Eckard Meets Dein

The forest seemed to stretch endlessly before them, its narrow trails winding between ancient trees and thick undergrowth. They had kept well clear of the Caedsway, skirting the road to avoid patrols from either army. Virel scouts were an obvious danger, but even those riding beneath Sunnhilde banners might prove troublesome before Eckard could make himself known. Somewhere ahead lay the Blackfort army, though he was beginning to wonder how much longer they would have to search before finding it.

He was tired. Not merely from the hours in the saddle, but from everything that had happened since the ambush. He had not slept since the fighting, and the exhaustion was beginning to wear upon him. His body ached beneath his armor, and every jolt of his horse seemed to remind him of some fresh bruise or injury. His thoughts kept returning to the ambush, to the clash of steel, the screams of dying men, and the faces of those who had tried to kill him. Yet it was something else that troubled him most.

His gaze drifted toward Dein, riding a short distance ahead. The man sat easily in his saddle, seemingly untouched by the fatigue that weighed upon Eckard. He had barely spoken since they departed, his attention fixed upon the trail and the surrounding woods. Eckard found himself studying him more closely than he intended, remembering the strange change he had witnessed after the fighting had ended.

For as long as he had known Dein, the man's eyes had been a cold, familiar grey, like steel beneath a winter sky. Yet after the ambush, when the last of their enemies lay dead or dying, Eckard had seen something altogether different. Dein's eyes had been blue, but it was not their color that troubled him. It was the tiny flecks of gold scattered through them, unmistakable even in the fading light. At the time, Dein had been wielding a sword unlike any Eckard had ever seen, a blade that seemed to possess a power of its own. Surely it had been the sword's magic that caused the change, banishing the familiar grey and leaving those strange eyes in their place.

At least, that was what Eckard wanted to believe. Every child raised on the histories of the Malaursrecht knew the significance of those golden flecks. They were the mark of a bloodline whose deeds had shaped the Empire for centuries, appearing in histories and legends alike. Blue eyes were common enough, but gold within them was another matter entirely. Eckard knew what it meant, and the thought of what Dein might truly be was something he was not yet prepared to accept.

He shifted in his saddle, wincing as a dull ache spread through his side. He glanced toward Elspeth, who rode quietly nearby, before returning his attention to Dein. For nearly five years, he had known the man. Five years of training, fighting, marching, and listening to his endless stories, insults, and japes. In all that time, Eckard had never given much thought to where Dein had come from. The man rarely spoke of his true past, and those foolish enough to press him usually regretted it. Yet now, with those golden flecks lingering in his thoughts, Eckard found himself remembering the first time they had met as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

He had been fifteen winters then, still young enough to believe there was little a sword could not settle, and at the time, he had been rather good at proving it. The training yard at the Black Crows' camp had been his favorite place. By fifteen winters, there were few among the company who could best him with a blade. Captain Gerald was one, of course, and Gunnar another, though even they had begun to find their victories harder won. The others had learned to dread being paired against him, and it had reached the point where Gerald often ordered two men against him, sometimes three, if only to give the poor bastards a fighting chance. Eckard had loved every moment of it.

The training yard rang with the clash of steel as Eckard pressed his two opponents, driving them backward across the hard-packed earth. Both men were older and considerably heavier than he was, seasoned Crows with years of fighting behind them. Neither, however, enjoyed much advantage in height or reach. The Sunnhilde blood ran strong in Eckard, and even at fifteen winters, he stood taller than most men in the company, with long arms that allowed him to strike from distances his opponents often misjudged. What he lacked was their weight and strength, something both men had been trying, unsuccessfully, to use against him.

Eckard had already broken through the guard of the man to his left several times, each opening ending with a strike that would have left him dead in a proper fight. The first had caught him beneath the ribs, the second across the neck, and the third had been a thrust that stopped just short of his belly. Each time, the man had cursed, recovered his stance, and returned to the fight, much to the amusement of the growing crowd. Eventually, several of the watching Crows began shouting that he had been killed enough times already and ought to have the decency to stay dead. The man finally threw up his hands and stepped away, muttering something about the damned boy being more trouble than he was worth.

That left Eckard with a single opponent, and he wasted little time pressing his advantage. The remaining Crow was a thickset fellow who favored powerful blows, hoping to overwhelm Eckard through sheer force. Eckard gave ground beneath the first two strikes, letting the man believe he was being driven backward, then slipped aside as the third came sweeping toward him. His blade snapped forward, catching the man's sword and turning it wide before he stepped inside his guard. A heartbeat later, the point of Eckard's sword rested against the man's throat. The Crow froze, then lowered his weapon with a resigned grunt as laughter and a few scattered cheers rose from those watching.

Eckard stepped back with a satisfied grin, lowering his sword as his defeated opponent shook his head and wandered toward the others. He had scarcely begun enjoying the congratulations and insults being thrown his way when he noticed Captain Gerald standing at the edge of the training yard, watching the proceedings. His great-uncle was not alone. Beside him stood a man Eckard did not recognize, the two exchanging a few quiet words as they observed the last moments of the sparring match. The stranger seemed particularly interested in what he had just witnessed, though Eckard could make little of his expression from where he stood.

That alone was enough to catch Eckard's attention. Gerald rarely troubled himself with showing new recruits around the camp. Such duties were usually left to Gunnar or one of the senior men, while the Captain concerned himself with matters of greater importance. Yet here he was, personally escorting a stranger through the company, and apparently taking the time to introduce him to the workings of the camp. Perhaps the man had earned some measure of respect before arriving, though Eckard could not imagine what might warrant such attention from his great-uncle. Curious, he rested his sword against his shoulder and took a closer look at the newcomer.

The man's appearance did little to answer his questions. His armor was a mismatched collection of scale plates and hardened leather, fitted together in a fashion Eckard had never seen before. There was no gambeson beneath it that he could make out, nor any heraldry, insignia, or markings to suggest where the man had served. It looked more like something assembled over years of campaigning than a proper suit of armor, with pieces that seemed to have come from several different lands. Yet for all its strange construction, nothing about it appeared poorly maintained or carelessly worn.

What caught Eckard's attention most, however, was the sheer number of weapons the man carried. A longsword rested across his back, while a shorter blade and a hand axe hung from his belt. Eckard counted at least three daggers, perhaps four, tucked into various places where they could be drawn quickly. It seemed an absurd amount of steel for one man to carry, particularly someone who had only just arrived at camp. Still, the stranger wore it all with an easy familiarity, as though the weight meant nothing to him. Eckard had seen enough seasoned fighters to recognize a man accustomed to carrying weapons, but he could not recall ever seeing one quite so thoroughly prepared to use them.

The stranger leaned toward Gerald and said something Eckard could not quite hear, drawing a hearty laugh from his great-uncle. Whatever had been said, it seemed to settle something between them, for the man suddenly stepped forward into the training yard without waiting for an introduction. He made his way toward the racks of practice weapons, glanced over the assortment, and selected a training sword. He gave it a few easy swings, testing its weight and balance, before turning toward Eckard with a faint smile.

Gerald watched the man for a moment, still looking rather amused, before raising his voice. “Eckard, this here is Dein. He's new to the Crows, but he's professed to having a considerable amount of skill with a blade.” The Captain glanced toward the stranger, then back to his great-nephew, a familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “I thought you might give him a proper Crow welcome. And who knows, lad, you might even learn something new.”

A few chuckles rose from the men gathered around the yard. Eckard looked from his great-uncle to the newcomer, then down at the sword in his own hand. He had just finished dispatching two experienced Crows, and Gerald had watched him do it. If the Captain thought another opponent would prove any more troublesome, he was welcome to try. Still, there was something about the way his great-uncle smiled that made Eckard wonder whether he was missing something.

Dein, meanwhile, seemed entirely unconcerned. He rolled his shoulders, gave the training sword another experimental swing, and stepped into the open space opposite Eckard. His expression held the easy confidence of a man who had already decided how the encounter would end, though whether that confidence was earned or merely foolish remained to be seen.

Dein regarded Eckard for a moment, his eyes moving from the young man's face to the sword in his hand. “Well, lad,” he began, giving his own blade a lazy turn, “you related to the Captain, then?”

“Aye,” Eckard answered, straightening slightly. “He's my great-uncle.”

“Ah, Falken blood, I see,” Dein remarked with a knowing nod.

Eckard frowned, uncertain whether he had heard the man correctly. “No, Sunnhilde,” he corrected. “My family is House Sunnhilde.”

Dein merely shrugged, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the distinction. “Same difference. Don't know your own history, I see.”

Eckard's frown deepened. He knew perfectly well the history of his house, or at least enough to know that the stranger was mistaken. He opened his mouth to correct him, but before he could utter a word, Dein lunged forward with a suddenness that caught him completely off guard.

The first blow came high and hard, forcing Eckard to bring his sword up in a hurried defense. Before he could recover, Dein struck again, this time from the opposite side, the force of the blow sending a sharp jolt through his arms. Eckard stepped backward, trying to regain his footing, but the stranger followed immediately, giving him neither the time nor the space to settle into a proper guard. A third strike came low, followed almost instantly by a thrust toward his chest, and Eckard barely managed to turn the point aside.

There was nothing measured about the assault. Dein fought with a ferocity Eckard had rarely encountered in the training yard, attacking from one angle after another with little regard for the careful exchanges he was accustomed to. Yet there was nothing wild or careless in his movements. Each strike flowed into the next, forcing Eckard to defend against threats that seemed to arrive faster than he could recognize them. The man's sword was everywhere, and for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Eckard found himself entirely on the defensive.

He tried twice to counterattack, only to have Dein beat his blade aside and drive him backward again. His longer reach, which had served him so well against the other Crows, seemed almost useless. Every time he attempted to establish some distance, Dein closed it, pressing forward with relentless aggression. It was all Eckard could do to keep the man beyond striking distance, his boots scraping across the packed earth as he gave ground beneath the assault.

The laughter around the yard had faded, replaced by the sharp crack of practice blades and the occasional startled exclamation from the watching Crows. Eckard scarcely heard any of it. His entire attention was fixed upon the stranger before him, and the increasingly uncomfortable realization that he was fighting merely to stay in the match.

Eckard felt a strange mixture of dread and exultation as he struggled to hold his ground. Every instinct told him he was hopelessly outmatched, yet he could scarcely contain his excitement. Dein was undoubtedly the finest swordsman he had ever faced, perhaps even the finest he had ever seen. Well, there was Ser Hagen, one of the Black Crows' lieutenants, who had beaten him soundly the previous year. Eckard had been pestering his great-uncle ever since to bring the knight back from his assignment so they might spar again. But this stranger was something else entirely. Where Hagen had dismantled his defenses with patient precision, Dein seemed intent upon smashing through them by sheer force of aggression. Yet even that was misleading, for beneath the furious assault lay a skill Eckard could scarcely comprehend. Every movement had purpose, every strike seemed to anticipate his response, and every attempt to seize the initiative was punished before it could properly begin. He wanted desperately to see more, to understand how the man was doing it, but simply keeping his sword between them demanded every scrap of concentration he possessed.

He had just begun to recognize a pattern in Dein's attacks when the stranger abruptly changed his rhythm. Eckard moved to intercept a blow that never came, his blade sweeping across empty air as Dein shifted his weight and struck from an entirely different angle. Eckard saw the sword coming, knew he had been fooled, and tried desperately to bring his guard back into position. He was too late. The training blade struck the side of his helmet with a tremendous crack, the impact snapping his head sideways and sending a blinding flash across his vision. For the briefest instant, he was aware of his legs giving way beneath him, and then the world disappeared into blackness.

Eckard shook his head, trying to clear away the memory as the familiar sounds of the forest returned to him. The steady rhythm of hooves upon the narrow trail, the rustling of leaves overhead, and the occasional creak of leather brought him back to the present. Nearly five years had passed since that first encounter, yet he could still remember the blow that had laid him flat in the training yard. He almost smiled at the thought, though the dull ache in his body quickly reminded him that he had more pressing concerns. Somewhere ahead lay the Blackfort army, and they were still skirting the Caedsway, hoping to avoid patrols from either side long enough to find it.

As though sensing his attention, Dein glanced back over his shoulder. Those familiar steel-grey eyes settled upon Eckard, studying him with a brief look of confusion. For a moment, neither man spoke, and Eckard found himself searching the older man's gaze for some trace of the gold he had witnessed after the ambush. There was nothing. Only the same cold grey he had known for years. Dein's brow furrowed slightly as he caught the intensity of Eckard's stare, but whatever curiosity he might have felt quickly gave way to his usual scowl.

“Oi, lad! Keep your fucking mind from wandering,” Dein growled, turning back toward the trail. “Or I'll come back there and knock some sense into that thick skull of yours again.”

Eckard couldn't help but chuckle, despite his exhaustion. Five years had passed, and some things, at least, had not changed.