The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) (53 page)

“How many soldiers were there?”

Drath thought for a minute. “About four hundred, I think.”

“Fire!” Vaun was dumbfounded. For every Jaga killed, eight guardsmen had lost their lives. It seemed Mahals had a greater reason to hate Jaga, but considering the city’s aggression against the creatures, the Jaga’s wrath was understandable. As another scream wafted to his ears, this time a human one, the Swordsman shook his head. Jaga held strong grudges.

The terrain they now traveled over was not quite as hilly as it had been for the last several days. They had crossed into the Northern Kingdom of Norden shortly before leaving the foothills of the Black Mountains, and since then the travelers had encountered mostly flat, rocky plains covered with deep snow. The snow made the uneven ground deceptively flat, hiding drop-offs with a solid-looking white blanket. Thorne and his horse had fallen into one such ravine the day before, but both had survived with only minor cuts and bruises. The worst damage seemed to be to the dwarf’s ego. The trees had begun to alternate between dense and sparse, with oaks and maples taking over for the evergreens. The stark, frozen branches made the landscape look more desolate and uninviting with each passing league.

Breathing deeply of the crisp air, Vaun came out of his daydream. He’d been drifting off quite a bit these last few days in order to break the monotony of their travel, and sometimes his companions had to all but attack him to gain his attention. Still, he performed his required tasks when they camped and continued to practice each morning and night. He even went through a few maneuvers while riding, enjoying the warm, strong feel the horse gave to the music of the Song and the Rhythm. As he watched his breath billow in a cloud before his face, he decided to try and make Drath spar with him tonight. Since Vaun had Bonded, the tall man had been strangely reluctant to match steel with him.

No roads cut through this area for the group to follow, so they relied on the elves’ scouting and Thorne’s knowledge of geography to keep from losing their way. Unfortunately, the dwarf hadn’t traveled in this part of the world in a while, but he was confident in his ability to find the proper direction. Even when Thorne’s forehead knotted together, the only sign he’d give of confusion, the others never offered suggestions. Thorne would find the way or pound them all for doubting him.

As the clouds slowly turned from light to dark grey, signaling the approach of night, the adventurers found shelter in a deep ravine. The steep sides cut off most of the harsh northern wind and also prevented snow from blowing in too badly. As Thorne prepared their meal, the others settled in for the night.

There was little or no hunting to be done, so Rush and Dart stayed close to the fire and threw dice with each other. Despite repeated invitations, no one else would join them. Merdel sat brooding over Gwyndar’s Wand and the parchment Lymon had given him, having as yet found no satisfactory connection between the two.

Gathering his courage, Vaun approached Drath carrying his scabbarded Vaulka in his left hand.

“No, Vaun.” The tall man didn’t look up, intent on putting a better edge to his longsword. “Before you ask, the answer is still, and will always be, no.” Having had his say, Drath went back to scraping the whetstone along the sword’s edge.

Vaun stood a moment watching his friend. He admired the care Drath always took in sharpening and polishing his weapon. It made his Swordsman’s nature feel good to know that a person besides one like himself could care so much about a sword. He listened a moment to the rhythm of the whetstone as it slid along the edge of the blade, making it sharper with each pass.

He could almost feel the metal file away, feel the edge become thinner and thinner, yet remain strong. Drath had a finely made weapon, and he treated it accordingly. But Vaun sighed in regret, knowing the tall man could never feel as close to his sword as he himself did to his Vaulka. Consequently, Drath would never know the peace and harmony such a Bond contained.

Vaun spent another minute staring at Drath, then decided that this method of persuasion would have as little influence on the tall man’s decision as the others he had tried. Still, he wondered if a non-Swordsman could sense the same things he did when fighting, and he intended to use Drath to satisfy his curiosity.

Vaun turned as if to leave but instead whirled and drew in one quick, smooth motion—the way only a Swordsman could. The Song almost immediately entered his mind, guiding his lunging blade straight at Drath’s heart.

Anticipating the move but still caught off-guard by its swiftness, Drath dropped his whetstone and rolled to his right, sweeping his sword in a desperate parry. His longsword met the woven steel of the Vaulka and scraped harshly, barely deflecting the blow.

Coming swiftly to his feet, Drath raised his sword defensively before him, refusing to initiate further attack. Not hesitating, Vaun spun and again lunged at his friend.

Drath more easily parried aside this next thrust, but clearly did not intend to continue the fight.

Relentless, the Swordsman flicked his wrist, sending the back edge of his sword toward Drath’s midsection. The Song rang in his ears and the Rhythm pounded in his veins, urging him to attack with more speed, but he pushed aside his aggression to keep from overwhelming Drath too soon. The constant contact with Drath’s weapon told him that Drath kept his longsword honed to a fine edge, and also diligently polished it to keep away rust. That made him smile in appreciation.

Forced to backpedal, Drath blocked the next assault and couldn’t keep from jabbing toward an opening in his attacker’s defenses. He barely noticed Vaun’s grin of pleasure as the youth slapped the strike away with a casual flick of his wrist that felt like a hammer’s blow. Grunting with exertion, Drath turned to the offensive again.

Vaun smiled as Drath’s second counterattack sent the Song into an orchestra of battle and turned the Rhythm into a symphony of movement.

The others watched Drath and the Swordsman fight for several minutes. Though neither combatant spoke, all of them knew both taught the other.

Drath as always stressed caution and defense in his movements, his sword slicing rapid arcs through the air that turned aside many of the Swordsman’s strokes.

Vaun revealed subtle cuts and turns along with an incredible economy of motion, as well as an amazing ability to generate enormous power with the slightest of movements. He made battle seem a light exercise, always knowing exactly where he wanted his sword to go and getting it there without any extraneous movement. That was one way he moved so fast, coupled with his incredible, instantaneous acceleration. Another was his uncanny ability to know precisely where his opponent’s weapon was about to strike. The Swordsman moved so gracefully, so smoothly, that one instant it appeared he would be hit, and the next his sword became a blur of black and white leaving Drath slightly dazed from taps to the side of his head.

Reluctantly, the others turned back to preparing for the next day’s travel, leaving the two to their sparring.

*
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*

Drath had never seen anyone so quick or agile before. Vaun’s precision seemed almost methodical, yet he moved as fluidly as a Meschian belly dancer. His blocks and strikes were virtually invisible because they were made up of the smallest possible movements, his sword coming into play with a mere twitch of his wrist. Most frustrating of all was the way he seemed to know just where the tall man’s sword would next be striking. It was as if the Swordsman could read his mind.

Vaun kept blocking Drath’s strikes almost before they even began. As the fight continued, Drath became convinced the youth had been granted some sort of special ability along with his Bonding that helped him feel his opponent. It was irritating, interesting, and frightening all at once.

Beginning to tire, Drath used another of what he considered to be his hidden attacks. He’d had monumental success with them in the past, and they seemed to be his last resort against Vaun. But Vaun interrupted it with an unseen flick of his wrist before it had half begun, just as he had done to all of Drath’s other attacks. Amazed, Drath suddenly realized just why a Swordsman was so good. Dumbstruck, he stopped, standing with his mouth hanging open and his defenses down.

*
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*

Vaun sensed Drath’s fatigue through their clashing swords. The Song sang of it, drinking in its increasing essence, and the Rhythm changed to match it, pounding faster to ensure victory. But Vaun wouldn’t allow it to overwhelm his friend. He had to fight down repeated urges to flow into an inescapable attack. That would not accomplish what he sought. It would also humiliate his closest friend.

Several times he almost lost the struggle to suppress his Swordsman instincts. If he had, he would surely have left Drath bruised with multiple whelps, or worse. It scared him that the instincts he’d been granted were so strong, but he was glad he could control them, even with difficulty. He remembered that at first he almost couldn’t control them at all, like the time in Tara’s room in Bordell. He hadn’t truly wanted to kill either of the attackers and had nearly ignored the king’s order to leave the second one alive. So maybe it was good that Drath had refused to spar him until now.

And what a beautiful spar it was.

Vaun could hear Drath’s labored breathing and feel his heart pounding every time their swords met. He could taste the tall man’s exertion and fatigue, almost as if it were his own. He tried to keep from pushing his friend too much, discovering his control over the Song increased even during combat. He could guide it as much as it guided him. This made his own knowledge of sword fighting just another verse of the Song of Battle.

Drath, too, added to the Song in his own way. Each time their blades met, Vaun heard what sounded like another verse to the Song. It was faint and indistinct, but it was there. Slowly, the youth realized this other Song came from Drath, and that it changed each time the tall man changed tactics. The Swordsman knew if he concentrated on it, he could decipher Drath’s every move. And he could tell Drath barely heard it himself, confirming Vaun’s suspicion that talented sword fighters could detect what made the Swordsman unique.

When Drath lowered his sword in shock, the Song was just changing tempo. Vaun barely recognized what Drath had done in time, stopping the razor edge of his Vaulka mere inches from his friend’s neck. As Vaun’s eyes focused on Drath’s open-mouthed face, he realized the Song had almost continued the strike for him. His control had only barely exerted itself in time, but the danger that represented didn’t keep him from becoming annoyed at his former teacher for breaking the harmony of their spar.

Vaun lowered his sword, mild anger in his eyes and a headache building in his temples, a result of the Song ending on a harsh note. “Fire and blazing water, Drath! What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?” He knew Drath was tired, so he kept his anger to a minimum, but it always bothered him when someone choked silent the music of a fight.

Drath still stood with his mouth open, so Vaun waited for the tall man to voice his obvious concerns. The Swordsman had no idea what could possibly trouble his friend so much he disregarded how close he’d come to losing his head.

As the cold wind began to die down, Drath pursed his lips in an attempt at speech, as if the magnitude of his discovery obliterated all coherent thought. Finally he managed, “You actually feel what you do, don’t you?” He said it more as a statement of fact rather than a question awaiting affirmation.

“Yes, of course.” Vaun shrugged, not knowing why such a trivial matter as that occupied his friend’s attention so greatly. To him, such a thing was commonplace.

“No.” Drath shook his head in an effort to convince Vaun the matter wasn’t so easily closed. “I mean you actually feel how your sword moves. Like it’s your arm. And you feel your opponent’s blade, too. You don’t think or consider when you fight, you just…fight.”

Vaun nodded. “That’s right. But I don’t see your point. You should already know that because you do it, too.”

Drath shook his head again. “No. It’s different with me. It’s different with all non-Swordsmen. We have to work out our moves in our heads, then train our bodies until those movements become second nature. It’s as if we feel what we do, but we don’t. Not like you. We act only from habit and repetition. You act on raw instinct and pure sensation.”

“So?” Vaun still didn’t see the tall man’s point. Perhaps that was because Drath didn’t know just how close he was to feeling those things himself.

“So?
That’s incredible! Nobody does it like that.” Drath’s eyes finally focused on the youth before him. “Don’t you see? Your understanding of combat goes far beyond even the greatest of strategists. You know precisely where your opponent’s weapon will be because you feel it through your own. You also seem to feel what your opponent himself does…like whether or not he is tired.”

Vaun frowned at Drath’s attempt to make him feel guilty for pushing him the way he did, but he didn’t care what he was supposed to feel. What the tall man had done to the Song was much worse. “That’s right, too, but not exactly. I still don’t see why this made you kill our harmony.”

Drath’s face pinched in confusion at the youth’s words. “Tell me what you feel when you fight.”

Vaun paused, unsure how to phrase it. His connection to his sword was so close, he felt revealing its secrets would violate some sacred trust. He also wasn’t sure he could describe it well enough for Drath to understand. How do you describe what something feels like to someone who can never feel it?

“It’s like...my sword knows where to go. I don’t really have to tell it. It feels what I do, and I feel what it does. I trust it to protect me, and it trusts me to care for it.” Sheathing his weapon and strapping it to his back, Vaun squatted and stared at the snow under his feet as he tried to find words to describe something so abstract. “I don’t just feel the hilt in my hand. I feel the entire sword. From blade tip to pommel. I feel every scratch, nick, or blemish on the blade. Not that my sword has any!” He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “I feel its loyalty, and I feel its perfection.”