Chapter Forty-Seven

Clashing steel, ringing outside and below his chamber window, woke Tarn. He stretched luxuriantly beneath the warm quilt, tensing and relaxing each muscle, fully refreshed and rested. Barath sprawled on the bearskin rug at the foot of the bed, fast asleep. He breathed light and even, without the painful moans of last night. Compared to the bed's warm embrace, the stone floor felt cold on Tarn's bare feet. He padded over to the pitcher filled with night air chilled water. After washing the sand out of his eyes, vanquishing the final remnants of sleep, Tarn went to the chamber door and opened it. He peered left and right for his buckskin pant's promised return. They were nowhere to be found.

An audible sigh whistled past his lips. He closed the door and rummaged through the aromatic cedar closest for a set of clothes. A pair of maroon kidskin pants, the only garb not of woven fabric, soft and supple like crushed velvet, and a forest-green pullover shirt were the least offensive pieces. Suspended from his neck by a thick leather thong, visible in the V-neck cut of the shirt, the Sword Chamber pendant reflected the fingers of sun streaming in the window, setting spotlights dancing around the room as he pulled on his boots.

Tarn adjusted the X-frame harness to fit comfortably over the light cotton pullover. On his way out the door, he caught his reflection in the full-height looking glass and frowned, judging the foreign attire by his village's standards: bright and unmanly. No hunter could hope to blend with the terrain in these clothes. Nobleman clothes were entirely too noble—too frail—for his liking. Barath barked. When he turned to him, Barath displayed a toothy grin. Tarn glowered convincingly and departed the chamber, mumbling about traitorous brothers, leaving his wounded comrade wincing painfully as he unsuccessfully attempted to stifle his equivalent of laughing, which came out somewhere between a low groan and growl.

Tarn descended to the main floor where he again heard the inviting clash of swords. Instead of breaking his fast, as was his initial thought, he tracked the sound, drawn to it like a bee to honey, and eventually arrived at the practice ground next to the barracks. The busy arena measured twenty paces square and was ringed by a railed fence, around which a handful of soldiers lounged, either watching their comrades or awaiting a practice bout. The firmly packed ground indicated hundreds of trampling feet had stamped its surface. Fine dust plumed beneath shuffling heels like a thin fog sits on marshland.

Next to one of the four benches on the far side of the arena, Lord Landrew and Sir Tarl leaned on the fence, arms hooked over the top rail, watching Aliesha fence with Braddock. Braddock agilely blocked a quick series of strokes and then offered a piece of advice on technique. Tarn studied Aliesha's form. She had skill. Aliesha possessed a fair degree of speed, abundant dexterity, and exhibited a natural grace of flowing movement in her strokes and footwork. He felt at a loss to explain why she fared so poorly, until he studied her technique critically, detecting several minor flaws that enabled Braddock, long familiar with her style, to anticipate her moves.

Aliesha took pains to mix her strokes, but not her series of strikes, thereby committing a critical error of lapsing into a repetitive pattern. She also seemed unwilling to get close, fearing Braddock might use his greater strength to advantage. The most telling flaw in her technique though, was the minute turn of her wrist before a sweep or slash, instead of after the stroke had begun. Braddock watched for the telltale turning of her blade, which he did time after time, neglecting to inform the less experienced swordswoman of her error; a potentially fatal mistake on the battlefield. A mistake that allowed Braddock to anticipate Aliesha's attack.

Sir Tarl joined Tarn, standing beside him in companionable silence as Braddock and Aliesha began another bout, followed by additional useless advice. Tarn frowned, resenting the intentionally withheld instruction that possessed the power to end her life in a battle outside the protective practise arena.

Braddock toyed with Aliesha.

Catching Tarn's scowl, and mistaking it for displeasure on his sister's behalf, Sir Tarl said with brotherly devotion, "Women have not the physique to best an experienced swordsman. Though she has claimed victory over most of our younger soldiers, a veteran is beyond her. Still, she practices daily and continues to improve her technique."

"Has she ever beat him?" Tarn asked, his left eyebrow arching at Sir Tarl's words, the only outward indication that he disagreed.

"No, though she receives abundant bruises. Braddock has laboured to imprint opulent instruction, but she lacks the skill. She's not one to surrender," explained Sir Tarl, sibilant admiration in his words.

Tarn nodded amicably, smiling to himself. "I'll wager ye horse and tack of my choice that Aliesha will take Braddock after the next rest period."

Sir Tarl stared at Tarn, who grinned widely, as if he was daft, encouraging Sir Tarl to believe him ten pitchers short of a full keg.

"What have ye to wager against such a prize?" Sir Tarl probed. "Our stock is among the best in the valley."

"I have but three gold pieces and some silver, but surely ye would present equitable odds for such a mismatch."

"Mithras, ye be a bold man!" Sir Tarl uttered, confident he was robbing Tarn, despite the mismatch of value.

"I'll cover our young friend," Lord Landrew interjected. "Were it not for his pride, I would have gifted him tenfold for his service to Valna, had he but asked."

"Then it's a wager. What say ye Tarn? Though I fear thy purse will be poorer, by the bye."

"Och, one of us will be poorer. The best of thy stock will soon be mine," he returned, offering his arm to seal the wager.

The pair watched Braddock and Aliesha finish the bout. When Aliesha walked over to the water bucket to refresh herself, Tarn appeared at her side.

He steered Aliesha by the elbow to the corner, where he turned his back to the arena. Tarn whispered. Hand gestures no one else could see except Aliesha accompanied his words. After a few minutes, he strode confidently back to Sir Tarl and Lord Landrew. A grin met their quizzical expressions.

Braddock and the gathered soldiers attending the practice session puzzled the reason for the exchange between the outlander and their Lord's daughter. Not a man among them failed to note the way Tarn familiarly touched Lady Aliesha, whom they thought of as their own, most especially Braddock, whose eyes narrowed, burning into Tarn's back as he returned to Sir Tarl's side. Aliesha stepped into the arena and assumed her ready position, taking up her usual stance, whereupon Braddock began with an array of strokes and counters. Aliesha fended well, adroitly parrying and blocking his attack, before beginning her offensive. She turned her blade and cued Braddock to the coming slash. Instead of slashing, as Braddock had begun to protect against, she thrust her sword quickly past his guard until the point of her blade rested on the hardened-leather neckpiece that covered his throat, winning a clear victory.

"Bravo!" Lord Landrew cheered enthusiastically, leading the smattering of clapping around the arena.

The other soldiers in the arena stopped to appraise the subdued applause. Acknowledgement for Aliesha's long fought-for victory followed hesitantly as if it was not entirely believed that a woman could win against a man.

Aliesha's eyes sparkled brightly, beaming an extravagant, joyous smile at Tarn. Sir Tarl, on the other hand, stood silently, his mouth agape in abject disbelief.

"Would ye care to wager double or nothing on the next point?" Tarn asked, as innocently as you please, suppressing a smile.

Lord Landrew laughed loudly. A shrewd gleam appeared in his eye as he slapped his son on the shoulder, saying, "Careful lad. We've a fox in the henhouse."

Tarn tried to maintain his innocent look, but Sir Tarl's astonished expression of pure disbelief, finally made him toss back his head and howl in mirth.

Aliesha ran over to him and laid her hand on his forearm, saying with euphoric happiness, "Oh, Tarn. It worked! I finally bested Braddock. My thanks."

Braddock stood infuriated in the middle of the arena, watching his Lord and the outlander laughing at his expense; mercilessly mocking him. The dull-witted barbarian told Aliesha how to trick him, anointing him court fool. Look how she smiled at him and hung off his arm, taken in by a cheap ploy. Braddock's rage boiled, roiling like a brood of storm clouds until he could no longer contain his scalding fury.

"Barbarian!" he snarled, shouting the word with such vehemence, that all laughter stopped and every head turned to Braddock as he spit out his acerbic insult. "Do ye believe thy boyish tricks will succeed against a wary man!?"

"No, Braddock," Tarn said calmly, recognizing Braddock's rage, and remembering his oath as a guest. "I had sufficient swordplay last night. I'll only observe today."

Sneering contemptuously at Tarn's assumed cowardice, Braddock issued his challenge for all to hear, "What's the matter, boy! Be thou afraid to test thy mettle against a man? Ye be no better than any outlander birthed in a steaming dung heap!"

The soldiers in and around the arena snickered at Braddock's insult, banging the planks of the fence with their palms and slapping their blades against leather and steel. Tarn turned to Lord Landrew.

"Ye keep my oath, Landrew. Do ye release me from it to first blood?" he requested, his voice calm and deadly, hard as steel.

Lord Landrew met Tarn's volcanic eyes. Seldom had he beheld such controlled fierceness. Braddock had openly insulted his guest, and clearly, Tarn respectfully sequestered his right to demand more than first blood. He recalled Tarn's speed with Sir Goth, and the ease with which he bested him. If he failed to grant his reasonable request, the next challenge may very well be to the death, which was his right for honour's sake. The unnecessary death of either Tarn or Braddock did not sit well with him.

"Aye," answered Lord Landrew shortly. "I release thou from thy oath. To first blood," he said, emphasizing the words "first blood."

Tarn nodded his head to Landrew, and winked secretly for Aliesha's eyes alone as he turned, momentarily dropping his charade, and resumed his fierce countenance, meeting Braddock's red-rimmed gaze. Aliesha stifled a wayward giggle under her hand, while her father and brother tried to fathom the reason for her inappropriate, fugitive smile and laughter. A contest to first blood sometimes ended in serious injury. Accidental deaths were rare, but they occurred.

A soldier loyal to Braddock issued odds heavily steeped against the outlander. He accepted all silver, while Tarn walked boldly into the centre of the arena, stopping three paces away from a seething Braddock. The other soldiers who had been practising their skills departed the arena. Lord Landrew gave the signal for the bout to begin.

Braddock brought his sword to guard, but Tarn remained motionless, balanced on the balls of his feet.

"What new trickery is this barbarian? Draw thy sword!"

"Be ye afraid to attack a boy, Braddock? Summon courage, man."

Braddock reacted as Tyrell once did. He charged forward sword first. Tarn waited until Braddock's sword started its downward motion. Too quick for the untrained eye to see, Tarn grabbed Braddock's sword arm by the wrist, turned his body inward, and threw the captain over his hip. Braddock hit the packed ground hard, throwing up a mushroom cloud of dust. He looked up to find his sword resting against his throat. Aliesha clapped approvingly, cheering Tarn's cunning.

"That was the first lesson I learned as a boy in my village."

Backing up warily, he contemptuously stuck Braddock's sword in the ground. Since no blood had been drawn, no point was awarded. Tarn took three paces back, folded his arms across his chest, and waited. He did not wait long. Braddock sprang up off the ground, glaring at him in a rage. He, too, had heard Aliesha's cheers and this infuriated him further. He retrieved his sword and circled the unpredictable barbarian more cautiously. Tarn turned to keep his eyes on Braddock's upper body.

"Come now, swordmaster Braddock. Ye can't have me believe an unarmed outlander melts thy resolve."

Instead of repeating his first folly, Braddock chose to thrust his sword at Tarn's breastbone, aiming for the heart, intent upon burying his blade in Tarn's chest, shattering the tenants of a duel to first blood. When Braddock's shoulder muscles bunched for the thrust, Tarn somersaulted under the thrust to come up beside Braddock, inside his guard. He hooked a heel behind Braddock's and pushed hard. Braddock landed on his back with a thud, his sword wrenched from his grasp. Again it rested at his throat. The onlookers around the arena shouted "Bravo!" and clapped their hands in salute to Tarn's skill and daring.

"That was the second lesson I learned." Again he placed Braddock's sword in the ground, purposely dishonouring the weapon, as no one in Asgard would ever do. His gesture had not the least bit of meaning to Braddock, who lived naught by the sword.

"Would ye care to learn lesson three?" Tarn jibed, knowing that he showed off for Aliesha, as young men are wont to do, but rationalized his display by wishing to inflict on Braddock, what he had perpetrated upon her.

Braddock rose stiffly, gamely yanked his sword from the earth, and again rushed his nemesis. When Tarn's hand came down from his shoulder, there was steel in it. He let Braddock's sword get close, and turned it aside, driving the heel of his right palm into Braddock's solar plexus. A sharp smack of flesh meeting flesh provoked sympathetic grunts and involuntary winces from the onlookers. The air whooshed out of Braddock's lungs. Braddock swayed back and forth and from side to side, before falling on his backside in a sitting position.

The shouting and clapping had attracted most of the hold's occupants to the arena. At Tarn's last display of technique, against an opponent held to be among the garrison's very best, the watchers erupted in boisterous shouts of appreciation for the big youth's skill.

"Lesson three be my creation. Come now man, rise to thy feet," urged Tarn, grudging respect building for the captain, who failed to show the slightest sign of surrender.

Braddock sat slumped over with his chin on his chest, fighting to regain his breath. When he stood up, he did so slowly. Tarn sheathed his sword, waiting while Braddock readied himself. Captain Braddock was beyond rage, beyond anger, and rational thought; his eyes went blank like those of a madman. He raised his sword above his head and charged forward. Tarn's hand streaked to Kalen's sword. Steel rang out in the next heartbeat. He pivoted on his left foot, copying Ludvic's technique, and delivered a vicious elbow smash that crunched loudly when it connected with Braddock's battered solar plexus.

Braddock dropped his sword and crumpled to the ground holding his chest in pain, heaving and gasping anguish with each laboured breath.

"Lesson four and five. Never fight in rage," Tarn instructed.

The onlookers cheered Tarn, but they also rallied around Braddock, encouraging him to rise. Braddock rose drunkenly to his feet. His wobbly legs shook and trembled. He bent down to retrieve his sword and overbalanced, almost falling.

"Do ye need to rest Braddock?" Tarn asked, all sense of sarcasm gone from his voice.

Braddock shook his head and lifted a wavering sword into the air. Tarn raised his blade and waited. Like a stud bull that refuses to quit, Braddock tried to fence with him, attempted to out finesse Tarn's Asgard skill. Tarn evaded and parried Braddock's tired strokes, but refused to break past his weary guard. He kept Braddock blocking and swinging until he could no longer raise his sword, and still, Braddock's undying spirit yearned to fight on. Resting his hands on his knees, Braddock gasped and wheezed for an elusive breath. The stubborn captain had not the strength to lift his blade from the ground.

Tarn looked to Lord Landrew. "What say ye Landrew? No blood has been drawn and half a glass is long expired."

"Tarn is correct. A half glass has turned and no blood wets the ground. I declare this duel a draw!" As Lord Landrew spoke the word "draw," the watchers cheered. "In due recompense for the shared honour of the day's events, my wine and ale cellars are open 'till sunset."

His announcement started a new round of cheers for both Tarn and Braddock. Tarn sheathed his sword, offering Braddock his arm in friendship.

"Come man. Let us put our differences behind us over a mug. Ye fought bravely and with honour," Tarn said, loud enough for his voice to carry across the arena. Braddock glanced up and saw only sincerity in Tarn's steady eyes. "There be no shame in a draw," he assuaged, believing the stiff terms of honour these people lived under to be foolish, for there was no shame in being bested, so long as one learned and gave it his all, as Braddock had done.

When Braddock accepted Tarn's outstretched arm, his fellow soldiers cheered and swarmed into the arena to praise their captain's courage and slap his and Tarn's back in congratulations. Braddock turned to Tarn, wearing a rogue grin, and asked humbly, "Will ye offer instruction on thy style?"

"Aye. And how to counter it as well," he smiled, mischievously, adding, "so long as ye don't mind learning them from a boy?"

Braddock groaned at those last words, but a quirky smile graced his mouth and laughter his heart. "Ye be a stubborn lad, barbarian," he uttered, what was once a curse, now an intimate jibe.

��Then I find myself in like company. Let us partake of Landrew's cellar! By Kalen's sword!, swordplay drives a man to thirst," rallied Tarn, clapping the captain on the shoulder.

As Braddock and Tarn passed Lord Landrew, he smiled victoriously, and tossed back his head, bellowing a thundering laugh to the heavens. Ah, but life was good, Tarn thought. He had a new horse and tack to go with it, and brave and honourable people surrounded him. He almost felt happy, fleetingly content until he remembered Shaurii and the plight of his village.

Tarn shared a few mugs, before removing himself from the celebration amidst many protests from the other guards. Hunger claimed his immediate thoughts, while another agenda simmered beneath his rumbling stomach. Barath appeared at his side, walking stiffly, tenderly.

"Come, brother. Show me where the food be kept. My head is light and my stomach empty."

Barath nodded and limped toward the kitchen. When they arrived at the larder, Aliesha sat at a small table eating and talking gaily with the grey-haired cook, a plate of fresh biscuits, eggs and cheese in front of her.

"Pray ye forgive me, young Sir. I'll fetch ye a food platter to the main hall at once," flustered the elderly cook.

Marta's unbidden image popped into his head. Poignant feelings of tender loss constricted his chest and softened his voice, "No, kind mother. I'll eat here with Aliesha's leave. Lordly wants and manners are unknown to me. I am called Tarn, and would be called such by thy age and grace."

"Bless thy heart, Tarn. Ye do an old lady a great kindness," praised the round, cheerful matron.

"Ye be welcome to join me at this table, but what of the celebration honouring thy part in the duel? Do you not get drunk with the others and nurse your head tomorrow?" Aliesha asked, discerning the veil of sadness that permeated Tarn's visage.

"My sister and my people are prisoners; my village gone. Ere I fulfil my oath, there be much to do. I require thy skills."

"What skills are those?" Aliesha queried, eyes sparkling blue intrigue.

"I have need of thy wisdom in training a horse, now that I am burdened with a mount and tack, then teach me how to ride," Tarn orated, piquing Aliesha's questioning eyes with fodder.

"Did my father bestowed ye with a mount?"

Tarn's smiling eyes glimmered as he answered, "In a manner of speaking. Tarl bequeathed the pick of the stable, including a saddle, in that he lost our wager. Though thy noble father did promise unselfish gold, had I lost."

"What wager?" Aliesha questioned, eyes narrowing, catlike.

"That ye would best Braddock after thy next rest period."

Aliesha's face lit up, as she exclaimed, "Father was almost right. No fox be so quick. Ye be a wolf in a fox's skin, pretending to be neither, but truly a jackal!"

"Och, lass. Thy words be spears; wounding slings that slay the pure of heart. I am a simple and poor outlander, starving among civilized people."

Aliesha burst out laughing when he bestowed her with his innocent, barbarian look. A few seconds later he laughed as well. The cook smiled at their banter. Outlander or not, Tarn was a likeable scoundrel, who pretended to be nothing else.