Read Online The Seer King: Book One of the Seer King Trilogy by Chris Bunch - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chris Bunch
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romantic saber. This was but one of the quiet lessons I absorbed from him, one of those that kept me alive when all too many lay dead around me.
I pushed my body to the limits, running, swimming, climbing, paying no attention to the tear of muscles and silent scream of exhaustion, but forcing myself to go one more hill, one more lap across the pool, one more hour of sitting, shivering, in the blind with my sling beside me while rain seeped down and the geese did not appear.
One thing came naturally: I loved and understood horses. Perhaps at one time I have been one, since when I was first taken to the stables as a babe, and my father held me up in his arms to see the great beast, I called out, as if recognizing an old friend, and, I was told, the animal nickered a response, trotted across the yard, and nuzzled me.
I don’t glorify the animals particularly. I know they aren’t terribly intelligent, but what of that? I don’t consider myself a sage, either, and some of the finest men I’ve had serve under me, serve to the death, would be hard pressed to remember today what their lance-major told them last week.
Riding was another part of my schooling, being able to ride a horse bareback, with a saddle, or with the bare blanket and rope bridge someone said the nomads of the distant south preferred. I learned how to make a horse obey without having to use the cruel curb bit, and my spurs had balls on their tips instead of spikes. Some horses became almost my friends; others, while not quite enemies, were not ones I’d readily choose to saddle up for an afternoon’s outing.
It was graven into my soul that your horse always comes first: It’s watered, fed, groomed before its rider dares provide for his own comfort, or that man is less than a beast himself. I was cursed later by my men for driving them to their currycombs and feedbags, but my regiments would still be mounted long after other units were afoot, their horses foundered, cut into the stewpot, and they themselves stumbling along as common infantrymen.
I spent hours in my father’s stables, learning everything I could from old grooms, knowing my fate as a soldier might depend on these beasts. I learned to treat their minor ailments and even, when one of our horses fell desperately ill and a seer would be called, I found a place to lie atop the rafters so I could watch what medicines he compounded, and what spells he cast. Of course, since I have not a single trace of the Talent, when I tried them nothing happened, but at least I was learning how to pick a true magician from the crowd of charlatans that crowd around an army on campaign.
Isa, god of war, who some say is an aspect of Saionji herself, also gave me talents. I grew tall and strong, with a voice other boys listened to and enough brains so they would follow me.
I loved to hunt, not for the kill, although that is the satisfaction the gods give for a task performed well. I would take bow, arrows, a small knife, tinder, and steel, and set out into the jungle. I would be gone a day, or a week. My sisters and mother would worry, my father pretend unconcern. If I were to be eaten by a tiger, then the sorcerer had been wrong and it was the tiger’s lifeline that stretched long.
Far away from our estate and the surrounding villages, I learned the real skills of soldiering: to be content while alone; to be unafraid, or at any rate to stay calm when night closes down and the forest noises are very dangerous, even though most of them come from creatures that would fit in the palm of your hand; not to be choosy about your food and to be able to live on raw fish, partially cooked meat, or the fruits and plants around you; to be able to sleep when drenched to the bone and the monsoon pours. Most important of these is always to think of the next step — to be aware that if the rock you jump to is slippery and sends you sprawling, you could be crippled, far from any help. Or that the cave that looks so inviting
I pushed my body to the limits, running, swimming, climbing, paying no attention to the tear of muscles and silent scream of exhaustion, but forcing myself to go one more hill, one more lap across the pool, one more hour of sitting, shivering, in the blind with my sling beside me while rain seeped down and the geese did not appear.
One thing came naturally: I loved and understood horses. Perhaps at one time I have been one, since when I was first taken to the stables as a babe, and my father held me up in his arms to see the great beast, I called out, as if recognizing an old friend, and, I was told, the animal nickered a response, trotted across the yard, and nuzzled me.
I don’t glorify the animals particularly. I know they aren’t terribly intelligent, but what of that? I don’t consider myself a sage, either, and some of the finest men I’ve had serve under me, serve to the death, would be hard pressed to remember today what their lance-major told them last week.
Riding was another part of my schooling, being able to ride a horse bareback, with a saddle, or with the bare blanket and rope bridge someone said the nomads of the distant south preferred. I learned how to make a horse obey without having to use the cruel curb bit, and my spurs had balls on their tips instead of spikes. Some horses became almost my friends; others, while not quite enemies, were not ones I’d readily choose to saddle up for an afternoon’s outing.
It was graven into my soul that your horse always comes first: It’s watered, fed, groomed before its rider dares provide for his own comfort, or that man is less than a beast himself. I was cursed later by my men for driving them to their currycombs and feedbags, but my regiments would still be mounted long after other units were afoot, their horses foundered, cut into the stewpot, and they themselves stumbling along as common infantrymen.
I spent hours in my father’s stables, learning everything I could from old grooms, knowing my fate as a soldier might depend on these beasts. I learned to treat their minor ailments and even, when one of our horses fell desperately ill and a seer would be called, I found a place to lie atop the rafters so I could watch what medicines he compounded, and what spells he cast. Of course, since I have not a single trace of the Talent, when I tried them nothing happened, but at least I was learning how to pick a true magician from the crowd of charlatans that crowd around an army on campaign.
Isa, god of war, who some say is an aspect of Saionji herself, also gave me talents. I grew tall and strong, with a voice other boys listened to and enough brains so they would follow me.
I loved to hunt, not for the kill, although that is the satisfaction the gods give for a task performed well. I would take bow, arrows, a small knife, tinder, and steel, and set out into the jungle. I would be gone a day, or a week. My sisters and mother would worry, my father pretend unconcern. If I were to be eaten by a tiger, then the sorcerer had been wrong and it was the tiger’s lifeline that stretched long.
Far away from our estate and the surrounding villages, I learned the real skills of soldiering: to be content while alone; to be unafraid, or at any rate to stay calm when night closes down and the forest noises are very dangerous, even though most of them come from creatures that would fit in the palm of your hand; not to be choosy about your food and to be able to live on raw fish, partially cooked meat, or the fruits and plants around you; to be able to sleep when drenched to the bone and the monsoon pours. Most important of these is always to think of the next step — to be aware that if the rock you jump to is slippery and sends you sprawling, you could be crippled, far from any help. Or that the cave that looks so inviting
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