The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) (9 page)

Rush and Dart looked ready to protest Thorne’s gibe, but the twinkle in the dwarf’s eye convinced them he was merely making sport.

“Dwarven ’n elven steels be lighter and stronger than that of humans, and be mined in places known only to the two races who use them. The different colors depend on which metals the smith uses to make his alloy of steel. ’Gainst all reasonin’, the two metals will no blend together as an alloy, so they must be joined by ’nother means, ’n the method the first Vaulka swordsmiths invented is what is called Weaving. To do this, they had to heat the steel so much that, if you were to go into the forge while they were doin’ it, your skin’d melt before you took two steps.

“The smiths then played cards to see who would be the Weaver and who would be the Watcher. The Weaver would weave the steel, and the Watcher would preserve the shape of the sword made from the two opposin’ metals. While doin’ this, he sang ancient songs of joinin’ and strength. It is believed these songs are magical, and that they aided in the forgin’ of the first of these fantastic swords.

“Once this’d been done, they hammered the new blade flat, and each took a different side. They both sang words of unity and might while hammerin’, and it was these words that finally joined the two different steels. But they were far from bein’ done. They had to finish shapin’ the blade, and a great argument resulted as to whether ’twould be curved or straight. Elves prefer curved blades, while dwarves rightly choose straight ones. After the elf cheated at dice, they made it curved. This curve they protected durin’ the Weavin’ and forgin’, and ’twas the shape of the first Vaulka, which is a combination of a dwarven and elven word that means
one weapon from two blades
.

“They shaped and worked the weapon ’til it was finished. Then they sharpened it to perfection and polished it so that it shone. It was here they discovered the effect their Weaving technique had on the care of the Vaulka, for they almost ruined it. I’m no swordsmith, so I can’t say for sure, but somethin’ ’bout the weave of the two steels makes it impossible to sharpen
up
the blade, as you can with any other sword. It usually no matters which direction you sharpen, but the Vaulka must only be sharpened
down
the blade, with the stone rotated as it slides over the steel.

“Despite this, or perhaps because of it, Vaulka be the finest made swords in the world. To protect their value, the dwarven and elven peoples decreed that each pair of smiths can only forge two such weapons. The dwarven smith who forged your sword is called Oren, and his elven partner is known as Leaf. They worked on this sword for six months, and their skill and pride show in ev’ry inch of it. This is the last Vaulka they will be allowed to forge, ’n I believe ’tis the better of the two.

“The black portion of the blade is dwarven steel; the pale white is elven. The designs on the hilt are a special gift to you. The dwarven woodsmith who carved the bone portion is named Homlin, and his elf partner for the ivory is Amoril.”

Thorne laid a thick finger on the tip of the blade. “Your sword is unique, ev’n for a Vaulka. The back edge has ne’er been sharpened before on any curved Vaulka. Leaf had the idea of sharpenin’ the back side, and Oren decided how much of it to sharpen. They liked the result, and I think you’ll agree it adds a kind of attitude t’ the weapon. Oddly ’nough, they had to sharpen it only
up
the edge, opposite to the normal Vaulka technique, though you seem to have figured that out, too.”

*
*
*

Vaun knew the dwarf expected some kind of response to his last statement but couldn’t think of what to say. The truth would only make him sound insane.

Shrugging, Thorne handed the sword back to his young companion. Vaun Tarsus laid the magnificent weapon on his lap, lightly running his fingertips up and down the blade as if he could feel all the effort and skill that went into its creation. That strange noise sprang up again in his mind, yet this time it didn’t frighten him. That, in itself, should have terrified him.

*
*
*

“And how do you feel about yourself tonight?” Vaun heard Drath ask awhile later from behind him.

The youth didn’t turn but only shrugged. “I’m not sure. I keep wondering why Thorne thought it was so strange that I could sharpen my own sword. It seemed to me like I just knew. I’ve always been fond of curved swords, so they were the only kind I studied how to take care of. I could tell this one was different, and something told me to go down the blade instead of up.” The youth didn’t say that the something had been the sword. Drath would surely think him crazy if he said that.

Drath sat beside his young friend. In the distance, an owl hooted as it searched for food, and the chirp of hundreds of insects accompanied the bird’s hunt.

“I’m glad for once you’re not dwelling on how dumb you are.” Drath chuckled good-naturedly but said nothing else as he gazed at the starry night sky, listening to the warm crackle of the fire and the soft snores of their sleeping companions.

“It’s like I told you last night, Vaun. You’re very intelligent. You know things about swords because you’ve read about them, and because you like them so much. You have a feel for them, like Rush has a feel for a lock, or Thorne for a jug of ale. Maybe that’s why you knew how to sharpen the Vaulka. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that you are who you are. Accept it. Don’t fight yourself, Vaun Tarsus. It will forever be a losing battle.”

Vaun nodded as a cool night breeze blew his hair back from his face. The smells of earth and grass permeated the air, with a mild scent of burning wood underneath. He took his eyes off the night-darkened horizon to look down at his hands caressing the scabbarded sword resting on his crossed knees. He couldn’t see the calluses that were growing larger by the day, the ones he’d always hoped so fervently to earn. He just hadn’t known it would be at the expense of his peace of mind.

He felt strangely close to the sword and couldn’t figure out why. Perhaps it was because his new friends had given it to him, or perhaps it was because he seemed to know what it needed.

Over the past few nights, he’d felt himself growing almost as close to his sword as he was to Drath, and that scared him. It was, after all, a weapon made for violence. He wanted to voice his concern to the tall man who’d become not only a friend but also a teacher, mentor, and guide, but didn’t know how to express it. He also felt that if he did, he’d betray not only the sword but also himself. It was all so strange, and it seemed he had to fight this strangeness alone.

*
*
*

“Are you all right?” Drath was worried. He’d glanced at Vaun after he had been quiet for several minutes and saw that he shivered violently. It was a cool night, but not quite that cold. When Vaun didn’t respond, Drath put his arm around him to try and get his attention better. “Vaun, are you okay?”

The pale eyes that Vaun turned toward him were full of fear but also of a strange fire, and the sight frightened Drath. It seemed the youth
was
losing his mind.

“I’m just…” Vaun’s whisper was barely audible. “…so terribly frightened. But I have no idea why.” He leaned into Drath then, and the tall man draped his other arm across him and held him, trying to help him fight whatever terrified him so.

For the first time in many nights of talking, Vaun did not cry, and Drath took that as a sign that maybe at last the youth was becoming a man. The night he’d woken up screaming for his mother had almost made Drath decide to return him to his world.

*
*
*

As they marched across the grasslands the next day, Vaun realized he’d grown accustomed to a kind of traveling rhythm. Every day they rose, marched until they stopped for lunch, then marched again until sundown, at which time he and Drath would spar and go over the moves they had discussed during the day. After that, he and Drath would talk about more serious matters, and Vaun would slowly understand the truth of what his mentor said.

They never once broke their pace, though on every other day they would stop for a short time to rest in the middle of the afternoon. An infrequent complainer, Vaun accepted the weariness and troubles of long travel on foot stoically, wanting to prove to the others and himself that he could make this journey. He soon became accustomed to it and rarely felt tired at the end of the day, though his feet did ache from time to time. And no matter how tired he was, he still practiced diligently each night and each morning until Drath told him it was time to sleep or begin the day’s journey.

Only an occasional copse of trees occupied the grasslands, which allowed the group to sleep a little more protected on those nights. They never saw any of the nomadic tribes that inhabited this area, but they did see plenty of rabbits and squirrels, as well as a wide variety of birds. The elves supplied the group with fresh meat each night, provided they stopped chattering and wagering long enough to hunt in necessary silence.

The hilly terrain gave the party little difficulty, being mostly the gentle, rolling kind of hills that were easy to go around or climb. The weather stayed pleasant, though the temperature tended to drop sharply during the night. Still, it was nice to be out in the open, and to Vaun the simple fact of where he was made any hardship bearable.

The youth found he didn’t mind sleeping out in the open, the group deciding that it wasn’t quite cold enough for tents, though they were prepared to build some. He also had become used to standing his turn at watch, which they maintained more out of habit than any fear of danger, as they traveled in a rarely hostile area. Vaun soon began to believe that he belonged in this world, and that there could not be a better one in existence.

The first few days, however, he had wanted to cry and scream and whine about how much his body ached and hurt. He had been plagued by muscle cramps at night, and he’d had to bite down hard on his blanket to keep from crying out. Eventually, though, the cramps ceased as his muscles adjusted to the new work, and he stopped wishing he could go home and began hoping he never had to return to his world. The longing to see his parents again still woke him occasionally, and since he hadn’t formed any lasting friendships after losing contact with his childhood buddies, there was no loss there. The wonder of this world relieved all such regrets.

He remembered the moment they’d first entered this world that was so different from his own and so like what he wanted. The portal had opened onto the top of a plateau far behind them to the north. He recalled seeing a river off to his left, winding its way south. They had stood over two thousand feet in the air, and Vaun had marveled at the view. Gazing out across the endless, unbroken grassland, he knew he belonged nowhere else in any world. He smiled now at the memory, and thought his visit to this world would be everything he hoped and dreamed for, and wished it would last forever.

While walking, he habitually practiced in his mind, meticulously thinking through each sword maneuver so it would be so ingrained it would come naturally. He corrected himself when he made mistakes and applauded himself when he did something particularly wonderful. He was just devising a way to disarm his opponent when the attack came.

They had been traveling all morning and had stopped for lunch about two hours earlier. As they walked, the trees had become more and more numerous around them until they had entered a kind of sparse forest. The trees were not closely packed, but there were enough to hide the twelve men who now leaped out to attack the six adventurers.

Bellowing loudly, the twelve bandits charged from behind trees all around their quarry. The six startled companions barely had time to form a tight circle, their backs toward the center, before they were overrun. Fortunately, they’d shortened the space between each other because of the trees, but that didn’t help the odds any.

Vaun glanced quickly around to see that his companions had all drawn their weapons. Merdel was waving his staff from side to side before concentrating on his own two opponents. Van had been almost completely surprised when the bandits had charged from the trees, and it amazed him how quickly his companions had reacted and formed the circle. Obviously, they’d done this before. However, even though he had not, he had reacted the same as the others, and the natural reaction felt peculiar and reassuring at the same time. Forgetting his wonderment for now, he locked eyes on the bandits.

Neither wore armor, though both held longswords in tight fists and grinned wickedly, apparently thinking him easy prey. Vaun’s gaze roved over them, calculating which was the better of the two and waiting for them to act first, knowing his attack would come from that. How he could decide this, he didn’t know.

When the one on his right lunged for his chest, the reality of his situation overcame him. His mind raced, showing him pictures of headless and dismembered corpses, with him standing over them and laughing. It frightened him so badly he nearly froze completely. As it was, he barely avoided being killed on the spot as blind instinct, and something more from a place deeper inside took over.

He dropped, drawing his sword and slashing in a downward diagonal slash from right to left across his opponent’s exposed middle. He followed his cut by tucking his right shoulder and rolling to his right, coming easily to his feet to face the remaining bandit.

The struck attacker hit the ground flat and did not rise, his sword imbedding itself harmlessly into the ground. Seeing the ease with which the youth had slain his companion, the remaining bandit approached the youth more cautiously, his sword ready.

Vaun’s mind whirled and tumbled, reeling at the knowledge he had just killed another human being, and he remembered something a friend had said after one of their sword fights. He’d said that Vaun had seemed to be a natural sword fighter, one who could kill with ease and grace. The comment had not truly bothered him then; in fact he’d been quite proud of it. But now it seemed horribly prophetic.