Four-Faced Fighter

The next day, I returned the borrowed shoes and joined Kiar’s family. There were eight of us: Kiar herself, her younger brothers and sisters, her sons and daughters. Her aged parents and parents-in-law watched over the toddlers.

We began by walking the fence, looking for signs of men or beasts. Back inside the longhouse, over gruel and milk, we listened to Omos and the elders, learning what the ghortos needed from the forest, and what would be good for trade. We rubbed ash over our clothes and skin to mask our scent. Then we took up our tools and headed out.

They moved with the discipline of koryos-men. The women, bearing the baskets and waterskins, were in the middle. The children stayed close with their slings and bags of stones. The men, with spears and hand axes, took the front and rear. Kiar’s youngest brother, Yerken, had a hunting bow and a quiver of old arrows. I had the lightest load and the smallest blades, so Kiar gave me a spare basket and had me watch the children.

We approached the eastern woods from downwind. Where the wind shifted, we shifted with it, slithering across the fresh-dewed grass like snakes. At the edge of the forest, we halted briefly. Kiar closed her hands and lowered her head.

“Weaver, witness us. Grant us the bounty of Your woods, and see us home safe.”

It was just after sunrise. The night-time beasts had returned to their lairs, and the day-hunters were still asleep. In silence, we entered the darkening woods.

In ones and twos, the men scattered, checking on the traps and snares they had set yesterday. The women and children foraged for greens and berries in a loose-knit group. We spoke only in whistles and hand signals.

I had learned to do this in the koryos, but their language was not mine. Instead I shadowed Yerken.

His snare had caught a rabbit by the neck. It was still struggling and squeaking when we came on it. I stroked its head and ears and body until it calmed. Then I broke its neck. Swiftly I cleaned the carcass. The skin and meat went into the basket. The rest I returned to the forest.

Deeper into the woods, a deadfall had claimed a young fox. A heavy rock crushed its head and killed it instantly. Another brother went about dressing it.

At midday we gathered at the edges of the forest to count our harvest. It was a good morning: there was the rabbit and the fox, a squirrel, and a load of blackberries, acorns, herbs and mushrooms.

We spread out the meat and skins to dry. The women and the children began gathering up tinder and kindling and firewood. The men took their axes to the standing trees.

I did both.

Yesterday, before retiring to the longhouse, I had found a flint by the river. Now I crawled around the forest floor, gathering up leaves and twigs. I tore them up finely and stuffed them into my bulging fire pouch. From dead trees I dug out fistfuls of touchwood, and stowed them separately from the tinder. When my fire kit was full, I went looking for wood.

I found Yerken standing guard, bow in hand. Nearby, the other brothers lopped the upper branches off young trees. They began their cuts three feet above the ground, working their way up. This would keep the new shoots away from foraging animals.

Yerken pointed at a nearby pollard. It was an ash tree, pruned well over the years. From it grew a shock of thick, straight boughs. I drew my axe and went to work.

I found the longest, straightest bough and brought it down. With my knife I stripped off the bark and whittled it down into a reasonably round pole. The bark and shavings went into my pouch, because a man cannot have too much tinder.

I took up the stave, ground it into the earth, and shook it back and forth. The stave bent with me, but not greatly. I rapped my knuckles down its length, and felt no sign of rot or weakness. The stave itself was a full head higher than me.

It would do nicely.

I cut down one end into a point. The new-made stake was not as sharp or sturdy as a true spear, but it would pierce flesh and batter bone all the same.

I set my weapon aside, then went back to work.

As the sun sank towards the distant mountains, we cut the gathered boughs down to equal lengths, then tied them together into dense faggots. The men in turn tied the faggots to their bodies. My load was the largest.

We reset the traps, then returned to the women and children. Everyone looked at my new stake, questions in their eyes. I shook my head. We took up our baskets, our harvest, our gear, and headed back to the ghortos.

The elders greeted us at the gate. The women followed them inside to prepare the evening meal. The children spread out the berries and mushrooms on racks to dry. The men started a fire to smoke the meat, and added the faggots to the woodpile. I set my stake next to the hearth to dry, then went in and out of the house, doing what else needed to be done.

When full dark came, the women called us in for the evening meal. There was fish, of course, and the squirrel, and mushrooms and greens, cooked together in a thick stew and flavored with fish sauce. I placed my stake beside the hearth to dry.

As we ate, we shared stories old and new. The Keitan family recounted the day’s happenings along the Abver. Kiar’s children gushed about every little thing they had seen and done. Her father-in-law told us of the day he had faced a Kwei-bear in the woods and driven it off with a spear.

I ate and listened much, and spoke little.

When a break opened in the talking, I judged it time to raise my voice at last.

“Omos Ghosti, I heard that your ward-stone cracked last moon.”

“That it did,” Omos said warily.

“Ours is a hard land, and times harder still. Now, with Kwei-beasts prowling the land and waters, I think it best that you buy new ones without delay.”

“Good ward-stones are costly, and our hoard is small.”

“Taran did give us a silver ring two days ago,” Keitan said.

Omos frowned.

“We are always short of things around the ghortos. Salt, honey, iron, tools…”

“And you could lose it all to a beast raid,” I said.

“Matters of the ghortos are my affair.”

“Yet I share roof and fire with you. What happens to you will happen to me. With a three-headed great serpent about, surely we need to see to our defenses.”

“If we spent the silver on ward-stones, would they be enough to repel the great serpent?”

I thought of how it had destroyed the nesuiros, frowned, and shook my head.

“No. But—”

“Then why spend it?”

“Lepahwa have been sighted not far from here. When Kwei-beasts come to your gates, would you rather have a chestful of silver or an array of ward-stones?”

“As you said, ward-stones won’t be able to hold off the serpent.”

“They can ward against lesser Kwei-beasts. And if we strengthen the ward-stones with a need-fire, we may yet have a chance against the serpent.”

Omos turned to Kiar. “How much wood do we have?”

“Enough to feed the hearth-fire for six days.”

“Building a need-fire, and keeping it going, will reduce that to three. Or two,” Omos said.

“I have hands and an axe,” I said. “Let me tend to the need-fire.”

He looked sharply at me. “A need-fire must be hallowed.”

“You need not worry about that.”

“Why not? Were you not shunned by the Hallower also?”

[Don’t dig a hole you can’t crawl out of,] Arta murmured.

I still had the skills. Yet I had not used them ever since I’d left Verdwer.

“I will try,” I said, “and if I cannot, surely there are others here who can hallow the fire also.”

“We do not put much stock with Perkaus. His Breath does not flow through us as easily as Hagra.”

I should have noticed. No one here swore on the Names of Perkaus, or carried any of His symbols.

“There is no harm in trying, is there?” I said. “And we will surely need the ward-stones at least.”

“Very well,” Omos said. “You may try to build the need-fire. But the rest of the ghortos will tend to the business of the ghortos. You will have to gather the wood yourself.”

“Lighting a need-fire needs all the men in the ghortos.”

“We will light it together. But if it cannot be hallowed…”

“Then at least we have tried.”

Omos sighed.

“Let it be so. Keitan will buy the ward-stones on the morrow. Taran will gather the wood. Then, when he is ready, we will carry out the rite of the need-fire.”

Omos drew out the silver ring from his chest. The ring went from hand to hand until it reached Keitan’s own. Then I pressed the hack-silver Augus and Guregnos had given me into Keitan’s palm.

“Please help me buy cleaning oil, a whetstone and rags,” I said.

Keitan nodded. “Does anyone need anything else?”

All around the hall, people called out their wants and needs, and passed along their silver and bronze. Yerken told him which pelts were finished and could be sold at market. Augus mentioned that their neighbors were willing to buy smoked fish.

Keitan took it all in. When the hall finally went quiet, he repeated our orders back to us perfectly.

The rest of the evening turned to lighter matters. After the meal, the women washed the bowls and utensils. The children and elders shelled and stored the nuts, and hung up the herbs and berries on the rafters. The men mended nets, checked their gear, planned the following day’s work.

When my own work was done, I took my stake and headed outside.

The night air was cold and bracing. The heat of the longfire fled my skin. The fields were silvered in the pale light of stars and moon.

I walked along the fence, looking once more for men and beasts. When I was certain I was alone, I found an empty patch of land, and Breathed.

Breath passed through me, warming my palms and soles, tingling my spine. There I stood for ten breaths, drinking in the night. My body settled into my feet and belly.

I moved.

Rooted to the earth, I worked the stake through the six stances. I flowed from strike to guard to thrust to ward, powering every movement with feet and hips and spine and arms. My hands slid up and down the shaft, switching grips back and forth.

I was learning the stake, and the stake was learning me. I was used to hafts of oak. Ash was lighter, faster, more flexible. As I grew comfortable, I threw blows faster and faster, until the wood whooshed in the dark.

Now warmed up, I learned to move.

A man in armor only needed to defend his openings. A man without armor had to defend himself. As I worked through the techniques, I struggled to recall what the weaponmasters had taught me.

Footwork. Angles. Range. Timing. Accuracy. These decided the fight, regardless of the fighter’s weapons or armor. Day after day, they had drilled the koryos in these precepts.

I was not a good student.

Smaller, lighter men learned to move quickly, to dance in and out of range. Smarter ones mastered an array of tricks. Those closer to the gods relied on Their gifts.

I was none of those men.

My style was simple. I crashed in like a thunderbolt, then threw blow after blow until the enemy was no more. What few tricks I had, I used to set up the finish. That was all.

Simple was good. Simple was easy to remember. Simple had served me well.

But in days past I had counted on my armor to take the enemy’s blows. I had no armor now. If I had fought the lepahwa without armor, I would have perished. Again.

Distance is life, the weaponmasters had said. The enemy cannot touch you if you control the distance. This much, at least, I could understand.

A Verdwer striker was for closing with and battering down a foe. With a stake, I would have to fight from far away, preferably far outside his reach. This, now, I drilled.

I angled off and struck. I warded, stepped, and struck. I beat down an imaginary weapon, and struck. Always I ended with a thrust or a butt strike, as Firos the weaponmaster had taught.

Twenty times I practiced each strike. Then I took a rest, long enough to wipe the sweat from my brow and shake the tension from my fingers. When I was ready, I took up the stake and took up the Middle Iron Gate and called on the Storm.

Nothing happened.

I closed my eyes. I drew the Breath deep into me, from head to toes and toes to head. I gathered it in my belly, gripped the stake in both hands, and thrust Breath and stake into the air.

Nothing happened.

I Breathed once more. Once more I sent Breath to my hands. This time I thought of the Storm. Swift and sudden, the Storm raged across the sky, striking down all below it. Holding this in mind, I thrust and shouted.

“STORM-BLOW!”

My voice carried through the air. Insects chirped back at me. Smoke tickled my nose.

Nothing had happened.

Scratching my head, I grounded my stake and called up the Tree and Web. The Skill-stones glowed mutely. I stared at them, trying to find answers in the play of light and shape and shadow.

“Stones do not talk.”

Off to my left, a large raven perched on the fence. Inky feathers gleamed in the moonlight. Three sets of talons gripped a wooden wattle.

I closed the boards, then looked at Arta. “Why can’t I use the skills?”

“Why do you think you can’t?” she replied.

“You must have seen what I did just now.”

“Shouting like a fool does not inspire the One to flow through you.”

“I couldn’t think of anything better.”

“You think too much.”

“First you said I think too little, and now you say I think too much?”

“Your thoughts wall you off from the One. Tell me, how did it feel like when you called on the Storm while you were still in the koryos? Did you think, or did you just do?”

“Oh.”

I readied myself in the guard. I gathered Breath within me. I struck.

Breath rushed up my arms and out my hands and down the shaft and out the point. A blue-white spark flashed from the tip and fled into the night.

That was all.

“Eh.”

“Were you expecting more? You are not a Storm-stone, after all.”

“How did this happen?”

“You drew on your own Breath. Or, rather, what small portion of it you could draw. The results were equally small.”

“Then having so many skills is pointless.”

Arta touched her wing to her face and shook her head.

“Again and again, I have told you, you must wear the Faces of the One. Only then can you perform the feats you have done before, or greater.”

“How do I do that?”

“I, I, I, I, I, I. So many ‘I’s. Each ‘I’ is a wall between you and the One. Align yourself with the One. Let the One flow through you.”

“How do I…” I frowned. “How is that done?”

Arta made a soft, amused sound.

“To wear a Face of the One, you must embody it. In thought, word and deed, you must become the Face, and through the Face, the One. The closer you are to One, the more Breath will come through.”

“So… you are saying that the Storm-Blow did not work because I was not wearing the Face of the Striker.”

“Yes.”

And there was a smile in her voice.

“How do I… Gah! This is hard.”

“It takes practice.”

“Have you any advice?”

“If you were the Striker, how would you fight?”

I blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

“You learn best by doing, don’t you? Show me how the Striker would fight.”

I turned to face empty field. I brought the stake up to the Middle Iron Gate. I moved.

The Storm and the Striker were one. I burst in with sudden steps. My hips and arms were the winds, rapidly rowing the shaft. Every ward blew away an imagined weapon. Every blow fell like thunder.

It was the Face most similar to my old style. I just had to remember to mind the range.

“That’s it,” Arta said. “Now show me how the Hallower fights.”

The Hallower sanctified and purified. He did not throw the first blow, for he was the supreme defender. All enemies that came, he beat off and countered.

I stood my ground and shifted my grip. With a hand on the upper and lower thirds of the shaft, the knuckles of my thumbs now faced each other. I shot out the stake at chest height, as though shoving a man away. I raked down, smashing his inner forearms. Then I swung the stake through wide, circular blows. Round and round I spun, defending against every angle. Only rarely did I move away from my spot.

When I came to a rest, Arta spoke again.

“Fight with the Face of the Binder.”

No one had seen the face of the Binder. Everyone knew what the Binder did. The very name told me the shape of this Face.

With both sides of the shaft, I practiced hooks, sweeps, trips and throws. I was the serpent, wrapping around prey to crush out its life. I was the viper also, striking out with knees and stomps and jabs at soft flesh.

“Show me how the Weaver goes to war.”

I looked at her. “The Weaver brings life. Why would She go to war?”

“That is what people say. Is that what she is?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does the Weaver weave? What do her Hands do?”

“…Patterns. She weaves the patterns of life. Wherever someone departs from the pattern, she brings him back to it.”

“Yes. Now, how will she fight?”

“She doesn’t.”

Arta sighed. “Humor me.”

I grounded the stake and scratched my head. If the Weaver had to fight, She would not kill. She also would not inflict or prolong suffering. How would someone like this fight?

The answer became obvious.

I launched into quick, sharp stabs, aimed at hands and wrists, legs and feet. I swung the butt around, aiming only to stun or make room. Then I attacked the structure of an opponent with thrusts and sweeps and—

Thunder erupted in my head.

How was this different from the Binder?

The Binder attacked the structure of a target. The Weaver also did the same.

What the Binder did at close range, the Weaver did at long range. The Hallower fought at long range also, but He was bound to the land. That was suicidal. He could be surrounded, worn down, and destroyed.

What the Hallower could do was counterattack, to set up and deliver a decisive blow. He had to, because He could not afford to be whittled down. And was this also not what the Striker did? Did the Striker not also need to reply to attacks from any direction? And if the Striker needed decisive blows, more so the Weaver, since she broke not lives but patterns.

Lightning flashed in my head. For a moment, all I saw was white.

“You are starting to see,” Arta said.

“One is All, All is One,” I muttered.

“Yes.”

All my life, it was just a phrase Selya the priestess had drummed into me. But now…

“Wear the Face of the Striker and show me the Storm-Blow.”

I raised the stake.

I Breathed.

I thundered.

The Storm came.

Light and thunder blasted from the point of the stake. It was a short-lived star, barely a fingertip across, but it lived.

I slumped over, suddenly drained of life and Breath. Sweat poured freely. And yet, I smiled.

“I did it,” I muttered.

“Well done.”

I looked at Arta. “Did you just praise me?”

She preened her feathers.

“Keep practicing,” she said. “Come the day of the need-fire, you will need it.”

“You did, didn’t you?”

She melted into the night.