Legend of the Swords: War (2 page)

“What?” Gregory asked, shaking his head slightly.

“Did you just tell these… farm boys,” he sneered, gesturing at them, “that they could join the army?”

Gregory strode over to Armand. “No, Sir Armand. I did not tell them that they could join the army.
I drafted them.
They will begin training as soon as we can get them to camp.”

“What?” Ryan yelled, staring open-mouthed at Gregory. “You can’t just—”

He stopped in mid-sentence, as Gregory turned to face him with steely eyes.

“Sir Armand.” Gregory addressed his fellow knight without taking his eyes off of Ryan. “As you know, our situation is dire. The Triols push us back every day. We have little hope.”

“I know,
Sir
Gregory, you’re used to training boys as we travel. That is why we brought your castle’s sergeant along. But these boys aren’t worth the trouble, I assure you.” He pointed at Ryan. “That one already spoke out of turn twice. Disrespectfully, too, with the temerity to question us.”

Gregory frowned, and thrust his chin towards the remains of Middleton. “These boys have nowhere to go, Armand. Nobody left. Edmund has already said that he would throw his life away searching for the army that captured their families, and I imagine Ryan would lead the way.” He laughed, gently, and nodded at the boys. “Imagine what would happen if you found your families? You would instantly share their fate, and be a prisoner—if you were lucky and the Triols didn’t just kill you out of surprise or spite.

“No, Armand,” he continued, “their only chance is with the army.” He smiled, but with a fire in his eyes. “If you don’t find your family alive, boy, then at least you will be properly prepared to visit revenge upon them for what they’ve done.

“But for now,” Gregory said, looking over at Edmund, raising his eyebrows, “we need firewood. Why don’t you and Ryan go gather some wood so that we are not too cold while we sleep tonight?”

*   *   *

The morning after Middleton burned, they had marched directly to the local Lord’s castle and met the rest of the company. After that, the days had been filled with marching towards the distant Gredarin River, and the evenings had been full of sword practice. Pretty soon, Ryan had been too tired to stay awake for dinner. Edmund seemed to handle it a bit better, at first, but Ryan got used to it quickly enough.

Over a month had passed, and the leaves were dropping off the trees where the company made camp for the night. The boys had finished marching and training for the day, and had just returned to their tent. It was just big enough to put three pallet beds on each side. Six young “recruits” had to put it up and take it down each day, which was frustrating, but it kept Ryan and Edmund from thinking too much about their terrible situation.

“This place is terrible,” Edmund said as he unlaced his leather jerkin.

“Well, at least we’re allowed to rest a bit.” Ryan flopped down on his pallet, not bothering to take off his jerkin. “The others are still out practicing. We must have done well.” Edmund dropped his jerkin onto a large pack at the foot of the bed, and slowly flopped down onto his bed.

“Sure, we did ‘well’—that just means ‘better than the others.’ They were so awful they’re being punished. I don’t know about you, but I got beat pretty bad.”

Ryan rolled over—no small feat, considering how sore he was. Harvesting in the fields had made him sore before. This was different, though: wooden training swords left marks, so harvesting seemed nearly pain-free in comparison.

Ryan wrinkled his nose, and sniffed a couple of times. “You’re right, it does stink.” He grinned. “But I think it’s mostly you.”

Edmund threw a boot at Ryan, who ducked easily.

“Seriously, Ryan, I don’t know why you’re not more upset.” Edmund groaned as he rolled over. “Endless marching, endless practice, and all of it is filled with smelly people in smellier armor screaming at us—

“—With their smelliest breath?” Ryan interjected, with a wry grin.

“Yeah, with their smelliest breath.” Edmund flopped onto his chest. “And we still have no idea where our families are.”

Ryan’s grin faded. “Well, Gregory says that we might find them on the way to the river.”

Edmund grumbled. “The Gredarin? I suppose. If they’re even still alive.”

“Gregory said that we would have time afterwards to search for them, too.”

Edmund snorted. “But when will that be? He won’t even tell us why we’re going to the river, much less when we’ll get there.”

They were silent for a moment.

Edmund finally cleared his throat. “I got hit twice as much as you did,” he said, rubbing his chest. Edmund rolled onto his side and pulled his shirt up. “I mean, look at my ribs! You’d think they’d put some cloth on those fake swords we use. Padding would be nice”

Ryan looked at his friend’s purple and black bruises. Several of them were the size of his hand.

“Maybe they can’t use padding because it would make us soft?” Ryan reasoned. He looked out the tent flap, where the shadows of several other young men fell as they returned. “Maybe they’re trying to prepare us, make us strong enough for battle, so they make us hurt?”

“Maybe they just like hurting people,” Edmund said, darkly.

“I don’t think they’re hurting us ‘cause they like to. There must be a reason.” Ryan groaned, slid to the edge of his blankets, and stood up. “C’mon, we’d better get our stuff put away. You know the sergeant isn’t going to like it if he comes back with the rest of our group and finds us slacking off.”

“But he told us to go slack off!” Edmund sputtered.

Ryan smiled. “That’s what he
said
, but I doubt that’s what he really meant
.
” He patted Edmund gently. “C’mon, if I’ve got enough energy to put our things away, I know you do—and if we’re going to keep getting a little bit of slack, we’ve got to stay on top of things.”

Edmund snorted. “What’s the use of getting slack if you don’t use it?”

Despite his words, he got up, opened his pack, and started folding his jerkin.

*   *   *

There were twelve of them in training, arranged in two rows, holding their shields high, and keeping their wooden swords pointed at their partner’s chest.

Kind of like our dancing in Middleton’s harvest festival.
Ryan remembered, not without a pang of loss.
All we’re doing is learning new dances.

“Repeat after me, you weak little maggots!” The sergeant grinned, enjoying his colorful language. “I will not drop my guard today!”

“I will not drop my guard today!”

“My shield is my friend!”

“My shield is my friend!”

“Okay, we’re going to try to learn three new things today. How to defend against a …”

Chanting back the instructions didn’t take any thought, and Ryan struggled to pay attention. He seemed to be able to figure things out pretty well, evidenced by the fact he had fewer bruises than the other boys. He just made sure that he wasn’t stepping on his “dance partner’s” feet—unless he meant to, of course, battle was kind of different from dancing, in the end—and the movements of his hands, the blocks, the shield bumps, the sword swinging in to give his partner a nice “thwack!” on the head, these things were easy.

“All right, you weaklings got what we’re doing today? I want you to do a simple high swing, followed by an attempt to push your opponent off his balance! Do that five times each! After that, normal rules apply, if it’s light, call ‘light’ and keep fighting; if it’s a good shot to a limb, you can’t use that limb until combat is over; if it’s a good shot to the head or chest, you’re out!

“Go!”

As usual, Ryan and Edmund started out together, and they were relatively soft on each other. Ryan went first, swinging his sword up to the side, then down. Edmund simply lifted his shield out to the side, deflecting the wooden blade to the side. Ryan stepped in and pushed his shield into Edmund’s center, which was left open from the shield’s sword block. Edmund pushed back with the hilt of his sword, and Ryan paused.

“What?” Edmund said. “You didn’t push hard enough, I wasn’t close to off balance.”

Ryan sighed and stepped back, squaring off again. Edmund assumed his guard position, and Ryan swung again. Edmund deflected the blow easily, and Ryan pushed in with his shield, again too gently for Edmund. They squared off a third time.

This time, when Edmund’s hand touched Ryan’s shield, Ryan flung his shield out to the side, carrying Edmund’s hand—and sword—with it. Meanwhile, Ryan had taken advantage of his sword’s bouncing off of Edmund’s shield, and used the momentum to loop it down, out, and over the top of Edmund’s shield. Edmund tried to bring his shield up, but he was too late: Ryan’s sword gently—but not too gently—bounced off the top of Edmund’s head.

The sergeant watched all of this from the sidelines. While Edmund rubbed the crown of his head and Ryan laughed at his friend’s hurt expression, he picked up a training sword and quietly walked up behind Ryan. Edmund’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, and Ryan turned around.

“En guard!” the sergeant yelled, pointing his wooden sword at Ryan’s chest while Edmund backed away.

Awakened

The man woke up. Somehow, waking up seemed … unusual.

People were chanting. He tried to open his eyes to look, but the lids seemed glued shut. He tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but his arms were so weak they felt like they had been tied to the table. Maybe they had been? He wiggled his fingers, rocked his hands back and forth, but felt no restraints.

Someone spoke. It seemed to be from a faraway place, echoing, and difficult to understand. A few of the words were so garbled that he had to guess.

“You will be weak for a few days, my new friend. You were further along the path of disease than anyone we have ever called. We were not sure that you could return, despite the fact that you clearly wanted to.”

A hand brushed his eyelids, which came unstuck. Suddenly, he was looking into the crinkled, smiling eyes of a man. They were blue, but not like the sea after a storm—more like the lighter blue of the sky on a warm summer’s day.

The blue-eyed man lifted the awakened man’s head, and tipped some rose-scented water into his mouth. The water was cool, and swallowing was the only thing that seemed to come naturally.

“Rest, now, and know joy. You have survived, which in this time of war is no small thing. Most men who walk the path do not return.” He paused, and tilted his head. “You must have had great reason.”

Great reason
…
I wonder what he means?
He thought to himself. His eyelids seemed already to be growing heavy, but they snapped open widely as he realized that his mind seemed empty.

“What troubles you enough to open your eyes, my new friend? You need rest,” the man said with a deep and soothing voice.

“I … I don’t remember anything.” The prone man’s voice was full of worry, despite his nearly emotionless face.

“Nothing?” He seemed surprised for a moment, but then nodded. “That is unusual, but not unheard of.” The man paused for a moment, considering. “Perhaps it is important for you not to know. Perhaps you had gone too far along the path when we called you back. Or, perhaps, you will remember all in due time.

The old man stood up. “But there is nothing you can do about it now. Sleep, my new friend. Tomorrow is a new day. A new day for your new life.”

*   *   *

When he awoke, it was evening. There were no people in his room, chanting or otherwise. He noticed a book and a glass of water on the table next to him, and found to his surprise that he was able to reach out and grab the glass with relative ease. He craned his neck upward, trying to sit up, but did not have the strength. He rolled slightly to the side, and managed to put the corner of his mouth on the glass, and drank down the rose water without taking a breath. He felt a surge of energy after drinking, and managed to roll onto his side, then push himself up into a sitting position.

There was a chair in the corner of the room. On it hung some fresh clothing. He realized that he was naked, and that his skin was pink, fresh, and clean. Embarrassed that he had needed to be bathed like a mewling babe, he got up and limped over to the chair before he realized that he shouldn’t be strong enough to do so. He paused, shirt in hand, and gave a lopsided smile.

“The damn fool didn’t know it couldn’t be done, so he went ahead and did it,” he muttered to the empty room. He was feeling much better, and so quickly. Maybe that chanting had something to do with it? Or the rose water? Or the … place where he was?

There was a polished silver mirror nearby. He staggered over to it. He was not unhandsome, he thought, as he ran a hand through his black hair. It was of medium length, and fell in loose curls against his neck. A broad jaw framed a wide mouth, and deep blue eyes looked back out of the mirror. Was there a scar on his face? Glare from the window covered it. He leaned in closer to the mirror, but found that the scar was actually on the mirror. His eyes glanced into the reflection of the outdoors that had been obscuring the mark on the mirror.

Come to think of it, where
am
I, anyway?
He turned around and looked out the window. The terrain was mountainous, with fir trees that had snow on them—but it was nondescript. He shrugged, and then stuffed his feet through the loose pants, dropped the shirt over his head.

There was a knock on the door. He invited whomever it was to come in; the old man with the light blue eyes stepped through.

“Feeling better, I see?” he said, smiling. He was overweight, but his flashing, bright eyes showed an unexpected energy that ran deep.

“I can limp a few steps now. I didn’t even think about my weakness, when I saw the clothing.” He blushed. “I’m sorry, it looked like I had to be bathed.”

The man nodded. “You were quite a mess when you came in. But I’m being rude.” He extended his hand. “My name is Matthew.”

The man slowly reached out and took Matthew’s hand, his eyes downcast. “I’m afraid I don’t remember my name.”