Gemworld (40 page)

Jaeda continued to kick, thrash, and spit curses into her gag throughout the night until finally the strength bleed out of her. She collapsed against Nestor’s back, heaving her exhaustion, but no longer struggling. For now, anyway.
Good, good,
thought the shackled granite.
The less to bother with, the better
.

Nestor trudged on, ever northward along the tributary, hoping to find some trail of a wild pegasus, or maybe even a hint of the Highest’s first camp. He’d heard stories, wonderful, amazing stories, more than anyone else could ever dream...

***

“We can’t find them,” Retzu reported, eliciting a groan of despair from the young amethyst. Reit hung his head, empathetic of Gaelen’s pain, but unable to assuage it.

“The trail leads southeast, to a river some hundred feet across. It cuts south as it approaches the river, but then gets lost on the rocky banks. There’s no way to know if they went south or north.”

“Far side of the river?”

“No trail.”

“Keth?” Reit asked of Delana, standing ever present at her husband’s side, to advise, to comfort.

“He’s not back yet,” she said, casting a quick look at Gaelen, the pushing on, “but I doubt he’ll find anything. With that shackle on, Nestor will have no aura to speak of, and neither will Jaeda, if he’s keeping constant skin-on-skin contact.”

Gaelen swayed a bit at the pronouncement, but kept his feet with a little help from Senosh, who held him up with a single comforting arm. With his eyes, Reit thanked his ruby friend yet again for the role he’d taken as Gaelen’s counselor in this troubling time. He knew it was uncharacteristic of the elder Mandiblean to show such familiarity, especially in public, but Senosh was not a stranger to pain. The Earthen Ranks had murdered his wife while quelling a rebellion in the deserts outside of Deitrich years before. Senosh could identify with the pain of his kinsman, and vowed not to leave his side until Gaelen wished it so.

“Don’t think the worst just yet, Gaelen,” Jaren chimed in with his usual cheeriness, subdued enough to not be abrasive to the pain-stricken amethyst. “You still have an advantage.”

“How’s that?” Gaelen spat. “My sister is missing, in the hands of the man she betrayed. Where’s the advantage?”

“Two things. First, and pardon me for even mentioning this, but Jaeda is not dead. Keth would have immediately found residual traces of her aura as soon as skin-to-skin contact was broken and Nestor left her behind. Simply the fact that Keth hasn’t made it back yet is proof that he’s found nothing. And besides, Nestor needs her too much to kill her, both as a hostage and as a witness to the placing of the shackle. If anyone could tell him how to remove it without needing Marissa present, it would be her.”

Gaelen straightened some, standing a bit taller on more stable knees, but he still struggled to hold his despair in check. “And the second?”

Jaren looked to Reit, who nodded back at him. It was no secret that the emerald was his most trusted confidante outside of Delana and Retzu. But still, secrets were secrets, and Reit had to be circumspect about whom he reveals them to. He remembered well his promise to Jaeda, and he was reluctant to mention it in a crowd where any last one of the scouts or persons in attendance might say something to Keth. Still, Gaelen needed comfort. And more than that, he needed something to do.

“You still have your drum code. You can still communicate with her, should she get the chance to contact you.”

“We’ll keep looking,” Reit assured. “But our search can only last so long, and each day we spend searching is a day that they move further away from us, and that the Rank move closer. Eventually, we must head south to the Rhu’sai, and then to Bastion. But distance is no bar to your drum code. If anyone is to find her, it will likely be you.”

“Excellent!” bellowed the barrel chested emerald as he walked among the rows, studying his pupils as they practiced their forms. “Become one with the sword. Make it an extension of your arm, your hand, your—
Densin
!” he cried, singling out a pimply faced young recruit.

The student was so startled that he almost dropped his wooden sword. He managed to regain control of the weapon long enough to salute, touching the hilt to his left breast, then sweeping the sword down in front to stand at his right hip. The sword slipped easily from his fingers as soon as the tip touched his ankle.

Had it been a real weapon, rather than a thin bundle of greenwood dowels—a crude, barely effective knock-off of the
shol
’
tuk
bokuto, Sal always thought—it likely would have severed his right foot at the shin.

Master Aten’rih scowled as he stalked toward the young mage—all the more when the dimwitted boy broke attention to retrieve the fallen sword.
I know
that
scowl
, Sal thought sympathetically as the instructor brushed past.
I guess every drill sergeant looks the same, no matter what world you’re on
.

Aten’rih was tall and built like a wedge, his thick shoulders almost as broad as his legs were long. His ire made him seem that much larger, already towering head and shoulders over the recruit, muscles rippling beneath his leather vest as he barked at the young man. “Densin, you worthless bucket of
kharn
swill, what do you think you’re doing? Slaughtering a pig for Endweek dinner? I’ve seen teenaged girls handle a sword better than that!”

The dressing down continued for at least five minutes, the teacher shouting directly into the student’s face the entire time. He covered all major points of Densin’s life, calling into question his sexual preference, his mother’s chastity, and his fathering. All Densin could do was stand there and take it. Though he pitied the young man, Sal bit back a laugh.
No “stress cards” in
this
man’s army
, he chuckled silently. When Master Aten’rih was finished, Densin—his face wet with sweat and spittle—bowed his head in proper humility, and took off around the courtyard, wooden sword held high above his head as he ran his laps.

“Your sword is not a tool,” Aten’rih addressed the class through clenched teeth. “It is razor sharp death, and it must be treated as such. In battle, it is the one thing you can trust. Your magic? Bah! If you’re blinded or unfocused, your magic will fail you. If you are shackled or held in a nullifying field, your magic will fail you. In battle, you’re sword is all that stands between you and eternity.

“Subsergeant Sal!” he called to Sal. “To the front.”

Sal broke formation and obeyed, turning to face the assembly. He swept his sword in a flawless salute as he came to attention. From Sal’s right came a muffled snicker. His uncovered eye flicked from face to face until he found one sneering back at him. Sal flushed as he recognized that look.

It was the contemptuous look that was reserved for someone recognized by the entire class as “teacher’s pet.”

Scanning the formation, he saw other smirks, other students who leered at him in that same, contemptuous way. First irritated, now Sal’s blood started to boil. How in the world could they think that he was teacher’s pet?!? He’d
never
sucked up to a superior in his life! Where the heck did these jerks get off? His jaw tightened as he fought the sudden urge to sneer back, perhaps offer a challenge. Of course, he knew better. When you’re in formation, you dang sure better not even
fart
without permission, or you’d find yourself doing pushups until you puke.

“Subsergeant, do you feel that you have mastered this form?” asked Aten’rih, almost casually.

“Yes,
sir
!” Sal replied in his best boot camp voice.

“Do you feel you are ready to use it in battle?”

“Yes,
sir
!”

“Very well. Hon’as! Jelleck! Tribean!”

The recruits broke ranks one by one as their names were called, joining Sal before the assembly. As they joined him, Sal realized that each happened to be one of the sneering faces. Apparently, Master Aten’rih had seen the looks as well, and was not only testing Sal’s skill, but giving him a chance to defend his honor. In that moment, Sal found a new respect for the man.

“Sal, defeat your opponents using the skills of this form. I want to see every parry, thrust, and block at least once,” Aten’rih barked. Turning to face all four men, the emerald continued. “A blow to the head, neck, or abdomen will be considered a kill. The use of magic is prohibited.”

The mage bowed low to the four men equally, then backed away to a safe distance. “Begin!” he shouted.

The attack came on like lightning, catching Sal in the middle as his opponents encircled him. Swords struck out from every side, brownish-green blurs intent on drawing Sal off his guard so that they could make contact. But Sal was faster, reading the strikes before they were delivered.

Ducking low, he parried one opponent’s sword into another’s hand. The student dropped his sword and clutched his fingers, bruised and screaming but otherwise unharmed. Sal kicked the sword away from the wounded student, and whirled to face the other two.

Weighted and shaped similar to his old bokuto, the practice sword came alive in Sal’s grip, blocking and parrying the onslaught almost instinctively. Earthen Rank swordplay was not as refined or as versatile as
shol
’
tuk
, but it was no less effective. Sal quickly executed all the moves of the form, getting them out of the way so he could fight freely.

One such move caught a student on the forehead. The green wood bounced in Sal’s hand from the shock of the blow, and his opponent—dazed, and with a red weal dividing his face—laid out on his back.

“Kill,” Aten’rih announced. “Jelleck, return to the lines.”

Sal didn’t have the chance to enjoy it, however. The student that he’d disarmed, Hon’as, had rejoined the fight, and although he still favored his hand, he lashed out with angry fervor. The strikes he delivered were wild but powerful, more suited to felling a tree than a swordsman.

The other student, Tribean, whipped his sword in a wide arc toward Sal’s chin, pulling his strike at the last minute and stepped inside Sal’s block, driving an elbow into his unprotected cheek. Stars danced in Sal’s vision as he fought desperately to maintain his defense. He had to find a way to separate these jokers somehow. Deflecting a flurry of swipes and lunges from both opponents, he bought himself enough time to backflip away from them. As his feet came up, they caught Tribean under the chin. The student staggered back as the other, Hon’as, pressed in.

Regaining his feet, Sal swept his sword up to block a hard chop to the head. The force of the blow drove his sword down behind him, exposing his flank. The student saw the opening and spun around, his wooden sword fully extended, intent on cutting Sal in two.

Sal spun quickly, bringing his sword up like a golf club. He caught the student’s sword and sent it spinning away, then brought his own sword down on the nape of the student’s neck, dropping him face first into the turf.

“Kill,” Aten’rih announced again. “Hon’as, return to the lines.”

That left Tribean. The two closed on each other and began circling, both reluctant to commit to the first strike. They jabbed cautiously, each feeling the other out.

Finally, they exchanged blows. The clack-clack-clack of the swords filled the air as both fighters sought each other’s flesh. Sweeps were dodged, thrusts were parried, but neither opponent gained ground on the other.

Sal spun and blocked, desperately trying to work a hole into Tribean’s attack. But no matter what he tried, Tribean doggedly pursued, never letting up. As good as Sal was, he had to admit the possibility that maybe Tribean was better. How could a man so young be so good with a sword and not be
shol
’
tuk
? Was it a family thing? Or maybe cultural? Had he’d actually earned a hilt or two before signing up, only to disavow his honor while among the Earthen Ranks?

Caught up in his thoughts, Sal did not see the maneuver until it was too late. Tribean’s sword flew through a set of prescribed motions, forcing Sal to block in a specific pattern. Then it happened.

By the time Sal recognized the series of sweeps, his sword had already been drawn into position. With a low arc, Tribean knocked the sword from Sal’s hand, sending it across the barracks courtyard, flipping end over end.

Sal spat a curse as he dodged the thrusts that followed. Tasting victory, Tribean stepped up his attack.

Sal ducked a high slash, leapt back from a low jab. Tribean chopped relentlessly as Sal dodged, each strike coming so close that Sal could hear the rods creak against each other as they swept past.

Tribean snarled his frustration, and slashed straight down at Sal’s head. Sal threw an inside block with his hand, batting the sword away to the left, then again to the right.

Tribean chopped a third time. Sal caught the wooden blade between his palms, and thrust the sword backward into Tribean’s stomach. In his surprise, Tribean lost his grip on the sword. Before he could reclaim it, Sal yanked the sword free.

In one fluid motion, Sal flipped the sword, caught it by the hilt, and batted the wooden blade into Tribean’s stomach, driving out the mage’s breath with a whoosh.

Momentum carried the sword free, drawing a line in Tribean’s armor that he doubled over. As he did, Sal brought the sword back down, connecting with Tribean’s skull with a loud clack. The student fell face first into the ground, dust billowing outward from the impact.

Behind Sal, the rows of other recruits loosed a cheer that echoed through the courtyard. Other classes picked up the cheer, having paused in their own training to watch the spectacle.

“Well done, Sal!” bellowed Master Aten’rih. Other instructors called out over the din, voicing their approval. Out of breath, Sal could do little more than raise his head in acknowledgment.

When he looked back to Tribean, the emerald lay on his side propped on one elbow, his lungs still heaving. Sal extended a weary hand to him. The student had angered Sal—insulted him, in fact—but in victory Sal could afford to be gracious, and show the emerald that there were no hard feelings.

Tribean studied the hand for a moment, then looked deeply into Sal’s uncovered eye, as if trying to divine some ulterior motive. Sal had none. He simply thrust his hand forward again, determined to put their feud to rest.

Whatever Tribean had decided about Sal, he accepted the proffered hand, and Sal helped him to his feet. Standing there, Tribean held the hand a moment longer, then gave a nod so slight that Sal almost didn’t catch it. Finally, the defeated student dropped Sal’s hand, and went haltingly to retrieve the other sword.

***

Master Aten’rih was a fair man and a wise instructor. In his thirty years of service to the Earthen Ranks, he’d learned well how to mold unruly young men and women into a unified fighting force. It took determination, discipline, and trust. His techniques often seemed unorthodox, if not downright insane, but they were never questioned, only obeyed. Every emerald under his tutelage knew his history, his methods, and he had no qualms about pushing each student to the absolute limit of his endurance, be it physical, mental, or emotional.

So it came as little surprise that he appointed Sal and Tribean to guard duty together that very night.

A brisk wind blew off the Sea of Ysre—or the Sea of the Learned, as it was alternatively known by the non-Ysreans in Bastion—stirring the early autumn air. Sal shut his eyes and breathed it in deeply, savoring the mixture of aromas. The fresh scent of the lake water. The fading smell of roasted meats, wafting up from the civilian district below. The perfume of late summer blooms, releasing their final breath before they bed down for the coming winter. The smoke of burning leaves, the first of the year. So much of it reminded Sal of home.

He had only to open his eyes to dispel the illusion.

His back was to a fortress wall, guarding a huge oaken gate that gave entrance to the Academy of the Four Orders. Tribean leaned against the far jamb, gazing off into the deepening night.

Easily the most defensible point in the city, the Academy was the easternmost structure in Bastion, built directly into the side of a mountain. In the distance to either side, Sal could see where the city walls terminated at the sheer base of the mountain.

Sal followed Tribean’s gaze out across the darkened approach and into the city proper. A cobblestone lane rolled down a lazy slope to join with the main avenue, which divided the city cleanly into northern and southern sections on its way to the wharf, and to the harbor beyond. To the north were the privileged folk—Academy instructors, the Patriarchs, politicians, “old money” and the like, all living comfortably in their palatial estates. Even from this far back, Sal could point out the various parks, temples, and amphitheaters scattered across the area, for all the world making the northern section look like something right out of ancient Greece. Yeah, the northern section of town was proud of its half of Bastion.