Splintered Loyalties, Page 2

  "Not a fight I need to get involved in right now," The man echoed thoughtfully. A few quiet minutes passed as the man carried Keevan through a couple market places and back toward the Forger's District. Keevan could hear the distant clanging of hammers on anvils, as if his old life of frailty were trying to welcome his return, and failing miserably.

  The man lowered Keevan onto the hard, stone roadway. A rough wooden door pressed against Keevan's left side. A heavy knock echoed through the wood. "May the gods grant you better sense than you had today, boy," The man said, his voice fading into the crowd.

  Masha shrieked when she opened the door, sweeping Keevan into her arms, "Nariem, he's hurt! Find Dara!"

  "By Raejin's spear, what happened to him?" Pavrin asked, his thin voice all the frailer at the sight of blood.

  "He's been beaten, you moron." Masha snapped. "Now make yourself useful and fetch me some linens from the cupboard. Outlanders don't heal like we do, they need special care. What happened, Keevan? Who did this to you?"

  "Me," Keevan muttered, gritting his teeth as Masha's gentle touch found his broken rib. "I did this. I tried to find Kaltor. He came when I got in a fight last time. But this time... he didn't. He lied mother. Kaltor didn't lift a finger to help me."

  The next hour passed in a tangled bundle of hot salves, bandages, cool water and poorly answered questions. Dara arrived, her strange flames dulling the pain and inviting Keevan to sleep. But he did not settle into a content slumber. His last thoughts, before the first of many nightmares to come, were not centered on the painful beating. He did not shudder at the memory of Merkim's foot smashing into his face.

  Helplessness seeped into his bones, turning his willpower to glass. He was feeble. He was powerless. He lived by the mercy of the Tri-Being people and only the whims of the Etrendi kept him from death. Even his brother's power had failed him. He was a fool to think he could protect his parents, or even himself.

  All the while, the dull scar mocked him with a simple truth. He was alone. He was helpless.

  He was nothing.

  Chapter 1

  Eight years later.

  "Stay on the balls of your feet, Keevan!" Hadrian roared from across the room. The arms master's thickly muscled shoulders left only the memory of a neck and his chiseled features gave the impression the tough veteran were a statue made flesh. He certainly had the personality of one.

  Sucking in a desperate breath, Keevan ignored the burning sensation in his legs and hopped back a pace. Pain echoed down his arms as his wooden sword collided with Merkim's, his current opponent. The young Tri-Being only stood a few inches taller than Keevan, but his command of water was impressive. Like his single-minded concentration, glaring through those piercing hazel eyes. Merkim's inner serenity was so complete, a thin stream of water flowed in the wake of Merkim's arms as they spared.

  Keevan held his training sword in both hands, careful not to swing too widely and leave himself open for another beating. He learned long ago he lacked the skill to attack effectively. His only hope in a duel such as this was to deflect as many hits as possible. The worst part was knowing the Tri-Being would get through Keevan's defenses eventually. Sometimes, Keevan wondered if Merkim merely pretended Keevan's counters were effective. Such a tactic created an illusion of safety, for Merkim to suddenly cut past with a quick thrust to Keevan's gut.

  Merkim attacked, launching three quick thrusts. Keevan managed to parry the first two but stepped back from the third, landing on the flat of his feet. Merkim sprinted in so fast Keevan stumbled into a failed retreat, the Tri-Being's practice sword a blur of tan, polished wood.

  The air hissed with two quick blows and Keevan found himself lying helpless on the stone floor of the training hall, clutching his stomach, his skull and gasping for air. His head rang from a strike to the temple, despite his padded training helmet. Merkim wasn't known for holding back, even in practice.

  "You alright there, Outlander?" Merkim chuckled, stooping down over Keevan. "It's no wonder your kind has never seen our shores. I'm amazing they'd even try to cross the sea. Fighters as poor as you should stick to their books. Leave the fighting to the real men."

  With a breathless heave of rage, Keevan swung at his gloating opponent's feet. A desperate strike, born of hopeless frustration, not skill. Merkim laughed, hoping over the blow and smacking his training weapon down on Keevan's hands. Biting back a curse, Keevan dropped his sword and scrambled away, clutching both fists to his chest. He could feel the bruises forming through his leather gloves, but at least his hands weren't broken.

  "Merkim!" Hadrian barked. In Keevan's battered state, he hadn't noticed the arms master's approach. "What did I tell you about honoring a fallen opponent? You beat him. Go back to your spot at the head of the line. Now."

  "As you command, Master Hadrian," Merkim offered with a mockingly deep bow. He sauntered off, holding his training sword over his shoulder like a woodman's axe. A few of his friends greeted him, pointing at Keevan as they laughed.

  "I see you ignored my advice," Hadrian grumbled, thick arms folded tersely as he glared down at the wounded Outlander. "You can't move as fast from the flat of your feet. Then you tried to strike in anger, another mistake. I applaud your spirit, boy. Even on the ground after a beating, you don't stop fighting. But, what must I do to teach you even the simplest of techniques?"

  All Keevan could manage in return was a series of grunts, still gasping for air. He flexed his hands open and shut, grimacing against the pain. If he didn't finish the training session, Persuader Madol would certainly find out. Not to mention Bahjal. He wasn't sure which prospect bothered him more.

  "Shall I call a Suadan to tend to your wounds?" Hadrian offered, through gritted teeth. "Oh wait, they wouldn't do you any good, Outlander. By Suada's mercy boy, what are you doing here?"

  "Sorry, Master Hadrian," Keevan managed to sputter. "I'll do better next time."

  "You didn't answer my question," Hadrian replied, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Why are you putting yourself through this? Go back to your books, make your fortune and live your life."

  For the fifth time that day, Keevan considered giving up. His body ached from hours of training, day in and day out, trying to keep up with beings who drew on the elements when he wielded nothing but his mind. But Bahjal's kidnapping and the subsequent trip through the catacombs left a deep impression on him. He still remembered Kors hauling him away like a sack of trade goods.

  "I can't always rely on others to protect me," Keevan answered, "eventually, a struggle will boil down to me against someone else. When that day comes, I need better weapons than glowing eyes."

  Hadrian sighed, kneeling down next to Keevan. The burly man looked rather like an ox settling down on its hind quarters in order to talk with a mouse. Keevan might have laughed at the image, if his head, torso and arms were not spotted with bruises.

  Hadrien pulled off Keevan's gloves, examining the bruised knuckles with a practiced eye. "Your skills are improving, boy. Faster than most of the students I've trained, to be honest."

  "Doesn't feel like it," Keevan muttered, rubbing his bruised abdomen.

  "Give it time. Soon, you'll be fast enough to hold off Merkim. Just between you and me, I think Merkim suspects this very thing, that's why he's so set on getting his blows in now. As to protecting yourself, there are many ways to ensure one's safety," Hadrian offered evenly, glancing up at the students dueling before them, their training weapons cracking aloud with each impact.

  "Gold can buy body guards and literally constant protection, if you wish," Hadrian continued, "Few boys chose to serve as a Persuader. Most you see here are the third or fourth sons of noble families, who already have sires working in the Temples or overseeing their family interests. I understand a number of guilds have left you open invitations to work with them. Take their money, hire a decent swordsman and live your life. Most boys here would trade Persuadership for that in a heartbeat."

  The students were forming a
single line. The student at the head of the line faced the student behind him for a quick series of blows. The first to take a hit retired to the back, while the winner remained to face the next student. Merkim would stay at the head of his line for at least five or six opponents. Most of them couldn't match Merkim's water-borne concentration.

  "I have to know how to defend myself, Master Hadrian," Keevan replied stubbornly, biting back a hiss of pain as Hadrian pressed against a fresh bruise. "Can I at least use my elemental vision in the next spar?"

  Hadrian didn't answer right away, his attention torn between Keevan's battered hands and watching the students spar. Keevan pursed his lips nervously and risked a glance. Blue light flickered from his eyes and he saw the arms master's elemental field reaching out in all directions, strong enough to fill a glass of water, perhaps. As a Rhetan, Hadrian's elemental field only stretched a few yards into the air.

  Etrendi and Haustrans distinguished themselves from the Rhetans with their larger fields and the sheer volume of elements they could summon with their emotions. At his best, Hadrian could do little more than light candles or cast sparks in the air, a fire cry from blasts of fire or bolts of lightning.

  Hadrian glanced at Keevan's eyes and raised a cautionary finger. "That power cost us the Watcher and the Great Crystal. It makes many of the students uncomfortable to be near it. Keep those eyes to yourself," Hadrian advised, handing Keevan back his gloves. "In the last war, I managed to best Haustras and Entrendi alike. I survived by moving and thinking faster than my opponent. I don't think using your ability would aid your agility or your strength. The Entrendi and Haustrans here are under the same restriction."

  "What's the point? I'm not good enough to stop him. And yes, clearly Merkim isn't drawing in any water," Keevan answered wryly.

  Hadrian's casual backhanded slap sent Keevan rolling across the rough stone floor. When he finally ground to a halt, dust covering his tunic and trousers. He couldn't help but wonder how many of Hadrian's victories were due more to his unnatural strength than his skill with a blade.

  Keevan's eyes stung with restrained moisture, his insides churning furiously with various emotions. Somehow, he needed to surpass his training. Masha and Nariem deserved a boy who at the least, could fend for himself, or even protect them if necessary. As his situation stood now, he still felt like the boy picking fights with Etrendi, only to be constantly reminded of his own weakness.

  "Merkim is young and hasn't learned the self-discipline necessary to avoid drawing elements at his emotional whims," Hadrian huffed, rising to his feet. "Just be glad he wasn't angry or scared when he fought you. I doubt you'd fare well against fire or lightning. You are a lot more fragile than us Tri-Beings. Don't forget that. Now, get back in line."

  "Yes, Master," Keevan echoed. He retrieved his wooden practice sword and walked across the hall to the sparring line. Merkim knocked back another student's defenses, slapping him on the shoulder. Then Merkim flashed Keevan a cocky half-smile as Keevan found himself one more person closer to his former opponent, then another, then another.

  "I feel like I'm slated for execution, not training," The student ahead of Keevan grumbled, eyeing Merkim with the same anxiety one might feel when watching a Pogoda threaten to take flight. He stood a head taller than Keevan, but his body comprised of more fat than muscle and he lacked the agility to avoid most blows.

  "I know the feeling," Keevan echoed. "I'm Keevan, by the way."

  "That's what I heard. I'm Urien," The big student offered, shaking Keevan's hand in greeting.

  With that, the last student ahead of them over-lunged and took a nasty crack to the ribs for his trouble. Merkim returned to the center of the room, sword in hand, watching Urien with his cool, inhuman serentiy. Urien bellowed an unconvincing challenge, sparks dancing along his tunic and hair. He tried for a big, two-handed swing, as if his sword were a massive hammer.

  Merkim raised his training sword, as if he were going to block the attack outright. At the last second though, he lowered his weapon. Urien stumbled to one side, trying to stay upright as his momentum headed for the floor. Merkim leapt after him, though to Urien's credit, he did manage to cover his head with one hand. Merkim only manage to slap the big boy's thigh, upper arm and amble belly.

  "Control will beat power every time, Urien," Master Hadrian called from the far wall.

  Keevan tried his best to ignore the sinking sensation in his stomach as he took Urien's place before Merkim. The Etrendi nobleman smiled, twirling his sword artfully as a few of his friends called out their encouragement from further down the line.

  Readying his blade, Keevan stayed on the balls of his feet and tried to remember all of Hadrian's advice over the last month. The second Merkim burst into motion though, the information vanished. His only defenses were the few fighting instincts he'd internalized, and he knew first hand they weren't enough.

  Keevan hopped away, barely avoiding a quick stab meant for his ribs. He shuffled to his left, forcing Merkim to pursue him in wide circle. The students continued their deluge of catcalls and insults but Keevan couldn't hear them, only dodging Merkim's attacks mattered. The Entrendi pressed on, but with a lazy grin as he advanced. The water around his blade faded as his serene concentration was replaced with entertainment.

  Merkim dashed in, his attacks striking at Keevan from random angles. Each of his steps were confident and determined, while Keevan's were light and constantly retreating. Keevan evaded most blows by simply retreating, though he tried to parry a few. Then, as he retreated, he saw Merkim's stance. He was relaxed, standing flat-footed.

  "Hey Merkim, are you going to dance with the Outlander all day?" One student called.

  "Just give me a moment to wear him down," Merkim called back, glancing at the line to his right. "I want to saver th-"

  Keevan charged, throwing his weight behind two slashes of his own. Caught on the flat of his feet, Merkim retreated unsteadily, parrying one blow and ducking past the other. For a brief moment, Keevan felt a rush of victory. But Merkim was in fact spinning into the duck, and his sword emerged into view too fast for Keevan to block. The blow solidly connected with Keevan's stomach, driving him to the ground once again.

  Gasping for air, pain knotting up in his chest, Keevan couldn't quite hear Hadrian's advice. Something about flat feet and swords hanging in front of someone or other. Keevan staggered onto his feet and hobbled over to the end of the line.

  "I think you almost had him that time," Urien offered, patting Keevan on the back. "You alright?"

  "Mafeaf," Keevan answered.

  "Enough," Hadrian ordered, as Merkim finally fell to a quick strike from one of his friends. "Back to the mats. Finish your stretches. We're done for the day. I want you all back here before sunrise tomorrow. We've got a lot to practice."

  Supposedly, stretching out after each training session aided in the muscles' recovery. Keevan couldn't help but notice that in his case, the flexibility exercises seemed to give every bruise and battered muscle extra time to twist and complain.

  "I thought you had him back there," Urien said, taking a spot next to Keevan on the big hay-stuffed mat. In the big boy's case, the flexibility routine was particular difficult. He closed his eyes, stretch his feet out in front of him and tried to touch his toes. This time, he managed to scratch his ankles.

  "I hoped so, he's just so quick," Keevan grumbled, wincing at a sudden pain in his shoulder. He didn't remember getting hit there. Perhaps the irritating bruise was from landing on the ground funny when he rolled?

  "There's always tomorrow," Urien offered, "another chance to even the score."

  "Or to take another beating," Keevan countered glumly.

  "Try to remember how you did on the first day here," Urien suggested, stretching hopelessly toward his toes. "Look at me after all. I can touch my ankles now!"

  "I'm sure that will save your life someday," Keevan muttered, twisting as he stretched his spine. He glanced over at Urien's red face, puffing
with exertion as he reached for his toes... in vain. Keevan chuckled. "Thanks for trying to cheer me up."

  "Not an easy feat, some days," Urien added with a grin.

  "Keevan," Hadrian called from the main entrance. "Someone to see you."

  "I'll see you tomorrow, Urien," Keevan offered, hopping to his feet. The day could only get better from here on out. Hopefully.

  "Same to you," Urien replied with a tired smile.

  Keevan gathered his training gear, keeping his gloves on to hide those bruises. His tunic would cover the rest. He stowed his gear in his satchel and headed for the entrance. Hadrian stood by one of the weapons tables, arguing with a couple other staff members from the Persuader's Academy. Keevan couldn't shake the feeling they were arguing about him, for they'd occasionally point his way or sneak a glance in his direction.

  When he saw Bahjal waiting at the open door, all the pains of his training faded away. She'd taken to wearing her Suadan uniform again. The random loops of blue and white fabric were suspended in strands of water as she concentrated on staying calm. They fell a few inches when she saw Keevan, greeting him with a wide smile, her tranquility giving way to excitement.

  "Hey Keeves, I thought you'd want to know right away," Bahjal said. "Nariem finally got that shipment we've been waiting for. We can get started this afternoon. Even Persuader Madol's going to come help," She gave him an extra tight hug.

  Keevan managed to bite back a hiss of pain. He didn't want her to see his bruises, or at least, to know about how many he'd accumulated during this session. "Just give me a second to get my breath back," Keevan insisted, wrapping one arm around her shoulders while the other held his gear aloft.

  "Have a look boys," Merkim called, "It's the Outlander and his traitor woman. How'd he manage to land such a pretty Suadan? I thought they were supposed to be smart."

  The tall Etrendi hefted his bag of gear over one shoulder, cross-stitched with the insignia of the elaborate 'R' of the Radahn family. Two of Merkim's friends followed behind him, sharing the same family symbol on their bags and watching their cousin with equal measures of entertainment and mock bravado.