Brant had no doubt, however, that Horst was a man the ladies swooned over. Like Dayd, his neck was also thick and muscular, but it supported a smooth skinned handsome face with wide intelligent eyes, and irises a brilliant green.

  Kulvar Rand looked up at Brant, his dark eyes noncommittal. He shrugged. “I was better.” Kade looked at Kulvar as he stirred the fire with a stick, perhaps wondering if he would elaborate.

  “But how? I had fought and trained with Tangar on many occasions. He was an amazing swordsman. And everyone spoke of his prowess as if he were a god. But you killed him with three strokes of your sword. How did you do it?”

  This time Kulvar did elaborate. “I have no doubt that Tangar was a skilled swordsman. I too had heard tales spoken of his skill with a blade. But most skilled warriors have not learned to kill quickly. They might think that every move and position they learn is for that purpose, but the reality is that most sword forms focus too much on stroke and counter stroke and not enough on the death stroke. They practice their sword movements religiously, mastering the dance, perfecting each strike and counter, as if it were an art form.” Kulvar paused, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, then looked back at Brant. “We,” he said, indicating his men, “train to kill, and to kill quickly. It is not about fancy moves and displays of skill. Tangar was expecting a great display of skill, and if I would have obliged him you would have seen a dance equal to none. But he was not ready for what he faced, and he died for it.”

  Brant was digesting his words. “Can you teach me?”

  Kulvar pursed his lips, as if weighing his options. “I can.”

  The next night as the men lit the fires and began preparing the evening meal, Brant faced Kulvar in a nearby clearing. His wounded legs itched a little but they were healing nicely. Brant could feel the men’s eyes on them as they went about their evening chores, seeing to the horses, laying out their bed rolls, and preparing dinner. Kulvar held his sword in his right hand, the blade angled low, while Brant held Tangar’s blade. The weapon was beautiful, balanced perfectly and razor sharp. He marveled at its weight and how light it felt in his hand. He stood, momentarily oblivious to all else, and stared at the blade, smiling.

  “What is it?” Kulvar asked.

  Brant looked up from the silver sword. “I’ve worked in the Kul-brite mines my entire life but I never thought I’d actually hold a Kul-brite forged blade. It is hard for me to fathom the value of this blade. I wonder where Tangar got it.”

  “I wonder the same. I’m sure there is an interesting tale behind it. Now, let us begin. I am not going to teach you anything specific yet. First I want to see what I have to work with. Let us start out slowly. I want you to match my speed and follow my strikes and counters. I need to see what Tangar has taught you. If your injuries become painful, let me know.”

  Brant had suffered far more serious wounds in the arena, and had managed not only to fight through the pain, but to kill his opponents in the process. The scars that covered his body were testament to that. Any pain he felt from the cuts on his legs could easily be ignored. Brant had killed many men in the pit, the images of their deaths would flash through his mind when least expected. They came in his sleep, and sometimes while awake. He could not erase the memories of all the men he had killed. But facing Kulvar now, knowing it was not a fight to the death, caused him more trepidation than he would have imagined.

  Kulvar lifted his sword. “Ready?”

  Brant lifted his blade in response, nodding his head to indicate he was ready. Kulvar came
at him quickly, his sword moving left and right. The combatants moved across the clearing, their Kul-brite blades coming together again and again. Brant followed his moves easily enough, performing the strikes and counters as Tangar had taught him. Kulvar came at him low, high, and from the sides, and every time he was there to meet him, blocking and spinning his blade in offensive maneuvers of his own. Tangar had taught him well, and his skill and experience in the pit was showing itself. Then Kulvar picked up speed, and power, the strikes coming harder and faster. But still Brant was there, their blades clashing, the strikes resounding in the clearing.

  Suddenly Brant’s sword was knocked to the side and Kulvar’s blade was resting on the side of his neck. Brant froze, the edge of the razor sharp blade drawing a thin line of blood. Then it was gone, the blade facing the ground, the same position as when he started.

  “What did you do?” Brant asked. He was confused. They had been fighting hard, and he had been keeping up, then suddenly he was as good as dead.

  “You are very good, Brant. I am impressed. You are fast and strong, and you know the correct forms. Tangar taught you well.”

  “Not well enough. What did you do?” he asked again.

  “I will show you.” Kulvar sheathed his blade and went to his horse. He removed a steel ball with a hole on one end. It looked to be about the size of large fist. Then he went over to Kade who handed him a stick as tall as a man. He had been carving on the stick since they had arrived that night and now it was smooth, one end carved down to a smaller point.