“All right. Watch closely.” Carlo ordered. He began swinging his practice sword in a fairly simple pattern, the tip describing a figure-eight that wrapped around the front of his body. Every so often, he would change hands in mid-swing and use his left hand to go a revolution before transferring the length of wood smoothly back into his right hand. “Got it?” he asked Kevon after a minute.
“I think so,” Kevon answered, beginning to swing his own wooden blade in clumsier figure-eights.
Carlo watched for a minute before nodding. “Now, keep it up while stepping from stone to stone.”
Kevon stepped onto the nearest stone. Both he and his pattern wobbled somewhat before he got it back under control.
“Pile the rocks back up when you’re done.” Carlo said, and turned to leave.
“Wait…” Kevon stumbled off the rock he was standing on and almost dropped the length of wood. “How long should I do this?”
“As long as you think you need to,” the mercenary called over his shoulder.
Kevon resumed the exercise and stepped to another stone. After a few minutes of exertion, he did not know how much longer he could continue. He slowed his motions, concentrating on accuracy and angles rather than speed. He adjusted the tension in his wrists so that it felt more natural when he rolled through the pattern.
Before Kevon felt completely exhausted, an idea occurred to him. He visualized the symbols for Control and Movement. Feeding the runes power, he focused on tightening the pattern the blade wove and stabilizing the movements his feet made.
His magical reserves drained steadily as the power behind the runes pushed his body faster around the circle of stones, sometimes jumping over a rock, or twisting his upper body to swing the pattern to and fro. Nearing his limits, Kevon leapt down and relaxed his concentration. The magical support the improvised spell had been providing left him, and he leaned on the wooden sword to keep from falling.
“Wow.” Kevon whispered to himself. He had no idea that such things were even possible. All of his efforts with Movement thus far had been on objects that were across a room, and he’d moved them by magic alone. It had never been suggested that Movement or Control could be used as a supplement to physical exertion.
Kevon contemplated the possibilities while he labored to replace all of the stones to their place in the fence pile. He returned his practice sword to its corner of the wagon and walked slowly from the outbuilding towards the inn. The evening breeze felt good after the workout, and he was in no particular hurry.
“Good evening.”
Kevon turned abruptly and saw Rhulcan standing in the shadow of a tree’s trunk. “Oh, hello,” he answered. “It is nice out.”
“Yes, I had to get out of there for a while.” Rhulcan rubbed his temples slowly. “The brothers are not, by any stretch of the imagination, Merchants. Finance does not come easily to them, I’m afraid.”
“Ah.” Kevon nodded.
“At least not as naturally as some things seem to come to others.” Rhulcan said, eyeing Kevon.
Kevon stared at his feet, unsure what to say.
“I’m not concerned about your intentions,” Rhulcan continued. “You’ve proven those beyond a reasonable doubt. Your friendship is quite welcome, and your recently proven loyalty surpasses reason, quite frankly.”
“I’ve enjoyed traveling with all of you, as well.” Kevon agreed.
“There are, however, other things that concern me.” Rhulcan said sternly. “The more I know of you, the more questions arise without answers. That unsettles me.”
“Some things I can’t explain,” Kevon said, “but I haven’t lied to you.”
“I believe you.” Rhulcan nodded. “But my life and livelihood are based on what I know of the people I deal with. How to use what I know for long-term gain. Though I’ve grown fond of you, you remain an unknown element. For that reason alone, I am eager to conclude our dealings.”
“I understand. I…” Kevon struggled to find the right words. “I don’t wish to bring my troubles on people I care about.”
“When I was your age,” Rhulcan explained, “I was half tempted to join my brother in the army. I felt he needed to be watched over, being the younger of us. But he was more suited to that life, and I to this one. In the end, nothing I could have done would have helped him.”
Kevon nodded, recalling the account Marelle had given him.
“I feel much the same now, but I have many more obligations.” The Merchant sighed. “And I’ve become far too cynical.”
Kevon wondered what to say for a moment, and the front door of the inn opened and Marelle appeared briefly in silhouette before spotting the two of them.
“Father,” she called softly, hurrying over. “There appear to be some differences of opinion that require your judgment inside.” She huffed slightly. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”
Rhulcan rolled his eyes and Marelle giggled quietly. “I’ll go sort them out as quickly as I can,” he grumbled. “You’d best turn in. Early start tomorrow.”
“I’ll be in shortly, father.” Marelle countered. “I need some air.”
Rhulcan grimaced and turned to go back inside.
Kevon pretended to stifle a half-fake yawn. “I’m done for the night. See you in the morn…”
Marelle touched Kevon’s arm gently and interrupted him as he walked by. “I’d feel better if someone were out here with me.”
“Oh. Well, I…” Kevon looked to Rhulcan for any reaction, but the Merchant was already entering the inn. “…suppose I could stay.”
“Sit with me awhile?” Marelle asked, sitting before Kevon had a chance to answer. The bench they’d been standing by was wide enough for two to sit comfortably, but narrow enough to make Kevon feel self-conscious.
“We haven’t had much of a chance to talk these last few days,” Marelle began. “I’ve missed our conversations.”
Kevon wrenched his gaze from Marelle’s moonlit face and stared blankly across the compound. “Circumstances being… and such…” he mumbled.
“You know,” Marelle continued, “boys in Eastport always treated me differently because of who my father is. They were either very nice because our family was wealthier than theirs, or very rude if they were better off.”
“There was some of that in Laston,” Kevon offered. “Not much, because most folk were poor anyhow.”
“There were other reasons boys were nice to me, too.” Marelle smiled at Kevon.
“I’ve heard a lot of that went on in Laston too,” chuckled Kevon. “Not much else to do in a small town.”
Marelle smiled at Kevon nervously, and fidgeted with the end of her braided hair. “So… why are you so nice to me?”
Kevon sat in silence for a few moments, trying to formulate a safe answer.
“Kevon?” Marelle asked again, voice taut.
“You’ve never given me any reason to treat you otherwise, I suppose.” Kevon answered.
Marelle poked him in the arm. “I shot you with a crossbow. That’s not reason enough?”
“No,” Kevon said, catching her finger and holding it firmly. “Your intent was good. Misguided, but good.”
“What?” she asked, bewildered.
“You were protecting yourself, and your family, as far as you knew.” Kevon explained. “You wouldn’t have done it if you’d known the whole story, right?”
“Of course not.” Marelle extracted her finger from Kevon’s grasp and pouted. “How can you ask that?”
“Because I already knew the answer. You’re not the kind of person that could do that without a good reason. But you’ll act if you think you need to.” Kevon paused. “I’d like to think I’m that kind of person myself.”
“Charging unarmed into a bandit hideout to save someone you barely know…” Marelle feigned intense concentration for a moment. “I think that qualifies.”
“Does it?” Kevon asked. “I’m not so sure. If they had more time they might have robbed or killed all
of us. From what I saw, when I saw it… what I did seemed like the only thing to do.”
“No,” Marelle said. “You could have run. People run from trouble all the time.”
Kevon’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “I’ll be doing my share of that soon enough,” he muttered.
“That’s different,” Marelle scolded. “Just like yesterday, you have to fight the battles you can win. You had some understanding of what those bandits were capable of. You’re going to run from the Magi because you can’t know everything they could do.” She thought for a moment. “And once you do make up your mind what to do about them, I don’t think they’ll be any better off than those bandits.”
Kevon laughed. “I guess anything’s possible. A month ago I never would have contemplated some of the things I’ve resigned myself to doing now.”
They sat quietly on the bench for a while longer. A few times, Marelle opened her mouth as if to say something.
Feeling more and more uncomfortable, Kevon visualized the symbol for Air and with the small amount of magic he’d built since his workout, caused a cool breeze to blow around them.
“We’d better get inside.” Kevon rose and offered Marelle his hand.
“Yes, that would be best.” Marelle accepted the offered hand and stood, looking Kevon in the eye for a bit longer than he felt comfortable with. “We will talk more, time permitting,” she stated matter-of-factly as she walked past Kevon to the door of the inn, leaving him to deal with the lump in his throat.
Kevon swallowed twice and released the Air magic he’d been working. He drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders and shivered a moment before following Marelle into the inn.
Chapter 14
Summer was bringing its full force to bear on the plains across which Kevon and his companions traveled. Though the days were longer, the journey was trickier. The party would leave early and travel until noon, then rest the horses until late afternoon before continuing. They would usually stop with plenty of time to set up camp before dark, for the bulk of the traveling was better done in the morning.
Afternoons were spent relaxing in whatever shade could be found, reading, talking, and planning. Evenings were devoted mainly to training.
Carlo was an odd teacher. Some of the lessons were as simple and torturous as holding a practice sword out at arm’s length for as long as possible. Others were quite humiliating, practicing sword strokes in time with a silly lullaby that Carlo made Kevon sing. And most days, when the initial lesson was over, sparring began.
Kevon counted himself lucky to be able to parry a third of Carlo’s strikes, or land a tenth of the blows that he took from the older man. Nearly every time that Kevon connected with his practice sword, it was a glancing blow, at best. In addition, the mercenary’s length of wood always slammed into Kevon a fraction of a second later.
Kevon even tried to use his Art to speed his movements to defend himself against the flurry of Carlo’s attacks, but he was unable to hold the symbols in his mind. The uncertainty of where Carlo would attack from next, and the pain, was preventing Kevon from even attempting to focus on his Art.
Travel and training drew the days together into a mishmash of memories. Kevon could no longer remember exactly how long he had been with the Merchant and his entourage. It did seem that each night, though his training exercises became more demanding, Kevon hurt a little less.
Then one night after Kevon had spent about an hour packing an annoyingly heavy rock in a wide circle around camp, something unusual happened.
Tired beyond what he was accustomed to, Kevon had essentially given up any hope of blocking or dodging any of Carlo’s attacks during sparring. Kevon knew the strike was coming, and that it would hurt. For a moment, he felt a detached amusement, knowing exactly how much the blow would hurt, and how long it would take the bruise to heal. That sure knowledge gave him a strange sense of comfort, a moment of clarity. In that instant, the symbols for Control and Movement solidified in Kevon’s mind. He let the magic flow into the runes and unconcernedly swept his wooden sword up in a swift arc to intersect with Carlo’s.
Amused at the barest furrowing of Carlo’s brow, Kevon leaned into the next two parries and smiled. Seeing an opening, he slid the rounded point of the practice sword into Carlo’s gut just below his ribcage. He got the satisfaction of a soft ‘oof’ of surprise right before Carlo’s sword thwacked into the side of his head.
The runes faded and crumbled in Kevon’s mind as his vision blurred.
“Ha!” Kevon chortled briefly as he tried to prop himself up on the side he had fallen on. “Heh heh… Ow.” He pulled himself into a sitting position and smiled at Carlo, who had sat down as well.
“Now where did that come from?” Carlo asked.
“I stopped caring about getting hit,” Kevon answered bluntly. “Kind of calmed me down.”
“It’s about time you realized that,” Carlo sighed. “I was running out of stupid things for you to do to wear you down.”
“What?” Kevon asked, still trying to focus his eyes clearly.
“You’re going to get hurt when you’re training. It’ll be worse when it’s for real. Accepting that fact is the first lesson you must learn, but it can’t just be explained… It has to be embraced. Now, it’s a part of you, and everything will be easier.”
* * *
Easier, as Kevon soon found, was a relative term. Although the mandatory exercise sessions were cut from his training, and sparring became less frequent, the lessons became far more difficult. Carlo always seemed to expect twice as much from Kevon as Kevon thought he was capable.
Instruction now consisted of becoming familiar with different attack and defense postures, learning their uses and weaknesses. Kevon learned many specific thrusts and slashes, differing for a variety of reasons; an opponent’s armoring, positioning, size, or weaponry. Each new attack was tried over and over until it was done perfectly half a dozen times in a row before Carlo would move on to something else.
During practice, Kevon struggled to maintain his concentration on a variety of the runes he was familiar with. He decided not to use magic as a crutch while fighting anymore; using real weapons would eliminate that possibility in a genuine confrontation. Kevon did not want to come to rely on something that would be useless when he needed it most. Nevertheless, Kevon found the mental state required for using magic seemed to lend itself to the Warrior’s arts as well, and the focus seemed to make a difference in practice.
Marelle began watching the evening sessions with more interest, and insisted on treating any wounds by either participant afterwards. Kevon found himself taking more interest in afternoon walks and talks with Marelle. He often took along the practice sword and swung it idly to work his wrists while walking, or twisted it back and forth, as it lay across his knees while sitting and talking. He also rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet while standing in place for any length of time to strengthen his ankles.
As the trip wore on and Eastport grew ever closer, Kevon began dreading their arrival. He’d grown far too accustomed to the way things were in the company he was with. They had seen few people since their stay at the inn some two weeks ago. The occasional passing of a full wagon drawn by a four-horse team headed to Eastport, or an empty one returning to Kron was the only exception.
Kevon noted the taint of sadness in Marelle’s voice when she told him of the things he would encounter in Eastport. More and more she asked about his family and seemed eager to hear stories of things that happened in Laston when Kevon was younger. It made Kevon a little homesick, and more than a little worried about how his mother and sister were doing. Or how they would be doing when Holten returned.
That was not the only thing that disturbed Kevon. Over the last few days, Marelle had seemed to use nearly any excuse to brush against him, or touch his hand or arm. A few days before, Kevon had been feeling uncomfortable about the way his clothes were fitting, and had mentioned it to her. She had been v
ery amused. Not one to pay any particular attention to clothes unless they were torn or otherwise damaged, Kevon had missed noticing he’d grown about an inch in the last month. In addition, though he’d never been a lazy child, the last few weeks had been the most brutal exercise he’d ever experienced. Soon his old clothes would not fit because of the increasing width of his neck and arms.
Kevon managed to talk Rhulcan into parting with one of his less fashionable sets of extra clothing. They were far from the Merchant’s finest, but much nicer than anything Kevon had ever worn. The trousers were a bit long, and the tunic hung loosely, but at the rate Kevon was growing, they would fit soon.
Since he had decided to avoid involvement with Marelle, anything that resembled an advance on her part became increasingly frustrating. He realized that his attraction to her was growing, but he was trying to keep it to himself. Sometimes he thought about the future. If his troubles could be resolved, who knew? If Kevon ever felt he was truly safe, he promised himself he would come looking for her. But for now, he dared not hope, or do anything that would raise false hopes for Marelle.
“What was your father like?” asked Marelle one afternoon while the two of them sat eating lunch in the shade of a large oak.
“I really don’t remember all that much about him,” Kevon admitted. “He was recalled to the Inner Cities when I was twelve. He’d only been back home with us for three years.”
“Where was he before that?” she asked.
“He was a city guard in Navlia.” Kevon answered. “He would send enough money that we could live in Laston fairly comfortably, but he was saving enough to build fences and buy goats we could raise when he came home.”
Kevon wiped the crumbs from his hands and picked up the practice sword that was leaned against the tree. He gave it a few twists before continuing. “He came home with a herd of goats. Not all of them made the trip. We built a house in a decent spot, but the herd wasn’t as profitable as my parents had hoped. We were working hard and barely getting by, but it was better having dad around.”
Apprentice Swordceror Page 9
