The Reformation Wars: The Unmarked Swordsman

Chapter 2

A few hours and two short breaks later, Alden and Tom stopped by a creek for lunch and a bask in the midday sun. Their horses eagerly slurped up the clear water. They had travelled about half the distance to the ring of mountains encircling Monterayne, indicated by the shift from grassy meadows in abundance to greater tree cover and groves full of saplings rustling in the wind. Alden predicted they would be at the base of the mountains by nightfall. 

While Alden munched on bread and dried meat, seated comfortably on a mossy boulder, Tom stood in a clearing and practiced his drills. The gleaming blade of his longsword whistled through the air as he performed imaginary strikes, shifted into guard positions, and from there executed other maneuvers. 

Up, left, down, he thought as he practiced one particular sequence. Those three words cycled in his mind as he repeated the moves over and over again, etching them into his muscle memory. 

"You have been hard at that for some time." Alden called from his seat. 

Tom paused for a moment before turning to face his grandfather. "And I sense you have some objection with that?" 

"We are paused here to eat, Thomas. You should strengthen yourself." 

"I already told you, Grandfather, I feel fine! I much prefer eating on the go, anyway." 

Alden shook his head. "I am afraid that sword of yours leaves the scabbard far too often." 

"And you would have it otherwise?" Tom asked as he stepped closer. 

"In fact, I would. In my view, the scabbard is far superior to the sword in all respects." 

"How so?" 

"Never has a scabbard killed a man, only the blade that issues from it. It is a symbol of peace, and of civility." 

Tom shrugged. "And yet, never has a scabbard saved a man's life, either. Neither has one ever ended the tyranny of a madman or warded off an assassin's blade." 

"There are other ways." 

"Oh, are there? Like what? Archery? The ways of cowards who would much rather strike from afar than handle their business like real men?" 

Alden huffed. "Do not speak so disrespectfully of men of the bow. Do you not realize our king himself is an enthusiast of their arts?" 

"Call it art if you will, but I much prefer painting with a brush to splattering pigment upon canvas from an easy chair. Now, excuse me while I practice my brush strokes." 

Tom heard his grandfather sigh behind him as he returned to his former stance and continued his drills. He reveled in the sound of the sharpened blade slicing through the air. But then a thought occurred to him, so he turned back to Alden. 

"Grandfather, if we do run across trouble as we escort Senator Delquez, what then will be your response?" 

"I am unclear on what you mean by 'trouble'." 

Tom chuckled. "Bandits, let's say." 

"Why, I will unsheathe my sword and attempt to warn them off. If it comes to blows, only then shall my blade taste flesh." 

"Ah, so you do still have some fighter in you." 

Alden shrugged. "Of course I do, or else I would not be a knight of forty years and counting. I was once like you, Thomas, but I have since learned to temper my impulses." 

"Oh, believe me, Grandfather, there's nothing impulsive about my desire to be a protector of the helpless and defender of the weak. I merely approach the matter more actively than you."