‘Keng here may defeat you,’ the old man finally pronounced.
Kallor pointed. ‘That thing cannot slay me. You know this. Yet I have it within my power to sink your precious city. Think on that.’
The elder glowered, his mouth working. Finally, he spat through gritted teeth, ‘Very well. A few barrels of dried fish, fruit, and water. And that is appropriate, as that is all you are worth.’
Kallor was grinning now, and he shook a warning finger. ‘Careful, or I shall add one pickled head to my order.’
The city elder snarled, huffing, and pushed his way through the guards, disappearing from sight. The eerie creature, Keng, remained; immobile, watchful, its inner mechanisms whirring.
Kallor turned away from the Tempest’s side, chuckling. His grey, dead-eyed gaze swept Lars and he motioned to him. ‘You should be pleased. Food is on the way.’
Lars swallowed to wet his parched throat, ventured warily, ‘Then, m’lord, we are not to stay?’
The fiend appeared surprised. ‘Stay? Here?’ He laughed scornfully. ‘There is nothing for me here in the middle of nowhere. No, we continue westward.’
‘Westward, m’lord? May I ask where?’ He flinched, anticipating a blow for his daring.
But Kallor merely peered in that direction, frowning in thought behind his iron-grey beard. ‘Southern Quon Tali, I believe. I shall know as we draw closer.’ His armoured boots thumped the decking as he stepped away. ‘However,’ and he turned back, a finger raised, ‘if you are considering jumping ship and trying your luck among the Meckros, you will be disappointed. They are a ruthless and efficient people who cannot afford to feed anyone who cannot contribute. Sickly ones like all of you will simply be thrown into their pens of carnivorous fish.’ The dead eyes scanned all on deck, including Lars, and the monster smiled without humour. ‘Therefore, I suggest your chances remain better with me.’ He bowed his head in withdrawal. ‘If you need me, I shall be in my cabin.’ And he clomped across the deck and slammed the cabin door behind him.
Lars wrapped his arms round his head and sank down to his haunches, shuddering with suppressed sobs. A nightmare! His life had become a living nightmare. Whatever did he do to deserve this?
It was all so completely unfair!
Chapter 13
Over the course of their march southward through the farms and grasslands of Itko Kan, Dassem and Shear sparred as often as her duties allowed. Apart from these practice sessions the journey was uneventful for Dassem; he cared for Nara, fed their horses, and kept watch at the rear of the caravan.
So regular became their evening bouts that when they returned to camp late at night Dassem began to notice some smirks and knowing looks directed their way from the guards. If such assumptions regarding them troubled Shear, she gave no hint.
Over the weeks he found he was coming to regard her as an extraordinary training partner. So skilled, in fact, that he now understood he’d become lax this last year in Heng; that he’d lost his fine edge in that city, lacking as he did any true competition.
Yet even while he warmed to her as an exceptionally skilled master of the sword, she seemed to grow ever more distant, formal, and withdrawn. It puzzled him at first, but then he decided that such behaviour must be due to the fact their time together would be soon coming to an end.
This evening, as they walked to an isolated spot for their sword practice, Shear was even more quiet and curt. He was not altogether surprised – in three days the caravan would reach Fedal, its destination in the southern confederacy of Itko Kan, and from there he planned to head onward to Horan on the coast to hire transport out to the isle of Malaz. It was probable that neither of them would ever find another training partner of such skill – at least not for some time – and he, too, regretted their parting for this very reason.
They came to the broad gravel shore of a creek low in its course. The pale water-worn stones shone silver in the moonlight and the creek chuckled and hissed just loudly enough to smother the incessant drone of the night insects. Bats flickered overhead targeting that chorus.
Shear faced him, her wooden bokken still pushed through her wide sash. Her painted mask was a dark oval against her face and her long black hair blew about unbound. She seemed to be regarding him with particular intensity this eve.
‘This will be our last bout,’ she announced.
‘I am not leaving quite yet,’ he answered. ‘There still may be time.’
She shook her head. ‘No. No more practice. We now recognize each other as plausible rivals. I am satisfied of this, as are you. Therefore, we must settle the matter.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that among my people, the Seguleh, hierarchy is everything. All know their place.’ She motioned to indicate the two of them. ‘We must now establish rank between us.’
He shook his head. ‘Such things do not concern me.’
She slid one foot forward, her eyes within the mask narrowing. ‘You must take this seriously.’
He peered round at the darkness as if helpless. ‘Shear, I … very well.’ He opened his arms. ‘You win. I concede.’
She drew in a swift blur that cut the air. ‘I warn you – I shall force you to defend yourself! Do not dare to dismiss me. Fight with all you have. Or I shall not relent.’
He still had not drawn his bokken. ‘Shear, please … this is not necessary.’
‘It is necessary to me,’ she answered, and charged.
She came with bokken raised high, her sandalled feet shushing the gravel, and still he made no move. The wooden blade swept down in a savage stroke aimed at his neck only to clack against his blade at the very last instant.
He slid backwards, blade held readied; he was certain that cut would have broken his neck had he not caught it. ‘Shear … please.’
She came on again, unhesitating, holding nothing back in her speed and power. Her assault drove him to yield ground, which he did, circling. Her skill astonished him; so far in his young career he’d faced no better – other than his teacher, of course. She’d obviously trained under the very best, and faced the strongest of opponents.
Yet after all these weeks of studying her technique – which was as close to flawless as he’d seen – it seemed to him that it possessed one weakness: a certain blindness to variety. Clearly she was extraordinarily well taught, yet that teaching had been limited within a single school of thought.
Whereas his training had involved exposure to countless.
And so he decided to defend for a time, letting her expend her first reserves. Though he did not fool himself into thinking she would weaken; her endurance was as formidable as her skill.
So they circled, feet shuffling among the gravel, swords clacking and grating. An onlooker could not have separated the intricacy of entwined feint, counter-feint, attack and riposte.