The Sigil Blade

by Jeff Wilson

  Smoke rose in the air a short distance away, coming from a building nearest to the practice yard. The pleasant smell of warmed bread led him in that direction and then into the interior of the building, which was brightly lit by several open windows and filled with a pair of long wooden tables suitable for communal meals. As Edryd shifted a heavy bench and began to sit down, a uniformed man with close-cropped grey hair, reacting to the noise, peeked out from a back room. The man ducked his head and disappeared without a word before returning a minute later with a stone bowl and a small dark loaf of toasted bread resting atop a rectangular wooden tray.

  “Lord Seoras has instructed me to see to anything you might need, Young Master,” recited the servant politely as he set the tray down upon the table. Steam rose from the bowl, which was filled with a thin watery soup that would make excellent sop for the dark hard bread that rested beside it. Edryd eyed the food eagerly.

  “If you have not eaten yet, you should bring a portion for yourself as well,” Edryd suggested. “It feels a little awkward eating in such a large room as this without any company or conversation,” he added by way of explanation.

  The elderly man hesitated, but his expression soon changed, pleased at having received this invitation. “Very well. With the Young Master’s leave, I will be back,” he said.

  Edryd decided that he liked the man, and ignoring his hunger, he politely waited until the servant returned. Gesturing to the seat opposite his position, he invited the man to sit. “I do not claim any sort of social elevation, nor do I aspire to any, so dispense with the ‘Young Master’ nonsense; my name is Edryd,” he instructed. The man looked as if he were about to object, but Edryd did not allow the pause that would have been needed for him to do so. “How should I call you?” Edryd asked quickly.

  “Giric Tolvanes. You may call me Tolvanes, Young Master.”

  Tolvanes it seemed, as a product of a social structure that insisted upon adhering to entrenched customs, was not going to agree to address Edryd informally, and it could be assumed that he would accord any free man with at least an equal level of respect.

  “I am grateful for your company, Tolvanes,” Edryd said, before proceeding to dip a broken piece of bread into the soup and shove it into his mouth. The soaked bread, filling him with warmth, was rapidly alleviating the hunger he had been feeling. Between bites, Edryd tried to make casual friendly comments. Eventually he directed the conversation to the subject he was most interested in.

  “When I woke this morning, I found someone had gone to the trouble of restoring the condition of my boots. Quality work and expertly done, but I don’t know who to thank.”

  “Why I did that, Young Master,” Tolvanes said, brightly responding to the acknowledgement.

  The nature of the response was telling. If Tolvanes had taken the coins, he could hardly have managed such a show of foolish pride over the faint praise. If he were guilty, Edryd would have expected it to be more likely that Tolvanes would not have admitted any involvement at all, denying having even touched the boots.

  “You did not notice, by chance, a small cloth coin bag in the toe of the left boot did you?”

  “No there wasn’t any….” Tolvanes suddenly stopped in mid-sentence as he realized the implications. “There wasn’t anything in either boot, and nothing on them but three layers of caked mud,” he insisted urgently.

  “I am not making an accusation,” Edryd reassured him. “Only someone went through my room last night, and it would be a great relief to know that the belongings that were taken are safe.”

  “I haven’t been inside of your room at all,” Tolvanes pled earnestly. “Mistress Rohvarin arrived shortly after first light and handed me your boots. She collected them not an hour later and returned them to your room. I am certain she would not have taken anything either. It must still be in your room somewhere.”

  “It must be,” Edryd agreed, despite deep misgivings to the contrary.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a woman. She wore a simple undyed grey woolen dress, cinched loosely in the middle with a dark blue strip of cloth that was joined end to end in the front in an overlapping diamond shape and weighed down by a small ornamented silver buckle. Her dark brown hair was loosely pulled back, revealing deep green eyes and a smooth unwrinkled face. She must have been older than Edryd, but still young and at least a year or two short of thirty. Edryd wondered if this would be Mistress Rohvarin, and whether she had heard any part of the conversation, but as soon as he turned to face her, and before he could ask anything, she began to speak.

  “Lord Seoras requests your presence, Master Edryd. He is waiting in the square.” Without waiting for a response she turned and left, revealing neatly arranged hair that fell past her shoulders and down her back.

  Edryd turned to Tolvanes, who in anticipation of the as yet unasked question, nodded and said, “That was Irial Rohvarin, but I am sure she would never have taken your money.”

  “I will make a search of my room before I broach the subject,” Edryd promised.

  This response seemed to sooth Tolvanes, who had obviously been offended by the notion that he could have been involved with taking the money. It would make sense to avoid risking further offense to others without first being certain that it had in fact been stolen, and not simply placed somewhere else in his room. On the chance that Tolvanes had taken the coins, this would also provide an opportunity for him to return them.

  Looking down at the table, Edryd saw that his bowl was already empty, but he still had half of the loaf of bread. Reluctantly leaving the leftover food behind, Edryd stood up to go outside. Before he left the room, Tolvanes offered a parting piece of advice.

  “Don’t take Seoras lightly. And do not anger him,” Tolvanes admonished. “He is a dangerous man.”

  “It won’t be the first time I have held a sword,” Edryd replied, “and I know enough to yield if I find myself outmatched,” he added, feigning a nervous smile.

  In the time Edryd had spent inside, the sun had risen a little higher and burnt away what had been left of the morning mist. He spotted Aed Seoras in a corner of the practice yard. Behind Seoras rested a collection of bladed weapons, laid out flat in an evenly spaced row across the white marble surface of one of the benches, with the hilts butted up against and projecting from the front edge. Most of the weapons had scabbards standing propped up at the back of the bench next to the matching swords.

  “Choose whichever one you are most comfortable with,” Seoras offered with disinterest.

  Edryd did not look to the swords. Instead he took a moment to study Aed Seoras. The tall man appeared calm and stone-faced, but his blue eyes betrayed aggression and an eagerness to fight as he met Edryd’s appraising stare. Seoras was dressed as he had been the night before, wearing a dark grey cloak over black clothing. Seoras was not young, but Edryd found he couldn’t estimate how old he might be. There was no gray in his dark black unkempt hair, but age and experience were evident in the lines of his face. Seoras appeared fit and healthy, but Edryd reasoned that whatever advantages Seoras held in height and reach, it would be possible to more than make up for them with what he felt would be his own advantage in physical strength.

  Turning his attention back to the weapons displayed on the marble bench, Edryd tried to represent a lack of competence. “I can’t say I am familiar with some of these,” Edryd said, gesturing towards the weapons. “Can you make a recommendation?”

  “I can only suggest the one weapon with which you are the most familiar,” Seoras responded with a trace of impatient sarcasm, as if pained by the obvious nature of the answer to the question. “These are all fine examples so you will only go wrong if you choose something you don’t know how to use correctly.”

  Edryd began a close inspection of each weapon, counting six in total. The first was a slender dueling sword, the type of weapon a wealthy merchant or landowner might carry. It was no soldier’s weapon. While it would have been a poor choice t
o take into battle against armored opponents, it would be ideal for the type of contest that Seoras had proposed. Edryd dismissed it immediately.

  The second and third weapons were long double-edged arming swords, the first of which had a blade a little more than thirty inches in length and the other a good three to four inches longer. Beside these rested a falchion, a heavy single edged weapon with a forward curving spine and a recurved edge, slightly concave where it emerged from a jewel capped ivory hilt before swelling into a broader convex section that ended in a menacing angular point. Next was a broad-bladed thrusting backsword with a basket hilt to protect the wielder’s hand.

  Nearest the end was a great long sword with a hilt that could easily accommodate two hands. Impractical in a duel, it would be nearly impossible to use to any good effect if your opponent could force you into close quarters combat. Overcome by a curious and irrational urge, Edryd almost chose this last weapon before rejecting the idea. Taking a handicap was one thing, but he did not want to come off looking foolish.

  If he had opted to accept Seoras’s advice, he would have selected one of the two arming swords. He had extensive experience with all of these weapons, but it was to a knight’s blade that he had without question devoted the most training and study. Instead of choosing one of these simple straight-bladed battlefield weapons, or the dueling sword or back sword, any of which were ideal single combat weapons, Edryd settled on the falchion. Seoras would think he chose it because it was the most expensive looking sword, jeweled and finely gilded, with a greater weight in steel than some of the others in combination. However, the curved blade gave it poor defensive characteristics and also made it weak as a thrusting weapon. Functioning less like a sword and more like a long edged axe, the heavy blade would make you tire quickly. It was a mounted soldier’s battlefield weapon, good at splitting armor or a helm, and it was of an exceptional quality that would have been fit for a general, but it was not something suited for use on foot in a contest of skill.

  All those weaknesses aside, Edryd felt confident that he could use it in combination with his superior strength to good advantage. It was simple to wield, requiring no mastery of any particular technique, so he could use it well without revealing the extent of his combat training. If Seoras could be taken off guard, or if he lacked a fraction of the skill he had claimed, he was going to be under pressure. If not, Seoras was going to have an easier time of it, which was fine, given that Edryd intended to allow the man to have a clear victory.

  The reassuring weight felt good in his hand as Edryd claimed the curved weapon and took a few experimental swings. It was a well-designed sword that could bring to bear a tremendous amount force on the cutting edge.

  “I find that the quality of a contest often benefits if there is a compelling source of motivation,” Seoras commented. “Care for a wager?”

  “I don’t have money,” Edryd said, rejecting the suggestion.

  “These wouldn’t belong to you then,” Seoras countered, producing two large gold coins from a pocket somewhere in his dark black robe.

  Edryd’s face flushed. That answered what had happened to the coins, if not when or how Seoras had come into their possession. “I would appreciate your giving those back to me, now,” Edryd said, demanding the return of his property with poorly restrained anger in his voice.

  “These coins represent a small fortune. An Innis is not the sort of place where you can expect to safely carry such things around in your pockets. I would feel badly if something happened.” Seoras said all this as if he were not doing just that himself, carrying around Edryd’s ‘small fortune’ in his pocket.

  “I can take care of myself,” Edryd insisted, passing over the fact that the two coins now sitting in this man’s hands clearly demonstrated otherwise.

  The contradiction between Edryd’s words and his present circumstances was obvious, and Seoras said as much. “Were you as capable as you claim, you would never have been so easily dispossessed of all your money within a few short hours of your arrival on this island.”

  Edryd was in a weak position to argue, but it wasn’t the sort of correction that you took evenly from the person who had stolen your property. Seoras had wanted a motivated opponent. Now he had one.

  “I won’t wager, but I will be taking those back,” Edryd said.

  Seoras smiled. By his estimation things were going well. “I understand not wanting to stake your money,” he relented. “How about something else—if you defeat me, I return your money and acknowledge the better man, submitting to whatever punishment you would like to impose. If you lose, I accept you as a student, and you will then remain here until such time as I have taught you all that I can.”

  “That isn’t going to happen,” Edryd refused. He had no desire to have anything more to do with Seoras once he recovered the money. “I will settle for taking back what belongs to me. Stand ready,” he ordered.

  Seoras stepped back and grasped the top of the sheath where it hung at his right hip as he brought his free sword hand up to undo the clasp on his cloak, letting it fall completely to the ground before grabbing onto the hilt of his weapon. He pulled the hilt upward revealing a few thin sharp inches of bright oiled steel beneath a dull grey steel crossguard, and then, watching cautiously for any reaction, he slowly continued to expose more of the blade. The steel looked exceptionally hard and sharp, but Edryd suspected it would also prove to be quite fragile.

  Irritated by his opponent’s slow approach, Edryd became impatient. Without waiting for Seoras to finish clearing the weapon from its sheath, Edryd stepped forward with his sword in a raised position ready to strike. He wasn’t seeking an unfair advantage, he was just anxious to force the issue and make Seoras finish drawing his weapon. It was a less than honorable tactic though, which did grant to Edryd, who needed to take and keep the initiative, an early edge with which to achieve a dominant positon.

  Seoras had his weapon free in an instant, quickly raising and positioning the blade on an almost level plane, ready to shield the imminent attack. Edryd aimed his downward vertical strike to connect near the end of his opponent’s weapon, where it would generate leverage that would maximize the stress on the blade as well as on the opposing combatant’s grip. If the blade were as hard and brittle as Edryd guessed, it might just break.

  Seoras took a half step back as he absorbed the impact of the strike. As soon as the momentum of his swing was stopped, Edryd raised the heavy sword and hammered down again and again in a succession of heavy blows. Seoras’s sword held up to the onslaught, but he was being pressed back with each impact. Edryd continued his simple unrelenting attack, delivering quick powerful strikes that Seoras would be able to block but not deflect. He had Seoras completely on his heels, blunting the attacks but unable to manage any sort of counter. Soon, Edryd would pull one of the strikes and bring his blade in down under his opponent’s guard and… and do what? No conditions had been set. He could tap Seoras with the flat of his blade, unfasten the man’s coat with a precision cut, or even draw blood by inflicting some sort of superficial injury. He was certainly angry enough to do the latter without feeling any remorse, but would that even end the fight?

  Edryd was intently focused on Seoras as he continued to strike, trying to pick the right moment, when he caught something in the man’s expression. Seoras was on the defensive and giving ground with each attack, but he was not under pressure. He actually looked distant and bored, calmly watching Edryd expend energy, analyzing the attack with near indifference, and waiting on an inevitable feint from his opponent. Edryd chose a new strategy. There was only one sure way to end a sword fight; well, there were many ways, but only one of those didn’t involve injuring the enemy.

  Edryd shifted the angle of his follow-through as his next strike impacted Seoras’s weapon, rasping the falchion down the length of his opponent’s long blade with as much strength as he could bring to bear. Seoras was genuinely surprised. Performed with a lighter blade, or by a weaker opponen
t, the technique would have been ineffective. It would be blocked harmlessly by the other sword’s crossguard. It was going to work here though; Seoras would not be strong enough to maintain his grip when the hilt of his sword was struck directly with this much force.

  Seoras made a quick decision. It could not have been one born from training or past experience. No school of swordsmanship would have ever taught an adherent to drop his only weapon in a fight. Seoras did though, as if he had never trusted the blade to begin with. With the resistance suddenly gone, Edryd’s swing leapt wildly out to the side. Seoras stepped in close on his left leg and trapped Edryd’s sword arm as he tried to return it into position. Seoras immediately followed this by striking Edryd in the chest with the palm of his hand. The impact doubled Edryd over, forced him off his feet, and sent him sliding backward in the gravel.

  Edryd, eyes shut tightly, gasped in pain where he lay as he tried to refill his lungs. He was not unused to taking punishment from strong opponents, but he had never felt something like this. Had he thought that he had an advantage in strength over Seoras? The man was impossibly strong. Edryd opened his eyes but he could not focus. His head was spinning. A dark shape advanced toward him. The shape, now standing over him, seemed to pause for a moment. Edryd could feel something in that pause, something he had also experienced when Seoras had struck him a moment ago. Acting on an unconscious compulsion, Edryd rolled to his side, out of the way of an attack he had not actually seen.

  Scrambling onto his knees while ignoring the pain in his body, Edryd tried to locate Seoras. His vision was still blurry. He could make out two indistinct figures at the edges of the square, but he could not see Seoras at all. As his vision began to clear, his eyes resolved upon on an object a couple of feet away. It was the falchion, with its blade buried a foot and a half deep in the earth where Edryd’s head had just been only a moment before. Seoras stood a few paces away, his pale face almost as calm as ever, yet not quite able to hide a dwindling measure of unspent fury still smoldering in his dark azure eyes.