by Lynn Abbey
Riordan rolled over and tried to stand up. He started to thank Morka but the swordmaster's face was dark with fury. Ropy veins stood out on his forehead and his broad nose flared. Morka was short, squat, and heavily muscled. His head was shaved except for a single long braid growing from the back of his head. Barracks rumors said only a southern sect of specially trained warriors wore their hair like that.
Everyone on the watch was afraid of Morka and for good reason. He was like a berserker when angered. Right now he was very angry. He pushed Riordan against a crate and waved a fist the size of a plate in Riordan's face.
"Shut up, recruit! You're more trouble than you're worth. The clerics tell me it will be at least another tenday before Kendrick gets the use of his arm back. Last tenday your foolishness cost me the use of a good man and could have gotten him killed. Now this…"
Morka nodded to someone behind Riordan and said, "Get him cleaned up. Get him out of my sight." He slammed his sword into his scabbard and stalked away.
Rough hands jerked Riordan to his feet and pulled him toward the barracks. His head was spinning and he couldn't see from his right eye.
It was dark and cool inside the barracks and someone shoved a wet rag in his hands as he collapsed on his bunk. The man cut his shirt away and began to clean the slashes on his chest and arm. Riordan bit back a scream. He felt something in his hand and tried to see what it was.
The swelling will go away faster if you put this on your face."
Riordan couldn't make out the face of the speaker. The rag in his hand was sticky and smelled like rotten garbage. He grimaced and dropped it onto the floor.
"Easy, milor'…" The other bent down and picked it up again. "It's a special poultice."
Riordan tried to pull away, but the man put the rag over his eyes. He struggled for a minute, but the rag was cool and he relaxed as the pain went away.
Thanks."
Think nothing of it, mi-Riordan."
"I can't see you."
"It's Bashar."
Riordan was surprised. Bashar was Morka's corporal. Bashar, the barracks drunk. A burned-out husk of a warrior fit for nothing but to follow Morka around during drill and inspections. Yet the one man who'd decided to help.
Thanks, Bashar."
There was a moment of silence, then the man spoke again. "Rumor says you're the son of Evern Marsh."
Riordan grunted. He wondered how anyone found that out, but decided it was best to say nothing.
Bashar waited, then finally nodded as if Riordan's silence had been an answer. "I knew your father."
Another rummy looking for a handout from the son of a hero, Riordan thought. He sighed, "Third son, not much left for the last. Father wanted me to become a cleric."
"And you knew better." Bashar laughed softly and handed him the wet rag again.
Riordan felt defensive. There's a war coming with Soorenar. Everybody knows it. I'm needed here."
It was as if the old corporal hadn't heard him. "I remember you, but it was a long time ago. Your father made you a toy sword and used to drill you for hours. Wanted you to be a soldier, he did. Guess he must have changed his mind."
Memories came flooding back. Fragments of events that had been buried long ago. He propped himself Up on the cot and stared at blurred image of the older man. "I'd forgotten that. You really did know my father?"
Images marched across his mind. Not of the sword, but of the studies. The faceless line of tutors that came and went under the stern and watchful eye of his crippled father. Memorizing endless books, but never meeting his father's expectations… who would believe him? Evern Marsh, not once, but twice a hero, forcing his son to become a cleric-until Riordan ran away and joined the Dragon Watch.
"Why are you doing this?" Riordan took the rag away and tried to make out Bashar's face. "It was my blunder that nearly got Kendrick killed."
"I know. You went charging into that alley and the Soorenar were waiting for you. Knocked you out and nearly killed Kendrick when he tried to protect you. Then they escaped. If you'd waited…"
In his excitement, he'd forgotten to sound the alarm. It was a stupid mistake and almost got his partner killed. He tried to explain. "I saw them run, I was right behind them. I could have gotten them all."
"Except for the rearguard they left behind in the cross alley." Bashar shook his head. "Oldest trick in the book, lad."
He hesitated a moment, then continued, "I heard you did the same thing today. The man you chased was a seasoned warrior. Morka told me he wore six skulls."
"Two guardsmen were with me, but they held back and let me fight alone."
"I heard that, too."
Bashar took the rag and dipped it in the bowl of green poultice. He wrung it out and handed it back to Riordan. The stench was terrible.
"You asked me why I'm doing this. Your father saved my life once. I owe him something."
Riordan took the poultice away from his eye. His vision cleared enough to make out the corporal. Riordan stared at him, really seeing him for the first time.
Bashar had a lined face, wrinkled like a prune, though he moved like someone much younger. Riordan realized that Bashar was probably not as old as he looked, it was just that the wars had burned away all the excess flesh. His muscles were thin and ropy like the gnarled roots of some tree. Two copper bracelets with strange runes encircled his upper arms. The top of his head was completely bald and he'd pulled the hair on the sides into a long queue.
Barracks talk said Bashar was once a great swordsman, but wine had taken his senses and now he was a drunk barely tolerated by Morka Kodolan.
Riordan looked at Bashar. "What was my father like when you knew him?"
"Lad, he was a great fighter and a proud man. I never saw anyone handle a sword like he did. You know, sometimes I see a little of him in you. He looked like you when he was your age."
Riordan shook his head, picturing the shriveled, bitter man his father had become. Wrapped in a faded red shawl and confined to a chair, Evern Marsh spent his last days staring endlessly at the distant mountains from the open window of his bedroom.
"No, lad. You can't deny it. You both have that lean and hungry look. You're taller than I remember him being, but you have the same darkness about you. Dark eyes, dark hair, and the same dark disposition. Evern was slender like you, but a hard man. When he was young, no man would mistake him for a-"
"Stupid recruit like me." Riordan interrupted. He rubbed his shoulder and inspected the bandages on his arms and ribs.
"Nay, lad. That's not true. The fight this afternoon, for instance. That raider was a seasoned warrior. Six victories in the ring. Few could have stood alone against him even that long, lad."
"Not much good it did me."
"You're too hard on yourself. You're tall and that gives you the reach over most men, but most important, you're quick and you have good moves."
"That Soorenar would've killed me. He had moves I'd never seen before."
"Ring fighter's tricks, lad." He hesitated a moment. "I could show you. They're not hard."
Riordan stared at him a moment. He could use a friend. Even an old drunk.
Bashar was as good as his word. They spent the next tenday doing drills and exercises that left Riordan exhausted. In spite of that, his skills improved faster than he would have thought possible. Several times he caught Morka Kodolan watching them with a frown on his face. Later, Riordan saw the swordmaster stop Bashar on the way to the Owl Inn where he drank every tenday leave.
He was too far away to hear what was said, but he knew they were arguing. Finally the swordmaster threw his hands up and stalked away. Bashar stared after him for a while until he saw Riordan watching, then he too turned and walked away. Riordan hurried after Bashar and found him at a table drinking by himself in a dim corner of the Owl. Morka sat nearby talking to a grizzled veteran and eating a bowl of stew.
Two big men staggered over, dressed in the green and gold of the Wyvern Watch. One put
his foot on the bench next to the swordmaster and said, "Hey, Morka, I heard a couple of your recruits ran into an alley last tenday after some Soorenar that torched a ship. Let 'em go, I heard. Guess they must have decided the Soorenar were too much for 'em." The man nudged his partner and laughed, sloshing ale on the floor.
Morka tensed, gripping his knife and staring hard at the other man. The big man blanched and smiled. "Hey, don't take it out on me. Everybody's talking about it."
The two men backed away as Morka pushed his food away and stood up. Heavy muscles flexed as he moved, highlighting the pale scars that crisscrossed the dark skin of his chest and face. The two watchmen looked at each other and put their hands to the hilts of their swords, but Morka ignored them.
He walked past the table where Riordan sat with Bashar. "I'm going to the Griffin to drink. The stink of recruits is too strong here."
Morka looked directly at Riordan then shook his head. "Bashar, I want to talk to you."
"Ill meet you there."
Morka stared at Riordan a moment longer, then walked away.
Riordan started to get up and follow, but Bashar put his hand on his sleeve. "Not now, lad. The Griffin is off limits to recruits."
"But what happened wasn't like that. It wasn't like they said."
"It doesn't matter, Morka's in no mood to listen. Didn't you learn anything last tenday?"
Riordan shook his head. "He has to listen."
"No, he doesn't. He doesn't have to believe you. He doesn't have to do anything at all. Don't you get it yet?"
Bashar waved his mug toward the door through which Morka had left. Ale slopped from the rim onto his shirt but he didn't seem to notice.
"Son, he's swordmaster. Things are the way he wants them to be. You're a recruit. There's nothing lower in this world than a recruit. Get used to it."
"He hates me. He thinks I'm the son of some useless noble. I've heard the stories about my father's fencing masters. The truth is, I paid for my own training and I had to sneak out every night to do it."
"He doesn't hate you lad, but he won't let you out of training till he thinks you're ready."
"Ill prove myself. He'll have to listen to me."
Bashar shook his head. "You already tried that once. Who're you really trying to prove yourself to?"
Riordan stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Unless you're blind, it's not hard to see. Third son of a famous warrior out to show everyone he's as good as his father…"
"Leave my father out of this. What do you know?"
"More than you might think." Bashar sighed and took a sip of his ale. "I served under him in three campaigns. Aye, a real firebrand he was. You're just like him."
Bashar put his mug on the table and motioned to the barmaid for another.
"That's what got you into trouble in the first place, lad."
He smiled at the maid and took the mug from her tray. He'd nursed a single ale tonight and Riordan noticed Bashar's hands were steady as he looked at him over the rim with sharp eyes.
"I guess you haven't learned anything. Maybe you're not like your father after all."
"My father again." Riordan started to get up.
"Wait, Riordan. There are things you should know about your father. Morka and I served with him in the last Flaming Spike uprising. We were with him at the GapofReth."
"The Gap of Reth?" Riordan stopped. It was his father's last campaign. He'd come home a crippled, bitter man after that battle. Riordan had heard stories, but his father would never talk about it.
"Aye, Evern had the rearguard. He held the Flaming Spike off until the Sceptanar's army got through. Those merchants were so grateful, Murzig Hekkatayn himself gave your father the hero's medal for that."
"He would never tell me what happened."
Bashar nodded. "Not surprising."
His voice dropped and his eyes took on a faraway look, remembering. "We lost too many companions in that action. Half the rearguard died on those slopes. Your father took terrible wounds. The clerics did their best, but couldn't save his legs."
Riordan nodded, remembering. "Mother was killed during one of the early raids of the war. Without her… when he came home he became different… He told me he wanted me to become a cleric."
Bashar sipped his ale and put his hand on Riordan's shoulder. "We all changed. It was a terrible, bloody battle. Perhaps your father had seen too much of what war could do. Maybe he wanted you to save lives rather than take them."
Bashar pushed away his ale and said, "Me… I became a drunk."
Riordan stared at him a moment. "My father… the wounds you described. How did he get out of the Pass?"
Bashar stood up and looked at Riordan a moment. His eyes softened, and he smiled. "Morka and I carried him, lad." Then he turned and walked out the door.
Riordan drank his ale and ordered another. He sat at the table and let his mind drift.
Riordan was groggy the next morning when the alarm clanged outside the barracks window. The recruits stumbled around the barracks in the dark, struggling to find their weapons and armor. There was a rush for the door and Riordan fell into line, panting and out of breath.
Morka stood there with his hands on his hips as he studied the line of recruits. Bashar stood beside him. The polished armor of the two men gleamed in the soft light of the dawn. Morka's expression took on a deep frown as they began to walk down the line of stiff recruits.
"You pissants probably think that was good." He shook his head. "I've never seen such a miserable performance."
He grabbed for the spear of the watchman in front of him. The weapon clattered to the ground. The recruit turned pale and tried to avoid the eye of the swordmaster.
"Release the weapon when I have it in my hand, not before. Twenty laps in the coliseum tonight."
He moved down the line and stopped in front of Ri-ordan, inspecting his armor and harness. "Not bad. Someone taught you to hang your sword forward, I see."
From the corner of his eye, Riordan saw Morka glance at Bashar then move to the next recruit.
There was a clatter of hooves, and a column of horsemen entered the parade ground.
"Attention! Form up!" The two ranks of recruits snapped to attention on the swordmaster's command.
Khedra, Captain of the Dragon Watch, and one of his lieutenants rode up behind Morka and Bashar. Their polished armor cast blinding reflections in the sun. Two other men were with them. Riordan recognized Stilmus, leader of the Society of the Sword and one of the magistrates from the third section.
"Third section, Dragon Watch present and accounted for, sir!" Morka said.
"Stand at ease."
Khedra took a moment to look up and down the ranks of soldiers. Riordan could not tell if he was pleased with what he saw. His bronzed face looked weathered and tired, but his cold blue eyes seemed to miss nothing.
"Normally, you recruits would spend another month learning your drill, but things have changed. There are reports of raids along the western coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars. Yesterday, two triremes were cut loose and driven on the rocks in Airspur. Two others were torched a day later."
There was surprised muttering from the watchmen.
"All right men, settle down." Khedra paused and stared at the recruits.
"We know it's the Soorenar, stirring things up again and we have to be prepared. The raiders you caught last tenday are just one example. There have been several unexplained fires on merchant ships and even some rumors an assassin is loose. We believe there will be some attempt to cripple the fleet. I want these raiding parties stopped.
"Each of you recruits will be assigned to patrol with an experienced guardsman. You will find these raiders and you will call in the rest of the watch. Is that clear?"
"Clear, sir!" they shouted in unison
"By the way, Stilmus is looking for one or two outstanding recruits among the watch for the Society of the Sword. He will be observing you all in the next few day
s."
There was a buzz of excitement through the ranks.
"Good." Khedra looked over the ranks with a pleased expression. "Swordmaster, corporal, you know what to do." Khedra spun his horse and trotted away.
"You heard the captain. Fall out and suit up for patrol."
Riordan started to join the others when Morka held out his hand. "All except you, Riordan. You stay in the barracks."
Riordan jerked upright. His voice quivered with anger, but he couldn't help it. "I should be out on patrol, sir."
"Yes, you should, but you won't." He shook his head. "You're not ready. Your recklessness might kill the comrade you're with. The answer is no."
"But that's not fair!"
"Fan-? The last time you were in an engagement the two watchmen with you would've let you be killed. Just who do you suppose I should pair you with?" Morka stared at him and started to turn away.
"Sir, perhaps he could patrol with me?"
"You, Bashar?"
"Aye, sir. You know we need every available man. We're stretched too thin as it is."
Morka frowned. "I…"
Bashar drew himself up. "I'd take it as a personal favor."
At that moment, there was something different about the corporal. He didn't seem like the stooped rummy that cleaned weapons for a silver and staggered into the barracks every night.
Morka frowned. He looked as if he would say something, but then he shrugged. "So be it. It's on your head, Bashar."
Bashar spent most of the day going over the route with Riordan. He pointed out the buildings that had to be checked and the layout of the streets they would patrol. Bashar warned him to be especially alert for fires. Cimbar had been hot and dry for over a month and there was still no sign of rain. By evening, Riordan felt ready.
The docks of Old Town were deserted. Moonlight filtered through the narrow streets threading between the overhanging buildings. In the distance, the peak of the Untheri pyramid was visible. Here and there, light reflected off iridescent puddles of water between the cobblestones. The smell of the sea and rotting fish lay heavy on the hot, still air.
