Seth studied the training sword, holding it outstretched. The metal felt cold and awkward in his hand. He watched how Valam held the weapon, imitated the hold but the grip didn’t feel right.
“On guard!” yelled Valam as he lunged with his blade. The blow knocked the weapon from Seth’s hand.
Seth picked up the sword. Valam showed him the correct stance and grip, then took the offensive. He parried inward, striking full against Seth’s blade, which held firm now.
Valam shuffled back along the floor, parrying in and out, giving Seth a feel for the balance and movement involved in swordplay. Seth was quick to adapt, to change with Valam’s movements, but was still susceptible to harsh thrusts which stung and often ripped the hilt from his hands.
“Judge how tight you need to grasp. Remember, firm, don’t strangle. Work with it, anticipate your opponent.” Valam moved through the various steps, thrusting high and low. Valam’s thoughts were only on the attack, thrust, parry and block.
Seth followed each movement. He watched the strategy, learned the timing involved. Tension eased from his thoughts as his mind opened. He waited only for Valam’s next move, countered as necessary.
For the next phase of training, Valam took Seth to a two-handed stance. He showed Seth how much power could be gained in the attack as well as the defense, although at a cost to maneuverability.
My grip, can you show me again? asked Seth as he defended.
Valam paused to show Seth the proper two-handed grip, then executed a series of simple thrusts, demonstrating how one could use the tip of the blade to impale and rend. Afterward he switched to the defensive, allowing Seth to practice his thrusts.
“Watch your stance. The way you stand is as important as your attack. Place your feet wider apart so you have a good center of balance. It will allow you to move more easily and to react better in any direction necessary.” Valam went through a series of fancy movements to the right, left, forward, and then back. “You see, balance is the key. If your balance is bad, your attack will be poor.”
The two practiced for hours. The clash of metal on metal rang throughout the courtyard. Seth enjoyed the activity as did Valam.
Their thoughts became detached from everything around them. They had only the weapons in their hands.
“You see,” Valam said, lunging forward, “I knew you would like it.”
Yes, it is interesting. There is an art to it, replied Seth as he easily blocked, then swept in for an attack. Would a lighter blade allow for more mobility?
“Definitely, we train with these heavy blades for a reason.” Valam countered with a low thrust, then a parry. “Seth, can I ask you something?”
You don’t need to ask, groaned Seth, straining as the weight of Valam’s blade descended upon him. Seth pushed Valam away, forced the prince to parry against his thrust.
“When I first handed you the sword you acted as if you had never seen one before yet in the images from your homeland I saw numerous weapons.”
Seth switched from thoughts to words. “It is the workmanship of the blade. It is so different from our own. The metal is different, dull and black. I remember ours as bright silver, and it is also the first time I had ever held a weapon.”
“That is strange for me to conceive,” Valam said through clenched teeth, “I have had a weapon of one sort or another in my hand ever since I was old enough to carry the weight.”
Seth started to pass a thought on to Valam, paused to concentrate on his movements and steady his balance. “The Brotherhood doesn’t use weapons. We rely on our skill of movement in weaponless combat. The techniques can be quite effective, as you’ve seen.”
Valam’s assaults grew quicker, harsher. “But how can one fight an enemy who uses a skill which we do not possess?”
“What do you mean?” asked Seth confused, reading mixed emotion in Valam’s words.
“None of my people have your skill of hand. We cannot hope to match you on the field.” Valam lunged at Seth with great vigor.
Seth’s expression grew rigid. He stopped abruptly; luckily Valam pulled his thrust back at the last moment. Seth contemplated the question for a space, he understood Valam was agitated and he wanted to respond correctly. Valam, it is not so. I have explained to you about the Brotherhood, only a select few are chosen, as it is with our enemy, and though the will of the land is in every living thing, few can harness those powers as we do. We would not have come if the need was not great. Queen Mother has seen the paths and she knows what will come without your aid.
Seth chose swordplay as an alternative to further explanation, then changed the subject. Are you going to tell me where you disappeared to?
“Just probe my thoughts, you will anyway.”
“That’s not fair, what has happened? This is not like you, Valam. Has something happened in council that you’re not telling me about?”
Valam slowed the attack to respond, shifting quietly while he spoke. He countered Seth’s jab. “The delegates left Imtal immediately after speaking to my father.”
“They withdrew the offer of support they had hinted of, did they not?”
Valam lowered his sword, took a step toward Seth, speaking in a hushed tone, “This must stay between you and I, not even Adrina must know of this.”
“Agreed.”
“King Jarom requested a gathering. It means he seeks the seat of power which Great Kingdom has always held.”
“Or he has some other plan.” Valam pushed for Seth to explain. Seth turned away. “Tell me, Prince Valam, what does the winner of this competition get?”
“Beyond respect?”
“Beyond respect.”
“Is there anything beyond respect? Don’t you see? Your cause needs popular support and there is no better way to gain such support. People from all corners of the land and beyond attend.”
Then we practice for the competitions.
“No, we practice for ourselves,” Valam said striking out with his sword. “I await my father’s decision.”
* * *
Vilmos’ feet hurt from the rocks underfoot and because of the breakneck pace of his abductor. Several times he told the priest he wouldn’t run but the priest, not listening, only told him to keep quiet or he would stuff a gag in his mouth—a thing Vilmos was starting to believe would happen.
Eventually they stopped while the priest gathered his bearings. Afterward, though, it was back to the double-time march through the streets, passing almost to the outskirts of the city. Vilmos wasn’t sure which side of the city they were on. It was difficult for him to get his bearings in Under-Earth as there was no sun to mark direction. It did seem, though, that he was on the opposite side of the city from where he had entered.
The priest stopped, crossed the street, pulled Vilmos behind him. The building they stood in front of was different from those around it. It was built with white stones instead of black and had a single spire that rose into the sky hundreds of feet, making it the tallest building Vilmos had seen in the city.
The priest pushed Vilmos through the front door, sending him sprawling into a darkened antechamber. Vilmos lay still, unmoving. The antechamber’s windows were coaled over and allowed no natural light to filter in. He prayed as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, wondering what the hand attached to his collar would do next.
The room swayed as he was raised from his haunches and thrust into another room, one lit by a conglomerate of lanterns whose dull, yellow spray scarcely touched the darkness. The room held a sense of foreboding. A group of darkly clad men sat at a table talking in hushed tones.
Afraid to move, Vilmos lay motionless as the group of men gathered around him, staring down at him. He knew that beneath the shadows of black the hooded robes afforded were eyes that held loathing. He could sense it.
“Can you believe it, Talem?” hissed his abductor. “All this way to find a mere boy.”
“Are you sure?” answered Talem, lowering his hood to reveal his face as he did so.
Vilmos gasped. If there was one thing he knew for certain about the priests, it was that the hood was not to be removed. He had never seen so many of the priests in one place. At most he had seen two of the dark priests together and even that had been only on one occasion, an occasion that had sent his father into a hysterical frenzy.
“Yes, I’m sure. He was where you said he would be and he followed the lure.”
“I don’t know,” said another, prodding Vilmos with sharp, stubby fingers. “I see nothing of the mystics, only a boy. Lord Boets will be displeased.”
The priests started to debate over him as if he was some kind of prize. They decided to take a knife to him to see if that sparked a response.
He watched a priest withdraw a shiny blade from a black sheath. The priest’s steady hand brought the blade closer and closer.
Terror gripped his mind, holding him while the blade’s fine edge sliced into his arm. The icy sting of pain and the touch of his own warm blood came to him as through a vision. He did not flinch, whimper, or offer anything for them to gawk at. It was as if he looked in on another’s dream.
“Go ahead, kill him,” said one of the priests, disappointment in his voice.
Another objected, “Why? He’s not the one.”
“We can’t just turn him to the streets. We have to kill him.”
Vilmos was trembling. Only now that the threat of death loomed near did the happenings seem real. He tried to beg for his life, but his pleas only brought laughter.