The Living Sword 2: The Road Ahead Page 6

  “Right.” Resuming his stance, he pulled earth from the ground and let it harden around his forearm. Imagining he faced a spearman like the one he’d faced in that Bone Lord’s tower, he batted the spearhead out of the way and closed the distance between them to drive the wooden sword into him.

  “Good, do it again.”

  Bat, step, thrust. Bat, step, thrust. This had been Silver Fang’s training so far. She taught him swings, blocks, thrusts, slashes, parries, and then had him practice those over and over again. “Would this work against an armored opponent as well?”

  “Depends upon the armor and the blade. Misthell will get through most types of armor, but plate, especially when it is enchanted, that will stop even a living sword. However, this move is best for unarmored enemies. If they have protection, you should go around it.”

  “I, for one, think that’s a great suggestion,” Misthell said.

  “You do not mind getting covered in blood?” Silver Fang’s tone of surprise sounded fake.

  “If it keeps the sharpening stone away, I’m for it. Blood comes off, but I can’t regrow my edge.”

  There was a hint of a smile on Silver Fang’s lips and a glint of silver. “How about your . . . awesomeness?”

  “Oh, that can only grow.”

  She and Eurik shared a grin.

  “That is enough. Let’s try something else, something that will reassure Misthell. A low swing to take out an opponent’s legs, those are rarely armored. You—”

  Captain Slyvair’s deep voice interrupted her. “How about something more useful, like practice? I have yet to see him face an opponent that’s not in his head.”

  Eurik regarded the orc. “Hanser wasn’t in my head.”

  “I meant with a sword in your hand.” Slyvair walked over to them. His skin was dark green, except where he’d been burned. There, it was a far lighter green. He glanced at Silver Fang. “Is this how you were trained?”

  “It was.”

  “And how young were you? How many years did your teacher spend honing your skills?”

  “I was eight when mother retained Irelith. She had just earned her name.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Viper.” She waited for a moment, but it seemed Slyvair didn’t respond to that name appropriately. “It meant there was no sword-arm faster in the tribe than hers. But what of your name, Slyvair? Do you not all boast where you hail from?” Silver Fang took a step toward the orc, her eyes hard as she spat her words out. “So what port do you call home?”

  “Volsom. I am Slyvair of Volsom, 42nd Conqueror of Ir Serom.”

  Silver Fang rocked back on her feet as if struck and Eurik’s eyebrows climbed up as well.

  “No way, you won the Cider Duel?” Misthell gushed. “Was that before or after you lost your arm?”

  For some reason, Slyvair’s eyes slid over to Eurik as he answered the living blade. “Before, a long time ago.”

  “I’d say.” Misthell made a noise, a tinkling hum. “I remember the tale of the 47th Defender and his victory, and that was twenty years ago. Who do you think will take it this year? Ir Serom or your people?”

  “Misthell,” Silver Fang said. “I do not believe this is the time for that.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Slyvair touched his stump and turned away so he wouldn’t see the sword. “Let us discuss Eurik’s training instead. I wish to see how he’s been taught.” The mercenary captain retrieved a wooden version of his hand axe from a chest that contained the training weapons. The axe’s blunt edge even had a horn like the real ones he’d seen Slyvair carry on the road.

  “And feel free to use everything,” the orc said as he squared off against Eurik.

  The young man looked over at Silver Fang, unsure if this was a good idea. The entire situation felt off, though he couldn’t say how he knew that.

  “Not looking at your opponent.” Slyvair spat out the words and sprang forward.

  Eurik’s only warning was a ripple in the chiri. He brought up his sword and pulled earth chiri up from the ground to brace himself for the orc’s swing. It crashed into the wooden blade, and even fortified with earth, Eurik was forced to take a step back. Slyvair quickly hooked over the sword with his axe and pulled it down, then thrust the axe’s horn into Eurik’s sternum.

  Eurik grunted, the impact enough to knock most of the wind out of him. But he was still standing; he just needed a moment to recover.

  “Is this it?”

  Eurik barely caught the words, Slyvair spoke so softly. The mercenary captain resumed his assault, using his control over Eurik’s weapon to sweep it out of the way and then transform that motion into a backhanded swing.

  The wooden axe bounced off of Eurik’s stone bracer. “No, it isn’t.” A step back to create distance, pull the sword back for a thrust.

  “Show me.” Somehow the orc managed to swing his weapon around fast enough to turn Eurik’s thrust, and a hard shoulder crashed into him. With his right arm trapped between them they stay locked like that for a moment, neither willing to pull back before the other.

  A twist of Eurik’s foot and a pillar of rock erupted from his right, aimed straight at Slyvair. The mercenary captain didn’t blink. One foot caught the pillar and he used the momentum to jump away; the other foot kicked out and snapped Eurik’s head back.

  A coppery taste filled his mouth, and hot anger pumped through his veins. A swipe of Eurik’s rock-encased hand sent the top of the pillar careening toward Slyvair. The orc spun and executed the same kick he’d used to test Eurik’s wall, the compacted dirt exploded as the bare foot smashed through it.

  Slyvair rushed him again, vaulting over the wall Eurik erected between them before it had even reached its full height. “Show me the rest, show me what you used in the arena!” The orc’s axe swung around.

  “What?” The wooden weapon struck Eurik’s shoulder, sending a lance of pain through him. He staggered to the right, his practice sword dragging along the ground, but Slyvair didn’t relent.

  “You were faster, better. Show me!” He kicked the blade out of Eurik’s hand and raised the axe above his head.

  Gritting his teeth, Eurik set the pain to the side and—drawing as much chiri as he could hold into his body—met the descending axe with his stone gauntlet. Wood splintered, chips of dirt tumbled through the air, and Slyvair was left holding a broken handle.

  Eurik’s other arm came around for a punch that would end the confrontation, but even the loss of his weapon didn’t give Slyvair pause. The orc met his attack, linking arms and letting the punch skid over his shoulder. He dropped the handle, grabbed the back of Eurik’s shirt and yanked him off of his feet.

  There was a moment of weightlessness as Slyvair swung him overhead, a moment where Eurik flew through the air while the chiri rushed out of his body, and then came the landing. He skidded along the ground, struggling for a breath, struggling to get up.

  He managed it, finally, but Slyvair still was where he’d been when he’d tossed Eurik. The orc was breathing as fast as him, yanking a splinter out of his hand with his teeth and spitting it on the ground.

  “What . . . What did I do? Why is my fight with Chizuho so important?”

  Muscles bulged as Slyvair’s single hand balled into a fist. He took one deep breath, then blew it out. Saying nothing, the mercenary captain turned his back to him and stalked off, clutching his stump.

  ***

  “Rock.” Leraine had waited until after Captain Slyvair had moved out of sight to speak out. “You told me once you did not know this Chizuho, only knew of him. How did you know of him?” She had seen that san in action, seen the power he wielded. When she combined that with the sun-man’s scars, a picture emerged.

  Rock looked over at her and tilted his head slightly. Had he truly not put the clues together yet himself? “He . . . There was an attack on the Ichiru, our only ship, long before I arrived on the island. San died and Chizuho called for reprisal. He wanted the attacks to end, to punish
the orcs so horribly that they would not dare to do so again. The masters said no, but he gathered a few who agreed with him and they attacked the orcish settlement closest to . . .” His eyes widened. Truly, sometimes he was smart, and sometimes he was as dense as a stone. “You think Slyvair was there?”

  Leraine nibbled on her lower lip. “I do not know, not for certain. I cannot tell how old he is, but his scars, his interest in that fight, in you. It would explain much.”

  “But not his anger. Why would he be angry with me? I wasn’t even born when the attack happened.”

  “You were trained by the san,” Misthell said. “Every move could be a reminder of that attack. You didn’t attack his village, cut his arm off, but you are linked to those who did.”

  Leraine nodded, it all made sense.

  Eurik was frowning. “Well, what do I do about it?”

  Leraine’s couldn’t help but shake her head slightly. “Do about it? There is nothing you can. Do not fight him, especially not while holding a blade.” She picked up the training sword and threw it at him. “It is obvious my training has not been sufficient. You fumbled with the blade, forgot you had it half the time. In one respect, Captain Slyvair is right. You need more practice with fighting.”

  Rock rolled his shoulders, but aborted the move and grabbed his left shoulder. “Please, not right now. I felt most of his hits even through the earth chiri. I wondered once how orcs could even hope to fight a crew of san, and now I know.”

  “If all the plant-people hold back like you do, then I can see it, too.”

  Chapter 7

  The Quiet

  The wagons rattled over the worn stones of the road; it was almost the only sound the caravan made as it entered the Irelian Empire the next day. Everybody was tense, and kept looking to their right and left. Others had joined the caravan at Fort Caeston: a pair of peddlers, their wares stowed everywhere there was space, including the outside of the wooden wagons.

  All the mercenaries wore their full armor now, coats of metal plates over padded jackets, and a variety of helmets. Some were conical, others were more rounded; some protected at least part of the face, a few only protected the bridge of the nose, if that.

  Their long, kite-shaped shields were tied to their saddles in easy reach, as were their weapons. Captain Slyvair was the exception. He had no helmet, and his armor was made from stiff leather and had three steel disks arranged in a triangle on both the front and back. The orc had five hand axes: one on either side, one on his back, and two more resting in holsters on his saddle. His stump was encased in more steel, like a bulwark, while articulated plate covered his hale arm. Eurik had seen Perun help him put it all on that morning with practiced ease.

  He’d been considering approaching the orc after all, had been since yesterday. He’d still ventured into the fort, bought himself a cloak and a few other things. He’d been so preoccupied that he’d found himself walking back to camp with his purchases in his arms and no idea where or how much he’d paid for them.

  He trusted Silver Fang, knew that she had a better perspective on the right course, but to do nothing didn’t sit right with him. Perhaps he should think less like earth and more like wind. Rather than trying to go through the obstacle, he should think of how to move around it. At the moment, he had Silver Fang’s speculations, but little fact. He thought she was right, but some confirmation would be nice.

  Someone tugged at his sleeve. “What did I say?” she asked in Thelauk.

  “I . . . I am sorry. Other . . . things trouble me.”

  “Captain Slyvair.”

  The captain rode out of view, his own attention on his men more than his surroundings. He didn’t seem to be aware of Eurik’s existence. “Yes.”

  “There is nothing you can do. Confronting him will only grow his anger. Let it rest.” The wagon jostled them.

  “No, I . . . need to know. I will go and talk to Gerd.” Eurik jumped off the wagon.

  “He may not want to talk either,” Silver Fang called out as he jogged down the caravan. Gerd and a few others were covering the back, while Slyvair had been heading to the front of the caravan. There was no better moment to get some answers where the orc would not hear.

  The Irelian nodded when Eurik approached him. “Stretching your legs?”

  “No, I was wondering if you could answer a few questions. You told me back in Parmenorum that Herardios got hired in Linese. Did the entire company really go there?”

  A subtle tension in Gerd and the others left as he finished his question without mentioning Slyvair. Shoulders relaxed and the Irelian’s eyes crinkled as he answered Eurik’s question. “I wish. No, me and the boys were stuck guarding Ghajir and his people. Easy work, Volsom is a peaceful city, but I’ve heard the stories and I’ve always wanted to see the city. Ah, maybe next year.”

  “I did not see enough either, but what I did see was impressive. So . . . you were not there when Herardios got hired?” Eurik prodded.

  “No, the captain only took Perun with him and then came back with the book-noser in tow.” Gerd looked down at him, the broad rim of his steel helmet casting a shadow over his eyes. “Why do you ask? Noticed something off about our mage?”

  Eurik looked down at his feet, his mind racing. He had not thought this through enough. In truth, he’d barely had contact with Herardios since Parmenorum, and what did he know about magic?

  Only the most rudimentary facts, and a little bit more thanks to Herardios himself. He had not been happy with Eurik’s explanation of the Ways. Had called them impossible and had explained why. “As you said, I have yet to see him cast a spell. Spellcasters need training to keep their skills. I hoped you knew something more about his background.”

  “Nope. I tried talking to the man himself, but it’s like pulling teeth. You’ll have to ask the cap—” Gerd coughed. “Right, right.” He sucked on his left cheek for a moment. “You’ve been to Linese? How recent we talking here?”

  He froze for a moment. “Ah . . . a few months ago,” Eurik offered. It occurred to him that Gerd seemed to be avoiding the subject of Slyvair as well.

  Gerd hummed. “Did anything interesting?”

  “He fought a Blood Lord, does that count?”

  “Misthell.” Eurik shot the living sword a warning look over his shoulder.

  “A blooddrinker? In Linese? You sure it wasn’t a Nosferatu? That would be something, too.”

  “No, it was a Blood Lord.” Misthell had to have seen Eurik’s look, but he was just ignoring him. “He called himself Rik. Took one look at me and he just had to have me.”

  “Silver Fang and her teacher saved me.” With all that out in the open, there was no use anymore to keeping silent. “Though it cost Irelith’s life.”

  The clip-clop of the horses’ gait filled the silence until Gerd broke it. “What happened to this blooddrinker?”

  “I killed him, with Silver Fang’s help,” Misthell said. “He’d tried the damsel in distress routine and it backfired.”

  The old mercenary guffawed. “If he tried that with the girl, how could it not!”

  “It was a fittingly awesome finale to an epic of vengeance. I have pictures, do you want to see?”

  “Now is not the time,” Eurik said. “But I didn’t stay in Linese after that encounter so I barely saw anything.” Maybe they could get back to the matter that was actually important.

  “Bah, you’re young. Plenty of time to go back and find out what you missed. If a down-head doesn’t crack your skull first, that is. You best sleep lightly from here on out, boy. The easy part of the trip’s over.”

  “I will be careful.” Eurik wondered, though, hadn’t Ceran warned them already to be careful? Had the cook exaggerated the dangers or was it only getting worse from here on out? “And Misthell will keep an eye out, too.”

  “Like I do every night. No worries, nothing gets past this keen eye of mine. No elf or metal-eating moth can escape my sight.”

  “Metal-eating moth?” Ge
rd tipped the brim back a little. “What do they look like? And do they eat steel? Silver?”

  “Please, do not worry,” Eurik said before Misthell could fill the man’s head with his silly fantasies. “It is a joke.”

  “Ah.” The Irelian chewed on his lip. “I don’t get it.”

  “It is not a good one.” Eurik said his goodbyes and jogged forward to catch up with the wagon his belongings were in. “Misthell, when I give you that look that means you should stop talking. I was trying to find out more about Slyvair, and instead, Gerd learned more about my journey.”

  Misthell’s eye remained closed. “Not talking to you right now.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Someone said my jokes aren’t good and I don’t talk to people who have a bad sense of humor. Or who don’t tell me what they’re up to and leave me scrambling to catch them when their poor planning gets them into trouble. I have feelings, you know.”

  There had been those looks, the tension in their shoulders. How much did they know about Slyvair’s hostility? Perhaps he wouldn’t have learned much at all. “I apologize, I didn’t think it through. I just had to do something about this situation with Slyvair. I didn’t really have a plan.”

  “Good. And . . .”

  Eurik frowned. “And what?”

  There was a moment of silence. “I don’t talk to people who have a bad sense of humor.”

  He groaned. “Come on, Misthell. Nobody laughed.”

  “Still not talking,” the blade singsonged.

  ***

  Rock didn’t join her on the wagon again but kept pace with it. “Did you learn anything?”

  “I learned that he has no sense of humor,” Misthell said before his wielder could. “And he doesn’t want to admit it either. Instead, he’s saying I’m not funny.”

  Leraine regarded the blade’s single eye. “I thought you were awesome?”