A shortsword much like Curtis’s but with a wider blade rested horizontally on a wooden stand. Sam checked the price tag and his heart sank. Fourteen gold. He had little hope of finding anything in his price range.
“It’s all too expensive,” Sam said.
“They always display the pricey stuff,” Curtis said as though he was well versed in the inner workings of the retail weapons business. “We better ask.”
The Surly Dragon Arms’s owner, Jiao-long, was a short Oriental man wearing a dark blue tunic. He wore a necklace of black string with a dragon hanging from the end of it fashioned from polished obsidian.
Curtis looked at Sam and cocked his head at the owner, implying that Sam should be the one to do the talking.
“H-hi,” Sam said.
“How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for a sword.”
The Oriental man gestured with his arm. “We have many.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “But I need a cheap one.”
The owner pursed his lips together. “Follow me.” He led them to a backroom that was mostly blocked off by a hinged screen which consisted of a bamboo frame and sheets of paper-thin canvas with birds (or at least Sam thought the little black squiggles were meant to symbolize birds) flying near a large orange circle (which was supposed to be the sun, Sam guessed) painted on them.
The merchandise in the back room sat in a disorganized pile on the room’s floor. The owner looked around, found something, and handed it to Sam. It was a thin-bladed katana with a blade longer than Sam was tall, but it still felt light in his hands. The blade also looked ridiculously sharp.
Sam gave Curtis a What-Do-You-Think look.
“It’s…different,” Curtis said. “Not half bad.”
Sam said, “How much?”
“Six gold, five silver.”
Sam shook his head, handing the katana back to Jiao-long. “Sorry. Um…I need something cheaper.”
The Oriental man balked as if offended, asking without words how Sam expected to find anything cheaper than that.
Sam held out his coin pouch and shook it so the coins rattled together inside. “I’ve got almost four gold.”
Both Sam and Curtis stared at the owner of Surly Dragon Arms expectantly, but in his heart Sam was beginning to lose hope. If the stuff at the bottom of the bargain heap was over six gold, what chance did he have of getting something for less than four?
The owner appeared to be in a dream-like state as his eyes shifted back and forth from Sam’s coin pouch to the pile of merchandise on the floor of the back room.
Doomed! Sam thought. Maybe it’s just as well. You didn’t really want to be here anymore. Don’t you want to be safe at home with your mom and dad?
But he didn’t. He was nervous and a little homesick, but he had also met Curtis, and there was a part of him that didn’t want to fail. At least not like this, before training had even started.
The man stared at Sam for what seemed like an eternity, as if trying to make a decision about something. “Wait here,” Jiao-long said, crossing over to the display counter and disappearing into another room.
They waited. Sam was sure it was probably getting dark outside by now and that they needed to be getting back to their living quarters. What if the other boys were back now? What if someone had taken his bed? He had left his things on top of it, but that was no guarantee someone wouldn’t just shove them off and take it for themselves.
Curtis looked antsy too; once again the nervous kid with the overly sweaty palms he had met only an hour ago. “I hope he hurries,” Curtis said. “I don’t want to find out what happens if we show up late.”
“Wouldn’t put us in anyone’s favor.”
The very thought of this made Curtis’s face go pale. He looked as though he might be sick. “No, probably not. But I’m sure if we explained the situation…”
“Maybe you should head back. There’s no reason we should both get in trouble for my stupid mistake.”
For a moment, it looked like Curtis was going to do exactly that, his fear of disciplinary action getting the better of him, but he stayed where he was. “I’ll stay. If we get into trouble – then we’ll be in trouble together.”
“Thanks,” Sam said. “I’m not sure I could’ve found my way back on my own.”
The owner reappeared. He was smiling as he carried something long wrapped in a dirty cloth. The cloth might have once been white, but now it was stained a dingy gray color with brown splotches. The owner placed it on the counter. Plumes of dust filled the air as he unwrapped the soiled cloth, revealing a sword beneath.
If you can call that a sword, Sam thought, gazing at the pathetic length of steel. It was a large broadsword. The blade was dull and, unlike Curtis’s, Sam couldn’t see his reflection in it. Specks of rust were eating at the steel, and when the Oriental man picked it up, he did it with the same weary caution one might exercise before petting a possibly rabid animal. He held it out to Sam.
When Sam took the sword, he nearly dropped it. It was heavy. He had to use both hands to hold it, using all of his strength to lift the blade straight. After he managed to raise it to eye level, he took a practice swing. The sword sliced through the air, and Sam spun around with it, almost losing his balance. How am I supposed to practice with this? It weighs more than I do.
Flakes of rust fell to the floor as Sam slid the sword back onto the dirty cloth. His hands felt moist with grime and he wiped them on his pants.
“Four gold,” the owner said.
“There’s nothing else?”
The owner gaped at him, the expression on his face making it clear that it was nothing short of a miracle that for four gold Sam was lucky to be leaving with anything at all.
Sam tipped his pouch upside down, allowing the coins to fall onto the counter. “That’s all of it,” he said, saddened at having been so quickly parted from his life savings.
“Good day,” the owner said.
Sam slid the cloth-covered sword into his arms and said, “We better get going.”
Outside, the sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving only a few traces of blue and orange in the darkened sky. Sam could see the first of the stars popping out.
“Uh oh.”
The sword was too heavy for him to run, so Sam settled for walking as fast as he could under its burden. Curtis was next to him, a worried look on his face.
Ten minutes later, they had made it past the castle entrance and to their living quarters. They needn’t have worried. The other boys had arrived back to the room, most of them lounging on their beds or talking amongst each other. Sam barely noticed as he and Curtis made for their beds. Sam wanted to get his new sword out, but resisted the urge. It wasn’t very pretty to look at, but it was still his first sword, which made it special despite its ugly appearance. However, they had drawn attention to themselves when they had entered the living quarters in such a hurry, and Sam didn’t want to take it out for all the others to see and make fun of. Many of them sat polishing their own swords, or had leaned them against the frames of their beds. They were all shiny and new-looking just as Curtis’s had been.
“Aren’t you going to take it out?” Curtis asked as though reading his thoughts.
“Not a chance,” Sam said. “They’d all laugh at me.”
Curtis swept the room with his eyes. There were over a dozen other boys sharing the room with them, most of them bigger, taller, and older; dark tans, rippling muscles, flowing manes of silky hair. “I see what you mean. But aren’t they going to see it anyway? Sooner or later?”
Sam thought about it. “Probably,” he said. “But I’d rather delay the inevitable. At least for tonight.”
“Don’t blame you.”
Sam slid into bed, put his arms behind his head, and stared up at the wooden rafters. What a day, he thought. He thought about his parents. Would they still be traveling in the rickety old wagon or would they have stopped for the night? Knowing his father, they would b
e pushing on so they could make it back to Lesser Spriggleford by morning.
He remembered watching them leave. It seemed so very long ago now, even though it had only been a matter of hours.
Sam turned his head. Curtis was in bed as well, a goofy grin plastered across his face. “Thanks for going with me,” Sam said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“No problem. You would have done the same for me. Besides, we’re friends now.”
“Yeah, that we are.”
And it’s good to have a friend, Sam thought.
CHAPTER FIVE
TRAINING DAY
They were roused from sleep the next morning by Abeth’s scratchy voice shouting, “Wakey wakey, boys!”
Sam jolted awake, scrambled out of bed, and dressed as quickly as he could.
“Breakfast in five,” Abeth said before exiting the room.
“Some wake up call,” Curtis grumbled. His eyes were bloodshot and his short brown hair was sticking up in the back.
“You’ve got that right,” Sam said.
Several boys were already dressed and filing out the door.
“Think we should bring our swords?” Curtis asked.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. None of them are,” he said, pointing at the other boys who were already walking out the door. “Guess we can come back for them. Let’s get going.”
Sam and Curtis followed the other boys out of the living quarters, down a meandering cobblestone path, to the mess hall. Inside, long tables and benches were lined up across the length of the room. A portly woman wearing a soiled apron stood at one end, ladling runny oatmeal into wooden bowls from a huge cast-iron pot.
They formed a line, moving single-file as each was handed a bowl of the mush. After they had received their oatmeal, Sam and Curtis searched for a place to sit. They found two spaces at the end of a bench and sat down. The row of boys they sat next to glanced up and then returned to their own conversations.
Probably think we’re here by mistake, Sam thought. We’re half their size.
“Ugh,” Curtis said.
“What?”
“It’s terrible.”
Sam stared down into his own bowl of oatmeal. It looked watery and smelled like dirt. He spooned some into his mouth. “You’re right. It’s awful.”
The boy sitting next to him, probably a year or two older and with a unicorn tattooed on his shoulder, leaned toward them and whispered, “You’d do well to eat it. It’s tasteless gruel, but you’ll need all the strength you can get.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, but the boy was no longer paying them any attention.
Reluctantly, Sam spooned another bite into his mouth. He kept going until his bowl was empty. His stomach felt heavy, as though someone had dropped a ball of lead into it.
Boys were already leaving the table, heading back to the living quarters to get their things.
Sam and Curtis followed. “This is it, I guess,” Sam said, grabbing his sword from underneath the bed. “You nervous?”
“Yeah. You?”
“I’ll be lucky if I keep my breakfast down.”
They weren’t sure of the way, so they followed the other boys.
“You know, you really should give it a name,” Curtis said, gesturing at Sam’s sword, which Sam dragged behind him because it was too heavy to keep it lifted in the air while they walked.
“Look at it. Hardly deserves a name does it?”
“Maybe, but all swords are given names…even the ugly ones.”
“Did you name yours?”
“Yup. Gwendolyn.”
“You gave it a girl’s name?” Sam asked, laughing. He wasn’t sure what the rules for naming swords were, but he highly doubted that naming one after a girl was the proper thing to do. “That’s silly isn’t it?”
A hurt look passed over Curtis’s face. “It was my mother’s name. Not my stepmother. My real mother. She…she…isn’t with us anymore.”
Sam felt like a worthless slug. “I’m sorry.”
Curtis shrugged. “You didn’t know.”
“Gwendolyn is a beautiful name. A beautiful name for a beautiful sword.”
“What about yours?”
Sam stopped, staring down at the battered old broadsword he held in his hands. There was dirt caked on the tip from dragging it in the mud. What’s a good name for you? he wondered. You’re heavy and don’t look too good. What’s your name?
And then it came to him as though the gods had planted it in his brain.
“Rusty!” he said.
“Rusty?”
“Yeah. Look at it. Isn’t that a fitting name?”
“It is!” Curtis laughed out loud. Some of the other boys that were passing looked at him as though he had suddenly gone mad.
Sam used all of his strength to raise the sword above his head. “Rusty!” He managed to hold it like that for a few seconds before his arms turned to jelly and he let the blade fall back to the ground.
“To Rusty!” Curtis shouted. “An ugly sword if there ever was one.”
Sam entered the Dashelmore Warrior Training Academy to little fanfare (none, to be precise), with Curtis by his side.
They were inside a giant arena. The edges of the arena were lined with tiered benches that went almost as high as the tall wooden fence that blocked their view of the outside world. Only Dashelmore Castle, with its highest spires towering into the clouds, was visible beyond the fence which enclosed them.
They formed a line facing south as a stocky dwarf with a bald head and an orange beard the color of creamy tomato soup paced back and forth in front of them. He was wearing an eyepatch with a white skull printed on it. Occasionally, he would look up, spending just enough time to give one of them the once over, and then go back to watching his feet. He was wide-shouldered, and jagged scars criss-crossed his bare arms. He had a protruding belly under his leather jerkin.
This can’t be our instructor can it? Sam thought.
No sooner had the thought entered his head, when the dwarf spoke. “My name,” the dwarf said, “is Alsted Englehorn. Friends call me Ogre. Just to make it clear, none of us are friends. Nor will we ever be. As your head instructor, it isn’t my job to be your friend. I’m here to train you to be the best warrior you can be. You will address me as ‘sir’ at all times. Understood?”
They all nodded enthusiastically, but Sam could tell that some of the other boys were thinking exactly the same thing he was: This is our instructor?
Alsted stopped pacing. He cupped a hand behind his ear and said, “I didn’t hear you?”
“Yes, sir!” they all shouted in unison.
“Better. Ah, here comes my assistant. Just in time.”
Sam glanced over at the entrance to the arena. A tall man strode toward them. But Sam noticed that it wasn’t a man at all. It was a 7’ tall, gray-skinned ogre wielding the largest mace Sam had ever laid eyes on. Long pointed spikes protruded from a steel ball at the end of it. When the ogre stopped and stood next to Alsted, the contrast couldn’t have been greater. The top of the orange-bearded dwarf’s bald head came up only as far as the ogre’s thigh.
Sam found it ironic that their head instructor was a dwarf with the unlikely nickname of Ogre, while an honest-to-God Ogre now stood before them.
“This is Felgorn,” Alsted said. “My assistant. You will give him the same respect you give me. For an ogre, he is a patient man, but he has his limits. I would wager that if you make him angry, he could knock your heads off with one swipe of Skullbasher.”
Skullbasher, Sam thought, staring at Felgorn’s mace. That’s a far better name than Rusty.
If the other boys had been unimpressed with Alsted’s short stature, they were in total awe of Felgorn. Like Sam, none of them had seen an ogre before; at least not outside of the crudely drawn pictures in storybooks. Felgorn looked as though he had been forged from iron rather than born of flesh and blood. Sam and Curtis exchanged glances.
“Good to meet you a
ll,” Felgorn said pleasantly, his voice like the low rumble of thunder.
When no one responded, Alsted said, “I believe Felgorn was speaking to you.”
“Good to meet you, Sir!” they all shouted.
“King Leodan has tasked me with making noble warriors out of the lot of you, and that is what I aim to do. You won’t all make it.” Alsted was looking directly at Sam when he said it.
Great, Sam thought, he’s singled me out already. He felt roughly the size of an ant, holding Rusty in both hands, believing he might crumble to dust beneath Alsted’s piercing gaze. Despite his diminutive size, there was real power behind the dwarf’s eyes.
“I see you’ve all come equipped. Although some of you better than others.” Alsted stared at Sam’s broadsword, but his eyebrows were raised in interest, as if he had seen the pathetic-looking sword somewhere before. “A sword is a powerful ally, and can become your best friend. You should be as familiar with it as brushing your teeth. But I would ask this - do any of you lads know what the most powerful weapon of all is?”
The group chattered amongst themselves. A boy with shoulder-length brown hair and gold bands around his arms, blurted out, “Holy magic?”
Alsted shook his head. “Afraid not. The priests possess powerful spells, but that is not the correct answer.”
“Dragonblood?” another boy said.
Alsted shook his head again. His eyes fell on Sam. “What about you, lad? Any ideas in that head of yours?”
Sam felt as if he had been struck dumb; as if his mouth had been sewn shut. “W-well…” He scrambled to think of an answer, any answer, but his brain had gone blank. Now he was sure to wash out in the first week. He was sealing his fate. And then, out of thin air, an idea came to him. He was still tongue-tied, so he pointed instead. He touched a finger to his lips.
Alsted appeared pleased. He glanced over his shoulder at Felgorn and smiled. “First time for everything, I guess,” he said to the towering ogre. He turned his attention back to Sam. “That’s right. Did you have divine help on that one, lad?”
Sam Finch and the Zombie Hybrid (Sam Finch Series Book 1) Page 4
