The monk nodded and ran off. Durgoth wiped a final tear from his eye and sent a prayer of thanksgiving to Tharizdun. They had to move quickly now. Once the elves discovered this treachery, they would send out patrols in force. But once free of this blasted place, there would be nothing that could stop him from retrieving the key.
He turned back toward his wagon and made his way through the carnage. The eyes of the dead stared at him accusingly.
He ignored them.
13
Steel burned with silver fire in the harsh sun as Kaerion raised his blade to meet the descending attack. He cursed as the shock of the blow jarred fever-weakened tendons and muscle. He stepped forward and slightly to the side of his opponent, allowing the attacker’s sword to force his own toward the ground. At the last moment, he withdrew his blade and spun away, hoping to catch his breath.
Sweat that had only very little to do with the blazing sun overhead streamed down his face, stinging eyes and leaving a sharp salty taste on lips pursed in frustration. He had discarded his normal mail shirt in favor of a lighter armor made from leather, but Kaerion still felt as if he were parading around in a set of full plate. Knees and shoulders protested, and breath came grudgingly, in ragged gasps. It felt as if a giant had him in a deadly bear hug.
Damned convalescence, he thought, all the while keeping a careful eye on his opponent. During the days since they had left the sheltered confines of the Rieuwood Forest, his strength had returned, slowly at first and then with more speed. Walks with Gerwyth, begun so gingerly at first, had turned into long, bone jarring rides, as the ravages of nearly two months of bed rest gave way before the restorative properties of warm spring winds and the rugged beauty of the Sunndi countryside. As the caravan continued on its journey, finally wending down into the humid arms of the Pawluck River Valley and its lush basin of trees and thick green undergrowth, Kaerion had begun his weapons practice in earnest, first privately and then with anyone who cared to test his returning skills. And here it was, just a few days before the expedition would reach the border of the Vast Swamp, and he still wasn’t at his best.
Kaerion grunted and shifted the grip on his sword. His wrists throbbed with an ache he hadn’t felt since his first days of sword training as a squire. He only hoped that his returning strength would be sufficient to protect his companions.
“Pay attention!” Gerwyth shouted, obviously mimicking the tones of an arms master rebuking a nettlesome novice.
A chorus of laughter and catcalls erupted from the knot of guardsmen who had come, with surprising regularity, to these daily training sessions—some to test their mettle against the recovering fighter, but most to watch two masters of the sword polish and hone their own breathtaking skills.
The weary fighter cast the guards a fierce glare, but they continued to jeer, some even offering him advice on his grip or his stance. He scowled again and shook his head. The early formality between the caravan guards and the rest of the expedition had dissolved beneath the tread of many miles and the assault of the elements, replaced now by an easy camaraderie. There were times, however, where he yearned for the quiet distance of those early days.
“Are you finally ready to yield, old man?” Gerwyth called out again. “I’ll understand if your rather delicate nature gets the better of you.”
This brought another round of laughter from the assembled guards—laughter that ceased as Kaerion summoned his last reserves of strength and launched a series of blinding attacks. The metallic clash of steel rang through the small clearing as the two combatants traded blows almost too fast for anyone to see.
Kaerion pressed forward, weaving a net of sun-kissed steel before him, trying to use his greater size and reach to his advantage. Sweat continued to pour from his brow, but he ignored it, concentrating only on his opponent. The elf crafted an almost perfect defense, meeting each of the fighter’s attacks with an economical grace. Kaerion could feel himself weakening past the point of his own endurance. He analyzed his opponent for any weakness, any misstep—for he knew that he had to end this fight in the next few moments.
He found his opportunity as he aimed a horizontal blow at the ranger’s head. Years of fighting alongside his friend had given him insight into the elf’s style; he knew it almost as well as he knew his own. Thus, it was easy to predict Gerwyth’s response to the head blow. The elf dropped to his knees—where he would aim a deadly thrust at his opponent’s unprotected belly.
Kaerion shifted his stance and redirected his attack as soon as he felt the elf commit to his defense. His blade slashed downward, meeting the elf’s outthrust sword and driving its point into the ground. Before Gerwyth could react, Kaerion lashed out with a booted foot and caught the elf in the chest. Gerwyth fell backward, his sword falling from his hands. The fighter moved forward quickly and laid the point of his sword at his friend’s throat.
Silence filled the clearing, broken only by Kaerion’s gasps as he forced air into his lungs. The two opponents held their position for a few moments, eyes blazing.
“Rather inelegantly done,” Gerwyth remarked after another moment, “but effective.”
A cheer rang out from the assembled guards, and Kaerion could hear the sound of money changing hands. Despite his own aversion to gambling, he couldn’t keep a wicked smile from his face. He wasn’t surprised to see that same smile appear on Gerwyth’s face as the elf motioned for some aid in getting up.
His smile never faltered as they pushed their way through the press of guards who offered their congratulations and good-natured sympathy to both victor and defeated alike. Kaerion accepted his accolades with shrugs as he fumbled with the straps that held his now sweat-soaked armor.
“You fought well,” Gerwyth acknowledged in a not-quite rueful tone. He led the exhausted fighter down a small path that meandered away from the clearing. “I’m thinking that you are almost fully recovered, my friend.”
Kaerion, distracted by the effort of walking and shedding his seemingly cursed armor, only grunted at the elf’s praise.
“I mean it, Kaer,” Gerwyth said, turning to assist him. “I don’t mind saying now that I was very worried about you while you were ill. I’ve never seen anything like it—not even magic seemed to help. And Galadorn, well let’s just say that sword of yours has stirred quite a bit of interest.” This last was uttered through gritted teeth as the elf wrestled with the final attachment.
Kaerion let out a contented sigh, as much to distract Gerwyth from talk of his ancient blade as from the sheer pleasure of shedding the thick leather armor and underpadding he’d worn the last hour. The ensuing weeks of sundrenched activity following his illness had darkened his skin to a rich, bronze hue, the even tan broken only by the puckered edges of battle scars that stood out angrily in the harsh noon glare. He stretched luxuriously, enjoying the cool sensation of wind across the sweat-covered expanse of chest, shoulders, and back, before clapping the elf companionably about the shoulder.
“I understand, Ger,” he said, “and I appreciate all that you’ve done for me. But—” Kaerion stopped, unable to put voice to his thoughts. He was indeed touched and grateful for the elf’s companionship. Even had he not recognized the elf’s deep affection for him long ago, the ranger’s actions since his illness made it very clear. But there was still part of him that ached with a grief so deep he’d spent the last ten years trying to drown it with ale and spirits. Though he was surprised that his other companions hadn’t yet called him out, he waited in dread for the moment of revelation, the moment when the discovery of what he had done would shatter the fragile peace he’d found, and his newfound friends would turn their backs on him. No. He wasn’t quite ready to face them.