book1

by Fire

  Jenrosa looked up sharply. “Meaning?”

  “You and Kumul are more than friends.”

  “Have you been spying on me?” Jenrosa demanded.

  Korigan smiled ruefully. “You are in my kingdom now, Jenrosa Alucar. Nothing happens here without my knowing about it. But I did not spy on you. Your relationship with Kumul of the Red Shields is common knowledge among my people. Although I cannot say if Lynan is aware of it, I think not.”

  “It is none of your business.”

  “In and of itself, no. But I am concerned what effect it might have on Lynan if he learns that you and Kumul are in love with each other.”

  Jenrosa blushed, making her sandy hair stand out even more than it usually did among the Chetts. “Who said anything about love?”

  “I will speak of it if you won’t. I don’t think Lynan is in love with you, but am I right in suggesting he once thought he was in love with you?”

  “That’s something you should ask him.”

  “But I’m asking you.”

  “Perhaps he once thought that.”

  “The fact that he may no longer think that will not stop him being jealous of Kumul. Losing love is one thing, but losing it to another is a hard blow.”

  “I can’t change the way Kumul and I have ... grown ... to feel about each other.”

  “Will you tell Lynan, then?”

  Jenrosa moved away from Korigan. “I told you, this is no one else’s business.”

  “I wish it were so,” Korigan called after her, but Jenrosa did not answer.

  Away from the lake village, real winter had hold. Cattle huddled together, their heads bowed against the cold southerlies. A band of ten mounted Chetts huddled in the lee of a shallow hill wishing they were back in their huts or around one of the hundreds of campfires. They were from different clans and did not talk to each other. Kumul stayed apart from them, seemingly impervious to the weather.

  “You have no armor to speak of,” he was saying to them. “What you call spears are nothing more than javelins. Your horses are well trained but don’t ride well close together. You’re not cavalry.”

  Some of the Chetts looked defiantly at him.

  “I repeat, you are not cavalry.” Kumul bit the words out. “You see that single arrow tree three hundred paces north?”

  The Chetts looked over their shoulders. One or two nodded.

  “Take your mounts there and back here.”

  “Is that all?” one of the Chetts asked.

  “Keep them to a walk.”

  Six minutes later the group were back, still cold. Their mounts looked even less happy.

  “Now do it again, at a fast walk.”

  A little less than six minutes later they were back again.

  While the Chetts looked as miserable as ever, and even more confused, the horses seemed more aware of the world around them.

  “Now do the distance at a trot. When you get back, do it at a canter, then a gallop.”

  By the time they had finished the three runs, both mounts and riders were warmer; the exercise had also piqued their interest.

  “Again,” Kumul told them. “At a fast walk. Line abreast, and no more than three paces between each of you.”

  This time, Kumul watched them carefully. He had never seen anyone sit on a horse more naturally than a Chett, and the bond between a Chett and his mare seemed almost telepathic to him, but Chetts rode together with less discipline and grace.

  “You had trouble keeping the distance close,” he told them when they got back.

  “It got crowded,” one of the Chetts said.

  “Get used to it. This time keep the same distance, but move at a trot.”

  The result was even more disorganized. Kumul made them do it at a fast walk again, and this time the mares and riders managed to reach the arrow tree in something like a dressed line. He then told them to do it at the canter. A mess.

  “Now again, but slow to a trot.”

  Better, and by now the Chetts were getting the idea behind the changing pace and constant distance. Their mounts were getting used to working close to other horses.

  “Let’s try it at a gallop!” one of the Chetts said excitedly.

  “Not yet,” Kumul said firmly. “That’s enough for the day.”

  “But we’re just getting started!” the same Chett complained.

  Kumul could not help grinning at them. He liked their enthusiasm. He knew they would need it in the days and weeks to come.

  “I said that was enough for the day. Back here tomorrow, same time.”

  The Chetts nodded and drifted away.

  “Now the saber is an interesting weapon,” Ager said, “and useful from the back of a horse. But when you’re on foot, there are better weapons.”

  The group of Chetts gathered before him watched and listened with keen interest. As with Kumul’s group, they were from more than one clan. News of the crookback’s victory over Katan had spread like a grass fire, and they wanted to learn how he did it. They were also curious about what was inside the sack he was carrying.

  “But Chetts do not fight on foot,” one of them said.

  “Not yet,” Ager said under his breath, then out loud: “The lessons you learn from me will be useful if you fight standing, riding, crouching, or crawling.” He pointed to the Chett who had spoken. “What’s your name?”

  “Orlma.”

  “Come here, Orlma.”

  The Chett looked nervously at his fellows but did as asked. Ager dropped his sack and pulled out two wooden swords, one shaped like a saber and the other shorter and broader in comparison.

  “The short sword,” Ager said, and the Chetts heard something like reverence in his voice.

  “This is heavier than any saber I’ve ever used,” Orlma said, hefting the dummy weapon.

  “And by the time I’ve finished training all of you, your own sabers will feel as light as a feather. Attack me.”

  The Chett grinned. “I will not make the same mistake that Katan made, Captain Crookback.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now attack me.”

  Orlma moved forward cautiously, his saber held slightly above waist level, its tip raised slightly. He expected his opponent to retreat before his longer reach, but instead Ager waited with what seemed like boredom. ‘“Get on with it, will you?”

  The Chett scowled and raised the saber above his head to slash down, but before he could do anything more he felt the hard tip of Ager’s weapon punch him in the chest and he fell back on his rump. He could not believe the one-eyed crook-back, who usually moved with evident difficulty and lack of grace, could move so fast.

  “Again!” Ager ordered. The Chett scrambled to his feet, held out his saber again, and waited to see if Ager would advance. He did. Seeing his chance, Orlma turned his wrist and swept the saber inward, aiming for the crookback’s stomach. Ager retreated half a step, letting the saber whistle past, then lunged, catching his opponent on the chest again.

  “I will figure out how you do that,” Orlma said, picking himself off the ground for a second time.

  “No need,” Ager told him. “I’ll tell you. Stand as you were before.”

  The Chett did so. Ager stood within striking distance of him. “Could either of us miss at this distance?” he asked the other Chetts. They all shook their head. “Slowly, start your attack,” he told his opponent. Orlma swung his arm back, and Ager simply jabbed forward so the point of the short sword rested over the Chett’s heart.

  “My enemy has to make two moves with his saber to strike me,” Ager told his audience. “I only have to make one. This is the advantage of a stabbing weapon over a slashing weapon.”

  “But when you beat Katan, you were using a saber,” one of the Chetts pointed out.

  “That’s because I know how to fight on foot, and Katan doesn’t. If you only have a saber or cutlass, keep your movements as small as possible. It’s not necessary to cut off your enemy’s head to kill him. Severing an artery will
do the job as well, and almost as quickly. More importantly, it isn’t necessary to kill your enemies to win a battle; you can put them out of action and kill them later. Draw your sabers.” Ager inspected three of the swords. “Just as I thought. You whet them on the same plane.”

  “It is the only way to make them properly sharp,” Orlma said.

  Ager drew his own saber and invited Orlma to feel its edge.

  “It is rough.”

  Ager pulled a short branch from his sack and laid it over two rocks. “Cut it with your saber,” he told Orlma.

  The Chett swung as high as possible and slashed down. His blade sank deep into the branch. He tugged and pulled at the weapon to free it, then held up the branch to show the others how deep he had cut. “If that was an enemy’s body, it would have sliced through his kidneys!” he boasted.

  Ager grinned. “How true. Put it back.”

  Ager now slashed down with his own saber. The blade did not cut nearly as deep, but it came out of the wood without effort and the cut it left behind was wide and jagged. He held up the branch. “If this had been an enemy’s body, it would have destroyed more than his kidneys. A wound like this cannot be repaired, and my saber comes out easily.”

  There was an astonished murmur from his audience.

  “I want you to go now and make a wooden saber and a wooden short sword for yourselves. Have them done by tomorrow, and we’ll start your training.”

  After the evening meal Lynan stepped back from the campfire and his circle of friends. He found himself more at peace when alone, something which confused him. He had grown up alone, Kumul’s careful guardianship a light and sometimes forbiddingly remote presence, but during their flight from Kendra to the Oceans of Grass he had learned to rely on the steady companionship and protection of Kumul and Ager, Jenrosa and Gudon. He still cared for them all dearly, but increasingly felt the need to set himself apart, to keep some distance between his new life and his old.

  The firelight reflected off his hard, pale skin, and he traced a blue vein on one arm with a finger. He felt a pulse and ridiculously felt relief. He knew he was no vampire, but he also knew instinctively that he was no longer entirely human. He wondered how much of his new-found confidence—his changed nature—was due to Silona’s blood. He wanted to be a creature of his own making, based on his own experiences and learning, but could not shake the thought that something of Silona’s single-mindedness and grim need for isolation had been transferred to him.

  He watched his companions, crouching for warmth around the fire. Gudon was smiling, head bowed next to Ager’s. The two had become firm friends, and Lynan could see some similarity in their spirits, a combination of cynicism about and acceptance of the way the world was ordered. Next to Ager was Korigan, someone Lynan felt was as torn as he between two natures. Not much older than he, she was already wise in the ways of a monarch. In her was a fierce determination that frightened him a little, but was also something he now recognized in himself. Then there was Jenrosa, who still seemed beautiful to him despite her familiarity. She never snapped at him anymore, nor made fun of him in front of the others. When she looked at him, he saw sadness in her eyes, and guilt at what her actions in saving his life had made him become. He did not know how to tell her that she had done right, and it occurred to him that he did not yet know himself whether in fact she had done right. And beside Jenrosa was Kumul, father-not-father, guardian and bully, adviser and old war horse. There was a tension between them now, and it saddened Lynan.

  As Lynan watched, he saw Kumul and Jenrosa hold hands. The contact was brief, but sudden awareness hit him like a blow to the stomach. He stopped breathing.

  No. It isn’t possible.

  The two quickly glanced at each other, a joining as brief and intimate as their holding hands.

  Lynan turned from the fire and walked into the night.

  “We have some of the new swords you asked to be made,” Gudon told Ager. “Only a handful so far.”

  “Already?” Ager was surprised. The forges had only been working for three days.

  “We would have had them yesterday, but the first mold cracked.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Of course. We must go to the village.”

  The two made their excuses and left. Ager gathered his poncho around him as the warmth of the fire receded. He looked with envy at Gudon, striding along as if it was a balmy summer afternoon. He did not think the cold was something he would ever get used to. His breath frosted in the night air and he had to hurry to keep up with the Chett. Their feet crunching on brittle grass was the only sound except for the distant lowing of the cattle.

  They passed between arrow trees, catching glimpses of other campfires. Ager could not see anyone else, but could somehow feel the weight of the thousands of Chetts that surrounded them.

  There must be as many people here as there are in the cities of Sparro or Daavis, he thought, but they may as well be ghosts.

  As he drew closer to the village, he could hear the sound of the furnace and hammer, of fiery steel hissing as it was poured into molds. Mechanical sounds, and out of place here on the Oceans of Grass. Up ahead he saw the yellow glimmer of molten metal and the angry red of hot coals.

  Gudon directed him to a hut before they reached the furnaces. New weapons were stacked neatly against wooden frames. He saw his short swords and eagerly picked up one by its tang.

  “When will they be finished?”

  “Soon. We are using bone for the hilt, and leather and sinew to finish the grip. What do you think?”

  “Hard to tell before the grip’s finished, but the weight feels right.” Ager took it out of the hut and held it up so he could study it under moonlight. The blade was unpolished, and seemed flat and dull. “They need some work, but I think they’ll be fine.”

  “If we’d had more time, we would have forged them, but to get the numbers you want we had to use molds.”

  Ager grunted. Still holding the tang, he placed the sword point on a large rock and stepped on the blade. The point skidded across the rock, sending sparks into the air. “It’s strong.” He whacked the edge of the blade against the rock and heard a satisfying thwang. “The blade is not brittle at all. This is good work.” He replaced the unfinished sword in the hut.

  “Let’s get back to the fire. I’m freezing.”

  Gudon grinned at him. “You will have time to get used to it.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “I hope not.”

  They were halfway back when Gudon stopped. He frowned and cocked his head as if listening for something.

  “What’s wrong?” Ager asked.

  “Something is not right.”

  “What exactly?”

  “I don’t—”

  Before he could finish, three dark shapes rose from the darkness around them. Ager saw moonlight glimmer off steel. Without shout or cry, their attackers were upon them. Ager had time to draw his saber, but it was knocked out of his hand before he could raise it. He threw himself forward against the legs of his closest assailant and they went down together. Ager clawed for his enemy’s face, found something soft, and gouged as hard as he could. A woman screamed. He rolled off the body and felt on the ground for his sword. He heard a blade whistling through the air and rolled again, heard it bite into the ground where his head had just been. He lashed out with his foot and kicked the sword away, then scrambled to his feet. A fist whacked into his ear. He shouted in pain, ducked, and charged forward, but his attacker had moved and he stumbled back to the ground. He turned onto his back in time to see a dark silhouette looming above him, a sword raised high. Then the figure jerked and fell, and Ager saw Gudon whirl away to meet the surviving attackers.

  Cursing, Ager got to his feet for the second time, retrieved the fallen enemy’s sword, and joined Gudon. The pair split apart, forcing the attackers in different directions. The moon swung behind Ager and he gasped in surprised.

  “
Katan!” he hissed. The Chett tried to retreat, but Ager was furious and redoubled his efforts. Their blades struck sparks into the night. Ager lunged, lunged again, trying to use the point, but Katan was too quick and had learned something from their first bout in front of the two circles. Ager parried a swipe at his neck, crossed his right leg over his left and swung a full circle. He hard Katan’s sword swish past his ear. The edge of his saber sank into the Chett’s flank and shuddered when it hit the rib cage. Katan moaned, his eyes looked up in surprise, and he fell in a heap.

  Ager spun around and saw Gudon wiping his blade on the poncho of the dead woman at his feet.

  “It was Katan,” Ager said, pointing at the chief’s corpse.

  “Katan’s wife,” Gudon said. Together they went to the first enemy Gudon had slain.

  “Katan’s son?” Ager asked.

  Gudon nodded. “Neither father nor son were that good with the saber. The woman was very good. Better than me.”

  “How did you beat her?”

  Gudon grunted. “She was bleeding from one eye.”

  “Ah.” Ager threw down his borrowed saber and found his own. “Who do you think they were after? You for supporting Korigan, or me for humiliating Katan in front of the two circles?”

  “Or was Katan working to whittle away some of Korigan and Lynan’s support?”

  “On his own initiative?”

  Gudon shrugged. “No way to tell. Were you hurt?”

  “My ear’s numb and I hear bells inside my head.”

  “At least you’re not hearing air whistle through a cut throat.”

  Other Chetts appeared, carrying torches. In a short time they were surrounded by a small crowd.

  “We should move on in case others from the Ocean clan make an appearance and decide to take their revenge,” Gudon said in a low voice.

  They soon left the crowd behind. “If Katan was after us to weaken Lynan’s position,” Ager said, “and Katan was only one among however many disgruntled chiefs, then they could try and kill Lynan himself.”

  “Truth.”

  “He needs a bodyguard.”

  “Truth.”