Sci Fi & Fantasy / Riders of Darith - Forbidden Steel (Analysis)
This chapter is a short way into the book. The companions, led by Tal, have just delivered the princess safely back to her father, the trader king of Verda. At dinner that evening, the king tried backing out of their payment and Tal lost his temper, threatening to accept blood in payment if necessary. Brus follows Tal back to their apartments in the palace...
“What happened out there?” Tal asked as they entered their rooms.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” replied Brus. He sighed and started unbuckling his outer garments.
Tal undid his sword belt and threw it on the bed. He turned to face Brus, hands on his hips. “I have tried so hard, Brus. For two whole years I have managed to keep the dragon away. Two years not even my mother the queen could control me. And in that time, not a single sign of the gods. Now I must go running back to Braducca with nothing but my father’s death to show for it. Have we truly been so thoroughly forsaken, Brus?” His voice dropped to a whisper and his hands fell to his sides. “Have the gods truly left us without hope?” He slumped down heavily on the edge of the bed, eyes staring beyond the marble floor.
Brus cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but I’m confused. Are we talking about your heritage, the gods or the fact that you seem to no longer be able to rein in your childish temper?”
If Brus was expecting a sharp reaction, he was disappointed.
Tal lay back on the bed, arms flung above his head. “I don’t know, Brus. I don’t know.” He drew in a loud breath and exhaled. “Maybe they’re all related. Maybe not. All I know is that suddenly everything I have worked at for the past two years is dissipating like smoke from a dying fire and I find myself heading back to where I was when I started.”
“Fate will always swing you back around to where you left off your path. That can sometimes be a painful lesson.”
“Are you saying we have no choice? That we should all just quietly follow some path preordained for our use? Are you saying that I have just wasted the past two years?”
“A waste?” he snorted through his sparse, greying beard. “No, even though that seems to be what you were saying not a minute ago. All I’m saying is that I don’t think you should have been gone from your people for this long. Please forgive me for being so frank, but some things are overdue.” He paused briefly. “Blood calls to blood.”
“I have to go back, I know that,” Tal let out a disconsolate sigh. “But I need a just little longer. I am so close, I can feel it, Brus. If I can find some evidence of the gods in the world, that we were the only ones forsaken, then I can...”
“As a boy of sixteen winters, you needed to find answers.” Brus interrupted. He approached the bed and sat down on the other end from Tal. His normally gruff voice turned gentle. “You needed your space and a way to find your place in a world that had suddenly changed dramatically for you. I followed, believing that you would get what you were looking for. But,” he paused as Tal moved his head to stare at him directly, “know that the answers we get are not always the answers we want.”
“Another of your mam’s sayings?” Tal tried smiling to erase the sting in his words.
“She was a wise woman.” Brus nodded. They both sat comfortably, lost in their thoughts for a minute.
“When we get back, I’ll release you from duty for as long as possible. I’m sure you would like to spend some time with her after being gone so long. And I’m sure my mother will have me so ensconced in the palace, the only danger I’ll be in will be of the feminine sort.”
“I would love to see my mam,” said Brus softly. “But she died last year.”
Tal didn’t know what to be shocked at first. The simple fact that he knew of her death implied that he had a network of friends never shared with his bonded master. What other information had passed between Braducca and Brus? What other secrets did Brus have and where did his loyalties lie, bonding or no? And in order to keep this one secret, he hadn’t even requested time to attend to family matters. Aren’t I the selfish prick, he thought viciously.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Brus.”
“You’re not going to ask how I know?” Brus gave a sardonic smile and hoisted one booted foot onto the silk covered bed, turning his back to Tal. Before Tal could fumble for words, he continued. “She lived a good, simple life. She touched many others in small ways. But she was old and it was her time to move on. Death should not be feared, rather her life celebrated.”
“Like my father’s too, I suppose,” Tal tucked his hands behind his head. His sudden tears could not wash away the bitterness in his voice.
Brus’ back stiffened and he lowered his foot to the floor. “He was a good man, too. He was also a good Warmaster, the best Braducca had in many years. I am proud to be bonded to such as him.”
“Well, you’re bonded to me now, Brus.” Tal leapt up and paced to the other side of the room and his voice rose as he made his way back again. “He’s dead and you’re mine. I don’t care how inferior you think me to his memory, because you’re bonded to me and you’re mine!”
“Am I?” Brus raised his eyes from the floor and looked up at the panting young man towering above him. “Stop repeating yourself and defend.”
Tal looked down at the small blade Brus held pointed at his knee. With a flick of his wrist, Tal knew Brus could hamstring him where he stood. Not believing he would really do so had earned Tal blood in the past. A few seconds were all Brus would give him. More than someone intent on doing him harm would, so Brus reminded him often.
He launched sideways, away from the blade and rolled to his feet as Brus stood and faced him in a fighters’ crouch, shifting the blade from one hand to the next.
“There are a few things your father shared with me before he died. Things perhaps he shouldn’t have shared with one bonded. There is much you have missed out on in your education while throwing yourself at the world.”
Tal dove for his sword on the bed and Brus followed. He grabbed the hilt and shook the scabbard free as he slid off the other side. Brus shook a piece of white fabric at him, grinning.
“That was my only decent shirt left,” Tal cried.
“You mean to tell me you had a decent shirt to start with?” Brus taunted.
Tal took two quick steps forward and swung his sword in low. Brus blocked it easily and retreated towards the balcony.
“You still have much to learn, youngling,” Brus called. He gathered another short blade from his pack as he stepped past and waggled it at Tal. “Come get some learning while you still can.”
Tal followed, hacking his long, slim blade on Brus’ two shorter ones with both hands.
As they reached the open doors, Tal paused and said, “There are strict rules about us not wielding any weapons. I don’t know why you insist teaching me such a skill.”
“Skill?” Brus laughed. “Is that what you call it? Maybe you’re taught to not bear arms for fear of serious injury.” Tal took another swipe and Brus stepped neatly onto the balcony and behind a pillar.
Tal followed his voice into the night air. “This one of those things my father told you?”
“No.” That short answer was the only reprieve Tal got for the next few minutes as Brus launched an attack. Luckily the balcony was wide enough to accommodate his wild defence, although the thick pillars helped almost as much as the sharp blade.
The world shrunk and was filled with only their breathing, the scuff of boots on stone and sharpened steel clashing. More often than not, Tal’s blade landed on stone and the few times he managed to get close to Brus’ skin was more by accident than design.
Sweat started trickling into the number of small nicks Brus had made in his skin and one on his cheek started to sting. Brus stopped his attack and resumed his fighters’ crouch waving his blades gently in the air.
“Learn anything yet, youngling?” His voice was as steady as though he had been resting. Which in Brus-world, he probably had, Tal thought sourly.
“I’ve learned that fighting with a sword is a waste of my time,” Tal replied.
“Ah, you say that only because you can’t best me,” said Brus. “You can’t get close to an old man like me, even when my blade is not as long or as fancy as yours.”
“You have two of them,” Tal reminded him.
“You talk in the manner of a boy and do even less. Where is your speed and agility now? Where is your need to win? So far I have won eight times. Eight times you have died at my hand. Shall we make it ten before you breathe your last?”
He knew Brus would stop at shedding his blood ten times. Brus would smile, trying to hide the disappointment in his eyes. He would then pat him on the back and lead him off to bed. Tal would sheathe his forbidden sword, thinking nothing of the defeat because Brus would always be there to fight for him when it mattered. He would forever be the youngling, forever be the one who needed more from those around him than they needed him.
Without warning, his perception shifted. He surveyed his surroundings and realised they had turned the southern corner of the building where they were housed. A low parapet shielded them from a sharp drop to the grounds below to the right. Beyond the gently lit grounds and thick wall of the palace, the lights of Verda made a warm, yellow carpet. The wall on the left was unbroken by windows or doorways until it stretched back towards their apartment. Brus watched him, confident that nothing he did would surprise him.
As he stepped forward to press another attack, Tal moved quickly towards the edge of the balcony and jumped onto the railing. It was wider than expected and he had no trouble keeping his balance as he turned and slashed at Brus’ shoulder.
A quick grunt of surprise was all Tal heard before he felt his sword swept aside. He jumped straight towards Brus instead of retreating, landing close enough for Brus’ second blade to reach his middle. Tal curved his back and contact was barely avoided.
By the time they reached the light spilling from their rooms, Brus had received at least three cuts from Tal’s blade and he was sure Brus’ breath was coming a little faster. At the sounds of fighting, the other three came rushing out. Rogen rested his sword’s point on the ground when he saw who it was.
“Would anyone’s blood do, oh fearsome leader?” The sarcasm in his voice reached Tal, but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he kept his eyes on Brus. He straightened as the older man did and saw a small smile emerge from his beard.
“I hope you’ve learned to pack in more clean shirts,” Brus said to Tal.
“I don’t think I’ll need that many anymore,” Tal smiled back. The unexpected exercise seemed to have cleared his head more effectively than he could have hoped. Anger, sadness and confusion had leaked out with his sweat, leaving him feeling washed clean, on the inside at least.
“Anyone know where the baths are?” Tal grinned at the other three. Jed turned and walked back inside, Dalon looked after him and turned back to look at Tal, scowling.
“You seem intent on spilling blood tonight. How about some of mine?” Rogen raised his sword halfway, mocking. Brus stepped forward.
“You know there are not many who can best you with that blade of yours, Rogen,” Brus stepped behind Rogen’s reach and the still finely dressed man was forced to look up. It was like looking at a songbird trying to stare a crag eagle down. A very dangerous songbird, Tal amended.
“Best you remember that, old man.” Rogen pulled his shoulders and head back as his feet carried him back inside.
Tal wondered, not for the first time, whether Rogen stepped aside from Brus out of respect or because even he feared to cross blades with him.
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I had a difficult time understanding just why the two beginning characters ended up fighting each other. Perhaps if they were fighting before any previous dialogue. It would look better. Also you mentioned a dragon and didn’t elaborate. That was disappointing. I thought there was going to be a dragon somewhere in the story. That would have been cool.
I also think that boy should not be such a cry-baby. I didn’t like the place where he is shedding tears, because I did not know enough about him to appreciate those tears. It made him look like a wimp. Maybe if he didn’t shed any tears until well into the story after we had metaphorically shared in his hardships and pains, it would be ok.
I found the fight scene itself unnecessary and it felt like it was there just because fantasy stories have fight scenes. It didn’t flow all that natural to me. Perhaps a better reason other than to shake the wimpish boy out of his funk is needed; like maybe an assassination attempt; or the older man is caught stouping the boy’s girlfriend. Anything other than we need to do it because that’s royalty and royalty needs their practice. If my character had a teacher like that, who would try and beat him up and humiliate him on the drop of coin, I would have the boy murder the a-hole in his sleep. What I mean to say is that fight scenes are so much better and enjoyable if there is a real serious reason for them.
The ego stroke at the end that is telling us that this guy is tougher than this other guy, doesn’t flow very well either.
You have an interesting story and it could be really cool if you just had more believable reasons for your characters actions and reactions. Otherwise it’s just well crafted hype.
Good luck
Dave.
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