Book Two of the Travelers (15 page)

As Alder turned his attention to Eman, Neman retrieved his sword. “Lucky shot, you big oaf,” Neman said, whacking him in the leg.

Alder began retreating, a sinking feeling running through him. As he backpedaled, trying desperately to keep both Eman and Neman in front of him where he could fend them off, he saw a figure leaning against a nearby tree.

Relief flooded through him. It was Wencil. Good old Wencil would get him out of the jam!

“Wencil!” he called.

Wencil smiled broadly. “You're doing great, boy!” he called.

Doing great?
Was Wencil joking?

Alder gave his instructor an imploring look. But the
old man just crossed his arms and continued to lean against the tree, a placid smile on his face.

Distracted by Wencil, Alder left himself open and several more blows caught him—one on the shin, one on the arm, and one nasty stinging blow across the face.

Alder realized that he wasn't going to win. That much was completely, painfully obvious. But he realized that if he was going to take a beating, at least he might achieve his goal of helping the Milago boy. If he could do that, then Eman and Neman would still have lost.

Alder reached into his belt, pulled his knife. With a flurry of blows, he managed to drive Eman and Neman back, opening just enough space to allow him to sprint toward the Milago boy. With a quick slash of his knife, he cut the boy free.

“Go!” he hissed.

The boy blinked. “Why did you—”

“Go!” Alder yelled it this time.

The boy didn't have to be told again. He turned and ran like a scared rabbit. And like a rabbit, he escaped by disappearing suddenly into a small hole in the ground.

Alder's focus on freeing the Milago boy, unfortunately, had put him in a bad position. Eman and Neman were now closing in on him from opposite directions. He couldn't fight them off both at once. Not without growing another pair of arms.

He decided it was time for a retreat.

It was then that his oversize body caught up with him. He had never had the steadiest feet in the world. So when his toe snagged on a root, he staggered and went down with a heavy thump.

Eman and Neman leaped forward, slapping him unmercifully with the flats of their swords. He had no option but to curl up in a ball and take it. The blows rained down on him from all sides.

Where is Wencil?
he thought bitterly.
When's he finally going to intervene?
But as he snuck a glance at the tree where the old man had been leaning, the last shred of hope leached away. Wencil was gone.

“We'll quit,” Eman said, “as soon as you admit we're stronger.”

“Just say it, Milago-lover!” Neman added, whacking him hard in the arm. “‘I'm a weakling.'”

“Weakling!” Eman said. “Weakling!”

Then a thin, clear voice cut through the air. “Over here, you Bedoowan creeps!”

Alder looked to where the voice was coming from. Now he saw it: The Milago boy's body was poking up from the hole in the earth. He was waving furiously.

“Over here!” the boy called again.

Alder still had his ipo stick gripped in his hand. He desperately swung it in a wide circle. Eman and Neman leaped back to avoid getting whacked in the shins. It gave Alder just enough time to stagger to his feet and start sprinting toward the hole where the Milago boy was.

“That's right!” Eman yelled. “Keep running, you chicken!”

Alder looked over his shoulder. Eman and Neman were trotting after him. Not rushing—but following fast enough that Alder knew he had no choice. Go down the hole or keep getting beaten.

“Follow me!” the Milago boy shouted.

Alder didn't have to think twice. Even though the idea of hiding in some overgrown rabbit hole didn't appeal to him, he couldn't stand the idea of any further humiliation. He dove into the hole. What the hole was, where it led, or why it was there—none of these question entered his mind. All he could think about was escape.

“This way!” the Milago boy whispered. The hole was deeper, larger, darker than Alder expected. Now that he was here, it occurred to him to wonder what kind of hole this was.

“What is this place?” Alder said.

But the Milago boy didn't answer. He simply disappeared from view, as though he'd fallen through a trapdoor.

Alder felt around blindly in the darkness. His hands closed around the rungs of what was obviously a ladder. So that was where the Milago boy had gone. Down the ladder.

“Weakling! Weakling!” Above him two sword points were probing into the hole. If he just sat there, Alder realized the points would soon be probing holes in his legs.

Without another thought Alder grabbed the ladder and descended into the darkness. After eight or ten rungs, he reached the bottom and found himself in a long tunnel lined with torches. The Milago boy was nowhere to be seen.

It was only then that he realized where he was.

I'm in the mines!
he thought.
Now I'm going to die!

S
o,” Wencil said, “you braved the mines, huh?”

Alder was lying on the floor in one of the back rooms of Wencil's house while Wencil rubbed salve into the bruises on his back and arms.

“I only stayed there for a minute or two,” Alder said morosely. “When I came back up the hole, Eman and Neman were gone.”

“So the fumes didn't kill you?” Wencil said with a knowing smirk.

“You think this whole thing is a big joke, don't you?” Alder said angrily.

Wencil slapped Alder on the shoulder, hitting him squarely on one of his bruises. “There. That should do it.”

“Ow!” Alder said, pulling his shirt back on. Then he stood up. “Why didn't you help me?”

“You were doing fine,” Wencil said.

“Doing
fine
! I was getting totally humiliated.”

Wencil shrugged. “True.”

Alder sighed. “So I guess they're right, huh? I'm just a big weakling.”

“You stepped in to help somebody who was being unjustly attacked. You easily bested one fighter and then made a tactical retreat in the face of overwhelming odds. I'd call that a victory.”

“Yeah, right,” Alder said sourly.

“Look,” Wencil said. “The reason you fought those two imposters to knighthood is because you wanted to help that Milago boy. In that you were successful. You
won
, Alder. You won!”

Alder cocked his head, curious. It hadn't occurred to him to think of it that way. “Really? You think so?”

Wencil nodded. “All these bruises? They're just trophies of your victory.”

“I bet Eman and Neman don't see it that way. They'll tell everybody in the castle that they beat me.” Alder contemplated all the jeers and laughter that would accompany him everywhere he went for the next few weeks. “How am I ever going to become a knight if everybody thinks I'm weak?”

Wencil stood and walked into the other room. “Come over here,” he said.

Alder followed him. Like the rest of Wencil's house, it was barely furnished. Just a bleak, cheerless room that any senior Novan servant at the castle would have disdained to live in.

“Stand there.” Wencil pointed at a spot on the floor in front of him.

Alder did as he was told.

Wencil drew his sword. “This blade is called ‘Falling
Light.' It was forged in the great smithy of King Owenn. When King Owenn saw it swung, he said it moved like light falling from the sky.”

Alder was feeling confused. What was this all about?

“Kneel,” Wencil said.

“Huh?”

“Kneel.”

Alder frowned, puzzled. Then he knelt.

“Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“To become a knight.”

Alder felt a rush of confusion. Was Wencil making fun of him? Was this some kind of typical Wencil trickery, something designed to teach him yet another obscure lesson in knightly behavior?

“I asked you a question,” Wencil said.

“Yes,” Alder said. “I'm ready.”

“Good.” Wencil held out the sword. “This blade is now yours. Let it serve you well, as you serve others.”

Alder took the blade. He felt numb and foolish and confused. He stared at the blade. Wencil had never drawn it, so he had never had a chance to study the blade before. It was the finest sword he'd ever seen. The handle was simple, worn with use. But the blade itself was extraordinary. Down the center ran a line of tiny runes, a legend carved into the steel in a language he didn't understand. But more important was the actual steel. There was a fine, wavy pattern in the grain of the steel, as though water were flowing beneath its surface. The metal seemed almost alive.

And in that moment, gazing at the sword, he realized that this was no joke, no ruse, no clever object lesson. This sword was real. Which meant…

“I—I don't understand—”

“Later this week I will go to the castle and enter your name in the registry of knights.”

“But…you're supposed to have a big ceremony in court. It costs a lot of money. You have to have a certificate of completion from a licensed instructor. You have to—”

Wencil snorted. “King Karel was my student long, long ago. He will personally sign the certificate and the proclamation.”

“
King Karel
was your student?”

“I must tell you, he was a mediocre student. But a very nice young man. Perhaps too nice to be a king.”

Alder scratched his head. “You're really serious,” he said. “About all of this?”

“Today people think that becoming a knight is an end. It's not. It's only a beginning. You are at the beginning of a long and difficult struggle. It used to be that a man became a knight on the battlefield. There was no ceremony, no chorus of trumpets. After a battle, after you'd buried the dead and packed away your weapons and fed your horse, a commander would approach you and say, ‘You fought like a knight today. Now you are a knight.' And that was it.”

Alder didn't know what to say.

“You fought like a knight today,” Wencil said. “Stand up.”

Alder stood.

Wencil took off the belt and scabbard that had held the sword, Falling Light, and buckled it around Alder's waist. “Now go home and rest. You've got a lot to learn, and we don't have much time. Tomorrow you'll need to train harder.”

Train harder? Most Bedoowans pretty much stopped training the minute they got knighted. But instead he didn't say anything. Alder wanted to ask,
What's the point of becoming a knight if you're just going to train harder?

Without another word Wencil turned and walked into the other room. Alder reflected how old and tired Wencil looked. After a moment he heard his teacher clumping slowly up the stairs to the room where he slept.

Alder stumbled out into the street. It was dark and the streets were empty. He hadn't gone more than fifty or a hundred yards before it finally hit him. He was going to be a knight! After all these years of anguish and fretting and embarrassment…There had been times when he'd almost thought it would never happen, that he would be one of those sad Bedoowans shuffling around the castle with no knighthood, the butt of endless jokes.

A warm glow spread through his entire body. A knight. A real knight.

He pulled out Wencil's sword—no, wait a minute, it was
his
sword now!—and waved it in the air. “I'm gonna be a knight!” he shouted, a huge smile covering his face. “I'm gonna be a knight!”

W
encil wasn't kidding. The next day was the hardest training Alder had ever had. Wencil made him run up and down hills, swim across the river and back three times, climb several tall trees—each exercise more fatiguing than the last. Then, when Alder felt that he was about to fall over, Wencil attacked him with a wooden pike.

For two hours they fought ceaselessly, wood thudding against wood. Sword against pike. Pike against short spear. Sword against sword. Short spear against staff. Staff against sword. There was no break for lunch. Wencil simply drove him harder. More running, more drills, more swordwork. Alder kept trying, his arms and legs growing more and more tired. But after a certain point, he just felt like he couldn't go any further.

“Why are you doing this?” he said finally. “Don't I get a break? Don't I get some kind of reward for becoming a knight?”

Wencil shook his head. “No,” he said. “You don't.”

Finally, when the suns started getting low in the sky,
Wencil sat down and leaned back against a tree. His face looked gray, his skin drawn, his cheeks hollow.

“Do you mind my asking how old you are?” Alder said.

Wencil smiled sadly. “Too old.” Then he opened a small satchel and took out two apples and two pieces of bread. “Here.” He handed one apple and one piece of bread to Alder. They ate in silence. Or, more accurately, Alder inhaled his food while Wencil picked at his bread. His eyes seemed dull, and he was staring off distractedly into the distance. Finally Wencil handed the rest of his food to Alder. “Take it, boy. I'm not really hungry.”

Alder finished the rest of the meal.

When he was done, Wencil said, “I have some things to tell you. I may not have strength or time.”

Alder looked at his teacher. “What do you mean?”

Wencil seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. “I had hoped I might call you ‘son,'” Wencil said. “But circumstances prevented me from being here for you. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for what you've had to endure in this place.” He waved his gnarled stick in the direction of the castle.

Son?
What was he talking about? “I don't understand.”

“You are not just a knight,” Wencil said. “You are a Traveler. As am I.”

“A Traveler? What do you mean?”

“That,” said Wencil, “is a very long story. I'm not sure I have the strength to tell it to you tonight. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”