Nightlord: Shadows (21 page)

I really need to get my guys sashes of a special color
, I thought, regarding the crowd and trying not to be dismayed. Hats and helmets were still coming off. People were dropping to one knee in a wave, spreading outward.

I crooked a finger at a tall, gangly fellow near the front. He rose and approached.

“What are all these people doing here?” I asked.

“Why, Your Majesty said that anyone who wanted to be a knight should be here this morning to be trained. Leastaways, that’s what I was told.” He looked worried. “It was a rumor, Your Majesty, but everyone agreed about it, told the same, rather than a dozen diff’rent stories…”

“No, I said it, or something close enough,” I admitted. I didn’t have the heart to tell them to all go home. I really just wanted to help my three guys get some training and see what the orders of knighthood had on tap. I didn’t want to have open tryouts for professional combat monsters.

I spotted one guy wearing rags and a determined expression. If he had boots, he’d be trying to haul himself up by the bootstraps. Could I tell him to buzz off when he obviously hoped to turn his fortunes around?

Damned squishy red pumping thing. Too soft, that’s what it is.

“Gentlemen—and, regardless of your station, you are all gentlemen at the moment—we are about to begin a difficult, grueling, exhausting regimen. You are about to be tested in ways you will not enjoy, and for qualities and powers you may not know you possess. If, at any time, you decide that being a knight is not for you, you may walk away as though nothing happened. Go back to your lives, and thank your luck that you do not have to endure more of what is about to come.

“Make no mistake: What you are about to endure will be unpleasant, perhaps even unkind, possibly even cruel. But there is purpose behind everything that we are about to do, even though you may not know—may never know—what my purpose is.”

I looked around at them all.

“Anyone who wishes to go, please stay right here until the rest of us leave. For those of you who are determined to be knights in service to Karvalen and the King… follow me!” I clanked forward through the crowd and they parted rapidly for me. Moments later, I had a mob behind me, jogging along, trying to keep up.

We ran all the way to the western edge of Mochara, out through one of the gates, then around the northern arc of the city, back in through the north gate, out through an eastern gate over the canal, and down to the place where Timon had delivered my lumber. It was in the canal, waterlogged from floating all night. We lost several people in the process, dropouts who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—run that far.

I gave instructions to the exhausted legion—or is that a cohort? I think it’s a cohort. A legion needs a lot more men—to fish out the wood.

While they got the wood out, I took a moment to set up an ongoing cleaning spell for myself. This was going to be a hot, dirty day, and being a king is at least partly about image. I also added a spell to draw heat out of me; if I stayed cooler, I wouldn’t sweat as much, and that would help.

The branches were no trouble; the wet logs were a problem. There was no good way to pull a wet, green log up a couple of feet out of the canal. I picked two dozen men at random and got into the water. They followed me in and we lifted, rolling the logs over the lip of the canal and onto the east-side road.

We set up a makeshift training ground right there. I sliced pieces of log to form giant stakes. Others dug holes to affix these pieces upright. Branches were further trimmed and shaped. Those with helmets paired them with sets of heavy sticks.

Snapshots:

A dozen men, a log across their chests, did sit-ups in unison. A line of men held another log overhead as they marched in lockstep from the southern canal outlet to the northern edge of the town’s wall. Others did push-ups, their hands and toes on wooden supports so their bodies never touched the ground. A line of men ran or jumped along an irregular course composed of logs of varying height and thickness, set upright in the ground. A trio of men stood on a log in the canal, making it roll in the water. Runners ran into town to find and recover items we needed for further obstacles. People with long sticks—branches turned into poles between eight and ten feet long—wielded them one-handed, trying to hit a post on one side, swing the pole up and over in a circle to hit the other side, and repeat as rapidly as possible. Others crawled, ankles tied together, dragging themselves along by rolling their forearms over and over. A few practiced their sword techniques with wooden weapons.

When someone was exhausted, he switched to something else and continued.

As we worked, a few of the runners we lost in the initial jog caught up. There weren’t many, though, but I admire perseverance. They joined in and I let them. One particularly skinny guy—the raggedy fellow I’d noticed in the crowd at Tort’s front door—staggered over, fell/dove into the canal, and started to climb out; he didn’t quite make it, but he kept trying to haul himself up over the edge. One of the guys doing the logrolling fell in, boosted the skinny guy up, then got back on the log. I made a mental note of both of them.

“Majesty?” a man in armor gasped, sweat matting his hair flat to his head. He was next to me while we were doing sit-ups as a team, under a log. I participated, rather than watched, and for the same reasons as when I went running with Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar.

“Yes?”

“How long must we continue?”

“Until I say otherwise,” I replied, still going up and down.

All he said was “Yes, Majesty,” and kept at it.

Between my exercises, I ran around to the possible slackers—that is, the ones who were sitting or lying down. If they had the breath to answer me, they were slackers, and I gave them the option of going hard at it or going home. Most of them got busy. Some took the other option and wound up sitting out of the way to watch.

During a crawling race—forearm over forearm, dragging the legs, that’s the technique—the man next to me was in armor and wearing a sword, along with a red sash. As we clanked along, he took the opportunity to complain.

“This is stupid,” he said. “A knight doesn’t crawl!”

“On your feet!” I ordered, and sprang up, myself. He climbed to his feet with difficulty; each of the crawlers had a length of rope binding ankles together.

I snatched his sword from its scabbard, cut my rope, and kicked him in the side of a knee. It popped, and he cried out as he went down. I ran across the exercise field, stuck the blade in the ground, and ran back, knocked him down again, kicked him in the opposite hip, and tied his ankles back together.

“There’s the battlefield,” I told him, holding him up by the back rim of his breastplate and pointing at the activity around us. “People running around all over the place. You’re dismounted, wounded, and disarmed. It sure would be nice if you could find your sword in all this chaos, instead of lying there like a useless lump. But a knight doesn’t crawl, right?
Good thing you’re not a knight, isn’t it?
”

His face set in a grim, determined expression and he started crawling. I flopped over next to him and crawled with him.

“Come on!” I encouraged him. “A pair of trolls are coming this way! When they spot us, they’re going to eat us! Faster! We need that sword! Faster!” And we went faster. Suddenly, crawling didn’t seem so humbling.

No one laughed at him. No one. Maybe they just didn’t have the breath.

I noticed a dark-haired woman by the juncture of the canal and Mochara’s northern wall. She used a stylus on a flat board covered with a layer of wax. She was writing, possibly, or drawing. I took note of a slung instrument—it wasn’t a lute, and it wasn’t a mandolin, but sort of stuck in between the two, if that makes any sense. So, a minstrel, perhaps, or an artist. I wondered if she was a descendant of Linnaeus, and, if so, if I was about to be the subject of another epic poem.

She wasn’t the only observer. Washouts—that is, people who gave up—sat at the edge of the canal and watched. Other people came and went through the town gates; most stopped for at least a little while. A few places along the wall, heads peeped over the top. Nothing like watching a lot of people doing pointless exercise, apparently. Maybe they were watching me; I am the king, after all. I tried to ignore that and keep focused on keeping everybody in motion.

I was proud of my three, each for various reasons. Torvil was out to prove something, I think; he was always pushing himself to go faster, hit harder, last longer. Kammen seemed to just take immense pleasure in doing everything; he’s one of those people that have a disgustingly good attitude. Seldar was slugging along, trying his best; he wasn’t up to the same level as his friends, but he kept his war face on and forced himself to keep up.

Four hours later, I wasn’t all that tired, but we were down to maybe a little over two hundred people who were damned determined to be knights. Strangely, everyone who presumed to already be a knight stuck with it, although there were piles of armor where sweat had dripped all over their pretensions.

Hmm. Armor is heavy stuff. I don’t notice it so much, for two main reasons. First, I’m not a human being; I have a muscle density comparable to steel cable. Second, I wear the stuff constantly, because I don’t have anything else to wear; I’m as used to it as a pig farmer is to rubber boots.

Everyone else, on the other hand, could probably use something lighter. I’m sure we could come up with an alloy—titanium, maybe, if I can get it, or even aluminum. What about something like high-strength plastic? Kevlar? Carbon fiber? Even rigid fiberglass?

If I can get the gold for it, could I go home and
buy
some high-tech armor? The Church of Light didn’t import much from my homeworld—at least, not that I know of—but they had access to all of it. Their agents used guns, rocket launchers, all the big toys. Did they not bring over these things? If not, why not? Were they stockpiling them for a religious crusade later? Or did their god forbid it? Or did they just think it would be a bad move?

If I had Tobias handy, I wouldn’t ask him. I’d just rip him into pieces. But if I had any of the
other
high-ranking officials from the Church of Light or the Hand, maybe.

Shortly after noon, I called a halt, taught them to form a height-line, and then how to form ranks.

“Congratulations!” I told them, standing on the tallest of the balance-course logs. “You’ve successfully passed your morning of testing!”

There was a ragged, exhausted cheer.

“Those of you with healing spells, get to work. You have an hour, then we start your
afternoon
of testing! You and you, the twins,” I said, pointing out two of the current candidates, “come with me. The rest of you, get busy!”

They got busy treating themselves and each other for sprains, strains, abrasions, and contusions. The two I pointed at came to me and went to a knee.

“On your feet. Follow me.” They jogged with me northward for a bit, until I felt we were far enough away to be private.

“Okay, sit.” They sat down, back to back, and leaned on each other. It had been that kind of day.

I looked them over. Both were medium-skinny, probably about fourteen, and, in my opinion, overdressed for a hearty workout. They had their reasons for the extra clothes, though.

“Got anything to say for yourselves?” I asked. They looked at me without answering.

“All right. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” I asked. They continued to stare at me in silence.

“I don’t object,” I told them. “The
dama
of Zirafel were the bodyguards to the Imperial Family. Initially, they were chosen for their martial prowess, but they were also bred for the post, which required both men and women in the
dama
. So, there’s a precedent, at least to me; I’m not sure anyone else remembers it. What you two need to do is keep up. I know you’re having a hard time with the strength requirements—I saw both of you struggling with the wrist exercise. I’ll cut you some slack for your exceptional balance and endurance, but if you can’t use a heavy sword effectively…”

“You enchant swords,” one of them said. “Could we not have such blades?”

“Which one are you?”

“I am Malana; this is Malena.”

“Well, Malana, it’s possible, but you can’t rely on always having a magical blade. You need to… hmm.”

Maybe, if the weight of a broadsword was an issue, a different style of swordsmanship was in order. Elf-made blades are lighter and ideal for use with the sword-style of the
dama
. If they went for speed and accuracy instead of striking power, they wouldn’t be helpless against an armored target and they would be hell on wheels against any soft-skinned target.

“All right, I have an idea. Get back in there and keep working.”

“What do we do if someone else discovers…?” the other one asked. “Will you—will Your Majesty take care of it?”

“Do you need to be rescued?” I countered. “Princesses need rescuing. Maidens need rescuing. What are you? Damsels in distress? Or warriors?”

They looked at the ground, then at each other.