Sons of the Oak

That afternoon, Borenson held his long knife at the ready, his right leg forward, his left foot half a pace back, toe pointed out, while his shoulders hunched low and his buckler formed a moving target, protecting his side. It was the classic fencing stance, and like most practiced fencers, Borenson’s thighs and calves were overlarge, evidence of his long hours of practice.

But so were Fallion’s. The calluses inside his thumb and on his palms fit perfectly against the haft of his blade. Indeed his hand fit the blade so well that it seemed an extension of his body. Only the buckler was unfamiliar. It was an Inkarran device, called a viper, much used on the far side of the world. It was shaped like a teardrop, thick in the middle while the bottom portion tapered into a sharp blade for stabbing. The sides were sharpened so that they could be used as a slashing weapon. The viper was equally handy as defensive armament and as an assault weapon.

Fallion danced back and forth, sometimes feinting an attack in the Deyazz style of fighting with scimitars. It was a form that Fallion liked. It tempted opponents, causing them to strike at imagined openings. But a good fighter in the Deyazz style was always careful to keep his body moving in unexpected directions, so that the opening disappeared even as the opponent committed to his attack.

Borenson smiled. He liked the game.

Borenson lunged, blurring in his speed, aiming his long knife straight at Fallion’s eye. Though the knife was blunted, a puncture wound to the eye would still be fatal.

Fallion dodged left, swinging his head mere inches. Fallion was trained to block such a blow with his buckler, bring it up so that the edge clipped the ganglia on the opponent’s wrist, numbing his hand and most probably disarming him.

But Fallion dove under the attack, striking Borenson with the blade of his viper, a blow up into the armpit. At the last instant, he pulled his punch, lest he puncture the armpit for real, and the crowd of sailors that looked on, hanging from the rigging and leaning against the railings, shouted “Two!” cheering, even as Fallion leapt back to avoid reprisals.

Two points. Not an instant kill, but a slow one, one that would weaken an enemy, wear him down. The blow would have severed Borenson’s artery, causing him to bleed to death in a matter of minutes.

Borenson pushed the attack, lunging while Fallion was off-balance. The boy leapt to the side, putting a mast between him and his opponent. Borenson rushed in, but Fallion leapt to his right again, keeping the larger man at bay.

The sailors cheered as if it were a dogfight.

Captain Stalker peered down from the forecastle and watched with dull interest.

“Pretty good, eh?” Endo asked. “For a kid?”

“Good,” Stalker replied. Stalker had an eye for fighters. In his youth, his master had supplied gladiators for the arenas at Zalindar-old warriors from Internook, captured slaves from Innesvale-and so he was no stranger to blood sport.

But Fallion astonished him. In retrospect, he should have known that the boy would be well trained. But many a clod could be trained. No, Fallion had a gift for fighting, Stalker decided.

Even that should not have surprised him. He was bred for it, over hundreds of generations, sired from Mystarria’s greatest warriors.

The combination of breeding and training very nearly awed Stalker.

And right now, he was trying to decide if Fallion was merely exceptional for a child, or if he might someday grow to be the best he’d ever seen. “The boy is young yet, but give him six years…”

“A Son of the Oak,” Endo said. It was a compliment, a reminder of the spooky way that the world was changing, with a new generation growing up stronger and smarter than their elders, better in so many ways.

“Aye,” Streben jested, “he may only be nine, but he fights like a ten-yearold.”

Several men laughed nearby, but somehow the jest angered Stalker. He didn’t like someone making sport of another for being good at what he did. That was a pastime for losers.

Streben was his sister’s son, and at seventeen he was a tall boy, lanky and strong. He fancied himself a fighter. But he had a cruel streak and a cowardly one.

Oh, he had enough bravado to kill a man, but he’d only done it once, and he’d done it from behind. He had a penchant for picking fights at port. One night, after such a skirmish, he’d ambushed a man in the night, and then bragged about it when they were far out to sea, beyond the reach of any lawmen.

The boy rolled to the side to avoid Borenson’s next few blows, keeping the masthead between them, and Streben laughed. “Boy knows ’ow to run!”

But Stalker realized what the boy was doing. He was playing out the fight in his mind, making it real. If Borenson had been a real attacker, he’d know that he was bleeding to death, and he’d press the fight even as Borenson was doing now. At the same time, his quickened heartbeat would pump the blood from his armpit ever faster. By now he’d be down a mugful of his life’s blood, and his head would be reeling from the loss. A few more seconds, and the boy would be able to take him with ease.

Borenson feinted left and attacked right, his long knife going slightly wild, as if he were losing focus. He was into the game, too.

The boy struck him a blow to the thigh, one so close to the crotch that many of the sailors actually cried out in sympathetic pain. Another two-point blow.

The crowd cheered wildly, and Fallion smiled. He’d been practicing for three hours, doing all that he could to “prepare” himself, as his mother had warned him to do.

But in his own mind, he was doing more than perfecting his skills. He was playing to the crowd, trying to win their approval. He needed not to win just their applause, but their hearts. Someday, he thought, some of these men may form the core of my army.

His eyes went to the right, where Rhianna watched him, a worried smile on her face.

The small moment cost him dearly. Borenson suddenly lunged like a wild man, slashing with his knife, three blows that Fallion could barely parry. The big man’s knife rang against Fallion’s small shield, and each blow numbed Fallion’s arm.

The fight is everything, Fallion told himself. Focus on the fight.

The cheering faded from Fallion’s mind as he watched Borenson’s piercing blue eyes. You could always tell when a man would strike by watching his eyes. An accomplished fighter like Borenson wouldn’t warn you by focusing on the spot he’d attack, but his pupils dilated a tenth of a second before he struck.

Fallion had to concentrate on his footing. The pitch and yaw of the vessel was still unfamiliar, and his center of gravity rolled with the ship.

Borenson’s pupils went large. Fallion dodged left, just as Borenson’s shield bashed him in the chest, sent him flying, knocking the wind from him.

Fallion tried to suck air, knew it would be no use. He had to end the fight now.

Borenson rushed and Fallion leapt up and lunged forward, under his reach, bringing his knife point up under the sternum.

“Three!” the sailors shouted. An instant kill.

The sailors in the rigging cheered wildly. Borenson was huffing. He grinned at Fallion, peered over to Rhianna.

Fallion was still trying to suck air. He felt as if he’d lose his breakfast any moment.

“You puke on that deck,” Borenson jested, “and you’re going to have to clean it up.” Then more softly he added, “Hold it in.”

Fallion nodded. Borenson poked him in the stomach. “That,” he whispered, referring to the blow, “was for showing off. Always keep your mind in the fight.”

It was a hard lesson, but Fallion knew that he would rather learn it now than in a real fight.

Fallion got to his knees, tried to hold in his breakfast, struggling for air. Sweat rolled off of him.

The sailors were still cheering, and Captain Stalker smiled in grim satisfaction.

“You saw that!” Streben shouted. “The big fellow pulled his punches. I was that good when I was the kid’s age!” He began to jeer.

Stalker turned to his nephew, gave him a dangerous look. “You’re not that good. You couldn’t beat the kid on the best day of your life.”

That caught Streben’s attention. There is nothing that a coward hates more than to be reminded of his own weakness.

Several sailors nearby caught the mood and jeered at Streben, “Go ahead, show us what you’ve got.”

Streben looked away in embarrassment, trying to ignore them, but the jests grew crueler.

“Right,” he snarled, shouting down at the boy. “You fight me? You want me?”

Fallion looked up at Streben, not quite understanding. Streben shouted another challenge, and Borenson stepped between them and said, “The boy isn’t taking challenges. This isn’t the arena.”

But Streben grinned maliciously, taking the boy’s reluctance for cowardice. “Why not?” he demanded. “It’s a matter of honor.”

Stalker said nothing for a moment. He already knew what Streben was made of: cruelty, cowardice, and stupidity, all wrapped up in a deceptively strong frame. Sometimes he told himself that if Streben wasn’t his nephew, he’d have hurled him overboard long ago.

Fallion took a step to the side, so that he could see Streben better. He saw the crazed gleam in the man’s eyes, the sneer on his lips.

He is dangerous, the kind of man who would harbor a locus, Fallion thought.

“Is there great honor in beating children where you come from?” Fallion asked. “Or are you just such a sorry ass that you can’t fight someone your own size?”

That brought snorts of laughter from the crowd, followed by jeers aimed at Streben, who leapt from the rigging, launching himself toward Fallion, tugging his own dagger from its sheath.

Stalker couldn’t allow that. Fallion was too valuable. As Streben raced past, Stalker simultaneously put out a foot, then shoved him.

Streben spilled to the ground like a sack of guts, his knife under him. He grunted a curse, crawled up to his knees, and peered in dismay at his hand. He’d cut it badly, slicing his palm almost to the bone.

But Stalker didn’t look at his nephew’s hands. He was watching Fallion. The child had drawn his own long knife, and rather than recoil in fear at the sight of Streben, he smiled patiently, as if he would not hesitate to slip a blade between the bigger man’s ribs.

I didn’t save the boy, Stalker realized. I saved Streben.

Streben peered at his hand and shouted at Fallion, “This isn’t over!”

Fallion turned to leave, and Streben made a show of rising up and lunging toward his back. But Endo and Blythe each grabbed an arm, pinning him down.

“Don’t spoil the merchandise,” Blythe warned his struggling charge. “Them folks is cargo, payin’ customers. Anything ’appens to the boy, and you’re dead. Understand?”

Streben craned his neck and looked back to Stalker, as if seeking permission to press the attack.

Stalker stepped forward, and as his men held Streben, Stalker struck a heavy blow to his nephew’s gut.

Unlike Fallion, Streben didn’t manage to hold his breakfast down.

“Listen to me,” Stalker said. “I know you. You’re a sneak that comes up to men from behind and slits their throats. But I’ll not ’ave that from you ’ere. That boy is under my protection. Got it?”

Streben gave a sneer so full of rage that Stalker couldn’t resist. He slapped the sneer off his nephew’s face.

Streben spent the rest of the day swabbing decks.