A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (10 page)

She sighed.

“This is just another of my father’s dreams,”
she continued. “Perhaps it has something to do with his age? His yearning for
the return of his children?”

Gwendolyn looked away, feeling disappointed
by the entire conversation, trying to absorb it all. Jasmine’s knowledge was
dizzying, and Gwen figured it would take months to fully understand everything
she was saying. It was the first time she had ever felt this way, so in over
her head intellectually, and it was unsettling experience.

Jasmine must have sensed her sadness,
because she looked over at her compassionately, and laid a hand on her wrist.

“Enough of the Tower,” she said. “You
will go there and see for yourself. But I have seen in your eyes what is really
troubling you. Thorgrin and Guwayne, is that right?”

Gwen looked at her, hope in her eyes,
wondering how she knew.

“Has Argon not told you anything?”
Jasmine asked.

Gwen looked at her, confused.

“Argon?” she echoed. “Tell me what? He
is sick. He is unresponsive.”

Jasmine shook her head.

“No longer,” she replied. “Our healers
are very fine at what they do. His healing has begun. He is conscious even now.”

Gwendolyn looked back at her, filled
with hope, elated.

“How do you know?” she asked, baffled.

Jasmine smiled.

“Everything that happens in this court
is carried by raven. I am known to be quite inquisitive.”

Gwen studied her, amazed.

“What is it that Argon knows?” Gwen asked.

“The ancient ones,” Jasmine said, “they
hold a great many secrets, from the beginning of time. Also great knowledge, of
which they do not speak.”

She looked closely at Gwendolyn.

“Speak to Argon,” she said. “Ask him about
Thorgrin. About Guwayne. Ask him what he’s withholding. I am sure it will
surprise even you.”

Kendrick braced himself as the sharp
claws of the tree clinger swooped down for his face with dizzying speed. The
creature had leapt from the twisted tree so quickly, lunging down at him before
Kendrick even had a chance to respond. Its claws were as long as its body, sharp
and razor thin, and the beast, resembling a large sloth, with a hairy body,
yellow beady eyes and sharp fangs, was out for blood. Clearly it had trapped many
unsuspecting travelers under this tree before.

Kendrick knew that in a moment he would
be decapitated, and his final thought, before it reached him, was what a shame it
would be to die here, in the middle of nowhere, far from Gwendolyn and everyone
he knew and loved.

As Kendrick braced himself there came a
sudden clang of metal, and Kendrick saw Brandt, standing beside him, blocking
the claws of the creature with his sword. At the same moment Atme stepped
forward and plunged his sword straight through the creature’s heart.

It let out an awful shriek and coughed
up a yellow substance onto Kendrick as it collapsed down to the desert floor,
dead.

Suddenly, the sky became filled with the
awful screeches of these things. They sounded like a chorus of monkeys as they dove
from the tree, their long claws sweeping through the air, dozens of them
descending for the group of men.

Kendrick, grateful to Brandt and Atme for
saving his life, broke into action, determined to repay the favor. He watched
one of the beasts leap, claws extended, for Brandt’s back, and he shoved Brandt
aside, stepped forward, and threw his sword. It hurled end over end through the
air before piercing the creature in the chest. It collapsed to the ground right
before it reached Brandt, dead.

Kendrick spotted another beast out of
the corner of his eye, coming for Atme, and he spun, drew his other short sword
and slashed it midair, chopping off its head before it could sink its fangs
into the back of his friend’s neck.

A shriek filled the air and Kendrick
wheeled to see one of the Silver cry out as a creature clung to his back and
dug its teeth into the back of his shoulder. Kendrick rushed forward and used
the hilt of his sort to butt it in its face, knocking it off—then he spun
around and slashed another one as it sliced its claws at a Silver’s face.

All around him his men followed his lead,
breaking into action. They slashed at the creatures, fighting them one at a
time as they all dove down. They felled them, but they also took cuts and bites
in the process. The creatures were just too fast to fend off. The battle was
bloody; for every creature they killed, one of his men took a dreadful cut. Those
who were thickly armored wisely used it to their advantage, raising gauntlets
and shields to block the blows.

Kendrick swung around with his gauntlet
and smashed a creature before it reached him; he then raised his shield, swung it
in a wide arc, and smashed three more in the air. For a moment he felt
optimistic—but then he looked up and saw a seemingly endless supply of these creatures
still falling from the twisted tree. They had stumbled right into a nest of
these things, and clearly, these creatures were not used to letting visitors go
without paying a deadly price. He knew something had to be done. His men were
taking too many cuts, and at this rate, they would become too weakened to win.

Kendrick thought quickly, and he
remembered his long flail in his saddle, the one he reserved for tournaments;
it had an extra-long chain, fifteen feet, with three studded metal balls at the
end. It was a deadly weapon, one he wielded rarely in battle, as there was a
danger it could get tangled. But in a situation like this, it was exactly what
he needed.

Kendrick snatched it, its long chain
rattling as he swung it high overhead, spinning around and ready to inflict
damage. But no sooner had he raised it when he felt a searing pain on the back
of his shoulder and heard a screech in his ear. He felt the weight of one of
these creatures landing on him, clinging to his back, sinking its fangs into
his shoulder, its hot breath in his ear. He tried to grab it, but could not reach
it.

Kendrick screamed out in agony, dropping
to his knees, when just as quickly, his agony was relieved. Squealing, the
creature went flying off him. Kendrick looked up to see Koldo, holding a sword,
the creature impaled in it, dead.

Kendrick, grateful to him, wasted no
time. He stood at full height and swung his flail in a wide arc, aiming high so
as not to hit his own people. The three studded balls whistled as they swung
through the air and impacted with several creatures; it tore them open with a
splat, its razor-sharp spikes piercing their flesh. The creatures dropped from
the air and fell to the ground, one of them killed right before it could land
on Koldo’s back.

Kendrick turned and swung his flail in wider
and wider circles, again and again, rushing into the thick of men and knocking the
creatures from the sky. Their screeches filled the air as he felled them one at
a time, in each direction, falling like flies.

Soon, a pile of carcasses lay at his
feet.

Kendrick looked out at the battlefield
and saw Naten crying out, dropping his sword. Two creatures were on him, one biting
his wrist and another his neck. A third lunged for his face. Kendrick knew that
in another second, he’d be dead.

For a moment Kendrick hesitated, recalling
how poorly Naten had treated him. But then he shook off his hesitation—his code
of honor compelled him to save him, no matter how he had behaved. Kendrick
would fight to the death for anyone he fought with, whether they deserved it or
not.

Kendrick rushed forward to save Naten’s
life, swinging with all his might; his aim was true, and he managed to smash the
creatures off of him, one at a time, with each swing. Realizing he wouldn’t
kill them all in time, Kendrick switched hands with his flail, drew his short
spear with his free hand and threw it. It soared through the air and pierced the
creature aiming for Naten’s face, saving him just in time.

A great screeching filled the skies and
all the creatures, in one coordinated action, began to retreat, lifting up into
the sky, back into the twisted tree, like crows, clustering high in the
branches. They made odd chirping strange noises as they all sat there, looking
down on Kendrick and his flail, filled with hesitation.

A stillness fell over the battlefield, as
Kendrick’s men took stock and nursed their wounds, groaning from the bites and
scratches. No one had escaped unscathed.

As Kendrick looked over at the men of
the Ridge, he observed something different in their eyes this time: respect. These
men of the Ridge, once so wary of him, now looked at him differently. He had
earned their respect.

All except for one.

Naten just stared back coldly, then
turned his back and walked away. It was a strange gratitude, Kendrick thought,
for saving his life.

Koldo and Ludvig came up beside him.

“You fought bravely,” Koldo said. “You
men of the Ring have proved your worth.”

“You saved our men’s lives on this day,”
Ludvig chimed in.

“Not quite,” countered a dark voice.

Kendrick turned to see Naten standing
there, frowning down at a corpse.

“He did not save his,” he added.

Kendrick spotted a dead soldier, a man
of the Ridge he did not recognize, lying there, his armor bloody, his eyes
open, staring at the sky, covered in one too many scratches and bites.

“We shall bury him with all honors,”
Kendrick said, saddened by the loss.

Naten glared at him.

“We don’t bury our dead, stranger,”
Naten snapped. “Not in the Ridge. We bring each and every one back for holy burning
inside the Ridge. And do not forget: he would not be dead if it weren’t for
you.”

Kendrick, taken aback by his coldness,
watched as the other soldiers picked up the corpse and draped him sideways over
a horse. The chirping of the creatures was reaching a new crescendo, and
Kendrick looked up at them; they glared down menacingly.

“The sweepers are all attached,” Koldo
announced. “It’s time to turn back.”

As they all mounted their horses, one of
Naten’s men looked back up over his shoulder at the shaking tree.

“Tree Clingers,” he said gravely,
shaking his head. “A bad omen. Our mission is cursed.”

“Nothing is cursed,” Ludvig snapped.

“It is cursed, my lord,” he said. “This
was supposed to be a routine mission, to cover the trail. Now here we are, all
of us wounded, one of us dead. You know as well as I do, we will never make it back
to the Ridge again.”

As Kendrick sat on his horse looking
into the setting suns, back toward the Ridge, somewhere out there on the
horizon, he began to feel it too; a creeping sense of premonition was settling
in, a sense of pending doom, of a simple mission going vastly awry. He could
feel it, sitting like a pit in his stomach.

And somehow, he, too, felt that they
would never make it back again.

Darius stood in the small circular
courtyard, framed by tall stone walls, and faced the mysterious man opposite
him, wondering. This trainer for the Empire, this man who had intervened and
saved his life, stood there now, in his simple brown robe, with his simple
staff, and Darius did not know what to make of him. Deklan, he had introduced
himself as. On the one hand, he had saved his life, and for that, Darius felt
eternally grateful; on the other hand, Darius had no idea why the man had went
out of his way for him, or what he wanted. Would he turn out to be cruel, like
all the others?

Deklan looked back at Darius and studied
him as if he knew him. He looked upon Darius with respect, viewing him as a warrior
would, and Darius did not understand why. This man, too, was so mysterious, so
out of place here in the Empire, with his brown cloak and simple staff. Darius
had never witnessed a man fight like that, take down so many soldiers with such
a simple weapon. He was the most nimble fighter Darius had ever seen, and he
sensed he could learn much from him.

Deklan stood there, so calm, staring
back, as if waiting for something in the silence, and Darius did not know what
to say or do. After all, this man clearly served the Empire—and that meant he
would either be preparing to kill Darius himself, or preparing Darius for the
arena—both of which amounted to the same thing: death.

As Darius watched, wary, the man stepped
forward and removed a small ring of keys from his belt. To Darius’s surprise,
he unlocked each of his shackles. Immediately the heavy shackles fell to the
ground, and Darius, feeling a million pounds lighter, rubbed his wrists and
ankles, not realizing how much they had been weighing him down.

Deklan then surprised Darius further by
drawing a sharpened sword from his belt, and reaching out and handing it to
Darius, hilt first.

Darius stared down at it, unsure if it
was a trick.

“Why would you give me a sword?” Darius
asked. “I could kill you with it.”

Deklan only smiled.

“You won’t,” he replied.

Darius looked down, staring at it, then
slowly reached out and grabbed its hilt; it felt great to wield a sword again.

“You unlocked my shackles,” Darius said.
“Why?”

Deklan smiled back.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” the
man said. “It is far more dangerous for you outside these walls than inside
them. All of my fellow soldiers would gladly kill you, while I am the only one who
wants to keep you alive.”

“But why?” Darius demanded.

Deklan moved a few feet away from Darius
and studied him.

“It is my task to train these boys to
fight in the arena. Not one has ever survived. I prolong their lives, yet I do
not save them. Yet in you, I recognize something different. A boy who can,
perhaps, survive.”

Darius looked back skeptically.

“I recognize in you,” he continued, “a
boy who is also a man, and who deserves a chance to fight. A boy with a warrior’s
spirit should not be killed in a courtyard, with shackles and chains on him.”

“So then you preserved my life only to
make me a better fighter, so that those in the arena can have more enjoyment in
watching my death?” Darius asked, annoyed.

Darius, disgusted, threw the sword down
to the ground and it landed in the dirt with a clang and a small cloud of dust.
He stared back at the man defiantly.

Deklan, surprised, shook his head
slowly, then turned his back and circled the courtyard.

“Whether you lose your life quickly or
go down fighting is your decision,” he continued. “I offer to give you a
chance. One chance. And that is the greatest gift I can give you. Enough
talking,” he said, facing him.

Darius stared back, looking down at the
sword in the dirt, debating.

“If I kill you,” Darius said, “you will
be unable to train these boys. They will die sooner, the games will not be as
exciting—and perhaps the Empire will end them altogether.”

Deklan smiled.

“If only the Empire were that kind,” he
replied. “Death fulfills them, whether it is quick or slow. I am an
insignificant cog in a machine far greater than us both. But if you believe I
am the enemy, then let it out on me. Fight me. Come here and learn how to
really fight. Unless you are afraid.”

Darius burned with indignation, and he
stepped forward, rubbing his wrists from the shackle marks, and reached down
and took up the sword.

He studied its sharpened blade, and looked
back at the man holding a simple staff.

“I have a blade of steel,” Darius said,
“and I have killed greater men than you. You have but a stick. It is not I who
should fear.”

Deklan smiled.

“Then see if that sharp blade of yours can
damage my little stick. Unless you do not know how to wield it?”

Darius shouted out in a burst of rage
and charged the man, thrilled to finally have a chance to let out all of his
pent-up rage at someone.

Darius charged, raised the sword high,
and brought it down on the man, who stood there perfectly still, with all his
might.

Darius was surprised to find himself go
stumbling past, as the man, with lightning quick speed, sidestepped him at the
last moment.

Darius wheeled and faced him again,
furious. He shouted and charged again.

This time, Deklan surprised him by not
backing away or sidestepping—but rather stepping forward to meet him. As he did
so, Deklan raised his staff sideways with both hands, and came in so close that
he caught Darius’s wrists as he was bringing the sword down, smashing them with
the staff and causing Darius to drop his sword.

Darius hurriedly bent down to pick it
up, but as he did, the man jabbed him with his staff in the chest, knocking him
back on his butt.

Darius lay on the ground, humiliated,
looking up at the man—who smiled and circled back across the courtyard before
facing him again.

“Do you know the difference between a knight
and a master warrior?” Deklan asked.

“A knight is gallant and proud and
chivalrous; he is honorable and fearless. He charges into battle at a moment’s
notice, and he exhibits grace. He does not succumb to his fears.”

Darius lunged for his sword, trying to retrieve
it off the ground, thinking he might catch Deklan off guard; but Deklan saw it
coming, and he waited until the last moment then struck it with his staff,
knocking it out of Darius’s reach. He then shoved Darius with his foot in his
ribs, sending him rolling.

Deklan smiled down, unfazed.

“A master warrior, on the other hand,”
he continued calmly, “is all those things and more. He is the very first one
into battle—or sometimes he is the last. He is not predictable, as the others;
he has his own code. He has internalized the laws of battle and has made them
his own—and morphed them to his own code. His primary objective is, always, to
win.

“You can always sense a master warrior:
he is very still. He need wield but a single, simple weapon. He needs to prove
nothing to anyone. He might even appear motionless—but when the time comes, he
will strike, in the most unexpected way, like lightning. Like a fly across the
lake. Quick and fast and silent, you will never even be sure he was there. And
with the slightest touch of his was weapon, he can do more damage than an
entire legion of knights.”

Darius, enraged, jumped to his feet,
raced across the courtyard, grabbed the sword, and turned to charge Deklan—but
as soon as he turned around, he was surprised to find Deklan right behind him,
swinging his staff and sweeping his legs out from under him—sending him landing
on his back on the desert floor.

“Your problem,” Deklan continued calmly,
standing over him, “is that you are still merely a knight. This arena is
littered with the bodies of dead knights. I have trained them all. It is the
home of the brave, a joust of knights. The path of the knight is to joust, to compete,
to prove himself at all times. Most of all, to better himself. And what is
needed to survive here is not merely a knight, but a warrior. A
master
warrior.”

“And how would you know what is needed
to survive, if no one ever has?” Darius asked, still in a fury, wiping blood
from his lips as he jumped to his feet and raised the sword. He charged and
quickly slashed downwards—but Deklan this time turned his staff sideways and
deflected the sharp end of the blade. As Darius slashed, pushing Deklan back,
Deklan deflected the blows, left and right, left and right, the sword clacking
on the staff but never damaging it.

Deklan never broke a sweat, keeping his
balance and his calm until had enough—he then reached around and spun his long
staff sideways and smashed Darius’s wrist, sending his sword flying through the
air. In the same motion he spun the staff and smashed Darius in the side of the
head, sending him stumbling down to the ground.

Darius, breathing hard, beaten, feeling
more insecure than he’d ever had, finally realized the futility of fighting
this man, who was a thousand times faster, quicker, stronger, and more deadly
than he could ever be. He looked up into the sun as Deklan stood over him,
holding out a hand.

Darius took it and let him pull him to
his feet.

“I know,” Deklan continued, “because I was
the arena’s sole survivor.”

Darius stared back, flabbergasted.

“
You!?
” he asked. “
You
survived?”

Deklan said nothing, and Darius felt the
mystery deepen about this man.

“Can you train me?” Darius asked,
breathing hard, hopeful. “Can you train me to become a master warrior?”

Deklan surprised Darius by suddenly
turning his back and walking away.

“I can point the way,” he said. “But no
one can teach you that but yourself.”

As Darius watched the man go, he was
suddenly filled with a burning curiosity.

“Who are you?” Darius shouted out after
him.

But the man turned and exited through an
iron door, leaving Darius alone in the courtyard, listening only to the sound
of his own voice echoing back to him—and wondering why this mysterious man,
whom he had just met, seemed so eerily familiar.