Steel And Flame (Book 1) (71 page)

The noble pair also spotted the movement.  They
spurred their mounts, bullying past Edwin and Hayden.  Annoyed, insulted, for
proper procedure demanded
no one
passed the lead men, they chased after
their young charges.  Undoubtedly these two barely-men were fourth or fifth sons,
here to demonstrate their house’s loyalty to the king by sending their own,
while risking none of the immediate heirs.

And both spoiled rotten too, no doubt.  The two
shouted and hollered, scaring the nearby game worse than the beaters would
have.  Startled, the deer, a young buck growing its first rack, leapt away
while they began shooting.

If either could shoot with any accuracy, they
concealed the fact well.  They did manage to hit the young stag, except it was
an ugly gut wound.  It would not kill the animal until it had run in pain for
several miles, terrified and suffering.  The youngsters spurred after it, one
heading his mount straight into a patch of blackberry brambles.

Angry at the horse’s hesitancy and not caring one whit
for it, he kicked it repeatedly with his spurs until it tore itself loose with
several shrill whinnies.  Its coat bled in places from nose to tail, from
withers to fetlocks, but the moron hardly seemed to notice.

Edwin rode forward to retake the lead.  The first
youngster, the one who had not just nearly ruined his mount for good, snarled
at his presumption.  “This is
my
kill, huntsman.  Stay back with the
rest of these bush-beaters and out of my way!”

He charged into the Reaches after the young stag while
his friend ripped free from the last brambles to tear along after.

“I hope they stumble over a root and crush their
heads,” Edwin swore to Hayden during their pursuit.

“The horses don’t deserve that.”

“Then I hope they take a branch across the throat and
break their necks!”

Hayden nodded in agreement.

Miles later, the stag had run itself to death.  They
found the noble pair both gloating and disappointed.  How anybody could express
pride in such an unclean shot went beyond both hunters.  Also, the boys’
disappointment stemmed from the stag’s youth.  Too young to have fathered any
offspring, the buck’s antlers were still small and growing.  Only four points
graced his crown.  The first fool kept nudging it with the toe of his boot
while they talked about what a poor trophy they had captured.

Neither showed the slightest bit of respect for their
kill.  Edwin wanted to send an arrow through both their windpipes.

“You,” one addressed Hayden.  “Have those men haul
this back to the camp.  It can go into the soldiers’ cook pot and give the men
a taste of fresh meat.”  He clearly thought this to be a tremendous act of
charity.  Nose held high, he turned to his friend.  “Come on, then.  Let’s go
find a real trophy!”

The other eagerly agreed.  Hayden placed a restraining
hand on Edwin’s arm.

If Balfourth had a taste for hunting, that is other
than hunting Fielo, then he did not indulge it.  Instead, he chose an equally
popular recreation among the nobles, known as ‘Proving You Are Better Than
Everyone Else’.  The skill he might or might not possess in this instance was
boxing.

He had been chatting with one of his blue-blooded
peers in the pavilion when the subject came up, ending in a challenge to be
carried out the next day.  Word spread, and Kerwin felt torn between his table
and the match.  In the end, he elected to stay with his table as the catapults
provided hundreds of betting opportunities while the match would only present a
handful.  The downside, the very real downside, was it meant forgoing the
pleasure of watching Balfourth get beaten into the ground.

Both combatants arrived with their seconds.  They
chose two umpires from their gathered peers, whose job it would be to judge the
match and maintain fairness, and soon both had their hands wrapped in thick
gauze they had likely stolen from a supply stock somewhere.

A different young noble marked a chalk square on the
ground while the spectators swelled to a sizable crowd.  The two seconds each
stood on their combatant’s side.  Balfourth and Roxbury, another baron’s son,
shook hands.

They backed to their sides, the two umpires gave the
nod, then they advanced as one.

Amazingly, Balfourth proved to be a capable boxer, or
at minimum a well trained one.  He kept his hands up, blocking Roxbury’s
swings, sending several back that staggered his opponent.  Roxbury fell first.

Balfourth backed off after the umpires called a fall. 
They started the count, yet Roxbury leapt up before they reached ‘two’.  Their
seconds led them back to their sides, ending the first round.

The umpires signaled a start and the two advanced for
the second round.  It too ended with Balfourth felling Roxbury after the two
circled, exchanging jabs for several minutes.  Roxbury sported a greater number
of bruises and swellings than Balfourth, who acted fairly smug about it.

Roxbury sprang to his feet as quickly as before.  The
third round began but ended in moments when Balfourth ate the dirt with a split
lip.  Roxbury shook his hand and blew on his knuckles while his second led him
back to his side.

At the end of the twenty-eighth round, Balfourth
claimed victory when Roxbury stayed down for the thirty count, and the umpires
declared him a Defeated Man.

His face looked a mess and his body felt uniformly
sore, but Balfourth had proven himself before the cheering crowd.  In his
exuberance, he ignored the few boos and hisses that ordinarily would have set
his blood to boiling.

Marik and the rest were not exuberant at all when they
heard about it.

“I would have bet against him if Kerwin had been
running the odds,” Marik said when he learned of Balfourth’s victory.  “This
proves he’s out to make my life miserable.”

An agreeing chorus filled the small tent.

As for Sloan and the others in the Fourth Unit, they
remained wary during the holiday under the enemy’s nose.  They sat sharpening
their blades, waiting for the blood to begin flowing, as it always did in the
end.

*        *        *        *        *

“Let’s go!”

In the clearing where Marik received instruction from
Colbey, he and Dietrik faced each other.  Marik used his new technique to see
how long he could hold it during a battle.

Once initiated, it required minimal thought to
maintain, but a run differed from a battle.  During a run he could let his mind
wander while his body performed its repetitive motions.  During a fight, if he
sacrificed any concentration, he would be dead in moments.

Dietrik opened with a few slow strikes, letting Marik
set the sparring pace while he switched his concentration back and forth,
testing the limits of his new stamina-boosting technique.

After several blows, Marik suddenly felt the new
energy through his body disappear.  His attention had wandered too far from
maintaining the flow.

“Hold up,” he told Dietrik, who backed off
immediately.  Marik studied himself.

“It’s no good.  After I’ve done this a few thousand
times I might not need to think about it.  For now I can only keep it up under
easy conditions.”

“Too bad,” Dietrik allowed.  “It sounds like a right
nice trick to be able to pull off.”

“It is, but it’s not going to grant me inexhaustible
stamina during the next battle.”

“Maybe you still have time to practice.  We’ve been
camped here for two and a half eightdays, and that bloody wall doesn’t look
ready to fall anytime soon.”

“I guess, but I want to try something else.  Give me a
moment.”

“Certainly,” his friend replied and began working on a
new strike series he had been considering.

Marik sat on a fallen tree and opened his magesight. 
He watched his hands while he began the visualizations Colbey had taught him.

He pictured every inch of his body, every muscle, every
sinew. His breathing slowed to a regular rhythm.  Soon, he imagined the
strength already flowing through the muscle, drawing on his stamina.  In his
mind he pictured this and increased the flow.  While he imagined it, he felt
his muscles drinking in new stamina as his imaginings became reality.

With his magesight he saw the same thing that had
happened to Colbey.  His aura had reshaped into a perfect copy of himself
rather than a glowing nimbus surrounding him.  This was the technique’s secret,
Marik now knew.

The whole technique was an exercise in self control,
the way certain monk sects were able to control their own heartbeats during
meditation.  With the visualizations as the key, Colbey had redirected the
excess energies that naturally bled off into the etheric plane, forming his
aura.  By refocusing them back into his body, he tapped an additional source of
strength.  One he depleted only slightly faster than it formed.

Marik studied his hands while opening his magesight to
its utmost.  When he did so, his vision showed him the world as it had that
first time in Tollaf’s workroom.  Rather than seeing the general aura glow, his
vision sharpened until he could discern each individual vein, every minute
forking in the paths of his personal energy network.  He saw cool, white life
flowing through his body inside the blood streams, yet it went beyond that. 
Within his muscles ran smaller networks of impossibly narrow lines.  When he
flexed his arm, his careful scrutiny revealed the thin lines bulging slightly.

He released his control over his aura and watched
closely.  His aura lost its new shape, expanding until it formed its usual
ovoid surrounding him.  No changes occurred in the smaller energy lines flowing
through his muscles, which confirmed his suspicion.

The new strength granted by his reshaped aura was
general rather than specific.  Shaped as himself and seeming to exist within
the same space, the redirected energies covered his body, seeping in the way
rain soaked through a cloak that had been insufficiently waterproofed.  They
did not flow along the actual channels within his muscles.  Instead they coated
the muscles in a layer of fresh, usable energy that the channels absorbed only
as need dictated.

Which meant his idea might work after all.

“Dietrik.”

“Yes?”  He had run through his various patterns and
performed the series he’d created the day they were first challenged by an
officer in Kingshome.  Simply ten to twelve thrusts straight at an enemy’s
chest, except Dietrik had increased his speed impressively, completing the full
dozen in four seconds.

“I’ve thought of a great name for that move.”  A faint
bearing in Dietrik’s posture, him leaning back with his hand daintily extending
the rapier, made him feel like teasing his friend.

“Oh?  And what might that be?”

“I think, ‘The Dastardly Woodpecker’s Strike’ fits it
perfectly.”

Dietrik glared.  “If you’re so interested in birds,
how do you fancy this one?”  He flipped a rude gesture at Marik that made them
both laugh briefly.

“Come over here.”

Dietrik did.  “What’s in the wind?”

“Hold out your arm.  Next to mine.”

“Why?”

“I want to compare something.”

Dietrik shrugged, holding his bare arm steady while
Marik compared the energy network running through his muscles with Dietrik’s. 
Marik’s physical strength surpassed Dietrik’s, if not by much.  As he guessed,
the channels in Dietrik’s arm were slightly thinner than his own, if only by
the slightest margin.  It required several moments of close examination before
Marik felt certain.

“Right.  I’m going to try my idea, and if I blow it I
might need you to carry me back to the tent.”

“That doesn’t sound good, mate.  Should I be worried?”

“I don’t think so,” Marik answered.  Dietrik claimed a
seat beside him on the log.  “You know how I told you Colbey’s trick increases
your strength?”

“Yes.  As I said, it sounds useful.”

“On occasions, it is.  But really, it only increases
your stamina so you can last longer, it doesn’t actually increase your
strength.  You can’t go flinging boulders at the walls yourself when the
catapult breaks down.”

“Now
that
would be an impressive sight.”

“I have an idea.  I got it the other day when I was
thinking about why Colbey’s trick works the way it does.”

“Another new technique?”

“No.  An improvement, I think, on the original idea. 
Or maybe a variation.”

“I’m all ears.”

“First, I want to use this.”  He reached down and
retrieved the sword he had taken from a wagon carrying the weapons confiscated
from the Nolier prisoners.  As swords went, it might measure up to Sennet’s
lower standards for the Kingshome armory.  Its quality surpassed Marik’s first
sword but its craftsmanship fell short of his current blade.

“I was wondering about that.  What’s the flap?”

“I don’t want to damage my sword while I test this. 
First though, I need a target.”