Sword Masters (2 page)

When most of the bunks were full, Master Justin walked in with Harris at his side.

"There are many rules you will be expected to follow if you are to become a Swordmaster of the Jethrik, and you will learn them all in your first term here. These are the rules for the barracks. You will only be told the rules this once, and after that you will be expected to remember. Breaking the rules of the barracks is grounds for dismissal, so listen up." Justin cleared his throat and continued.

"First, a swordsman must be always clean. Clean in mind, clean in deed, clean in person. You will bathe weekly, and your clothes and personal effects shall be kept clean and in order. There is no excuse for untidiness." He looked right at Tarius when he said that last bit, and Tarius squirmed. "Second, a swordsman can not afford to be careless. If you break something through your carelessness, it will be your duty to restore it in its entirety. Third, no food, drink or women are allowed in the barracks," Justin said. "If you have errands to be run or any other incidentals, young Harris will attend to them. Meals will be served three times a day in the mess hall, morning, midday and evening. If you are late for a meal you will not be fed until the next one, so I suggest you don't tarry. Uniforms and bed linens will be picked up once a week for cleaning on Friday afternoon. These will only be picked up if they are lying in a bundle at the foot of your bed. Failure to clean your uniforms or bed linens is reason for immediate dismissal."

Rules upon rules
! Tarius wasn't used to rules, especially not Jethrik rules, they seemed strange and uncalled for. Tarius's father had sworn by this academy—by these people. Tarius had to trust that Jabon had been right, and that belonging to them was the best way to fight the Amalite Horde, but right now Tarius just wasn't so sure.

"All that said, I suggest you prepare for the evening meal. Directly afterwards you will go to the main hall where you will be given your uniforms, and . . ." again he stared at Tarius, " . . . proper hair cuts. You have a few minutes to put your things away, and then Harris will show you to the mess hall."

Finally finshed, the older fighter turned on his heel and left.

"Hey, cripple!" a big red headed boy screamed at Harris. "Come over here and help me unpack my gear."

The lame boy limped over to help, and the red headed boy purposely tripped him. Tarius had been sitting on the bed, but was standing in an instant.

"Let the boy be!" Tarius said, glaring at the redhead across the expanse of the room.

The boy took several steps towards Tarius and stopped. He laughed and said, "What sort of a man are you supposed to be?"

"Just leave the boy alone. Let him do his job in peace," Tarius said as if already bored with the whole situation.

The red-headed boy closed the distance between them quickly. He glared into Tarius's face. "I asked you a question. What sort of a man are you?"

Tarius silently caught the antagonizer's gaze and held it, a smile curling the Kartik lips ever so slightly.

The red-headed boy stopped in mid stride. The cold black eyes of this wild stranger seemed to glare through him. He raised his fist even as a fear he couldn't explain gripped his very soul.

"Go ahead; do it," Tarius hissed through clenched teeth.

Although fear gripped the young man's throat like a vice, he could not deny this dare. He swung on the strange boy who challenged him in front of a room full of his peers.

Tarius grabbed the much larger boy's fist mere inches from impact, twisted quickly, pushed back and brought him to his knees. Tarius grabbed the boy's elbow with his other hand, forced his arm straight and shoved down hard. The boy let out a scream, and Tarius stood away letting him fall to the floor.

"You Kartik freak! You've broken my sword arm!" he screamed in pain.

Some of the other boys moved in for a closer look. Not so close though that the stranger might get the idea that they were challenging him.

Tarius looked up at them and gave them a wild, untamed look, and through clenched teeth hissed out. "I'm the sort of man who isn't afraid to fight for what I believe is right! I'm the sort of man that would just as soon kill you as put up with your crap."

"Help me!" the boy on the floor screamed. "Someone help me! My arm is broken!"

"It's not broken," Tarius assured him. "I'll put it back in place—if you apologize to the boy."

"Apologize to a servant!"

"Or I leave you like that," Tarius assured him.

"I'm sorry," he spat in Harris's direction.

"Your apology lacks sincerity," Tarius hissed.

"For all the gods' sake. I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Tarius put a foot in the wounded boy's armpit, grabbed his hand and gave a quick yank, pulling the dislocated arm back into place.

The boy all but passed out from the immediate relief, but feeling better, he was mad all over again. He jumped up and glared at Tarius.

"You used magic on me," he accused.

"He used Simbala on you," a tall, thin boy said, edging from the back of the crowd. "It's a Kartik marshal art form." They all looked at him and he shrugged. "I've seen my father and my brothers practice it."

With much mumbling they all went back to their unpacking. Tarius had picked the bed at the end against the wall, and not too surprisingly the bed next door was still empty. Suddenly the boy with knowledge of Simbala walked over, threw his stuff on the bed and started unpacking.

"I'm Tragon," he said, turning and holding out his hand to Tarius. Tarius took the offered hand and shook it much in the same way he had shaken Darian's hand, and Tragon smiled. He was obviously taking the 'shaking' part literally.

"My name is Tarius."

Tragon laughed. "Everyone knows who you are already. My father fought with your father at the battle of Riksdale. My father is Kliton of Brakston Ridge."

"I believe my father spoke of him," Tarius said. It was a lie. Jabon never talked of the men he fought with in the Jethrik, not by name anyway. They weren't his people any more than they were Tarius's, and while he cared for them as comrades in arms, he had never felt like he was a part of them. It was only their common cause that brought them together. A common enemy that Jabon couldn't fight on his own then, any more than Tarius could fight it alone now. The Amalites and their horrors were the world's problem, and their annihilation the duty of any decent fighter.

"My father said your father slew five hundred Amalites at the battle of Riksdale," Tragon said.

"I doubt it was that many," Tarius said with a slight smile.

"Even half that many would be a great feat," Tragon said excitedly.

Tarius looked at Tragon and realized suddenly that this rather handsome young man was neither afraid nor intimidated. He wasn't as ignorant as the others and so believed he had nothing to fear from Tarius. He seemed to
want
to be close to Tarius, and this could be problematic.

* * *

Dinner had been nutritious and tasteless. The uniforms were plain blue puffy pants, black stirrup boots, and plain long-sleeved white tunics, which offered no protection at all. Tarius was accustomed to wearing armor as clothing, and this stuff made Tarius feel almost naked. Normally in the Kartik this would have been no problem, but under the circumstances this was the last thing Tarius needed.

The haircut was worse. What protection did Tarius now have for the head area? What padding for a helmet? Everything these people did seemed to make no sense at all.

Tarius lay fully clothed on top of the bedclothes, the sword drawn and lying beside the fighter. The lights were doused, and Tarius lay alone in the dark.

Tarius's mind raced.
What the hell was I thinking? I can't pull this off! I'm the only woman in a room with twenty-four men. A room where no woman is allowed. These people's ways are strange; they are crazy! Women are treated like a different species here. How can I hide my secrets from all these people when I live with them? Thank the one who has no name that they didn't make us strip!

She looked over at where Tragon lay on his bed.
He's followed me around like a puppy all night. I wonder if he knows. He damn near came in the shower with me. No locks on the doors; it's only a matter of time till I get caught. All this bathing . . . what a waste! I'll have to find some other place to bathe. I am caught up in my father's curse. Forced to live with these strange, basically stupid people, hiding all that I am so that I can do my part to weed the Amalites from the world, and gain my revenge.

"Tarius, you asleep?" Tragon asked in a whisper.

The sudden sound of his voice had made her jump, and her hand had automatically gripped her sword. "No, I'm not," she answered.

"I can't sleep, either," he said. "It's not easy is it?"

"What?" Tarius asked not understanding the question.

"To be the son of a great fighting tradition. Every male member of my family has been a Swordmaster of the Jethrik. My father, my uncles, my two older brothers—all have been great warriors. My father is a Knight, and doubtless my brothers would have been knighted as well if they hadn't died in the Battle of Garrison. I am all that's left to carry on the tradition. I . . . I'm afraid. If I don't make the cut, I will disgrace my household. I'm not very good. In fact, I'm sort of clumsy. I am also afraid of dying, and I have no wish no desire to fight."

This was the reason the boy had been drawn to her, because he felt a camaraderie. They both had their fathers reputations to live up to, but it was fair to say that Tarius didn't really understand the boy's problem. "You should go into farming and raise sons who might carry on your great fighting tradition."

"And disgrace my family!" Tragon gasped in disbelief.

"Why would that disgrace your family?" Tarius asked. "People can fight or they can't fight. It's in you, or it's not. If you die without producing children, then the line dies with you and no good fighting people can ever come from you again."

"Wow! You really
are
a foreigner," Tragon scoffed.

"If you were to marry a woman who came from a good fighting line but couldn't fight herself, then chances are your off-spring would be very good fighters," Tarius explained.

Tragon laughed almost too loudly then. "Women fighting! Women don't fight."

"Kartik women fight," Tarius said plainly. She was surprised at how utterly ignorant of Kartik culture these people were. After all, Orion Harbor was less than a days ride from here and it was always teaming with Kartik sailors and traders.

"Oh, now you are pulling my leg," Tragon said.

"No I'm not. My own mother was a fine swordswoman until an Amalite thug ran her through," Tarius said.

"If you say so." Tragon yawned sleepily. "If I don't become a Swordmaster I will disgrace my family, my father will never forgive me, and I will be disinherited. Penniless, with no skills to sell."

"You only
think
you have problems," Tarius mumbled.

"What's that?" Tragon asked.

"Relax. The more you think about fighting the worse you will be at it. It has to come from somewhere within. You see your sword as an inanimate object, something separate from yourself. Your sword must become part of you. As if your arm continued on past your fingers. As if the blade were a mixing of bone and flesh and steel. When you feel as if you have lost a part of yourself every time you sheath your sword, then the rest will come naturally."

* * *

When Harris woke them for breakfast the next morning, Tragon looked over and found that Tarius was already gone. He dressed hurriedly and rushed to the mess hall to find Tarius already there, obviously freshly bathed, dressed, and looking so wide awake that Tragon decided that at least for the moment he hated him. Even wearing the academy uniform Tarius stuck out like a sore thumb. So dark, so different, his sword on his back. If nothing else none of the rest of them carried steel. At least nothing more than a small dirk at their waist.

When they were all seated breakfast was brought to them. Tragon sat across from Tarius.

"What time did you get up? Are you trying to make points or something?"

Tarius shrugged, stuffing food in his mouth however it would go down. He didn't bother to answer Tragon.

Justin walked up behind Tarius and cleared his throat. "Tarius?" Justin addressed him.

"Yes, Sir," Tarius answered.

Justin picked up the fork and put it into Tarius's hand.

"Make us all happy by learning to use a fork and spoon as well as you use a sword," Justin half scolded. He walked away, and Tragon laughed.

* * *

Tarius glared at the boy, who fell silent, then looked around her at everyone else, obviously studying how they were eating. Then she quietly copied them, though it seemed a horrible waste of effort to her.

Tarius watched out of the corner of her eye as Darian entered and started talking to Justin. They were looking at her, and she squirmed inwardly. She was afraid at any minute they would figure her out. If only she at least looked like the others, but she didn't. She was Kartik, and she looked and acted Kartik. She didn't even eat like they did.

* * *

"Well, how are they doing?" Darian asked.

"Fairly well, all and all. Tarius is going to be a problem, Darian. He's
too
different," Justin reported. "Last night there was an altercation in the barracks. Young Derek tripped Harris, and Tarius took exception. On top of everything else, he is apparently a follower of the nameless god. The altercation ended with Tarius dislocating Derek's arm using Kartik Simbala. He only repaired it after Derek apologized to the boy."

"That sounds like grounds for dismissing Derek, not Tarius," Darian said.

"He sleeps in all his clothes with his sword across his chest. He eats with his hands. He's strange in a way I can't quite put my finger on, and I'm afraid the others will never accept him," Justin said.

"Kliton's son, Tragon, seems to have accepted him just fine."

"Then what of the sword, Darian? None of the other boys are armed yet. It must be intimidating for them knowing that Tarius, who can pull their arms out of socket like it was nothing, is also carrying around a bastard sword with—of all things—his
finger
in the hilt."