Sal nodded his head soberly. He’d been a soldier long enough to become acquainted with death, but never known it quite the way Retzu did. Pushing all qualms he had to the side, he pondered this new insight, and listened very closely to everything Retzu had to say.
“Death is raw, like the hide of the newly skinned bull,” the assassin intoned softly, the words hanging in the air with a certain power that Sal didn’t completely understand, but respected nonetheless. The words echoed back and forth across the far reaches of his mind, gathering the strings of his mind and drawing them taut.
There was truth in the mantra, truth about death. He tried to examine it, to know it intimately, but that understanding teased him, skittering away as he neared it. Frustrated, he focused more deeply on that truth, trying to trap it, to own it.
“Yes,” he heard Retzu mutter. “You’re a quick study. The words do have a tendency to get away from you. They force you to hone your thoughts, to sharpen your perceptions until they are in perfect harmony with your environment. No one knows why the mantras have the power they do. That’s just the way it is.”
Sal accepted this without question, without word. He simply thrust his mind forward toward the understanding he sought. “Okay,” he muttered finally. “My perceptions are sharpened. So now what?”
Retzu made a show of sighing his frustrations, but said nothing. Instead, he reached out to his side and wrapped his hand around the rawhide hilt of a newly crafted katana. He raised the sword to eye level and stared down the edge, looking for any flaws in the blade. Sal doubted he’d find any; the assassin was so serious about his line of work, he’d probably double and triple checked the blade before he first purchased it. “Some of Master Seti’s finest work,” Retzu remarked, lowering the katana. “I’ll have to drop his name the next time I hold court with the Silent Blade.
“The katana is the tool of choice for the shol’tuk adherent,” Retzu continued, now addressing Sal directly. “Its versatility and precision are utterly unmatched. No other weapon can compare to its effectiveness. And you are entirely unworthy of it.”
That last shocked Sal, almost like a slap to the face. “But I thought…”
“Oh no, you thought correctly. It is your blade. But until you learn to use it, you will not be its master.” With a flourish, Retzu stabbed the blade into the ground, leaving barely half the blade exposed. The black-clad assassin barely registered the effort of driving the sword so deep. Sal was impressed by the display, testimony either to the insane sharpness of the blade, or the strength of its wielder.
“Your tool instead will be the bokuto,” said Retzu, taking up a wooden practice sword and tossing it hilt first to Sal, who caught it easily. Sal hefted it once in his hand, and was amazed at how light the sword was, how perfectly balanced. He could see how the wooden practice sword itself could be a deadly weapon. “Use your weapon wisely. Study it. Know it. Make it a part of you, or you will never see even the rawhide hilt.”
Though Sal had been eager to start his employment with the incredibly hot Artisan Marissa, he had to admit that Retzu had him hooked on shol’tuk. It took most of the day, practicing feints, blocks, flourishes, and even a few strikes before Retzu deemed him worthy to take up his rawhide hilted katana.
“If you can reach it,” Retzu added ominously as Sal started toward the sword, still half buried in the soil. Sal wasn’t sure what the assassin meant until Retzu reached over his head and pulled his own gold hilted bokuto from its sheath in the hollow of his back.
“Shol’zo rah,” Retzu commanded, and both parties went down on their knees, wooden swords placed in front of them at angles. “Defend yourself.”
Swift as the wind, Retzu snatched his sword and rolled into a crouch, stabbing at Sal with the tip of his bokuto. Sal barely had time to grab at his own sword and pop up on his feet, swiping at Retzu’s sword as he backed away.
The assassin let the momentum from Sal’s sweep carry his sword to the fullest extent of his reach, and brought his sword back up, slashing at Sal’s groin. Again, Sal was able to bat it away.
Now both combatants were on their feet, with Retzu driving and Sal backpedaling. Retzu slashed and hacked relentlessly. It was all that Sal could do to block and parry the flurry of motion he had coming at him. Each strike drove Sal further and further back away from his rawhide hilted katana, now some twenty feet away. If he didn’t find a way to turn the tide, Retzu would have him backed up completely off the green in no time.
Desperate, Sal used the next block to set up a strike of his own. Reversing his grip on the sword, he brought his wooden blade up to block a chop coming in from his right side, then swept the sword forward, the tip making contact with Retzu’s temple. Not stopping long enough to see how the assassin recovered, he let the momentum of the blade spin him around until he was past Retzu and facing the rawhide hilt.
He dashed for the sword at an all-out run. He slid to the ground like a base runner, grasping the hilt and pulling as he skid past. The blade came free of the ground with barely a whisper. Caught up in the heat of battle, Sal leapt to his feet and brought keen edged sword up to block whatever strike Retzu had planned for him.
But no strike came. Retzu stood back where Sal had struck him, nursing a slight bump on the head, but otherwise uninjured. “About time, mate,” the rogue said good-naturedly. “I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you.”
***
That afternoon, Retzu helped Sal apply rawhide to the hilt of his bokuto. A simple gesture, really, but it meant something to Sal. It was something he could be proud of. Heck, just that morning, he’d never even held a sword, much less been recognized for his proficiency with it. Of course, he wasn’t so arrogant as to believe he actually knew anything about being shol’tuk. But the fact that he had the opportunity to find out was enough to put him on cloud nine. It was very much like when he was first accepted to train as a SEAL—that elite fighting force a part of, and yet separate from, the United States Navy. He was the cream of the crop, and he was only going to get better.
He carried that high with him back to his tent, where he carefully placed his sheathed sword and its matching bokuto next to his pallet. He toyed with the idea of slinging the bokuto across his back, but thought better of it. Not until I earn the real thing, he thought. Instead, he changed out of his sweat slick leather jerkin and into a cool linen smock, and then headed to Marissa’s wagon.
“Ah, Sal,” she said as he approached, brushing her flaming red hair out of her eyes. “I was wondering if I’d see you today.”
Wild ninjas couldn’t keep me away, Sal thought with a smile, then bowed with mock seriousness. “I was with Retzu, milady, learning the art of the invisible warrior.”
Marissa laughed prettily, and waved him over. “I suppose I’ll forgive you this once, but next time remind that overstuffed street brawler that you’re already a soldier. I need twice the time you give him if I am to mold you into a gemsmith. Now, if between the two of us we could afford you an hour or so on your own, perhaps you could see to it that I don’t have to work with a man that smells like he’s been mucking out the stables?”
Sal immediately colored at the playful insult, but quickly recovered. “Yeah, you bet,” he muttered. He snuck a quick sniff at his armpit as Marissa turned to lead him to the workbenches, then hurried to follow.
“I’ve set up this bench as your workstation,” she said, indicating a tall wooden table standing at the corner of her own. It was a well-worn table of questionable craftsmanship, but it looked sturdy enough. The center of the tabletop was clear, ringed round about with small bins filled with various gems, silver appliances, and tools. Its cleanliness stood in stark contrast to the ordered chaos of Marissa’s own workstation. “I prefer to call it ‘lived in’,” she said sweetly as she followed his eyes.
Sal ran his hand lightly over the bins, staring in slack jawed appreciation at the collection of precious stones they held. Abruptly his left eye started to itch. She mu
st have kicked up quite a dust cloud trying to clean this mess up, he thought absently as he scrubbed his eye.
“Have you had a chance to study that runebook?”
Sal cast a wry glance over his shoulder at her. “The ones written in English? Oh, yeah… they’re practically all I’ve thought about.” Well, almost.
A slow smile lit her face with a radiance that rivaled the afternoon sunlight. She was pleased that he was taking such an interest in her line of work, Sal realized. Not so surprising. Sal had met many people over the years that bore a similarly fanatical passion for their profession, but none of them had the talent that she seemed to have. Her wagon was burdened inside and out with completed and semi-completed pieces, each one more lovely—and more fitting personally—than any decoration she might have found in the city. She absolutely loved what she did, and surrounded herself with her creations, not for some personal stab at glory, but almost as a tribute to her god, the Crafter, for the talent he had given her. “What say we give you an opportunity to put them to use,” she said with an enthusiastic sigh. “The runes, I mean. I was trying to think of a beginner’s project that would suit your personality, but I’ll admit that… well, I don’t know what your interests are.”
Sal furrowed his brow in thought. Interests? In a world of flying horses and fireballs, what could he create that he could possibly relate to? “I dunno,” he muttered noncommittally. “I like order, structure—” He cut himself off abruptly, looking self-consciously at the cluttered work area, but if Marissa took offense to his Freudian slip, she showed no sign. “Umm… I mean, I try to be efficient, practical, dependable…”
And then it hit him. “I got just the thing,” he chuckled, digging the runebook out of his pant pocket. “Is there a rune for ‘timepiece’?”
***
Thus began a daily routine for Sal. In the mornings, he would train with Retzu. In the afternoons, he would hone his skill at gemsmithing. In the evenings, he would dine with Jaren, who most often took bread with Reit and Delana. “Benefits of being a bachelor in this outfit,” the emerald often joked. Of course, the meal was never free. Delana was always trying to fix Jaren up with this woman or that—”oh, you’d love her, she’s such a sweet girl!”—but he just shrugged it off. It was a small price to pay for not having to cook. Strangely, Delana had stopped trying to play matchmaker with Sal. Just as well, as far as Sal was concerned. He couldn’t think of any woman beyond Marissa.
“Your concentration is slipping,” Retzu noted as he deflected Sal’s half-hearted chop, tapping him atop his head once to emphasize the point. Sal grumbled under his panted breath and shoved all thoughts of flaming red hair out of his mind, driving at the assassin with a renewed effort.
“Good, good,” Retzu said, bringing his bokuto up to block Sal’s thrust. Sal twisted the parry into another strike, the newly wrapped rawhide hilt cutting into the palms of his hands as the wooden blade swept down. Again, Retzu blocked his strike almost effortlessly.
Sal dropped low and swung his leg around in a wide circle, hoping to catch Retzu off guard. No such luck; the assassin jumped the foot sweep with ease as slashed for Sal’s shoulder as he came back down. Sal dodged the blow at the last second, the breeze from the near miss ruffling his hair as the sword passed.
Blunted as the bokuto swords were, they still packed enough of a wallop to shower a man’s vision with sparks if he wasn’t fast enough to evade them. Sal’s body bore the evidence of that. But it was a small price to pay. More and more often, he noticed Retzu walking away from these training sessions with a knot or a limp of his own.
“Excellent,” Retzu praised. He gave a grudging nod of his head as he raised his hand, signaling the end of the session. For the second time that week, Sal had fought him to a draw. He cracked a weary smile as both men lowered their swords, and then his smile faltered. Retzu hadn’t broken a sweat, was barely even breathing hard! Frikkin’ punk, Sal thought, seething behind his grin.
Sal drew himself up haltingly, his many bumps and bruises crying out for attention. He was eager to get to Jaren’s tent for his daily healing, but he stayed put, refusing to leave the village green before Retzu. But the assassin didn’t move. Instead, he cast a steady gaze over Sal’s shoulder. Turning to follow Retzu’s line of sight, Sal found the real reason they’d stop. Another sparring match awaited him, but one decidedly more pleasant.
Marissa stood on the far side of the green, beaming as she watched the pair train. She was ragged and filthy from her latest rock hunting expedition—and utterly beautiful in Sal’s eyes. And by the look on her face, Sal guessed that she’d found something interesting.
“Have you talked to her yet?” Retzu asked, as Marissa started towards them.
“I’m working up to it.”
This brought a hoarse chuckle from his friend. “You’ve been ‘working up to it’ since we talked about this last week. At this rate, I’ll be a husband and a father before you so much as kiss the woman.”
Sal had to admit he had a point. Since first meeting the mistress artisan, he’d made little attempt to “declare his intentions” with Marissa, as Retzu put it. Not that he hadn’t want to desperately.
He didn’t know what his problem was. They were both adults, and obviously interested in each other. The way they tripped and bumbled when they were around each other was proof positive of that.
And after two weeks of the tripping and bumbling, Sal’s reluctance to declare intentions had the whole town talking. Reit scoffed at comments of Sal’s cowardice. Retzu had even gone so far as draw his sword in defense of Sal’s honor when someone had suggested that he might “prefer the company of a man.” It was just the assassin’s bokuto, but in the safety and apparent brotherhood of Caravan, the threat of a popknot on someone’s forehead was just as effective a deterrent as the appearance of drawn steel.
Marissa was no help, either. For some strange reason, the womenfolk of the culture refused to make the first move. He didn’t understand it, and rather resented it—it would make this a heck of a lot easier! They could hold jobs, elevating themselves to the very top of their profession if they so desired. They could fight alongside or even command men in combat. But when it came to declaring romantic intentions, the responsibility always fell to the man. And Marissa was playing her part to the hilt. The only sign that she’d even noticed the local gossip was the near constant look of stifled amusement on her face. It wasn’t that custom absolutely demanded her patience per se. She, like every other woman in the culture, simply chose to wait on the man. But if she was disappointed by Sal’s reticence, it didn’t show.
As she drew near, radiant beneath the dust and grime that caked her face, Sal vowed under his breath that he’d talk to her soon. No, not ‘soon’. Tonight, he thought emphatically. There was no way he was going to pass up even one more opportunity to tell Marissa how he felt. He swore it by God and all creation! But as she came close enough for him to smell the fading hints of the lavender soap she used—and was currently in dire need of—he felt his resolve crumble beneath a schoolboy giddiness.
“Retzu, would you mind if I stole Sal away from you?” Marissa asked, her eyes not even wavering in the assassin’s general direction.
“Not at all, Mistress Artisan.” He bowed as he left, already forgotten by the star struck pair.
“So, your scavenger hunt obviously went well,” Sal started, first to break the oddly comfortable silence. “Let’s see what you got.”
Eagerly, Marissa reached into the pocket of her dirt streaked linen trousers and handed him the contents with a flourish. It was a smallish chip of obsidian, not much bigger than a thumbnail.
It was the first one that he’d actually held, and for a moment its dark beauty captivated him. So struck was he that it didn’t register immediately. He’d been taught its magical qualities, but he didn’t feel the telltale itch in his left eye that he’d come to expect whenever he touched the gemstones of the artisan’s trade. He studied the glittering
black shard intensely, wondering what was so different about this soulgem.
Apparently, Marissa sensed his growing perplexity. “You’d told me that you had a few ideas you’d like to try out using obsidian. I’m sorry… I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, I am,” he reassured her. “It’s just... well, it’s a long story.”
“Well, good! You can tell me over dinner. If you’d like,” she added quickly, remembering herself.
“I’d like that, but I’d hate to subject you to my cooking,” he confided with a sheepish grin. Marissa’s smile faltered, and he groaned inwardly, cursing himself for a fool. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to cook?” he added—quite smoothly, much to his surprise—in an attempt to salvage the situation.
If Marissa had radiated enthusiasm before, she was positively blinding now. “Come over about sundown, and bring an appetite,” she said eagerly. She dashed down the path leading back to her wagon, leaving Sal to admire her as she faded from view.
It wasn’t until she was actually out of sight that he remembered the obsidian shard she’d given him. He held it up to check it for flaws, the sunlight cutting a feeble swath through the semi-translucent gem. Still his left eye felt normal. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. If the other soulgems caused his eye to twitch, why not the obsidian?
Chapter 8
He spent the better part of an hour putting a spit-shine to his appearance, and arrived at the artisan’s wagon early, so eager was he to see Marissa again. To his surprise, everything seemed in order for once. The workshop wasn’t in its usual state of disarray. The tools were all hanging on their pegs neatly. And dinner...
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