Blood Tempered: Book 1 of the Sword Monk Saga

Blood Tempered: Part 1

In the sun-hammered courtyard of the Andine monastery just outside the meager imperial city of Drum, Brother Caida gasped in lung-searing breaths while turning thrust after viper-quick thrust of his opponent's blade. His own great-sword grew increasingly heavy. Sweat ran down in rivulets from his bristle-covered scalp to salt-sting his eyes, and his brown robes were darkened and heavy with perspiration. He had never crossed blades with anyone as good as this sinewy, sun-darkened man from the Ardesh steppes.

The horse warrior wielded a short, serrated blade that Caida was unfamiliar with—and Caida had made it a point to learn as much about Ardesh arms and armor as he could during his early years with the order.

Even dismounted, the man moved with blinding speed. Caida had the advantage of reach, but time and again the Ardesher had danced out of sword-reach only to fly back in at another angle, probing, testing, pushing. It seemed as if he spent more time inside Caida's guard than out.

The Andine monk had begun to doubt his ability to best the man; after a glass under the hot sun the native steppelander seemed indefatigable, while his own reactions had slowed noticeably. After two glasses, Caida found it difficult to breathe. As Caida struggled for air, the Ardesher simply smiled at him, the corners of his long black mustache twitching upwards.

Caida began to understand that if he did not try something unexpected, the match would end in the Ardesher's favor. Once decided on trying a new, more dangerous tack, the Andine did not give it much conscious thought. During the next round of thrust, cut and parry he risked a dangerous feint to the lower left quadrant that left him exposed from brow to navel, hoping his opponent would believe him too slow to recover. Hoping in fact that he wasn't too exhausted in truth.

The horse-warrior danced in with one of the dust-raising stutter-steps that Caida had learned so recently to respect, drawing his strange blade up parallel to the ground, waist level. From that set position the Ardesher would have a launching point at Caida's head, heart, and the length of his left side. He would only have a split second to wrestle with momentum and bring his achingly heavy great-sword up from its downward arc. Too soon, and the Ardesher would simply dance back out of reach. Too late, and this contest of will and skill would be over. He prayed silently and wordlessly to Andos.

As their shadows touched and merged on the dusty, hard-packed earth of the courtyard, Caida whipped up five gleaming feet of southron steel and pinked the bandy warrior's sword wrist. The man yelped and dropped his serrated blade, then unleashed a stream of curses sworn in the language of the steppes nomads. After a time that Caida spent recovering his breath, the horseman picked up his blade rendered the customary obeisance. Caida saluted with his own great-sword, then moved forward to check the man's injury.

"You are good, monk," the Ardeshi said. "You would be better if you used a sword sized for men, not giants."

"We wield the blades that choose us, friend. I thank you for the privilege of sparring with you. I have learned much. Now let me bandage that cut."

The Ardesher waved away the suggestion. "Just a scratch. It took me by surprise more than anything."

"Even a scratch may let in infection. You've tested my martial ability, now let me prove my medicinal ones. Andos was more than a warrior – he was also a healer."

"Neh, monk. I have tested your blade and found it sharp. That is all I came to do. I need no coddling for a scratch, and no sermons." With that, the man picked up his sword and walked over to his shaggy mount. He pulled out a small doeskin purse and tossed it at Caida's feet. The ching of coin was unmistakable as it landed.

"We take no pay for sparring, friend," said Caida.

The Ardesher's smile was sour. "That's for your abbot. His winnings. Though I'm sure he'll call it my offering." With that the man mounted and rode out of the monastery's sandstone gateway.

Caida stood for a moment, watching the horseman's receding form disappear into the sparse crowds that moved along Drum's dusty streets. Each day at noon the gates to the drill yard were opened, and each day one or more armsmen came to ring the bell and challenge one of the order to spar. So it had gone for all the years Caida had been at the monastery, and so it had gone for centuries, if the monastery's historical documents were accurate. So, too, would it go for all the years that the Andine monastery stood, Caida supposed, with the same result. Those fully trained in the Andine arts were the best single swordsmen in the world. Their blades were the physical manifestations of their faith. How could skill alone prevail over faith, and years spent learning and then transcending the forms?

Caida's musings were interrupted by the call to namah, afternoon prayer. His match had lasted far longer than was usual–he hadn't yet swept the courtyard or removed the clapper from the gate bell. He hurried over to the well, filled and drew the bucket, then poured a ladle's worth of cold well water over the bristly stubble that adorned his head. Then he dipped again from the well's oaken bucket and drank deep. When the edge of thirst had been blunted, he set the ladle down on the stone lip of the well and hurried about his tasks.

Usually one or more brothers would have been there to witness the match and help with the tasks, but it was the Season of Doubt, the time when Andos had faced his own shortcomings, and had nearly been overwhelmed by them. Caida and the other brothers would stare into the dark pit of their own fallibility over the next week, and try to come to terms with past failures and errors in judgment. Caida let the somber notes of the call to namah wash over him as he swept away the footprints of his challenger and himself, bemusedly taking up the Ardesher's coin purse in the process, wondering what to do with it. Finally he remembered the existence of the dusty, cobwebbed offertory on the wall outside the gate. He'd been detailed once, as a boy, to clean it, finding three stones, a bent, discolored copper coin and the dried carcass of a lizard the size of his finger. He dropped the purse in and thought no more about it.

He did not notice the two figures that looked down on him from the abbot's third floor balcony, nor had he noticed that they had been watching while the match took place. If he had, he surely would have dwelt on it during his prayers. An Andine was charged with being fully aware of his surroundings at all times.