Vellmar the Blade

by Fletcher DeLancey

  “So blinding that I’m having difficulty seeing.” Vellmar felt an answering smile pushing its way out. “I never thought of it that way. I could bring her honor in this.”

  “A great deal of it,” Lancer Tal agreed. “You’re not just any competitor. You’re her daughter and her student. If you win, she does as well.”

  Vellmar relaxed into the chair, all of her agitation and worry draining out in the space of two heartbeats. She had needed a Fahla-damned map to find the truth, but there it was in front of her at last. “I wish I’d spoken with you earlier. You could have saved me a lot of wasted time and second-guessing myself.”

  “Keep that in mind for the next time, then.”

  “I suppose I’ll also have to keep in mind that Senshalon can occasionally be right. He’s the one who first got me thinking seriously about entering the Games. He said she would be proud of me.”

  “Senshalon only looks like a musclehead. But I’ve never chosen my Guards based solely on their strength, and neither has Colonel Micah.”

  The knowing expression directed her way made her face warm again, but this time it wasn’t embarrassment.

  “Thank you, Lancer Tal. I appreciate this more than you know. And I’ll try not to act like a muscleheaded warrior in the future.”

  “You haven’t yet. Don’t worry, if you do I’ll have Micah straighten you out immediately. He’s very good at that.”

  “I have no doubt.” She slapped her hands on her thighs and rose from the chair. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I have a few calls to make.”

  “Excellent. I’ve a few calls to make as well. We’ll need a proper celebration for all of those red medals you’ll be bringing back.”

  Vellmar opened her mouth to protest but then saw the twinkle in Lancer Tal’s eyes. She raised a finger in a warning gesture. “False modesty may not be a virtue, but neither is tempting Fahla. Don’t put a cloud of bad luck on me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. But you might keep one thing in mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t underestimate older warriors. I still haven’t forgotten the lesson I learned the last time I made that mistake.”

  “How long will I need to serve with you before I can hear that story?”

  “More cycles than you have left in your lifespan,” said the Lancer dryly.

  CHAPTER 3:

  Milena disagrees

  “And so, after much persuasion, Lancer Tal finally agreed to allow Vellmar to enter the Games.” Jandahar paused to steal a drink of water from Harren’s glass. One of these nights, he would remember to bring his own.

  “Why didn’t she just say yes to begin with?” Milena asked.

  “Well, probably because Vellmar was her Lead Guard. That’s an extremely important and serious position. There was prestige associated with a Games medal, to be sure, but Vellmar already held one of the most prestigious ranks a warrior could hope to attain. And she had to spend a great deal of time training for the Games, which could take away from her duties.”

  “Vellmar would never have shirked her duties,” she said stoutly. “She would have trained on her own time.”

  “Perhaps. But the truth remains that we don’t hear stories of many Lancer’s Guards taking part in the Games, do we?”

  “It still doesn’t make sense. I don’t think Lancer Tal would have kept Vellmar from the Games. I think the story’s wrong.”

  “And who is telling this story tonight, you or me?”

  When no answer was forthcoming, Jandahar reached out, ruffled her hair, and continued.

  CHAPTER 4:

  Practicing I

  Vellmar was in what she called her focused zone. She had been in the training room on the ground floor of the State House since the end of her duty shift, practicing her throwing. It was just her, the knives, and a target, with nothing and no one around to interrupt, and she had long since lost track of time. Her vision had tunneled down so far that all she could see was the target, and her body felt as if it were an extension of her thoughts. She was no longer making any physical effort at all; she simply envisioned the throw and then let the knife leave her hand. These were the moments she treasured, when her skill took over her body and made it nearly impossible to miss.

  Nearly.

  She had set a goal of twenty-five perfect throws at the thirty-pace short-blade competition distance and was not allowing herself even a hair’s width of error. Each time her blade landed anywhere other than dead center in the target, she restarted the count. It did not matter if the throw was still in the red zone; in fact, she never threw a knife anywhere but in the red zone. What mattered was that it was in the exact center, because she would need to be more than excellent to win this event. She would need to be perfect.

  Thunk.

  Dead center. That was twenty-one. She waited for the target to eject her knife, then picked up another from the case at her feet. Take position, envision the throw…

  Thunk.

  Twenty-two. This was where she had lost the count last time.

  Come on, just three more, she thought.

  Take position, envision the throw…

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  “Yes! Finally!” With a whoop, she picked up a knife from her case and tossed it high into the air. As it came down, she snatched it by the handle and fired it at the target.

  Thunk. It wasn’t perfect, but it was still in the red.

  “If I hadn’t seen what you can do, I’d have thought that last move was a bit dangerous,” said a voice behind her.

  Vellmar whirled, her heart beating triple-time. “Great Goddess above! You just scared me halfway to my Return!”

  Salomen Opah, Bondlancer of Alsea, stood on the wooden observation deck that overlooked the training room. Her arms were folded on the waist-high railing, the position making her dark hair drape over her shoulders. She looked as if she had been there for quite some time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing off the railing and turning toward the stairs. The snort of laughter belied her words. “Damn, I’m glad you weren’t holding a knife just now.”

  “You would never have been in danger.” Vellmar was offended at the thought and more than a little disgruntled to see the Bondlancer laughing at her.

  Salomen stepped onto the training room floor and came toward her, a broad smile accentuating the dimple in her chin and making her deep brown eyes dance. “I do apologize, Fianna. I honestly thought you knew I was there. I wasn’t trying to be quiet when I came in, but you have a focus like nothing I’ve ever seen. I really didn’t mean to startle you.” She held up a palm in an invitation that would have been rude to refuse. Vellmar met it with her own, relaxing as Salomen’s emotions flowed through the physical connection. An apology via palm touch could never be insincere.

  “Am I forgiven?”

  “Yes, of course.” Vellmar was already past her momentary umbrage. “I didn’t realize you took such pleasure in throwing events.” Salomen’s vast enjoyment could hardly be missed, even by an empath of half Vellmar’s strength.

  “I never did until now. It really was a beautiful sight, and that’s not a word I ever thought I’d associate with a weapon. But what you do with them…there’s no other word for it.”

  Vellmar leaned down to pull another knife from her case. “They are beautiful to me. The way the grip fits perfectly into my palm, the weight of it, the craftwork, even the shine off the blade.” She held it out, handle first, and Salomen grasped it carefully. “It’s very sharp,” she added.

  “So I see.” Salomen folded her fingers around the grip and hefted it. “You’re right, it does fit nicely into the palm. And this is certainly more finely crafted than any blade I’ve ever used on the holding.”

  “You use work blades. These are throwing blades. They’r
e two different animals.”

  “The difference between a fanten and a winden, hm?”

  “That’s a good analogy, in truth. Fantens are sturdy stock. They thrive in every environment, eat almost anything, but they’re never going to outrun you. And they’re not very beautiful.”

  “But the winden is wild, fleet, and free,” Salomen said. “Creatures of the mountains, outrunning anything on legs.” She tilted the blade, watching the play of light along its length. “It really is a marvelous piece. May I be rude and ask how much a blade like this would cost?”

  “I’ve never heard you speak rudely before and still have not today.” In fact, Vellmar thought the Bondlancer had quite a bit in common with a winden, given her natural elegance and quiet strength. She had an innate ability to make everyone around her stand a little taller, and Vellmar couldn’t help thinking that she looked good with a blade in her hand.

  “Thank you, but that was not an answer to my question.”

  “Right. Let me think… The case cost a little over three thousand cinteks, so the blade you’re holding would be about two hundred.”

  Salomen’s eyes widened. “Two hundred! For one?” She hastily offered the knife back, but Vellmar held up her hands.

  “Please, keep it. If it brings you pleasure.”

  “Oh, Fianna, I cannot. This is yours.”

  “Which means it is mine to give away. It seems to belong in your hand, Bondlancer.”

  “Salomen,” she corrected. “You are not on duty, and we’re not in public.”

  “And I’m still not accustomed to it,” Vellmar admitted.

  “You’re not accustomed to me using your first name either, are you? Every time I call you Fianna, you look startled.”

  Vellmar rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s not a name I hear often.”

  “Yes, the warrior tradition of using family names. I’ve never quite understood it. Andira has known Colonel Micah for her entire life and still won’t call him Corozen.”

  “Good Fahla! Of course she can’t call him that!”

  Laughing at her horrified reaction, Salomen held out the knife again. “Really, this is much too precious for you to give away.”

  Vellmar crossed her arms over her chest. “You will insult me if you do not accept.”

  Salomen met her eyes, then nodded. “I would never wish that. Very well, I accept your gift. Thank you, I’m honored by it.” She lifted the knife once more, examining it closely, and Vellmar’s practiced eye could see the difference. Already she was handling the blade more confidently.

  Ownership changed everything.

  “I would ask a gift in return,” Vellmar said.

  “Of course. What can I do for you?”

  “Let me teach you to use it.” She watched Salomen’s grip tighten around the hilt.

  “Oh, no. I don’t think so. Fianna, no. Ask me something else.”

  “Bondlancer…Salomen,” Vellmar corrected herself, “please hear me out. You are the second most targeted Alsean on the planet. Your Guards are some of the best to be found, but they cannot be everywhere all the time, and they are not infallible. If the worst occurred, you should be able to defend yourself. At the very least, you should know how to use a weapon.”

  “I’m not a warrior.”

  Oh, but you are, Vellmar thought. She had seen this woman show more strength than an entire unit of warriors put together. But she chose a different tactic.

  “What do you think it would do to Lancer Tal if anything happened to you? Would she even survive the loss of a divine tyree bond?”

  Salomen frowned at her. “You don’t fight fairly.”

  “I fight to win. And what I’m offering is the gentlest method of defense possible. Think about it. A cellular disruptor causes horrific damage, even when the shot is not fatal. You’ve seen that. But a knife cut is clean and minimally damaging if the wielder knows what she’s doing. That’s one of the reasons I prefer blades. I’m not a good shot with a disruptor, but even if I were, I think I would still use blades. If I need to, I can kill quickly and painlessly, and that’s almost impossible with a disruptor. And if I seek only to neutralize, I can do so without permanently disabling my target. Now, the easiest weapon for you to learn to use would be a disruptor. But you would never carry one.”

  “No, I would not.” She looked faintly nauseated at the thought of it.

  “But you could carry a knife without it weighing you down or constantly reminding you of its presence. And if you were properly taught, you could use it—for self-defense only. The one weapon less damaging than a knife is your hand, but I don’t think hand-to-hand is a skill you would want to learn. Even if you did, the learning curve is steep and long.” Though Salomen could be a fantastic fighter if she wanted. She was nearly as tall as Vellmar herself, and a lifetime of working on her holding had honed her to a fine edge.

  Salomen stared at the knife in her hand, then lifted her eyes to meet Vellmar’s gaze. “You’ve put quite a lot of consideration into this. I think I just walked into a trap that was waiting to be sprung.”

  There was no use denying it. “I’ve considered this since the moment I met you and offered you my sword.”

  “Then I suppose I should be grateful that it took you this long to spring your trap.” She sighed. “Andira has been saying much the same thing, and I’ve been putting her off as long as I could. I just didn’t want to accept this part of my title.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vellmar said sincerely. Despite her warrior heart, Salomen was a gentle being whose soul would suffer if she were forced to inflict harm. But better that than the loss of such a soul altogether.

  Salomen turned toward the target. “What would you teach me? To throw like you do?”

  “Yes, though not at such a distance. If you needed to defend yourself, chances are that by the time you realized it, your target would be only a few paces away. Perhaps even within arm’s reach. I would teach you close-in throwing and, for the arm’s reach targets, the dartfly style.”

  “Dartfly style? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s a specialized style of knife fighting, relying on speed and small, targeted cuts. You could take down an opponent twice your size without causing debilitating injury, and with less risk to yourself. It’s very difficult for an opponent to disarm a skilled dartfly fighter.”

  Salomen was silent, staring at the target.

  Vellmar left her to think about it. While crouched at the base of the target, replacing the ejected blades back in her case, she went over her argument and concluded that she had done the best she could. To her mind, Salomen was like a newborn winden, a tender target for anyone violently opposed to the Lancer’s leadership. She had no idea how Lancer Tal lived with the fear, but she knew it was there.

  Salomen’s gaze was on her as she snapped her case shut and made her way back. The silence filled the room, and when Vellmar stopped in front of her, she said nothing to break it.

  At last Salomen gave her a wry smile. “Dartfly, hm? It sounds so…harmless.”

  “There’s nothing harmless in preventing your own death or injury. I don’t concern myself for a piptick with the well-being of anyone who would attempt to harm you. But I’m very concerned about your well-being. And I know that you would mourn forever if you were forced to truly hurt another Alsean.” She did not add or to kill. She didn’t need to.

  Salomen tapped the flat of the blade against her leg. “Very well. I agree. I don’t like it, but I see the necessity. And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have teaching me. Thank you, Fianna.”

  “Don’t thank me. This is your gift to me; it’s I who should be thanking you.”

  “I meant, thank you for caring so much that you spent more than three moons planning your argument.”

  Vellmar ducked her head. “It’s my duty.”

 
“If that’s all it is, then I have misjudged our relationship. Are we not friends?”

  There was a sad note in Salomen’s voice, and Vellmar felt an immediate need to smooth it away. “I would count your friendship among my greatest honors.”

  “Good. Because I would rather have a friend teaching me than Andira’s Lead Guard.”

  “Then that is who will teach you.”

  They smiled at each other, the tension of the moment broken. Salomen’s expression turned playful as she reached out and squeezed Vellmar’s upper arm. “I thought so. You’ll soon be lopsided, growing such muscles on your throwing arm. You’ll find it difficult to walk a straight line.”

  “That’s why I only use this arm half of the time. Then I switch.”

  “You do not!”

  Vellmar laughed. “I really do. But I’m terrible with my left arm. I can only hit the red zone seven out of ten throws.”

  “Great Mother. No wonder Andira likes you. You’re the only warrior in this building even more obsessed with perfection than she is.”

  They went back up the stairs and across the observation deck in companionable silence. As Vellmar held the door open for her, she smiled. More obsessed with perfection than the Lancer? She could live with that.

  CHAPTER 5:

  The greater hero

  “Salomen was so smart to ask Vellmar to teach her,” Milena said.

  “She was the most beloved Bondlancer in history.” Jandahar shifted in the chair and recrossed his legs. “She didn’t get that way by being stupid or letting opportunities pass her by. She went out and made things happen.”

  “Imagine having Vellmar the Blade personally instructing you…” Milena’s sentence drifted into a hero-worshipping sigh. “I wish I could travel back in time. I’d ask her to teach me, too.”

  “As if you could get near her even if you were there,” Harren scoffed. “She’d never even notice you.”

  “She would too! She noticed everything! She was the best warrior ever!”