Read Online In the Realm of the Wolf by David Gemmell - Free Book Online
Authors: David Gemmell
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swiftly, he parried the thrust, the flat of his left hand striking her just behind the ear. Miriel hit the ground on her face.
“No, no, no!” said Angel. “Anger must be controlled. Rest now for a while.” He walked away from her and stopped at the well, hauling up the copper-bound bucket and splashing water on his face.
Miriel rose wearily, her spirits low. For months now she had believed her sword skills to be high, better than those of most men, her father had said. Now she was faced with the odious truth. A sick cow, indeed! Slowly she made her way to whereAngel sat on the wall of the well. He was stripped to the waist, and she saw the host of scars on the ridged muscles of his chest and belly, on his thick forearms and his powerful shoulders.
“You have suffered many wounds,” she said.
“It shows how many skillful swordsmen there are,” he answered gruffly.
“Why are you angry?”
He was silent for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. “In the city there are many clerks, administrators, organizers. Without them Drenan would cease to run. They are valued men. But place them in these mountains and they would starve to death while surrounded by game and edible roots. You understand? The degree of a man’s skill is relative to his surroundings or the challenges he faces. Against most men you would be considered highly talented. You are fast, and you have courage. But the men hunting your father are warriors. Belash would kill you in two … three … heartbeats. Morak would not take much longer. Senta and Courail both learned their skills in the arena?”
“Can I be as good?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Much as I hate to admit it, I think there is an evil in men like them … men like me. We are natural killers, and though we may not talk of our feelings, each of us knows the bitter truth. We enjoy fighting. We enjoy killing. I don’t think you will. Indeed, I don’t think you should.”
“You think my father enjoys killing?”
“He’s a mystery,” admitted Angel. “I remember talking to Danyal about that. She said he was two men, the one kind, the other a demon. There are gates in the soul that should never be unlocked. He found a key.”
“He has always been kind to me and to my sister.”
“I don’t doubt that. What happened to Krylla?”
“She married and moved away.”
“When I knew you as children, you had a … power, a talent. You and she could talk to each other without speaking. You could see things far off. Can you still do it?”
“No,” she said, turning away.
“When did it fail?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Are you ready to teach me?”
“Of course,” he answered. “That is why I am being paid. Stand still.” Rising, he moved to stand before her, his hands running over her shoulders and arms, fingers pressing into the muscles, tracing the lines of her biceps and triceps, up over the deltoids and the joints of her shoulders.
She felt herself reddening. “What are you doing?” she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
“Your arms are not strong enough,” he told her, “especially at the back here,” he added, squeezing her triceps. “All your power is in your legs and lungs. And your balance is wrong. Give me your hand.” Even as he spoke, he took hold of her wrist, lifting her arm and staring down at her fingers. “Long,” he said, almost to himself. “Too long. It means you cannot get a good grip on the sword hilt. We’ll cut more leather for it tonight. Follow!”
He strode to the edge of the tree line and walked from trunk to trunk, examining the branches. At last satisfied, he stood beneath a spreading elm, a thick limb sprouting just out of reach above him. “I want you to jump and catch hold of that branch and then slowly pull yourself up until your chin touches the bark. Then—and still slowly, mind—lower yourself until the arms are almost straight. Understand?”
“Of course I understand,” she
“No, no, no!” said Angel. “Anger must be controlled. Rest now for a while.” He walked away from her and stopped at the well, hauling up the copper-bound bucket and splashing water on his face.
Miriel rose wearily, her spirits low. For months now she had believed her sword skills to be high, better than those of most men, her father had said. Now she was faced with the odious truth. A sick cow, indeed! Slowly she made her way to whereAngel sat on the wall of the well. He was stripped to the waist, and she saw the host of scars on the ridged muscles of his chest and belly, on his thick forearms and his powerful shoulders.
“You have suffered many wounds,” she said.
“It shows how many skillful swordsmen there are,” he answered gruffly.
“Why are you angry?”
He was silent for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. “In the city there are many clerks, administrators, organizers. Without them Drenan would cease to run. They are valued men. But place them in these mountains and they would starve to death while surrounded by game and edible roots. You understand? The degree of a man’s skill is relative to his surroundings or the challenges he faces. Against most men you would be considered highly talented. You are fast, and you have courage. But the men hunting your father are warriors. Belash would kill you in two … three … heartbeats. Morak would not take much longer. Senta and Courail both learned their skills in the arena?”
“Can I be as good?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Much as I hate to admit it, I think there is an evil in men like them … men like me. We are natural killers, and though we may not talk of our feelings, each of us knows the bitter truth. We enjoy fighting. We enjoy killing. I don’t think you will. Indeed, I don’t think you should.”
“You think my father enjoys killing?”
“He’s a mystery,” admitted Angel. “I remember talking to Danyal about that. She said he was two men, the one kind, the other a demon. There are gates in the soul that should never be unlocked. He found a key.”
“He has always been kind to me and to my sister.”
“I don’t doubt that. What happened to Krylla?”
“She married and moved away.”
“When I knew you as children, you had a … power, a talent. You and she could talk to each other without speaking. You could see things far off. Can you still do it?”
“No,” she said, turning away.
“When did it fail?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Are you ready to teach me?”
“Of course,” he answered. “That is why I am being paid. Stand still.” Rising, he moved to stand before her, his hands running over her shoulders and arms, fingers pressing into the muscles, tracing the lines of her biceps and triceps, up over the deltoids and the joints of her shoulders.
She felt herself reddening. “What are you doing?” she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
“Your arms are not strong enough,” he told her, “especially at the back here,” he added, squeezing her triceps. “All your power is in your legs and lungs. And your balance is wrong. Give me your hand.” Even as he spoke, he took hold of her wrist, lifting her arm and staring down at her fingers. “Long,” he said, almost to himself. “Too long. It means you cannot get a good grip on the sword hilt. We’ll cut more leather for it tonight. Follow!”
He strode to the edge of the tree line and walked from trunk to trunk, examining the branches. At last satisfied, he stood beneath a spreading elm, a thick limb sprouting just out of reach above him. “I want you to jump and catch hold of that branch and then slowly pull yourself up until your chin touches the bark. Then—and still slowly, mind—lower yourself until the arms are almost straight. Understand?”
“Of course I understand,” she
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