by Alex Paul
“What?” Gart protested.
“With real swords, you’d be bleeding to death, your arm cut off below the elbow,” Tyo explained. “You know better than to straighten your shield arm so far it leaves your arm unprotected!”
“Yes, sir.” Gart and all the cadets had learned that continuing to complain about points awarded in sparring always resulted in harsh punishment.
“And your first blow was illegal, Gart,” Lar added. “Arken’s quick step inside saved his head. You know head blows aren’t allowed in sparring. Try one again and even if you don’t hit him, I’ll grant a point to Arken.” Lar’s eyes burned with a new intensity as he turned his attention to Arken. “Arken, you are quick on your feet! That was an excellent counter.”
To Arken’s surprise, several boys cheered for him, which gave him a surge of energy. The first to three points wins, he thought. He had one point and now Gart was fighting under a warning.
The armorers stopped hammering and emerged from the shade of their porch roof to watch. Arken saw the smile on the head armorer’s face as he held a gastag leather apron over his bald head to protect it from the sun. He knew Arken was the underdog and was happy Arken was winning. Arken wondered if they were rooting for him because he was a commoner like them.
Gart scowled as he circled for an opening. He wiped sweat from his eyes and, as he did, Arken feinted in, but he dodged back too slowly. Gart threw his weight into a hard swing from right to left. His sword smashed Arken’s shield into his left shoulder, knocking him off balance.
Arken stumbled to his right, and Gart stepped forward to take advantage of the opening to swing a long arcing blow toward Arken’s head.
He doesn’t care about losing, Arken thought. He is determined to hurt me!
Arken used the momentum of his fall to keep rolling clear. Gart’s sword smashed harmlessly into the courtyard clay. Arken jumped up in ready position.
The boys cheered Arken again.
“Penalty point for Arken! Gart, you aimed for his head under a warning.” Lar took a step toward Gart as he shook his head in disgust. Then he turned to Arken. “One more point and you win and graduate. Can you do it, Arken?”
“Yes, sir!” He couldn’t believe his luck. He’d hoped for a chance but this felt too easy, making him study Gart with suspicion. He wondered if Gart simply wanted to cripple him and didn’t care about losing.
His adversary had straightened up to rest while Lar scolded him. Arken realized during this pause that Gart’s chest was still heaving long after Arken had fully recovered. He is out of shape, thought Arken.
Gart had always used his size to end fights quickly, and this one was going on too long. If he avoided Gart’s efforts to land a crippling blow, Arken realized he might win because fatigue would eventually force Gart to drop his guard.
Tyo signaled for them to resume the match, and Gart instantly slashed hard from right to left at his stomach. Arken turned his shield to protect his side and stepped back. Then Gart angled his sword down and tipped his sword point forward in mid-swing. The blade bit into the bare flesh on the outside back of Arken’s left thigh.
A burning pain in the outside of his left leg made Arken stumble.
“Point to Gart,” Lar said. It was a cheap blow, designed to hurt, though legal, because it struck leg armor first. A cheer went up from Gart’s friends while those supporting Arken groaned in protest.
Gart charged at Arken, crashing their shields together and pushing Arken backward before he could swing his sword. “I’m going to cripple you,” Gart hissed. Arken stumbled and almost fell out of the arena, an automatic loss, but he caught himself by pushing his sword point into the ground to regain his balance.
His heart pounded and panic washed over him. He was going to be a cripple for the rest of his life! But if he forfeited, the rest of the class would mock him all his life.
Gart circled to his right in order to get closer to Arken’s left side. Arken retreated in a circle as well, but he tripped and bit his tongue while trying to get his feet under him. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
Arken felt a surge of panic and tried to calm himself. His father was a great warrior, what would he do in this situation? Then it was as if he could hear his father’s words from a few years ago. Arken had never understood what his father meant about fear during battle until this moment, because he’d never been so scared.
The advice seemed stupid at the time. If you fear death in battle, pretend you’re already dead and you have nothing to lose. Arken had never been able to imagine himself thinking this. Why not run away to fight another day?
Now, facing Gart today, he understood. Sometimes you can’t run away. And he couldn’t win with fear in his heart. So to eliminate the fear, he had to imagine himself already dead.
That’s easy. Look how much bigger he is than me! Father was right. I am so dead!
The armorers had moved forward to stand behind the seated cadets after seeing Gart’s attempts to cripple Arken. They looked angry.
“You’ve got him, little man,” shouted the lean armorer who had fitted his lower body. The thick-set head armorer clapped his broad hands together in a powerful crack and shouted, “You can do it, Arken Freeth!”
This filled Arken with a surge of energy that helped replace his fear with resolve. Death had found him already. He had lost his life. But he would win this battle.
Gart swung for his leg once again. Arken dropped his shield to block the blow, but the sword went below his shield. Pain shot through Arken’s left thigh, making him cry out.
As the blow landed, Arken noticed Gart had to bend forward to connect with Arken’s leg. When he finished his swing, Gart’s head was within range and undefended. A plan came to Arken.
“A second point to Gart, match tied,” Lar warned.
Though his left leg barely hurt, Arken dragged it and winced in pain as if Gart had hurt him badly. Arken pretended to stumble to his right, exposing his left thigh even more. Gart saw the opening and swung too hard. He put so much force into his swing that his left arm and shield flew back once again for balance.
Arken’s trick had worked. Gart had sensed victory and swung too hard. Everything happened in slow motion as Gart’s sword came toward the top of Arken’s left knee. Arken dropped his shield to protect his leg while swinging his sword down toward Gart’s exposed neck.
Arken knew he could connect the blow. It would hurt Gart badly, possibly leaving him unable to walk. Arken swung hard, channeling all his built-up rage from years of Gart’s bullying.
Yet, as he swung, Arken changed his mind. An illegal blow would lose him the match, and he wanted to win more than he wanted to cripple Gart.
He angled his sword to the right to crash into Gart’s armor dead in the center of his shoulders, a legal blow, and lethal with a real sword. The twisting of his blade made the inside of Arken’s right elbow burn where he had strained it lifting the rock earlier. But the pain was worth the result.
The force of the sword blow knocked Gart flat on his belly as if his neck had been severed by beheading. Arken stepped forward and touched his sword point to the back of Gart’s neck while keeping a tight grip on the handle with both hands. The match was over. With a real sword, he could have driven the point home and severed Gart’s spine. Gart froze in submission.
“Match to Arken!” Lar raised Arken’s sword arm. Arken had won on points as well as bringing Gart to the ground in a kill move of certain death.
The armorers’ slapped their leather aprons as they roared their approval along with the cadets cheering for Arken. It gave Arken chills down his spine.
“Salute!” Tyo added.
“He just got lucky,” Gart said as he rose to his feet.
“Gart, be quiet, or you’re in for punishment,” Lar warned.
Gart nodded, and then the two combatants faced each other and saluted, swords raised vertically, hand guards below the eyes.
“Gart has shown today that i
n combat with weapons, power is not everything.” Lar glanced at the cadets. “Arken cleverly drew Gart in. With real weapons, Gart would be dead. Patience is virtue, Gart. With Arken’s leg injured, victory was merely a matter of time.”
“Yes, sir, I am impatient,” Gart said while still at attention.
“It will cost you,” Lar added. “You’re relieved as salcon, and you will be low man in class in bad duty assignments. Who is next in line for salcon?”
“I am, sir.” Donov raised his hand. He was halfway in height between Arken and Gart; had a lean, medium build; had sandy brown hair; and sported a quick wit, which made him popular with the class. Arken felt even happier he had defeated Gart knowing Donov would take over.
“Donov, you are the new salcon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Gart?”
“Sir?”
“Six weeks before you can challenge Donov.”
“Sir?” Gart saluted. “I would challenge him sooner if allowed.”
“No, Gart, you have dishonored yourself and your family’s name today by attempting an illegal blow under a warning. You will meet with me and the Holy Leader before you leave on SeaJourney. Together we shall fix a penance that you may serve to relieve this day’s shame.”
“Yes, sir.” Gart bowed his head, his face red. There was no worse offense than bringing shame to his noble house. Arken could see the rage in Gart’s posture and wondered if he would truly repent. Arken doubted it. In fact, he knew that Gart would take his anger out on him as soon as possible.
Lar turned to Arken.
“Congratulations, Arken, you’ve passed your test today. You will graduate and go on SeaJourney.”
“Thank you, sir.” A hot flash of triumph and joy raced through his body.
“No need to thank me. You did it yourself. I’m surprised, to be honest. I knew you were a good archer when you passed the midlevel archer’s test—which most boys in the class have failed, I might add.” He looked around the class. “More of you should learn from Arken. His archery skills are very advanced. You said your grandfather practices bow with you three nights a week?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, he should come teach our students,” Lar offered.
I’ll tell him, sir, though he’s a bowmaker to the king and busy.”
“I see. Though that does not account for your skill at sword fighting! How did you gain that skill?”
“Practice, sir. After school. My father spars swords with me on nights I don’t practice the bow with Grandpa.”
“Ahhh!” Lar exclaimed. “Now it’s clear.” He beamed. “Well, good work. Your practice paid off.”
“Thank you, sir.” Arken smiled like he never had before, like he imagined he would while standing on the deck of the ship as he departed on SeaJourney. He felt his smile fading when he noticed Gart staring at him with an angry scowl.
CHAPTER 3
YOLANTA RAIDS BALTAK
Disaster! Baltak has fallen after a moonth’s siege. My generals promised years of safety while the Amarrats pursued a useless siege, yet today the Amarrats breached the walls! My beautiful city, my friends, all lost! Baltak burns as we sail for Lanth, home of my future husband. Foul Tookan pirates allied with the Amarrats chase us as I write. We pray for escape in the nightmist.
—Diary of Princess Sharmane of Tolaria
“Faster!” Yolanta roared. “We have to catch them.” The drumbeat quickened, and with each oar pull the ninety-five foot Reaper surged across the flat sea. Yolanta pressed his thighs against the bow railing and glared ahead at the fleeing Tolarians, wishing his stare was a grappling rope able to pull ships back.
Water sparkled off the Tolarian ships’ oars ahead, making rainbows from the sunset beyond. The last of the fair, offshore winds had quickly carried the Reaper close to the fleeing Tolarians, but just moments ago the winds had died.
The five green-hulled Tolarian ships with large slave crews and long, thin hulls had quickly lowered sail and set the slaves to rowing. They were so close Yolanta could see Princess Sharmane standing on the command deck of the lead ship. He shook his sword overhead.
“Curse Tol and the Tolarians!” he screamed at the Princess’s ship. But if the Princess had heard across the three-hundred-leg gap of water between them, she didn’t look upset. Yolanta hated the Tolarians. They had plagued his Tookan people since before his father’s time. The Amarrats, his new allies and invaders of Tolaria, were welcome to the Tolarian land as long as they left his Tookans alone to plunder trade on the Circle Sea.
“They will escape soon,” Brumbal, Yolanta’s second-in-command stood at his side. “Our ship is not as fast-rowing as those long hulls. If they make it until nightfall we will never find them.”
Yolanta was the Admarg of the fleet and the king of his small country. Brumbal served as captain of the Reaper and commander of the fleet.
“Nightmist always favors the hunted.” Yolanta glanced up at Brumbal, the only man on board taller than him. Looking at Brumbal felt like looking in a reflecting plate because they both had the radiant blue eyes deep set behind the heavy brow, sloping forehead, and large jaws of the Tookan people.
“If only we knew their destination,” Yolanta said in a low voice. “With the compass the Amarrats gave us, we could cross the Circle Sea and surprise them.”
Yolanta spoke quietly because the existence of the compass was a secret. Yolanta had told only Brumbal about the compass given to them by the Amarrat king. The Tolarians and Lantish had used the compass for years. They had learned to rely on the compass to guide them directly across the Circle Sea.
Yolanta’s forces could never sail beyond sight of land for fear of becoming lost in the vast Circle Sea. Would his men trust that the compass could keep them on course? Or would his men mutiny? It was impossible to know without trying. And Yolanta didn’t want the men to know he had a compass or was considering taking the risk of using it until he found the right moment to tell them.
“Perhaps if we grapple one and persuade the Tolarians to reveal it,” Brumbal whispered to match Yolanta’s guarded conversation. Brumbal did this by placing one of his large hands by his mouth. He was the largest man on the ship, and he looked funny when he tried to do something delicate. Yet there was no humor in this moment as Yolanta glared at his enemies ahead.
“We need to be closer to grapple one of their ships and take them prisoner. I’m sure we can get one of them to tell us their destination. But even if we know that they are crossing the Circle Sea directly and know their destination, will our men let us sail across the Circle Sea? I wonder if they will obey my orders or their fears?” Yolanta asked.
“They are brave. They will obey.” Brumbal touched his sword handle, emphasizing that he was willing to use force against those who might think of mutiny.
“We have to catch at least one before nightmist, then,” Yolanta said. Yolanta knew that if he didn’t overtake one of the Tolarian ships soon, they would escape into the nightmist, the heavy dew that fell after sunset, and he’d never have a chance to capture the Necklace of Tol.
Yolanta watched his rowers in the pit below the main deck. He was proud of his crew; there were no finer men at sea. No slaves, but freemen all—men who would row hard and fight to the death.
Each rower’s armor hung in racks by the rowing benches. The men grunted with each oar stroke, and their bodies glistened with sweat. They should for the grueling day’s work they’d had.
“How do we grapple when we keep falling behind?” Yolanta assessed his fleet of seven, black-hulled ships. Their oars slapped in rhythm against the flat, pale blue sea. “We’re not fast enough under oars.”
He scanned his ship: mast down, sail-rigged, the strongest men at oars—what more could he do to gain speed? His forearm armor pinched his bicep as he lifted his helmet from his head by one of the ban horns attached and ran his fingers through his long, sweat-soaked, black hair to cool himself. Sweat dripped down inside his bronze ch
est plate. He pulled the antler stopper from his water boda, a goat’s bladder hung by leather straps from his neck, and drank the last of it.
“Sir, I have an idea.” Brumbal waited until Yolanta had quenched his thirst.
“Yes?”
“We’re not in catapult range for large rocks, but small ballast stones might reach them,” Brumbal suggested. “If we stun their rowers, we could draw close enough to grapple and board. After capturing their ship, I’m sure we could learn their plans.”
“Ha!” Yolanta nodded. “A good idea!” He gazed at the fast-approaching sunset. “We’ll try before all light is lost.”
“I’ll go below and fetch the small stones.” Brumbal saluted, and then he jogged away. Despite his massive frame, huge muscles, and a layer of bronze armor, Brumbal easily crossed over the deck. He moves like a jalag in combat like I do, Yolanta reflected. We’re so much alike; perhaps the men were right in thinking he and Brumbal were half-brothers, sired by a common father from mothers in different ports.
“Tell Faldon to come forward,” Yolanta yelled after Brumbal, who waved acknowledgement he’d heard.
In a moment, Lancon Faldon, his third officer, came forward from his position at the helm by the tiller man.
“Sir!” Faldon saluted. It was the custom of all Tookans to wear a full beard, but for some reason, Faldon’s black beard was thin and always looked in danger of disappearing completely from his slightly yellow skin. He was a very lean man, and despite Yolanta’s constant urging for him to eat more and gain strength, his tunic hung from him like a flag without wind. Yolanta suspected he had worms, but their ship’s healer couldn’t seem to help Faldon.
“Bring men here to prepare the forward catapult.”
Lancon Faldon soon had his sinewy sailors removing the ropes and canvas that protected the catapult arm.
Yolanta glanced back at the city of Baltak on fire. The city was now over the horizon, but black smoke stained the sky, the smoke rising straight up without wind to push it. The Amarrats had pierced the walls with siege machines and cleared the breech in the wall of defenders by early morning. The first instant the Amarrats broke through, Yolanta and his men had raced to the High Temple of Tol to capture the Necklace of Tol for the Amarrat king only to find the temple stripped of treasure, the necklace gone. A wounded slave left for dead revealed that the priests had fled to waiting ships less than an hour before.
