David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Come morning, she looked, but Clovis Crestwell was nowhere to be found.

Neither was her god.

The old man with the gray beard circled Patrick, one eye opened larger than the other, studying him as they practiced atop the grassy hill overlooking the fields where the others sparred. The grass was damp, and the air was filled with the sloshing sound of skittering feet. The Temple of the Flesh lurked in the distance like a sleeping giant.

“No, brace yourself. Weight on the back leg. Now turn at the waist. The waist . You know what your waist is, right? Keep your shoulders locked, but give yourself room for quick motions. Better. Now relax your wrists ever so slightly. You’re gripping with two hands, you can afford some slack. Lift it over your head, then hold it straight out. Good. Let go with your off hand. No, not your dominant hand, the other one. Excellent. Now hold that stance. Steady now. Amazing.”

The graybeard was Corton Ender, a tall man who was long in years but spry of spirit. He seemed genuinely impressed, and Patrick felt honored by his attention. Corton had taken leave of training from Deacon Coldmine’s militia just to oversee his progress. Ender had been an accomplished swordsman in his younger days, back when he had served as a mercenary for a rich man named Matthew Brennan, though this information meant very little to Patrick. He knew nothing of the east or of the doings of mercenaries. It sounded like an unsavory way to live, although he couldn’t deny that a certain part of him was indeed drawn to the notion, and even excited by it.

“Tilt that majestic thing to the side,” said Corton. “Flex your arm. Now that is impressive.”

The wizened old bastard had been truly awed upon his first sight of Winterbone, and he’d wondered openly how Patrick could carry such a large weapon with relative ease given his “condition.” Rather than being offended by the accusation, Patrick had appreciated the old coot’s bluntness. His family always treated him with caution. It felt liberating to be around someone who was honest with him for a change.

Corton pointed at a log that was propped up on a pair of stumps a few feet away.

“If you would, shift the weapon down slowly and place your off hand on its handle, beneath your other hand. Now swing from the legs up. Gather the strength in your calves, and send it up through your thighs. Let it flow through your trunk and expel out your arms, just like you would with a good punch. Bring the weapon down in a wide, sweeping motion, and split that log.”

Patrick followed the instructions, planting his right foot behind him, breathing deliberately in his effort to maintain the balance between his mismatched legs. He arched his back as far as he could. In a single, fluid motion, he cocked his elbows until Winterbone’s pommel was beside his ear, then reversed his momentum, stepping back with his left foot while bringing the sword up over his head in a long, winding arc. When the tip reached its apex, he felt himself lose control of the weapon. Still, it careened downward in a straight line, striking the center of the log. The steel drove through the wood, pulping it, splitting the log in two. Patrick didn’t feel any resistance when it happened; in fact, the only sensation he did feel was a frightening teetering as his body was yanked forward by the weight of the sword. Winterbone’s tip pierced the ground, halting his fall, jarring his wrists. He squinted and gritted his teeth, forearms shaking.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Corton, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed red. “You still have worlds to learn about control, but that’ll come with practice. The strength you have, however…it is truly amazing. That log was oak, almost two feet thick. Normally, it’d take five swings of an axe to halve it.”

“So I did well?”

“Well?” the old man laughed. “I don’t think that word gives justice to what you just did. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was damn near freakish.”

Patrick’s elation dipped. He kicked a foot, pulled Winterbone back from the split log.

“Freakish?” he asked.

Corton stopped staring and shook his head vehemently.

“No, no, I apologize. Not freakish in that way, Mr. DuTaureau. Yes, your body might be…unique…but it seems to have been built for one distinct purpose-to swing that sword. The shortness and unevenness of your legs plays perfectly for the sideways stance that’s required to handle a weapon of that size. Your humped back prevents you from bending too far backward-the bane of the backswing, where a man is at his most vulnerable. And those arms…I’ve never seen a more powerful pair in all my years. You may look odd, son, but when it comes to that sword, you are unfailingly perfect.”

The old man looked downright whimsical. Patrick lifted Winterbone and held it in one hand, beaming. For once, his body was not a subject of ridicule or pity, but of awe and even envy. He tossed the sword from one hand to the other, feeling the weight, the blade’s downward momentum threatening to snap his wrist. But he succeeded in keeping it straight, virtually parallel to the ground, stretching his tendons near the breaking point. He smiled through clenched teeth.

Corton smiled, shaking his head. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Patrick grinned, ear to ear.

The old man set up another log, and Patrick split that one as well. Corton put up a third, this one larger than the first two, and this time Patrick took several swings to punch through.

“I think we’re done for the day,” Corton said after that last one, and Patrick sheathed the sword. “You’re getting tired and hurrying through what I’ve shown you. Even with all that power, you must have patience and control. Never forget that.”

The old man offered him some wine and a towel, items Patrick accepted without hesitation. As Patrick nursed the wineskin, flexing his sore hands, he watched a pair of young militiamen spar at the base of the hill. They were like leaping rabbits as they poked and prodded each other with their thin steel blades. It was a thing of beauty to see, a coordinated dance of skill and grace, and it made Patrick feel clumsy and slow by comparison.

The old sellsword caught him watching the duelists and chuckled.

“There are many different ways to swing a sword,” he said. “All of them works of art. View them as dances, if you will. There is the water dance, the air dance, the dance of cloaks, the moonrise dance, and many others known to the elves that they will not share. No one way is greater than the other, and each has its advantages. But one must learn the style meant for his or her body, and you, Patrick, were meant to be a bull dancer. Your dance is one of power, of always moving forward and never turning back.”

He pointed to the duelists.

“Those men have more skill than you, but they’ve also had more practice. And they’re more graceful, something no amount of practice will fix for you. But do you know what matters most? With not much improvement on your part, you’d annihilate them. A single swing of your sword would shatter theirs and spill their guts across the dirt.”

“A lovely image,” whispered Patrick, remembering how he had done much the same thing to one of the bandits when he and Nessa had first stepped foot on the delta’s moist soil. Ever since that moment he’d been able to relive the memory with painful clarity. He remembered the blood, the odd smell of copper, the look of disbelief and fear shining in the eyes of the dying man. It should have been horrible, but something about it intrigued Patrick. Even as he thought of the blood, he remembered the exhilaration.

The words of Ashhur popped into his head, his god preaching about the sin of violence and the virtue of forgiveness: If a man strikes you on one cheek, offer him the other. Patrick hung his head.