<html> <body> Metamor Keep: Felsah's Little School by Charles Matthias Part 5 “Hold your sword like this,” Czestadt advised as he studied the dark-skinned boar-like man. Owain did as instructed, keeping the blade point straight up, gripping the pommel tightly with his right hand while his left grasped a shield that he kept before his chest. The rest of Wolfram's troop watched, some eager for their turn against the southern knight, while Kindle and Burkhart hoped they would not have to mend any broken bones or worse. As Father Hough had asked, Wolfram had moved his soldiers down one of the wide hallways near to the Cathedral entrance. They could still see the array of heavy oaken doors with the brass scroll work along the banding, but they were not so close that their antics would frighten any of the Followers who chose that day to come and pray. Many who had come were curious to see the foreigners and most of those sought the Patriarch's bodyguard Kashin. The Yeshuel had greeted all who had come and extended a message of love and blessing given to him from the Patriarch, but that left him no time to aid in the lessons and spectacle that Wolfram's troop hoped for. It seemed he had finally found time when a summons arrived from the Duchess and he was whisked off to yet another audience. Which left only Sir Czestadt to entertain Wolfram's troops. But with such an enthusiastic group of soldiers, and ones whose very bodies gave them unique advantages and disadvantages, it was nothing but pleasure for the Yesbearn knight. “That's right,” Czestadt said with approval. The boar-like man grinned around his snout, his nostrils tightening in delight. “Do you feel the strength in your stance? From that position you can move to block almost any attack with ease. If you cannot defend yourself you will never be able to defeat your enemies.” “I know how to defend myself,” Owain complained with narrowed eyes. “It's the first thing Jack taught me when I joined!” Czestadt drew his broad-handled blade and rolled the hilt around in his meaty hand. “Is that so? Then you should have little difficulty blocking these attacks.” And without warning he swung the blade in a wide arc toward the boar's right. He shifted to hold his sword out to take the blow and the clash of steel on steel reverberated like the chiming of bells in their ears. The knight drew back and struck at the boar's left but was met with the shield this time. He struck again to the right and then at the left again but was stopped by the boar's sword and shield with competent reflexes. The knight could only conclude that he had indeed learned to defend himself. The only question that remained was how well he had learned his lessons. Czestadt swung overhanded from the left, forcing the boar to duck to miss the sharp edge of the blade. Still in mid-swing, he pulled back and drove forward, the point of his sword slipping into the opening between the shield and sword. Already ducked, Owain could do nothing other than jump backward swinging his sword down to deflect the thrust. Czestadt let him knock his sword away as he flipped his grip on the pommel, pushing forward with his downward blade as if it were a shield, bashing the boar in the snout with his fist. Owain tried to raise his shield in time, but the blow landed. Owain's nose was soft, smooth, and somewhat damp. It crumpled back under his fist but only an inch before the boar swung his head, clipping Czestadt's hand with one of his tusks. It was only a small cut and would bleed for but a moment. Owain took several steps back, avoiding the wall as he did so, while giving his head a quick shake to get his snout back into shape. Czestadt flipped his blade back to its normal grip, and laughed. “You have good reflexes, Owain. You block my attacks in the right way, pushing my blade away without offering any openings. Nor do you overextend yourself. By the time my next attack comes, you are back to your ready posture. Very good. How is your snout?” Owain rubbed it with his sword hand, and then took a deep breath, nostrils flaring for a moment as the many bristles along his arms and back thrummed. “Stings but I've had worse. You pulled your punch.” “Of course I did. We aren't using practice blades here. A good solid punch to the face can kill a man. And... I wasn't sure how much it would hurt you. I've never punched a boar in the face before.” “Peccary,” Owain said. “That's what my species is called. I'm not really a boar.” Czestadt took a closer look at the boar-like head with its short triangular ears, long snout with flat nose, short tusks, beady black eyes, and pepper gray bristles along his face, with a brighter collar at his neck and over his shoulders just visible above his tunic and banded leather armor. The peccary was a creature that lived in the desert hills north of the Darkündlicht mountains and the forests on either side. He had only ever seen them in traveling carnivals but this Metamorian certainly resembled them. “Aye, I see that now. How did you know of them? I did not think any lived in Galendor.” Owain laughed and swung his spun his sword in his thick two-fingered hand. “I'm the first! And you aren't the first southerner to come here.” “Very true.” Czestadt glanced at his hand and saw that the scratch was not even bleeding. Even better. Wolfram and his soldiers applauded Owain's performance with the youngest of the human men chuckling, “Go get him, Owain! You can take him!” Czestadt glanced at the young man out of the corner of one eye and decided he would put a stop to too much bravado right then and there. He smiled to the peccary and asked, “Are you prepared to defend against my true sword?” “Your true sword? Do you have another than that one?” “Oh, this blade is one I forged myself,” Czestadt replied as he turned it over in his hands. The blade was solid metal about four feet in length with another foot in the handle with a crossbar hilt also a foot in length which meant it could serve as a cross if inverted. The tang did not appear remarkable in any way – Czestadt saw no need to adorn it with scrollwork or flashy decoration – but it was sharp at every edge, and the metal folded nearly a hundred times in the Kankoran forges, both heated and quenched by their magic that he might strike and shape it all the more. How well he recalled his masters amongst the Kankoran proclaiming it one of the greatest blades to have ever been forged by their clan and their irritation when he'd refused to give it a pretentious name. It was one of the few blades that he could touch with only his will without making it brittle. But none of that would be obvious to the Metamorians or even to many of his fellow Kankoran. “But when I speak of my true blade, I do not mean the sword. I mean myself with sword. I have used against you and your fellow warriors the sorts of attacks you are most likely to see in battle. I promise you will not be harmed – your graciousness as a host would never let me bring you to harm – but would you like to try your blade against my own?” Owain glanced at Wolfram but the ram just shrugged his shoulders. The peccary returned his gaze to Czestadt, eyes fixing on the pink scar on the side of the knight's face. He sucked in his breath, rubbed his snout one more time in hopes that it would stop stinging, and then nodded. “I know you are going to defeat me, Sir Czestadt. I am not ashamed at being beaten by you. But when will I ever have the chance to cross blades with a master swordsman like you again? That's why I'm agreeing. And that's why I'm going to give you everything I can.” Czestadt smiled and bowed to the peccary. “You are young and yet you have great honor and wisdom. I am deeply honored and will provide you what you seek.” He lifted his blade to his face and gently pressed his lips to the flat edge. Owain stood in his ready posture, beady eyes never leaving the knight's right shoulder. Czestadt gripped his blade in both hands and stepped forward slowly until they were just within reach of each others' swords. Owain bent his knees and dug his hooves into the carpeting. Wolfram's soldiers watched, eyes fixed on them and their breaths held tight in their throats. The only sound was the shifting of his muscles and tunic as he swung the heavy sword hard at the peccary's left. He turned the shield to take the attack, but it was much harder this time, driving him back a pace, his hooves tearing into the carpeting as they were pushed back. A quick second strike at the bottom of his shield turned his arm down and opened his chest up. Owain realized his vulnerability and hopped back another pace, but Czestadt was already moving around to his right, bring his sword in from the other side. The peccary swung his sword back in time, but now his chest was completely exposed. Czestadt kicked forward, his boot planting firmly in the soldier's chest. One second later Owain was prone on his back a dozen feet down the hall staring at the ceiling. A second after that and he was staring down the full length of Czestadt's sword. And that's when he began gasping for breath. “Damn!” Ross murmured in awe. Czestadt casually knocked the peccary's sword away and then reached down and helped him back to his hooves. It took Owain a moment more to catch his breath, but when he did he started to laugh. “You hit hard. That... ah.... that was the fast... fastest I've eh... ever been put down.” “Never forget that in battle you are the weapon. I do not want to know how much pain I would endure were you to strike me with one of your hooves.” Owain lifted one of his legs and regarded the cloven hoof at its end with a new wonder in his small eyes. Wolfram applauded and stepped to Owain's other side to help him get back to the rest of their troop. “Care to learn what mine can do, Sir Czestadt?” He regarded the ram with a delighted smile. “I have been hoping for the chance to see what you are capable of. You carry yourself like a man ready to spend your last breath protecting others. That is strength.” They had no sooner propped Owain against the wall where Burkhart began prodding his chest checking for broken ribs than Wolfram drew his sword with his left hand and began swinging it from side to side to loosen his muscles. Czestadt noted the ram's use of the off-hand and was glad of it; Wolfram was probably used to his opponents being unsure how to attack a left-handed warrior. But what really caught his attention was the age of his sword; it was much older than Czestadt's own and that always excited his blood. “May I see your blade?” Czestadt asked. Wolfram nodded and offered it with both hands. “Here, it is very precious to me. My grandfather once used it in battle.” “Impressive. You may hold mine. I would love to hear what you think of it.” Czestadt offered his blade in turn, and soon both of them were examining each others' swords. Wolfram grunted at the weight, but was soon tilting the Kankoran blade this way and that, swinging it in long, slow arcs as a smile quickly began to spread across his snout. Czestadt put the ram's blade to his lips and closed his eyes for a moment as he felt through the metal ever so gently. He could feel the devotion with which it had been crafted, forged and folded two generations ago. The finest steel of the Midlands went into its shape, and he almost trembled with the impression of each hammer swing that had shaped it. He could feel the rush of air as it was swung in practice and then in battle. And he could hear the screams of those who had died from its edge. Words seemed to float from the blade, words rich and hearty as they gloried in victory after victory, words which could not be kept from his tongue: “Today we drink! Tonight we wench! Tomorrow... we win!” Wolfram almost dropped the knight's sword as he spun on his hooves and stared slack-jawed. “What did you say?” “Only what your blade knows. Those words... it heard them a great deal. They are... part of this blade. Something your grandfather said?” Wolfram nodded, stepping over and holding out his hand. “Aye, those were my grandfather's words. How could you hear them? He's been dead many years now.” Czestadt handed the ram back his sword and then reclaimed his own. He bowed his head low. “Forgive me if I have intruded on something sacred to you. But as I have said, a blade will speak to one who loves them and knows them well. Your blade, such as it can, loves your grandfather and now you. It will not easily disappoint you in battle.” “It hasn't yet,” Wolfram replied, running one hand down the blade before he lifted it to his left ear, the tip clanking against his horn. He listened for a moment and then lowered the sword, chuckling at himself. “I don't know why I thought it would speak like that. Can you do that with any sword?” “Most swords are crude and fashioned with little real care. It is a shame, but that is the way of things.” Czestadt rolled his sword back and forth between his hands. “What did you think of mine?” “Well-balanced and smooth,” Wolfram replied with a nod toward the blade. “A little too heavy for me, but... it felt very good in my hands. Shall we then? My true blade against yours?” “With honor!” The other soldiers all kept clear as they watched their captain and the Yesbearn salute with their swords, and then fall into fighting stances. They circled each other for several long seconds, before Czestadt darted back the way he'd come and swung hard at the ram's right. Wolfram blocked with his shield and then pressed right back into the attack, bashing forward with his shield, driving it into the knight with his shoulder and with both hooves firmly planted for leverage. Czestadt stepped to the ram's left where he was met with a sword thrust. He slapped the point of the blade down just as the peccary had done to his thrust a few minutes earlier. The shield came forward to smack him again. Czestadt grabbed the side of the shield with his left hand and he yanked it away, leaving both of their chests exposed for a split second. Wolfram lowered his head and jabbed forward with his horn, a move impossible for anyone not a Metamorian. Czestadt had wondered if he would have to contend against the horn and was delighted by the opportunity. But he hadn't any idea how to avoid it except by stepping back and slashing. They traded a few more blows most of which were attacks from the ram. Wolfram was far more aggressive than the peccary or any of his other soldiers had been, and he also had the strength and training to back it up. Czestadt saw no openings in his defense for nearly half a minute when Wolfram lunged at the knight's unprotected right side. Czestadt took a half step to the left and in mid-swing switched his sword from right to left hand. His sword sailed over top of the ram's, while his now free right hand was able to wrap itself about his opponent's left wrist. A moment later they were locked together, Czestadt's blade pressed gently against Wolfram's neck, the shield pinned ineffectually between their bodies, and his sword arm held completely out where it did no good. Under any other circumstance the practice would have been over, but Wolfram thrust his shield forward, even as he kicked out with his right hoof, catching Czestadt behind his left knee. The combination threw the knight off balance and he toppled to one side, his blade flinging out of his grasp. But he did not let go of the ram who came crashing down beside him, his sword dropping to the carpet beside them. Czestadt's blade did not fall when it left the knight's hand, but remained in the air, the hilt lifting up even as the point followed the ram's neck down to the ground. Wolfram wheezed in surprise and then stared out the side of his head at the blade hanging there ready to skewer him. He blinked and then laughed, “I'd say that's not a fair fight, but I don't think there is such a thing. How was my hoof?” “Well used,” Czestadt admitted as he climbed to his feet and plucked the sword from the air. He sheathed his blade and then bent down to offer the ram a hand. Wolfram clasped his arm at the wrist, and once again the knight experienced the strangeness of the beastly flesh touching his own. “But you should have been dead before you had a chance to use it.” The ram snorted as he stood, stomping his hooves on the carpet with a laugh. “I wasn't going to let you win that easy! What was my mistake?” “I can move faster than you,” Czestadt replied as he handed the ram his family sword. It still hummed from the battle, quietly singing its delight in the worthy challenge. “Your thrust was too far. You did better when you were keeping me at a distance with your shield and short jabs.” “I'll remember that move too,” Wolfram replied with another laugh. “I still got you down.” Czestadt nodded and laughed in turn. “I was right to fear your hooves. Perhaps some lighter practice for now. There is much we could learn from each other.” “What could I teach you? You are a far better swordsman than I am.” A new voice echoed down the hall with a sardonic lilt, “How to avoid hooves and horns for starters.” All eyes turned toward the raccoon walking silently on the carpeting, arms crossed, with a blade sheathed on either hip. He wore a tunic and breeches, with the laces on his tunic tied loosely at his neck so the brown fur on his chest spilled through. His dark eyes regarded them all with faint amusement. Zachary, who had watched all in almost complete silence, stepped into the middle of the hallway and shook his head. “You will not threaten our guests again.” “Let him by, Zachary,” Czestadt said with a shake of his head. The dragon-like lizard may be twice the raccoon's height and five times his girth, but he would still be reduced to ash if the raccoon so desired. “He is an old friend of mine. And he has come to rekindle that friendship. Have you not?” The kharrakhaz glowered once at Rickkter before returning to his quiet repose by the wall. Rickkter stepped past him, arms crossed before his chest. “Of course I have. It is not every day that you meet somebody from your past half a world away.” He then added in the tongue of Sonngefilde, “And I know I can trust you not to reveal my new home to our old clan.” “You may trust me in that,” Czestadt replied in his native tongue, grateful to speak once more in a language that made sense to him, though he had gained a great deal of proficiency in the backwards grammar of Galendor. “Shall we reminisce on our travels in this tongue or theirs?” “Perhaps later,” Rickkter replied with a shake of his head. “Somewhere private where we won't be overheard.” He glanced at Wolfram and his troops, none of whom appeared inclined to trust him. He returned to the northern tongue with a laugh. “If it is sparring that you wish to do, I would love the chance to duel swords with you again. You taught me much, and I have learned much since then.” “Good.” Czestadt beckoned him closer with a wave. “It has been far too long since I have dueled a fellow Kankoran.” He turned to Wolfram and nodded. “You had best keep back at the walls. Do not fret, we are old friends.” Even as the ram backed away, the Yesbearn turned toward Rickkter and added, “Just swords and none of your spells then? First blood from the torso?” “Fair enough,” Rickkter replied with a nod, silently drawing both the katana and wakizashi from their scabbards. “As long as it will only be these swords against your sword.” “Also fair,” Czestadt agreed with a grin. His chest swelled with a pair of deep breaths, and then he took position in the middle of the hallway a dozen paces from Rickkter. The raccoon stood with wrists crossed at his waist, both blades pointing at the floor, the bright afternoon light streaming through the narrow windows dancing in their silvery tang. Czestadt lifted his blade before his face and kissed the flat side. He gripped the pommel with both hands, knuckles tightening around the leather haft. Each of them took a step forward. Czestadt crouched lower, holding the sword up and slightly to his right. Rickkter held the katana over his head and the wakizashi down at his waist, both of them with the tips pointing toward the Yesbearn's heart. And then very slowly they began to circle each other. Czestadt stepped in closer first, making a few feints which Rickkter easily batted away. The raccoon kept his posture as his green eyes noted every sinew in the man's body. His ring-tail flicked back and forth with each step, the only part of his body that seemed not to care that it was in a battle. Czestadt did not look at the tail, keeping his focus ever on Rickkter's torso, from hips to shoulders and back again. Movement always began there and it would always be seen first there. And that torso, despite the coating of fur, was still human in shape and purpose. The shape of Rickkter's swords were not unusual for a Kankoran to use, nor was his stance unfamiliar. But the nature of those two swords, swords he could tell were not true swords, eluded him and that gave him some pause. He continued to circle and feint, trying to draw the raccoon into an attack. He needed to see what those blades could do. Rickkter obliged him. After deflecting one of his feints, the raccoon lunged forward, driving both blades forward like a pair of scissors. Czestadt parried them with a sideways block and continued stepping around in an attempt to trip the coon. But Rickkter was faster than that, hopping forward an extra step to jab the wakizashi into his side as he passed. The blade missed by inches as Czestadt continued his turn, driving down with his sword to brush aside the stroke. But the raccoon was not yet done as he continued around with lithe step, ducking lower to sweep up along his backside with the katana. Czestadt had no choice but to tumble forward, flipping onto his feet four paces away, leveling his blade at his old student with a grim smile. “Becoming a raccoon has made you faster than I recall.” “Either that or age has slowed your mind.” Ross sniggered and even Czestadt had to snort. “You win that one, Rick.” And even as he tongue uttered those words his legs propelled him forward, smashing forward with two sideways chops, knocking both of Rickkter's blades to the side. The raccoon dived to one side, rolling head over heels with either blade at his side until he was also on his feet. He did not waste a moment before swinging from either side with his blades, forcing Czestadt to duck even as he thrust his sword upward. Both of the eastern blades struck either side of the knight's at which he twisted it to one side and then spun his arms in the other direction, knocking them back the way they'd come. Rickkter pulled his arms in quick, crossing the blades in front of him as Czestadt's sword came down. The force of the knight's blow nearly pushed those blades apart, but with a growl that quivered his jowls and revealed a row of little fangs, Rickkter pushed and forced Czestadt back. They continued to trade blows in quick succession. Czestadt's sword was stronger than either of Rickkter's and with it he could drive the raccoon around the small little circle of carpet they had unconsciously declared their own. But Rickkter could dance with his swords and forced the knight to parry blows from either side and sometimes both together which kept him from pressing any advantage he could find. Wolfram and his men winced at the shriek of steel and the pounding blows back and forth faster and oftentimes subtler than they had ever seen on the practice fields. But neither were they drawing blood from the torso nor anywhere else at all. After a long exchange of blows they stepped apart as smoothly as two dancers and resumed their ready postures. Rickkter licked his jowls and flicked his tail from side to side as he resumed stepping one paw over the other to the right. Czestadt smiled lightly, a growing sense of confidence about the fight filling him. The raccoon was lithe and fast and very skilled with the use of the eastern blades. His moves were inventive and unpredictable, but the blades were shorter and did not have the reach he needed to touch the knight. All he needed to do was force the raccoon to thrust with both again. And the opportunity came moments later when the raccoon made a feint with the katana. Czestadt batted it away and then struck an underhanded below at Rickkter's stomach. The raccoon smacked it away with the hilt of his wakizashi and then danced to the knight's right where he swung both blades at his chest from opposite directions. Czestadt raised his sword as if to block the blow, but he raised it too quickly, throwing the sword into the air between both blades. Rickkter's momentum carried him forward another step, while Czestadt grabbed his wrists and dived into the raccoon's chest. He gasped in surprise as the knight bent his arms behind him and then buckled his knees. Rickkter fell backward with his swords pointing behind him. As soon as they hit the ground, they popped from his paws and clattered to the side. Czestadt snatched his blade from the air where it had hung and slashed at the coon's exposed chest. But Rickkter was faster still. After dropping his swords he rolled backward and kicked the knight in the chest with his feet as he rolled head over heels. With one final push with his hands, the raccoon flipped backward in the air and landed on his feet, unarmed but unhurt. The sword passed so close to his breast that a bit of shorn fur floated down his chest. Czestadt rubbed one hand across his chest to check for wounds but the raccoon's claws hadn't pierced his armor. The brief respite lasted less than a second. Rickkter immediately dived to retrieve his nearest blade while Czestadt stepped in the same direction, swinging with his sword to make the raccoon back off. Rickkter ducked the swing and dived in the other direction, leaping with a powerful thrust of his legs. He bounced onto the wakizashi, rolled across it, and came up with it held backward in his right hand. He kept the blade aligned along his lower arm and waved it before his face, staring with a beast's angry eyes at the knight. Gweir and Ross gasped in awe, while Owain and Wolfram both snorted. Kindle rubbed his paws together and then grasped his tail, only to let go of it and rub his paws some more. Burkhart kept his hoof-like hands clasped in front of his snout as he watched. Zachary found it next to impossible to follow their moves and so contented himself with savoring the brief pauses that marked their fight. A few other Keepers had even stopped to watch from either end of the hall; some were even cheering on the knight or the raccoon. Neither Rickkter nor Czestadt paid them any heed as the raccoon began circling the knight, jabbing and feinting with the wakizashi while the knight kept him from reaching his katana. The raccoon's green eyes flicked toward Czestadt's left leg three times in quick succession, and then he ducked low. Czestadt swung his blade down so that it blocked him on the left, but he swung from the right in case it was a feint. And it was. Rickkter spun the wakizashi in his paw, and then drove the flat of the blade against his swing, forcing Czestadt's sword down even further. And then, he jumped forward over both blades, his arms outstretched and, to the knight's shock, shrinking. He flipped his blade up with his right hand while with his left he lifted his arm to block the sudden feral attack. But Rickkter sailed overtop of him, or at least, most of him did. As the raccoon shrank his breeches came loose and did not follow him all the way over the knight. Instead Czestadt received a face full of raccoon trousers and their earthy musk, while over his shoulder dangled the now animal-sized Rickkter bouncing back and forth in his tunic. Blinded, Czestadt yanked the trousers from his face, and then felt the animal pounce over his shoulder to burrow its head beneath his collar and bite him. Czestadt yowled in surprise, grabbed Rickkter by the tail and yanked him out of his shirt before swinging him over his head in a circle and tossing him down the hall. The raccoon sprawled across the floor and tumbled end over end before coming to a stop. But his jowls were red with fresh blood. He swelled in size, but kept himself low to the floor. The now mostly human raccoon grinned red and said, “I win.” “You...” he bellowed, and then he winced and checked the wound. He was bleeding inside his armor and he could feel it. “I said no spells!” “None of my spells,” Rickkter replied. “That one was all Nasoj. Consider it a bit of inspiration from your friend's rat.” And then in a lower voice he muttered, “Mighty warrior indeed, hah!” Wolfram and the others applauded them both, their expressions stunned and uncertain. Czestadt growled under his breath but he did grab the now empty pair of breeches and tunic, balled them up, and tossed them toward the naked man still sprawled on the floor for the sake of modesty. Some of the onlookers were whispering indiscreetly to one another. Rickkter glanced at them and growled, jowls still red with blood. The Keepers nearest him swallowed, and rather quickly returned to whatever tasks had brought them in sight of the little battle. Once he had that modicum of privacy, Rickkter crawled back into his tunic and pulled his breeches back on. He laced them up with his back turned to Wolfram's company, and then stretched, wiping the blood off with his sleeve. “Ah, now that was refreshing! You almost had me there a few times, Sir Czestadt.” “And that,” Czestadt added as he pressed one hand to his chest to staunch the blood, “was the most risky and ingenious thing I have seen a Keeper do yet! If you weren't as fast as you are, I could have skewered you before I knew what happened.” “I know,” Rickkter replied with a nod. “And I know I could never get away with it again against you. Still, that was rather satisfying after all the times you utterly humiliated me all those years ago.” “You are much more skilled then you were in those days,” Czestadt pointed out. He bent down and picked up both of the raccoon's swords and offered them. Rickkter took three quick steps forward to take them out of the knight's hands before they could linger more than a moment in his touch. Rickkter spun each in his paws to sheathe them when another foreign voice behind them said, “Don't put those away just yet. I'd like a turn.” ---------- Kashin was escorted to a small balcony overlooking the practice fields north of the Keep. There was enough room between the northern curtain wall and the castle for a full joust, though there was too much grass for it to have ever seen that many hooves. His escorts, a pair of blue liveried men one of whom was a bull that towered over him, assured him that his host would be with him presently and then departed back the way they came. Arranged on the balcony was a small table and flanking wooden chairs. He sat in the left chair. He heard the clopping of a pair of hooves first, and then the door opened and a woman dressed in riding gear stepped through. Kashin was quick to rise, surprised at the dress, but not at the smell of horses. For the woman was one herself, or at least, she was of equine stock having the girth and the appearance of one of the Assingh, the Steppelands donkeys that he had come to know so well while he traveled with the Magyars. “Kashin!” the duchess exclaimed with delight at seeing him. She wrapped her arms about his neck and he with his one arm awkwardly returned the gesture. “I didst ne'er think to see thee again. Please, sit. I know thou dost not recognize me but I shalt explain. Sit!” Kashin sat and so did the equine duchess. Her expression must have been a smile, but on a donkey it seemed very awkward with far too many flat teeth and curled lip. “Thou didst once know me when I wast human and a man, and at that time, I wast known as Sir Albert Bryonoth.” The Yeshuel stared and felt his heart skip a beat. “Sir Bryonoth? But... how? I thought the Curse didn't do all this. And how... how did you become Duke Thomas's wife?” She laughed, a braying sound that was very familiar. An image of the Magyar Kisaiya who had tended the Assingh flashed in his mind, but he pushed it aside. That, like so many things, was a memory that belonged to Nemgas and not to him and he preferred not to intrude on his twin's precious moments. “That be a long tale that we hath not the time to tell. And there art many things that happened to bring Thomas and I together that I dare not tell for they art too tender for his soul.” “Fair enough,” Kashin admitted, though he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the blustery Steppe knight that had accompanied the Patriarch on his journey to Metamor was the same creature as this Assingh lady and now Duchess of Metamor. “I didn't find your body when I scoured the camp. How did you survive that night?” “I wast taken captive by that murderer. He and that witch woman who killed our Patriarch and our friends cast terrible spells upon me. I didst return to Metamor under their command and attempted something terrible. By Eli's grace I wast stopped and soon thereafter freed from their control. I became as thou dost see me a year ago and some months thereafter his grace asked for my hand in marriage.” Kashin felt a twinge of anger at the mention of the Patriarch's killer, but that man was now dead so he put the anger from his mind. Confusion over the duchess remained. “So the Curse that made you a woman has made you desire men as a woman does?” “Some,” Alberta admitted with the wave of a hoof-like hand. Her long ears lowered against her long neck and mane. “I didst cling to the man that I hadst been born as for a long time, and 'twas that grip that allowed the murderer to use me. The things I tried to do for that man...” She shook her head, and then her ears lifted upright and the smile returned. “When his evil wast stopped, I lost all that didst make me a man excepting the memories of that time. And then I didst become as you see me now, an Assingh but very much a woman.” “You lost what made you a man?” Kashin shook his head. “I do not understand all that you say, but I can see that it is true. I would never have guessed if given a thousand guesses for a thousand days that you were once Sir Albert Bryonoth, knight of Yesulam. But I can hear the Steppe in your voice, and see it in your guise. You still ride then?” “I dost ride as often as I can, and I hath convinced my Thomas to ride as well. And I ride with Sir Egland when he canst join me. He hast become an elk and has now pledged his sword to Metamor as one of her knights. He wouldst hath come to thank thee for saving his life that night, but he hast gone on patrol and wilt not return for some days.” “I am glad to hear that he is well. Let him know that.” She nodded and then a braying laugh erupted from her throat. “Oh, thou shouldst hath seen my poor Thomas that first day in the saddle again. He felt awkward being a horse riding another horse, but I didst show him that he hath nothing to fear. And I dost continue to introduce him to the ways of the Steppe.” She sighed and then put her hands on the table before her, eyes turning to the southeast and gazing with a strange longing. “My old home art so far away. But my new home hath its own charm and its own delights. As long as I am with my Thomas, I shalt bear peace in my heart.” Her smile returned and with it her regard of the Yeshuel. “But I hath great joy to see thee again, Kashin! Thou must tell me of Yesulam, and of thy journeys.” The awkwardness persisted for a full candlemark as Kashin and Alberta discussed their respective trials and challenges in the days that followed the massacre at the Patriarch's camp. Despite the Steppelander accent and some shared memories, there didn't seem to be anything about this donkey woman to indicate that she was the knight of Yesulam he'd once known. But as they talked and as they shared their stories, he began to notice small things, certain gestures, certain phrases, and certain ever so slight cues that little by little the awkwardness began to abate. By the time the second candlemark was burnt he knew in his heart that this very, very changed woman had definitely once been that knight of Yesulam whose body he'd searched for in vain on that rainy and terrible night. His smile came easily to his face and he felt that sense of camaraderie that only a long voyage together can build return to them. Alberta did not seem capable of much other than smiling, at least until he described how he fell in with the Magyars and was almost one of them for good. She was born into the horse clans of the Steppe, and that meant she had a rather poor opinion of the Magyars. Tricksters and thieves was her first word, and she also mentioned the rather disreputable band that had brought the plague with them to Metamor a little over a month ago. But that anger softened when she described playing diplomat with them and how the Magyars one and all declared they would not leave Metamor until they were all under the touch of the Curses. Kashin tried to imagine Nemgas, Gamran, Hanaman, and the other Magyars he'd come to know and call friend and brother as beasts but couldn't quite pick any forms that seemed right for them. He wondered for a moment if the Magyars who had come to Metamor were those same ones he had known and traveled with, but he knew that had to be impossible given the vast distances involved and the rather measured pace the Assingh set across the Steppe. “It is remarkable how much this place has changed each of us,” Kashin mused after Alberta had finally started smiling again. “And not just in the obvious way by making you a woman and giving you a hide and hooves. I mean in the way it has changed each of our hearts.” Alberta nodded, her tail lashing the back of the chair behind her. “I dost see it in thy countenance, Kashin. Thou wert a man of easy smile and simple confidence in all things when I didst first meet thee. Now thou dost appear a man who hath suffered much and found a power even greater. Thou hast found virtue, Kashin, and thy face dost shine with it.” “And you have gained a great deal of wisdom if you can see it for what it is,” Kashin replied. “I have spent most of the last year and a half clad in black or the bright colors of the Magyars. I've seen things I still do not understand. I've lost my left arm. And for seven months last year I didn't exist except as a tiny presence watching the world unfold from the mind of Nemgas. I would have none of that if not for what happened here that one night outside Metamor. That one night.” “It dost pain thee still.” She did not speak the words as a question. It could never be a question. “Aye, it does. But that time is past and the world is turning to a new age. Patriarch Geshter very much wants to mend the wounds that the Ecclesia has suffered, and that others have suffered at the hands of those who claimed to act in the name of the Ecclesia. There are so many wounds, so much injustice, so much suffering. All of it is vain and hopeless if not for Yahshua. And that's what I think on when I turn to prayer. Everything I suffered and endured since that night is worthwhile only because of Yahshua and His glory. I think I have been a better hand for Him now that I have just the one.” Alberta smiled and lowered her long head as she leaned closer to him. “We knights didst admire thee and thy fellow Yeshuel. I admire thee e'en more now than I didst then, Kashin of the Yeshuel. Thou art a noble servant of the servant of Eli!” “Through no fault of my own,” he murmured and then laughed, hugging Alberta around her thick neck. The equine scent was rich but pleasant as they embraced as old friends must. Together they remained for a time laughing and braying before Alberta finally was forced to apologize. “I hath agreed to spend this afternoon with my husband; there art many affairs of state that weigh heavily on his shoulders and he dost need me to help strengthen those shoulders. How long wilt thee be staying in Metamor?” “As long as Father Akaleth needs. I expect we will leave either tomorrow or the day after. This was always going to be a short visit.” Alberta's ears turned to his voice, and then lowered along the back of her head. “'Tis unfortunate that thou canst not tarry here a few days more. My husband wouldst prefer to have honored thee and thy companions, but we hath no time for it. Shalt I escort thee back to the Cathedral?” “Thank you, but nay, you should see to your husband. I will return quietly. I prefer a quiet entrance and a quiet exit if I can have them. Thank yous husband, his grace, for his hospitality, even if we did not see as much of it as he would have liked.” She gestured with one arm as she stood, a warm afternoon breeze ruffling through her mane. “Thou must at least allow me the honor of accompanying thee back inside.” Kashin laughed and nodded, rising to his feet and straightening his green tunic with his only hand. “That I will allow. Lead me on, Duchess.” ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>