Honor Found (The Spare Heir) (7 page)

The big guard blinked as if he were uncertain how he had ended up on the ground.  A slight nudge from Jorem’s sword and the guard nodded.

“Aye,” he said. “I yield.”

The slight whisper of the sound of a foot pressing down on the grass came from behind Jorem.  In the blink of an eye, Jorem flicked his sword around.  The tip of his sword stopped less than a finger’s width from the nose of the first guard.  The man’s eyes bulged in surprise.  He had snuck up behind Jorem.  The sword raised above his head attested to his intent.  That he had been caught before he could strike was not something he had planned for.

“Lose the sword,” Jorem said flatly, “or send someone for a healer, ‘cause you’ll need one.”

The sword tumbled from the guard’s hand and he backed away quickly.  A murmur of voices came from Jorem’s left.  Looking over, Jorem saw Pertheron and two more guards emerging from the ring of watchers.  When Pertheron saw Jorem his eyes narrowed.

“You again?”  Pertheron asked angrily.

Jorem smiled.  “I do seem to turn up a lot, don’t I?”  Reaching down, he gave Rodge a hand up and clapped him on the back.  “These gentlemen insisted on a demonstration and I felt obliged to cooperate.”  To Rodge he said, “You’d best put some liniment on that hand.”

Rodge looked at Perth and shrugged.  “Anders said he was teaching one of the recruits.”

Perth grimaced.  “Well, it appears he’s well qualified for the task.  You,” he said, pointing at Jorem, “try to leave my guards intact.”

Still smiling, Jorem bowed.  “I’ll do my best, my Lord.”

Perth shook his head, turned and strode away.  The two guardsmen stayed to get the recruits back into some semblance of order.  Ferd rejoined Jorem and they got back to their training.  By the end of the day, two more men were sent over for Jorem to work with.

By the end of the first sevenday he was training ten men in basic combat.  They were all unfamiliar with sword work.  Jorem taught them as much as he could as quickly as he could.  For the most part, they were hard workers and took to Jorem’s training with a will.  He was amazed at how hard teaching was.  It was especially difficult not losing his temper when the same mistakes were made over and over.

At the start of the second sevenday, the first ten men were moved to other groups and another ten were brought to him.  These were the rejects from the rest of the camp, the ones the guards were having the most trouble with.

“Do with ‘em what you can,” a guard had said.  “If’n they ain’t passable in six days they’re out.”

By noon Jorem would have happily thrown them all out.  After lunch he set them to one simple exercise and told them to keep at it until he said they could stop.  Overhand swing left, overhand swing right and the defensive blocks for each.  While they were at it, Jorem went from pair to pair correcting and encouraging.

It wasn’t even a quarter mark before two of them dropped their swords and started pounding each other.  By the time Jorem got them separated they were both bloodied and bruised.

“What seems to be the problem?” Jorem asked as calmly as he could.

Neither man spoke.  They just stood glaring at each other.

“Either explain what started this or I’ll have you both cleaning privies for the next cycle.”  He wasn’t sure he could actually do that, but it sounded good.  He must have been convincing because they both started clamoring at the same time.

Jorem held up his hands and waited for them to stop.  Once they were back to just glaring, he pointed to one.  “You first,” he said.

“He insulted the princes, he did.  I won’t stand for that.  I owe Prince Jorem my life, I do,” the man said fiercely.

Jorem turned to the other.  “You insulted the princes?”

“Just tellin’ the truth,” the other man said bluntly.  “They’re just a bunch of self-important lay-a-bouts.  They never done an honest day’s work amongst ‘em.  Wenchin’ an’ drinkin’s all they’re good fer.”

Before Jorem could say anything the first man shook his fist to gain attention.  “That might be true of the Fearsome Four, but not the youngest.  Why, just as winter was settin’ in, I was huddled up in a doorway tryin’ to stay warm when a man comes up t’me, hands me a heavy coat an’ boots.  ‘A gift from Prince Jorem,’ he says, an’ walks away.  An’ it weren’t just me.  A bunch of us done got coats an’ the like.  Kept us from freezin’ t’death it did.”

“Oh, you mean the spare,” the second man replied.  “I thought maybe he was dead or sumthin’.  Ain’t heard nothin’ of him fer ages.  Figured he broke his neck in one of his ‘accidents’.”

“He might be clumsy,” the first man came back, “but he’s a good lad an’ I’ll stand fer him any day.”

“Well,” the second man said.  “I s’pose I would too if’n it came t’that.  Never heard’ve him doin’ nothin’ wrong septin’ trippin’ over his own feet an’ readin’ a lot.”

Jorem had stood quietly through the conversation.  It had been difficult to not react to what the men had said.  Everyone knew him as Rim and he wasn’t about to change that.  That a simple choice so long ago had saved men’s lives was a bit of a shock.  That he was still considered clumsy was a little amusing.  But hearing that men he’d never met would stand and fight for him was totally unexpected.

Jorem cleared his throat to get their attention.  “If you two are done, maybe we could get back to the task at hand.”  An odd thought came to him just then.  “For whatever reasons you joined the guard,” he spoke to all ten men as they gathered ‘round to listen, “in a way that means you’ll be fighting for Prince Jorem.  I can teach you how to fight, but more than that, I can teach you how to stay alive.  You say you’d stand for Prince Jorem.  So train like it’s him you’ll be fighting for.”

For the rest of the day, the men focused on the training.  They actually listened when he spoke to them.  When he made a correction in their stance or sword position, they not only paid attention, they followed through.  Jorem wasn’t sure what part of his little speech motivated them, most likely the part about staying alive.

By the end of the second sevenday they were by no means good with a sword, but they would at least stand a chance if they had to fight.  For his part, Jorem was exhausted.  Each day, after working with the new recruits, he would grab a quick meal then hunt up any of the guard to train with.  At first, none were willing, but he persisted until one of them finally agreed.

Oddly enough, it was Rodge, the giant guard he had tangled with before.  When that session ended peacefully and without injury, others of the guard agreed to train with him.  It was far different from training with Neth.  These men, though good, lacked the intensity and drive of his former teacher.  The extra practicing plus an early morning run left him with just enough energy to collapse in his bedroll for a few precious hours of sleep each night.

Chapter XI

Bright and early the second day of their third sevenday, the recruits gathered at the training grounds.  This time the Duke and his son, Pertheron, were waiting for them.  Most of the regular guard was there as well.  There was a lot of milling about until the Duke stepped up on a small platform.  Then all went quiet.

“We have received word that a large force is gathering to the east of the Smoldering Hills,” the Duke said grimly.  “From what we’ve been able to discern, their intent is to march on the capital.”

A low murmuring rose from the body of men.  Before it could grow too loud, the Duke continued.  “The King has requested every available fighter be sent to the capital immediately.  My son, Pertheron, will leave shortly with an advanced group of riders.  A small contingent will remain here.  Captain Jonas will be in charge of the main group.  You will be leaving at first light on the morrow.

The Duke paused a moment as if gathering his strength.  “The Kingdom needs you.  We need you!  Guard our land!  Protect our people!  Protect our families!  God speed and safety to you all.”

The guard dispersed without hesitation, men running in every direction.  The recruits stood about uncertain what to do.  The Duke had already left and Pertheron was talking with a group of guardsmen.

“Hey, Perth!” Jorem yelled to get the Duke’s son’s attention.  “What do you want the recruits to do?”

Perth looked around at the collection of men.  He had every recruit’s attention.  He spoke quietly with one of the guards then turned back to the recruits.

“You should all take the rest of the day to deal with any personal matters.  The best we can hope for is to get there and not be needed so we can return.  I doubt that will be the case, but if it is, we will still be gone for at least two cycles.  Report back to your camp areas by sundown.  You’ll get your orders then.”

The recruits left the field.  Some headed back to the camp area while others went towards the town.  Jorem went back to his tent just long enough to gather up his personal things then made his way through the main portion of town to the outskirts and to his room at the Broken Arms.  Two cycles was a long time and he didn’t want them worrying about him disappearing.

The town was humming as the news spread, and the Broken Arms was no different.  As soon as he entered the door, the servers converged on him and wouldn’t let him go until he’d told them all he knew.  When he finally got to his room, he unpacked his trunk and laid out everything he had. 

The rich clothing he’d worn as Prince Jorem went right back in.  They wouldn’t fit him anyway.  The small chest containing the power stone for Jen, the healer trainee who befriended him so long ago, would go with him no matter where he went.  His ovack skin armor would stay here.  He was required to wear his guard uniform now.

The sword the guard had given him was questionable to say the least.  The sword his father had given him was so ornate he dared not let anyone see it.  They’d either guess his real identity or have him arrested.  Neither option would turn out to his liking.  He was about to put the bejeweled sword back in the chest when he remembered the recruit’s expressions of gratitude for receiving a coat and boots.

He’d spent most of his coin the night with the Folk, but the gems in the pommel of this sword would bring a goodly price.  He considered prying some of the stones out with a dagger but couldn’t bring himself to ruin such beautiful craftsmanship.  He knew he wouldn’t have time himself, but he would leave the sword with the innkeeper.  It should get a handsome price, enough to provide for those in need for years to come.  The innkeeper was one person Jorem knew he could trust to carry out his instructions.

Jorem looked closely
at the other sword provided by the guard.  The grip was so loose it rattled.  The edge was dented in several places.  The blade was in fact bent.  This was not a sword he wanted to have to depend on.  After thinking over the problem, Jorem decided his best option was to take the sword to Franks, the blacksmith.  Maybe he could do something with it.  Franks could at least put a decent edge on it.

A short time later, Jorem walked through the door of the blacksmith’s shop.  The wave of heat from the forge rolled over him.  The sharp tang of hot metal assailed his nose and somehow he felt like he’d come home.  Muscles he hadn’t realized were tense softened and relaxed in the warm glow of the room.

Ben, the blacksmith’s son and apprentice, stood at a table pounding a rhythm with a large hammer on a length of steel.  When the door clicked shut behind Jorem, Ben glanced up without interrupting his cadence.

“Be right with you,” Ben shouted over the ringing of the hammer striking steel.

Jorem watched as Ben shaped the length of steel, putting a bend here and a bend there, all with seemingly no effort at all.  Ben’s shoulders were much broader than Jorem remembered.  He looked so content, so at peace.  Jorem wondered if he would ever find something that made him feel that way.

Steam hissed out of a barrel as Ben dipped his current project into the water.  When he was certain it was cool enough, he set the part on a table.  Grabbing a rag, he wiped his hands as he strode toward Jorem.

“Now then,” Ben said with a smile, “What is it I can do for you?”

Ben stopped and looked closely at Jorem.  “Jorem, is that you?”

Jorem couldn’t help but grin as they clasped hands.

“Aye, it’s me. Well, sort of,” Jorem replied.  “I’m going by the name of Rim for now.  Sort of hiding in plain sight.”

At Ben’s questioning look, Jorem went on.  “It’s just something I need to do for me.  If anyone asks, you haven’t seen Jorem, okay?”

Ben shrugged.  “If that’s the way you want it.  A body would have to look mighty close to know it was you anyhow.  So, what can I do for you?”

Jorem laid the sword from the guard on a table.  “Can you fix this?”

Ben picked up the blade and inspected it from end to end.  With a flick of his wrist, he tapped the blade against the top of the table.  A frown crossed his face and he tossed the sword back onto the table.

“It’s not worth the time it would take,” Ben said flatly.  “It would take less work to make a new one.  What’s wrong with that one?” Ben nodded over Jorem’s shoulder.

Jorem was so accustomed to wearing his practice sword he’d forgotten it was there.  With practiced ease, he slid it up out of its sheath over his shoulder.  It was dull, unfinished and about as sharp as a lead pipe.  The grip was covered with a scrap of old stained leather bound on by Jorem himself.  The blade was marred with numerous nicks and scratches attesting to the hours of usage it had been put to.

“This is one of Dad’s making, isn’t it?”  Ben asked as he took the sword.

“I bought it some time back to use for practicing,” Jorem replied.

“Put an edge on it and you’ll have twice the sword that thing will ever be,” Ben said, waving at the sword on the table.  “Let me have it for a week and I’ll make it look fit for a king.”

“I kind of like it the way it is,” Jorem said.  “It suits me.  How long would it take to put a good edge on it?”

“You spin the stone and we’ll have it done in less than a mark.”

It took a little longer than a mark before Ben was satisfied with it, but that was only because he insisted on rewrapping the grip.  Jorem had to admit it felt more comfortable in his hand.  It was still dull and haggard looking, but it was sharp enough to shave with.

Ben refused to accept payment for his work, insisting Jorem had earned far more than they could ever repay.  Before leaving, Jorem reminded Ben to tell no one of having seen him.  When they parted, it was with a firm handshake and good wishes.

Back in his room, Jorem gathered up what few items he would be taking with him.  The rest he stuffed into his trunk and latched it shut.  Biorne the innkeeper promised to hold the room for him so he could leave his chest there.  Biorne also insisted on providing Jorem with a bedroll.  When Jorem tried to explain the guard would provide one, Biorne snorted with derision. 

“Yes, and you’ll freeze when it’s cold and bake when it’s hot.  Take it.  Trust me lad, you’ll be glad you have it.”

When Jorem handed over the sword gifted him by the king, Biorne whistled at the sight of it.  With the leather covering removed from the grip the full beauty of its making shone through.  The colorful gems caught and reflected every light in the room.  Looking at the sword was like standing in a rainbow.  The gleam of the polished metal further enhanced the beauty of the sword. It truly was a masterpiece of craftsmanship.

Biorne shook his head as he handed the sword back to Jorem. “Your heart’s in the right place, but it can’t be done.  There’s not a man in the kingdom could afford what it’s worth.  Not to mention, anyone found with it would likely be arrested and hung.  No one would believe you gave it up willingly.  Such a gift in anyone’s hand but your own would be a curse at best.”

“But there are people in need,” Jorem argued.  “I am more than willing to part with this sword if it will help them.”

“I know you would, but this sword is yours and none other’s,” Biorne replied.  “Wasn’t there some coin in the package you got a while ago?”

“I…” Jorem paused in thought.  “Yes, there was.  I totally forgot about it.”

Sword in hand, Jorem rushed back to his room.  A quick search through his coat pockets produced the forgotten coin.  A gold crown, more than enough for what he intended.  After returning the bejeweled sword to its hiding place in the chest, Jorem returned to the commons room.  Reaching over, he placed the coin in Biorne’s hand.

Biorne shook his head, smiling in amusement.  “Only you, my friend, could forget you’ve got a gold crown.  I’ll see it’s put to the good use you want.”