The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) (32 page)

A scream tore at the air and echoed off the marble walls, and Vaun sprang toward it. His blood boiled now in fury at the evil wizard for daring to send men into his king’s home, and he ran with all the speed his body could produce. In anticipation of battle, the Song began a slow, steady interlude that, coupled with the cadence of the Rhythm, spurred the Swordsman on.

He charged up a flight of steps towards the sounds of a struggle coming from a room down the hall. As he drew closer to it, his side itched even more, almost distracting him from his goal. Feet pounded on the floors behind and in front of him, but he disregarded them as he sprinted for the door and launched his body against it. Such was the intensity of Vaun’s rage that he crashed into the oaken door with the weight of three men. Not nearly as stout as her father’s door, it flew open, tearing the lock out of the wall. Even as he burst wildly into the room, Vaun Tarsus drew his sword and attacked the first man he saw, the Song guiding his strike.

The unfortunate attacker he fell upon, having turned at the door breaking open, never saw who killed him. Vaun pushed away the sensation of severed bone and barely saw the man’s head fall to the floor, his body following immediately after. In celebration, the Song trilled a triumphant flourish before settling back down in preparation of more fighting. Oddly, the Swordsman realized that flourish sounded the same as it always did when he completed a battle measure.

Tara screamed again at the spray of blood, but the man holding her gripped her tighter and clamped his hand over her mouth.

Vaun whirled toward him and leveled his bloody sword point-first at the man’s face, flinging blood on both captor and prisoner. He ignored the slick feel of the blood on his sword blade and swallowed down the taste that feeling gave him. For once, the feel of death didn’t bother him. He also ignored Tara’s wide-eyed stare at the Vaulka in her face.

Vaun looked at Tara’s captor with cold, deadly eyes, using his body to say what his voice need not. The man was burly and unshaved and had three claw marks on his left cheek underneath a bright red handprint. Apparently, assaulting the king’s daughter was no easy task.

The Swordsman panted and dripped water, but he never took his eyes off his enemy’s, and he did not blink. The Song took on a menacing note, echoed in the pale blue eyes that intimidated the light-haired assassin. The itch in Vaun’s side had receded since entering the room but still remained.

The man backed away, keeping Tara pinned in front of him, and Vaun followed. The palace guard reached the room and blocked the door, a few entering with drawn swords and encircling the man and his hostage, cutting off any possible escape.

*
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*

The mercenary looked around, knowing that if he surrendered, he would surely die. He also knew that if he fought he didn’t stand much of a chance, either. The fierce-eyed Ramener standing in front of him with a bloody Vaulka in his hands told him that much. Of course, what his master would do to him if he failed made losing his head seem a gift. Still, he didn’t want to die, not even for a young southern princess, and Master Elak couldn’t torture what he couldn’t find. The wildcat he held took up both his hands, so he had no weapon to use against her or his attackers anyway. In desperation, he backed toward the wall, and the Ramener and the guardsmen closed in, pinning him tighter.

As King Dobry strode into the room, his royal sword naked in his fist, the man knew he must act quickly or surely die. Master Elak’s anger could burn in all the Fires of Tarquon; he was giving up the life of a mercenary. Heaving Tara at the death-wielding youth in front of him, who was closest, he sprang toward the window, hoping the rain had softened the ground below. He didn’t remember Bordell was all cobblestones.

*
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*

Vaun, anticipating the move, circled his sword over the princess’s head to avoid skewering her and sidestepped her stumbling form. He planted himself in front of the fleeing assassin, sticking his sword firmly into the windowsill and cutting off his escape. He’d barely heard the king’s order to capture him alive.

The bloody, woven steel provided an excellent barrier to freedom, and the Swordsman staring death over it turned the mercenary’s knees to water. Vaun kept glaring at him as the palace guard swarmed over the man and removed his weapons. Vaun was struck at how odd-looking they were—all hooks and jagged edges.

Only when the guards had tied the assassin securely did Vaun pull his Vaulka out of the wall and turn toward his king. Wood felt nothing like flesh and could not hope to satisfy his Swordsman’s lust for battle, but at least he didn’t have to feel death every time he used it. And, strangely, that itch in his side had departed.

Princess Tara broke from her father’s embrace just long enough to slap Vaun firmly across the face. She then launched into a long tirade about him allowing her to fall to the floor instead of catching her when the man had pushed her. She also chided him for daring to slay a man in her own rooms, not to mention the mess he’d made with both blood and rainwater.

Vaun stood dumbfounded, the slap having abruptly cut off the Song. With his cheek stinging, he wondered what he’d done to deserve her wrath and why she looked like she wanted to kiss him.

13

After escaping the princess, Vaun retired to his rooms
to clean up and relax. King Dobry wanted information out of the elves and the prisoner immediately, and since he couldn’t help in the questioning, the Swordsman retired to his rooms. Once there, he stripped off his clothes and hung them to dry. He had asked for a bath to be poured and gratefully sank into its warmth. He wasn’t used to having people do things for him like the castle’s servants did, but discovered he could very quickly become accustomed to it. He hadn’t found it difficult to refuse the offer made by a rather lovely dark-haired maidservant, however. Even now, the mere thought of her helping him bathe made him blush terribly.

Thoughts of the pretty maid aside, Vaun lay back in the tub and tried to figure out why Tara had slapped him. He guessed that, since she’d fallen ungracefully onto the floor, she had suffered some embarrassment. In truth, the Swordsman had considered catching her with one arm as he stepped around her, but had decided against it in his haste to keep the attacker from escaping. The Song had also told him such an action was unimportant compared to the possibility of a fight with the assassin. Still, he
had
saved her life, and that at least should’ve excused him for not catching her when he could. Her other complaints were even more ridiculous. If he hadn’t killed one of the men she would probably be dead, and some of the guards had dripped just as much water on the floor as he had, yet she had said nothing to them.

As he washed himself, he realized he’d never formally met her, yet she seemed to have known him. Wondering if she treated all the people she didn’t know that way, the dark-haired youth climbed out of the white and black marble bathtub and toweled himself dry with one of the many thick red towels at his disposal, glad to finally get rid of the dampness in his skin.

He looked into the full-length, gold-worked mirror opposite him and was struck by the change in his appearance. He’d gained a little weight since beginning the journey, fleshing out his form with the addition of more muscle. He’d never had much body fat, having always been thin, but now he could call himself mildly stocky. He flexed a little and admired the muscles that had grown out of formerly smoother flesh. Then, feeling foolish, he relaxed and surveyed the rest of himself.

His hair had grown considerably, falling now into his eyes in front. Remembering how often he had to brush it out of his face, he decided to find something to tie it back. A haircut was probably out of the question, what with all that was going on.

He also saw the three scars the Chattul had left on him. He’d never really noticed them before and realized he would have to keep them covered or find a good excuse for them when he returned home. They ran deeply from the middle of his stomach to just behind his ribs on his left side. He touched them lightly and admired their rough, puckered feel.

He remembered the bizarre itching that had begun when he’d neared the princess’s rooms, realizing only now that it seemed to originate at this injury. He’d ignored it in his efforts to save the princess and only noticed it again when the assassins were defeated and the itch was gone. Thinking back, he recalled how that itch had nearly distracted him from killing the Jaga. Again, at the time he’d paid it little mind and had planned to ponder it after the beast was dead. But it had died with the Jaga, so he hadn’t bothered to think about it. He even remembered the first time he’d felt it, when that guard, Reska, had nearly decapitated him during their spar. It was as if it had tried to warn him of danger, allowing him to act to save himself. Scratching it did no good, as he’d discovered while fighting the Jaga, but having his sword in his hand did seem to lessen its strength.

Looking down, he saw the marks on his shins, recalling how painful the Jaga’s claws had felt. Fortunately, they hadn’t dug too deep, and left little more than red slashes on his skin. Almost liking his battle-scarred appearance, he walked into the next room to dress in the comfortable, loose clothing that had been provided for him.

The shirt was a deep red with gold trimming the arms and cuffs. He liked the softer feel of this wool after the coarse thickness of his other clothes. His trousers were a solid, dark blue, and the shoes soft, ankle-high dark leather. Strapping on his sword and belting his daggers into place, he glanced again at himself in a mirror even larger than the one in the bathroom and was startled. The mature, serious face staring back at him, not to mention the entire form, looked much different than he remembered. He usually saw a relatively thin young man who spent most of his time hunched over some book. But the figure reflected seemed much older, his head fully involved in what happened around him. Now Vaun knew he didn’t belong anywhere else but where he was, for this world had given him what he’d always sought: sense of self.

Not only did his body look different, but his entire demeanor had changed. He no longer stood with his shoulders slightly hunched and his eyes toward the ground. This new person held his back straight, with his pale blue eyes easily meeting those of others. He had confidence in himself, much unlike the former self Vaun remembered, and he also seemed to know just what he was doing.

The questions of whether or not he was doing the right or sensible thing did not bother him as they had before. He seemed to have confidence now in his ability to choose the best path, rather than rely on the guidance of others or simply not act. Vaun smirked when he noticed that, despite how changed he appeared and felt, he still needed to comb and tie back his hair. He looked like a ruffian with it hanging down in front of his face.

The thought of a ruffian brought to mind the attack at the start of their journey and his reaction to it. The reaction he never seemed able to reconcile with himself. The youth had always pictured himself as an invincible warrior, but he’d also known that was merely his imagination. He’d been honest with himself enough to admit that if the situation arose, he’d probably panic. But he’d reacted to that attack as if it happened on a regular basis, just as he’d imagined he would. He was glad he did, but it disturbed him, too, because it meant he was no longer the same person he used to be. Or maybe he never had been in the first place.

He still liked the change, only it seemed at times he didn’t know himself. One particular incident stuck in his mind—the thoughts that had plagued him after that initial assault. That voice in his head had seemed completely different from his own, yet at the same time it hadn’t. Vaun had always talked to himself, and still did, but it never seemed like he talked to a completely separate mind, as it did then.

But now that other voice was a part of him, and Vaun guessed it was his Swordsman’s nature that hadn’t been fully part of him at that time. Ever since his Bonding, that other mind had joined his, and they had created Vaun Tarsus. The young man wondered if past Swordsmen had experienced the same thing, guessing they probably had, considering the stories Thorne had told him of how many Swordsmen seemed to go insane and chased away all their friends right before they Bonded. The Song, too, had helped solidify his new identity, blending his old self with the new so well that it seemed they had always been that way. And maybe they had.

The young Swordsman’s eyes refocused on his reflection. Whoever Vaun Tarsus really was, if indeed he was any different from the person looking at himself, the one from a different world and with a different name, he definitely needed more rest and a bite to eat. The tension of the last few days had kept his stomach perpetually empty and his nerves taut.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t rest just yet, and so the man who was Vaun Tarsus the Swordsman, as well as Sean Matthews the reader, left the room in search of his companions. No amount of self-realization would be an excuse to be late for the meeting with King Dobry, whom he now wholeheartedly considered his liege lord, even without oaths.

After eating a quick meal in the huge palace kitchen, he stopped on the way to the king’s rooms to get a leather thong for his hair. Upon tying it, he decided he liked his new ponytail. It wasn’t as long as Merdel’s, but at least it didn’t have any grey in it. As he walked, he munched on his dessert apple and drank from a cup of water, figuring the king would be in his private audience chamber.

He approached the heavy, rebuilt doors to the room and nodded to the two men now guarding it, taking another bite of his apple as they opened the carved yet still unfinished oak doors.

King Dobry leaned forward in his chair toward the two elves seated before him, listening intently to all they said. Merdel and Thorne sat in their usual place, and Captain Stolar again occupied the blue chair. After bowing to the king, Vaun sat next to Drath on the red couch and turned his attention to the elves’ report.