“Is the abbey near?” the dwarf asked again. “Do you know Godwyn?”
Bishop Godwyn had told Nail and the others that the abbey was a way station for weary travelers along the Swithen Wells Trail. “The abbey’s not more than a hundred paces behind me in the fog,” he said, hardly worried about divulging the abbey’s location now, figuring the two would stumble onto it anyway. “I’ll take you to Godwyn.”
“Splendid,” the dwarf said, removing his iron half-helm and bowing to Nail again.
“So you’ve been in many battles?” Hawkwood asked him.
Nail nodded as matter-of-factly as he could.
The man’s eyes were sharp and keen. “Then I would be honored if you were to show me your skill with a blade.”
The clouds had lifted, revealing the mountains around the abbey. Still, the air was heavy and damp, the ground mossy and wet as Hawkwood’s cutlass bit halfway into the pig’s corpse before he yanked the blade free. Blood oozed from the slippery sack of flesh. The beast hung from a rope, spinning slowly, a barbed hook through its mouth, its curly tail dangling just above the grass. He reached out and stopped the corpse from spinning. It was suspended from a bowed timber, the length of which was wedged between two crumbled stone walls just south of the abbey, remnants of an old horse stable.
Hawkwood thrust his cutlass straight into the pig’s belly, then pulled it free just as swiftly. “Striking flesh is different from clacking gunnysack swords against each other,” he said. Nail, Stefan, Dokie, Liz Hen, and Beer Mug gathered around him. “Flesh is soft. It gives. Muscle and bone often catch the blade, jerking it free from your grasp when your foe falls back. It takes more effort, strength, and speed to remove a blade from a combatant’s body than to strike into it. Nothing worse than finding your own sword stuck in someone’s rib cage whilst someone else cleaves your head from your neck.”
He motioned for Stefan to step forward and handed him the blade. “Thrust deep. Hanging as it is, the pig’s vitals and ribs are in much the same position as a human.”
Stefan jabbed straight into the pig’s midsection but was thrown off balance when the pig spun. He struggled to regain his footing, both hands tugging at the hilt, wary of the serrated spikes along the sword’s hilt-guard. When the cutlass yanked free, he tumbled backward into the sand as the pig, triumphant, twisted on the rope above.
“Tossed on his butt by a dead swine.” Nail laughed and took the cutlass from Stefan. It was a magnificent sword with a long, curved blade, sleek and, but for the thin film of pig’s blood and guts, without blemish. The hilt, wrapped in black leather and sporting a profusion of the serrated black spikes along the hilt-guard, was troublesome to hold. Still, he gave it a go. He thrust the cutlass into the pig, keeping his footing while ripping the blade free, the same as Shawcroft had taught him to rake a loosened chunk of stone away from a rock wall with his pickax. The pig swung, a deep hole in its side.
“Good,” Hawkwood said. “Now hold the sword with both hands and swing at it with might and power, as if you want to slice the beast right in half.”
Wary of the spikes, Nail positioned both hands tightly around the hilt and found himself naturally placing his feet in one of the exact same stances Shawcroft always insisted on. He chose the stance he was most familiar with—his favorite one, the easiest one. He whipped the blade back behind his head, front knee up, foot off the ground, full weight on his back foot. Torso and shoulders bursting with speed and fury, he swung. His full body weight was behind the blade as he brought it flashing around. The curved blade bit deep, and his follow-through sent pig guts and blood spraying off into the trees, the beast swinging upward wildly on the rope.
When the pig ceased twisting and twirling on the rope, they could all see Nail had nearly cut the thing in half. Only its spine held it together.
“Nicely done.” Hawkwood nodded to him, admiration on his face. “That was power unlike any I’ve ever seen. What was that footwork before you swung? I haven’t seen its like in ages.”
“Just something I learned once.” Nail was taken aback by the compliment.
“Well, you’re a natural. Keep it up. It will serve you well.”
Nail swelled with pride until Liz Hen snatched the cutlass from his hand and jabbed it with a shout into what remained of the mutilated pig. She jerked the weapon out easily. The pig remained still. Nail found himself scowling. Beer Mug barked happily. “The girl’s a natural too,” Hawkwood said, taking the blade from her.
“I killed a Sør Sevier knight,” she boasted, puffing up her chest. “And I got the sword to prove it.”
“I helped with that,” Dokie piped in.
“Good for you two.” Hawkwood sounded genuinely impressed.
“Well, anyway.” Liz Hen nodded to the dangling pig. “I’ll be cooking that swine for you later, Ser Hawkwood the Handsome,” she said with a curtsy and a smile. “I’m just cutting it up now.” Since the man had arrived, Liz Hen literally glowed in his presence.
Hawkwood smiled at her graciously and handed Nail the cutlass along with a makeshift wooden shield. “Let’s test your skills as a fighter.” He pulled his other cutlass from his shoulder harness and sighted down the blade.
Nail swung the shield to the ready position, dropping his left leg back a pace and raising the cutlass Hawkwood had given him. He wondered if his stance looked sloppy to the man. Nail noted that there was always a cool intelligence pouring out of the stranger’s burning black eyes. He stepped back, crouching with the rim of his shield just under his eyes, the tip of the cutlass wavering uncertainly.
Hawkwood danced to the side and struck with a swiftness Nail had never seen before, his blade naught but a thin blur. Both sword and shield went spinning from Nail’s hands. Liz Hen clapped. She and Dokie had perched themselves on the stone fence not far away. Dokie’s legs swung, booted heels thumping rhythmically against the rocks. Liz Hen stopped her clapping and smiled sarcastically at Nail. Glowering at the girl, Nail picked up the cutlass and shield, wiping the dew from the blade. His previous confidence was now gone.
“Use only the sword this time,” Hawkwood said. “I can tell the shield hampers you. It may be of use to lumbering knights laden down with battle armor, but I aim to teach you speed and quickness to go with your innate strength. Truth is, most sword fights are over in a couple of swings. Any man can heave a sword about, but it’s the footwork that separates the common fighter from the master. And that is clearly what you have a natural aptitude for.” Nail dropped the shield. Hawkwood tossed him his other cutlass. Nail caught it by the hilt with his free hand, still cautious of the serrated spikes along the sword’s hilt-guard.
“And all warriors should learn to fight with two blades in hand,” the man continued. “Swords are attacking weapons, whereas a shield is for naught but defense and a waste of precious speed and energy. Why fight with one sword when you can fight with two?”
Hawkwood picked up a dead aspen branch from the ground. He snapped it in half over his knee and wielded both broken pieces like two swords. “Learn how two swords feel in your hands, learn their weight, their reach. Discover how hard you can swing them before they throw you off balance. Swing until your arms grow so weary you cannot continue. We can incorporate the footwork you already know later. Try and hit me. I will block and parry with the sticks if and when I feel the need.”
Footwork I already know? With two swords in hand, Nail had zero idea how to begin. So he just stepped forward and swung one blade after the next. Hawkwood blocked every blow with ease.
“Look at that,” Liz Hen jeered. “Even with two swords, Nail can’t hit him.”
Nail advanced on Hawkwood, cutlasses swinging wildly now. The man backed away, thwarting Nail’s arcing attacks. He could tell that even wielding naught but tree branches, this dark-haired fellow before him had soldiering skills beyond what Jubal Bruk had ever taught the conscripts of Gallows Haven.
Though he had just met the man less than an hour ago, Nail wanted to p
rove to Hawkwood that he could truly fight, that he wasn’t just flailing away. And the more he swung, the more he wanted to land a blow. He did not want to draw blood, but just land one solid strike. For some reason, he wanted this man’s approval again.
To Nail’s great alarm, one of the first things Bishop Godwyn had done upon Hawkwood and Roguemoore’s arrival was to take them directly into the chapel’s library and show them the battle-ax and the blue stone. “I can finally sing praise to The Moon Scrolls of Mia,” the dwarf had said. “That the years of toil and sacrifice of so many have finally borne such joyous fruit is a confirmation of my faith in Mia.” The dwarf hefted the ax in his own rough hands and gazed with great wonder upon the shiny blue stone, tears forming in his eyes. Though Hawkwood did not touch either the ax or the stone, he did look upon each with reverence. Nail’s stomach had been in knots as the dwarf handled the stone. It had been clear from the start that the bishop and the dwarf shared a history—theirs was a natural comradeship. Nail figured it would have been nice had Godwyn alerted them that he was expecting the dwarf and his friend—though Liz Hen certainly didn’t mind the arrival of Hawkwood. She fawned and doted from the start. She was especially thrilled when Hawkwood challenged Nail to a duel.
And now here they were, Nail wildly swinging two cutlasses in seemingly useless gestures at a man who backed away effortlessly and parried with ease. After a time, Nail grew accustomed to the weight and balance of the swords and they became more comfortable in his hands. He gained strength in the realization and became more calculating in his swings, speeding up, pressing the attack.
But soon his arms grew weary, leaden. Sweat plastered errant strands of hair to his face. Panting and tired, arms sore, he was determined to keep going. He swung and swung until he was breathing so hard he thought he might pass out.
“Enough,” Hawkwood said, dropping the aspen branches. He cast a direct and steady gaze at Nail. “I only wanted to get a sense of you. I can gauge a man’s character by watching him swing a sword. And I can pretty much glean everything I need to know about a man by watching him swing two swords. You have a natural ability, Nail. You exhibit a grace and ease when using them. But your mind is distracted. You wandered off for a moment there. What were you thinking of?”
“I was thinking about you and the dwarf and the bishop.” Nail handed the two cutlasses back. “I was thinking about the ax and the stone that Godwyn showed you.”
“Ah, yes, the ax and the stone. When Roguemoore and I were looking at them, I sensed that they weighed heavy on your mind. But in battle, your enemy will care not about you or your problems, for he will have issues of his own. And the man who buries his worries away before battle is the man who will return alive to dig them back up. You have the makings of a good swordsman. The problem will not be in teaching you skill with the blade. You’ve enough confidence in yourself. That is clear. But more importantly, what you need learn is concentration. You must not let your mind wander. I believe if you conquer your own mind, you could be good with a blade, very good, one of the best. And I could teach you.” Hawkwood bowed. “That is, if it pleases you.”
The thought of this man teaching him sword craft pleased Nail greatly.
“If what Liz Hen saw is true,” the dwarf said, “then Jubal Bruk probably reached Amadon some time ago. Jovan now knows of the sacking of Gallows Haven and has, more than likely, come to Lord’s Point via the king’s tolls to meet with the White Prince and negotiate a surrender.”
“How could Jubal have possibly reached Amadon in such a state?” Godwyn asked. “The girl said that he was without arms, without legs, just tar-covered stumps.” The bishop sat across the narrow table from Roguemoore and Hawkwood. Zane’s dog was under the table, nuzzling against Godwyn’s rough boots contentedly. The table was near the back of the chapel. Two tall candles sat atop its burnished surface.
The three men along with Nail were drinking ale and nibbling on the sourdough bread that Liz Hen had baked earlier that day. Up late and unable to sleep, Nail had slipped from his bunk and through the kitchen toward the chapel, his goal the library beyond, and then to the battle-ax, and more importantly, Shawcroft’s satchel, if it was not locked away in the bishop’s private chamber as it had been since they’d arrived. The note in the secret compartment plagued his mind. It was such a small thing, that note, and yet it contained a mystery. And he meant to read it. But at the door of the kitchen, he’d heard the men talking and entered. They bade him sit with them. So he had.
“Armless and legless and stuffed into a wooden box,” Godwyn added. “Any man would die from wounds so grievous.”
“Not if my brother plied him with tenvamaru serum,” Hawkwood answered. “He would survive with relative ease. Jubal Bruk would reach Amadon well rested.”
“Pointless brutality,” Godwyn murmured.
“Enna Spades is full of cruelty,” Hawkwood said flatly.
The dwarf looked at his partner, hard eyes unflinching. “The country you hail from is the very definition of cruelty.”
“I cannot argue.”
“Jovan mightn’t even bother meeting with Aeros,” the dwarf said. “My feeling is he will send Leif Chaparral or perhaps even Sterling Prentiss to offer up the white flag.”
“What then should we do?” Godwyn asked, taking up a crust of bread, ripping it in two, and stuffing it into his mouth. “Do you think he really will surrender?”
“What we must do is concentrate on retrieving Afflicted Fire and Blackest Heart and the two remaining angel stones that Ser Roderic left in the north. That is where Ser Roderic would have us go, were he here.”
Hawkwood said, “I suggest we head north to Ravenker, gather what word we can of the White Prince’s advancement up the coast, and carry on to Lord’s Point.” He turned to the dwarf. “Meet up with your brother at the Turn Key Saloon as planned.”
“And take these kids from Gallows Haven with us?” Godwyn asked.
“Aye.”
“They’ve seen enough grief to last a lifetime. They are not like the Bronachells, inured to gruesome gladiator matches at ten years old. They hail from simple farm folk and fishermen; hardy, yes, less pampered than royalty, true, but when Gallows Haven was sacked, the brutality was a traumatic shock they will suffer the ill effects of the rest of their lives. To march them back into the thick of more such trauma is reckless. Even if we make it beyond Lord’s Point without running into Aeros’ army, rumor grows that oghul raiders are becoming more brazen in the north near Sky Lochs and Deadwood Gate. The young people needn’t be a part of this anymore.”
“Every young person in this land best get used to such trauma,” the dwarf said bluntly, his deep-set eyes on Nail. “This young man and his friends are bound to the Five Pillars of Laijon, their fates tied to the stones. They have each of them held the angel stone, and that is a bond not easily broken. That the boy, Dokie, has survived a lightning strike, sharks, and arrows is no small thing. They are as the Brethren of Mia now, privy to information few know. Aeros may still have his Knights of the Blue Sword hunting them. They will come with us. The time for coddling the youth of Gul Kana is at an end.”
Nail bristled at the notion of someone thinking him naught but a coddled youth. Hadn’t he proved his mettle? Was surviving the siege of Gallows Haven and leading his friends through the mines and icy mountains and finding them safety worth nothing? The anger simmered as he felt the blood rising up through his face and cheeks.
“I have no fear of going to Ravenker with you,” he said, staring unflinchingly back at the dwarf. “I will fight against the White Prince again if I must. I am not afraid.”
“It is good that you volunteer,” the dwarf said. Godwyn and Hawkwood appraised him flatly. But nobody spoke beyond that, and the silence was unnerving as they ate.
Nail sat there, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. Many of the things the men talked about were now needling at his mind. There had been more talk of Shawcroft and angel stones. But will these men answer
my questions?
He broke the silence. “There is much I wish to know about a great many things. But I fear you will keep things from me, as Shawcroft did.”
“We did not stop you from hearing our discussion,” Roguemoore said, “and invited you to sit, even. We’ve nothing to hide from you.”
“Nothing to hide?” His eyes were trained on the dwarf. “That does not seem possible. Few men speak the truth, especially to me.” His eyes moved smoothly to Godwyn before returning to Roguemoore.
“What is it you wish to know?” the dwarf asked.
“You promise the truth?”
The dwarf appraised him with a raised brow. “I give you my word.”
“You were a friend of my master?”
The dwarf nodded. “I knew him well.”
From his periphery, Nail noticed a sharp frown creasing the bishop’s brow. Still, he asked, “Was Shawcroft really Ser Roderic Raybourne, prince of Wyn Darrè?”
“Aye, he was.”
“Then where is my twin sister? Who was my mother? Who was my father?”
His questions elicited a sigh from Godwyn, who sat back on his chair and looked straight at the dwarf. Hawkwood looked up too, fixing Nail with a stony gaze.
Roguemoore remained still for a moment before saying, “Shawcroft told me nothing of your sister or mother or father. I only know that he watched over you as a favor to King Borden Bronachell.” The dwarf looked down into his mug of ale. “That is the truth.” He took a huge swig of his cup.
Nail swallowed hard. A deep silence filled the chapel. He wished to push the dwarf further. But he’d learned the hard way with Shawcroft—pushing too much only made other answers more difficult in the coming. He would drop that subject of his parentage and take a different route. “You claim Ser Roderic found two angel stones hidden in the north? I was with him then, in Sky Lochs. I was still a small boy when we left there. I don’t remember any of it. He never showed me any angel stones, leastways. I was a little older when we mined near Deadwood Gate. But again, I remember no angel stones.” He paused, his mind on the cross-shaped altar in the Roahm Mines, the stone Gisela had found, and the ax. He thought of the Vallè woman Shawcroft had burned and her dead, red-eyed mare in the pit—wondered if the Vallè Bloodwood had any bearing on what they were talking about now. “Godwyn said Shawcroft has been searching for lost angel stones all his life. Is this why Shawcroft claimed men in black cloaks with demon-eyed horses had hunted us? Is this why Shawcroft was killed? For these angel stones?”
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