“No.”
“Well, what then? I don’t understand.”
“You must if you wish to learn.”
Suddenly, she had smiled. “I understand the mystery, Waylander.”
“Then tell me what you did.”
“I caught a pebble in the moonlight.”
Waylander sighed. The room was cold, but his memories were warm. Outside a wolf howled at the moon, a lonely sound, haunting and primal. And Waylander slept.
“You move with all the grace of a sick cow,” stormed Angel as Miriel pushed herself to her knees, fighting to draw air into her tired lungs. Angry now, she surged to her feet, the sword blade lunging at Angel’s belly. Sidestepping swiftly, he parried the thrust, the flat of his left hand striking her just behind the ear. Miriel hit the ground on her face.
“No, no, no!” said Angel. “Anger must be controlled. Rest now for a while.” He walked away from her and stopped at the well, hauling up the copper-bound bucket and splashing water on his face.
Miriel rose wearily, her spirits low. For months now she had believed her sword skills to be high, better than those of most men, her father had said. Now she was faced with the odious truth. A sick cow, indeed! Slowly she made her way to where Angel sat on the wall of the well. He was stripped to the waist, and she saw the host of scars on the ridged muscles of his chest and belly, on his thick forearms and his powerful shoulders.
“You have suffered many wounds,” she said.
“It shows how many skillful swordsmen there are,” he answered gruffly.
“Why are you angry?”
He was silent for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. “In the city there are many clerks, administrators, organizers. Without them Drenan would cease to run. They are valued men. But place them in these mountains and they would starve to death while surrounded by game and edible roots. You understand? The degree of a man’s skill is relative to his surroundings or the challenges he faces. Against most men you would be considered highly talented. You are fast, and you have courage. But the men hunting your father are warriors. Belash would kill you in two … three … heartbeats. Morak would not take much longer. Senta and Courail both learned their skills in the arena?”
“Can I be as good?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Much as I hate to admit it, I think there is an evil in men like them … men like me. We are natural killers, and though we may not talk of our feelings, each of us knows the bitter truth. We enjoy fighting. We enjoy killing. I don’t think you will. Indeed, I don’t think you should.”
“You think my father enjoys killing?”
“He’s a mystery,” admitted Angel. “I remember talking to Danyal about that. She said he was two men, the one kind, the other a demon. There are gates in the soul that should never be unlocked. He found a key.”
“He has always been kind to me and to my sister.”
“I don’t doubt that. What happened to Krylla?”
“She married and moved away.”
“When I knew you as children, you had a … power, a talent. You and she could talk to each other without speaking. You could see things far off. Can you still do it?”
“No,” she said, turning away.
“When did it fail?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Are you ready to teach me?”
“Of course,” he answered. “That is why I am being paid. Stand still.” Rising, he moved to stand before her, his hands running over her shoulders and arms, fingers pressing into the muscles, tracing the lines of her biceps and triceps, up over the deltoids and the joints of her shoulders.
She felt herself reddening. “What are you doing?” she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
“Your arms are not strong enough,” he told her, “especially at the back here,” he added, squeezing her triceps. “All your power is in your legs and lungs. And your balance is wrong. Give me your hand.” Even as he spoke, he took hold of her wrist, lifting her arm and staring down at her fingers. “Long,” he said, almost to himself. “Too long. It means you cannot get a good grip on the sword hilt. We’ll cut more leather for it tonight. Follow!”
He strode to the edge of the tree line and walked from trunk to trunk, examining the branches. At last satisfied, he stood beneath a spreading elm, a thick limb sprouting just out of reach above him. “I want you to jump and catch hold of that branch and then slowly pull yourself up until your chin touches the bark. Then—and still slowly, mind—lower yourself until the arms are almost straight. Understand?”
“Of course I understand,” she snapped. “It was hardly the most complex of instructions.”
“Then do it!”
“How many times?”
“As many as you can. I want to see the limits of your strength.”
She leapt upward, her fingers hooking over the branch, and hung for a moment, adjusting her grip. Then slowly she hauled herself up.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Easy,” she answered, lowering herself.
“Again!”
At three she began to feel her biceps stretching. At five they began to burn. At seven her arms trembled and gave way, and she dropped to the ground.
“Pathetic,” said Angel. “But it is a start. Tomorrow morning you will begin your day with seven, eight if you can. Then you can run. When you return, you will do another seven. In three days I will expect you to complete twelve.”
“How many could you do?”
“At least a hundred,” he replied. “Follow!”
“Will you stop saying ‘Follow’! It makes me feel like a dog.”
But he was moving even as she spoke, and Miriel followed him back across the clearing. “Wait here,” he ordered, then walked to the side of the cabin where the winter wood was stored. Selecting two large chunks, he carried them back to where Miriel was waiting and laid them on the ground twenty feet apart. “I want you to run from one to the other,” he said.
“You want me to run twenty feet? Why?”
His hand snaked out, rapping against her cheek. “Stop asking stupid questions and do as you are told.”
“You whoreson!” she stormed. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you!”
He laughed and shook his head. “Not yet. But do as I tell you and maybe you’ll have the skill to do just that. Now move to the first piece of wood.”
Still seething, she walked to the first chunk, his voice following her. “Run to the second and stoop down, touching the wood with your right hand. Turn instantly and run back to the first, touching it with your left hand. Am I going too fast for you?”
Miriel bit back an angry retort and started to run. But she covered the distance in only a few steps and had to chop her stride. Feeling both ungainly and uncomfortable, she ducked down, slapped her fingers against the wood, then turned and ran back.
“I think you have the idea,” he said. “Now do it twenty times. And a little faster.”
For three hours he ordered her through a series of grueling exercises, running, jumping, swordwork, endless repetition of thrusts and cuts. Not once did she complain, but nor did she speak to him. Grimly she pushed herself through all his exercises until he called a break at midday. Tired, Miriel strode back to the cabin, her limbs trembling. She was used to running, inured to the pain of oxygen-starved calves and burning lungs. In truth she even enjoyed the sensations, the sense of freedom, of speed, of power. But the weariness and aches she felt now were all in unaccustomed places. Her hips and waist felt bruised and tender, her arms leaden, her back aching.
To Miriel strength was everything, and her faith in her own skills had been strong. Now Angel had undermined her confidence, first with the consummate ease of his victory in the forest and now with the punishing routines that exposed her every weakness. She had been awake when Waylander had made his offer to the former gladiator and had heard his response. Miriel believed she knew what Angel was trying to do: force her to refuse his training, humiliate her into quitting. The
n he would claim his fortune from her father. And because Dakeyras was a man of pride and honor, he would pay the ten thousand.
You will not find it easy, Angel, she promised. No, you will have to work for your money, you ugly whoreson!
Angel was well satisfied with the day’s training. Miriel had performed above his expectations, fueled no doubt by anger at the slap. But Angel cared nothing for the motivation. It was enough that the girl had proved to be a fighter. At least he would have something to work with. Given the time, of course.
Waylander had left just after dawn. “I will be back in four days. Perhaps five. Make good use of the time.”
“You can trust me,” Angel had told him.
Waylander had smiled thinly. “Try to stop her from attacking anyone else. She should be safe then. The Guild has a rule about innocent victims.”
Morak follows no rules, Angel had thought, but he had said nothing as the tall warrior had loped away toward the north.
An hour before dusk Angel called a halt to the work but was surprised when Miriel announced she was going for a short run. Is it bravado? he wondered. “Carry a sword,” he told her.
“I have my knives,” she answered.
“That’s not what I meant. I want you to carry a sword, to hold it in your hand.”
“I need this run to loosen my muscles, stretch them out. The sword will hamper me.”
“I know. Do it anyway.”
She accepted without further argument. Angel returned to the cabin and pulled off his boots. He, too, was tired but would be damned before letting the girl know. Two years out of the arena had seen his stamina drain away. He poured himself a drink of water and slumped down in front of the dead fire.
Given a month, possibly two, he could make something of the girl: increase her speed, lower her reaction time. The side sprints would help with balance, and the work to build her arms and shoulders would add power to her lunges and cuts. But the real problem lay within her heart. When angry she was fast but wild, easy meat for a skilled swordsman. When cool her movements were stilted, her attacks easy to read and counter. The end result of any combat therefore would be the same.
She had been gone perhaps an hour when he heard her light footfalls on the hard-packed clay of the clearing. He looked up as she entered, her tunic drenched in perspiration, her face red, her long hair damp. The sword was still in her hand.
“Did you carry it all the way?” he asked softly.
“Yes. That’s what you told me.”
“You did not drop it on the trail and pick it up on your return?”
“No!” she answered, offended.
He believed her and swore inwardly. “Do you always do as you are told?” he snapped.
“Yes,” she told him simply.
“Why?”
Throwing the sword to the tabletop, she stood before him, hands on hips. “Are you now criticizing me for obeying you? What do you want from me?”
He sighed. “Merely your best—and you gave that today. Rest now. I will prepare supper.”
“Nonsense,” she said sweetly. “You are an old man, and you look weary. You sit there and I’ll bring you some food.”
“I thought we had a truce,” he said, following her to the kitchen, where she took down a large ham and began to slice it.
“That was yesterday. That was before you set out to cheat my father.”
His face darkened. “I have never cheated anyone in my life.”
She swung on him. “No? What would you call ten thousand in gold for a few days’ work?”
“I did not ask for the sum—he offered it. And if you were eavesdropping—a womanly skill, I’ve found—then you will have heard me tell him I’d do it for fifty.”
“You want cheese with this ham?” she asked.
“Yes, and bread. Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you, but I don’t believe you. You were trying to force me to fail. Admit it!”
“Yes, I admit it.”
“Then that’s all there is to say. There’s your food. When you have finished it, clean your plate. And then do me the kindness of spending the evening in your room. I’ve had enough of your company today.”
“The training doesn’t stop because the sun’s gone down,” he said softly. “Today we worked your body. This evening we work your mind. And I will go to my room when it pleases me. What are you going to eat?”
“The same as you.”
“Do you have any honey?”
“No.”
“Dried fruit?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Eat some. I learned a long time ago that sweetmeats and cakes sit more easily on a tired stomach. You’ll sleep better and wake more refreshed. And drink a lot of water.”
“Anything else?”
“If I think of anything, I’ll tell you. Now let us finish this meal and start to work.”
Having finished his meal, Angel cleared away the ash of the previous night’s fire, laid fresh kindling, and struck a spark to the tinder. Miriel had eaten in the kitchen and had then walked through the cabin and out into the night. Angel was angry with himself. You are no teacher, he thought. And the girl was right: he wanted her to quit. But not for the reasons she believed. He sighed and leaned back on his haunches, watching the tiny flames devouring the kindling, feeling the first soft waves of heat from the fire.
He had tried to train the boy Ranuld, showing him the moves and defenses he would need in his new career, but Ranuld had died from a disemboweling cut in his first fight. Then there had been Sorrin, tall and athletic, fearless and fast. He had lasted for seven fights, had even become a favorite with the crowd. Senta had killed him—heel spin and reverse thrust to the throat. Good move, beautifully executed. Sorrin was dead before he knew it.
That was the day Angel had retired. He had fought a dull Vagrian whose name he could not recall. The man was tough, but had been slowed by a recent wound. Even so he had almost taken Angel, cutting him twice. After the battle Angel had sat in the arena surgery, the doctor stitching his wounds, while on the table opposite lay Sorrin’s bloody corpse. Beside it sat Senta, a bandage soaked in honey and wine being applied to a shallow cut in his shoulder.
“You trained him well,” said Senta. “He almost took me.”
“Not well enough,” answered Angel.
“I look forward to meeting the master.”
Angel had looked into the young man’s eager eyes, seeing the mocking expression on the handsome face, the smile that was almost a sneer. “It won’t happen, boy,” he had said, the words tasting like acid in his mouth. “I’m too old and slow. This is your day. Enjoy it.”
“You are leaving the arena?” whispered Senta, astonished.
“Yes. That was my last fight.”
The young man nodded, then cursed as the orderly tied the knot in the bandage on his shoulder. “You dolt!” snapped Senta.
“I’m sorry, sir!” said the man, moving back, his face twisted in fear.
Senta returned his gaze to Angel. “I think you are wise, old man, but for myself I am disappointed. You are a favorite with the crowds. I could have made my fortune by defeating you.”
Angel added wood to the fire and stood. Senta had fought for only one more year, then had joined the Guild, earning far more as an assassin than as a gladiator.
The door opened behind him, and he felt a cold draft. Turning, he saw Miriel walking toward her room. She was naked and carrying her clothes, her body wet from a bath in the stream. His gaze took in her narrow back and waist, the long muscular legs, and the firm rounded buttocks. Arousal touched him, and he swung back to the fire.
After a few minutes Miriel joined him, her body clothed in a loose robe of gray wool. “What work did you have in mind?” she asked him, seating herself in the chair opposite.
“You know why I slapped you?”
“You wanted to dominate me.”
“No. I wanted to see you angry. I needed to know how you reacted when y
our blood was high.” Idly he stabbed at the fire with an iron poker. “Listen to me, girl. I am not a teacher. I have trained only two people, young men I loved. Both died. I am … was … a fine fighter, but just because I have a skill does not mean I can pass it on. You understand?” She remained silent, her large eyes staring at him, expressionless. “I was a little in love with Danyal, I think, and I have respect for your father. I came here to warm him so that he would leave the area, travel to Ventria or Gothir. And yes, I could use the gold. But that’s not why I came, nor is it why I agreed to stay. If you choose not to believe me, then I will leave in the morning, and I will not claim the fortune.”
Still she said nothing.
“I don’t know what else I can say to you.” He shrugged and sat back.
“You told me we were going to work,” she said softly. “On my mind. What did you mean?”
He spread his hands and stared into the fire. “Did your father ever tell you about the test he set Danyal?”
“No. But I heard you say I would fail it.”
“Yes, you would.” And Angel told her of the pebble in the moonlight and talked on of the warrior’s heart, the willingness to risk everything, but the confidence to believe the risk was calculated.
“How do I achieve this?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“The two men you trained—did they have it?”
“Ranuld believed he did, but he tied up in his first fight, his muscles tense, his movements halting. Sorrin had it, I think, but he met a better man. It comes from an ability to close off the part of the imagination that is fueled by fear. You know, the part that pictures terrible wounds and gangrene, pumping blood and the darkness of death. But at the same time the mind must continue to function, seeing the opponent’s weaknesses, planning ways through his defenses. You have seen my scars. I have been cut many times, but always I won. And I beat better men, faster men, stronger men. I beat them because I was too obstinate to give up. And their confidence would begin to fail, and the windows of their minds would creep open. Their imagination would seep out, and they would begin to doubt, to fear. And from that moment it did not matter that they were better or faster or stronger. For I would grow before their eyes, and they would shrink before mine.”