David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Once more Rachida knelt before him. This time she slid a long object out from beneath the bed, grunting as she lifted it and leaned it against the bed. It was Winterbone, retrieved from the marsh grasses, scabbard and all.

“We are tired of being slaves,” she said. “Karak preaches freedom and prosperity for all, but the game is fixed. The wealthy are free to amass as much affluence as they wish, so long as their tithes and professions of faith remain plentiful. But they prey on the weak and the unfortunate, and Karak does nothing to stop it. He has abandoned his people. I don’t care if he ever returns, though I doubt he will ever step foot in our village. This is a power play by Moira’s father. He is trying to prove his might before his followers by scaring us into submission. He hates humanity and is bitter that his family wasn’t allowed to rule. He will take us down to prove his point to his beloved god, and trust me, Patrick, he won’t stop at the delta-not when your people are so unprepared to defend themselves.”

His head swimming, Patrick gawked at the gorgeous woman and asked the only question that popped into his mind. “Moira’s father? Who are you people?”

Rachida stood and threw back her shoulders. “I am Lady Gemcroft by title only. My husband Peytr bestowed the title upon me to help hide my true heritage. Before, I was Rachida Mori. As for Moira Crestwell…”

Patrick blinked, hardly able to believe it. Mori and Crestwell…two women of the First Families…here in the delta? He looked over at Nessa, whose face was stretched into a huge grin.

“You knew?” he asked, and she nodded exuberantly.

Suddenly, Patrick didn’t feel quite so upset that Jacob had sent him there. Things had just gotten far, far more interesting.

The smell of sweat hung in the air as line after line of the newcomers to Karak’s Army practiced their thrusts and parries in an enormous field. The grass was matted, torn down to the rocky soil in spots from the clomping of countless booted feet. The township of Omnmount’s lone building was barely visible over the rise of a distant hill. The recruits’ swords were cheap and wooden; the genuine articles hadn’t arrived yet. According to the bird sent by Romeo Connington, the delay had been caused by Matthew Brennan’s attempts to fleece them with high shipping rates, which meant that the Conningtons needed to hire their own people to convey the new weapons all the way from the Thettletown refineries, by horse instead of boat. Crian rolled his eyes on reading the words. He knew for a fact that the Conningtons owned boats of their own. It was an excuse, another way for Romeo and Cleo to curry sympathy in their pathetic turf war with the Brennan family while hiding how far behind they were in production.

But it was all a concern for another day. Real steel would do his inexperienced soldiers little good if they didn’t know how to wield swords properly. The members of the City Watch that he and Avila had brought with them from Veldaren had spoiled him. They’d been given leave from their positions-along with a hefty raise of two silvers a week-to join in the fight against the blasphemers in the delta. Lord Commander Mori had already trained them well, training Crian had continued upon taking over as Watch captain. These new recruits, however, were farmers and peasants plucked from their homes in Omnmount and the outlying agricultural territories, as far away as Ramere, with the promise that King Vaelor would make sure there was plenty of gold to feed their families and pay for their crops.

Crian watched two men in particular as they sparred-a balding waif named Grant and a fat tub named Harren. Despite Harren’s advantages in both girth and reach, it was always Grant who landed the winning blows with the tip of his waster. The waif laughed like a hyena whenever he struck Harren a solid blow, and the fat man’s jowls were growing red with anger. Crian knew a dangerous situation was building, but he remained silent. Every moment was a teaching moment, as his father had been wont to say.

Grant sidestepped a clumsy thrust and poked Harren in his meaty thigh, barely missing his balls. The waif then spun away and cackled. “Fat man can’t move!” he shouted. “Fat man needs another side of beef!”

When Grant’s back was turned, Harren threw down his waster and, moving much faster than in their training, leapt forward and wrapped the smaller man in his chunky arms. Grant’s eyes bulged as the breath was squeezed out of him. His slender fingers lost grip on his waster, which fell harmlessly to the dirt. Harren tossed him to the ground, where he bounced once, twice, striking a rock hard enough to make his mouth bleed.

Harren was on the waif a second later, straddling him, and pressing the whole of his weight down on the smaller man’s back. He grabbed a fistful of his opponent’s hair and drove the man’s head into the earth again and again. Grant’s screams rose and fell as the fat man pulverized his face to the tune of a series of dull thuds.

All other exercises halted. It was only when the entire group of new recruits had gathered around the scene that Crian stepped in. He used the tip of his saber to wedge his way through the perspiring masses.

“Cease at once!” he bellowed.

Harren acted like he couldn’t hear him, continuing to pound poor Grant into the stone-covered earth. Already a wide swath of blood had formed, growing steadily. Crian grabbed the back of Harren’s practice armor and yanked him away. The fat man fell off to the side but kept on his knees. In his rage, he twisted and tried to launch a closed fist into Crian’s stomach. Crian knocked aside the blow with the base of Integrity’s handle, while angling the blade so that its tip lightly pierced the folds beneath Harren’s chin. The obese man froze, a thin stream of red trickling down his folds of flesh, disappearing beneath his chipped and filthy practice armor. His lips quivered as he stared up at Crian.

“Are we done now?” Crian asked, keeping his expression serious despite the fat man’s preposterous appearance.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then help your sparring partner up.”

Crian withdrew Integrity and watched as Harren awkwardly got to his feet. The man’s fleshy hands groped Grant’s prone body. The injured man moaned and began coughing as his small frame was jerked upward from the pool of blood surrounding it. When Grant turned to face the gathered crowd, a series of gasps came from the onlookers. The man’s face was dripping with red from pate to chin, his nose flattened, his lips split. He looked wobbly and confused, but at least he was conscious. When he opened his mouth to reveal missing teeth, Crian felt his stomach clench. He pulled his shoulders taut and addressed the pair.

“What happened here?” he asked.

Harren stammered and said, “He been poking fun at me, sir, and I lost control. I’m sorry.”

Grant wheezed and tottered.

Crian bent over, picked up Harren’s waster, and began swiping at the empty air before him. “I find it strange, Harren Langfeller, that you move so quickly when mauling your opponent from behind, but when handling your sword, you are slower than a slug in salt. Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know, sir. I think-”

Crian lashed out, thumping Harren on the side of the head with the broad edge of the waster. “ That is your problem. You spend too much time thinking, rather than learning . To swing a sword is an art, but it is also a reaction. If you practice your jabs, your thrusts, your defensive positions, and practice them tirelessly, they will become as natural as breathing.” He poked the wooden tip into Harren’s breastplate. “You, however, look as uncomfortable today as the day you came here. You’re slothful and lazy, but at least you have plenty of experience lashing out against unsuspecting, lesser men. Am I wrong?”