Pyter and Shaia now walked well beyond hearing distance, almost to where Kelc and Jista had gone, where they’d fought.
“Why take them so far out? Why not just test them right here with witnesses?” Kreggen asked despite the tension in the air. “There must be a practical reason.”
“There is,” Tasher answered him. “Some practitioners wield great power. They might fling it at their captor. Being far away makes certain that the innocent are not harmed. Also, the test we run could make the strongest of evils light afire. Again,” he said reflectively, “something to keep at a distance.”
“You’ve seen that?” Kreg asked.
“I have. Once.”
Out in the field, amidst the headstones, Shaia extended her arm and drew back her sleeve. Pyter dug around in a bag he held in his other hand.
Let her pass, Kelc thought. Just let her pass. He had only recently realized what it truly felt like to want a person, to need one. He couldn’t lose her now. Let her pass.
Adda pressed a fist to her lips and a hand to her heart. Kelc saw her eyes close hard, unable to watch her daughter undergo the test.
In the distance, he could see the deputy reach out to Shaia. The way his hand moved let Kelc know that he sprinkled the ribbons on her while he, just as Jista had, raised his sword into a ready position.
“Why the sword?” Kelc asked.
Jista answered. “Some folk go crazy during the test, driven mad by the pain of it, or for fear of being discovered. Best to have steel at the ready.”
Pyter lowered his hand and his blade dipped. Beside him, Kelc noted that his mother smiled. A real smile, broad and unabashed. She’d watched after all. He looked around at everyone else, making sure that they looked to the deputy and his sister. They did. Kelc reached over and took his mother’s hand in his own long enough to give it a squeeze. She returned it, squeezing hard for a moment before she pulled away, her breath catching in her throat.
“The test showed true,” she announced, her voice strained. At once, she smoothly spun on her heel as if to return to the house, mopping tears from her eyes.
“Woman!” Varrl said, stopping her. “They will test Kreg now. Stay and watch.”
“Oh yes,” she said, scratching her nose and trying to use the motion to continue dabbing her eyes with her sleeves. “Of course.”
“Mother,” Kelc said, following hard his mother’s words, giving her reason to look to him, away from Varrl, and some measure of protection. “They won’t start until Shy gets back to see it. It seems that she had the right idea, dressing to celebrate Kreg’s effort and victory, I’m sure. Could you fetch my cape, the new one, from my room?”
Varrl frowned but said nothing.
Adda smiled weakly through her tears, though her appreciation was obvious. “Yes,” she managed to say. The wetness on her cheeks caught the light of the setting sun, leaving golden streaks down her face. Such weakness, in front of the warden, would infuriate her husband.
Looking at her, seeing her feelings so clearly, Kelc felt guilty, remembering all the times he’d been hard on her, times he’d not trusted her or blamed her for not doing more against his father. After she disappeared into the house, Kelc walked to the door.
“I’ll be back in a moment. My blade ended up in the dirt and I need to oil it while there’s light enough to see,” he said. His father could only nod at such an honorable need.
Kelc stepped inside in time to see his mother disappear into his room. He followed her, able to hear her quiet sobs.
“Mother?” he asked, entering.
“Youngest,” she yelped, surprised. “I’m sorry…your shirt.” She held a shirt that she’d just picked up and used to mop her face. “It…I.”
Kelc wrapped her up in his arms, squeezing her. “I apologize, mother, for ever doubting you.”
“Doubting me?” she asked, her voice nearly laughter, though her throat was thick with crying.
“Yes. At times it is hard to see who cares around here, and I sometimes…”
“Youngest,” she said. “It’s alright. You’re young and we live in a place where what we feel is of no importance.” She gently pushed him away. “I’ll never forget this moment.” She brushed Kelc’s shirt across her face, composing herself with practiced speed. “Here. Before you start me weeping again.” She spun his cape out and used the air beneath to gracefully glide it over his shoulders. She then offered him each of the sashing leads. “Fasten it, youngest.” He did, and then leaned down and grabbed an oil rag from the floor beneath the peg where his sword belt hung.
“Thank you, Mother,” he told her, meaning far more than the help with the cape. She beamed.
“Let’s go see your brother enter the warden’s service,” she said, and they returned to the porch and the stern appraising look of his father.
“Good,” said Varrl with a curt nod.
“You look very nice,” Shaia said, taking in her younger brother’s appearance as she ascended the stairs. “The cape suits you.”
Kelc nodded acceptance of the compliment, unable to do more with Varrl grinding his teeth only a few steps away, irritated by anything that distracted from his oldest child, who now moved to the porch steps.
Kreggen dropped to the ground next to the territorial warden. “Warden Tasher, sir, my family stands true. Unless you have more suspicion to exorcise, I would like to offer myself to the service of Symea.”
“To do so,” Alkern answered looking up at the taller young man, his tone far more casual than Kreggen’s, “you must be tried. And should you be accepted, you would be required to serve until dead or incapable.”
Kreg’s answer came with the certainty of sunrise. “I will serve until death.” Kelc stood in awe of his brother.
While some men intimidated others, offering an air of violence or skill, dishing it out with arrogance or threat, Kreg seemed different. Majestic, Kelc thought of his older brother, as solid and insurmountable as a mountain peak.
“I see,” Tasher replied, growing more serious by the moment. “I have already looked into you and your past and found all as it should be. The final test is a trial at arms. We fight until you fall and I will then judge the manner of your defeat, looking for the character and strength displayed, as well as how long it takes you to succumb to either my skill or your exhaustion.”
“And if I do not fall?”
Tasher laughed for a moment, but cut it short since no one but Pyter joined him. Jista’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Kreggen and he worked his jaw, as if in thought.
“Fall you shall,” the warden announced. “Every man knows defeat at some point. Come, let us begin. We will use your funereal lawn.”
Led by the warden and Kreggen, the deputies and the family made their way to the short-cropped grass. Kreggen simply walked out to the middle of the oval-shaped sward and waited, displaying no anxiety, leaving that for his family.
Varrl flexed his hands repeatedly, rocking from foot to foot, while next to him Adda folded her arms before her chest, her eyes locked onto her oldest child. Shaia stood next to her mother, clutching her skirts and glancing at everyone, her eyes leaping from Kreg to Tasher to Jista and Pyter to Kelc, her mother and father.
Kelc dropped to one knee, an electric twinge forming in his gut. With his left hand, he repeatedly dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand while he clutched his skiver in his right, gripping it hard. He watched Kreg and Tasher, the warden still standing off the lawn to the right, removing a satchel and some pouches from his belt.
“Very well,” Alkern finally said, stepping onto the lawn. “Let’s fight.”
A rare thing, watching a man who was the best at his trade. It brought chills to those that witnessed it, for true expertise reflected not only in the results garnered of his calling, but in the manner in which he bore it.
Territorial Warden Alkern Tasher struck with inhuman speed and unequivocal control, his blade slipping in on his first shot to knick Kreg’s belly before th
e blade was turned aside.
“Focus,” Varrl shouted, as if the inhuman speed of the first attack wouldn’t have left him dead. He flexed both hands before knocking them together in frustration.
Kreg spun away from the warden, his weapon slicing nothing but air. Tasher pursued, his blade flickering in the wavering light of the setting sun, nipping at the younger man, repeatedly biting his flesh.
“Fight me, boy,” Tasher shouted.
Kreg continued to give steps and slide to the warden’s side, only occasionally making easily deflected jabs, placing most of his energy on his barely passable defense, keeping major injury at bay by giving up small cuts. Already, he suffered a dozen, though his face expressed none of it.
His mouth still closed, his eyes alert, Kreg looked as if he might be toiling at any difficult job. He’s bluffing, Kelc thought, really thinking about what he saw. He’s learning about the warden and hiding his own skill.
The defense he wove required great speed and effort, keeping the lightning-fast attack offered by Tasher from cutting major rents in his flesh, but it seemed as if his attacks were half-hearted, mere feints to check his opponent’s skill. Or, Kelc thought, watching his brother give way before the warden once again, he is outmatched.
The fight went on like this as the sun hit the horizon, Kreg accepting small wounds, his blade meeting the warden’s, but unable to keep it completely neutralized.
Pyter and Jista jogged to their horses and returned with large lanterns which they lit and opened to full, shedding yellow light over the lawn to replace some of what the night soon stole.
The sky fell black and stars began winking from their distant perches and yet Kreggen still lasted, carrying more than two score cuts on his arms legs and torso.
Steel clashed time and again, the high-paced rhythm ringing out over the graves of the dead as the combatants kept up their dance.
Breaking the routine, Kreg allowed the warden’s blade to snake into his hip before rolling up it and starting his own attack.
Tasher jerked away from Kreg’s cut, avoiding it, but now the young man took over the attack, driving shot after shot into the warden. A high slice met steel, followed by a kick to the older man’s gut, forcing him to leap back. A jab straight at his middle, parried down into a chop at his shins, glanced off of his meshed left boot.
“Tasher’s slowing down,” Varrl said, a gleam in his eyes. “Kreg’s worn him down.”
Just then the warden called out in pain as Kreg’s blade gashed his forearm. “Good cut,” he added.
“Worn down?” asked Dell Pyter nonchalantly. “Nah, warden doesn’t wear down.”
“Yeah,” Jista said, a thin smile visible on his heavily bearded face. “Your boy is speeding up, learning how fast a real fight is. And learning damned fast.” He chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest.
Kreg stabbed into the warden’s left, but pulled back, reversing to his right, causing his opponent to scramble and lower his hilt into the attack’s path. Kreg rammed into him while his sword was down, stepping past him and locking one foot behind the older man’s heavy boot, blasting him to the ground.
Kreg then rained steel on the warden, finding his flesh twice before he managed his feet again. Tasher drove his blade at the young man’s legs and gained his knees, where he fought off three more shots, and even delivered a shallow cut to his adversary’s thigh while the less experienced fighter overcommitted to his attack.
Once on his feet, the warden returned to his aggressive start, but now the two combatants fought more evenly. Kreg used every parry and deflection as a chance to cut at the warden, delivering small wounds of his own, while Tasher’s attempts to dominate the fight were frequently interrupted by Kreg’s ripostes.
They took turns driving each other across the lawn, spinning out of attacks and cutting into each other, their blades meeting time and again, the sound of steel nearly constant.
“What happens if neither falls?” Kelc wondered aloud.
“One of them will go down at some point,” Jista answered. “But now I don’t know which.” The man moved nearer to Kelc and gave him a healthy swat on the back. “Your whole family has been a surprise this day.”
In battle, Tasher baited Kreggen, leaving an opening to his gut. Kreggen reached in with his sword but in a lightning-fast move, the warden snaked out and took hold of Kreg’s wrist and pulled while he reached over the top with his own coppered blade.
Suddenly the sound of battle ceased. Kreg backpedaled several steps, his hand snapping up to his neck, where Tasher had just managed a shallow cut. “Close,” he said.
“Not close enough,” the older man panted, “you’re still on your feet.” He charged in again and they resumed their dance.
“So fast,” Varrl noted under his breath, after seeing Tasher’s speed.
Amidst the next exchange, Kreg darted into the warden with a straight jab, which was easily parried, only Kreg turned his blade upside down. As it parried, the edge faced up. The young man pushed on it and used the force of the warden’s parry to drive the curved steel into his arm pit.
“Hells,” cried out Tasher as he leapt straight back, disengaging the boy, dark blood streaming into the air where Kelc lost sight of it. But Kreg pressed on, his next shot at the arm he’d just cut as he rolled to the warden’s right, his own left, keeping the severely injured arm between them.
Tasher spun, favoring his good side, but Kreg was much faster on his feet and had reach over the shorter man. He continually targeted the warden’s right, his blade cutting him several more times.
The warden fell away time and again as Kreg pressed his advantage in the cold night, his steel falling on Tasher’s time and again.
Adda still stood as she had at the beginning of the duel, apparently never moving. Varrl’s hands leapt about as if trying to guide his son’s strokes from a distance, while Shaia’s eyes were closed, unable to watch such a lasting contest, worrying about her brother all the while.
“Hells,” Jista muttered as the fight lasted. “They’ll still be going at midnight.”
“Yeah,” Kelc answered, before considering the feat. That would be six glasses or more. Six glasses! Fighting as hard as they fought! For six glasses! “Yeah,” he said again, only this time he viewed his brother in a different way. His own blood, Kreg was the best of them all.
Shy stamped a foot, drawing Kelc’s attention. She rubbed her arms, fending off the cold, her eyes still clamped shut.
Kelc availed himself of the very acceptable response of pressing himself against her and wrapping his cape over both of them. She smiled for the briefest time, sliding an arm around his waist beneath the cloak, but the clash of metal on metal still filled the air.
The warden fell back within three steps of the two of them, Kreg still driving at him, his blade crashing against Tasher’s. Kelc wrinkled his nose, able to smell sweat, oil, blood and something else. The stink of it hit him like a spike, driving thoughts of Henna and Ilda into his mind, reminding him of what was happening to him of late and bringing the question to his mind: Why had the warden’s tests failed on him? But as fast as his concern arose, it was driven from his thoughts.
“Ha!” yelled Tasher, suddenly assuming the offensive, his blade snaking in and pounding Kreggen’s fingers, forcing him to switch hands for a moment, making his parries weaker and slower.
The warden hammered him then, bashing his scimitar back with brute strength, the tip of his own blade biting into the younger man’s flesh with every stroke. He pounded him all the way across the lawn. “Go down, damn it all!” raged the warden. “Fall!”
Kreggen flipped his sword from his offhand back into his good hand, the pain of his fingers abating, and Tasher struck. Waiting for the tiny span of time where Kreg would switch hands, he stepped in, offering his injured right, but then spun, ramming his scimitar into Kreg.
The blade met the young man’s ribs and scraped to the side, slicing in between them, knifing through his lung and
erupting from his back.
“Kreg!” Adda screamed, dropping to her knees.
“No!” Varrl howled.
Tears instantly oozed from Shy as she spun from the fight, hugging her younger brother as she buried her face in his shoulder, but Kelc stood and watched, stunned.
Kreg let loose a screech, but his blade he kept, and hacked at the warden who had to let go of his grip or lose his hand, unable to rip his curved steel from Kreg’s ribs.
“I will not go down,” howled the young man, the sword standing out from his chest. Bloody foam dribbled from his mouth. “You must!”
Kreg staggered forward, slicing at Tasher, who had no blade, cutting deeply into his left arm. The warden spun even as he felt the cut hit him, driving his shoulder into his opponent, but the tall boy caught his throat adeptly, prepared for the attack.
Kelc’s eyes shot open wide.
The warden’s feet came up off of the ground even as Kreg’s blade landed there. With both hands, the young man gripped Tasher’s throat, momentarily lifting him into the air, taking full control of his momentum.
The older man’s arms, both wounded badly, thrashed against the grip, scratching at Kreg’s eyes and landing weak punches on his face before they came to grip the boy’s wrists, trying to pull his hands back.
Kreg staggered forward two more steps and then drove the warden into the ground, never releasing his neck, going down on top of him with all of his weight, a knee aimed at his gut.
“Hoool!” grunted Tasher as all of his air left him, still trying to break the grip Kreggen held on his throat, even as the boy’s hot blood drained onto him, emitting steam into the freezing air around them. The older man struggled for what felt like a glass, horrible as it was to behold, before finally falling limp in Kreggen’s hands.
“Bloody hells of Oerhe,” Jista grunted.
Kreg slumped forward and his family rushed to him, but his head snapped back up. “No! Don’t…” He pulled one leg forward, an obvious struggle, followed by the second. “No!” he rumbled as he fought to stand, staying the desperate hands of his mother and father. “Ahh!” he yelled as he lurched to his feet. “I will not end this battle on the ground.” He tottered, swaying to a side, but keeping his feet. He looked at his father. “I beat him,” he said before a coughing fit brought a mouthful of hot dark blood. I beat the Territorial Warden.”
Dread of Spirit: Rise of the Mage - Book One Page 12
