Blood and Steel (The Cor Chronicles Volume I) by Martin Parece II
“Combat training,” Rael began, “is an excruciatingly long process. Fortunately for me, most of the hard work has been done, but I also have to teach you how to use the power in your blood. First, you must select a weapon.”
“But I have a sword,” argued Cor, confused.
“Yes, but it may not be the right weapon. You must choose the right weapon.”
Cor stood in front of the weapons racks, staring at them uncomprehendingly. Many of them were ancient, swords and axes rusted, their edges dulled by time. The bludgeons were bizarre to him, but their use obvious, for there was little question what a spiked ball at the end of a long handle or chain was meant for. The longsword Naran had given him stood amongst the other weapons; it was plain but clean, sharp and in good repair.
“Rael, I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do,” Cor said, again chewing on a fingernail.
“Stop thinking about it. In fact, close your eyes and let yourself be guided to one.”
Cor sighed quietly, truly not understanding why Rael didn’t let him use his longsword, but he closed his eyes obediently and simply stood there, trying not to think about the weapons he knew were arrayed in front of him. He began to notice an odd sensation in his chest, almost as if there were a string attached to his heart and someone was pulling the other end ever so slightly. Cor stepped forward and then turned slightly to the left, held his right hand out and opened his eyes as his palm settled around the hilt of a longsword. He hefted it off the rack, finding it lighter than he expected. It was old and rusted like the other weapons, and it had a single dull edge.
“Why did you pick that one?” asked Rael.
“I don’t know,” said Cor, looking at the blade. “It was like someone led me to it.”
“That is good,” encouraged Rael. “Your blood will call you to things, items, weapons and even people. That is how I found you. You must learn to listen to it. At times, it will lead you to objects that will amplify your strength and power.”
“I like my other sword better,” Cor said doubtfully.
“Only because it is familiar. You have only begun to feel your power, and you do not trust it. Be patient.”
They spent most of the day drilling, allowing Rael to test Cor’s skills. He found Cor was indeed an adequate swordsman, clearly taught by one forced to innovate as opposed to any distinct style. Rael found a small wooden shield and strapped it to Cor’s left forearm. It was not important that Cor learn to use it now, but only to feel and become accustomed to its weight. They practiced for hours, and after, Rael showed him how to begin cleaning the rust from the sword and sharpen its blade.
That evening, over supper, Rael decided to answer some of Cor’s questions. Rael lorded over a pot containing a sort of beef stew, tossing various spices in as he went. He tasted it occasionally, but somehow Cor thought it would likely taste the same no matter what.
“Who is the Chronicler?” asked Cor. “You mentioned him when you handed me the scroll.”
“The Chronicler is an immortal,” answered Rael. “I do not know where he lives, and I doubt there are any who do. The gods gifted him immortality and sight in exchange for recording history.”
“So, he could be watching us now?”
“I am not sure, but I think everything is history to him. It is not as if he is using sorcery to spy upon us, he simply sees it all as if it had already happened,” Rael said, stirring at the stew which was taking on a burnt odor. “Though, I could be wrong. The Chronicler has been known to make contact with mortals from time to time.
“I must teach you to at least read Rumedian, perhaps speak it. Rumedian is the language of the gods and of the Chronicler.”
“I have never met a Rumedian,” Cor said, repeating aloud a thought he’d had earlier in the day.
“Yes you have. We are all Rumedians. The gods call our world Rumedia.”
“Why did the Dahken not join the war against the Loszians?” Cor asked, switching subjects.
“There is a history of the Dahken that I will have you read, but the short of it is that it was not our war,” answered Rael, scooping stew into a pair of wooden bowls.
“But the Loszians attacked the Dahken once?”
“Yes, and they paid for it dearly,” Rael replied as he placed the bowl in front of Cor. “The Westerners had never wanted anything to do with us before, so we did not feel a need to be involved.” They ate in silence, Cor organizing his thoughts. He would wait until after Rael was finished to continue with his queries. It was all somewhat surreal.
“When we got here,” continued Cor, “you called his place Sanctum. What exactly is it?”
“It is the Dahken stronghold in the Shining West. We had one in Losz and a few in other parts of the world.”
“Something happened to the Dahken after The Cleansing, didn’t it?”
Rael’s eyes met Cor’s and he paused before answering. When he did, it was by way of a question. “Why would you say that?”
“Well,” Cor felt a familiar discomfort; when he was a child Jonn would occasionally pose a question that would make Cor feel like he was being tested. “This castle is falling down, and it doesn’t seem like much of a stronghold. There’s no one here except us. I’ve never seen any other Dahken, and you don’t talk about them. How many are left?”
“I do not know,” answered Rael, his voice a barely audible whisper. “It has been a long time since I have seen another, and you are the first I have sensed in the West.” Cor watched Rael’s face as he spoke. The man seemed suddenly old and tired.
“Rael, how old are you?”
“Boy, you are terrifically perceptive,” he replied loudly, causing Cor to flinch a bit. “No, I meant it as a compliment, though you must be careful with such a skill. To answer your question, I am one hundred sixty three years old. I was born in the spring of five seventy three A.C.”
“Are Dahken immortal, like the Chronicler?”
“No, but once we reach maturity, our aging slows immensely. If you do not die with a sword through you, you may very well live to see three or four hundred years. Look, no more of this tonight. Tomorrow, after breakfast, I will have you read of Dahken history in the West, and that should answer some of your questions,” Rael stood from the table. “I must attend to my horse. Please clean up.”
Rael stalked away, leaving Cor simply staring after him. He knew he had asked Rael a disturbing question, and he had no doubt it had to do with absence of Dahken at this supposed Dahken stronghold. He cleared the table and cleaned the pot with some well water before returning to his room. Cor sat on his bed for a few moments, resting his head in his hands. He wasn’t tired exactly; his body was exhausted, and his right arm throbbed, but he couldn’t seem to make his mind quiet. Questions and a burning desire to understand filled his thoughts.
Taking his candelabra, Cor stood and made his way towards the study. He stopped at the doorway, looking down the hall that continued into the darkness. Curiosity came unbidden, and knowing he shouldn’t, he continued down the hallway another two dozen paces, before he stopped at another doorway, a gaping maw leading down a dark stairway into blackness below. The curiosity tugged at him, and the stairway seemed to beckon him downward in a most frightful way. He turned and sprinted back to the study’s doorway, slowed as he reached it and turned to look back down the hallway, certain that something followed him. All but one of his candles had gone out.
Cor entered the study, breathing deeply once to clear his nerves. He set the candelabra down on the table, careful to make sure no wax would drip onto the tomes and relit the other candles. He took the scroll that he knew he was to read next – more history, that of the Dahken. He opened it, realizing it was penned in the same hand as the one he read that morning, and the parchment appeared relatively new. Before settling to read, Cor wondered briefly if Rael had translated these from other older texts.
“But I have a sword,” argued Cor, confused.
“Yes, but it may not be the right weapon. You must choose the right weapon.”
Cor stood in front of the weapons racks, staring at them uncomprehendingly. Many of them were ancient, swords and axes rusted, their edges dulled by time. The bludgeons were bizarre to him, but their use obvious, for there was little question what a spiked ball at the end of a long handle or chain was meant for. The longsword Naran had given him stood amongst the other weapons; it was plain but clean, sharp and in good repair.
“Rael, I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do,” Cor said, again chewing on a fingernail.
“Stop thinking about it. In fact, close your eyes and let yourself be guided to one.”
Cor sighed quietly, truly not understanding why Rael didn’t let him use his longsword, but he closed his eyes obediently and simply stood there, trying not to think about the weapons he knew were arrayed in front of him. He began to notice an odd sensation in his chest, almost as if there were a string attached to his heart and someone was pulling the other end ever so slightly. Cor stepped forward and then turned slightly to the left, held his right hand out and opened his eyes as his palm settled around the hilt of a longsword. He hefted it off the rack, finding it lighter than he expected. It was old and rusted like the other weapons, and it had a single dull edge.
“Why did you pick that one?” asked Rael.
“I don’t know,” said Cor, looking at the blade. “It was like someone led me to it.”
“That is good,” encouraged Rael. “Your blood will call you to things, items, weapons and even people. That is how I found you. You must learn to listen to it. At times, it will lead you to objects that will amplify your strength and power.”
“I like my other sword better,” Cor said doubtfully.
“Only because it is familiar. You have only begun to feel your power, and you do not trust it. Be patient.”
They spent most of the day drilling, allowing Rael to test Cor’s skills. He found Cor was indeed an adequate swordsman, clearly taught by one forced to innovate as opposed to any distinct style. Rael found a small wooden shield and strapped it to Cor’s left forearm. It was not important that Cor learn to use it now, but only to feel and become accustomed to its weight. They practiced for hours, and after, Rael showed him how to begin cleaning the rust from the sword and sharpen its blade.
That evening, over supper, Rael decided to answer some of Cor’s questions. Rael lorded over a pot containing a sort of beef stew, tossing various spices in as he went. He tasted it occasionally, but somehow Cor thought it would likely taste the same no matter what.
“Who is the Chronicler?” asked Cor. “You mentioned him when you handed me the scroll.”
“The Chronicler is an immortal,” answered Rael. “I do not know where he lives, and I doubt there are any who do. The gods gifted him immortality and sight in exchange for recording history.”
“So, he could be watching us now?”
“I am not sure, but I think everything is history to him. It is not as if he is using sorcery to spy upon us, he simply sees it all as if it had already happened,” Rael said, stirring at the stew which was taking on a burnt odor. “Though, I could be wrong. The Chronicler has been known to make contact with mortals from time to time.
“I must teach you to at least read Rumedian, perhaps speak it. Rumedian is the language of the gods and of the Chronicler.”
“I have never met a Rumedian,” Cor said, repeating aloud a thought he’d had earlier in the day.
“Yes you have. We are all Rumedians. The gods call our world Rumedia.”
“Why did the Dahken not join the war against the Loszians?” Cor asked, switching subjects.
“There is a history of the Dahken that I will have you read, but the short of it is that it was not our war,” answered Rael, scooping stew into a pair of wooden bowls.
“But the Loszians attacked the Dahken once?”
“Yes, and they paid for it dearly,” Rael replied as he placed the bowl in front of Cor. “The Westerners had never wanted anything to do with us before, so we did not feel a need to be involved.” They ate in silence, Cor organizing his thoughts. He would wait until after Rael was finished to continue with his queries. It was all somewhat surreal.
“When we got here,” continued Cor, “you called his place Sanctum. What exactly is it?”
“It is the Dahken stronghold in the Shining West. We had one in Losz and a few in other parts of the world.”
“Something happened to the Dahken after The Cleansing, didn’t it?”
Rael’s eyes met Cor’s and he paused before answering. When he did, it was by way of a question. “Why would you say that?”
“Well,” Cor felt a familiar discomfort; when he was a child Jonn would occasionally pose a question that would make Cor feel like he was being tested. “This castle is falling down, and it doesn’t seem like much of a stronghold. There’s no one here except us. I’ve never seen any other Dahken, and you don’t talk about them. How many are left?”
“I do not know,” answered Rael, his voice a barely audible whisper. “It has been a long time since I have seen another, and you are the first I have sensed in the West.” Cor watched Rael’s face as he spoke. The man seemed suddenly old and tired.
“Rael, how old are you?”
“Boy, you are terrifically perceptive,” he replied loudly, causing Cor to flinch a bit. “No, I meant it as a compliment, though you must be careful with such a skill. To answer your question, I am one hundred sixty three years old. I was born in the spring of five seventy three A.C.”
“Are Dahken immortal, like the Chronicler?”
“No, but once we reach maturity, our aging slows immensely. If you do not die with a sword through you, you may very well live to see three or four hundred years. Look, no more of this tonight. Tomorrow, after breakfast, I will have you read of Dahken history in the West, and that should answer some of your questions,” Rael stood from the table. “I must attend to my horse. Please clean up.”
Rael stalked away, leaving Cor simply staring after him. He knew he had asked Rael a disturbing question, and he had no doubt it had to do with absence of Dahken at this supposed Dahken stronghold. He cleared the table and cleaned the pot with some well water before returning to his room. Cor sat on his bed for a few moments, resting his head in his hands. He wasn’t tired exactly; his body was exhausted, and his right arm throbbed, but he couldn’t seem to make his mind quiet. Questions and a burning desire to understand filled his thoughts.
Taking his candelabra, Cor stood and made his way towards the study. He stopped at the doorway, looking down the hall that continued into the darkness. Curiosity came unbidden, and knowing he shouldn’t, he continued down the hallway another two dozen paces, before he stopped at another doorway, a gaping maw leading down a dark stairway into blackness below. The curiosity tugged at him, and the stairway seemed to beckon him downward in a most frightful way. He turned and sprinted back to the study’s doorway, slowed as he reached it and turned to look back down the hallway, certain that something followed him. All but one of his candles had gone out.
Cor entered the study, breathing deeply once to clear his nerves. He set the candelabra down on the table, careful to make sure no wax would drip onto the tomes and relit the other candles. He took the scroll that he knew he was to read next – more history, that of the Dahken. He opened it, realizing it was penned in the same hand as the one he read that morning, and the parchment appeared relatively new. Before settling to read, Cor wondered briefly if Rael had translated these from other older texts.