Take care when you strike a blow, because a dull
steel edge can still cut.
“Now. This man here . . .”
Beckett turned, indicating the tall stranger, who stepped forward,
“. . . is Lord Hwatok Tulalane, a twoname . He
is a clansman, and a guest of Elhiyne. Furthermore, he is an
accomplished swordsman and has entered into service with House
Elhiyne. If you disobey him, you disobey me.”
Morgin sized up the stranger: a big man,
with a hawk face and deep set eyes. Not as old as old Beckett, but
older than twenty-two year old MichaelOff, his face was weathered
and lined with experience. A scar bisected his left cheek, not a
scar like the three pocks on Morgin’s face, the result of the filth
that had been his home in the city, but a clean sharp line of a
scar, put there by some weapon. It was the stranger’s eyes, though,
that were his most distinct feature, and Morgin wondered what lay
behind them. But then he realized those eyes were looking at him,
probing him as if they could see to the layers beneath the outer
skin, and he looked away.
“Pay attention, master Morgin,” Beckett
bellowed. The other boys chuckled quietly, for Morgin was always
the one to be caught daydreaming. “Watch closely, all of you. Lord
Hwatok and Lord MichaelOff will give a demonstration of what you
will be striving to achieve. Now clear out of the way and give them
room.”
The boys moved to the edge of the practice
yard. MichaelOff and the stranger removed their sword belts and
other items that might hinder them, then unsheathed their swords
and began warming up.
While the two men were preparing for their
mock combat, Morgin asked JohnEngine, “What’s a twoname ?”
“A clansman who claims allegiance to no one
clan,” JohnEngine said. “They usually wander about, often selling
their services to a clan where they have some ties.”
“They’re mercenary wizards then?” Morgin
asked.
“Some,” JohnEngine whispered. “But not all.
Most are more particular than mercenaries about who they sell their
services to. And the services they sell aren’t necessarily the
sword and battle. They’re supposed to be good advisers.”
“If he bears no allegiance to the clan,”
Morgin asked, “can he be trusted?”
JohnEngine shrugged. “Grandmother must think
so. He’s . . .”
“JohnEngine,” Beckett hollered. “Pay
attention. And Morgin. Stop bothering your brother.”
There were no chuckles from the other boys
this time, for their attention was wholly taken by the two
contestants. MichaelOff and the Tulalane bowed, then squared off in
the center of the yard, neither of them at all serious about the
match. Each used a lightweight rapier with a simple cross-hilt, the
preferred weapon among the clans, and without ceremony they began
trading blows sword against sword, testing each other’s
defenses.
The ring of steel came slowly at first, in
an almost dance-like cadence. Morgin could not look away, for both
men were quickly well into the fight, beads of sweat forming on
their faces as they struck at each other again and again. They were
blurs of motion in the swirling dust of the yard, the rhythm of the
battle unchanging, each ring of steel deliberate, controlled. But
then suddenly the blows came faster—slash, parry, strike, repeat.
Magic hung in the air; the shimmer of power was palpable. The two
swordsmen moved with inhuman swiftness, almost vanishing from one
spot to appear instantly in another. Then, abruptly, the contest
ended.
MichaelOff made a slash, which the stranger
did not oppose. Instead, he back-stepped, avoiding the blow,
sliding his own sword behind MichaelOff’s blade, adding to the
momentum of the slash. MichaelOff over swung his stroke, and to
maintain balance was forced to expose his side to the stranger. The
stranger completed the move by slamming his forearm into the back
of MichaelOff’s shoulders, sending him sprawling face down in the
dust of the yard.
There was a moment during which both
steel edge can still cut.
“Now. This man here . . .”
Beckett turned, indicating the tall stranger, who stepped forward,
“. . . is Lord Hwatok Tulalane, a twoname . He
is a clansman, and a guest of Elhiyne. Furthermore, he is an
accomplished swordsman and has entered into service with House
Elhiyne. If you disobey him, you disobey me.”
Morgin sized up the stranger: a big man,
with a hawk face and deep set eyes. Not as old as old Beckett, but
older than twenty-two year old MichaelOff, his face was weathered
and lined with experience. A scar bisected his left cheek, not a
scar like the three pocks on Morgin’s face, the result of the filth
that had been his home in the city, but a clean sharp line of a
scar, put there by some weapon. It was the stranger’s eyes, though,
that were his most distinct feature, and Morgin wondered what lay
behind them. But then he realized those eyes were looking at him,
probing him as if they could see to the layers beneath the outer
skin, and he looked away.
“Pay attention, master Morgin,” Beckett
bellowed. The other boys chuckled quietly, for Morgin was always
the one to be caught daydreaming. “Watch closely, all of you. Lord
Hwatok and Lord MichaelOff will give a demonstration of what you
will be striving to achieve. Now clear out of the way and give them
room.”
The boys moved to the edge of the practice
yard. MichaelOff and the stranger removed their sword belts and
other items that might hinder them, then unsheathed their swords
and began warming up.
While the two men were preparing for their
mock combat, Morgin asked JohnEngine, “What’s a twoname ?”
“A clansman who claims allegiance to no one
clan,” JohnEngine said. “They usually wander about, often selling
their services to a clan where they have some ties.”
“They’re mercenary wizards then?” Morgin
asked.
“Some,” JohnEngine whispered. “But not all.
Most are more particular than mercenaries about who they sell their
services to. And the services they sell aren’t necessarily the
sword and battle. They’re supposed to be good advisers.”
“If he bears no allegiance to the clan,”
Morgin asked, “can he be trusted?”
JohnEngine shrugged. “Grandmother must think
so. He’s . . .”
“JohnEngine,” Beckett hollered. “Pay
attention. And Morgin. Stop bothering your brother.”
There were no chuckles from the other boys
this time, for their attention was wholly taken by the two
contestants. MichaelOff and the Tulalane bowed, then squared off in
the center of the yard, neither of them at all serious about the
match. Each used a lightweight rapier with a simple cross-hilt, the
preferred weapon among the clans, and without ceremony they began
trading blows sword against sword, testing each other’s
defenses.
The ring of steel came slowly at first, in
an almost dance-like cadence. Morgin could not look away, for both
men were quickly well into the fight, beads of sweat forming on
their faces as they struck at each other again and again. They were
blurs of motion in the swirling dust of the yard, the rhythm of the
battle unchanging, each ring of steel deliberate, controlled. But
then suddenly the blows came faster—slash, parry, strike, repeat.
Magic hung in the air; the shimmer of power was palpable. The two
swordsmen moved with inhuman swiftness, almost vanishing from one
spot to appear instantly in another. Then, abruptly, the contest
ended.
MichaelOff made a slash, which the stranger
did not oppose. Instead, he back-stepped, avoiding the blow,
sliding his own sword behind MichaelOff’s blade, adding to the
momentum of the slash. MichaelOff over swung his stroke, and to
maintain balance was forced to expose his side to the stranger. The
stranger completed the move by slamming his forearm into the back
of MichaelOff’s shoulders, sending him sprawling face down in the
dust of the yard.
There was a moment during which both
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