by Aaron Pogue
The Green Eagle shook his head and strode out past the stump to our sparring ground. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the terrain, and I watched him note the mud-slick patch at the edge of the stream, the treacherous little pocket where a groundhog's burrow had sunk the earth, the knotted root of the oak that broke the ground more than four paces from its trunk.
Then he turned to me, his left hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. "Well?" he asked.
I licked my lips. "I...I can't fight you."
The soldier grinned. He looked like death. "You must."
"No, I'm sorry. It was just...I'm not as good as a Guard." Beside me Bron nodded fervent agreement, and I felt the stab of it in my heart. Everything I'd fought for, lost. I sighed. "He spoke in haste."
"Regardless," the Eagle said, and his voice was hard. "I have come all this way, and I find you all dressed up for battle. I would see you fight."
Bron jumped to his feet. "I'll show you," he said. "Let him fight me. You can see why I thought—"
The soldier's terrible gaze swept to Bron, and the young man stammered to a stop. For a long moment the soldier said nothing, only stared, and then Bron took a long step back.
The soldier nodded. "I don't want to watch you," he said. "I want you to watch me." He ran his imperious gaze down the line a third time, this time commanding each boy's attention before moving on. "I want you to see how a king's guardsman handles himself."
Then his gaze snapped back to mine, and he drew his sword with a long, whispered rasp. He ducked his chin, and said, "Ready?"
Now I looked down the line of boys. Bron, who had spoken up for me. Kyle, who always had to find courage to face me, and always listened so carefully when I explained what he had done wrong. Dain who had been my first friend in town, though he had grown distant when the stories followed me in from the City. Gavin was strong and slow and shy, but he had found the worn-out old scabbard I wore on my belt and made it a gift to me. And even Cooper was impressed enough with my ability to feel threatened.
And now, in the dying light of a beautiful day, I would be made to look a fool. I took a deep breath, and let it out. I nodded once, to forestall the old soldier's impatience, and drew my sword. It was dented all along the blade, rusted so deeply in spots I couldn't possibly polish it away. The fine silver chain meant to wrap its hilt had been replaced with tight straps of leather, and even that was getting loose, now, and almost worn through. It usually felt easy and familiar in my fingers, but standing before the Green Eagle it felt like a frail and broken thing, and so did I.
For a long minute I stood there on the edge of the circle. I could feel the others watching me, waiting, and I nodded again and stepped forward. As I went to meet him I spoke the words out of long habit, "Watch over us, keep score for us, decide for us." The soldier tilted his head in curiosity as I invoked the spell, then he chuckled.
"You say prayers for yourself, too. I should expect as much. Well, God watch over you, boy, because it's time for us to begin." I had no response to that, but it mattered little. I fell into the stance I had learned, shoulder and elbow in line with the soldier, narrow blade held blocking everything from my waist to my eyes. He took a place in front of me, body turned differently and both hands gripping the short hilt of his broadsword. Gavin always liked to play at two-handed weapons, but I knew my victories over his clumsy thrashing were no preparation at all for the style of a true soldier.
He flexed his arms, stretching, then relaxed into a ready stance. "So, you have the skills to train a Guardsman?" He mocked me, low enough now that only I could hear. "You're so certain you will live through your first encounter?" My eyes went wide, and he nodded knowingly, "Ah, yes, I heard it all. You're a little arrogant for the beggar son of a thief. They think highly of you, though." Somehow, I didn't think he meant the boys watching us, but I couldn't guess who else he might mean. He gave me no time to consider it.
"We shall see," he said, and like a whisper he glided across the grass. He flowed as he moved first to one side and then the other. At the last moment his blade darted out and crashed against my own, flinging it from my hand. The soldier stopped in his tracks, his weapon hanging forgotten at his side.
For a long moment he stared at me, then shook his head in disappointment. He stepped up until I could feel his breath hot on my ear and spoke in a quiet voice filled with terrible menace, "Retrieve your weapon, child, that we may finish this. I mean to see these skills of yours."
I glanced over at him, and felt a blush beginning to burn in my cheeks. "I'm sorry—" I started, but he shook his head.
"I don't want your apologies. I want to see how you fight." A smile creased his cheeks. "I want them to see."
I closed my eyes and clenched my stomach against the sudden flurry of fear, then swallowed hard and turned aside to recover my weapon. When I turned back he had reclaimed his position near the center of the circle, and I moved opposite him. I lifted the sword again, but this time I could not hold it steady. Fear set my arm to trembling, and in my fear I squeezed the hilt too tightly. The muscles in my legs and stomach were tense. Everything was wrong, but I knew no way to make it right.
I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the terrain. He stood a pace closer to the brook than Cooper had yesterday, but there was no way I could force him back. I had at least ten paces to the edge of the clearing, but he could easily press me so far. The tree was to my right, so it would hamper my swing much more than his. I tried to clear my mind, to release myself to the habits of the fight, but terror kept intruding.
He raised an eyebrow at me, smile still on his lips. Then suddenly he lunged, the tip of his sword just barely striking the middle of my blade, and I responded perfectly. Half a step retreat, withdraw and replace the blade, setting it familiarly instead of responding to his beat. He nodded, ever so slightly, and came at me again, this time swinging a wide and powerful swipe that would have caught my sword near the hilt, but I dipped low and reached for his wrist. I recognized the practice forms he was using against me, and instinctively responded. He was teaching me a lesson from the fourth chapter of my book.
I relaxed a little, then. He had said he intended me to have a lesson, to see my skills, and that was just what he was doing. Perhaps, I thought as I parried a half-hearted thrust, perhaps I could impress him, too. As I fell back a step I noticed my left foot slid a little too easily over the grass and remembered the splash of the stream in spring slicked the ground over here. I adjusted for it, retreated another step, always parrying his blows. Maybe if I did well, I could get invited to join the Guard myself. Right in front of all of them, as I fought a Green Eagle.
I built the daydream in my head as he pressed me back, but as I retreated I slowly, subtly moved with the hope of placing the tree at his disadvantage. White light danced around the back of my right hand and fingers and I realized there was a very light trickle of blood running down to my wrist. I checked quickly, trying to see two things at once, and saw several tiny nicks on my wrist as well, and one on my shoulder. Of course, there were no marks on my opponent.
I focused too much on these little injuries and was caught by surprise when he suddenly fell back, then came on me á flêche, darting forward and lunging with a low cut that scored my hip. I felt blood flow, damping my leggings, and there was a flash of yellow at the hit. For a moment the soldier looked puzzled, but he pressed his attack. I fell back quickly. He made a move from chapter six, a clever strike, but I danced aside and came back with a variation on the normal riposte that nicked the edge of his hand. His brows came down, and he came forward.
He cut me again, on my right shoulder, and I ran to escape the next strike. I dove, rolled, and came up just in time to block another attack, but his blade moved like lightning and he nicked me twice more before I found a defensive posture. He pushed me back with textbook maneuvers and battered through my defenses without apparent effort. It seemed that every time he swung he cut me somewhere, small wounds,
just enough to draw blood. Each time he cut me I felt the little pain, and each time he blinked in confusion at the sparkle of white or yellow, but pressed on with his attack. They had to be fierce, vicious thrusts to penetrate the ward of my spell, but I had expected such from him. He was a man trained to kill.
And suddenly I saw it coming. I was still clinging to my daydream, still hoping to somehow impress him, but as the blood flowed and sweat burned in the hundred little nicks and cuts, suddenly I realized that he was tiring of the game. Tired of testing my skills, tired of impressing these village brats, and most of all tired of using up his great honor on a little nuisance like me. I could see the end of his patience in his eyes, and see his solution to that, too. One, two, three strokes away and he would finish me and be done with the bother.
I parried a shoulder cut that nearly knocked me down, then retreated from a stop-thrust. He came at me again, and I fell back, farther and farther, desperately hoping to somehow keep him at bay for a moment more. I wanted to find some way to impress him still, some crazy way to win, but he was overwhelming me now at every pass. I fell back, almost running backward, and he pursued me like a thunderstorm. Then I felt my foot start to slip on the wet grass. I had only a moment to realize I had come too close to the stream before both my legs went out from under me. I landed hard, and as my feet shot out in front of me I felt them connect with his ankles, and he began to fall. The soldier had no time to respond, no idea how. His arm was drawn back for a killing blow but as he came falling forward he tried to bring the sword down, his instincts curling him into a midair turn that aimed his shoulder for my stomach.
Desperately I threw my hands up to try to catch him, crossing my arms before my face, and as he hit me I felt the sword knocked from my clumsy grasp. His knee smashed hard into my right thigh, his other foot scraping the side of my left calf, but I was most afraid of the weight still hanging above me, of the shoulder to my midsection. I tensed against his fall, but it never came.
After a moment I opened my eyes and found his, hateful, inches away. He hung suspended above me, his sword stretched out over my left shoulder and his body almost parallel to the ground. His lips were curled back in an animal snarl and his eyes flashed madly. It took me a moment to comprehend, and then I noticed the bright blue line where his neck and shoulder met, searing against his skin. In his fall he'd struck the blade of my sword and the spell considered it a fatal cut.
I scrambled carefully out from under him, grabbing my sword and hastily backing away. Even with him frozen in place I could not tear my attention from him. Suddenly I realized he would not consider my victory an end—when the spell released him he would be on me again, and I would not stand a chance. The thought drained the last of the excited energy that had driven me. Weak, empty, I fell to one knee and counted the slow seconds as the spell expired. I clutched my sword before me, now in both hands, and held it out in a defensive posture. Any moment now he would be free, and—
"Boy," his breath was cold death, and I realized he was speaking through the pressure of the spell, "I did not come to kill you, but you will rue this witchcraft!" He paused, straining to draw breath, and then went on. "You will regret this."
My breath caught as the spell expired, and somehow he caught himself short of falling. Instead he was instantly on his feet, and with a single stride he reached me and cast aside my little practice sword with a contemptuous swing. He pressed the sharp tip of his own weapon against my throat.
I heard a sound behind me, and it must have been Bron, but he didn't even make a word before the soldier's cruel glare swung that way and shut him up. "My business is with the boy Daven," he said, pronouncing the words like judgment. "This is no more of your concern. You will go to your homes."
They shifted uncomfortably, and Cooper took a step forward. I didn't dare turn my head, couldn't tear my eyes from the blade biting into my skin, but I knew Cooper by the sound of his footfall even before he spoke behind me. "You've shown him his place. You can let him go now."
The old soldier's eyes narrowed to slits, a cold fury focused on Cooper behind me. "A new recruit of the Guard doesn't give orders to an officer, let alone a Green Eagle." His nostrils flared, his breath escaping in a contemptuous huff, and he snapped. "Get out."
They went. None of them dared defy the man. I couldn't blame them. I heard their retreat, heard their steps crunching down the hill and back toward town, but kept my gaze fixed on his.
When he looked back at me, he seemed thoughtful." I knew your father was a thief, boy. It's an old crime, mostly forgotten, but I imagined it was for that that the magicians tore me from important duties. But now I understand. You dare to work witchcraft against an officer of the King's Guard, by the full light of day. I can only imagine what else you would dare to do."
I trembled as I knelt there, afraid to move for fear of that blade against my throat. I could only stare into his eyes as he spoke his terrible accusations. "The king respects the power of the Academy wizards. It serves him well. But it is a dangerous thing, and it cannot be risked in the hands of one without name, without honor, and without training. It was wise of them to send me, after all. Few men have the courage to do what must be done."
My heart thundered in my chest. My mouth was dry as summer dust, my stomach an aching knot. I shook my head and tried to find a voice. "No," I said softly. "No, you don't understand."
He ignored me. He looked around, over my head toward the bench where my friends had been a few minutes earlier. Then past it, out over the lovely fields of Terrailles that rolled out to the distant sea. His gaze swept over the rough path that led back down into town and he nodded once. The soldier looked around carefully, and then returned his attention to me.
The sun set.
He whispered, "Now you will die."
The sword rose high above his shoulder, still clasped in both hands, and he set his jaw in grim determination as he turned to swing it down with all his weight behind it. My eyes were locked on his, his eyes burned into mine for an eternity as that blade fell. Slowly...so slowly....
And then it stopped.
I stared up at his still form for a long time before I realized it was utterly motionless. I watched the shadows on his face merge, stared into his dark eyes as the last glimmer of day faded, and finally I took another breath, counted another heartbeat. I was alive, somehow, and he was frozen into a perfect stillness far beyond the magic of my little spell. I sat staring up at him, awestruck that I was alive, wondering who or what could have done this to him, until a sound intruded on my thoughts.
At first it was the whisper of clothes, the grinding crunch of footsteps on gravel. With that intrusion other sounds returned. I heard the water once more dancing softly to my left, heard the cicadas whistling in the night, and far off the cry of a hunting falcon. Then I heard a voice, grumbling in complaint and annoyance between panting breaths. It had nothing of the cruelty I'd heard in the voice of the soldier before me, but authority enough to shame him. Mind still reeling with terror, I rose slowly and turned toward the path to face this new surprise. Somewhere deep within my tired mind there was a spark of curiosity.
I saw first some gray hair, and then a round and cheerful face twisted into a grimace. As he came into view I saw he was wearing a plain gray robe, belted with a blue silk scarf but otherwise unadorned, and he carried a long, thin staff that he jabbed viciously into the ground at each step. He was walking quite hurriedly up the hill and puffing with the effort of it, all the while muttering to himself.
Then he caught sight of me and the soldier frozen behind me, and he stopped short. He was perhaps a hand shorter than me, but when he stepped forward to face me I felt an instant respect for the man. His annoyance disappeared in a flash, replaced by a kindly smile as he reached out a hand to clasp my shoulder, "You must be Daven, no?"
For a long while I stood there, blank and silent after that terrible question. This stranger only stood patiently, squinting at my features by the thi
n light of the stars. After a moment he demanded again, "Well, boy, you are Daven? Daven son of Carrick?" He caught himself, but I heard the name on his lips. Carrick the Thief. I shuddered, afraid of these strangers coming for me in the night.
"I have done no wrong, sir."
He breathed an exasperated sigh. "So you are Daven?" I nodded, afraid, and he continued. "Good. Good to hear, boy. I have come a long way to fetch you."
His words struck me like blows. Another stranger come to fetch me, this one clearly no soldier but somehow he frightened me more. I began to back away from him, stumbling on the ground my feet knew so well. "I—I have done no wrong," I stammered.
"Silly young man!" He said the words under his breath, but I caught them in the cold night, and they seemed a curse. Mad with terror I turned to sprint into the darkness, to lose myself in the night, but his hand fell upon my arm. At the same time he spoke, his breath bearing a strange word that meant nothing to me but somehow carried with it a world of meaning. In an instant my heart grew calm.
For several heartbeats he stood watching me warily, but all my fear was gone. When he was satisfied, he took a step back, releasing me, and continued in a normal voice. "I have come a long way to fetch you, Daven, and it would not do for you to slip out of my reach now. I need you to listen to me and to answer my questions. I hope you will forgive the things I do for need."
I nodded in agreement, but he wasn't paying attention. Instead he stared past my shoulder to the top of the hill. After a moment he stepped past me and tapped the end of his tall staff on the frozen form of the soldier. "Why..." he spoke thoughtfully to the night. "Why would Othin behave so?"
The answer sprang unbidden to my lips. "I offended him, sir. He was protecting his honor."
The stranger barked a laugh, but there was something cold in his eyes as he examined the weapon frozen in the soldier's hand. "There could be no honor in something like this. He acted rashly." He turned to me then, spoke words that sounded meaningful though they held no significance to me. "It is never wise for us to punish the weak for the injuries the strong have done us."
