Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons)
Read Sword Bearer (Return of the Dragons) Online
Authors: Teddy Jacobs
Sword Bearer (Book One, Return of the
Dragons)
By Teddy Jacobs
Copyright 2012 Teddy Jacobs
All rights reserved.
www.teddyjacobs.com
You swing a staff until you’re ready to swing a sword. Then
you go on all kinds of adventures — fighting monsters, casting spells and
saving damsels in distress. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work, but I
didn’t believe a word of it.
Maybe it really was like that a long time ago. But I didn’t
remember my father ever saving a damsel, fighting a monster, or even swinging a
sword. He didn’t even
carry
a sword, although he did help me swing a
cane when I was younger.
So I swung my staff because I was supposed to, though I knew
one day I’d become a diplomat like my father — using my voice and my mind
instead of my muscles and my magic.
But I swung the staff for other reasons too. It helped me
forget how people looked at me funny in the corridors of the castle, forget how
lonely I was sometimes locked up in the study. It gave me a reason to wake up
early every morning, even when I had nothing else to look forward to.
Today was different, though.
Today Giancarlo was going to let me swing a
sword
,
even if it was only a wooden blade.
Maybe it was because I was finally sixteen. Maybe he thought
I was ready to fight some of those monsters that I’d never seen and didn’t even
believe in. I never got a chance to ask him.
Giancarlo helped me put on the hardened leather breastplate,
codpiece and leggings. It is a little embarrassing to have someone help you
dress. But if everything isn’t properly adjusted, you risk getting pinched
somewhere tender when you’re swinging a staff. I’d learned
that
the hard
way.
“Follow me, Anders,” Giancarlo said, finally satisfied. “We’ll
spar down by the river, on the practice field.”
Giancarlo sped along, and I hurried after him. If it weren’t
for the bobbing light of the lantern, I would have lost him several times. The
armor slowed me a little. But that wasn’t the only reason. There were other
problems with my body besides pimples and out of control black curly hair. Even
though I had strong arms from morning practice, I was still out of shape. I had
been thin and fast once, when I was younger. But that was before the magic,
before I was cooped up in the castle.
So I jogged awkwardly, short of breath, feeling the armor
pinch me a little, for all of Giancarlo’s fussing.
You could hear my sigh of relief as we arrived. I couldn’t
help being jealous of Giancarlo. He was fast and thin, and seemed to glide
effortlessly across the grass.
There were torches lit around the practice field. Seven
torches, in a circle. The sky was still dark, although dawn was rapidly
approaching.
I tried to catch my breath.
The river flowed by quietly. Insects were singing.
Everything else was asleep, or maybe just scared off by my
noisy breathing.
Giancarlo put down his torch, and a long bag that hung from
his shoulder. He opened the bag and pulled out five blades of different lengths
and design.
“Pick them all up and see which one feels right,” he said.
“You’ll need to learn to fight with whatever is handy. But it’s better to be
armed with something that fits you. Look at them first, maybe, and see if one
speaks to you. They don’t talk to me, mind you, but I’m no sorcerer.”
I looked at the swords, lying there in the dirt. On the dark
packed earth their wooden fire hardened blades were barely visible. I couldn’t
see anything special, but I was excited to swing something besides a
quarterstaff or a cane.
I squinted at them, wanting to see something, or hear
something, anything at all. One of the blades in the center seemed to glint a
little, a sparkle of green around its silver pommel and wooden blade.
I bent over and grabbed the pommel.
Just like that, I heard this sweet girl’s voice in my head:
gruss
dich
.
Whoa. Was this some kind of greeting?
I squeezed the pommel in return. This weird buzzing
sensation ran up through the grip to my arm, shoulder, chest and then all
through my body.
This was definitely a change. Things were looking up. I
think maybe I even smiled a little.
The blade felt like a real sword in my hands. I swung it
around some, feeling the balance. Could it really be just wood? The silver
pommel tingled in my fingers. The wood was hard and dark.
I ran my finger along the edge, stopped suddenly. Ouch.
I sucked the finger, tasted blood. “Is there magic in this
wood?”
Giancarlo shrugged. “Magic interests me little and I know
less of it. There may be a bit of magic in these blades; they were made for
sorcerers, and they almost never break. And they’re sharp, as you seem to have
noticed.”
The silver pommel warmed in my hand, and I felt a throbbing
pulse.
“This pommel, though,” I said. “There’s magic, here.”
Giancarlo cleared his throat. “That was your father’s. He
refused to carry it, and your uncle wanted it; but now, it’s yours.”
My uncle was a taboo subject in my family. No one talked
about him. It was like he had just disappeared from everyone’s memory back when
I was little, just before we moved to Tuscany.
“What do you mean, my uncle wanted it? Did you know my
uncle?”
“I thought I knew him,” Giancarlo said, frowning. “But I was
mistaken. I trained him a little, when he was young, but I don’t think I ever
knew who he really was.” Giancarlo shook his head. “Before you, it was your
grandfather’s, and your great-grandfather’s pommel, that you have in your
hand.”
Later I would wish I’d asked him more questions about my
uncle. But Giancarlo didn’t seem to want to talk about him, and I never liked to
upset my blademaster. He could get really moody.
“This same pommel?” I asked instead. “But didn’t they have a
real sword?”
“Your grandfather explained it to me. The silver pommel
passes down each generation. When the bearer grows too old to bear it, the
blade breaks. A hardened blade of wood serves the next bearer until adulthood;
and then a sword of steel; always with the same pommel. I know little of magic
— my wife’s the witch in the family — but it must be a good sign that you
picked it out on the first try, without having to touch the others. I take it
the swords speak to you, after all.”
I nodded, excited to get on with this now. The blade felt
eager in my hand.
“Old blades have many secrets,” he continued. “We trust them
with our lives, as others have trusted them. Come now, Anders, let’s spar.
We’ll see if there’s any hidden strength in you.”
“You wouldn’t be so strong if you were locked up in a room,”
I said defensively. I guess it was that hidden strength comment that got to me.
Or maybe it was the lack of my morning tea. In any case, I was cranky.
But he just shrugged. “So, your mother keeps you inside too
much. You eat a little too much to compensate for your lack of excitement. We
all have excuses, son. But if someone attacks you, you better be ready to
fight.”
Giancarlo bent over, and picked up one of the other blades.
“Who is going to attack me if I’m locked up in my room all
day?” I asked.
“Life is full of surprises, not all of them pleasant,”
Giancarlo said. “Now give me your best. We spar until first blood. If your
blade has anything new to teach you, maybe I will learn something too.”
He bowed, and I bowed to him.
I spoke the same words I’d said every morning for over a
year now.
“May our blades be sharp, and our bladework true.”
This was the first time they really meant something. We were
sparring not with wooden poles but with blades.
Until first blood.
Giancarlo nodded. “Let the wisdom of the blade teach us our
daily lesson.”
He brought up his sword, and I did the same. Behind my back,
the sun began to rise. I could feel its warm light on the back of my neck, as I
swung my sword and the sweat began to flow, stinging my face.
But I felt stronger, more coordinated, even with the armor.
Like the blade was an extension of my arm, I felt like I could just reach over
and touch Giancarlo.
But I couldn’t. Giancarlo was too quick, and I spent most of
the time knocking away his attacks. Several of them went past my guard. Soon I
was feeling bruised, slow and stupid.
Then, suddenly, came a crashing blow, the side of
Giancarlo’s sword slamming into my ribs, and I fell to the ground, on my
bottom. Talk about embarrassing. I felt my face turn hotter, if that was
possible, and tried to get up as quickly as possible.
But a shooting pain in my side made me sit right back down
on the ground.
Giancarlo stopped suddenly.
“You graceless, self-absorbed boy. You worry more about the
pimples on your face than the sword in your hand. You let shame and pain and
anger distract you. In battle, you won’t be ashamed, or embarrassed. You won’t
be wincing in pain. You’ll be dead, or seriously wounded.”
“Alright, then kill me, put me out of my misery,” I said.
Giancarlo seemed to fight off a smile.
“Stand up,” he said. “And focus on two things. My blade and
yours. Squint, do your wizardly nonsense, say your words of power, do whatever
you need, but fix those two lines in your mind and defend yourself. Our bodies
are just extensions of these two blades. Focus on the blades and the bodies
will follow.”
I got back up. My muscles cried out for mercy under my
bruises. Really, it wasn’t just getting hit that was hurting me.
Swinging the wooden sword was making me sore too.
Tomorrow I was going to be in agony, but I didn’t care.
There was no one in the world I wanted to impress more than Giancarlo, not even
my father. And here I was instead making a fool of myself.
It wasn’t fair. I hadn’t chosen to be locked in my room half
my life, forced to study instead of exercise.
Here I was getting upset. If I couldn’t control my own
feelings, how could I expect to win a sword fight?
I took a deep breath, let it out. Three times. Three, that’s
a magic number.
I looked at the blades the way I did earlier, when I had
picked mine up.
I had to concentrate really hard. My vision blurred and I
almost gave up. I’d always been good at giving up. But I saw in the background
Giancarlo waiting patiently. I squinted some more and everything swam out of
focus. Then I saw a glimmer. It was elusive, fading and then brightening. I
focused on it, my eyes squinting madly. My eyes burned, and there was a
prickling in my forehead. I tried to relax and concentrate at the same time, to
forget all the pain in my arms and side.
I closed my eyes, took one last deep breath, let it out nice
and slow.
When I opened my eyes again, everything came into focus. And
when I say everything, I mean
everything
. Not only could I see Giancarlo
clearly, but our blades as well. My blade was a shimmering emerald green line
that continued up my arm.
Giancarlo’s blade was a pale blue line of fire, but it
stopped at his hand.
For the first time, I realized I had an advantage, being
magical. Even though Giancarlo was three times as old, three times as strong
and three times as experienced as I am.
So I didn’t blink. I didn’t feel bad about my abilities. I
just spoke a word:
kraft
, and felt my arms and legs grow stronger. I
stood up straight and smiled at Giancarlo, and bowed. We began again.
I squinted and concentrated on where the blue and green
lines met. My arm moved quicker than before. Thanks to magic, I felt almost as
fast as my blademaster.
But the magic didn’t make the bruises hurt any less, and
didn’t slow down Giancarlo any either.
He rained blows down upon me and I parried desperately.
I still needed the sword’s knowledge. But how could I learn
from it?
My arms were tiring again. Soon I was slowing down.
I was about ready to throw the sword down and give up. How
could I get the silly thing to work its magic?
Maybe that was what did it, me focusing my anger and impatience
on the blade.
All I know is one moment I was squeezing the pommel, angry
at my sword for not telling me its secrets, and the next moment, the blade
spoke.
Not with words, but with blows.
I parried, parried, struck.
The blows were like music, and the sword was teaching me a
new song. As I struck and parried I heard real music then — the sword hummed in
my hands.
The pommel grew warmer, and the music louder and quicker. I
heard words, and at first I couldn’t understand them. Maybe they were some old
northern tongue, but they were definitely instructions, instructions my body
understood even if my mind didn’t.
Somehow I think the song the sword was singing was the song
of my blood. My body moved with the song. My sword arm danced. It felt like I
was swept up in something much bigger than myself, like I was just an
instrument in a huge orchestra playing a symphony of movement.
Suddenly I stopped.
My blade had cut the blademaster’s forehead, above his right
eyebrow. Blood was pouring into Giancarlo’s eyes, down his face. I felt sick in
my stomach, felt my sword arm start trembling. I wanted to turn away, but
Giancarlo was smiling. Smiling at me, Anders Tomason. And holding out his hand.
We shook, and I felt my trembling hand calm as he squeezed
it with his vise-like grip.
“So you heard it, did you?” Giancarlo said. “I remember your
father doing the same crazy dance. How I would love to hear such strange music,
make such wondrous steps and fanciful bladework.”
I shook my head. “It was the magic, Giancarlo. I’ll never be
half-way as good as you.”
Giancarlo put his arm against his forehead to slow the
blood. “The music came quick to you,” he said. “If I remember right, it took
your father several weeks, and he had clear instructions on how to go about it
from your grandfather.”
