Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (18 page)

Lyrra-Sharron closed the door, and actually looked apologetic.  “I did not mean to interrupt.”

Remembering his manners, Cam arose, and offered her the chair.  “It’s alright.  Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re up past curfew,” Cam noted.

She chuckled lightly.  “A fair case of ‘do as I say, not as I do’.  Hard to sleep well before a battle, I find.  A days’ march, and we attack tomorrow night.  You are sure you have strength enough to do as you said?”

“Yes,” Cam replied.  “It’s pretty simple.  Just make sure the others aren’t too near.  We needn’t give my secret away to them, as yet.”

Lyrra-Sharron looked at him askance.  “Prudence, Cam?  Considering how you entered the kingdom, you have come a long way.”

Cam only shrugged, having nothing to add.

“Look, I am here for a reason.  I have something for you.”

“Oh?” Cam questioned.

She unwrapped the bundle in her lap.  When she dropped the cloth, she held a fine leather scabbard, a rapier within.

She drew out the blade a quarter of the way.  Cam noticed the fine wire-wrapped grip, steel knuckle guard, and quillions, curved down at the knuckle guard, up at the other side.  The guard was an intricate pattern of steel, offering protection to the hand, and openings to catch and snap an opponent’s blade.  The pommel was round, with a carving of the sigil of the House of Anduin, the two falcons in flight with a sword in their talons, over the crescent moon.

“This rapier was given to me by my mentor, Sir Torin Noallen of Anaria.  They say he was the greatest Maestro of the arte of defense in the world.  My father offered him asylum when he fled Cordianlott during Wilnar-Medira’s purge of Anaria.  I was his last student in Estaria, before he sailed across the ocean, to meet with Master Voll MinJurra of Vilcarr,” she paused, and took a breath, clearly shaken by an old memory.

“He had commissioned this rapier for me.  It was my first.  When he gave it to me, he said these words, ‘When a great student is ready to go forth with what they have learned, a master must present them their first weapon, to be sure of it’s quality, and to show them they learn of a high art.’  The arte of defense is a lifelong study, and even a master continues to learn.  You are my best student, Cam Murtallan.  Never has any learned so much, so quickly.  I could not commission you a sword in our present situation.”

She stood, fully sheathing the weapon.  To Cam’s astonishment, she presented him the sword, arms outstretched.

“I, I can’t accept that,” said Cam, taken aback.

“I have many rapiers, Cam,” she remarked.  “You have proven yourself ready to fight with one.  I give this to you, for the upcoming battle.”

Cam took the weapon from her.  He set it on his lap, looking over the intricate hilt.

“Wear it with pride,” she said.

“I can’t repay you for this,” answered Cam.

She smiled sadly.  “I only rescued you to embarrass my father.  I had never intended to make you a part of my Falcon Raiders.  I had...never intended to call you a friend.”

Cam had not expected that kind of sentiment from her.

She seemed embarrassed, and quickly stood up.  “I must go.  Be ready to move out at dawn,” she made for the door, opened it.  “You are a man of many talents, Cam Murtallan.  I hardly think I know you at all, yet.  Rest well.  I shall see you in the morning.”

With that, she was gone.

Cam stared at the weapon in his lap.  It was a beautiful sword.  If he sold it, he’d have more money than he’d ever seen in his life.

The thought left him as quickly as it had come.  It was a great honor, to be gifted a sword.  In the back of his mind, another memory stirred, something about a master passing a sword to a student.  But he could not recollect exactly what that was.  He decided it didn’t matter.  Lyrra-Sharron was a true Master of the arte of defense, and to give such a gift was a sign of respect.

Respect.  She had called him a friend.

It occurred to him then, how similar they were, despite the obvious differences.  She had been given everything, an education, food, clothing, whatever she desired.  He’d had to fight for food, scrape by for clothing, taught himself to read and write.  Yet each had been alone, friendless.  Both had walked their own paths, the Princess and the peasant.  They came together at a crossroads in their lives.

Cam returned to reality.  He stood, and placed the sword gently upon the chair.  He’d wear it tomorrow, and always.  Today, he realized, Cam Murtallan had become a swordsman.

He sat back down on the bed, cross legged.  It would take him a while to calm back down, and re-focus.  But when he did, he worked on his power some more.

He had a mission of his own.  But it could wait.  It had to wait. 

It pained him to admit it, but this had to be a part of the journey he’d begun.  He knew, in his heart of hearts, that he’d come out of this stronger than before.  This was a test, this too was part of his destiny.

Then, maybe, he’d understand why he was chosen to fulfill a prophecy he could not comprehend.

*****

It was not long after dawn, and King Varlock-Sharron found himself completely awake.  He lay on his back, his sheets and quilts pulled up for warmth.  His previous evening’s playmates, a beautiful, large breasted brunette and a waif-like redhead, were curled up together beside him.  The sight of the two lovely women stirred him, but he set it out of his mind, and quietly arose from his bed.

Pulling on a brown tunic, he again looked at them.  Of course he’d found pleasure in their embrace, separately and together, but though the mindless exercise had given him many hours of enjoyment the night before, it had done nothing to alleviate his weighty sense of duty and responsibility.

He went to the wardrobe, and pulled out a pair of black breeches.  He grabbed a belt, then pulled on his soft boots.  He quietly walked over to a vase on one of the tables in his chambers, and removed a pair of winter red roses.  He gently set them on the pillow beside his beautiful lovers, and bent down, kissing each lightly on the cheek.

Varlock-Sharron quietly departed his chambers, and instantly the pair of guards there snapped to attention.  The King put a finger to his lips, then pulled the door closed softly. 

“My lords, see to whatever the ladies desire, when they awake.  Tell them I apologize for leaving them, but duty calls.”

The guards acknowledged his orders.

Varlock-Sharron walked alone.  At this hour of the day, he would not call upon an escort in his own palace.  Besides, he was never unarmed.

He made his way down to his study, where he was met by a pair of guards.  He gestured towards them as he walked into the room.

He reached for his sword above the mantle, behind his desk.  As he grasped it, he heard, “Would you prefer someone to practice with?”

He turned to see Tulock standing at his door, wearing just a grey tunic and brown breeches.

“You are up terribly early, Lord Tulock,” remarked the King.

Tulock grinned.  “Aye.  But I couldn’t sleep, and noticed your guards at the study door.  So?”

“Alright.  Sergeant, fetch us a pair of practice swords, and meet us in the north practice yard.”

“Yes, your Majesty!” the guard saluted, and was off.

Tulock was at the door, waiting.  Varlock-Sharron proceeded through. 

“So, did you have fun last night?” asked Tulock innocently.

The King smirked.  “Is there some reason I allow you to get away with addressing me with such bravado?”

Tulock laughed.

They emerged from the hall into a large practice yard.  The King had several doors from his study, leading to private hallways, and to points all over the palace grounds.  Varlock-Sharron was pleased his ancestors had left such things behind.

It was a pleasant enough early Stillness morning as the sun was rising, a few fleecy clouds here and there.  Winters had seldom been all that cold in the past decade or so, producing little or no snow, save in the mountains. 

The Season of Stillness saw the grass turn brown, the trees leafless, and quick changing weather with bone chilling winds and occasional ice storms.  But this morning, it was unseasonably calm and enjoyably cool.

Varlock-Sharron took it all in, and inhaled a deep breath of the refreshing air.

“You sure you want to do this, Tulock?”

“Indeed.  Some good exercise will clear the head.”

Both men stretched out, warming tired muscles.  The guard returned with practice swords, presenting one to each man.

“Thank you, sergeant.  Assemble a couple more soldiers, give them practice swords.  Perhaps a melee would be nice.”

The guard saluted, and was off.  The King received loyalty without much question from most.

“Are you ready, Tulock?” asked the king, removing his tunic.

Lord Tulock took a deep breath, let it out slowly.  “Certainly.”

They saluted, and took up a similar stance.

Both held the swords low, point up, in a two-handed stance.  They circled, the measured step of practiced swordsmen.  With a two-handed or hand-and-a-half sword, the King was unquestioned as a master.  Even at the age of twelve, he’d bested seasoned soldiers thrice his age. 

Lord Tulock was also a swordsman of note, but nowhere near the skill level of the King.

Tulock dove forward suddenly, coming up kneeling and swinging for the King’s mid-section.  Varlock-Sharron reversed his hold, blade point down, then smartly tapped his Seneschal on the side of his head.

“Good try, Tulock,” the King said, helping his friend up from his knees.  “But what have I told you about surprise gambits?  Attacking with one is clever, but a wary opponent can handle it.”

Tulock was rubbing the side of his head, just above his ear, where he’d been hit.  “Well, I had to try.”

“You okay?”

Tulock nodded, took a breath, brought his practice sword back up and en guarde.  “Let’s continue.”

They circled one another again.  Varlock-Sharron began an upward stroke, which Tulock caught and parried, reversing his shot for a swing at the King’s chest.

Varlock-Sharron stepped back, then in once more, swinging for his opponent’s head.  Tulock blocked, hard, and they held a moment like that, locked.  With a push, Varlock-Sharron shoved Tulock back.

They circled.  Tulock swung from the left, and was blocked, reversed it, was blocked another time.  Varlock-Sharron stepped to the side, knelt down, and thrust his tip into Tulock’s belly.

With a grunt, Tulock stepped back, dropping his guard.

“Not bad at all,” said the King.

“Not great, either,” replied Tulock, rubbing his belly where he’d been hit.  “I’m going to feel that one later.  You want a melee now?”

Varlock-Sharron beamed.  “Had enough already?”

“No, of course not,” remarked Tulock facetiously.  “But I want to even the field some.”

The King gestured, and the sergeant of the guard and two others came forward with practice swords.

“Sergeant, you and the corporal, there, join us.  You two and Tulock against me, for now.”

“Three against one, your Majesty?” questioned the sergeant.

“I like a challenge.”

Tulock and the two Guardsmen put their heads together, planning a strategy.

A moment later they took up positions facing the King.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Whenever you are, your Majesty,” responded Tulock.

The King saluted.  “Begin.”

He took up a one handed stance now, watching the three advance as one.  Just past striking range, they split, coming at him all at once, from three separate directions.

Varlock-Sharron reacted instantly, attacking the corporal.  A stroke, a parry, then another stroke and he thumped the man in the chest.

He leapt to the left to avoid Tulock and the sergeant, who had closed with him.  For more distance, he leapt up and flipped backwards, landing on his feet.

“I hate it when he shows off like that,” muttered Tulock.

Varlock-Sharron grinned wickedly.

Both men advanced at once.  Varlock-Sharron made wide swings to keep them distant.  He dove and rolled to the left, then leapt up.

Tulock was caught off-guard, and brought his sword up to parry.  The King sent his blade way off line, reversing and stepping in, running his own wooden sword across Tulock’s chest.

Now it was down to the King and the sergeant.  The soldier caught the King’s left arm, disabling it.  Varlock-Sharron was undaunted, however, and moving with lightning speed, he swung, too fast almost for his blade to be seen, until the sergeant stood without a weapon, Varlock-Sharron’s practice sword to his throat.

“Not bad.  That was good sport,” remarked the King, breathing hard.

They continued to practice for another hour, and though he won the majority, Varlock-Sharron couldn’t beat three opponents each time. 

The King thanked his guards, tossing the participants each a special token, a personal gift for any who gave him a good challenge with the sword.