Legend of the Swords: War (37 page)

They left Gregory’s body in the throne room. Kevin wanted to put his knight’s corpse into the throne itself, but Armand pointed out how wet it was, and Kevin agreed to leave it on the table.

It was about an hour before they finally climbed out into the cold night air. The Moon was not visible, but Armand looked at the stars and said that it was near midnight. He told Ryan to feed the horses.

I can’t believe we were down there for less than a full day
, Ryan thought, as he strapped the feedbags on the horses. He spent some time brushing them to calm his mind before he unrolled his pallet and joined the other two in exhausted slumber.

His last thoughts were of his parents before sleep took him.

*   *   *

“Rise and shine, you lazy layabouts.” Armand’s voice was a happy singsong as he insulted the squires. “I know you never want to get up, but we’ve got a war to go win.” He nudged Ryan with his foot—hard.

Ryan grunted, and rolled to a cross-legged position, looking up at Armand.

“Squire, make sure to pack up the camp for us, now.” He frowned with faux concern. “We wouldn’t want to leave anything behind, would we?”

Ryan grimaced, and rolled up his bedroll. Kevin groaned, rolling out of bed. He took one look at Ryan’s face and started packing his own pallet up.

“I’ll help you, Ryan, don’t worry.”

Ryan shot him a grateful look.

“You can just sit and watch, you know," Armand said. “Ryan’s my squire—and we don’t really know if either of you’ll still be squires once we get down to the army and I give my report. So you might as well enjoy yourself while you can.” Armand heaved a big sigh. “I rather expect they’ll put a man of your … particular talents in to the infantry.”

Kevin’s neck flushed red, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he picked up Armand’s pack and settled it next to the knight’s saddle.

Armand leaned against the wall, and watched the two squires work. “Of course, that’s nothing compared to what will happen to you, my insubordinate squire.” He shook his head, sadly. “After ignoring what I said, over and over—and even manipulating my superior officer to contradict me in ways that I couldn’t react to—I would be surprised if they don’t hang you.”

Ryan seethed, but rolled up Armand’s pallet and buckled it behind the saddle. He then turned to Armand, and bowed.

“Sir knight, we are prepared to leave.” He gestured to the man’s horse.

“Ah, but you have not swept the camp," Armand said, gesturing at the slightly dusty stone. “What if an enemy were to stumble upon our footprints?”

Ryan winced. “But I have no branches,
Sir
knight.” Even as he accented the ‘Sir,’ he realized he shouldn’t have done so.

“Then brush it with your hands, you imbecile!” Armand yelled, putting his hand on the crystal pommel. “And do it now, with no more lip!” He spun around, throwing his hands up in the air, and walked a few paces away to gaze at the sunrise.

Ryan stared at the pommel of the sword that Armand wore. It wasn’t weeping water.
Strange,
he thought, tilting his head.
All the other crystal wept. Is there something … wrong, with the sword?

He looked down at the ground.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to sweep that rock with my hands.
He started brushing dust around with his feet. Kevin saw what he was doing and started helping.

*   *   *

“We’ll camp here," Armand said, suddenly stopping his horse. The Sun was nearing the horizon, but darkness would not fall for at least an hour and a half. They were headed almost directly north, towards the rising dust that made the battle visible for miles around.

“Sir Knight?” Ryan asked.

“Yes, squire? Are you surprised at how early it is?” Armand smiled, and Ryan nodded. “Well, I want you to get a fire going. I am also looking forward to our first sparring match since we neared that accursed mountain’s peak.”

Ryan groaned. He had almost forgotten.

“So go gather some wood, squire. We may not have any real food to eat, but we can at least soften the last biscuits with some hot water.” He sighed. “Tomorrow, you can catch something for us with Gregory’s bow. Pity we’re still so high up now, we can’t have real food for dinner.”

Ryan glared at Armand’s back, but went to gather some wood. As he headed down slope, Kevin came running up to help.

“I can’t believe he’s going to spar with you tonight," Kevin said while bending over to pick up a stick.

“I can’t believe that he’s going to tell the army that we were nothing but a hindrance.”

Kevin frowned. “He’s not really going to do that.” He stopped and looked at Ryan. “Is he?”

Ryan paused. “I think he thinks that he’s got the sword," he said, slowly. “And he’s the knight, we’re the squires—so even if we said something other than what he said, the army will believe him, not us.” He kicked a rock down the mountainside. “I don’t think we can do anything about it.”

They both watched the rock bounce until it was out of sight.

“In the end, this is the Triol’s fault," Ryan said, suddenly. “Were it not for this stupid war, I would have chosen a profession and be arranging my marriage.” He heaved a sigh. “I suppose there’s nothing to do about it now.” He picked up a dead branch, and looked at the withering leaves. “We might as well be warm.”

*   *   *

Armand gave an elaborate, full salute and came to en guard, holding his wooden practice sword at waist level, with the blade pointed up towards Ryan’s eyes.

He’s either being gracious, because he’s happy,
Ryan thought,
or he’s being sarcastic and following protocol to the letter, implying that I am not worthy of a salute.

Ryan saluted and fell into en guard.

The thing is, I
am
better than him.
He looked into Armand’s eyes and saw a flawed man: a man driven to pettiness, driven to seeing the world in a simple and inflexible way.

I suppose he feels that it’s not his fault.
Ryan pondered, as Armand began to move, to attack.
He is a great fighter, and feels that he should have been rewarded better than he has been, feels he should be more respected than he is.

“Point, squire Ryan,” Kevin called. Ryan fell back into en guard and watched Armand’s need to sneer at his ‘inferior’ before he felt ready to fight again.

He tries to be a perfect warrior, I think, and leave justice up to his commander, or maybe his king.
Ryan felt his body begin to slide through the air, watched Armand’s shoulders as they responded.
But, the thing is, even a warrior needs to be able to see what is just.

“Point, squire Ryan.” Kevin must have been smiling as he said it, since Armand turned to yell at the point caller. Ryan waited, standing at the ready, until Armand seemed still and focused.

That’s not really correct, though.
Ryan mused.
Armand feels like … like rewarding good work is the only way to be just. The better a warrior is, the better he should be rewarded. Honor demands it. Other forms of justice, or understanding, elude him.

Armand seemed desperate, this time, and attacked over and over. His blows could not penetrate Ryan’s relaxed calm, however.

His greatest asset is being the best warrior.
Ryan felt, rather than saw, his practice weapon land squarely on the crown of Armand’s head.
Yet it is his greatest failing.

For the first time, he stood victorious over Armand, who ripped off his helmet and grabbed his ringing head.

“You have forgotten that being the best is not all there is, Armand," he said, not unkindly. He turned and walked back to the fire.

Armand followed a moment later, furious.

“You think to school
me
, squire?” He yelled, inches from Ryan’s face. “I trained you! I gave you the skills that you have! You have done nothing but fail! You failed to save Gregory’s life!”

Ryan looked into his knight’s eyes, his equanimity gone. He was barely able to speak. “I—you—
My
fault!?” He shook himself. “I was the one who succeeded, answered the rock creature’s riddle. It was I who broke him into dust,” Ryan yelled. “I succeeded, got us past the guards and into the throne room.
I
struck the killing blow on the king.” Armand shrank back from the force of Ryan’s verbal assault. “
It was I
who succeeded, opened the wall and discovered the sword!

Ryan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What have you done, Armand, other than try to use our practice sessions as an opportunity to bruise my body?

“It is
you
who have failed, Armand, not I.”

Armand’s eyes hardened. “You have done nothing, save ignore direct orders and be lucky!” Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke rapidly. His shoulders tightened. “I challenge you to a duel,
squire
.” He spat on the ground. “To the death. Perhaps that will remind you of your place.”

Ryan nodded. “As you wish. Regardless of the outcome, I will no longer have the shame of calling myself your squire.”

Armand’s eyes bulged in anger. He spun on his heel and headed to his horse to strap on his perfect sword.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Ryan?” Kevin asked. “He has one of the swords, remember?”

Ryan shook his head. “This has gone on long enough. It must end.” He walked over to his horse to get his weapon.

*   *   *

Ryan stared at Armand’s shining blade, and swallowed.

Perhaps I really have gotten myself in over my head, this time.
He shrugged.
Well, maybe soon I won’t have a head to worry about.

Kevin stood to the side, but not as scorekeeper. This match would not be scored.

Armand performed a full salute, slowly, and carefully. Ryan knew that it was not patronizing, this time—this was a fight to the death, and proper forms must be observed.

Ryan carefully returned the full salute. Despite his failings, Armand had instilled into him a deep sense of respect for the order of things.

Armand opened with a standard diagonal cut to the shoulder, which Ryan caught on his shield. He returned the favor of a simple attack, which Armand also caught with his shield.

Then the fight began in earnest.

Armand advanced, swinging his shining sword over his head, at Ryan’s side, then his feet. Ryan retreated, slowly, giving himself time to feel out how well Armand was wielding his new sword.

Not well, apparently—there wasn’t a new nick on his shield. When Armand struck Ryan’s sword, it felt to Ryan as if the attack were coming from a stick instead of a sword.

Then, Ryan pressed an attack. He hit low, then high, pushing Armand back. Armand’s sword flew back with every block, as if it were made of straw.

Ryan went in for a shield butt—and found Armand’s core to be as solid as ever. Armand pushed back with his shield, and Ryan was thrown off balance. He teetered on one leg, wheeling his arms for a moment.

Armand’s eyes betrayed the lust for victory in his heart, lids flashing wide as he thrust his shining sword into Ryan’s torso—but the sword skittered across Ryan’s chain mail. It was as if there was no weight behind the thrust.

Armand’s look of victory changed instantly to one of worry as Ryan regained his balance. He fell back, defending against Ryan’s myriad of strikes. His sword still seemed to have no heft; it flew away from Ryan’s sword blows as if it were afraid. He was working harder, breathing heavier, than he had done with the heavier wooden swords only a quarter hour ago.

Armand cried out in frustration. “Hold, squire!” He dropped the point of his sword, and Ryan did the same.

“Something is wrong, squire.” He took a couple of deep breaths. “I must … go get my other sword.” He stared down, frustrated, inspecting the shining metal, looking deeply into the spherical pommel. “I don’t…understand.” He was nearly yelling in frustration. He walked back to his horse, and pulled his other sword out of its sheath with his left hand.

He tried to sheath the other sword, but without a hand to guide the tip, his shaking hand failed him. He tried again, but missed again. Finally, he roared in total frustration and drove the sword into the ground. His horse shied away from the sound, taking three steps away, then four, before turning and staring at its rider with its long, sad face.

Armand turned and nearly ran back to where the squires were. Ryan had not moved. Armand slipped into en guard position, and nodded. A heartbeat later, he attacked.

It was much worse, this time. Ryan twisted, defended, backed up, and turned. He managed to avoid some of the attacks, but when he had to parry, he parried a blade made of steel.

Ryan jumped back, pulling his sword and shield out to the side, to avoid a sideways slash that Armand threw at him. The sword skipped off of his chain mail again, but this time it caught on and broke one of the links. Armand was hardly breathing, now. He paused long enough to smile at Ryan before pressing forward again.

Ryan was on the defensive again, turning and backing up more. What was worse, he realized he was tense. Relaxing in the middle of a battle was something he still hadn’t mastered. He tried, though, starting with his shoulders and upper back.

Armand chose that moment to try another shield butt. It caught Ryan off guard, and he was thrown. He decided to roll with it, pulling his legs up as his back hit the ground. He flipped over, tucking his head under, and ended up on his knees—but a good distance away from Armand.

He had landed right next to Armand’s other sword, which stuck out of the ground, hilt leaning towards Ryan’s hand.

He dropped his sword and put his hand on the perfect sword. Water flowed out of the crystal and over his hand even before he pulled the sword from the ground. He felt an ancient and reassuring power in the blade; his muscles smoothed and his mind cleared.

It was similar to what had happened when he drank the mixture in the heart of the mountain, but it was different, too. Whereas that had been a frenetic power, like the blast of water that comes down a mountain stream when a dam fails, this was more like the ocean—larger, stronger, but more gentle in its movement.