Swordfall (The Fall Trilogy, #2)

by Devaux, Olivette

  “Enough!” Sean felt his teacher’s presence from half the world away. “You did all you could. Others have failed, yet you persevered. My question to you is what do you plan to do next?”

  Sean cast his eyes down, studying the characters on the keyboard of Helga’s computer. This wasn’t what he expected at all. Not the understanding, not the flat acceptance of what had occurred. The off-center unease threatened again, and he thought back to the Vertigo. Perhaps he could just imagine rolling on the ground, like Ken Swift said he should do. Ken Swift taught ju-jitsu and sword – he knew these things probably as well as Burrows-sensei. The thought imbued him with a vague sense of unease, as though he’d somehow been disloyal.

  “Sean. You need to talk to me.”

  He lifted his brown eyes to meet the gray. “You will not like this, Sensei.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’ve been working with a friend... he teaches karate. I’m aware that you disapprove of hybridization – that you want to keep aikido pure – but I see no other way! Then there’s a group of people associated with Dr. Verbosa. We all go to an old warehouse and... and we fight. We all have different styles, yet it all works somehow. We learn from one another.”

  “I know,” David Burrows said, and the corner of his mouth tugged up in what, for him, counted as a broad grin. “Dr. Verbosa was my sempai. She taught me when I was a fresh white belt. She contacted me to appraise me of your situation months ago. So did Ken Swift. I didn’t wish to interrogate you about something that was already painful enough. Although... in the future, should the need arise, I hope you will trust me enough to confide in me, Sean. I don’t bite.”

  “But....” Sean sat, stunned. He had expected to be lectured, but not quite in this manner.

  “Sean. You misunderstand my concern regarding the purity of what we practice and teach. Nowadays, people exchange so much information, the original, historical arts can easily be altered beyond any recognition. The practitioner won’t even realize it while it’s happening. If it happens too fast, without due consideration, good techniques become ruined, lost forever. Then who’ll teach them to the next generation?” Dark eyes glowered from under their bushy eyebrows. “Sean, martial artists have always learned from one another. We’ve always gone out, fighting for fun and to see if our techniques work. Why, Ken Swift and I, we... well.”

  “I know,” Sean said, allowing an impish grin to blossom on his freckled face. “Yokohama harbor, right?”

  “I don’t know what version of that story you’ve been told, but this is not the time to talk about the past.” Burrows-sensei sighed. “You are not in a teaching situation. You’re in a survival situation. I want you to learn everything you can. Every dirty trick you’d never show anyone else. Just... make sure that you adopt only several techniques – don’t try to absorb the whole style. Then make those absolutely perfect. Make them work at full speed, without even thinking. Make sure they are the right ones not only for your body, but also for your mind.”

  “All right, Sensei. Many sloppy techniques will only create openings.”

  “That’s right.” Now both corners of Burrows-sensei’s mouth lifted up slightly, smiling. “I see Ken Swift has rubbed off onto you. That’s not a bad thing. You’ll do just fine. You’re my best student, and I fully expect you to go out and do your best. Then I want you to tell me all about your victory when you come home again.”

  The connection cut out without either of them signing off. There were no good-byes. Sean realized how much he had missed hearing that voice. Now he had his marching orders too. He had been told to come home and tell about it when he was done.

  Not if, but when.

  Failure was not an option. Getting offed by some punk perp wasn’t on the agenda. He was surprised to find he suddenly felt homesick and was tired of everything Danish. He was weary of the fine, bitter snow. He wanted to hear more English. He wanted to go home despite the danger that awaited him. Home was across the ocean, side by side with Asbjorn. Home was everything soothing and familiar.

  ASBJORN PEEKED INTO the den. Sean sat by the computer, motionless, a single tear slowly rolling down his cheek as his vacant eyes stared at the dead monitor. Asbjorn hesitated before he eased himself into the room and embraced Sean from the side. His arms snaked around his slighter shoulders, and he buried his nose in the longer hair on Sean’s neck. “Bad call?”

  “No.” Sean’s voice was but a whisper.

  “So what’s wrong, then, sunshine?” He let his thumbs wipe the prominent cheekbone dry.

  Sean turned to face him and stood. “Tissues?”

  “Here.”

  “Thanks.” Sean cleaned himself up. “Just... homesick, I guess?”

  “Yeah.” Asbjorn looked away from the man he loved, gazing into the distance as though the wall wasn’t there. “You know,” he continued in a voice that was just a bit hoarse, “in the martial arts, especially when one’s teaching, we’re not supposed to express negative emotions. There’s this aura of control, and serenity, and more control....” He felt Sean shudder before he drew in yet another deep breath and worked to center himself. To the outside, uninitiated observer he possessed perfect control. To Asbjorn, his wet eyelashes gave him away.

  Asbjorn cocked his head. “I remember having felt homesick. It’s like... uprooted, or something. And then you come back to what you think is ‘home’ and they’ve changed everything while you’re gone. Sometimes the culture changes, the language changes.”

  “Even the language?”

  Asbjorn nodded. “Sure, idiomatic expressions, all those new words for new technology, ATM machines – stuff like that. It can be weird.” He rubbed his knuckles, feeling the scabs left behind from his assault on the apple tree a few days ago. That had been his personal reaction to change.

  They moved onto their unmade sofa bed, stretched out next to each other and barely touched.

  “He gets it. I never thought he would, but he does.” Sean’s voice dripped with guilt. When he writhed uncomfortably, Asbjorn recognized the body language of shame and humiliation. He decided to ignore it for now.

  “Who gets what?”

  “Burrows-sensei.” He relayed the conversation. “Not only that, but... he gives a shit. I’d always hoped he would, you know, but I could never be sure. He’s always been so detached. He – he even smiled. Twice.”

  Minutes passed in silence. Sean twirled his thumbs in a nervous gesture for a good long time before he spoke again. “I should’ve trusted him. I should have told him. Everything would have been so much easier.”

  “Yeah,” Asbjorn said. He let the silence stretch for a while longer, but when Sean didn’t fill it, he spoke up again. “So, now what?” He was hoping for a foothold so he could, once again, be a man of action and do something – anything – instead of just sitting there, safe and sound across the Atlantic, eating cheese and caraway cookies.

  “Now we go outside and spar. Both you and Frank Pettel are bigger than I am. We’ll pick two or three techniques and work them hard.”

  “Will you throw me?”

  “Yeah. In the snow. It won’t hurt as much as the mats would, don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried.” A wolfish grin passed over Asbjorn’s face as he turned onto his side, punching Sean in the ribs. “I’m excited!”

  THE FAMILY THAT PLAYS together, stays together. Sean had thought they were being discreet, dressing in loose layers and slipping out into the snow-covered yard. He had gloves on but no jacket, and that must have roused curiosity. Even though he and Asbjorn were keeping their kiai fairly quiet, individual family members got wind of the action going on outside, and like silent fog, they dressed for the weather and slipped out.

  Just to watch.

  To see what the boys were up to.

  To kick their butt, in Ulrika’s case.

  To correct their punches, in Olaf’s case.

  “Well, I appreciate that your hook’s more powerful than mine, but as a boxer, you c
an get off balance that way and not worry about kicks coming in,” Asbjorn replied for the fifth time, patiently dodging his stepfather’s well-intentioned boxing advice.

  “No, I don’t need gloves. We don’t use them – look, Sean took his off.”

  “Sure, you may attack Sean. Do you know how to fall?”

  “Mom, would you quit taking pictures already.”

  “Ulrika, the higher you kick, the better he’ll throw you.”

  “Sure, Ole. The move starts by you being grabbed and pulled in. Now, to break my grip....”

  Fragments of Asbjorn’s patter drifted to Sean and touched upon his consciousness as he exhaled with every evasion, with every throw. Ulrika didn’t quite kick him in the ear and Olaf didn’t quite knock him out. He deposited them in the snow with gentle control, unsure of their falling skills yet thrilled to see them rise and attack him again.

  The paltry northern sun moved in the sky and Sean felt heat on his cheeks and a cool sheen of sweat on his brow. Despite that, his breath was steady and his center remained firm, and that alone filled his heart with confidence. Come what may, he’d be ready.

  THE INNERMOST LAYERS of Sean’s clothing were soaked with sweat and he was breathing hard. Defending against Asbjorn, Olaf, and Ulrika simultaneously for half an hour straight added up. The snow slowed his movements, forcing him to work his hips hard during evasions.

  His elbow hit Ulrika in the eye, resulting in an unladylike bruise. That was after she kicked him in the nuts, though, so he didn’t feel too bad. Asbjorn sported a bleeding lip, and Olaf hit Sean with a driving jab-jab-cross combination so hard he knocked him down for two seconds.

  Then they had to do it over and over again. Sean wasn’t used to ducking that level of speed and intensity and there was only one way to learn – bitter experience.

  “Look, it’s getting dark.” Sean didn’t want to stop, necessarily – he was merely surprised. The short winter day was drawing to a close at almost two o’clock in the afternoon.

  “You all will need a shower before we go,” Helga said, packing her camera away. “And put some snow on those bruises. No sense getting your auntie all alarmed.”

  It was time to go visit Asbjorn’s extended family. Christmas cookies and glogg and an exchange of small gifts were part of these holiday gatherings, and Sean was, for once, curious. This family had shaped Asbjorn’s life and helped turn him into the man he was now. Studying the foundation of Asbjorn’s personality would be a welcome distraction from Sean’s problems in Boston.

  TWO DAYS LATER, SEAN was dismayed to see the pleasant family atmosphere devolve into a row of endless arguments.

  “Classes begin on January fifth. There’s no way we can stay.” Sean was adamant. His scholarship was tied to his grade point average, and he didn’t intend to endanger his standing due to the current situation.

  “You can always catch up on your classes later. As long as you’re alive and well.” Helga’s chair crashed to the ground as she stood up. She braced her hands on the dining room table, pulling the embroidered tablecloth just enough to endanger the plates on her side. Her comment came out of practically nowhere, especially considering he was an unexpected – and a somewhat unwelcome – guest.

  “Helga.” Olaf straightened the tablecloth, but his eyes were on her.

  Sean met her blue eyes. Blue like Asbjorn’s. He took in the nervous tension of her body language. “Ah... thank you for your concern,” he replied, his voice neutral.

  “Don’t brush me off like that!”

  Sean jumped at the volume of her shout.

  “Mom!” Asbjorn inserted himself. “Don’t you yell at Sean!”

  Helga turned toward her son and glared at him, her thinly plucked eyebrows raised, her forehead wavy with wrinkles. Arguments with her son had aged her. “Something will happen. Something bad. Then you’ll be sorry. Don’t encourage him. Both of you can stay here for as long as you want. But you. You. Impossible. Stubborn. Imbecile!” She threw her napkin on the floor and stomped out of the dining room.

  Sean threw Olaf a quizzical glance, but the older man only smiled from his chair and shrugged.

  Asbjorn’s jaw was still set. He wrapped his arm around Sean’s shoulders. “Is she always like that?” he asked his stepfather.

  “Ja. She is always like you.” Olaf sighed. “I’ll talk to her.” He followed his wife into the kitchen.

  The house was silent for a few minutes. Only the clicking of the ice maker in the kitchen broke the eerie stillness. Sean and Asbjorn sat at the dining room table, their eyes fixed on the closed kitchen door. Soon, Sean heard a gentle murmur of voices. He glanced at Asbjorn, who met his gaze as he obviously tried to get the gist of the conversation on the other side. The murmurs grew into fierce, quiet hisses and guttural growls. Danish, of course. The argument was incomprehensible to Sean.

  Ole came downstairs to investigate. “What happened...?”

  “Shh.” Asbjorn gestured toward the kitchen.

  Ole turned, listening along. “Wow,” he said. “Then there is no problem, I guess. Aside from your general situation.” Ole sauntered back to his room.

  Helga and Olaf emerged from the kitchen, their faces reflecting controlled concern, yet they didn’t stop to talk to Asbjorn again and retired to their own room.

  Asbjorn pulled Sean into the den and flopped down on the still-unmade bed. He grinned. “Good news. C’mere.”

  Sean slid into Asbjorn’s embrace. “So were they fighting because of me?”

  “Yeah.” Asbjorn’s happy smile spread all the way to his eyes.

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Why?”

  “My mom doesn’t want you to get hurt. She’s trying to figure out ways to make us stay until the dust settles in Boston.”

  Sean raised himself on his elbows. “I thought she hated me.”

  “Correction: she hated the idea of you being a guy. Except you’re so charming and sweet and polite, if you were a girl, you would be practically perfect and make a fine daughter-in-law. But some things can’t be changed, she said.” Asbjorn’s grin was replaced by a more serious expression. “She’s right about one thing, though. I’d be devastated if you got offed by that unworthy fucking sonovabitch of a cowardly asshole.” His language might have been strong, but his tone remained level as Asbjorn gathered Sean’s unresisting body to his chest. He hugged him so hard it hurt.

  “Which ain’t gonna happen.” Sean tried to sound reassuring, but his bravado sounded false even to himself.

  THE CLOUDS HUNG LOW in the morning sky and the occasional snowflake drifted down onto their packed bags. The taste of coffee and cinnamon rolls was still on Sean’s tongue as he and Asbjorn hugged Ole and Ulrika, then exchanged a few soft punches with them.

  “Good luck, Sean,” Ulrika said. “Kick butt.”

  “Be careful,” Ole said, but his eyes hung on Asbjorn as the words left his lips.

  “Now, boys, you’ll be fine. You’re like the warriors in the old days, going out a-Viking, and you’ll do the right thing.” Helga kissed Asbjorn on his forehead, then turned to Sean and, to his surprise, did the same to him.

  “Yeah, and you and Olaf are like Odin and Frigg” Asbjorn laughed, the name of the old Norse gods like a benediction on his tongue.

  “Don’t say that,” Helga said, suddenly pale.

  An impatient honk by Olaf broke the peaceful scene, signaling the car was warm enough.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. You think something bad will happen to Sean? Hah! Over my dead body!” He laughed when he saw her stiffen and blanch. “Don’t worry so much! We’ll be fine.” He turned away to help Sean load their bags into the midsize Volvo.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” Ulrika asked.

  Sean and Asbjorn stopped and turned before getting in the car.

  “He said I was like Freya,” Helga said.

  “The goddess. Yeah. What of it?”

  Helga turned to her daughter. �
��Who was Freya’s son?”

  “Oh... hm... Baldar?”

  “And what happened to Baldar, Ulrika?”

  “Oh.” Ulrika paled. Then she shook her head and forced a rueful grin. “No need to be superstitious, Mom.”

  “Come on!” Olaf spurred them on, looking impatient behind the wheel.

  Sean slid into the back of the car and stuck his head forward between the seats. He looked at Olaf to his left, then Asbjorn to his right. “So what’s wrong with being like Baldar?”

  Olaf sighed. “I don’t put much stake in my wife’s motherly anxieties, mind you,” he said, glancing into the sideview mirror as he pulled into the street. “But the legend says that Baldar fell in love with a mortal and died young as a result, with his promise yet unfulfilled.”

  CHAPTER 4

  They slept almost all the way on the flight from Copenhagen to Dublin, and not even the irritating children behind them managed to disrupt their sterling good mood. The Dublin airport was small and its ceilings hung low in the dim space. Computer tables with privacy partitions occupied the middle of the main floor. Several travelers sat in the red and yellow chairs, gazing at the screens and dropping more money into the coin slots, buying Internet time to check their e-mail or just surf the web.

  “I’d like to try that,” Sean said. “I’ve never used an Internet vending machine before.” They got two hundred Euros out of an ATM and broke a bill by buying two pints of Guinness. Sean sipped the thick, dark beer. He relished the texture and the malty goodness of it. It was almost as though the tension he accumulated over the course of the family visit ebbed away with every hoppy bubble that tingled his nose. He glanced at the clock on the departures display. “Kind of early in the day for this sort of breakfast, Bjorn.”

  “You need the change, sunshine. We were forced by our difficult circumstances.”

  Sean raised his glass to Asbjorn once again and smiled. Ireland was looking good, and he was happy they were on their own for at least a little while.