A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,107
dressed now in simple working leathers, her hair tied back severely to show her sharp-angled face. The other two were dressed similarly. The tall woman looked at Drem as he followed Cullen.
“Who are they?” Drem whispered to Cullen.
“Those with Byrne, they’re Kill and Cure,” Cullen said.
“Eh?” Drem frowned.
“Byrne’s two captains,” Cullen said. “A quick history lesson is needed, I think, else you’ll go embarrassing yourself, and that will make me look bad.” He grinned at Drem’s confused expression. “This Order was founded in remembrance of two people, Brina and Gar, Corban’s dearest friends. They fell in the battle on the Day of Wrath, and Corban swore to honour and remember them.” Cullen gestured at Dun Seren. “This is how he did it, by building this place. Not just the walls and towers, but the people you see around you. Gar was a warrior, Corban’s teacher, and Brina was a healer. So here at Dun Seren Corban founded an order dedicated to both arts. How to kill, and how to cure. We learn both here, and so there are two captains—one to oversee each discipline. Kill and Cure.” Cullen pointed at the man and woman with Byrne.
“Ah, so those aren’t their real names, then?” Drem asked.
“Ha, no, but they might as well be. No one calls them by anything else, now.”
“So…” Drem began.
“More questions later,” Cullen said as he took a place in the lines, beckoning Drem to stand beside him. “No more time now.”
“What are we doing?”
“This is the Order of the Bright Star, how else do you think we’d start the day? Not too close, now,” Cullen said, “else you’ll end up slicing someone’s body parts off.”
“Eh?” Drem said.
Then he saw Byrne draw the curved sword from her back, holding it loosely.
Drem realized what they were doing.
The sword dance.
“Stooping falcon,” Byrne called out, raising her sword two-handed over her head.
Drem drew his father’s sword, his sword now, set his feet and raised the blade high.
“Lightning strike,” Byrne called out and over a thousand swords slashed down, diagonally, right to left, the sound of it like a high wind passing through the gullies of the Bonefells. It was exhilarating.
They held the pose for long moments, sweat dappling Drem’s brow, steaming in the morning’s chill air.
“Boar’s tusk,” Byrne cried out, all those gathered on the field taking a step and stabbing forwards, low to high, legs bent, arms extended. Holding the pose again, muscles beginning to burn in thigh and back, shoulder and wrist.
“Iron gate,” Byrne cried. Drem took a step back, bringing his sword across his body, a diagonal defence.
“Scorpion’s tail,” called Byrne, and Drem dropped into a squatting stance, one hand in front for balance, his blade above his head and behind, parallel to the ground, like a scorpion’s tail about to strike.
All around him men and women were doing the same, and as Byrne called the forms Drem heard his father’s voice and imagined his mother and father working through the sword dance, on this very field, just as he was now.
There was a comfort in that, something warm and satisfying.
Before he realized, it was over, people all around him were sheathing their blades, Cullen stepping over to slap him on the shoulder.
“Come on, don’t let the sweat dry,” Cullen said. He laughed as Drem fumbled sheathing his sword and then led Drem away from the centre ground, towards racks of wooden weapons.
All around the field groups gathered in different disciplines. Some stood in a loose-ordered line, four ranks deep, with the Order’s round shields on their arm. A command was shouted and the ranks closed up, shields coming together with a loud snap, forming a wall of wood and iron.
Beyond them riders galloped, swords slicing at fruit on stands. Elsewhere a warrior ran alongside a cantering horse, grabbed its saddle and leaped into the air, swinging himself up onto the horse’s back, grabbing reins and urging the horse to a gallop.
“The running mount,” Cullen said.
“That’s amazing,” Drem told him.
“Part of every warrior’s training here. Fail that and you fail your warrior trial.”
“You can do that?” Drem asked Cullen.
“Oh aye, of course I can.” Cullen grinned.
Drem shook his head, continued looking around. He saw giants on bears, archers loosing at straw targets, another group of warriors practising with the lead-weighted nets Drem had seen Cullen use on the Kadoshim half-breed.
Everywhere, the art of killing was being rehearsed.
Cullen hefted a few wooden swords, then put them back, finally settling on one for himself and for Drem.