The Silver Lake (48 page)

“Everyone does not know it,” the birin-kaptin said sternly. “Very little is known about the Yuruk. What is known is that they value the quality of our livestock, but they would rather try to steal it than pay for it. This is nothing new; they make raids against the western villages every year. So, why don’t we have to fear them? Hieson?”

“Because our militia is the strongest on Gol-Beyaz,” the oldest delinkon present promptly replied and Badahir smiled.

“Well, that may be why Serin-Koy doesn’t have to fear them,” she allowed. “But what about the rest of the villages?”

“The wall protects them,” Arrian piped up.

“And?”

“Um, the battle-seers always see them coming first?”

“A very good point to remember, yes,” Badahir acknowledged, drawing a pleased smile from her delos. “And? Anyone?”

“The Warriors of Estavia kill them all whenever they try anything,” Brax added darkly.

The other children glanced over at him uneasily, but Badahir nodded, her expression serious. “Sometimes that’s exactly why,” she agreed. “Being willing and being able to kill your enemies. The Warriors of Estavia are both and they got that way by consistent, diligent practice. And, yes, that’s why we’re here today,” she added as the children began to groan at the word practice. “Even those of you who won’t be pledging your service to the God of Battles need to know how to defend yourselves and your village if called upon.” She turned. “Coval, hand out those practice swords to anyone who needs one.” As her delinkos hurried to obey her, she continued. “Obviously, the willingness to kill or even die in defense of those under your protection is only the beginning. You also need discipline, focus, perseverance, patience, strength, flexibility, coordination and stamina. So let’s talk about discipline.” She grinned as several of the children began to groan again at the even less popular word.

“All right, fine, how about stamina? Contrary to what you might think, stamina is not being able to go full out all day. Stamina is knowing when to move and when to rest, knowing what muscles to use, and what muscles to relax, knowing when to take a breath and when to release it, knowing how to pace yourself so that you don’t waste the reserves of power and energy you might need before the battle’s over and, finally, knowing exactly how much force is necessary and using no more and no less. On that note, Coval, get Ivasik up and ready.”

As Coval heaved a large, straw figure covered in a tattered brown tunic into the center of the courtyard, Ekrubi leaned toward Brax.

“My aba named it after this famous Rostovic general he heard about once,” he whispered. “But after Kemal went to Estavia-Sarayi, he saw a woodcut of him, and he says it doesn’t look anything like him, but we kept the name anyhow.”

Badahir cleared her throat loudly and the boy swung his attention back to her as she raised her sword, pointing the tip at Ivasik’s chest.

“Now, this is a practice sword and that is a practice dummy,” she explained. “You’ll find that if, and when, you close with a real opponent the resistance may be quite different depending on what kind of armor they may be wearing. However, with the battle lust on you and the God’s power coursing through your veins, you may not even realize you’ve thrust.” She slashed at the dummy’s midsection and Aptulli gasped, clutching her delos-drum to her chest. “In this place you’re both powerful and vulnerable,” Badahir continued. “That’s where practice comes in so that instinct immediately prepares you and your weapon for another attack.” Continuing the movement, she snapped the blade sideways and stepped forward with it raised to strike once more. “Otherwise you may never feel the enemy’s strike either, and then ...” She looked pointedly around and Hadir’s hand shot into the air.

“You die,” he stated emphatically.

“You die,” Badahir repeated. “But if you pay attention,
Ekrubin-Delin,
your enemy will die instead.”

The boy started guiltily, dropping the handful of pebbles he’d collected as the others snickered.

“Now, generally the young have the advantage of speed and flexibility, the old, the advantage of power,” Badahir continued. “So let’s see where we all fit in with that. Who wants to go first?” She made a show of glancing around as half a dozen hands began to wave. “How about you, Brax. Let’s see what our Kemin has taught you, eh? Give Ivasik a mighty whack there.”

With all eyes staring curiously at him, Brax stood, pulled his sword and, feeling the God’s power suddenly rise in anticipation, screamed as loud as he could and threw himself at the practice dummy, dealing it a blow that would have decapitated it if the force of his attack hadn’t sent them both hurling to the ground. A great puff of straw and dust exploded all around them as they landed.

The gathered stared at him, openmouthed, as he disentangled himself. Rising with a scowl that dared any of them to say anything, he sheathed his sword, and after a moment, Badahir cleared her throat.

“As I was saying, the old
generally
have the advantage of power.” She paused, but when Brax simply glared at her, she shrugged. “Generally.”

Coval chuckled. Lifting the dummy, he began to stuff the straw back through the split seam in its throat. “It was a good strike,” he allowed with a smile as Brax began to help him with the repairs.

“Yes,” Badahir agreed. “The enemy is definitely down, but this might be a good time to talk about control. Without it, you’re also vulnerable. And on the ground,” she added unable to resist the comment. Brax scowled but said nothing. “With it, you’re unassailable; control yourself and you control your opponent.”

“If Brax came at me like that, I don’t think I could control my bladder,” Ekrubi pronounced with a laugh.

Badahir raised one dark eyebrow at him. “Well, then I suggest you stay on his good side, Delin,” she suggested. “And how about you go next? See if you can hit the enemy without crushing him into the dust.”

As the younger boy jumped up and advanced on the dummy with a feral grin, Brax threw himself down beside Spar. The pressure of the God’s awakened passion buzzed through his body like a thousand bees, making it difficult to sit still and, as he watched Ekrubi aim a wobbly slash at the dummy’s chest, he grinned to himself. Control or not, he was definitely catching up to the delinkon his own age. Sooner or later, they would have to take his promise to Estavia seriously.

Deep within him, the God thrummed Her agreement.

An hour later, Badahir called a halt to the afternoon’s training. Every one of the children’d had a chance to take out their fear and trepidation on Ivasik, and it was with a buoyant air that they scattered toward their various homes for supper. Ekrubi aimed a swing at Brax, then ran in mock terror as the other boy advanced on him, while Hieson and Arrian chased Hadir from the courtyard shouting out that they were going to steal his livestock. Even Spar unbent enough to allow Aptulli to show him a new rhythm for his drum, but as they passed within sight of the wall, his attention returned inexorably toward it, his expression grim. Beside him, Brax just rolled his eyes.

The next evening, however, as the two of them took up their usual position on the battlements, Brax was more concerned. Spar had become increasingly subdued all that morning, refusing to acknowledge anyone who spoke to him and glaring at Brax when he’d caustically asked what kind of flea was climbing up his arse. He’d disappeared with Jaq right after the noon meal, missed training, and only reappeared just before supper, but had refused to talk about it. Knowing that he would eventually spill whatever was bothering him, Brax had waited him out and, after stuffing his face as if he hadn’t eaten in three days, Spar’d finally jerked his head toward the tower. They’d slipped away, managing to avoid the cleanup even with Jaq tagging along behind them.

Now, Brax leaned his elbows against the parapet, waiting for the other boy to speak, but after a long silence, glanced over at him. Spar was staring out at the wall, his expression fearful.

Brax frowned.

“Spar?”

When he didn’t answer, Brax touched him lightly on the arm, scowling down at Jaq as the dog whined at him.

“C‘mon Spar, what is it? What’s wrong?”

The younger boy took a deep breath. “Something’s different,” he whispered.

Brax turned to stare at the wall but could see nothing unusual. “How?”

Spar frowned. “I don’t know, just different,” he replied vaguely. “It’s changed. Something’s changed it.”

“Some thing? Like a God maybe?”

Spar shook his head, his face twisted into a grimace of frustration. “No. I don’t know. I can’t ... see it.” He turned suddenly, his blue eyes gone a frighteningly misty white, and Brax felt a chill run up his spine. “Something’s happening,” he said softly.

“Something.”

Spar nodded. “Something big.” He pointed out past the wall at the distant horizon. “Out there.”

Beyond the wall something moved under his regard, then slipped away.

“Out there. Somewhere.”

“SOMEWHERE WHERE?”

“SOMEWHERE NEAR WHERE? TELL ME.”

“WHY LATER?”

Hidden deep in one of the many crevices of the Berbat-Dunya’s western ridges—just as Hadzi had supposed—Graize and the growing army of Yuruk stopped for the night. While the elders raised the tents and the youngsters tended the ponies, Rayne and Caleb took their new wyrdin with them to find water. Setting their bows carefully to one side, they began to fill a number of water-skins from a thin, winding stream, one of the many, both above and below ground, that fed Gol-Beyaz far to the east. Graize could feel its tiny allotment of power flowing past him like a school of silvery hamsi fish and, bringing a dripping handful to his mouth, he sipped at the chill, living water, then tossed the rest into the air. The spirits around him snapped at the droplets like so many greedy seagulls while, high above, the Godling watched hungrily, waiting with poorly concealed impatience for Its own time to feed.