Dereek khn
Kor Kowmor
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
The day’s colors had all been strange… sharpened to a distracting, otherworldly edge. The eye-watering brightness of sun and sky, leaf and long stem, left the impression one was viewing them through slow-melting ice. What was more, the very sun appeared complicit in whatever ordinary magic was at play. It seemed to lumber its way to its customary noontime place, then become too tired to continue at any real speed.
Jastar observed all of this, but he had enough to distract himself. The Old Man had made them run in full kit, and over hilly terrain, for half a bell before breakfast. Then Gurin had shown him several new principles of unarmed combat before forcing him to spar with a variable number of opponents. They attacked as a group, then one at a time, and finally two at once, with the third man rushing in on the flank without warning. Then Jastar was allowed a brief respite for the midday meal.
His mind tried to wander back to the dream he’d been pulled from, but he found the effort both difficult and somehow painful. He recalled a snatch of song, or perhaps it had been a lay of some antiquity. He couldn’t recall where he’d heard it before, but it came back to him like an old, forgotten friend.
“What do you court when the catapults quiet? What do you ask when the arrows aren’t aimed? What do you seek when your sword’s set aside? Why do you fight? Out of fear or for fame?”
Pallith’s voice took up the melody from somewhere behind and to Jastar’s right. His voice grew closer with each word.
“Where is the wind when the wings are all withered? Where lives the song when the strings cease to sing? Where rests your rage when foes are forgiven? Why do you weep? For your loss, or your gain?” He gave a warm little laugh, then hunkered down at Jast’s side. “I didn’t expect to ever hear that again… Certainly never in Dereek khn.”
Jastar noted that Pallith’s emphasis was slightly off with the rest of the men and women he’d heard saying the realm’s name. He put focus on the Der and truncated the E sound that came after. Daireek-han.
“D’you know, I couldn’t think where I knew it from. I’d have guessed Rahn—now Sir Rahn.”
Pallith grinned, eyes mostly closing. “It was something my mother used to sing. She passed before I met you, but my father and I would sing it in memory of her. When I began fighting in tournaments, he would sing it softly as I armored up. He’d be holding my helm for me, or perhaps my shield as I slid my gauntlets on, and begin softly singing it. It became a ritual for us.”
Jastar tilted his head back and sighed in recognition. “Aye, that’s it. I knew I hadn’t crafted it, so I must’ve heard it … somewhere. Yessss, I remember your father singing it now. A pretty thing, that song.”
“Old.” Pallith nodded. “Old when my mother was born, but, aye. A pretty thing.”
“How goes your training, then? Has the Mattock shown you how to break the wall?”
Pallith bowed his head, looking away. “Nooo. Not as of yet, at least. She’ll try again shortly, I have no doubt.”
She? There are a good deal more warrior-women here than I first thought.
“You’ve been breaking through walls since… Well, for years now.” He’d been about to say since our first tournament together. That would’ve been at Greenfork. Greenfork which had been Pallith’s home. Greenfork… where his father had been sentenced to swing. He’d thought it best to change tack.
“She’s not teaching me how to break other walls, my friend. She’s trying to break through my shield wall. She’s come close, but as of this moment? I remain melmu.” Pallith offered a flash of mostly white teeth.
Jast had been about to ask what that word actually meant when Gurin had called his name. Bidding Pallith goodbye, at least for the nonce, he’d stood up and jogged over to begin the afternoon’s training.
The day continued sleepwalking toward its end. There were more bouts of running, then his first training—at least here in Dereek khn—with what they called the ralbrend. Valad had referred to the weapon as a great-sword, but that was the only difference. The training itself was the same, at least thus far. Finally, there had been a strange hour in which Jastar had to interview three men and one woman in order to determine which one was lying to him.
“I think I see. Two of them are lying, Lanbachsel.”
“Very good, indeed. You’re almost right, but you’ve missed someone.”
“No, Lanbachsel, I’m certain that—of the four—only two of them tried to play me false.”
Gurin nodded. “What was the order I gave you to execute, Jastar? What were my instructions?”
Jastar held his frustrated sigh in abeyance, repeating the Lanbachsel’s words. “Your role is to determine truth from fiction in this affair, and name the person playing you false.”
Gurin nodded. “How many people were involved in this exercise?”
Jast arched his brow. “Five.”
“Counting yourself?”
He nodded. “Five, counting myself.”
Gurin met his eyes, waiting.
Jastar looked at the sun once more. It hung low in the sky at long last. Perhaps an hour before sunset? Certainly less than two, presuming this interminable day finally ends. It came into his mind that the world was in a state of anticipation… unless that was the Lanbachsel’s gaze boring into him.
He was saved from further frustration when a younger man in the livery of the Ban’ze Ruun—the Smoldering Hammers—arrived. He looked Sheshik in origin, though his skin was a lighter tone than many Jastar had seen. A war hound trotted beside him, which was odd. Hunters had hounds. Had this man been a member of the order of the bow—a thing he’d heard the army had, but had yet to see—that would be one thing. A line soldier? In uniform, no less?
“Lanbachsel?” The man’s voice scratched at the ear. “This is Sir Jastar, is it?”
Gurin lifted his chin in recognition. “Tharus. Ire.”
He’d no idea what the fellow wanted, but he apparently knew who Jastar was, which was interesting. A moment later, interesting curdled into something sour.
“The Old Man sent me for him. We’ve ridden hard from Yrxa.”
Gurin lifted his brows. “The Ironbane need him for something?”
The Sheshik man shook his bearded head. “Methias wants anyone from Thorion.”
Jastar fought the falling frost of panic.
“I should say, he wants anyone from Thorion, or from anywhere in the Empire.” He paused. “You only know the one Imperial tongue, aye, Lanbachsel?”
Gurin sighed. “Aye and aye. That and Calyari.”
“No need to trouble yourself, then. First of the two-two has that covered.”
Gurin nodded, offering a thin smile. “Well? Best go with the bachsel, Jastar. Tharus? Will you be here for the evening mess?”
Jastar’s helmet lay beside him on the grass, his gloves and gauntlets stored within it. He now made rather a business of crouching down to recover them, then slip them on. He felt Gurin’s eyes on him as he picked his helm up off the grass. When he’d burned up all the time he felt he could justify, he rose, gauntleted, with steel hat in hand.
The newcomer—Tharus, apparently—shrugged. “That’s up to Methias. Nrcarnhecn jhoaz aqan, ruunth hecn.”
When Jastar righted himself again, he saw the giant of a man was grinning.
“Aye. Tears come later, with smiles or sobs. Fair enough. It’ll likely come down to what the folk of Thorion and Venzene can tell him.” He sighed. “Well, if you stay, and your duties permit, come find me. If not—”
Tharus stood at attention for a beat, returned the nod that Gurin gave him, and glanced at Jastar to ensure he was ready.
Jast followed suit—standing at rough attention, helm under his arm. When the Lanbachsel had dismissed him, he let Tharus lead him off to, apparently, meet this Lord Methias.