Hordesmen: The Wisdom of Dragons #4 Read online

“We can do this,” Weiss said. “We’ve had weeks more training than Malcums’ horde. And we’re not so stuck-up that we think we can’t be hurt. We’ll be careful, but more importantly, we are going to watch over each other, right? Am I right?”

  Tyber looked back to see if any of the others were nodding.

  “Tyber?” Weiss asked.

  Tyber snapped his attention back as if Weiss were the proctor all of a sudden.

  “Let’s make a pact,” Weiss said. “No one dies on this mission. We come home. All of us. And we come home hordesmen, right? No more recruits. If they think we’re good enough to handle this, then they have to admit that we’re good enough to lose these sashes.”

  He gestured to the scarlet stripe crossing his tunic from right shoulder to left hip.

  “I’ll make a pact that I outlive you,” Ren said.

  Weiss’ expression grew stormy, but then the clouds passed. “Good enough, recruit. If you outlive me, then you will live a very, very long life. Because I’m coming back. We all are. Right?”

  Tyber glanced at Quall, who seemed to be watching the hems of the weyrboys’ robes with a faraway look, perhaps envisioning things he and the recruits might see. Things that would make them jumpy and angry, as twitchy as Padrus and his crew. Or worse.

  “Right?” Weiss pressed.

  “Right,” Tyber said as he turned back to Weiss.

  “Right,” Lambert added.

  “Right,” the others echoed.

  Except for Ren, of course, who waited until all had agreed. “On the day we build your cairn,” he said, pointing to Weiss, “I’m going to be there to place a stone over your mouth.”

  Weiss grinned. “Then how will I tell you how much I miss your pleasant company?”

  Before Ren could respond, Weiss turned away as they approached their bunk hall.

  Chapter 5

  The absence of Dragoneer Malcums’ horde loomed large in the dining hall on the following morning. None of the recruits mentioned it while chatting quietly over their breakfasts before being dismissed to the south yard.

  Master Vark met them. He stood behind a table lined with eighteen short swords in scabbards, complete with belts. Unlike the swords they had practiced with, these scabbards bore a brand that ran the length of the leather exterior. A dragon exhaled a plume of firebreath toward the guard and grip. Its tail twined the length of the blade, coming to a halt at the chape.

  These were the swords worn by hordesmen. Set apart from the short swords, a single sword in an unmarked leather sheath sat beside a crossbow.

  Behind the weapons master, eighteen straw sparring dummies stood planted on poles. Burlap confined the straw of their torso. Sticks served as their limbs. Leather armor guarded the torsos of the straw men, and matching helmets topped the bulging, burlap sacks that formed their heads.

  “The dummies have armor,” Ren whispered beside Tyber. “Those must be real swords.”

  Tyber inhaled sharply as he looked from the dummies to the swords. Ren was right. The danger of their mission, and the importance of it, settled into his gut.

  “Good morning,” Master Vark called as they approached. “Each of you will take a sword and belt it on. Be warned now that these are not sparring blades. These swords carry a true edge worthy of a hordesman. If I see you so much as lift your blade in the direction of another person, you will be disarmed in whatever fashion I see fit and escorted from the grounds never to return. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Master,” they echoed, then stepped up to the table.

  Tyber lifted the nearest sword from the table. It weighed no more than the blunted sparring swords used for practice. He had expected it to be much heavier, as if being deadly would make it weigh more.

  Buckles jangled as the recruits donned their swords. Ren twisted his torso to stare down at the sword hanging on his hip.

  “Pretty sharp, huh?” he asked, turning his hip outward to show off the decorated scabbard.

  Tyber nodded. “Master Vark said they’re real.”

  Ren rolled his eyes. “No, doofus. I mean doesn’t it look good? Like I’m a real hordesman or something?”

  Tyber looked at the scabbard hanging on his left hip, and suddenly he wasn’t sure what to do with his left hand. It felt as if he couldn’t just let it hang near the edge of the scabbard even though the sword was sheathed. He settled for folding his arms behind his back, his right hand gripping his left wrist.

  “You cannot spend the entirety of your mission on the wing, of course,” Master Vark said. “You must spend time on the ground, and when on the ground, your duties as protectors and guards do not stop. You will be called upon to defend yourselves or others in close quarters. In these situations, the short sword is a trustworthy weapon to have, both for defense and as a deterrent, which is why we have taught you basic swordsmanship. But handling a recruit’s sparring blade is far different than handling a hordesman’s sword. Before you leave, you will feel and know that difference. Come.”

  Lambert raised his hand and waved it once.

  Master Vark arched his eyebrow at Lambert.

  “Will we be learning crossbow, too?” Lambert asked with a nod at the weapon.

  “For demonstration purposes,” Master Vark said with a shake of his head. “It is a poor weapon for hordesmen, as my demonstration will show, but it is a popular weapon among the mercenaries and others who travel with the caravans. But first, let me show you the chief differences between the sparring blade and the hordesman’s sword.”

  He grabbed the sparring blade from the table and proceeded to the dummies. A hordesman’s sword dangled from Vark’s hip.

  He held up the sparring blade. “You are familiar with how these feel in practice.”

  He lunged forward, thrusting the point of the sword upward as if to disembowel the dummy. The tip of the blade pressed into the dummy and pushed it back against its pole. The dummy twisted away before Master Vark pulled back the blade.

  The dummy swung forward as the weapons master lifted the sword over his shoulder, then swept it down in a hacking motion that would have raised his ire immediately if any recruit had done such a thing.

  The blade crashed into the arm and snapped it. Straw fell out of the crude sleeve as the arm fell limply at the dummy’s side, giving it the appearance of having an elbow.

  Master Vark sheathed the sparring sword and handed it off to one of the recruits.

  “Nothing interesting there. You’ve each destroyed countless dummies of your own while practicing basic moves, right?”

  The recruits nodded.

  Master Vark pulled the hordesman’s sword from his hip and lunged forward. His blade sank into the leather armor, skewering the dummy. Its broken arm swayed slightly with the motion as the weapons master looked back at them.

  “Let this be a lesson in not only the severity of your weapons, but the usefulness of your armor. It may help deflect the point of an arrow launched from a hordesman’s bow a good distance off, but it is merely cured flesh, and it will easily split beneath a well-sharpened blade.”

  Master Vark grasped the dummy’s shoulder, then pulled his sword from the torso. Bits of straw rained to the chamomile. Vark stepped back, lifting the blade over his shoulder, then sweeping it down on the dummy’s other arm. The sword bit through the burlap and severed the limb. The arm dropped to the ground.

  Tyber moved his hands even further from his scabbard.

  “Your sparring blades were tools used to teach you how to handle a sword. This is the sword. It is not a tool, but a deadly weapon. Draw it only if you intend to use it. Now, each of you will pick a dummy, draw your sword, and repeat my moves. I want you to get a feel for the sharpness of the blade. Pay attention to just how easily it cuts.”

  Tyber held his hands out slightly at his side as he studied the iron pommel and leather-wrapped grip. Although identical to every sparring blade he had handled, it looked much larger. Meaner.

  “Draw your swords, recruits!”


  Tyber grasped the handle of the sword with his right hand as his left encircled the locket of the scabbard. He immediately whipped his left hand away as if he’d cut it open, then looked around, heat welling in his cheeks. It was a sword. Nothing more. Exactly like all of the sparring blades. Except sharp.

  “Did you hear me, Tyber?” Master Vark called.

  “Yes, sir,” Tyber called as he grasped the locket again, held his breath, and watched his hand as he drew the sword. His eyes lingered along the edge of the blade as if expecting it to cut the air itself. Yet it looked no different than a sparring blade. Had there been some kind of mistake?

  “Dispatch your enemy!” Master Vark ordered.

  Grunts and shouts rippled down the line as the recruits plunged their swords into the dummies.

  Tyber presented the point of his sword, then lunged toward the dummy and thrust the blade up and in.

  The blade sank into the dummy. Tyber’s heart pounded as he stared into the folds and creases of the dummy’s face. He stepped back, then looked at his hand, thankful that he’d remembered to keep his grip on the sword. He placed a hand on the dummy’s shoulder then pulled the sword free as Master Vark had. The dummy swayed and twisted on the end of its rope.

  Tyber thought of his brother, Jack, staggering around drunkenly, his hands clutched to the imaginary wound in the side of his belly.

  You got me, Jack would say, his voice dramatically weak and warbly. Ack. You got me.

  Tyber studied his sword. The blue sky shone in a streak along the blade. A distorted reflection of his face stared back at him.

  He would be ordered to use this on real people.

  “You’re not done!” Master Vark yelled. “Disarm your enemy!”

  Tyber drew the sword back over his left shoulder, then brought it slashing down as he had been originally taught. The edge bit into the shoulder of the armor, near the neck. The armor split as the dummy swayed and danced away, twisting on the rope.

  “Tyber!” Master Vark snapped. “I commend you for recalling your training, but that is not what I wanted to see. This time only, use a chopping motion to sever the arm. I want you to feel how easy it is. You must get a feel for the potential power you now wield.”

  Tyber looked at Ren. His friend stood with his sword at his side, smiling at Tyber and straining to conceal his laughter.

  Tyber took a deep breath, steadied the dummy with his hand, then stepped back and did as asked. The sword passed through the burlap sleeve, the straw, and the stick without so much as a pause. He stopped the blade before it sliced into his leg. He stared at the severed limb on the ground, resting at an angle. Bits of straw fell from the swaying dummy.

  You got me.

  A wave of queasiness passed through Tyber. Why was anyone ever trusted with such a thing?

  “That’ll have to do,” Master Vark said. “For obvious reasons, we will not practice sparring with these swords. Instead, we will go over how to care for your sword. But first, since it is on your minds, I will demonstrate the crossbow.”

  Master Vark called them back to the table where he hefted the crossbow and held it before himself. He went over the parts, pointing and naming, but they became hollow sounds and empty gestures as Tyber thought of the sword digging into the shoulder, the way the dummy flailed on the rope as if writhing in agony. He shook his head, clenching his left hand tighter around his right wrist behind his back. Then he recalled it all again, mixing in the severed limb and the blank look on the burlap face as he drove the sword into the straw man’s gut.

  “Now,” Master Vark called as he lowered the crossbow to his side, “I want you to see why this is such a poor weapon for a hordesman. Ren, step forward. The rest of you, come around so you can see us in profile.”

  Ren stepped forward, his eyes wide.

  “I regret that I don’t have a bow and quiver for you, but when I tell you to begin, you will pantomime the act of drawing an arrow from a quiver on your back and launching it into the gut of a dummy. You will repeat the motions until I tell you to stop.”

  Ren nodded. He held his left arm out before him as if clutching a bow.

  Master Vark stepped up to his side. “Begin.”

  As Ren went through the motion of drawing an imaginary arrow from his quiver, Master Vark planted the end of the crossbow on the ground. He shuffled his feet, placing the toes of his boots over the limbs of the bow on either side of the stock. As he leaned forward, he grabbed an iron hook of five inches from where it dangled off his belt. He slipped the hook over the bowstring and stood upright, pulling on the hook with his right hand as he did so. He latched the bowstring, then dropped the hook and slid the bow out from under his toes. As his left hand raised the crossbow before him, his right hand plunged into a pouch at his side and produced a quarrel. He slotted it into place along the shaft as he fitted the weapon to his shoulder and took aim at the dummy.

  “How many arrows could you have loosed, Ren?”

  “Three.”

  Master Vark lowered the crossbow and turned to the recruits. “Now imagine doing that on the back of a dragon.”

  Tyber shook his head. There was no way.

  “It’s a cumbersome weapon, but a formidable one. A quarrel launched from a well-made crossbow can puncture armor that would repel an arrow. You will note that the quarrel is also shorter with a stouter shaft.”

  Master Vark fished another from his pouch and held it up. “This will pass right through you if you are standing close enough. It will break ribs. It will pierce your skull as if it was nothing more than the rind of a rotten melon. Although the crossbow is no more accurate than a bow and arrow in the hands of a trained soldier, it is easier to aim. It requires less practice to hit your target. You may also leave the quarrel in the crossbow ready for use at a moment’s notice. For these reasons, you will undoubtedly see it in the hands of Seelian mercenaries. This weapon is to be respected. Not only for its power, but its weaknesses. It takes much more time and is more cumbersome to load.”

  Master Vark hefted it to his shoulder, then pulled down on a metal loop beneath the stock. The crossbow cracked, and one of the dummies swung and twisted in the air. It seemed a trick had been played on them as no shaft and fletchings stuck out from where the quarrel had entered.

  “That sound is unmistakable,” Master Vark said as he lowered the crossbow. “You cannot discharge one without it being heard. As bowmen, you will have a distinct advantage over the Seelian mercenaries. If you are to work together to secure the caravan, you will keep these differences in mind.”

  Tyber turned to the dummy, still swaying and twisting on its rope. A small hole punctured the armor near the left shoulder.

  What would the training have been like if they were going off to war? And did Padrus and the others receive any of this training before they left? Tyber shifted his grip on his damp wrist.

  The war had ended. Or so he had been told.

  Chapter 6

  Tyber blinked at the wind, then leaned forward in his saddle. The motion felt good on the small of his back. He arched his spine as he tightened his grip on the saddle’s lip and squinted at the horizon. Something different sat out there. Almost anything would be a welcomed change.

  For days they had flown over expanses of grass broken only here and there with small groves of trees hugging the banks of winding creeks. Occasionally, a village jutted out of the grass alongside the road, and sheep and goats would flee beneath the dragons, shepherds and dogs chasing after their flocks.

  The size of the kingdom still impressed Tyber. It was still hard to reconcile the crowd and noise and odors of the city with the open plain that surrounded them with more space than seemed possible. How ridiculous it was that wars could be fought over this much unused space. How could it not be enough room for everyone?

  Fortunately, there had been little else to ponder along the way. They had not seen as much as a scale that didn’t belong to Dragoneer Chanson’s horde. They camped ou
tside of villages along the road, and always people came out to greet them, to chat and exchange news, or try to sell them goods or services.

  When asked about dragonjacks, the villagers in both of their stopovers had remarked on how few dragons they had seen lately. They missed the caravans that passed along the Great Eastern Road, but as a consolation, there seemed to also be far fewer dragonjacks and common thieves and highwaymen.

  Only one village, so small it was hardly a village at all, had slipped beneath their shadows since they broke camp that dawn. The cold and the monotony of the landscape made it difficult to stay awake. But now, something spread out along the horizon. It looked a bit like a river, and, if Tyber’s eyes weren’t deceiving him, plumes of smoke rose from it.

  A village along the river, then. A large one.

  He drew in a deep breath and straightened in the saddle. Weiss had said the kingdom ended at a river, their own Wight, that flowed past the city and on south before bending around to the east and heading to the sea in the north.

  They were supposed to meet with the caravan at the border. That’s what Ander had said. Ahead and to the right, Chanson sat as stiff and unreadable as always. If the dragoneer saw the village, he showed no reaction to it.

  Tyber rubbed his gloved hands over his face to restore some of the circulation. His ears prickled with the cold. Hopefully, they would land at the village. Flying with Rius all day humbled him, filling him with awe, but the cold bit into his flesh and the boredom gnawed at his bones.

  Chanson lifted his arms over his head.

  Tyber sat forward, gripping the saddle lip, ready for orders.

  Chanson’s arms shifted through the air, shaping his commands. Remain in formation. Circle the caravan. Watch for the order to take the ground.

  He repeated his orders, then took the saddle lip again. Merilyss dipped slightly, preparing for a long, slow descent to the caravan.

  Tyber adjusted Rius’ path accordingly and studied the village ahead. Circle the caravan. Where exactly in all of that was the caravan?