Exile's Honor

degree, and everything seemed just that much clearer and sharper. Even his reflexes seemed to improve. He suited up, took the rapier in his hand, and faced his opponent with energy renewed.

He assumed that he was expected to pull his blows when necessary, and given the way that the bouts had gone so far, he knew it was going to be necessary. Kimel was good; very, very good in fact. Alberich was better. And Kimel was tiring faster. He wasn't going to be able to ward off everything that Alberich could throw at him.

And he didn't. Alberich had chosen the rapier for that reason; the lightest of the 'real' swords, it was the easiest to 'pull' when a blow actually fell instead of being countered.

The Weaponsmaster called a halt to the bouting when Kimel was clearly on his last legs. 'That enough practice for you, my lad?' he asked, a certain ironic amusement in his voice.

The young man pulled off his helm, showing that his dark hair had gone black with his sweat. 'Enough, Weaponsmaster,' he admitted. 'No matter what else you do, please make sure this fellow has a candlemark or so free every couple of days so I have someone to bout with from now on. I'm getting soft, and by the Havens, it shows.' He actually smiled briefly at Alberich.

'I'll do that,' the old man said with immense satisfaction. 'It's about time I found someone to put you on your mettle.' He turned to Alberich as the young man dragged himself toward the storage lockers to divest himself of his armor. 'Well!' he barked. 'Are you too tired for more work?'

Whatever was in this man's mind, Alberich was determined not to disappoint him. 'No,' he said shortly, then added, 'sir.'

'Good. Jadus, you can unlock the door. Trainee, we'll see how you are with distance weapons.'

Ah. Alberich was already impressed with this Weaponsmaster; he had to assume the man had trained Kimel, and Kimel was good. Not quite as good as Alberich, but then his own Weaponsmasters had trained many boys that were good, but few as dedicated to their craft as Alberich. There were those that were naturals at the art of war, and Alberich was one of them—but being naturally good at something only took one to a certain point. It was dedication and practice that took one beyond that point. Or, as his own Weaponsmaster had said, 'Genius will only take you to 'good.' Practice will take you to 'Master.''

Now, this Dethor was a Master; it showed not only in that he had trained Kimel, but how he was testing Alberich's level of stamina, strength, and expertise. The point here was that the Weaponsmaster had waited until Alberich was tired to test him at distance weapons, when his aim might be compromised by arms that shook with weariness, and eyes blurred with exhaustion. Clever. Very clever.

Now, under the curious eyes of the youngsters as well as the critical eye of the old man, Alberich showed his mettle—with the longbow, with the shorter horse-bow, then finally with spear, javelin, ax, sling, and knife. He always hit the target—not always in the black, but he always hit the target. By now he had an audience of wide- eyed youngsters, ranging in age from child to young adult. It wasn't likely that they were in awe of his targeting skills; it wasn't as if he was putting missile after missile into the same spot. Presumably they were dazzled because they had never seen one man use so many different distance weapons before.

:You're enjoying yourself,: Kantor remarked with pleasure, and to his surprise, Alberich realized that the Companion was right.

:This—is what I do well,: he admitted. :I am not ashamed of doing it well.:

:Did I suggest you should be?: Kantor retorted. :You are what you are: a warrior. Some must be warriors, that others may live in peace. You do not enjoy killing, but you are proud of your skill I see no difficulty with this.: A thoughtful pause. :Better that you should be proud of your skill. When need drives, you cannot hold back.:

Sensible. Quite sensible. He placed a final knife in the center of the target, and turned to Jadus and Dethor. Jadus was looking at Dethor with an expression of expectation.

Dethor was looking at Alberich. 'Right,' he said. 'Karsite. What's the job of a Weaponsmaster?'

'So that those he teaches, killed or injured are not,' Alberich said instantly. And bluntly. 'However, whatever works, so that learn, they do, and well. Shouts, scolds, b—' He paused. 'Not beating, perhaps. Sometimes, gentle. Not often. Out in the world, there will no gentleness be. Better harshness to see here, and live, than softness, and die.'

'Na, these're none of your Karsite thugs. No beatings. But all else, aye, and treat 'em gentle only when they're little, scared sparrows. Gentle pats and cosseting—that's for them as will never need to fight for life.' He turned a somewhat grim smile on Jadus, and the eyes of the children—the Trainees—were getting round and apprehensive. 'Right. By the Havens, I've got one now, and who'd have thought it'd be soft-handed peace-minded Jadus who'd be the one to find him, realize what he was good for, and bring him to me?'

Alberich was beginning to get the glimmer of an idea of what was up, and the Weaponsmaster's next words clinched it. Dethor turned to him. 'Trainee Alberich, you're on notice. There'll be no riding circuit for you, and no riding internship. You'll be interning, starting now, with me, as the next Weaponsmaster. Call it—well, it's no