Shouts, screams, and the clash of weapons echoed in the distance as the Dragon Watch fought the rest of the Soorenar raiding party. A watch patrol had stumbled on the raiders climbing down the hawsers of a shabby merchant ship anchored near the end of the wharf. The watchmen were outnumbered and killed, but not before one had sounded the alarm. The Dragon Watch barracks were close by and the entire company had turned out at the alarm. Now it was the Soorenar who were outnumbered and fighting for their lives, abandoned by the ship that was clawing its way out to sea before Cimbar's navy could catch it.
Blood oozed down Riordan's arm, mixing with the sweat and making the sword slippery in his grip. He'd chased this man into a cul-de-sac of crates and boxes and they each knew there would be no escape except over the body of the other. Two other watchmen had followed him but they stood back and made no offer to help. Riordan realized they were waiting to see him killed before they'd step in and finish off the raider. For the first time, he realized just how much of an outcast he really was.
Muscles rippled across the Soorenar's tattooed chest as the man twirled the heavy sword in front of Riordan's eyes. Plumed serpents writhed across his arms and shoulders. The tattoos told Riordan the man was a slave trained in the fighting rings. The tiny silver skulls suspended from the hoop in the Soorenar's ear warned Riordan he was facing a veteran of many combats. He would be very lucky to live through this fight.
Surprisingly, the Soorenar stopped and stepped back, putting his hand on his hip and lowering the point of his sword. He looked at the guardsmen a moment, then smiled and saluted Riordan with the blade.
'It seems strange a man's comrades won't help him, but a man should die with honor for all of that. Defend yourself or I'll kill you where you stand.'
One of the watchmen laughed and spat. 'Go on, milor', show him what those fancy fencing masters taught you.'
'Milor' '-he hated the name, but ever since the other recruits found out he was the son of a noble, it had stuck. Thank the Gods they didn't know which noble.
Riordan was angry and frightened. After what had happened on his last patrol, his own comrades wouldn't help him. There was no hope for it. Taking a deep breath, Riordan moved into the guard position. He began his attack in a traditional style, hoping the ritual opening would lull the big man into complacency. The Soorenar parried in second and they sparred back and forth in the gritty street, neither able to gain an advantage. Sparkling motes of sand sprang up about their feet as they shuffled across the paving stones.
Riordan was not used to the heat. After several flurries his chest hammered and he was gasping for air. The Soorenar looked completely fresh. Riordan barely heard the jeers of the two spectators. His world had narrowed to the rasping sound of his feet on the street and the clash of steel. The Soorenar lunged and Riordan disengaged with a stop thrust that punctured the man's side, forcing the big man back.
The man put his hand to the wound and stared in disbelief at the blood that ran between his fingers, then he looked up and grinned, stepping forward to attack.
Riordan slowed and invited the attack in the first, exposing the outside low line and letting the other take the initiative. After a few feeble defensive moves, he decided it was time. Taking a tight grip on the hilt, he lunged, swinging down and under the Soorenar's blade, knocking the weapon to the side with a beat and reversing. The man laughed and continued the movement until his sword was back in position. Riordan pulled back at the last minute to avoid a riposte that would gut him like a fish.
'A pretty move, boy.'
The big man's blade flickered and danced in front of him. Like a snake, it slithered under his guard and raked his chest, cutting a bloody furrow across his ribs and taking his breath away with a sudden, burning pain. The man kicked him in the stomach and Riordan gagged, falling to his knees in the street.
Riordan spat the sand from his mouth. He rolled away from a slashing cut that sent sparks up from the stone, and scrambled to his feet. One of the guardsmen laughed and Riordan glanced in his direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Soorenar's movement and cursed his inattention. He blocked, catching the man's blade and, without thinking, beat the other's sword out and swung under for a stroke that cut the big man across the thigh.
The Soorenar roared and charged in a series of lightning moves that Riordan could barely block. The invader's weapon caught Riordan's blade and spun the tips in the air hi narrow circles. Before Riordan could disengage, the raider closed and slammed his shoulder into Riordan's chest, knocking him backward. He straightened reflexively and the man smashed the bell of his guard into Riordan's face. Riordan dropped his weapon and collapsed to the ground struggling to remain conscious. The Soorenar's foot caught him on the side of the head and sent him sprawling.
From the corner of his eye Riordan saw the man's sword come up.
The blow never came. There was a clash of steel above him and a groan as the body of the Soorenar sprawled beside him.
His eye was swelling shut and it was hard to see, but Riordan recognized the voice of Morka Kodolan, Swordmaster of the Watch, yelling at the two watchmen. 'You may hate him, but by Tchazzar he's a member of the Dragon Watch and we stand together. I should teach you all a lesson for this.'
Riordan rolled over and tried to stand up. He started to thank Morka but the swordmaster's face was dark with fury. Ropy veins stood out on his forehead and his broad nose flared. Morka was short, squat, and heavily muscled. His head was shaved except for a single long braid growing from the back of his head. Barracks rumors said only a southern sect of specially trained warriors wore their hair like that.
Everyone on the watch was afraid of Morka and for good reason. He was like a berserker when angered. Right now he was very angry. He pushed Riordan against a crate and waved a fist the size of a plate in Riordan's face.
'Shut up, recruit! You're more trouble than you're worth. The clerics tell me it will be at least another tenday before Kendrick gets the use of his arm back. Last tenday your foolishness cost me the use of a good man and could have gotten him killed. Now this…'
Morka nodded to someone behind Riordan and said, 'Get him cleaned up. Get him out of my sight.' He slammed his sword into his scabbard and stalked away.
Rough hands jerked Riordan to his feet and pulled him toward the barracks. His head was spinning and he couldn't see from his right eye.
It was dark and cool inside the barracks and someone shoved a wet rag in his hands as he collapsed on his bunk. The man cut his shirt away and began to clean the slashes on his chest and arm. Riordan bit back a scream. He felt something in his hand and tried to see what it was.
The swelling will go away faster if you put this on your face.'
Riordan couldn't make out the face of the speaker. The rag in his hand was sticky and smelled like rotten garbage. He grimaced and dropped it onto the floor.
'Easy, milor'…' The other bent down and picked it up again. 'It's a special poultice.'
Riordan tried to pull away, but the man put the rag over his eyes. He struggled for a minute, but the rag was cool and he relaxed as the pain went away.
Thanks.'
Think nothing of it, mi-Riordan.'
'I can't see you.'
'It's Bashar.'
Riordan was surprised. Bashar was Morka's corporal. Bashar, the barracks drunk. A burned-out husk of a warrior fit for nothing but to follow Morka around during drill and inspections. Yet the one man who'd decided to help.
Thanks, Bashar.'
There was a moment of silence, then the man spoke again. 'Rumor says you're the son of Evern Marsh.'
Riordan grunted. He wondered how anyone found that out, but decided it was best to say nothing.
Bashar waited, then finally nodded as if Riordan's silence had been an answer. 'I knew your father.'
Another rummy looking for a handout from the son of a hero, Riordan thought. He sighed, 'Third son, not much left for the last. Father wanted me to become a cleric.'
'And you knew better.' Bashar laughed softly and handed him the wet rag again.
Riordan felt defensive. There's a war coming with Soorenar. Everybody knows it. I'm needed here.'
