Songs of the Earth (31 page)

‘Aye, that she has, but she’ll rise again, just like she always does. Can’t build a city with its feet in the water just to cry when they get wet.’

The measures the landlord poured this time around were more than healthy. He saluted Masen with his glass and drained it in two swallows. ‘Room won’t be much. I’ve given my best to those who’ve lost their homes. It’s up in the attic, but it’s dry.’

‘That’s more than enough for my needs, thank you.’

‘I’ll see about finding you something hot to eat.’ The landlord flicked his glass-cloth over his shoulder and disappeared into the back room.

Masen frowned unseeing at the broadsheet. No ships. Not what he needed to hear. No agents upriver, and now no ships. The roads out of the Havens would be impassable too, either under water, or so mud-choked not even the redoubtable Brea would have been able to wade her way through. Just as well that he’d left her at a livery stable in Fleet, though Goddess only knew when he would be able to fetch her.

No, a ship or a boat of some kind was the only way he could carry his news further west. This part of Syfria was low-lying, barely a span or two above the high-water mark; what the landlord called high ground was merely twenty, twenty-five feet above the sea. The city itself was built on a network of canals that connected the many mouths of the Great River and a goodly portion of its population made their living ferrying passengers from one side to the other. Surely he would find someone still plying their trade who could take him down to the docks in the morning? Then he’d
have to hope there would be a fisherman or coastal trader who could take him west. Masen hefted his fast-emptying purse. He prayed there would be enough gold left, or he might have to start building that raft after all.

‘Now this is quite a weapon.’ Haral held Gair’s longsword across his open palms so that the other students gathered around could see it.

There were about twenty of them, almost all several years older than Gair. Their whites were worn with hard use, and they leaned on their wasters with a kind of relaxed alertness that said the practice weapons could be snatched back into the air in a heartbeat.

‘Thirty inches of good Yelda steel, double edge, two-handed grip in the Leahn style. Fine craftsmanship. Well used, but well tended too; a credit to its keeper. Now, some of you will be thinking that it’s not much to look at, yes? Because it hasn’t got gilding and jewels crusted all over it? On a battlefield, jewels are just extra weight, and a battlefield is what this sword was made for.’

Taking hold of the hilt, Haral hefted the sword expertly. ‘Balance is good, a shade on the heavy side, but that’s what gives it stopping power. This will halt a charging horse in its tracks, take the head off a lance and shear into plate armour. That is its function. This blade, gentlemen, is not for duelling, or parting silk handkerchiefs in the air to impress the ladies, Sorchal din Urse, don’t think I don’t know what you get up to in the Red Dragon of an evening.’

Some of the students chuckled and a swarthy splinter of a man standing behind the weapons-master acknowledged the laughter with a florid bow.

‘No, this blade is not for any of those things. It has one function and one alone, and that is to chop an enemy into dogmeat as efficiently as possible.’ Haral turned to Gair and offered him the hilt. ‘Show us what you’ve learned from the Knights.’

Sword in hand, Gair moved a few paces to his right, away from the group of watching students. Haral fetched a similar weapon from the armoury and joined him as Gair set his feet comfortably apart, letting himself relax until his muscles seemed to flow and a sense of calm settled on his mind. Automatically he brought the longsword to the salute, then returned it to the advance guard. Selenas would have been proud of him.

Haral returned the salute, took up his stance and then suddenly lunged. Gair swept the blade round and away and returned the compliment, forcing the weapons-master to block him. Steel rang on steel as, alternately attacking and parrying, they began to circle.

Gair realised almost immediately that Haral was as good a swordsman as Selenas, and possibly a better tactician, trying to force him round to face the sun, a ploy which the Master of Swords would have declared beneath the honour of a Knight. Gair let him push a little further, then as Haral lunged he sidestepped and brought the longsword crashing down in a two-handed blow that should have broken the weapons-master’s grip. Haral winced but held on, wheeling to scrape his sword out from under Gair’s. Sparks showered onto the dry earth.

The stocky Syfrian grinned. ‘Well done! I see you know the classical forms. Now let’s see how well you can string them together.’

With that he launched another assault, swinging his heavy longsword with the power of a smith and the deft control of a duellist. Gair could have been back in the yard at the Motherhouse. Though Haral was as different in appearance to Selenas as a
side of beef was to a strip of boiled leather, they had the same absolute confidence, the same perfect awareness of body and blade.

Gair could parry, but he had few chances to counter-attack and when he did Haral apparently read his mind. He held his own, but that was all.

Gritting his teeth, Gair pressed his attack harder and managed to gain a yard or two, but he could not hold it. The older man’s experience was beginning to tell. A last attempt slid harmlessly aside, then Haral put up his sword and stepped back. Breathing hard, Gair did likewise.

‘Not bad, not bad at all. Could almost be one of my own students.’

That gathered a few smiles from the rest of the class and one disdainful look from a tall, too-handsome youth with the dark colouring of a Tylan. Gair wondered if the Tylan was one of the ones grown lazy with the lack of a good match.

‘Gair was trained at the Suvaeon Motherhouse, in the Holy City of Dremen,’ Haral said, addressing the group again. ‘Taught differently to you, but no less thoroughly. You may learn something from each other. Now pair off and show me how much you remember from last week. Gair, work with Arlin there.’

So Arlin was the Tylan. Gair extended his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, but Arlin simply picked up his waster and walked away, swishing it in circles to either side as he found a clear space amongst the pairs of students. Gair sheathed his longsword and propped it on the armoury steps, out of the way. There hadn’t been any call to be rude, but perhaps that was just Arlin’s way. Nonetheless he took his time selecting a waster of his own from the rack outside the armoury, sighting along each bruised and splintered wooden sword in turn until he found one that was still reasonably straight.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arlin standing with his weight casually on one hip, but he slashed the air with his weapon,
left and right like the tail of a balked cat. Gair did not let himself be hurried. After exercising with a real blade the waster seemed oddly light despite being weighted; he swung it a few times to get the heft of it. Arlin sighed theatrically at being made to wait.
Let him
. Gair rolled his neck and shoulders and sighted down the weapon again.
Two can play
.

‘When you’re ready,’ the Tylan murmured as Gair walked out to join him.

‘I’m ready if you are.’

He saluted the way he’d been taught and set his feet. Arlin didn’t return the gesture, nor did he appear to be interested in sparring, until he launched himself forward, weapon arcing down. Wood met wood with a sharp crack. The impact jolted Gair’s wrists, though he moved quickly enough to parry and escape the worst of it. Fresh splinters appeared on the waster in his hands.

‘You said you were ready. If you’re the best the Church can turn out, I fear for the Suvaeon’s future.’

Gair bit down on a retort. Letting his emotions rule him was a sure way to lose. Adjusting his grip, he waited. The second attack was not long in coming, but he was better prepared. The practice swords clashed once, twice, then paused a beat before Arlin rained a flurry of blows in Gair’s direction. For a few crowded seconds he could do nothing but defend. His opponent was good, very good: light on his feet, and quick as a whip. But would Arlin be as quick with four pounds of steel in his hand instead of a piece of wood? As they circled warily, trading occasional blows as each sought out a weakness in the other, Gair had a suspicion that he would.

‘I thought you were going to show us some swordcraft, church-ling, not dance steps.’ Arlin’s tone was mocking.

‘Sorry, I mistook you for a girl.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth Gair wished he’d stuck to his resolve and said nothing.

Arlin’s eyes widened, then his face turned as flat as dressed granite. He took two careful steps to his right then swung in fast
and hard. Gair blocked the blow high then had to block again wrong-footed as the deflection became a whistling roundhouse slash that would have opened him to the breastbone with a real blade. Undeterred, Arlin pressed in close. Parrying again and again, Gair got his weight back over his front foot. That made it easier to soak up the force of the Tylan’s attack; after a few seconds he could press an attack of his own.

Arlin gave ground reluctantly, then they broke apart to circle again.

Gair was sweating freely. Without taking his eyes off his opponent for a second, he shifted the waster from one hand to the other so he could wipe his palms on his whites. Arlin took the opportunity to attack. Gair swung his weapon high to block. The impact of the blow jarred, but he turned his wrists neatly, twisting the practice sword away and stepping forward into the space. His own attack was repulsed with a series of rapid counter-blows, the wasters rapping together so fast they blurred.

For the better part of an hour, neither of them could hold the upper hand in their duel for more than a few seconds. Gair had a height advantage and a longer reach, but Arlin had speed and suppleness to spare, and damn him, but he wasn’t tiring – unlike Gair, who could feel fatigue in the burn in his muscles, the growing heaviness of his limbs. He would have to make an end to this quickly.

‘Had enough yet, Church boy?’ Arlin asked, earning himself a warning scowl from Haral, who prowled the perimeter of their contest with a quarterstaff.

Gair gritted his teeth. ‘Don’t think so. How about you?’ He lunged in again, feinting towards Arlin’s left side. The Tylan had a tendency to lead to his left and leave his flank slightly exposed, but he was so quick with a riposte that Gair had rarely managed to penetrate his guard on that side. Even then he’d only succeeded by putting the full weight of his upper body behind the weapon. That
tactic couldn’t work for long. Now it was time to see if he could accomplish it with guile as well.

Though Arlin’s defence remained as quick as ever, his weapon swished harmlessly through empty air as Gair ducked and stamped forward, the blunt wood jabbing squarely into his opponent’s midriff.

Arlin’s expression flickered briefly to dismay and he hissed a curse.

‘Well done.’ Haral thumped the earth with the heel of his staff to acknowledge the contact. ‘A point to you, Gair.’

Arlin gave no sign that he had heard. He swiped his sleeve over his glistening face and then wiped his palms, all the while fixing Gair with a gaze as unblinking as a snake’s. He settled back into position, ignoring the formal salute, and almost immediately struck hard.

Wrong-footed again, Gair defended until he could get his feet under him and mount some kind of coherent counter-attack. Arlin still showed no sign of fatigue, whereas his own shoulders were on fire with exertion. He fell back on Selenas’ teachings, using the classical defences, until the furious energy of Arlin’s attack faltered. Then Gair lunged to exploit the opening. He was rewarded with a clout on the side of his head that sent him sprawling.

For a second or two Gair’s skull rang like the Sacristy bell at All Hallows. When he touched his temple his fingers came away bloody. Distantly he was aware of Haral’s rumbling bass congratulating Arlin on recovering the point and cautioning him to be careful of a fellow student’s eyes, but all he could see was scarlet on his fingers. His limbs had no strength; only the sturdy waster jammed into the earth kept him from falling over.

A hand touched his shoulder.

‘Are you all right, Gair?’ Haral asked.

He nodded, and immediately wished he hadn’t when his stomach threatened to part company with his breakfast. When it steadied again he levered himself back to his feet. Blood trickled
down his neck. Bunching up his tunic he dabbed at his stinging face.