Outlander Ch. 07

Jack nodded to the man and fastened his practice sword to the storage rack.

"You're getting much better, Jack," Kairn said as he put his own sword next to Jack's.

"Maybe," Jack said. "But I can't land anything."

"Don't underestimate yourself. These men are veterans. They have been training for years," Kairn explained. "You have come much farther than you are aware of."

Jack grunted. He knew he still had a very long way to go before he had any chance of surviving a real sword fight. Any one of the sea dogs could gut him within minutes if the fight were for real.

Later that afternoon, Jack stood at the railing watching the horizon with an occasional glance at the leyline. It did appear to be farther west than when he first saw it.

"May I join you?" Emma asked as she moved up to stand beside him.

"I was wondering when you were going to show up," Jack said, smiling at the older woman.

"Then you already know what I am going to ask," she said returning his smile.

"I do," he said, glancing up at the leyline.

"And?"

"I honestly can't see myself wielding magic, but I will give it a try," he said. He had reasoned to himself that if he were stuck here he would need every advantage he could get. Realistically, it would be quite some time before he would be proficient enough with a sword to defend himself adequately. If he could wield the power of the leylines he would be much less vulnerable.

"Excellent," she beamed. "Are you ready for your first lesson?"

"What do I need to do?" he asked nervously.

"It is best in the beginning to close your eyes as you learn to access the leyline," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

"It keeps you from getting distracted, helps you focus," she explained. "Now close your eyes and reach for the leyline."

Jack took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The leyline was still visible to him, pulsing on the edge of his consciousness. He couldn't see it with his eyes but it was as visible to him as if he were looking right at it. He struggled to make sense of seeing it without seeing it but it was beyond his understanding.

"Concentrate, Jack," Emma coaxed.

Jack focused on the pulsing golden line and tentatively reached out for it.

"Reach with your mind, Jack," Emma said, "not your hand."

Jack's eyes popped open. His hand was stretched out before him. "Oh, sorry," he said sheepishly and snatched his hand back to his side.

"It's all right," she said, amused. "Try again."

He closed his eyes and refocused on the leyline. 'How do you reach with your mind?' he wondered. All he could think of doing was imagining his mind floating up out of his head toward the shimmering leyline.

"Reach for it, and when you feel it, open yourself to it," she said softly. "Let the power of Lord Aramon's gift flow into you."

Jack tried to concentrate on reaching for the leyline. He felt a little foolish as the minutes passed with him standing there with his eyes closed. He was about ready to give up when he suddenly felt it. It was as though his mind was touching the surface of some unknown thing. It felt soft and pliable yet beneath the surface he sensed a deluge of power that took his breath away and scared him to his core with its vastness and intensity.

"Yes," Emma said, seeing his reaction. "You feel it. Now, open yourself, let the power flow into you."

Jack took a deep breath to steady his nerves then tried to open himself. Nothing happened. He tried harder without success. He redoubled his effort and then lost the sensation of touching the leyline completely.

"I can't," Jack said, surprised to find that he was breathing heavily.

"I'm not surprised," Emma said matter-of-factly.

"Then I can't use the power after all," Jack said, sounding relieved.

"Oh, I am quite sure that you can and will," Emma answered. "No student ever succeeds on his first attempt. In your case, it's worse because you have no faith."

"What do you mean, I have no faith?"

"It's simple, really. You must believe that you are worthy of Lord Aramon's gift. You must know that when you open yourself to the leyline, you will be filled with its power. Your problem is that despite what you have seen, deep in your heart you still have doubts."

"I see," Jack said though he didn't, not really.

"Don't worry," she said, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We will try again tomorrow."

The next morning, Garek called a meeting of the entire crew on the main deck to announce that supplies were running low. As they were still three weeks away from the port city of Antyor, they would need to start rationing their food. Each person would be given a small piece of pickled beef and two hardtack biscuits twice a day. The crew groaned at this news but seemed to take it as a matter of course.

As Jack ate he spotted Monch eating nearby. The big man was surrounded by his cronies as usual. Jack hated that Monch had beat him so easily and was determined to redeem himself. He swallowed the last of his pickled beef then approached his adversary, determination evident on his face.

"Ready for round two?" he asked.

The space around them quickly cleared as Monch rose to his feet. The fight was hard and fast, with both men standing their ground and swinging punches at the other's face. Both landed blows but it was Jack that was grudgingly forced back. He just couldn't match the bigger man's strength.

When it was over Jack was on the ground beaten and battered but he had still refused to yield. Ithos arrived on the scene and broke it up once it was clear that Jack couldn't continue.

Ava healed him of his minor injuries and Jack noticed that she seemed more matter-of-fact than usual in her demeanor. He wondered if something was bothering her, but didn't feel comfortable enough to ask her what it was.

The next day, he was convinced that something was wrong when he saw her with Terrell. They were in the midst of a quiet but obviously heated discussion on the forecastle. Concerned, he approached them. "Is everything all right?" he asked her.

"Mind your own business, Outlander," Terrell snapped and stalked away.

Jack watched him go, surprised. Ithos's son normally wore a ready smile and was quick to laugh or tell a story of a girl he knew in this port or that.

"When I need your help I'll ask for it," Ava said, giving Jack a disgusted look before gliding away as well, leaving Jack standing there feeling foolish.

That afternoon, he fought Monch again. This time, he tackled the bully to the ground and managed to pound on his head and face for a good minute before the big man threw him off. The onlookers cheered wildly when it looked as though Jack might win. In the end, the fight ended like the others, but this time Ava had to heal Monch while Emma healed Jack. He had managed to open up a huge cut over Monch's eye and loosen some of his teeth.

'He can hurt and bleed just like any man, and now he knows it and so do I,' Jack thought as he and Monch glared at each other over the women's shoulders. Jack resolved to fight him every day until he won. He didn't know exactly what he was trying to prove, but he wasn't going to quit, no matter what, until victory was his.

Jack still spent some time with Emma each night trying to learn to access the leyline. He failed every time. As soon as he would start to get frustrated Emma would call a halt to the lesson and remind him that he had to have faith.

Between training with the sea dogs, helping the crew with whatever chores he could, Emma's lessons, his daily beating at the hands of Monch, and his after dark vigil with Viviane, the next few weeks went by quickly.

By then, Jack had lost so much weight that he had to visit Ithos's wife, Betta, to get his clothes taken in. She was particularly interested in the quality of the fabric used to make the clothes Jack had worn here from his world. She made him sit there in his underwear for two hours while she cut and sewed his clothing, occasionally glancing at his exposed torso appreciatively and then laughing at Jack's blush and apparent discomfort.

He had been working and training hard and was beginning to fill out. Muscles that hadn't been seen since he was in high school were showing themselves again. He hadn't thought about it much, but Betta's teasing made him more aware of the physical changes in his body. He was in better shape than he had been in years and apparently others were noticing.

Others except Ava, that is. For weeks she had been avoiding him like he had the plague. He tried many times to find out what was wrong with her but she simply said 'nothing' and claimed having work to do elsewhere to get away from him. Her standoffishness bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

Jack shook his head, trying to dislodge Ava from his mind. Thoughts of her always left him disconcerted and he needed to think about something else right now. He planned to find Monch after Betta finished with his clothes. Everything he had tried so far had ended with him getting his ass handed to him. It was time to come up with a new fight strategy.

* * * *

Monch cracked opened the deck hatch that led up onto the main deck and peeked out. He scanned the deck intently. He didn't see the Outlander anywhere, but he could be behind the hatch where he couldn't be seen.

He briefly considered climbing back down the ladder and going back to the crew quarters where he wouldn't have to worry about the Outlander forcing him into another fight. But with only two small meals a day, the thought of missing one wasn't very appealing.

He was convinced that the Outlander was a demon sent by Karak to personally plague him. The man wouldn't leave him alone. No matter how many times he beat the Outlander down, he just came back for more the next day. The man wasn't human. He had to be a demon straight from the fires of Hadon.

His shipmates were already whispering that the Outlander's heart was made of iron, and that his will couldn't be broken by mere fists of flesh and bone. They used to hold Monch in awe and now they all fawned over the Outlander as though he were Lord Aramon reborn. Monch had won every fight, but afterward all he heard was the Outlander this and the Outlander that. The Outlander took everything and wouldn't yield.

It wasn't fair. He was the winner. He was the champion. Where was his praise? Where were his accolades?

They were only a week away from Antyor and Monch had already decided that he was through with the lot of them. When he got ashore he was going to slip away and find work on some other ship. He had valuable skills that a lot of captains would love to have at their service, and he wouldn't have to put up with some lunatic that didn't know when to give up. Maybe his new captain would recognize his value and invite him to eat at the officer's table.

Monch smiled at the thought of the officers on his new ship pouring him wine from the captain's own wineskin and asking him to regale them with his many adventures as a fisticuffs champion while he gorged himself on steak smothered in gravy made especially for him by an admiring crew.

He hastily peeked out once more before climbing onto the deck while the Outlander was not in sight. If he hurried, he could get his paltry meal and be back below deck before the Outlander saw him. His hopes were dashed though, when the Outlander emerged from the poop deck door holding a bundle of clothes.

Their eyes met and an unspoken understanding passed between them. The Outlander slowly laid the bundle on a nearby rope spindle. He never broke eye contact with Monch as he strode forward with violent intent.

Monch cursed in frustration and prepared, yet again, to pit his fists of bone and flesh against a heart made of iron.

* * * *

"There now, my lovelies. There's plenty for everyone," Cralto said to his pigeons as he moved among the cages, tossing handfuls of seed to the birds. The pigeons ignored him and squawked as they shoved and pecked each other in their haste to snatch up the feed.

Cralto had seen his seventieth year come and pass. He had a bulbous nose and a few wisps of white hair left on his liver-spotted head. His eyes were a brilliant blue and lit up merrily as he clucked and cooed at his feathered charges.

He had been the King's Keeper of Birds for 52 years, and had served as page to the old Keeper before that. The other pages he had served with had moved on to other duties, but Cralto had grown to love the birds and the magnificent view this tower afforded of the capital city, Panaar. When the old Keeper of Birds had died, Cralto had taken over the job.

He was only half-finished feeding the pigeons when one more sailed through the west-facing tower window. The bird's wings beat the air as it flared up and landed on one of the many perches. Cralto paused and eyed the new arrival. To most, the bird would have appeared normal, but not to Cralto's practiced eye. He noticed the weary slant to the bird's head, the few feathers slightly out of place. This pigeon had flown a great distance to safely deliver the message that was tied to its leg.

Cralto poured some seed into the little bowl that was attached to the perch where the new arrival sat. The weary pigeon immediately began snatching up seed as fast as it could.

"What do we have here?" Cralto said as he carefully removed the tiny tube from the leg of the bird. He noted that the tube's cap was red, indicating an important message for the King. "Nimet!" he yelled. "Nimet, get in here. Damn it, where is that boy? Nimet!"

A tow-haired boy of perhaps fourteen stuck his head in the door. "You called, Keeper?" he asked. The boy, whose name was Tomas, had no idea who Nimet was. The other pages didn't know either. They assumed Nimet had been one of the Keeper's pages from long ago. Whenever the old man got excited or agitated all the pages became Nimet to him.

"Ah, there you are, my boy," Cralto said. "Deliver this to the throne room, and be quick about it."

"Yes, Keeper," Tomas said, accepting the message from the old man's hand.

Tomas was off almost before the message tube left the old man's fingers. He took the stairs two at a time as they wound down the inner wall of the tower, past the storage room where the bird seed was kept, past old Cralto's quarters and the rooms where the pages slept when on night duty.

He burst into the yard from the base of the tower and ran along the bailey that surrounded the palace grounds. As he approached the stables, he angled back toward the palace proper then cut through the practice field used by the King's Sentinels and the palace guard to hone their martial skills.

He entered the main palace complex through a side door used mostly by servants and workmen. He turned left even though it wasn't the shortest route to the throne room. Instead, he took a series of passages, stopping once to catch his breath along the way. As he sped through the kitchens, he hastily snatched a fresh from the oven honey cake from the platter the cook had set aside to cool. Juggling the piping hot pastry, he darted out the opposite end of the kitchen just ahead of the cook's attempt to catch him.

When he was sure he had left the portly woman and her shouted threats to strap his backside far behind, he ducked into an alcove to enjoy his plunder. Still licking honey from his fingers, he headed at last for the throne room.

There were three men standing near the large double doors that led into the throne room. Each wooden door was as wide as a wagon and as tall as three men standing on each other's shoulders. They were of one piece and gleamed with a rich mahogany color. Ornate carvings depicted a human army casting back the Elvenstri hoard across the expanse of both doors.

The two men who flanked the doors wore the maroon and blue leather armor of the King's Sentinels. The third man stood apart from them and wore a breastplate of overlapping steel disks that looked like snake scales. The scales had been polished until they showed silver and reflected the flames of the torches. His trousers, undershirt, cloak, and boots were black but the cuisses and half-greaves on his thighs and calves sparkled as silver as his breastplate. A bloody stone over a sword was embroidered on his sleeve, representing his order.

Tomas sensed the tension between the King's Sentinels and the other man as he approached. He knew him, of course. He was Galen Santigar, the Commander of the Swords of Aramon. He had recently taken over as the head of the King's personal bodyguards. Guarding the King had always been the job of the King's Sentinels but now they had been relegated to guarding the throne room door and patrolling the palace grounds with the regular palace guard. Rumor among the servants was that the Sentinels were not pleased with the new situation, not pleased at all.

The eyes of all three men shifted to Tomas as he approached. He could almost feel the intensity of their scrutiny. "I have a priority message to be delivered to the King's hand," Tomas said, eyeing the men warily.

"I'll take that," Galen said and snatched the tube from Tomas's hand before either of the other men had a chance to react.

"Hand it over, Santigar," the taller of the two Sentinels said. "You have no right to intercept the King's messages."

"I have every right. I am a Sword of Aramon and nothing is secret from Lord Aramon's light," he sneered and started to open the small tube.

Suddenly a man that Tomas had not seen approach seized Commander Galen from behind and put the edge of a dagger to his throat. The Commander froze with his finger on the cap of the tube.

"Break that seal and I'll cut your throat to the bone," the newcomer whispered into Galen's ear.

"Chael, release me," Galen spat out at the Captain of the King's Sentinels.

"Hand the message to Gorman first," Chael said and pressed the edge of the dagger into the soft flesh of Galen's throat. A drop of blood ran down the blade of the dagger and dripped onto Galen's breastplate.

Galen hastily held out the message and Gorman, the taller Sentinel, stepped forward and took it.

Chael released Galen and stepped back as the other man spun to face him, his hand half-drawing his sword before stopping.

Chael Dovangi, the Captain of the King's Sentinels, was young for the job, not yet thirty. He was medium of build and wore his chestnut hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. He wore the same blue and maroon dyed leather armor that all the Sentinels wore.

He had already sheathed his dagger before Galen had finished turning. Chael's coal-black eyes glanced at Galen's half-drawn sword then back to his face. "Go ahead, snake belly," he said. "Free your blade and see what occurs." The words were spoken in a soft, deadly tone as his hand moved to rest on the hilt of the bastard sword belted at his hip.

The boy Tomas was frozen in place. His feet wouldn't move. The only things he could move were his eyes and they darted back and forth between the two men who faced each other only feet away. If they bared steel he might get hit in the close quarters of the hallway. He sent up a silent promise to Lord Aramon that if he got out of this he would never steal another honey cake again.

A bead of sweat formed on Galen's forehead as he stood motionless, sword still half-drawn. Seconds that felt like minutes stretched by as he weighed his chances. Then, having reached a decision, he slammed his sword back into its scabbard. "Another time, Dovangi," he said as he wiped a trickle of blood off his neck where Chael's dagger had sliced the skin.

"I look forward to it," Chael said.

"The Chancellor will hear of this," Galen spluttered.

"He's in there with the King," Chael said, nodding at the throne room doors. "I am going in there now to give the King his message. You're welcome to join me. You could tell your Chancellor that you cut yourself shaving. Personally, I think that snake belly armor looks better with your blood dripping on it."