CHAPTER XII - Scum of the Earth
I was beaming with happiness as I sat at Ivar’s table for supper. It had been a long time since I’d been this happy, and only now did I realize how much I had missed them both. Ingrid kept silent most of the evening, though her constant smile told me without words all the secrets of her heart, and I too smiled, and found a measure of joy dining on a simple meal, with simple people who were family to me. “So I see you’re a soldier now,” Ivar remarked, only after we had finished our meal. Ingrid then eyed my uniform and rank carefully, as if she hadn’t understood their meaning until then.
“Yes, I’ve enlisted,” I replied proudly.
“Are you high-ranked?” Ingrid asked innocently.
“How can he hold a high rank if he only recently enlisted?” Ivar responded, in a manner that somewhat belittled his daughter.
“No, I’m only a footman now, but I’ll be promoted if I work hard enough,” I said. Both Ivar and Ingrid nodded in understanding, though their conflicting expressions told me that each understood me in different ways: Ingrid seemed impressed, Ivar not so. I heard the sound of Ivar tapping his leg impatiently under the table, and decided that this was the best and probably only opportunity I had to tell him what had happened — in hope he’d want to help. And so I started …
“That Raymond sounds familiar from somewhere,” Ivar said, and I leaned closer to hear what he’d say next.
“Can’t remember from where though. You’re saying three bandits killed him and they’re in town now … sounds like risky business if you’re after them,” he remarked.
“Honor demands that I pursue them; I would do the same for you or Ingrid if something were to happen to either of you.” I replied.
“I respect that,” Ivar answered, thinking a few moments. “Tell you what … I’ll give you a sword and tutor you in its proper use. You can return here each evening after your shift and we’ll train together. I’ve been meaning to practice my fencing at any rate, but haven’t found the time. Now’d be as good an opportunity as ever,” he concluded.
“Thank you! Thank you Master Smith! I shan’t forget this favor, I shan’t!” I cried, taking his hand and kissing it. “Don’t thank me yet boy, I may be sending you off to your death. You need to take your training very seriously now and be persistent,” he replied after he released his hand. Ingrid’s face turned pale.
“I’m not going to die, God is with me,” I replied, to reassure both myself and Ingrid.
“The gods favor the bold, but they’ll not stay the hand of death even for the mightiest of warriors. Now wait here,” Ivar said, and went to one of the walls, where he removed a log to reveal a secret compartment. Both Ingrid and I stared at him, and he smiled as he took out a bundle covered in brown cloth. He returned to the table, I rose as he approached, and Ingrid did as well. He presented the bundle to me with both hands. I took it and removed the cloth to reveal a finely-crafted sword.
“Take it, it’s yours,” he said, and I did. I lifted the sword by the hilt and studied it. It was long, though unlike a generic long sword, this one featured a two-handed grip for easier wielding and a slightly curved blade-point. The sword was quite sharp and lighter than it appeared to be, so most likely it was made of some kind of iron with which I was unfamiliar. I took a step backwards and tried holding it with two hands, then shifted my grip to one hand and smiled, anticipating revenge. I discovered that I wasn’t strong enough to use it properly with one hand despite the fact that it was lighter than a common sword, however, so I was glad for the prolonged hilt. I just wasn’t built as strongly as those of northern lineage and Ivar knew it.
“It’s called Troublemaker,” Ivar said proudly.
“The name fits,” I replied.
“Of course it does, for I was thinking of you when I named it,” he said, chuckling.
“It’s a masterpiece,” I added.
“Well, I made it for you a long time ago, but then other things came up … I don’t know why I haven’t sold it since,” he said, embarrassed. I smiled broadly then, as the implications of what he had just said became clear to me.
“Want to go outside to test it?” He asked.
“If it’s not a bother, of course,” I answered and turned to exit his home. He placed his hand on my shoulder then. I could tell by his expression that there was much he wanted to say — hell, there was much I wanted to say to him. But he was Ivar. Ivar rarely displayed emotion, and I … I was as stubborn as he.
“Adam, it’s best if your old name is forgotten. I know the army better than you think, and it’ll be the death of you should they discover you once defected,” he said. I knew his words to be true and had previously come to the same conclusion of my own accord. I acquiesced silently, and then thanked him for the advice.
“My name is Raymond of the Brooks,” I replied, and he nodded.
“It’s an honorable name,” he replied, and we went outside to train.
We stood outside facing each other, Ivar and me. Snow fell about us, and Ingrid held a torch illuminating our training ground. Ivar padded our weapons, then started the lesson with a free-form light fencing exercise — meaning that he let me fight as my spirit guided me without correcting my pose or movements. He frowned and batted my weapon aside when he saw I was very dominantly left-handed, as he believed this was a great flaw for a swordsman. When Ivar had trained me in the past, he had instructed me to use only my right hand. Since then, I’ve only wielded pole-arms which require the use of both hands. Now as I switched back to a single-handed weapon again, I found that I still favored the left despite his constant tutorage.
“Ada- … er, Raymond,” he said, getting used to my new name. “Your left hand rules you and your right is practically useless, I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to fence properly.” I frowned, assaulting him with greater force. He easily side-stepped my wild attacks, stabbing me with the tip of his padded blade. It hurt and I was humiliated, but I didn’t let that slow me down. I just tried again and again, shifting and experimenting with my as-yet-nonexistent technique.
“Alright, alright! You have a fighting spirit; I’ll grant you that. Maybe I’ll make a warrior out of you after all,” Ivar said after intercepting a hail of blows he realized would never end. I panted heavily. My head felt too light, and the world spun about me, but by an act of sheer will I kept standing. Unlike me, he hardly moved or exerted energy. This drove me mad. I had above average speed, stamina and average strength, yet for this old man, I was nothing.
“Maybe we can turn your disability …” he said, referring to my left-handed grip, “… into an advantage,” Ivar added. He taught me the proper leg and hand positioning for executing a reverse grip of the two-handed pummel. I placed my left foot a bit forward, but not so far forward as to reveal my reversed grip and stance. He showed me how to hold my weapon as if I were right-handed, and then shift my grip as soon as the first swing came, in order to deceive my opponent until it was too late for him to adapt his tactic to respond to my blows. The move is usually referred to as “the fool’s guard” though there are several variations.
“Most battles are decided by a couple of sword-swings,” he said, “despite various legends which tell of prolonged matches.”
“Yes, Master,” I replied, taking his word for it.
“Stand properly, breathe in rhythm, study your opponent, search for his weakness, then strike, deceive, and go for the kill,” he told me, summarizing his fencing philosophy.
I did as instructed, failing miserably time after time, until I almost despaired. But I would not quit — I could not. My pride kept me from it, and the sense of my utter worthlessness whenever I had thoughts of quitting; that kept me from backing down. We battled for perhaps an hour, until soldiers heard the sound of our swords clashing despite their being muffled.
“Halt!” A senior officer called to Ivar when he saw us fighting. Another soldier stood beside him, more nervous than the first. I lowered my blade before Ivar did and spoke.
“Thank you, Master Smith, for the sword and the lesson. Your generosity will be made known to the Lords of Wist Hill,” I said.
“Aye! This is my personal gift to you, Master Soldier,” he replied and bowed low, catching on. Both soldiers visibly relaxed, and I turned to them.
“Master Ivar the Smith, has given me a sword and a lesson on its use,” I explained.
“Carry on, then,” the senior soldier said, losing interest and leaving, together with his companion. I turned back to Ivar, but he had left silently with his daughter as soon as the soldiers had focused their attention only on me. I did not understand his fear of the soldiers, but I guessed that his reasons must be sound enough. I left the merchants’ quarter and walked back to the barracks, where I spent the remainder of the night alone. I watched my unsheathed blade reflect the light of the single candle which shone near my bed, casting the only light in the room. My mind raced with thoughts of everything which had brought me this far, and of what lay ahead. I wondered if these were the last days of my life. I fell asleep.
I was walking in a field of wheat, the sun shining above me and white sheep-shaped clouds moving in the sky. The climate, for once, was just right. The sun above was not too hot, as it normally was where I come from … neither was it too cold, like where I am now.
Everything was just perfect. I walked in the field, not knowing where I was going, or how I got there. So many questions unanswered, some answers I would never know. But my body moved with its own inertia — it seemed to know where my strides were taking me, though I didn’t. Suddenly, my brother stood before me, just as I remember him before he was lost to me. He stood, leaning on a scarecrow, much smaller than I now was. How odd it is, I thought to myself, to have my older brother be smaller than me.
“Where are you going?” He asked me, in an ancient language that I had almost forgotten.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly in the odd, mixed language.
“Where have you come from?” I asked him after a pause, when he had said nothing more. But he was already gone; the scarecrow remained, surrounded by golden wheat.
Looking around, I murmured, “Where have you gone?” Now in my native tongue. It seemed the field was spinning as I turned. No matter which direction I looked, the scarecrow always faced me. I felt trapped, like in a rat’s maze, my path set before me by hands not my own. The world seemed to close in around me, and feelings of claustrophobia urged my feet forwards. It seemed I had no choice … a sword! A sword just lay there in the field. How odd to see a sword just lying there, its surface gleaming, reflecting the light of the sun. My left hand moved of its own accord and grabbed hold of it. Was that the right thing to do? I asked myself as I inspected the blade. Then there was something on my palm; my eyes lost focus and the golden field blurred. I was bleeding! It was blood on my hands! I look about. It was night-time. Someone was chasing me; I could feel the predatory eyes on my back. I turned and turned but the world kept on spinning. It was right behind me; I could feel it! I swung my sword widely, cutting through the air and wheat all about me. Nothing was there though. A raven flew and my eyes followed its flight. The world spun as I turned. The raven finally rested on the right shoulder of the scarecrow. It wasn’t the same scarecrow as before, for this one seemed sabotaged. Its right hand appeared to be missing, as if someone had torn it out, and its face was scarred where there should have been an eye. The raven cawed once and I became aware of my hand again ... it was still clutching the sword. That hand seemed distorted, however, as if someone had poured hot red wax on it. The sword fell from my palm as I clutched my wounded hand, and its blade dug into the ground. I stood before a cross with the raven behind it, and then I turned my back and fled, as fast as my feet could carry me. Wheat everywhere, breaking when I trampled on it. I didn’t know the way ahead so I looked back as I ran forwards, leaving havoc in my wake. Everything I touch dies, I thought. I can’t escape … Bells rang, high above in the sky.
I woke to the sound of church bells; it was now morning. I sat in a cold sweat for several minutes, frightened like a little boy, though I didn’t know what had scared me. I got up and washed my face, ready for another day of duty. Barny seemed affable enough, having forgotten the night before as if it had never happened. Perhaps he respected my privacy and knew not to ask questions.