Rise and Fall (29 page)

Chapter 12

Notch. Draw. Aim. Release.

The steady rhythm with a bow brought him peace in a way that few things could match. With it in his hand, the world around him no longer existed.

In Tobin’s youth, his Uncle Cef had been responsible for schooling the potential Kifzo warriors. A harsh man, he would push the recruits every waking moment, leaving little time for them to think about anything other than their task. After Tobin’s uncle died, the training of the youth shifted to the veterans. It was understood that the older warriors knew what was expected of them and so no longer were they forced to keep as strict of a schedule.

Tobin recalled hating that single-mindedness of his uncle’s methods. How ironic that he duplicated such a schedule now. Without Kaz hovering over him, Tobin had become his own staunchest competitor, rising before dawn and working well past dusk.

Notch. Draw. Aim. Release.

Since the night he found Nachun kneeling before his brother’s body, Tobin had only spoken to his father once, that next morning. As expected, Bazraki had wanted him to confirm Nachun’s story surrounding the previous night’s events which he did.

Bazraki also used the time to finally probe Tobin about what he had discovered during his time with Nachun since Nubinya. To his surprise, the discussion was not as intense as he had expected. Tobin found a way to give enough information to his father without casting Nachun in a negative light. Yet, Tobin felt relieved when he finished.

Tobin and Nachun had barely spoken since that night in the bowels of the palace. In fact, Tobin purposefully avoided him, though he never stopped long enough to consider why.

Notch. Draw. Aim. Release.

Tobin had kept his distance from Lucia as well. When their paths happened to cross, he would feign deafness or quickly seek a place to hide in order to avoid her. Undeterred by his behavior, Lucia took to sending him messages, asking that they meet for dinner. Tobin declined each offer without explanation, through the use of a messenger.

He shook his head. The thoughts he tried to shun somehow had crept back into his mind. He narrowed in on the target.

Notch. Draw. Aim. Release.

Tobin’s newfound commitment to preparation was intended to separate him from the others, but in some ways the plan backfired. Other Kifzo had noted his new training habits and he found himself no longer alone in keeping such lengthy hours. Tobin didn’t know if it was out of inadequacy, competition, or guilt that his fellow Kifzo joined him for his marathon sessions but the training yard beamed with activity each and every day. Yet Tobin only desired to revel in its silence.

He snorted.
When have I ever gotten what I wanted? None of it really matters. In fact, nothing matters anymore.
His eyes squinted to the farthest target out; one that only a few in his whole clan could reach.

Notch. Draw. Aim. Release.

The edges of his mouth turned up.

* * *

Tobin closed each day with the sword. Practicing while already fatigued forced him to narrow his focus. He ran through the memorized drills his uncle had taught him while seeking a way to compensate for his hindered footwork. The self-imposed challenge seemed to rejuvenate his interest with the weapon. He worked later and later each night, sometimes only by the light of the moon. He failed to pinpoint the cause to his sudden rededication.

Perhaps it’s because Kaz is no longer here to ridicule me at every turn.

Sessions had begun with Tobin working on his forms alone. But as his confidence grew, he realized he needed more of a challenge, understanding that with such isolation, he only limited himself. So, putting aside his fears, he made use of the practice circles that he had shunned for so long.

Dozens of fenced-in practice circles were grouped in the southwest corner of the practice yard, butted against Juanoq’s southern walls. Looming overhead, the fortifications cast long shadows over the grunting combatants below. The cacophony of clashing weapons filled Tobin’s ears as he twisted the sword in his hand, dodging a flurry of blows.

Tobin knew Walor would work with him, rather than against him. As an accomplished swordsman, Walor used his compact size and quickness to dart around and between his opponent’s defenses. The head scout’s style challenged Tobin’s hampered mobility.

Parrying one of Walor’s thrusts, Tobin countered with a slash of his own. Walor ducked under the blow, then sidestepped Tobin’s next swing. A grin crept across Walor’s face as he leaped backward to circumvent yet another of Tobin’s attacks.

The two paused, circling each other around the crude fence that enclosed the practice circle. Walor jerked his head off to the side and a loud pop followed. “Ah, there it is.”

“Am I boring you so much that you can stretch during our match?” said Tobin, lifting his arm to wipe sweat from his brow.

“Actually, I was just thinking how much better you’ve gotten. A week ago, you would have left yourself open after the upward cut, but this time you kept pressing.”

“So, what you’re saying is that I’ve shaken your confidence?”

Walor’s grin widened. “Hardly.” He jumped forward, bringing his sword down. Tobin clacked his practice sword away.

Got him.

As Walor landed, Tobin moved to separate their weapons by pushing off with his boot. But Walor rolled, tumbling to the dirt, limbs snaking out in a blur of motion. A moment later, Tobin rested on his back, staring up at the gloomy night. Walor stood over him and the light from the torches lining the circle danced off his face. Walor’s sword hovered inches from Tobin’s face. He smiled. “You’re dead.”

“Again,” Tobin said with a sigh.

“You’re improving each time though. Before long your swordsmanship will rival your skill with a bow,” said Walor offering a hand to Tobin.

“Don’t patronize me, Walor.” Tobin stood up and winced as he put weight on his ankle.

“I thought I went for your good leg,” said Walor, looking down.

“You did. I must have twisted it when I fell,” said Tobin, throwing his sword down in frustration.

“We need to keep focusing on your strengths,” said Walor, as if reading his thoughts.

A deep laugh roared up from behind the two Kifzo. Tobin turned and saw Durahn leaning over a post on the far side of the practice ring, his bullish head bobbing with each guffaw.

“Look at you two. It almost makes me wish your brother was around, Tobin. I can only imagine what he would say now with Walor fawning over you like some woman.”

Tobin’s eyes narrowed and his hands closed into fists.

Durahn laughed louder. “Maybe a kiss will make that ankle of yours better.”

If only the ankle was healed Durahn…If only.

“I was told to let you know that El Olam, or whatever your father is calling himself these days, wishes to see you,” said Durahn, calming himself. “Sooner rather than later,” he added before walking away, chuckling again.

“I wish Kaz had killed him when he had the chance,” said Walor in a low tone.

Tobin turned away, exiting the practice circle with a heavy limp. He heard Walor call out, but ignored him.
Durahn is right. Kaz would call me weak if he saw me now.
Tobin picked up his pace despite the pain. Cursing under his breath with each step, he did his best to mask the injury.
You don’t even need to be here to cause me grief, do you, Brother?

He weaved through the maze of practice circles, skirting around the much larger areas where full-scale battle sequences commenced. Terrain, group size, and weapon choices, varied in an effort to account for as many scenarios as possible. Instituted years ago by Tobin’s uncle, the younger warriors looked forward to the competitions to prove they were ready to enter battle. The more experienced warriors betted on those involved now that they no longer participated in such things.

Tobin had excelled in those competitions as a youth. He had bested Kaz on several occasions when given the chance to lead a squad on his own. Once Kaz became Warleader everything changed. His uncle had always been against Kaz’s harsh treatment of Tobin and wanted them to put aside their differences. But Bazraki was explicit—as Warleader, Kaz answered to no one but him.

At least uncle attempted to set things right before he passed. More than I can say for my own father.

Tobin never understood why Bazraki dropped the issue of finding his uncle’s killer so quickly.

We knew he was poisoned. And yet, Father never even allowed a shaman or healer to examine the body. “We have no time for the dead.”
He snorted, realizing where Kaz had picked up the saying.

Tobin shook his head, mulling that thought over, as he walked by the armory and into the onsite barracks used to house the Kifzo still in training.

He searched only two days for the killer of his wife’s brother. Without Uncle Cef, Father would have never gained control of the Blue Island Clan.
He found it remarkable that after a month, Bazraki continued his search to find Kaz.

He started to clean up before seeing Bazraki. Alone, he stared down the rows of empty cots where he himself had once slept. Memories flashed before his eyes. Few were pleasant.

* * *

Tobin left the training compound and made his way across the dirt roads littered with beggars and trash of the city’s oldest district. The dilapidated buildings that filled the quarter were tucked behind the more regal structures that lined Juanoq’s main street. Many chose to forget this area of the city and its significance. Long before Bazraki united the Blue Island Clan, this small borough housed nearly the entirety of the city’s population. But as Juanoq expanded and the Blue Island Clan prospered, most of the original populace moved out of the old neighborhoods and into districts far more impressive. Now, only the downtrodden called this area home.

Would it kill Father to rebuild this section into something that would match the rest of Juanoq?
Tobin shook his head, stepping over the corpse of a dead dog, flies feasting on its rotting flesh.
No, he never speaks of the time before he seized power. It’s as if he believes it has always been the way it is now.

Dirt roads gave way to stone avenues as Tobin turned onto the main street. Having left behind the dregs of Juanoq, it felt like stepping into a different world. Free of garbage and waste, Tobin failed to see even a piece of horse dung from the clattering merchant carts along the cobblestone thoroughfare. The walls around him stood tall and strong, covered in intricate designs. Ornamental stained glass protected first floor windows from prying eyes rather than the broken shudders of older homes. Even past dusk, no beggars dared to find a night’s rest here lest the city watch throw them in jail.

Tobin had not yet seen all of Hesh, but according to Nachun, nothing compared to the beauty that Bazraki had created in Juanoq. Even Nubinya, a paradise, or so its name claimed, seemed insignificant.

And to think that most of this we created without the aid of other clans.
He had to give his father credit for how far the Blue Island Clan had come in such a short time.
He was driven by anger then, embarrassed by how we were viewed by the other clans. I wonder if it is anger that still drives him now.

Tobin passed twin watchtowers that flanked either side of the main street. Housing most of the city watch, the large towers stood at Juanoq’s core. Bazraki wanted his main force in the center to more easily distribute people in case of a major disturbance. Tobin doubted the possibility of such a disturbance. With a system of stringent laws that Bazraki vehemently enforced, even the poorest citizens avoided testing them.

Such inactivity led to a force often bored, one that became easily distracted. The guards were caught on more than one occasion visiting Juanoq’s more extravagant bathhouses while on shift, or gambling into the night at the garrison. But Tobin had seen very little of that behavior as of late, and tonight appeared no different.

His gaze traveled up the inward sloping tower walls and saw only a handful of lights still on. His father had devoted every spare man into discerning Kaz’s whereabouts, some sent out of the city.

Amazing how no one has even come close to discovering the truth.

After a series of sharp turns, Tobin reached the palace’s outer gates. One of his father’s personal guards waited at attention with spear and shield in hand. He met Tobin with a bow and then led him through the courtyard and into the inner gates before traversing the network of confusion. As the two ascended and descended several staircases while taking twisting corridors that turned back on themselves, he found himself questioning the ineptitude of the palace’s designers more than usual.

Why does Father allow such nonsense?

Finally, after reaching a wide staircase, the guardsmen stopped at the threshold of an open door, announcing Tobin’s arrival.

Nachun acknowledged Tobin with a slight nod but Bazraki looked past his son, dismissing the guards with a wave of his hand. His father turned as if Tobin wasn’t there and continued his conversation. He spoke with a different group, not his usual gaggle of advisors.

It appeared that the assembly consisted of craftsmen, predominately blacksmiths. Each listened intently as Bazraki went over a sheet of parchment while he pointed at various items spread on a table. Tobin tried to listen in, but the room was far too crowded. Since he had not received permission to join the conversation, Tobin watched from the room’s entrance, surprised to see Nachun interrupt from time to time.

He grows so bold. Only Kaz would get away with speaking so freely around Father before.

Isolated from the exchange, Tobin’s eyes wandered around the room. Several large maps adorned the walls, varying in size and focus. Each detailed a different clan’s territory. The largest map engulfed one wall in its entirety, showing all of Hesh west of the Great Divide. Below the maps, atop shelves and tables sat neatly organized stacks of parchments.