Sword Masters

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed
in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents
is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Selin Rosen
First Dragon Moon Press printing January 2008
Dragon Moon Press
P.O. Box 1714
Calgary, Alberta T2P 2L7, Canada
www.dragonmoonpress.com
ISBN10: 1-896944-65-5
ISBN13: 978-1-896944-65-4
First Baen Ebook, December 2009
A Baen Ebook
Distributed by
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com

To be a Swordmaster of the Jethrik a man's ability and his integrity must be beyond question.
He must be familiar with all weapon styles and be prepared to fight on any battlefield.
He must be pure of heart, having never been convicted of any crime.
He must never use either weapons or skills for anything but the most noble of causes.
He must be tall, physically perfect, healthy, and nimble of foot.
He must be wholly human, being in no way related to any Katabull.
He must be always truthful in his dealings with King and Country.
He must swear to serve loyally the country of Jethrik even if the candidate be from out country.
He must fully understand our ways and our customs.
No woman, whether she is out country or Jethrik, will be considered for a post as a Swordmaster.

 

It was that time of year again, and Master Darian greeted the challenge with a mixture of joy and dread. Every year hundreds of men—none of them ever much more than boys with an attitude—showed up to try out. They all wanted to be Swordmasters. A good fifty percent of them Darian never even saw because they got weeded out on their height, or their weight, or because they had some physical abnormality that excluded them from the program. Every year some tried to sneak by the judges. They stuffed paper in their shoes and rocks in their pockets, sucked their guts in and lied about their ages.

After the initial weeding out, Darian gave them a good looking over. He asked them a few questions and cut their number by half yet again.

They all wanted to be Swordmasters because of the glory and honor associated with the title. They didn't know what it was like to kill a man, or to have him try to kill you. They didn't realize that it wasn't fun; that it wasn't necessarily glorious.

But Darian knew, and he could tell by talking to the boys, by watching their reactions as he questioned them, which ones had what it took and which didn't.

Darian looked the candidate in front of him up and down. He was all arms and legs, and he would have made the six-foot height requirement easily; however, he would have barely made the one hundred fifty pound minimum weight limit. He was dark haired and dark eyed with bronze skin. Obviously at least one of his parents was out country, but he was most likely full blodded Kartik. That wasn't a problem as long as he swore to uphold the laws of the country and serve it. If he could fight, Darian didn't care where he came from. Still, he stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the blond-haired blue-eyed cadets, and this in itself could pose a problem.

"So, boy . . . what country do you hail from?" Darian asked, although he was sure he knew.

"I'm Kartik, but I have lived here off and on most of my life," the boy answered without blinking. "I know your language, your customs, and your laws."

"And you want to be a Swordmaster?" Darian asked.

"I already am a master with a blade," he answered. "I wish to serve the king and to fight the Amalite horde. I don't care about a title."

"Of all the bloody cheek! So you're already a Swordmaster, and you want us to send you out right now I suppose!" Darian laughed loudly. "Send you alone maybe—out to the front lines. Maybe you could teach our boys a thing or two."

The other recruits laughed.

"I didn't say any of that, Sir," he answered unblinkingly. "I want to learn all that you can teach me. However my father taught me never to hide in false modesty. It is a
fact
that I am already one of the finest swordsmen you will ever know."

"Well . . . we'll just see about that, boy." Darian looked the boy up and down and realized he already carried a sword on his back. It was in the right position, too. He also already had his own armor—black studded leather pants and vest. The bright multicolored gambeson he wore underneath it screamed island born as much as his coloring did.

"Follow me." Darian motioned with his finger.

The boy fell in behind him following him to the practice ring.

Old Justin started to stand up; it was normally his job to test the new recruits. Darian motioned Justin back into his seat—he had other plans for this braggart. Darian looked around and noticed Gudgin, one of the second-term recruits, leaning against a practice pole watching the proceedings.

"Gudgin, come on down here and check this 'swordsman' out."

Gudgin rubbed his hands together and grabbed a practice blade from the rack. Darian handed a similar weapon to the boy. The recruit took a second to check the weight and length of the blade.

Darian placed the boy in the ring with Gudgin and stepped back out of the way. "Lay on!"

Gudgin ran at the boy, no doubt bent on teaching him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. He swung a good hard blow at the boy's head, expecting it to connect, but his opponent caught the blade and struck back so fast and so furiously that Gudgin found himself protecting his own head. A second blow from his opponent's blade caught him in the ribs and made them burn. A third hit him on the chin and knocked him off his feet. When he looked up through glazed eyes, the boy was standing over him, his blade at Gudgin's throat.

Gudgin looked at Darian and shrugged. "A lucky blow."

The boy helped Gudgin to his feet, although it was plain to see that Gudgin was having trouble taking the stranger's hand. Gudgin was good. Considered by most to be the best of the second term cadets. He didn't like to lose to anyone. He certainly didn't like losing to a scrawny, out country greenie. He shook the boy's out stretched hand grudgingly and walked away to lick his wounds.

Darian stroked his chin and looked at the boy's eager face. "You
are
good. You need a little refining, but there is no doubt that you have talent. Where did you learn to fight?"

"As I said, my father trained me," the boy answered.

"And just who was your father, boy?"

"Jabon the Breaker," he answered proudly.

All noise in the arena suddenly ceased, and all eyes turned to look at the boy.

"Your father is Jabon the Breaker?" Darian asked in disbelief. "Jabon The Kartik Waster?"

"I just called him Dad," the boy said with a quick smile. The smile faded just as quickly when he continued. "My father is no more. Killed by some ignoble Amalite scum this last spring, as was my own mother in my youth. Her death made your cause his, and his death now makes your cause mine as well," the boy said with passion.

Darian looked the boy up and down. He definitely held himself like Jabon. He fought like Jabon. There was one way to be sure the boy was telling the truth about his parentage.

"Show me your right hand."

The boy held it up; the right pinkie finger was missing. It wasn't a reason for rejection at the school, and hadn't been ever since Jabon the Breaker had come to their door.

"Let me see your sword," Darian said.

The boy whipped the sword from his back in one fluid motion and handed it to Darian. Darian took it by its hilt and spun it around. Like the sword of his father before him, the bone of the missing finger was resined into the hilt. It was some strange custom which had been handed down from generation to generation in their family. Some tribal ritual. Jabon had been a wild man, and his son didn't look any more refined. However if the boy could fight half as well as his father had, he could beat their best.

"Your father was a very great man and a good friend to me. He never mentioned that he had a son," Darian said.

"After my mother died he was very grieved. He left me with his sister to be raised, and he came here to fight. I believe it was only after he had killed a great many Amalites that he was able to deal with my mother's death. Only then did I become something other than just a painful reminder of all that he had lost. He finally came for me and started my training. We lived part of the time here and part in Kartik. We spent a lot of time at sea."

Darian nodded, he could understand Jabon's actions. He had lost his own dear wife too young. At least Jabon's wife had given him a son. Darian's wife had died in childbirth leaving him a daughter who he had no idea how to turn into a lady.

He looked the boy up and down again and smiled. "What is your name boy?"

"Tarius," he said.

"Well, Tarius, Jabon the Breaker's son, consider yourself this season's first recruit. You are in," Darian said.

The boy's whole face seemed to light up. He grabbed Darian's hand and started pumping it up and down. The Kartiks didn't shake hands the way the Jethriks did, and it was obvious that this was a rather clumsy attempt by the boy to show that he knew their customs.

"You won't be sorry, Sir. I'll work very hard. I will kill many Amalites."

The boy had a good, strong honest grip. There was an innocent purity that shone from his almost too pretty face that Darian knew was—at least in part—deceptive. This boy had already lived, he had loved, and he had killed. Of this Darian was sure. He pried his hand away from young Tarius with an effort.

"Harris!"

A young boy, barely fifteen, ran forward. He had a clubfoot, and working at the school was as close as he'd ever get to being a Swordmaster. Darian had taken him in and supplied room and board. In return the boy worked all day running errands for the cadets and doing chores around the academy. Harris showed his gratitude for having a place to sleep and food in his belly with his eagerness to please.

"Harris, show Tarius to the barracks."

Darian turned back to the long line of candidates. He had a lot more to go through and not all decisions would be as easily made as the one concerning young Tarius, son of Jabon the Breaker.

Gudgin walked up to Darian. He watched as the foreigner picked up his bags and started to follow the crippled boy.

"I would never criticize your judgment, Master Darian . . ."

"Then don't," Darian said moving towards the line of candidates.

Not taking the hint, Gudgin followed. "I feel I must say . . . Sir, he made me look like a rank amateur back there!"

"And this is a reason to throw out his request for admission?" Darian laughed. "Better yet, maybe we should have the man shot through with an arrow! Calm down, Gudgin. Be a sport and be glad he's on our side."

"
Is
he on our side then? He doesn't look like us. He is from out country. His look is freakish, all that black hair, those black eyes of his. He's all arms and legs . . . he looks like a devil or worse. Such skill in one untrained is unnatural . . ."

Darian laughed at him. "He's not untrained, boy! Don't you get it? His father trained him, and his father wasn't one of the best—he was
the
best. The best we ever had. I don't care what he looks like, and I don't care if he's a foreigner. As for the hair, he'll get it cut just like all the other recruits."

* * *

Tarius looked at the barracks and said. "This won't do . . . I'll get my own quarters. I have money . . ."

Harris laughed. "When I said you must stay in the barracks, that's what I meant. You
must
; it's the rule. Just like the hair cut and the uniforms. Will there be anything else, Master Tarius?"

"No. Thank you. And, Harris, I am no man's master. If you help me, then I shall help you. That is the way of my people."

Harris smiled broadly at the fellow. He liked him;
yes
he liked this strange fellow a lot. Harris was different and felt an instant connection with this man who was also
so
different. Harris had no idea what Tarius was talking about. He was
talking
to him, and that was a big deal to Harris. Most of the boys in the academy didn't talk to him at all unless they wanted him to do something for them or were calling him names.

"Whatever you say. I have to go now." He bowed and turned to leave.

Taruis snapped, "Do not bow before me!" He sounded almost angry. "I am not a god to be worshipped. Never lower yourself to me for it is to me an insult."

Harris nodded, started to bow again, caught himself and ran off in confusion. He didn't know where Tarius came from, but he was pretty sure he wanted to go there.

* * *

Tarius looked around the room and was more and more unhappy. There would be twenty-five recruits in here. It would make things a lot more difficult—if not impossible.

Slowly the new recruits filed in. They seemed to all purposely pick the bunk furthest from Tarius. They were all staring. No doubt because Tarius was different from anyone they had ever seen before. So was the black studded leather and colorful Kartik gambeson. The gambeson came down to Tarius's elbows and could be seen through the "v" in the neckline of the chest and torso armor. The armor was light and easy to move in, and Tarius had practically grown up in it. In fact, Tarius had no regular clothes, only more pieces of armor. Tarius's long black hair was unkept and floating every which way. Yes, the Kartik youth must be quite a sight to these Jethrik boys. Tarius sat on the bunk and looked down at the floor, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and vulnerable.