Sword Bearer

SWORD BEARER

Teddy Jacobs

2nd, revised edition

Copyright Teddy Jacobs, pseudonym 2012

Published at Smashwords

Chapter I

You swung a staff until you were ready to swing a sword. Then you went on all kinds of adventures — fighting monsters, casting spells, and saving damsels in distress. At least that was how it was supposed to work, but I didn’t believe a word of it.

Maybe it really was like that a long time ago. But I didn’t remember my father ever saving a damsel, fighting a monster, or even swinging a sword. He didn’t even carry a sword, although he did help me swing a cane when I was younger.

So I swung my staff because I was supposed to, though I knew one day I’d become a diplomat like my father, using my voice and my mind instead of my muscles and my magic.

But I swung the staff for other reasons, too. It helped me forget how people looked at me funny in the corridors of the castle, forget how lonely I was sometimes locked up in the study. It gave me a reason to wake up early every morning, even when I had nothing else to look forward to.

Today was different, though.

Today Giancarlo was going to let me swing a sword, even if it was only a wooden blade.

Maybe it was because I was finally sixteen. Maybe he thought I was ready to fight some of those monsters that I’d never seen and didn’t even believe in. I never got a chance to ask him.

Giancarlo helped me put on the hardened leather breastplate, codpiece, and leggings. It is a little embarrassing to have someone help you dress. But if everything isn’t properly adjusted, you risk getting pinched somewhere tender when you’re swinging a staff. I’d learned that the hard way.

Follow me, Anders, Giancarlo said, finally satisfied. We’ll spar down by the river, on the practice field.

Giancarlo sped along, and I hurried after him. If it weren’t for the bobbing light of the lantern, I would have lost him several times. The armor slowed me a little. But that wasn’t the only reason. There were other problems with my body besides pimples and out-of-control black, curly hair. Even though I had strong arms from morning practice, I was still out of shape. I had been thin and fast once, when I was younger. But that was before the magic, before I was cooped up in the castle.

So I jogged awkwardly, short of breath, feeling the armor pinch me a little, for all of Giancarlo’s fussing.

You could hear my sigh of relief as we arrived. I couldn’t help being jealous of Giancarlo. He was fast and thin, and seemed to glide effortlessly across the grass.

There were torches lit around the practice field. Seven torches, in a circle. The sky was still dark, although dawn was rapidly approaching.

I tried to catch my breath.

The river flowed by quietly. Insects were singing.

Everything else was asleep, or maybe just scared off by my noisy breathing.

Giancarlo put down his torch, and a long bag that hung from his shoulder. He opened the bag and pulled out five blades of different lengths and design.

Pick them all up and see which one feels right, he said. You’ll need to learn to fight with whatever is handy. But it’s better to be armed with something that fits you. Look at them first, maybe, and see if one speaks to you. They don’t talk to me, mind you, but I’m no sorcerer.

I looked at the swords lying there in the dirt. On the dark, packed earth their wooden fire-hardened blades were barely visible. I couldn’t see anything special, but I was excited to swing something besides a quarterstaff or a cane.

I squinted at them, wanting to see something, or hear something, anything at all. One of the blades in the center seemed to glint a little, a sparkle of green around its silver pommel and wooden blade.

I bent over and grabbed the pommel.

Just like that, I heard this sweet girl’s voice in my head: Gruss dich.

Whoa. Was that some kind of greeting?

I squeezed the pommel in return. This weird buzzing sensation ran up through the grip to my arm, shoulder, chest, and then all through my body.

This was definitely a change. Things were looking up. I think maybe I even smiled a little.

The blade felt like a real sword in my hands. I swung it around some, feeling the balance. Could it really be just wood? The silver pommel tingled in my fingers. The wood remained hard and dark.

I ran my finger along the edge, stopped suddenly. Ouch.

I sucked the finger, tasted blood. Is there magic in this wood?

Giancarlo shrugged. Magic interests me little and I know less of it. There may be a bit of magic in these blades; they were made for sorcerers, and they almost never break. And they’re sharp, as you seem to have noticed.

The silver pommel warmed in my hand, and I felt a throbbing pulse.

This pommel, though, I said. There’s magic here.

Giancarlo cleared his throat. That was your father’s. He refused to carry it, and your uncle wanted it, but now it’s yours.

My uncle was a taboo subject in my family. No one talked about him. It was like he had just disappeared from everyone’s memory back when I was little, just before we moved to Tuscany.

What do you mean, my uncle wanted it? Did you know my uncle?

I thought I knew him, Giancarlo said, frowning. But I was mistaken. I trained him a little, when he was young, but I don’t think I ever knew who he really was. Giancarlo shook his head. Before you, it was your grandfather’s, and your great grandfather’s pommel, that you have in your hand.

Later I would wish I’d asked him more questions about my uncle. But Giancarlo didn’t seem to want to talk about him, and I never liked to upset my blademaster. He could get really moody.

This same pommel? I asked instead. But didn’t they have a real sword?

Your grandfather explained it to me. The silver pommel passes down each generation. When the bearer grows too old to bear it, the blade breaks. A hardened blade of wood serves the next bearer until adulthood, to be then replaced with steel. The pommel, though, remains the same. I know little of magic — my wife’s the witch in the family — but it must be a good sign that you picked it out on the first try, without having to touch the others. I take it the swords speak to you after all.

I nodded, excited to get on with this now. The blade felt eager in my hand.

Old blades have many secrets, he continued. We trust them with our lives, as others have trusted them. Come now, Anders, let’s spar. We’ll see if there’s any hidden strength in you.

You wouldn’t be so strong if you were locked up in a room, I said defensively. I guess it was that hidden strength comment that got to me. Or maybe it was the lack of my morning tea. In any case, I was cranky.

But he just shrugged. So your mother keeps you inside too much. You eat a little too much to compensate for your lack of excitement. We all have excuses, son. But if someone attacks you, you’d better be ready to fight.

Giancarlo bent over and picked up one of the other blades.

Who is going to attack me if I’m locked up in my room all day? I asked.

Life is full of surprises, not all of them pleasant, Giancarlo said. Now give me your best. We spar until first blood. If your blade has anything new to teach you, maybe I will learn something too.

He bowed, and I bowed to him.

I spoke the same words I’d said every morning for over a year now.

May our blades be sharp, and our blade work true.

This was the first time they really meant something. We were sparring not with wooden poles but with blades.

Until first blood.

Giancarlo nodded. Let the wisdom of the blade teach us our daily lesson.

He brought up his sword, and I did the same. Behind my back, the sun began to rise. I could feel its warm light on the back of my neck as I swung my sword and the sweat began to flow, stinging my face.

But I felt stronger, more coordinated, even with the armor. Like the blade was an extension of my arm; I felt like I could just reach over and touch Giancarlo.

But I couldn’t. Giancarlo was too quick, and I spent most of the time knocking back his attacks. Several of them went past my guard. Soon I was feeling bruised, slow, and stupid.

Then, suddenly, came a crashing blow, the side of Giancarlo’s sword slamming into my ribs, and I fell to the ground on my bottom. Talk about embarrassing. I felt my face turn even hotter, and tried to get up as quickly as possible.

But a shooting pain in my side made me sit right back down on the ground.

Giancarlo stopped suddenly.

You graceless, self-absorbed boy. You worry more about the pimples on your face than the sword in your hand. You let shame and pain and anger distract you. In battle, you won’t be ashamed or embarrassed. You won’t be wincing in pain. You’ll be dead, or seriously wounded.

All right, then kill me, put me out of my misery, I said.

Giancarlo seemed to fight off a smile.

Stand up, he said. And focus on two things. My blade and yours. Squint, do your wizardly nonsense, say your words of power, do whatever you need, but fix those two lines in your mind and defend yourself. Our bodies are just extensions of these two blades. Focus on the blades and the bodies will follow.

I got back up. My muscles cried out for mercy under my bruises. Really, it wasn’t just getting hit that was hurting me.

Swinging the wooden sword was making me sore, too.

Tomorrow I was going to be in agony, but I didn’t care. There was no one in the world I wanted to impress more than Giancarlo, not even my father. And here I was, making a fool of myself instead.

It wasn’t fair. I hadn’t chosen to be locked in my room half my life, forced to study instead of exercise.

Here I was getting upset. If I couldn’t control my own feelings, how could I expect to win a sword fight?

I took a deep breath, let it out. Three times. Three—that’s a magic number.

I looked at the blades the way I had earlier, when I had picked mine up.

I had to concentrate really hard. My vision blurred and I almost gave up. I’d always been good at giving up. But I saw Giancarlo watching me, waiting patiently. I squinted some more and everything swam out of focus. Then I saw a glimmer. It was elusive, fading and then brightening. I focused on it, my eyes squinting madly. My eyes burned, and there was a prickling in my forehead. I tried to relax and concentrate at the same time, to forget all the pain in my arms and side.

I closed my eyes, took one last deep breath, let it out nice and slow.

When I opened my eyes again, everything came into focus. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Not only could I see Giancarlo clearly, but our blades, as well. My blade was a shimmering emerald green line that continued up my arm.

Giancarlo’s blade was a pale blue line of fire, but it stopped at his hand.

For the first time I realized I had an advantage, being magical. Even though Giancarlo was three times as old, three times as strong, and three times as experienced as I am.

So I didn’t blink. I didn’t feel bad about my abilities. I just spoke a word: "Kraft," and felt my arms and legs grow stronger. I stood up straight and smiled at Giancarlo and bowed. We began again.

I squinted and concentrated on where the blue and green lines met. My arm moved quicker than before. Thanks to magic, I felt almost as fast as my blademaster.

But the magic didn’t make the bruises hurt any less, and didn’t slow down Giancarlo any, either.

He rained blows down upon me and I parried desperately.

I still needed the sword’s knowledge. But how could I learn from it?

My arms were tiring again. Soon I was slowing down.

I was about ready to throw the sword down and give up. How could I get the silly thing to work its magic?

Maybe that was what did it — me focusing my anger and impatience on the blade.

All I know is one moment I was squeezing the pommel, angry at my sword for not telling me its secrets, and the next moment, the blade spoke.

Not with words, but with blows.

I parried, parried, struck.

The blows were like music, and the sword was teaching me a new song. As I struck and parried I heard real music then; the sword hummed in my hands.

The pommel grew warmer, and the music louder and quicker. I heard words, and at first I couldn’t understand them. Maybe they were some old northern tongue, but they were definitely instructions, instructions my body understood even if my mind didn’t.

Somehow I think the song the sword was singing was the song of my blood. My body moved with the song. My sword arm danced. It felt like I