David Farland - Sons of the Oak

“A Son of the Oak,” Endo said. It was a compliment, a reminder of the spooky way that the world was changing, with a new generation growing up stronger and smarter than their elders, better in so many ways.

“Aye,” Streben jested, “he may only be nine, but he fights like a ten-yearold.”

Several men laughed nearby, but somehow the jest angered Stalker. He didn’t like someone making sport of another for being good at what he did. That was a pastime for losers.

Streben was his sister’s son, and at seventeen he was a tall boy, lanky and strong. He fancied himself a fighter. But he had a cruel streak and a cowardly one.

Oh, he had enough bravado to kill a man, but he’d only done it once, and he’d done it from behind. He had a penchant for picking fights at port. One night, after such a skirmish, he’d ambushed a man in the night, and then bragged about it when they were far out to sea, beyond the reach of any lawmen.

The boy rolled to the side to avoid Borenson’s next few blows, keeping the masthead between them, and Streben laughed. “Boy knows ’ow to run!”

But Stalker realized what the boy was doing. He was playing out the fight in his mind, making it real. If Borenson had been a real attacker, he’d know that he was bleeding to death, and he’d press the fight even as Borenson was doing now. At the same time, his quickened heartbeat would pump the blood from his armpit ever faster. By now he’d be down a mugful of his life’s blood, and his head would be reeling from the loss. A few more seconds, and the boy would be able to take him with ease.

Borenson feinted left and attacked right, his long knife going slightly wild, as if he were losing focus. He was into the game, too.

The boy struck him a blow to the thigh, one so close to the crotch that many of the sailors actually cried out in sympathetic pain. Another two-point blow.

The crowd cheered wildly, and Fallion smiled. He’d been practicing for three hours, doing all that he could to “prepare” himself, as his mother had warned him to do.

But in his own mind, he was doing more than perfecting his skills. He was playing to the crowd, trying to win their approval. He needed not to win just their applause, but their hearts. Someday, he thought, some of these men may form the core of my army.

His eyes went to the right, where Rhianna watched him, a worried smile on her face.

The small moment cost him dearly. Borenson suddenly lunged like a wild man, slashing with his knife, three blows that Fallion could barely parry. The big man’s knife rang against Fallion’s small shield, and each blow numbed Fallion’s arm.

The fight is everything, Fallion told himself. Focus on the fight.

The cheering faded from Fallion’s mind as he watched Borenson’s piercing blue eyes. You could always tell when a man would strike by watching his eyes. An accomplished fighter like Borenson wouldn’t warn you by focusing on the spot he’d attack, but his pupils dilated a tenth of a second before he struck.

Fallion had to concentrate on his footing. The pitch and yaw of the vessel was still unfamiliar, and his center of gravity rolled with the ship.

Borenson’s pupils went large. Fallion dodged left, just as Borenson’s shield bashed him in the chest, sent him flying, knocking the wind from him.

Fallion tried to suck air, knew it would be no use. He had to end the fight now.

Borenson rushed and Fallion leapt up and lunged forward, under his reach, bringing his knife point up under the sternum.

“Three!” the sailors shouted. An instant kill.

The sailors in the rigging cheered wildly. Borenson was huffing. He grinned at Fallion, peered over to Rhianna.

Fallion was still trying to suck air. He felt as if he’d lose his breakfast any moment.

“You puke on that deck,” Borenson jested, “and you’re going to have to clean it up.” Then more softly he added, “Hold it in.”

Fallion nodded. Borenson poked him in the stomach. “That,” he whispered, referring to the blow, “was for showing off. Always keep your mind in the fight.”

It was a hard lesson, but Fallion knew that he would rather learn it now than in a real fight.

Fallion got to his knees, tried to hold in his breakfast, struggling for air. Sweat rolled off of him.

The sailors were still cheering, and Captain Stalker smiled in grim satisfaction.

“You saw that!” Streben shouted. “The big fellow pulled his punches. I was that good when I was the kid’s age!” He began to jeer.

Stalker turned to his nephew, gave him a dangerous look. “You’re not that good. You couldn’t beat the kid on the best day of your life.”

That caught Streben’s attention. There is nothing that a coward hates more than to be reminded of his own weakness.

Several sailors nearby caught the mood and jeered at Streben, “Go ahead, show us what you’ve got.”

Streben looked away in embarrassment, trying to ignore them, but the jests grew crueler.

“Right,” he snarled, shouting down at the boy. “You fight me? You want me?”

Fallion looked up at Streben, not quite understanding. Streben shouted another challenge, and Borenson stepped between them and said, “The boy isn’t taking challenges. This isn’t the arena.”

But Streben grinned maliciously, taking the boy’s reluctance for cowardice. “Why not?” he demanded. “It’s a matter of honor.”

Stalker said nothing for a moment. He already knew what Streben was made of: cruelty, cowardice, and stupidity, all wrapped up in a deceptively strong frame. Sometimes he told himself that if Streben wasn’t his nephew, he’d have hurled him overboard long ago.

Fallion took a step to the side, so that he could see Streben better. He saw the crazed gleam in the man’s eyes, the sneer on his lips.

He is dangerous, the kind of man who would harbor a locus, Fallion thought.

“Is there great honor in beating children where you come from?” Fallion asked. “Or are you just such a sorry ass that you can’t fight someone your own size?”

That brought snorts of laughter from the crowd, followed by jeers aimed at Streben, who leapt from the rigging, launching himself toward Fallion, tugging his own dagger from its sheath.

Stalker couldn’t allow that. Fallion was too valuable. As Streben raced past, Stalker simultaneously put out a foot, then shoved him.

Streben spilled to the ground like a sack of guts, his knife under him. He grunted a curse, crawled up to his knees, and peered in dismay at his hand. He’d cut it badly, slicing his palm almost to the bone.

But Stalker didn’t look at his nephew’s hands. He was watching Fallion. The child had drawn his own long knife, and rather than recoil in fear at the sight of Streben, he smiled patiently, as if he would not hesitate to slip a blade between the bigger man’s ribs.

I didn’t save the boy, Stalker realized. I saved Streben.

Streben peered at his hand and shouted at Fallion, “This isn’t over!”

Fallion turned to leave, and Streben made a show of rising up and lunging toward his back. But Endo and Blythe each grabbed an arm, pinning him down.

“Don’t spoil the merchandise,” Blythe warned his struggling charge. “Them folks is cargo, payin’ customers. Anything ’appens to the boy, and you’re dead. Understand?”

Streben craned his neck and looked back to Stalker, as if seeking permission to press the attack.

Stalker stepped forward, and as his men held Streben, Stalker struck a heavy blow to his nephew’s gut.

Unlike Fallion, Streben didn’t manage to hold his breakfast down.

“Listen to me,” Stalker said. “I know you. You’re a sneak that comes up to men from behind and slits their throats. But I’ll not ’ave that from you ’ere. That boy is under my protection. Got it?”