3 Swords, pt.7 of 7.

"Come at me outlander!" Gourlak called to start. Azurdanak edged forward in a perfect three point stance until he saw the war chief rear back with his club. He darted in past the shield.

Gourlak's warpaint had a noxious stench that caught Azurdanak like a wall once into the war chief's personal space. He choked, which gave Gourlak enough time to adjust and knee him in the chest. The wind knocked out of him, Azurdanak staggered and got brushed back by the shield instead of crushed by the club. 

"Hah hah!" Gourlak cackled and moved in. He raised the club again and Azurdanak could only dodge. The chief's arms were longer than anticipated; the tip of the club brushed his face, loosening a tooth but leaving his skull intact. 

Azurdanak skipped sideways to put a bonfire between them as the crowd jeered. The fight had gone badly, quickly. Fighting stinking man-giants between blazing bonfires was not a lesson Thibidout had deigned to offer. 

Still, principles could be extracted. Azurdanak recalculated. He worked the timing of his breath into the timing of his steps. Wait for the swing, hold breath, move in, redirect the knee, shift Gourlak's balance, and topple him into the fire. Gourlak would not fall for that, but the scrum would create an opening in Gourlak's defense--an opening Azurdanak would exploit. He cycled through a score of different scenarios and contingencies as he and the war chief circled the bonfire. Satisfied that he had covered the angles, he stopped retreating and moved back into position.

When not directly engaged, Rone looked where the action was not. He often found, as he did now, that insight awaits the observer who watches the spaces between things. He stood 20 yards outside the camp, in the dark, in the tall grass, watching sparks mingle from the fires. And thus he alone noticed increased activity at the trading post. No longer were just heads peeking over the battlements; entire bodies stood on the walls. Frantic pointing and running. 

Rone turned his head in time to see a great, translucent wildcat, perhaps 30 feet tall at the shoulder. Crouched frighteningly nearby, its eerie yellow eyes trained on him. When it hissed, Rone observed it was missing its top canines.

He left his calm demeanor like a lizard leaves its tail, bolting toward the Urugan moot, not at all certain he would make it to the safety of the mortal crowd.

During all of this, Dahlia remained in Gourlak's tent, angry and aimless. Too proud to go out and watch Azurdanak do his boring sword dance, she sullenly carved genitalia into wooden surfaces with a table knife.

"M'lady, you have a special something," came a smooth voice with an Urugan burr. "Something no one can match."

Faster than a wing beat, her sword was in her hand. "Faugh. I might be amused to hear your voice if it weren't dripping from your greasy face."

"Lady, I gave you everything but offense! And this is your gratitude." He sauntered into the tent and let the flaps close behind him.

"I didn't give you the thrashing you're clearly asking for," she said. "Would you feel gratified to receive that now?"

"What I want from you are the teeth you stole from me. You don't know what they can do, and I still have need of them. If you give them to me now, I will save you from the indignities that will surely follow when my father crushes your skinny wizardling. If he hasn't already."

A great shriek from the crowd rose from outside the tent. "That is likely his end now," said Faugh. He leaned against the center tent pole. "Kill me and you will not escape the camp. Give me what I want and you'll leave unharmed, I promise."

Dahlia had considerably more respect for Azurdanak's fighting skill than she did two weeks ago, but she doubted he would best Gourlak. And she had no reason to hate Faugh other than instinct. But the instinct was very strong.

"After you relieved me of the Grimalkyn talismans, I followed you." Faugh narrated like a campfire tale spinner. "Imagine my delight when I discovered you had brought them to my very home. And then you blundered into my father's ill graces. How easy it would be to reclaim them! 

"Soolteg would never have missed them if you hadn't brought them back, of course. That man has more sacred bones than an ossuary. But once you did, he was bound to sense their power and tie his interminable sense of foreboding to your arrival. I couldn't have come back into my exiled home without your ruckus. But you did facilitate my return. Omens upon omens. What a fortuitous time for my reinstatement. When I reveal your possession of the talismans, I will be --- not forgiven, perhaps -- but tolerated again. How convenient."

"Faugh, I don't know what you're really up to," said Dahlia, "but I know why whores paint their faces. And your cheeks are too damn rosy," she said eyeing the distance to the tent flaps. "You care about yourself above all else. So here's what will happen in the next minute. I will leave this tent. In exchange, not only will you live, but you will keep at least one of your eyes. It could go even better for you if you stay quiet and calm."

"Calm?" he said merrily. "Of course. Quiet? Never one of my strengths." And with that, he kicked the center post of the tent, bringing the leather edifice down on them both.

Rone charged pell mell through the moot with the Grimalkyn scant feet behind. Now in the light of the bonfires, it was revealed. The great ghostly wildcat was mottled in color--gray on the face and head, darkening to an ochreous color along its spine, arched and threatening. Its sides were spotted dark and light and freakishly translucent. It loomed over the menhirs and tents. With one swipe, it could tumble half the camp. 

"The Dreads!" Soolteg looked up and babbled. "Pravas Ka, Eater of Memory, walks the night! These outlanders brought the Dread Grimalkyn among us!" 

Gourlak looked up at the terrible towering wildcat and shouted, "Urugans, do not quail! Find your knives--"

Further orders were cut short. The war chief gurgled as the Azurdanak's leyblade sank into his throat. 

Only then, as proper training indicates, did Azurdanak look away from his opponent. He saw the massive spirit creature and blinked once, slackjawed.

With the loss of their leader, the Urugans fell to bedlam. Soolteg shouted dismal prophecies while tribe members scattered around him. Rone had disappeared in the chaos and the Grimalkyn had enough new targets that the Wanderer was forgotten. Great swipes of its paws swatted clumps of humanity far into the air. It rent flesh with its teeth and crushed tents underfoot in its rampage. Its ghostly body passed through the standing stones and its head swiveled with searching menace. 

The wildcat's nose sniffed at an etherwordly air until its gaze leveled on the fallen war chief's tent.

Dahlia's sword was no help beneath the heavy collapsed tent. She thrashed to gain footing, but could not see or stand straight. Faugh, reared in such tents, knew how to maneuver. He crawled quickly behind Dahlia, knocked her down, and put his knee in her back. 

"Your life is mine, wench. First tell me where the teeth are. I will search you bodily if I must, and I assure you, I will explore every cavity." 

Dahlia struggled, but had no leverage. She went limp. "You win, Faugh," she said, teeth gritted. "They're in my bosom. Let me up and I'll get them for you."

"I'll just get them from here," he said, laying on her. He reached around to feel between her breasts. 

He could not extract the teeth without letting up a little. In the moment of release, Dahlia senselessly thrashed. She used the space to wriggle around to face him. He grabbed the teeth and groped her in the commotion. He still lay atop her, but his pin was broken.

He held the carved teeth between them in the dark, close space. They were both sweaty with exertion.

Dahlia could hear his labored breath inches away. "Your charm finally swayed me, Faugh. Take your prize." She blindly head-butted the teeth into his mouth and brought her knee up to kick him in the groin. His reflexive inhalation sucked the teeth into the back of his throat. He choked and spit blood onto Dahlia's face.

The scent of blood mixed with its missing corporeality finally gave the Grimalkyn purchase on its target. Claws like scimitars ripped through the tent, catching Faugh and lifting him off Dahlia. Open to the sky now, Dahlia saw the Grimalkyn for the first time in the firelight. She screamed in terror at Dread manifest.

The Grimalkyn roared as it brought its paw back down, crushing Faugh against the tent. Then the great spectral cat crouched and began eating him alive. Faugh's screams ended, but the sound of crunching bones carried an involuntary shudder through to Dahlia's soul. 

She sprang from the tent while the Dread was occupied. Only years of habit saw her sword in hand before fleeing. She ran the entire quarter mile to the trading post.

The post was flooded with frightened Urugan women and children, along with several non-Urugan servants who had escaped the madness. Inside the walls, she picked out Rone's mohawk stripe above the the refugee chaos.

Rone supported Azurdanak, who had fared poorly in the stampede. His left arm looked broken and his face was bloody. His expression was full disgust.

"Only six kills," he said. "Two more tried to avenge their fallen war chief during the tumult. I had to slay them with a broken arm. Six! I expected two dozen at least. I could have dispatched Crosian outlaw rabble if I had only been hunting six." He slumped against Rone, the last of his energy spent raging at fate.

Dahlia looked at Rone. Rone met her eyes briefly and then glanced away to a swirl of moths above a fire. "Outlaws, huh?" she said. 

"I know a bounty on a bandit 'prince' and his horde over in Phaestra. Prince Eleques and his 60 Hatchets? You get the kills, Rone and I get the reward. That sound fair?"

He looked up at her. "We'll leave tomorrow."

3 Swords, pt 6

Soon they sat on pelts around a low table inside a voluminous cured-leather tent. The three sword fighters sat together, with Rone closest to the warchief. The old, balding Urugan sat to Gourlak's right and a weasel-faced Urugan with greasy hair sat to his left. Dahlia recognized him with a thud in her chest. The silver-tongued exile. His eyes met hers and they were full of mischief.

Serving women handed around platters of roasted game and blackened grains, hearty food that left a burnt taste in everyone's mouths. As they ate, Gourlak spoke with a deep commanding voice. 

"Rone, either you have not beaten your servants enough or you are not what you say you are. My shaman, Soolteg," he gestured to his right, "tells me the Dreads of this land are moving among the moot but he cannot divine their destination. Then I find your so-called servants brawling among one of my clans and you sneaking in the dark. At the same time you arrive, my exiled son, Faugh, also returns and names you as Hidden Evils. Explain this."

"That man is a liar!" Dahlia shouted, pointing.

"Silence, woman. Faugh is a liar and a thief. But neither means he is wrong," Gourlak said. "Where you find spoor, game is ahead. What I must know is whether you are the spoor or the game."

Gourlak turned to Rone. "Since you let your woman speak freely, I assume she is not your servant. More liars than my son sit at this table." Dahlia's face flushed at being found out. Rone's face was impassive.
"We Urugans have a tradition that you outsiders will not know. Once you enjoy a man's hospitality, you must tell your story with honor and honesty. Now that you have eaten, Rone, I would hear your story."

Rone looked placidly at his plate as he finished chewing. "My story is humble. I was raised in the mesas of Ashur-kun among the warrior-monks. There I learned the sword skills of the Wavering Way, and how to live in patterns. I have seen under the Macrocosm. I have been catechized by the Scions of Shadow and Silence. Now I wander searching matters that defy understanding. I see movement in stillness. What can still surprise one so schooled? The only enlightenment is in the unpredictable."

Gourlak's mouth turned down. "That's no story! That's a recitation. Tell me your story before I take offense, Wanderer."

Rone looked back at him quiescently. "I was still a student in the way of Kurtul-maal, studying with the masters above the sandy floor of the Ashur-kun. There was a girl among the boys, loved intensely by us all. The masters had never accepted a girl before because it interfered with concentration. 

"And Aulita interfered with everything. Silky black hair and eyes blue like still water. She carried deep sorrow with her. But when she laughed at something you did, the world was new. You would rather please her than ten masters.

"I did not stand out among our coterie. Larger, yes, but not the smartest or fastest or the quickest study. I think the stillness is what drew her to me. I wanted her attention desperately, but all I knew was quiet. Yet quiet was the shelter she sought." Rone fell silent and shifted in his seat before continuing.

"The rainy season in Ashur-kun brings torrential flood. Raging for a short time, then a trickle, then gone. The masters told us to stay indoors during the rains, but Aulita was deep in meditation and did not feel the rain on her skin.
"A fist of wind threw her from the mesa into the waters. In half an hour the rain had stopped and the water subsided. We never found her body. Sometimes I consider that she is still alive, though I know not how.
"Aulita taught me flexibility of the spirit. Partly I wander for her."

"Your storytelling is more humble than your story," Gourlak said, staring into Rone's eyes. "But I can see your truth." He finished a great hank of venison and wiped his hands on a rough cloth held by a servant girl.

"Well, eating and storytelling are done. I must decide what to do with you three." Gourlak stood to his full height, hair brushing the hanging lantern above him. "Killing my warriors is impressive, but cannot go without redress." He picked up his great club. "Rone, let us settle this the traditional way."

Azurdanak stood as well. "Rone is not the one who began this tumult. It was my doing. I will fight you, outside, where all can see."

All eyes turned to Azurdanak. Gourlak looked surprised at the interruption. "Hm?" he said. "I just meant for you to give me your woman and go free. But a duel sounds interesting. Let's do that." 

Dahlia glared at a dozen backsides as the tent emptied. Faugh was the last and the only one to look back at her. And smile.

Two huge fires were stoked to a blazing height casting long eerie shadows off the standing stones out into the darkness of the steppes. In the sudden arena, Azurdanak stretched his arms out to his sides to get a measurement of the space. He watched Gourlak swing long, thick arms in huge, swooping circles, limbering up for the battle. Geometry was not in the thin man's favor. 

Nearly the entire moot gathered in a circle just outside the firelight. Several other clans had also heard the news and come from their camps to watch: the noise was a dull roar. Only Rone noticed, in the far distance, fires lighting up the grounds around the trading post. Furtive heads poked over the battlement, wondering whether the Urugans massed for an assault.

 Gourlak hefted his shield onto his left arm and gripped the leather bindings of his club with his right. His bronze breastplate was etched with a panorama of beasts fighting. The fire shone on the fresh warpaint on his face, arms, and legs. He had killed hundreds of men. With leonine poise he prepared to add another to the godskept list of his fallen.

Azurdanak's brow nearly folded in on itself as he studied the fighting grounds and his opponent. Size, strength, and experience were his foe's powerful assets. He would need to stay in the center of the field. The chief could toss him into the fire with club or shield and no form will save a duelist from immolation. The war chief would win a long fight. Therefore, Azurdanak would need to move inside Gourlak's reach quickly and puncture his unprotected armpit. He recited the incantation to conjure his ley rapier. His form would need to be flawless. 

Fortunately, flawlessness was his strong point.

3 Swords, pt 5

When Dahlia and Azurdanak finished setting up, they traipsed to another camp through thigh-high grass in the dark between bonfires. This camp was larger, set in the midst of the menhirs. Unknown in this camp, the rude stares began anew. 

Without Rone's disarming protection, Azurdanak seized initiative. "Who among you wishes to wager lives for exorbitant wealth?" he cried. 

Dahlia thought this a terrible opening gambit. No one appeared surprised or challenged.

"You do not belong here," a tribesman said with a wave like batting at flies. "Leave before I break your puny bones."

"I am no farmer to surrender my yield," Azurdanak said disdainfully. "I am Azurdanak of the eldritch blade. You shall heed my challenge!" He clapped his hands and uttered the incantation. The shimmering blue rapier sprang into his hand.

Audible gasps and whispers of "witch". People were on their feet. Some of the men fell back. Others spat, made warding signs, and drew their long knives. 

"Only the one who defeats me in single combat will receive the prize, one thousand barons. Those who do not fight singly forfeit the prize... and their lives."

A murmur rose. One thousand barons would feed a clan for a year. Dahlia raised her eyebrows. If she had known 'Danak had that money, she might have just taken it. She decided he was bluffing. That's what she would do.

"I'll take your money, witch." A great muscled warrior with tangled long brown hair stepped toward Azurdanak. He stank of mead at five paces. The crowd parted around him and a chant of his name began: "Felgred! Felgred! Felgred!"

Azurdanak stepped into position. "Begin."

Felgred screamed and charged. Azurdanak stepped off line and nicked him as he stopped short. The great man rounded on him, but Azurdanak moved again, staying to the warrior's right and a little out of reach. The rapier was several inches longer than the knife. Azurdanak calculated the reach and exploited it mercilessly. 

"You're not fighting," Felgred huffed. "You're dancing."

"This is fighting, oaf," Azurdanak prodded.

Felgred however, knew only one way to fight. After a few more wild charges, the barbarian was cut and bleeding badly.

"Your witch-sword saps me!" Felgred said, swooning.

"The sword has nothing to do with it. You're feeling preliminary effects of blood lo--" Azurdanak's didactics enraged the barbarian, who interrupted him with a final rush, knife held high. The Kainenlander finished with a decisive thrust between the ribs.

All Urugan warriors were on their feet now, demanding the next turn at killing the witch. One finally shouted the others down and pulled his long knife. It was exquisitely made, a masterpiece from a different era, when Urugan smiths were counted among the finest in the Five Lands. "Your witch sword won't save you this time, weakling."

Seventeen seconds later, the man fell dead, and his knife disappeared into the crowd. "He killed Gurgred!" came a cry, and the wailing of a woman rose from somewhere among the tents. 

Azurdanak's face hardened. The murmur grew, and another man stepped up as the corpse was dragged away. He drew a massive greatsword and stared grimly at Azurdanak. 

Like a reflex, Azurdanak shifted his stance to one more defensive and mobile. He was all feints and darts. Every time the man-mountain committed to a swing, Azurdanak stepped into the opening he left and jabbed, exploiting the rhythm of his foe's missed swings. The difference in reach and weight was significant. A mistimed jab would be the end of the lithe fighter, but azurdanak's footwork was precise. Feint, swing, jab, again and again. Dahlia grew impatient just watching the warrior who kept falling for it. This was a variation on what Azurdanak had done to her when they first met. She saw why the crowd grew bored. It was monotonous.

For nearly a full minute, each time Azurdanak was just where the great blade wasn't, until the barbarian's pelts were matted with blood. Exhausted from the effort, the great man heaved forward onto Azurdanak, where the glowing blue rapier waited to sink into his abdomen.

When his tribesmen pulled the corpse off him, Azurdanak looked a little flattened. The mageblade was gone. 

"Focus stupid..." He muttered. He rattled off the incantation and the sword reappeared in his right hand.

"Where are your men now that I've defeated your simpletons and drunkards?" The taunt was feeble, but he was shaken and hoped to hide it behind the insult.

Dahlia could see however that an angrier mood had taken over the crowd. The word "witch-sword" passed more freely now in mutterings. Discontent at the ease with which Azurdanak had dispatched their warriors was growing pronounced. Dahlia had her own sword out now, but no one seemed to pay her any attention, which annoyed her.

Finally an old woman pointed at Azurdanak and shouted, "The sword! It bewitches our warriors! Fall on him, kinfolk! Destroy the Dreadseed before it takes another!"

Azurdanak and Dahlia had discussed this eventuality, but it was happening ahead of schedule. "Dahlia, your assistance please." 

Dahlia sprang at the old woman, choking her with her gauntlet. "Silence, crone!" 

This incensed the tribe and drew their attention to her. Clubs and flaming branches from the bonfire appeared in hands that didn't hold long knives. 

"You may inform Rone that I am docking his pay for his untimely absence," Azurdanak said as he maneuvered to Dahlia's back. 

"He might be the only one alive to get paid, Kainenlander," she said. But Dahlia had none of Azurdanak's grimness. She brightened in the firelight as the Urugans encircled them. Duels and footwork were for fencers. She was a scrapper. This was her joy.

The Urugans surged, fighting with fear and desperation. Dahlia sliced and punched and grappled her way into the mob, a roil of chaos in her wake. Knife blades flashed, and the sword fighters parried and returned blows as howls of "Witchcraft!" flew into the night.

Azurdanak tried to stay with her, but Dahlia had no knack for teamwork. As she drew more attention, he became her bodyguard instead, fending off knives aimed at her flank. She fought to wound--hamstring cuts, throat punches, and various soft tissue shots. Bodies fell, but the tribe fought like a wolfpack, returning in waves. Nicks and bruises began to take their toll on the pair, fighting a mob composed of sinew and hate.

As they began to falter, a great voice stilled the crowd: "Too-lagan! Chamerkosh! Your war chief commands you to stop fighting!"

The crowd stopped instantly and turned to face the largest Urugan Azurdanak had seen yet. Standing between the two largest menhirs, he held a great club in one hand and a shield in the other. To his left stood a wiry, balding Urugan. To his right stood Rone. 

"Pale one, I am told you are killing my warriors in single combat with a witch-sword."

Azurdanak huffed, short of breath, "I challenged them and they accepted the stipulations."

"I am Gourlak, War Chief of this moot. Put down your swords. Eat with me tonight."

Rone barely nodded to Azurdanak, but he caught it. "I accept your gracious hospitality, War Chief."

3 Swords, pt 4

Dahlia brought an armload of wood back to camp.

"I heard the scream of a wounded man," Rone said to her offhandedly. "And you did not have that knife or pouch on your belt when you left. Did you encounter trouble?"

"Don't you have some of your own business to mind?"

"My business is watching patterns. Your pattern is to encounter trouble. How fortunate that our goals so frequently intertwine."

"Fortunate wasn't the word I was thinking of," she said. "But to answer your nose, I encountered no trouble. A bandit trio, however, suffered significant losses." She gave them a brief synopsis, and then couldn't resist showing her haul.

Azurdanak's eyes narrowed when he saw the scrimshaw. "May I see those teeth?" 

She paused. "You can look at them while I hold them."

"I don't want your spoils, just let me see." Nonetheless, Dahlia held them up for his inspection without letting them go. She rotated the canines slowly so he could see the whole carving.

"Some Urugan shaman is likely smarting at the loss of these," he said after pulling away from the inspection. "You left a bold thief alive."

"He was too good at talking to be any good at fighting," Dahlia said, unworried. "He's no threat."

"So long as you never sleep, I agree." Azurdanak's thin lips drew down to lines. "Vigilance will be at a premium tonight."

Rone snorted. I'll take first watch." 

Dahlia placed the teeth in her bosom. They were worth even more than she'd thought! There was no way the Urugan sneak thief would get them back now.

Despite concerns, the night passed uneventfully.

As did the next two days' travel to the Crosian border. 

The trading post on the border was engorged. The Urugan moot was fully underway. Urugans are not quite the barbarians their victims make them out to be. They are grim, harsh people, with fleet horses and tempers. Their gods are dark and fearsome, and as the god, so the people. Their civilization occupied the Uruguan Steppes for nearly a millennium;  dashed ruins still litter the tablelands amid high grass and stunted trees wind-swept into strange shapes.

A calamity befell the entire civilization for reasons enshrouded, although to this day Urugans look on agriculture with deep suspicion, and only eat plant matter when scorched by fire. Nomads now, they follow herds of elk and bison across the rugged steppes. 

For most of the year, any Urugan this close to the Crosian border would be considered a raider. The trading post was fortified for such a springtime contingency. 

A quarter mile beyond the post walls, however, stands a great horseshoe of weathered menhirs, some as tall as 20 feet, so old that even legends of their original meaning are dead. Now they mark the border between Crosia and the wild steppes, though the Crosians build nothing near the stones out of vague superstition.

At the autumnal equinox each year, the Urugan tribes convene around the standing stones. For two weeks they conduct dark rituals celebrating and placating the underworld god, Veles, stealing the cattle of their sky god, Perun, and driving them into the underworld. They drink and fight and carouse and help each other prepare for the coming cold before drifting back into the wilderness to hole up for winter.

Azurdanak explained all of this to his companions as they stood by the trading post gate. Rone had been watching the Urugans who came into the trading post, while Azurdanak and Dahlia busied themselves with stabling the horses and securing provisions.

The next day they laid out plans. Then just before sunset, Rone, Dahlia, and Azurdanak strode into the Urugans' camp and stood out like cardinals among crows.

Rude stares were their primary greeting. When it became clear they were more than Crosian gawkers, a tribal chieftain was summoned.

The chief approached Rone (the largest of the band, and therefore, the leader). "Night is falling, and outsiders are not welcome in our moot," he said. "Why are you still here?"

"This is where my travels take me," Rone said gruffly. "I'm no kin, but nor am I an outsider." The Urugans grumbled in reply.

"One of my servants found this knife," he pointed an open palm at Dahlia without looking at her. She stared at his hand until he barked, "Woman! The knife." 

She sullenly handed him the knife from her belt. "Learn when I'm talking to you," he said, eyes shot sidelong toward her smaller frame in his shadow. 

Azurdanak stared wide-eyed at Rone. His voice, posture, and demeanor had changed like the rainy season sky--from calm to brooding in seconds. He looked nothing like an Urugan, but in a day had learned to mimic their behavior like a true son.

"Chieftain, do you recognize this knife?" He said, holding it out to him handle first. The Urugan chief took it, drew the blade, and admired the quality. 

"It looks well-made," he begrudgingly offered.

"It is a gift to you and your clan in thanks for your hospitality," Rone said. 

The chieftain eyed Rone. "You can stay for one night. Unless you want to trade that sword as well...."

Rone sneered. "You'll get the sharp end for free if you enter my tent. I'll be here two nights if it pleases me."

"Be gone before the sun two days hence," the chief said. 

Both men grunted satisfaction.

"How did you do that?" Azurdanak asked.

"Quick study is not the sole provenance of wizards," Rone said. "You must both treat me as your master while we're here. Begin setting up the tents while I look around. Azurdanak, if you begin your work tonight, slip away while I am occupied."

"Every time Rone plays shapechanger it costs me money," Dahlia grumbled. But Rone was already gone, swaggering toward the Urugans' bonfire.

3 Swords, pt 3

"You're a strange one," Rone said. "You have manners and airs of a wizard, but none of the entrappings. No books. No college robes. You summon a sword, but not servant or guardian spirits. It's a rare wizard who does his own scutwork."

"Well observed," Azurdanak said. "You should know the rue you travel with."

"My homeland is far away, known to us as Kainenland, founded by a conjurer of renown."

"I've heard of it," said Rone. "I've heard it called the Towerlands."

"Indeed you have. Wizardry runs in Kainen blood."

"And you're not one of the vaunted conjurers?"

I was in training for such. But events, as they do, transpired. A vast curse befell my people, called up by my master, Symerond, consorting with forces beyond his mettle. Pyrotechnics ensued and Symerond lay dead at a maleficent's cloven feet."

"A maleficent? So you're diabolists?" Dahlia asked.

"Not after that affair," he said dryly. "The maleficent was and remains bound within my master's tower, but his reach was not so hindered. Crops withered. Rivers ran red. Barricaded in Symerond's tower, the maleficent demanded firstborn sacrifices. We resisted for a time, but... necessity became reality.

"After some months, research uncovered a way to breach the tower and potentially lift the curse: one thousand deaths bought in single combat.

"I had wanted only to be a scholar-wizard, steeped in study. Perhaps take on an apprentice of my own some day. The Kainenland greybeards decided otherwise. 

"Symerond had no known living relatives, so the task of lifting the curse fell to me, his intellectual heir. A curse which can only be lifted by the sword.

"Of course I had as much experience with swords as eels with kites. So I embarked on a natural course--I sought the finest teacher and commenced study."

"Who was your teacher?" Rone's entomological reverie had ended some moments before and he seemed drawn in to this part of the story.

"The renowned fencing master, Thibidout of Ravenna."

"I know of Thibidout. But not you," Rone said.

"Then it is as I have wished. Notoriety does my cause no service. Convinced of the import of my quest, Thibidout trained me in secret for five years."

"Five years won't make a master swordsman," Dahlia said.

"But brilliance, need, and keen study do. I do not possess Rone's strength or the lifetime of discipline. Nor do I have your grace or natural ability. I used what I have: quick study and knife-edge focus. For five years I studied the Derecha school of fencing under Master Thibidout. His system is objectively the best. No weapon can prevail over a Derecha master, especially one wielding a ley rapier."

"I've heard the Derecha boast, but never had the good fortune to observe it," Rone said diplomatically.

"Watch closely then," Azurdanak said. "Thaumaturgy was my destiny, but then wizardry became waylaid. Now I am an itinerant swordsman on the grimmest of missions."

The life you choose is seldom the life you live," said Rone.

"We all know that song," said Dahlia.

"That's a long tale under a short hat, 'Danak." Dahlia had given Azurdanak a nickname the first day out. He refrained from objecting lest she return to "Stick Arm" or a less pleasant moniker. "I still think you're borrowing trouble. But I respect your courage. And you're a middling swordsman. You might live if you keep moving."

"I shall do both," Azurdanak said. "Death is no acceptable option."

"That choice is not entirely yours," said Rone.

"I have not had the luxury of choice for seven years." 

Rone met his eyes and nodded in response.

The next evening, an hour before sundown, Dahlia was collecting firewood in a thicket when she heard a single footstep rustle behind her. Her sword was in her strong right hand in time to ward off the club descending on her back. 

She whirled to face three assailants: two ragged Crosian bandits: one missing part of an ear, one with a snaggled tooth recovering for another blow with the club. And a swarthy greasy-haired Urugan wielding the traditional long knife of his people.

"Looks like we found a bird alone here in the grass--" 

The snaggletoothed bandit's taunt was cut short. Dahlia leapt toward him and cut his wrist deeply. He cried out and dropped his club. Now in close, Dahlia pulled his own knife from his belt and gutted him while he stared at his gashed wrist. 

As the other two maneuvered to attack, Dahlia rolled forward and beyond them, nicking the missing-ear bandit's calf along the way. He crumpled and Dahlia rolled back to finish him with a quiet gurgle.

The Urugan hesitated which gave Dahlia enough time to stand and face him. He slowly sheathed his long knife and held up his hands in front of him. "I see you are not the wounded bird we mistook you for for, m'lady," he said in an unusually cultured, musical voice for an Urugan. "Forgive the egregious presumption. I am but a lowly outcast from my tribe, seeking to make his way in a strange land. I fell in with lesser company, and you have shown me the error of my ways. Perhaps you will also show mercy?"

Dahlia laughed. "I have no quarrel with you, exile. Be on your way and choose better allies next time. I claim rights to these louts' pockets though."

"Of course, my lady. Who would gainsay such a reasonable request?"

"And yours," she said lowering her sword to the pouch on his belt.

He paused. "But that I would have offered it first to a lady of such keen demeanor," he said, untying it from his belt. He threw it at her feet, and she kicked it a couple of yards beyond his reach. 

"Your tongue has a spritely dance for an Urugan."

"My kin and I have occasionally had differences of perception."

"Hence your banishment."

"As you say, my lady."

"I'm not your lady, exile. Now go find a better class of gutter trash to roll in."

"Your mercy is matched only by your beauty," he said. He looked again at his forfeited pouch and backed many paces before turning away from the broadsword.

Dahlia picked up the pouch and sorted through it. A handful of silver coins and a couple of long fangs from some animal carved with primitive scrimshaw. They might sell to a curio collector. The bandits had only a few copper coins between them, but the knife she took from the first one had decent craftsmanship. Shame he hadn't thought to use it.

3 Swords, pt 2

Rone the Wanderer sat cross-legged on a rooftop watching starlings flit about a nest tucked into the eaves of a nearby building. The flight of birds was ordered, yet unpredictable. He meditated on this.
"Rone, come down," Dahlia's voice shot up. "Man wants to see you swing your pig-sticker."
Rone meditated briefly on the interruptions Dahlia brought to his meditations.
He dropped lightly onto a rain barrel, then the street. He was tall and muscular, with caramel skin. His clothes were made of a canvas-like cloth, and he wore his dark brown hair close cropped, but with a stripe like a mohawk down the middle.
He looked down on the thin man. Azurdanak held out his hand in the traditional Velden manner. "Greetings sir. Your companion tells me you are fair with sword fighting in the eastern style. I have need of blades and strong arms to wield them. May I see a sample of your skill?"
Rone drew his double bladed straight sword, thin and long, with an iron ring on the pommel, and bowed slightly to Azurdanak. "Please forgive my apparent deficiencies," he said.
Rone commenced a whirling display of swordsmanship with no apparent deficiencies whatsoever. The swirling created a hypnotic pattern punctuated with unexpected hiccups, joint locks, or muscle spasms that altered the flow, popping the viewer out of the hypnotic reverie. Even in these interruptions, Azurdanak noticed a deeper pattern that he just began to decode when the sword flew toward his face.
Azurdanak noted later that he had not seen the Wanderer slip a length of rawhide string tied to his wrist through the iron ring. He had detected no wizardy, so it must have happened quickly, when his attention was diverted.
In the moment he flinched and ducked, but to his credit, refrained from shouting. Rone flicked his wrist and the sword snapped back to his hand. A nice trick that would catch offguard anyone thinking themselves a foot out of steel's reach.
If Rone had meant to menace Azurdanak, his face didn't betray him. He continued his display with the same serene concentration.
One abrupt fluid motion returned his sword to its beaded sheath, breaking the spell of the whirling blade. Azurdanak regained his composure under Rone's placid gaze and Dahlia's smirk.
"Well you're fast. And you certainly look strong enough," he said. "Dahlia, you say he's beaten you?"
"Few others live to make that claim."
"You're hired." Azurdanak rubbed his chin. "The Urugan moot begins in two weeks."
"We won't make the Crosian border in two weeks," Rone observed.
"As I planned," Azurdanak turned to walk away. "I want them drunk-sick and worn down before I arrive. if they're fresh, that makes my job harder." He beckoned to the pair to follow him.
"What is your job, exactly?" Rone asked.
"To slay as many Urugans as possible in single combat."
Rone's brow furrowed slightly. "Intriguing. You know Urugans abhor a fair fight?"
"As do I. That's why I chose Urugans. Dahlia, please explain as I check the wagon. We'll leave before dawn."
"I can't explain, Rone, but the pay is bloody royal," she whispered.
Azurdanak's wagon was well equipped, and his horses fed and groomed neatly.
"Where did you get this?" Dahlia asked. "You came in on a caravan last night."
"No, I came in as part of a caravan. I travel a great deal to places tradesmen don't like to think about. Stow your gear in the back properly please. Either of you know how to drive horses?"
"We're fighters, not teamsters," Dahlia said.
"You'll learn a new trade then. Load up."

The trip to the Crosian border wound through green lands studded with granite boulders, gently sloping downhill all the way. Pitchwolves, fur black as a moonless night roamed the lands, as well as brigands and hungry ghosts. The trio erected mandrake effigies to confuse the ghosts at night, but the other two threats required vigilance.
As they rode, they told stories, as travelers do, and compared styles as sword fighters do. Rone demonstrated more of his wavering way technique--a purposely wobbly stance that caused Azurdanak to constantly re-evaluate his geometry. He demanded Rone repeat kata steps, and Rone obliged, but there remained offbeat about the style that Azurdanak couldn't pin down.
Azurdanak demonstrated further displays of his fencing style replete with drawings sketched in the dirt demonstrating the geometry and anatomy of humans. There are a finite number of ways that humans can do significant damage to each other, he explained. Memorize them, study them, counter them, and you become undefeatable.
Dahlia laughed at their airs. "There's nothing to show when there's nothing on the line," she said. "You both think too much. Just pull steel and fight."
Rone chuckled. "There is more to her technique than her brag."
"I know you are right," Azurdanak replied. The bruise on his arm was still black and sore. "But she'll meet a sooner end than you or I."
"I very much doubt that," Dahlia said. "Your fool's task will have me burying you by week's end, I'd wager."
"I'll take that bet," said Azurdanak.
"Not with you," she said, tossing a pebble at him. "I'll take all of your money when you're dead anyway."
"Good to know it will land in safe hands."
"I'll drink to you with a penny of it."
"A penny? At least buy a round for the house!"
"Eh... We'll see how we'll you fare in this fight you're going to pick."
"You will indeed! But let me warn you now: Do not interfere in one-on-one combat. Even if the fight goes badly for me. Only intervene when I am outnumbered... And even then, stay your blade if I seem untroubled."
"I hate to pass up a good fight, but I usually won't say no when someone pays me and tells me not to work, eh Rone?"
Rone was watching bugs on a tree branch and appeared not to hear her.
"Why are you hellbent on dying alone anyway?" She continued.
"I am not. I would rather not be here at all. But I must triumph alone or die trying. And since I plan to live, that leaves one option."

3 Swords, pt 1

"When the horn sounds, begin combat. Draw your swords."
An athletic woman drew her broadsword and flexed her left hand within its mailed gauntlet. On the sword fighting circuit, she was called Dahlia or Mailfist or names more opprobrious.
Her opponent, a thin, pale-skinned man clapped his hands before him and spoke in a forgotten tongue: "By the nine arms of Ilderleth, Belen-Tul-qoth, revek anderlath." In his right hand appeared an eldritch blue energy, shaped like a rapier. No one knew his name. He'd arrived with a caravan last night and smelled of foreign spices.
A small crowd ringed the fighters, facing off in the cobbled town square. Money changed hands when the man conjured his sword. Magic was still little known in these parts, feared or revered. Dahlia felt neither. She spat on the cobblestone grit. The horn bayed.
She sprang forward, testing her foe with a quick step and a lunge. He parried; the blue rapier redirected her sword down and across her body. She followed through with a spinning backfist that caught him on his left arm. She was stronger than she looked, and he staggered under the punch.
Traveling with her momentum, Dahlia spun again and brought the sword down on his gaunt frame.
But this time, the thin stranger had moved. The flat of her blade skittered on the square's cobblestones and she looked up to see him maneuvering around her left, keeping a closer eye on the gauntlet now.
She returned to a ready stance as he circled behind her. "Don't expect magic tricks to save you, scarecrow," she taunted.
"I won't need them for this instance." he said.
This time he came at her, a flurry of jabs and stabs that her larger blade only barely fended. He was quick, and always stayed just a handsbreadth outside her reach to counterattack. The metal sword clanged and the eldritch blade sizzled faintly. The crowd cheered! A magic sword! A stranger! A local favorite!
The fighters circled and clashed for over two minutes--as good as an hour on the circuits. Someone was usually too slow or drunk to last this long.
After seven minutes, the cheers had died down. General sentiment seemed to be that Dahlia should have finished it by now. A magic sword wielded by a stranger was intriguing, but the thin man had no panache. He fought with precision, exceptional stamina, and zero showmanship. Dahlia was an exciting figure to watch, but the thin man seemed to suck excitement out of sword fighting. Outside the circle, interested flagged.
Inside the circle however, both participants were tightly involved, sweating, breathing heavily from the exertion. The man was wise to Dahlia's gauntlet, but still took an occasional rough poke from it. Every time she tried it though, he stabbed at the opening she created. She recovered, but after the third time, it was clear that he was intentionally taking the tradeoff. He wasn't doing real damage, but repeated pinpricks wear on a fighter. She needed to end this soon.
She summoned a sudden burst of energy and flew at him with a scream. For perhaps the first time since the fight began, he stood instead of maneuvering. At the last possible moment, he took one great step back and to his left, and stuck out his rapier. Her neck stumbled into the tip of of it, and she wheeled her arms to stop from going any further.
"Winner!" cried the horn blower. "Dahlia do you yield?"
The thin man opened his hand and the magic rapier vanished in a blue flare. "She does," he said. "I need her sword."
The thin man collected his winnings--he had bet substantially on himself--and beckoned her to follow him to the inn.

Inside the main room of the dark-timbered inn, he had the one-thumbed innkeeper beat some drunkards away from a table and bring two mugs of mead. He nursed his as he spoke. Dahlia drained hers and shouted for another. "You've got my attention, Stick Arms. What do you want?"
"My name, since you asked, is Azurdanak. I will take a short trip in the very near future. I need a bodyguard and you are clearly the second-best sword fighter in the area."
"Second? I could take you on a different day, Stick Arm."
"Not under controlled conditions," he said mildly.
"Why you think that?" She was nearly done with her second drink.
"You're sloppy and unprincipled. I assumed at first that I'd exploit your obvious Benvenuti Opening and win quickly. However, you're talented, and quickly adapted, so I had to drop back to the Kazanskov Concourse which ultimately bested you.
"In short, since your countenance informs that you are not following the discourse, you're competent--and unorthodox--so I underestimated you. But I was in no danger of losing to you."
Dahlia rose. "I have other business than looking up your nose."
He grabbed her sleeve. "I will pay forty crowns."
She grinned down at him. "Why didn't you say you were desperate? Show me some glint and insult me more, Stick Arm."
"I wasn't insulting -- I didn't mean to insult you. I'm sorry for whatever I said."
"It's all right," she said relaxing back into her drink. I've been fighting all afternoon. You just show up, study my style, and step fancy until I make a mistake? That's not a real fight. No way you're better than me." She finished her mug.
Azurdanak pursed his lips. "No, I'm definitely superior. But let's not get bogged in irrelevanc--."
"Oh, this is relevant," she said. "This is godsall pertinent is what this is."
"Well we won't settle this by raising voices in an inn. We'll fight again when you're rested and we'll see."
"You'll see my boot on your throat. Now show me some money and buy me another drink."
Azurdanak pulled a gold crown from his purse and bounced it on the table. "I won 40 crowns betting against you. You may have it all if you'll look out for my interests for the next three to four weeks."
Dahlia caught the coin on the bounce. "Tell me the job."
"A yearly conglomeraton of Urugan barbarians meets near the western border of Crosia. They gather and drink and fight. The fighting is my primary interest. I intend to duel as many as I can."
"What do you need a hired sword for then?"
"Two reasons. First, West Crosia is dangerous territory, and I need someone competent--and unorthodox--watching out while I travel. Second, I intend to win all of my fights by killing my opponents. The savages will not object to my slaying scattered rabble, but after a number of victories, I expect them to become testy. They are superstitious and will naturally suspect my mageblade the reason, not superior skill. When it is time to depart, I'll likely need help taking my leave."
"I know about Urugans," Dahlia said. "They value a good fight and hate losing. As good as I am, you'll need another sword."
"That can be arranged. But this tournament is a sorry mob. I haven't seen anyone else I'd put against an angry Urugan."
"You haven't seen Rone."