Orb Sceptre Throne

The merest nudge of Sall’s hand sent Yusek sprawling to the beaten dirt of the practice yard.

‘You were off-balance again.’

She looked up at the kaleidoscope pattern of his mask, the amused brown eyes behind, and knocked aside his proffered hand. ‘So I noticed. I was leaning forward because I was trying to hit you. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ She jumped up to face him.

‘Do not sacrifice form for a possible hit. When you lean forward you bring your head closer. Not a good idea.’

‘But what if I hit?’

A wave in the Seguleh hand-talk dismissed the idea. ‘What if you miss?’

Fine. Be that way. Yusek struck a ready pose, sword before her in both hands, tip held steady angled outwards at a height about level with her nose. At first she’d resisted his insistence that she use a two-handed sword grip, arguing that daggers were quicker. But Sall had been unmoved. He pointed out that most of her opponents would be larger than her and so she would need the added leverage.

When she’d grudgingly agreed, saying it would help ‘muscle them back’, he’d shaken his head yet again.

‘No muscles.’

‘What do you mean, no muscles? Everyone knows that’s what you do in a fight — you smash the other guy down.’

‘No. Do not strain. Do not tense until the last instant. Let the blade fall on its own. Let its weight do the work.’

It all sounded crazy to her. But she’d seen the lad cut through all the most fearsome, and big, hulking swordsmen she’d known, so fair enough.

Now, he circled her yet again, studying her stance. He crouched before her, tilting his masked head. ‘You have the same problem I used to have. Your stance is too long — always too eager to rush in, yes?’

‘That’s how you finish it. Bring it to them.’

Sall gave a sad shake of his head. He unwound a leather strip from his sash and knotted it round one of her ankles. ‘What’s this? Tying me up?’ He paused, but only for an instant, then waved her other foot closer. She edged it inwards.

‘Closer yet.’

She gritted her teeth but complied. He tied the length tight, straightened. ‘Very good. This distance will allow you to recover more quickly in either direction. I want you to pace the length of the field in the high angle cut with each step, yes?’

‘Fine.’

‘Begin.’

She stepped, swinging, and almost fell as her extended foot was yanked short. She turned to stare at him, appalled. Was I that unbalanced? He urged her onward.

Fine. Just dandy. She concentrated on her stride and started again. The shorter stance felt uncomfortable and awkward. But then, she’d been standing however she damned well pleased all this time. No one had ever shown her any technique. She must have all kinds of bad habits.

The wind was cold but she was sweating now as she paced up and down the length of the sand and gravel practice yard. On the far side of the field the priests were out doing their forms, which Sall explained were some sort of moving meditations. It made no sense to her. She found a rhythm, cutting side to side as she stepped, turning, and cutting again. Her arms burned. Holding an iron bar out from your body all day built up endurance and strength. Now, when she picked up her old fighting dirks, the heaviest she could find, they were like hollow sticks in her hands. And it seemed to her that with the slightest shift of her two-handed grip she could move the tip of the sword even faster than she could weave her daggers.

Leverage, Sall called that. The sword was a lever, he’d said. A lever for the application or redirection of force. Nothing more mystical than that.

When the sun set behind the western coastal peaks the air chilled quickly. Yusek dropped down next to Sall, exhausted, her shirt wet with sweat.

‘Your determination is commendable.’

‘Well, I have a lot of catching up to do, don’t I?’ She nudged him with a shoulder. ‘I could really use a back rub too …’

But Sall’s attention was on his father Lo, who had spent these last days doing nothing more than watching the various priests at their practice and exercises. Now he had climbed to his feet, his gaze fixed. Sall stood as well.

Lo began making his way through the kneeling ranks of priests, none of whom moved. Sall edged forward also.

Of all the lousy timing. ‘What is it?’ Yusek asked, now a touch worried. Gods, not like at Dernan’s! Please no. Sall signed for silence. Silence! It’s always silence with these two. That’s their answer for everything. Don’t they see that silence answers nothing?

Lo stopped near the middle of the assembled priests. He stood before one fellow, salt-and-pepper hair cut short, features very dark, but calm, eyes downcast. Sall, Yusek noticed, was fairly quivering so tense was he. She also climbed to her feet.

Then Lo’s blade was out, the tip extending close to the forehead of the kneeling man. The surrounding priests coolly shifted aside, not one saying a word. Great Burn! What was this? What was going on? ‘Sall …’ He signed again for silence, gesturing her aside.

Lo adjusted his grip on the sword, struck a ready stance, and for the first time Yusek heard words pass through his mask. ‘I challenge you.’

The kneeling man said nothing. He did not move. He did not even look up.

Yusek’s breath caught as Lo’s blade flew up and he let go a heart-stopping yell, swinging for the man’s neck. She jerked her head aside; she could not help it. When she opened her eyes Lo stood frozen, his blade pressed against the man’s neck. The man himself appeared to have not flinched one hair’s breadth.

She and Sall ran up through the motionless priests. The man slowly raised his eyes. In the darkening afternoon light they appeared to carry the depths of the ocean within them. He mouthed one word: No.

Lo stepped back, sheathing his blade. Then he turned and walked away. Sall stood for a time staring down at the kneeling man, then he followed his father. Yusek remained. The priests merely returned to their duties, sweeping the compound, chopping wood, readying the evening meal. While Yusek watched, a bead of blood ran from the cut across the side of the man’s neck.

Shaken, she retreated to her hut. So that was him? The slayer of the Son of Darkness? How could that be? He looked like nothing to her. No bluster, no show. It was contrary to everything she’d seen among Orbern’s gang, or Dernan’s. Just a man past middle age. Impossible to pick out of a crowd. Yet Lo had somehow managed. Just by watching. Obviously there was much more here than she could see.

She filled a bowl at the kitchens then sought out Sall. She found him sitting before his room. She sat next to him, tore off a pinch from her flatbread and dipped it into the stew. ‘Now what?’ she asked, chewing.

He seemed to have been studying his open empty hands on his lap. ‘We leave. No one can be compelled to accept a challenge. My father could now claim Seventh should he choose to do so. I don’t believe he will, however. Not like this.’

‘Going to talk to him?’

‘Who?’

‘Who? Him of course. Ask him why he’s here. What he’s doing. Maybe you’d learn something.’

Sall made a gesture of helplessness. ‘There is no need. He has made his position clear.’

Yusek studied Sall for a time as if attempting to peer past his mask. Then she gave a disgusted grunt. ‘Gods … how you fellows manage is a mystery to me. How do you fucking accomplish anything? Aren’t you the least bit curious?’

He gave a cutting sign with his hand. ‘If he wanted to speak, he would do so.’