The Brothers Three: Book One of The Blackwood Saga

by Layton Green

  “Don’t be absurd,” Val said. “I’m just telling you that trying to turn him into a warrior will be a waste of time.”

  “That’s why he’ll be trained in the arts of stealth. Marguerite is a highly regarded member of the New Victoria Rogue’s Guild.”

  Val was quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”

  “It’s not a matter of gratitude. I fear if your party isn’t given basic survival skills, they won’t make it to the keep.”

  “All of us might not be skilled in battle, but underestimating my companions would be a mistake. Caleb’s quick and clever, and Will has the courage of a lion. Lance has trained as a warrior. They’re all resourceful and brave, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.”

  Mala was watching the road, the mocking smile returning to her lips. “And you, wizard without spells? What do you bring to the table?

  “Balls.”

  Mala threw her head back, her musical laughter more genuine this time. “I do enjoy our banter. It’s rather like a constant game of Zelomancy. Alexander’s been assigned to watch over you, though of course as a full-fledged wizard, you aren’t in need of training. Perhaps he can help recover these lost powers of yours. Oh, and let me show you something, since it was obvious in the last fight you’re unschooled in your own equipment. Your staff, if I may?”

  Val hesitated, then handed it to her. Mala was riding on Val’s left, near the side of the road, holding the staff in her left hand. She cocked her arm and waited, thighs clenched against the horse, rocking expertly with the canter. As she approached a cypress sapling, she swung the staff in a fluid arc, snapping her wrist at the apex of the swing. The edge of the ultra-thin half moon of Azantite cleaved the tree in two.

  Will’s jaw fell. He had studied blades of all sorts and would have bet his fantasy collection that the world’s sharpest Katana wouldn’t have made it halfway through that sapling.

  Mala returned the staff with a thin smile. “Azantite is almost as rare and deadly as a true Spirit Mage.”

  Val eyed the staff for a moment, then turned back to Mala. “And Will? Who trains him?”

  Mala cast her violet eyes in Will’s direction, catching him staring just before he looked away. “I do.”

  -21-

  He found out what a training session would be like sooner than expected. After crossing the narrow eastern edge of Lake Pontchartrain on a wooden bridge, they passed through a stretch of marshland dotted by thatch-roofed houses on stilts. An hour later the ground firmed, and they stopped beside a freshwater stream to rest and water the horses.

  Will climbed off his steed, aching and bowlegged. None of his fantasy novels had prepared him for the misery of a journey on horseback. Val waddled to the stream in a half-squat, grimacing as if giving birth. Lance looked like a pro, and Caleb surprised them all by jumping off his horse and strolling to the stream.

  They conserved their water by drinking from the brook, which tasted pure as an angel’s sigh. Will sat under a tree and inspected the contents of his pack. It contained rations, a canvas sleeping roll, basic utensils, a thin rope, a small torch and flask of oil, matches, and a skin of water.

  Just as Will started to relax, Mala broke off her conversation with Allira and approached him. At the same time, he saw Marguerite engage Caleb.

  Mala sat cross-legged on the ground across from him, jewelry tinkling, face unruffled from the half-day ride. She stared at Will with those mesmeric violet eyes, and he did his best to look nonchalant. The thought of training with Mala made him nervous at looking incompetent, and excited by the thought of acquiring some actual skill.

  “I only observed the end of the skirmish in the alley,” she said, “but Allira told me the rest.”

  Will looked away. “I didn’t realize she spoke.”

  “Forgive me, you’re correct. I should have said that she conveyed it to me, in her way.”

  Will glanced at Allira, sifting through the grass as if looking for herbs. “Why doesn’t she speak?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.” After a pause, Mala said, “I knew most of those men. Minor, unskilled thugs to a man, except for one.”

  “The leader?”

  “Hardly. The ruffian with whom you grappled once provided personal security for the wealthiest merchant in New Victoria. Though his judgment and choice of companions was poor, he was not a fighter to be taken lightly.”

  The use of the past tense gave Will a shiver, and he remembered the bloody end to the fight. “Trust me, I didn’t.”

  “You held him off with your grip, weaponless, for longer than many could have stood against him with a blade. Your actions demonstrated immense courage and the ability to act under pressure. It is something that cannot be taught.”

  Will almost laughed in her face. She had mistaken desperation for performance under fire.

  “Your brother was wrong,” she said. “I believe you possess the gumption in the family.”

  “My brother’s very brave. You don’t know him.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t. But your brother calculates far too much to be truly daring. What he has is determination. Force of will. The hallmarks of a successful wizard, I must admit.”

  Will’s eyes moved to the scabbard lying next to him. “You should know I don’t really know how to use that thing.”

  “Obviously. There’s no time for lengthy training, but perhaps I can impart some basic knowledge.”

  “I’ll take everything I can get,” Will said.

  She stood and helped him to his feet. She placed her hands on his chest, probing into the muscle. She did the same with his back, arms, and stomach. Despite the clinical nature of the inspection, her touch sent tingles of warmth through his nerve endings.

  After her fingers lingered on his forearms, she squeezed the fleshy part of his palms and then stepped back, satisfied. “You’re far more compact than you look. You have a strong back and shoulders, and your grip is extraordinary. An excellent base for a swordsman. What is your trade? Water-bearer? Blacksmith?”

  Water-bearer? “Builder.”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding to herself. “Well then, Will the Builder. Your larger companion has size and a modicum of skill, and his training will be handled by someone else.” Will wondered who she was talking about. There weren’t any other warriors in the group. “You will be a very different fighter from him, which is why I chose to train you. You will learn to fight like a woman.”

  Will made a choking sound.

  She arched her eyebrows. “Do you doubt my abilities?”

  He quickly composed himself. “No.”

  “A man with no skill relies on his strength. When that man faces someone larger or stronger or more skilled—and he will—then he will lose that fight. When a child or a woman learns the basics of an art, using subtlety and deception because they must, they eventually combine what strength they possess with a lifetime of skill. And I assure you, our swords cut just the same.”

  Will knew his annoyance at being grouped with females and children was irrational; he had seen Mala fight. It was just that whenever he had imagined his own training, his instruction had been handled by a seasoned Viking.

  Will nodded slowly. “I suppose it makes sense.”

  “You don’t need to suppose. It simply is. Are you ready to begin?”

  “Now? I—”

  His words were interrupted as Mala threw a handful of sand in Will’s face, kneed him in the groin, then pulled him to the ground. When his eyes stopped burning and the throbbing in his groin lessened to a tolerable level, he uncurled from the fetal position and struggled to his feet.

  Mala was standing a few feet away, arms crossed and unsmiling. “I teach by example. Lessons one, two, and three apply to all combat, weaponless or otherwise.” She ticked off her fingers as she spoke. “Lesson the first: always be aware. Lesson the second: strike first whenever possible, and with intent. Lesson the third: cheat.”

  Will stood with a hand on his groin, still w
iping tears and grains of sand from his eyes. Charlie, he muttered to himself with a grimace. Finding a way to get home.

  “As you’ve seen, a real fight is fast, hard, and chaotic. There is no rulebook, no quarter, no time to think. You will survive on instinct alone, and thus preparation and training must become instinctive.”

  Will wanted to say Yes, Drill Sergeant Yoda to that last statement, but he kept his mouth shut for fear of having his private parts pulverized again.

  “Today we shall focus on hand-to-hand combat. It’s useful to have basic martial skill at your disposal, even if you’re not a majitsu.”

  Will remembered the silver-belted wizard-monks he had seen in the Wizard District, the aura of power they projected. A chill coursed through him. “What if we come across a majitsu?”

  Her face tightened at the interruption. “That is extremely unlikely, and far beyond the purview of this training.”

  “But if we do?”

  “Then you run, as fast and as far as you can.”

  Will digested that. “Would you run?”

  She didn’t answer at first, but from her hint of a cold smile, Will gathered that Mala ran from very, very few things.

  “Yes,” she answered, which both surprised him and taught him another lesson: he needed to leave his pride at the door.

  For the hundredth time since he had met her, Will pondered the Mysteries of Mala. What was her background? Who had trained her? Why didn’t she travel with a gypsy clan, and why did she speak like a member of the British upper crust? How much did she know about wizards? Where’d she get the scar? And what was in all those pouches?

  Those were the last thoughts Will had before spending the next few hours as Mala’s punching bag. True to her word, she taught as she went, making sure Will learned by example. And by example, she meant pain.

  Will had dabbled in enough martial arts to know that Mala was not just an expert, but a savant. She hit as hard as any karate instructor he knew, threw like a Judo master, joint-locked like a jujitsu renshi. She stuck to the basics, teaching Will how to react to a variety of situations, though the bulk of the time was spent on defense from armed attackers. She taught him how martial arts should be used in conjunction with the blade: the well-timed snap kick to the knee, the under-utilized trip, the hip throw when locked in the clinch, the head butt, the eye gouge, the finger break. Every manner of nasty move that had no place in most dojos, and which most certainly had never been taught by any of Will’s latte-sipping, pony-tailed instructors.

  At the end of the session, Mala helped him to his feet after a particularly hard shoulder throw. “You did well.”

  Will put his hand on his hip and limped to the tree. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  “You never complained. That’s a victory in itself.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll remember any of it, except for the bruises.”

  “The trick is to retain one or two things from each lesson. We’ll practice these maneuvers again tonight, then move to the blade.”

  Practice these again tonight, he thought? He wouldn’t survive until dawn.

  “And soon,” she said as she walked towards the horses, “we’ll discuss that curious sword of yours.”

  -22-

  They rode for another two hours. Too exhausted to canter back and ask Caleb how his training had gone, Will studied the scenery instead.

  It was the same, but it wasn’t. The pines seemed taller, the grass greener, the streams more clear. A landscape unsullied by the industrial revolution, imbued with primeval vibrancy, enhanced by a patina of the unknown.

  The way Mala and her companions kept a constant vigil on their surroundings worried him. Mala gave a lecture on the threat of bandits, explaining that while the cities of New Albion were firmly in the grip of the Protectorate, most of the countryside was a wild place, filled with dangerous predators, roving gangs of thieves, and worse.

  In contrast, the wide Protectorate Byway on which they were traveling felt quite civilized. A raised curb provided separation, and mile markers informed them how far they had traveled. Road traffic consisted of a variety of carriages, stagecoaches, and drays. Occasionally they saw a family trudging along on foot, and Will assumed the dirt roads he saw branching off the Byway, rutted by carriage tracks, led to villages and towns scattered about the countryside. Once Will watched in awe as a horse-less carriage zipped by as fast as a car, hovering a few feet off the ground. The sides of the carriage were draped in red velvet, and he assumed a wizard reclined inside, propelling the carriage by unseen forces.

  At one point, Mala led everyone except Alexander and Marguerite off the road and into the woods. Not until they were out of sight did they start to parallel the Byway again, following an overgrown path Allira had spotted.

  Val clicked up beside Mala. “What’s going on?”

  “Way station,” Mala said. “We’ll skirt it and rejoin the Byway further on.”

  Val didn’t respond. Will knew Mala thought they were country bumpkins of unprecedented ignorance.

  “Way stations are manned by Protectorate Army soldiers,” she continued in exasperation, “and provide water and shelter to travelers. Unfortunately, no one except Alexander and Marguerite are citizens. Or at least I assume you’re not,” she said drily, “since you’re unfamiliar with Way Stations and other basic features of the Realm.”

  “Why aren’t you or Allira citizens?” Will said.

  He expected a mocking retort, but instead she scowled and waved a hand. “Because the Protectorate denies citizenship to Pagans, Gypsies, Indigenous Peoples, and anyone else who won’t take the Oaths or who they deem unfit.”

  Will blanched. “What happens if we’re caught using the Byway?”

  “We’ll be fined and dragged to the closest tribunal. At best, you’ll be given the chance to swear your Catechism Oaths before a judge. At worst,” Mala pulled back the red sleeve of her shirt, revealing an ugly, raised welt on her upturned wrist in the shape of an X, “you’ll be branded, then sent to the Fens or banished. And by banished, I mean left outside the city without personal items or coin, and with no access to the Byways. A death sentence for most.”

  “How did they catch you?” Will said, finding it hard to believe that Mala could have been caught and taken by a random search.

  “I was eleven.”

  Will’s eyes slipped off her scar. “Oh.”

  “Why do you risk staying in New Victoria?” Val asked.

  “Because it’s the largest city in the Realm, full of immigrants who’ve taken the Oaths, and easier to avoid attention. And because Protectorate soldiers who have seen fit to question Allira and me on the street,” she gave an evil smile, “have been known to disappear.”

  Will thought of their blithe sightseeing trip around New Victoria, and swallowed. “What are the Catechism Oaths?”

  Allira made a clicking noise, then turned the party into the pine forest again, back towards the Byway. “Another time,” Mala said, and drifted ahead.

  Relieved his panic disorder had not reared its ugly head during the sparring session, Will wondered why Mala had not been more troubled by his episode after the fight in the alley. She must have chalked it up to first-time nerves. That thought made him morose.

  The day lengthened, until the sun became a molten ball of lava sliding down a volcano. The more the sky darkened, the warier Mala and her companions grew. When a glade appeared through the trees, Mala whistled and led the party off the road.

  Mala nodded at Alexander. He disappeared into the woods, and Mala orchestrated the set up of camp. Allira tended to the horses, Marguerite cleared and prepared a fire pit, and everyone else helped arrange the campsite.

  Alexander returned with a lumpy canvas bag. “The wards are set.”

  “Good,” Mala said. “Squirrel for dinner, I presume?”

  He grinned. “Rabbit.”

  Marguerite clapped at the news. Lance helped skin and cook the rabbit, impressing the locals, and every
one except Allira ate around the fire. The mysterious healer hovered off to the side, eating very little and sipping from a gourd Will had seen her drop a pinch of leaves into.

  “We can only risk a cooking fire close to the Byway,” Mala said. “Enjoy the hot food while it lasts.”

  Caleb looked up. “I thought the road was safe?”

  “Even the Byways are questionable at night. Most travelers stay at the Way Stations, but our time table and lack of citizenship forecloses that possibility. “The further we travel from New Victoria,” she said as she stoked the fire, “the more the chance of an attack grows. The eastern portion of the Fifth Protectorate is unsettled, and except for Port Nelson, the entire Southern Protectorate is . . . treacherous.”

  “What’s so dangerous about it?” Will said.

  Marguerite and Mala exchanged a glance. “The Southern is part of the Realm in name only,” Mala said. “It’s largely unexplored, and reports of dangerous creatures abound. Much of the interior is swampland, impassable on foot. We’re merely skirting the northern portion.”

  A chill had entered the air, and Will warmed his hands by the fire. “What kinds of creatures? Monsters?”

  Mala took a bite of rabbit before she answered, washing it down with a swig from her canteen. “Most natural creatures do not fall within the realm of good or evil, as you imply by the term monster, no more than a dog or a horse. They simply are, and are to be avoided. But yes, some creatures are sentient, especially the wizard-born.”

  “Are you avoiding my question about the Southern Protectorate?”

  Mala’s lips parted at Will’s brashness. “The Southern is home to the sort of beasts one finds in the nooks and crannies of the world, where man has yet to trample the earth. It’s best not to let one’s mind dwell on the things that roam the night, especially for one possessed of an imagination as formidable as yours.”

  Lance guffawed, and Will reddened.

  “Are you not a dreamer at heart, a traveler, a ponderer of what lies beyond the stars?”

  Caleb grinned. “She’s got you pegged, little brother.”