B2 Epilogue

EPILOGUE Aldous ran the horsehide strop along the length of the blade, his hand slow and measured. Once, twice, thrice, and then along the o

EPILOGUE

Aldous ran the horsehide strop along the length of the blade, his hand slow and measured. Once, twice, thrice, and then along the other edge. His shortsword was nothing for him to pride himself on, but it was not a bad weapon, forged from good steel at the hands of a proper weaponsmith. Whenever he brought the sword out, however, it brought with it a sense of guilt that Aldous often attempted to ignore.

His father had once forbidden him from owning a proper sword until he’d judged him a proper man, a proper warrior, and a proper master-at-arms. He’d had to content himself with training swords and weapons other than the noblest of them all, even if it was not the most useful in his eyes. Perhaps his inability to own a sword had been why he’d fallen in love with maces. They crushed bone and armor alike, disabling all forms of enemies, no matter how noble, common, or beastly they were, at least as long as they weren’t Heralds…That memory brought with it another painful feeling. Shame. What would his father think if he found out that he’d fled, weeping and shivering like a child in the face of an enemy? He could only imagine even more contempt than what he’d suffered through his years beneath the man’s eyes.

He sighed, leaning back against the keep’s wall and glancing at the sky. Small clouds trailed through a clear, blue sky, gentle and free. Thankfully, there was not much noise to disturb him nearby, so he could enjoy the small peace he was afforded.

Otto was nearby, oiling the blade of his spear. The young man was quiet by nature, though he did not lack in enthusiasm. He’d taken to his training well, and Aldous imagined that in a year or two, he would be comparable in skill to his more experienced peers.

The training yard was quiet, mostly because it was he who led most of the training these days. It did not make it empty, however, for it was where most of the men rested in between duties.

Heath passed by, giving him a nod, likely being as diligent as he could even when not bound by duties in the estate. The man-at-arms was earnest, Aldous had to admit. He’d been trying to beat him in sparring for months now, improving ever so slightly every fortnight. His natural talent was not lacking, but he was no prodigy. His skills were a result of years of disciplined training and honed focus. Aldous believed his greatest weakness to be his straightforward style. He was predictable at times, and Aldous had the thankless task of convincing him to learn some tricks, only for the man-at-arms to fall back on his stable methods after a time regardless.

Compared to Clifton, for instance, Heath was the absolute antithesis in combat. The former used every trick one could think of to reach for victory. He feinted and cheated his way into beating his opponents, his skills of deception often surpassing those of his arm. If Aldous were to say anything about him, it would be that the man needed to improve his foundational skills with the axe and shield, perhaps borrowing more from Heath’s discipline without abandoning his wily nature. Aldous didn’t see the crafty man-at-arms nearby. He imagined that he was out attending to one of the many duties set by their sergeant as of late. It had only been a fortnight since the lord had returned with word of the king’s murder, after all. Such word had only brought with it taut nerves and heavier duties as one would expect.

Then came Ryder, walking through the yard aimlessly–no–walking towards him. The man-at-arms was, perhaps, the most gifted of all the soldiers here, naturally fast, skilled with his weapons, and even possessing a true movement Skill. He was the only one who’d given him trouble in sparring since the beginning, particularly when allowed to use the Skill. He was also the only one among the men aside from Cordell who’d beaten him in a spar. Once forbidden from using his movement Skill, however, he was a much more tame opponent. Aldous would say that he was a mixture of Heath’s skill with his weapons and Clifton’s trickiness in combat, though he lacked Heath’s naturally strong build and Clifton’s fluid cleverness. Before he could think about it more, the man reached him, wearing a quirky smile.

“What are you doing?”

Aldous gave him a flat look. Ryder was also a bit of a jester, more so than any other man in Lord Zesh’s service. Aldous had to fend him off at times if he didn’t want to suffer his unrelenting attempts at making him laugh. “Sharpening my sword?”

Ryder gave the blade in his hand a curious look. “Your favored weapon is not the sword.”

“It is still a fine sidearm,” Aldous retorted.

“You barely use a sword unless you’re training someone with it,” Ryder said as though he’d discovered some profound truth. “I’d say the only use you ever truly had for it is what you’re doing now.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Why burden yourself with such work on a blade you may never need?”

Aldous glanced at the peaceful sky again, and for a moment, he thought he saw the clouds gathering in the distance, merging and roiling in preparation, but it must have been his imagination, because those clouds scattered into small tufts, showing the blue sky beyond once more. His eyes descended from the heavens, landing on Ryder again. “I would rather have a sharp sword that I may never need than a dull sword that I might someday need.”

Ryder responded with a slow nod, eventually walking away, perhaps realizing that he wouldn’t be able to summon a jest appropriate for the occasion.

Aldous took in a long breath, eying the distant edge of the heavens, beyond which he could not see the blue sky, beyond which he did not know what lay. And he sighed.

THE END