Combatant: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Kacy Chronicles Book 3)

by Anderle, Michael

  She knew that Toth was just trying to test both her aptitude and her will, tempering her with sweat and frustration. She never quit and walked away, but on axe day, she came very close.

  On a warm, cloudless day, Toth put two blunt spikes of metal in her hands, each a little more than a foot long. They were unfinished iron, pitted, with simple wooden hilts.

  "Training daggers," Toth said simply, and then he was lunging after her, the paired knives darting and slashing.

  To both Jordan's and Toth's amazement, she took to those ugly little blades like a fish to water. Responding with sharper reflexes and an ease that she had thus far displayed with no other weapon, Jordan weaved a menacing web of steel.

  Soon, without prompting, she was on the offensive; her eyes finding perfect openings, measuring the moments right. The blunt tips and rounded edges of the training daggers crept closer and closer to Toth's skin.

  How one thrust flowed into a deflection was what thrilled and drove her forward, even when her muscles screamed for oxygen. Every weapon thus far had seemed too slow to allow her to do much else besides shimmy between attack or defend.

  Not so the daggers.

  They danced in her hands. She was attacking and defending, moving fluidly without hesitation. Her eyes received information, and her brain processed, her body responded without conscious thought.

  They stayed with the blades, and Toth did not have to explain why. He'd been exposing her to many different weapons to figure out what she had an aptitude for—–the way parents put young kids in gymnastics, then soccer, then hockey, then chess. How does the kid know what they are drawn to unless they get to try a little of everything?

  As they fell into a ground-based flurry of cut and countercut, Toth made a scissoring lunge, wings flapping for impetus. On instinct, she leapt, her wings pulling at the air in complementary strokes. She tucked her feet and rose clear over the oncoming blades. Then she drove her feet out, each leg entwining the Nycht’s sinew-corded arms. She brought her blades, flashing, to either side of his neck. Her wings beat, dragging them both off the ground. There was a thud of metal on grass as the wrenching force broke Toth's grip on his own blades.

  Her heartbeat thudding in her ears, she and Toth hung suspended in the air. A grin crossed the mercenary's face. He thwacked her thigh with a palm in compliment.

  She released him, and they began again.

  Later, they took a short rest for water. After splashing his face and rubbing the cool liquid through his short, silver beard and over his spiky hair, Toth met her eyes. "Now that," he said with that same open grin, "that was doing well."

  Jordan's heart thrilled at the praise, something not easily won from the Nycht and never before so plainly stated.

  She had found her weapon: daggers. Gone were the days of needing to be rescued, of feeling vulnerable and reliant. Toth was teaching her to fight, but there was a whole host of emotional and mental benefits that came along with that.

  Unlike most days, Toth continued to train her through the afternoon, rather than leaving her to try her new skills against her fellow combatants. Before the sun set that day, they were chasing each other through the air, much the same as any of the other natural-born Strix. Her stamina wasn't yet on par with those born with wings, but with the daggers in hand, she moved with a confidence and quickness that made her feel nearly equal.

  The next day, a long table had been set up on one side of the island. Arrayed across it was a vast collection of blades; some the length of her forearm, others little more than a hand's breadth. Some were thin needles of steel, while others were crescent fangs of flared metal. Beyond the table was a series of targets, arranged in a wide semicircle—–similar to the ones she had seen the other warriors training with, only thinner and smaller.

  "Your patience pays off now." Toth gestured to the various blades. "You are going to learn how to knife-fight, near and far."

  "Far?"

  "Knife-throwing is an excellent discipline, even against the longer reaching weapons, if one is skilled." Toth picked up a small blade with a triangular shape and short handle. "Where harpies are concerned, normal rules don't apply. A harpy, especially a female, is too large for you to engage up close unless absolutely necessary. And so…"

  With a flick of his wrist, Toth sent the small knife zipping to embed its head in the nearest target. "You are going to need to learn how to not be so close."

  They set to accomplishing this.

  Jordan began to divide her days between practicing her throws on the small targets, and learning about the kinds of knives available. She learned which were best for strictly throwing, which were suitable for either throwing or fighting hand-to-hand, and which could never be thrown, but were to be worn at the hip in a sheath or strapped within easy reach.

  She learned the difference between a dirk and a rondel, why the rondel was excellent for delivering a final thrust to the heart or skull, and why, in the frantic cut and thrust game, the dirk was superior. If one needed to remove bony parts—–arms, finger, vertebrae—–the khukuri was king. There was an entire world of vocabulary to learn, concerning quillons, tangs, fullers, crossguards, and so many other words.

  Jordan also had to learn not to think too hard about what the emotional effects might be of delivering damage with any one of these weapons. Learning the theory through training was fun, but would she be able to cut and gouge and slash and throw when it came right down to it? She thought about the harpies who had chased her and Blue over the ocean toward Maticaw, herding them toward land where they could deliver killing blows and leave their carcasses to rot.

  Yes, she thought she could do what was needed against one of those repugnant beasts.

  She spent days learning new habits, unlearning bad habits, and relearning things which she somehow managed to forget along the way. She found satisfaction in a well-sunk blade. New instincts took root.

  There were other times Toth seemed determined to drive her insane with his constant corrections, his insistence that she alter her grip just so. The way he did it so calmly, too, as though it were so easy to make these fractional changes in the midst of wrenching acrobatics. It was infuriating.

  In those moments, just as she was about to lose her temper, she would have a breakthrough. Then, like cogs clicking in her brain, so many other things in her training slid into place.

  Yet what she lived for, even on those most difficult days, was the time they spent training in the air. When they were not darting and banking above the training ground to the clamor of clashing steel, Jordan and Toth would sail around the islands, with Toth throwing out thin wooden discs the size of dinner plates. It was her job to sink a knife as close to the center of these as possible.

  She missed a lot. In fact, she missed all the time.

  Again, just when she was close to giving up, she threw and struck. The blade did not sink in, but it was a step in the right direction and gave her a renewed energy. She began to hit the target regularly. The blade would spin away, flashing in the morning sun, and the cycle would repeat.

  Then, one magical day, the blade sank home. Then it began to sink home more often than not. Then every time. Then she began to focus on getting the blades closer to the center of the plates.

  As her skill increased, Toth had her focus on combining her draw and throw into one smooth movement.

  "This is perhaps the greatest tool of the knife-fighter," he said as he demonstrated the movements in slow-motion. "Putting a knife in your target before he even knows you are armed can end fights before they begin."

  "Could I really drop a harpy with one knife? Throwing blades seem too small for that."

  Toth returned the knife to a sheath on his shoulder, only to send it hurtling into a target in the blink of an eye. "With a larger female, it would have to be a good clean shot. Even a bolt from a winched crossbow is no guarantee. Instead, aim to cripple, blind, or hinder. The distraction can give you time to either get away, or find a better posit
ion. Move first. Mobility is your first priority. Compromise your enemy's and utilize yours. That is the way to make sure you get home and they get dead."

  Jordan had become accustomed to chilling words such as these. When Toth changed out the wooden discs for dummy harpies stuffed with straw, Jordan's skill accelerated. She could call shots and reliably sink the blade home, even when Toth made the target swing.

  In spite of the sense of pride and accomplishment, burying knife after knife into those dummies and seeing their wooden bodies shudder put one scary fact into her head on a daily basis: one day, it wouldn't just be targets at the end of her blades.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Ow," Jordan squeaked as she stretched out flat on her back. Early morning light filtered through the tall, narrow windows and across the bedroom floor. Sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen lifted her head. She winced as her neck muscles protested. Looking around the room, she saw only Allan's form on the bed. Sol's mattress was an empty tangle of sheets and quilts.

  He had arranged for three mattresses to be delivered to his apartment for Eohne, himself, and Jordan. Eohne's mattress was on the far side of Allan's bed, invisible from where Jordan lay. Jordan's mattress was on the floor beside the bed, and Sol's was under the window. At night, the bedroom floor between the bed and the window was a tangle of blankets, limbs, and feathers.

  "Eohne?" Jordan pushed herself up to sitting.

  No answer.

  So the Elf is already up. My life has gotten so weird, she mused as she made her way to standing. Weeks had passed since her training had begun, and, as she did every morning, she stretched side to side and took inventory of her bones and muscles.

  Most of her body ached, but it was an ache she was getting used to. She was also getting stronger by the day. At first, she had disliked the hand-to-hand combat. It was intimidating, and she had no faith in her own abilities. But slowly, as she did more drills and faced off with different combatants, her confidence grew. She had reached a point where she didn't feel anxiety every morning at the thought of training, but excitement. What new skill will I master today? What will I learn? Jordan knew she'd never be the force that Toth, Sol, or Chayla were, but she was becoming skilled in her own way.

  How will I fare against a harpy?

  It was the unanswered question, and not something they could simulate very well. Jordan could meet many a fellow combatant in the air, but the truth was that no Strix was as big and terrifying as a harpy. The fear of such a confrontation had given Jordan nightmares. But as her confidence grew, she found herself almost eager to try her hand against one of the hideous creatures. Almost.

  She stepped over piles of scattered armor and underthings and chided herself for not doing a better job of keeping the small room neat and tidy. She wasn't alone in this; both Sol and Eohne left odds and ends scattered about. The mess made the apartment seem even smaller. There just wasn't enough room for the four of them.

  Jordan made her way to the water closet, saying good morning to Eohne, who was holding something over a burner with a pair of tongs. A thin stream of green smoke drifted up from the stove. The Elf grunted, but didn't look up. Jordan smiled. At one time, she would have asked Eohne to explain what she was doing, but every day she was doing something different, and bothering her just made the Elf grumpy.

  The Elf and the Arpak had developed a sisterly relationship, and Eohne didn't hesitate to tell Jordan to go away when she was working.

  Jordan stepped over an open trunk with jars of strange looking contents spilling out of it. She made sure to lift her wings so she didn't knock any of the glass over, and send something magical and valuable spilling across the floor.

  She'd once shared an apartment with a roommate in her second year of college, after having lived on her own and realizing she was lonely. But they'd each had their own bedroom and a sprawling study and den to use as they wished. Jordan's current living situation was a more close-quartered and spartan setup than any she'd had in her young, privileged life. Her grandparents would have been horrified, but Jordan was pleasantly surprised by how well she tolerated it. It felt as though she, Eohne, Sol, and her unconscious father had formed some odd yet functional family unit.

  What surprised her even more was how well Sol was taking to the situation. When they'd first met, she would never have thought the prickly Arpak would be so hospitable, but Sol had happily provided everything they needed. Fresh food was delivered every third day by a plump and cheerful Nycht lady, and whenever Eohne needed something for her formulas, Sol did his level best to get it for her.

  The threesome had fallen into a routine. Sol was up at the crack of dawn and out of the apartment for work. Sometimes he was away for days at a time. Jordan usually woke to sunlight streaming in the window and limped around the apartment, sorting out breakfast and getting ready for another day of training, while Eohne looked after Allan by keeping him nourished and his limbs moving. Jordan didn't know how the Elf did her kind of magic, but she was constantly scribbling strange glyphs in a ragged notebook and using the kitchen counter to do small-scale experiments.

  Jordan had watched her one evening, staying quiet and sitting out of the way, trying to discern what the Elf was up to. But often, the Elf tuned in to some invisible, inner magic. Eohne might extract some juice from a seed, apply fire and a tiny pinch of a sparkling white powder to make some strange substance, then put a drop on her finger and close her eyes, sometimes for several minutes at a time. Jordan often grew bored of this and just left the Elf to her work.

  As busy days passed, worry for Allan never abated. If Eohne hadn't emanated such calm during all of this experimentation, Jordan would have suffered from extreme anxiety and sleepless nights. But she trusted the Elf. Whether she was lulled into faith by the Elf's own calm demeanor, or the Elf secretly ministered Jordan with some magic to keep her from freaking out, the Arpak didn't question. Focusing on learning how to fight kept Jordan occupied and exhausted.

  When Sol was home, he'd drill Jordan with questions. What was Toth teaching her? Which weapons was she learning? What kinds of drills were they doing? How were the other combatants doing? How many were there? Had they started to talk strategy yet?

  "Why don't you stop by?" Jordan suggested one evening, as they were cleaning up from dinner. "You're so interested in what's going on with the army, and I'm too tired to tell you. When you have time, just come out to the training islands."

  Sol considered this. "You don't think Toth would mind?"

  "Why would he?"

  Sol shrugged. "He's got his own way of doing things. I'm not part of the army."

  "So?"

  Sol finished drying a ceramic plate and slid it into place over the washbasin. He eyed Jordan. "Maybe I will."

  "Good. For the life of me, I can't figure out why you haven't come by already. You ask me a million questions almost every night."

  "I learned to fight at the Academy," Sol explained. "Couriers are one of the few classes of Strix who continued to train for combat even after the original army was dismantled centuries ago." He shrugged. "I worry that my style and Toth's might clash, or that I'll see him doing something I disagree with and won't be able to keep my mouth shut. I was trained to fight solo; he's training you to fight in teams."

  "Why did they dismantle the army?"

  "After so many peaceful centuries, it became clear that a military was an unnecessary expense. Nothing could get through the Light Elves’ magic barriers, or so we thought. The government was paying all of these Nychts to train—–feeding them, arming them—–and nothing ever happened."

  "Only Nychts?"

  "Soldiers are considered laborers, and Nychts are considered better fliers. Also, their night vision and sonar makes them a force in the dark."

  "But, no Arpaks at all?" Jordan pulled the plug from the sink drain and wiped her hands on a towel.

  Sol shook his head. "That's how it’s always been."

  "And what do you think of that
?" Jordan narrowed her eyes at Sol. She'd never asked him point-blank about the inequality among Strix before. It was something she'd always wanted to broach with him, but if she was really honest, she was afraid she wouldn't like his answer.

  "It's wrong." Sol said simply.

  Jordan stared. "You think it’s wrong?"

  "I know it is." He took the last wet dish from the drying rack, swiping over it with his towel. "I know it’s wrong only because I've been through the Academy. They crammed so much history and studies of other cultures down our throats in school that I began to see a pattern. Where there is inequality, there is bitterness, and where there is bitterness there is weakness." A line appeared between his brows. "Rodania is weak because of it."

  "How come you never did anything about it?"

  "Do what?" Sol put the dish away and faced Jordan, leaning against the tile countertop. His wings tightened, and his primary feathers sprayed out sideways across the floor. "I'm trained to deliver messages and negotiate if I must. I'm trained not to let anything stop me on the way to delivering these messages; not harpies, not foul weather, not assassins, not distance or harsh terrain or any language barrier. But I'm not a politician," he held his palms out in a gesture of helplessness. "What could I do about it?"

  "You could run for Council. Could you not go into politics if you wanted to? You could affect real change as a councilmember."

  "I don't have those kinds of skills."

  "It sounds to me like you do," Jordan replied.

  Sol frowned, and his eyes cast downward to the floor.

  Jordan suddenly felt bad, like she had made Sol feel guilty for having chosen the wrong path.

  "I'm sorry." She stepped close to Sol and looked into his eyes. "Don't listen to me." She put her hands on his arms, wanting to wipe the expression from his face. It looked too much like shame. There was no reason Sol should be ashamed of anything. He'd been so kind and generous to her and Allan and Eohne. She felt her own shame heat her cheeks and wished she'd never said anything.