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Dearest Readers, my apologies for taking too long, and my utmost thanks for your patience.
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"You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the ocean in one drop." – Rumi
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THE HIDDEN SWORD
Book Two: Wandering Water | Chapter 57: Wave of the World (Part One)
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"What's this?" asked the customer as he inspected the merchandise in his hand, one of the many made in the forge of the Thunderhammer Smithy.
Irse, now one of the smithy's apprentices and the one who had shaped this particular piece, scowled. "What's that? It's a sword."
"Yeah, but what does it do?"
"What does it do? It stabs… things."
"I mean, can it do all sorts of magic if it's made by your kind, apart from being guaranteed free of the iron rot? Otherwise this thing will soon be worth less than a rusty pick."
Eyes broadening with affront, Irse stiffened her jaw, nostrils blasting. Oh, wouldn't the whole world like to see what else this elf could do with a sword?
The hapless customer winced at the glare, gingerly laid down the plain blade on the bench and all but flew through the shop door. Still fuming, Irse swiped the short sword and stomped over to one of the racks, sullenly replacing the blade with the others.
"Elf," one of the apprentices called to her. "Boss Taerom be wantin' a word with you."
Not again. With heavy shoulders, Irse shuffled towards the master smith's office.
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Through the cobbled streets of Beregost she marched, hurriedly knotting a kerchief over her hair; not to shield the head from the sun's heat stinging the skin upon arms bared by the cropped sleeves of her shirt. Rather, to shield the ears from suspicious eyes.
Sacked from service in less than two days of employment! Reason for the dismissal? Underperformance and terrible customer service! Even when she required far less sleep and instead labored more hours than the human apprentices. Or perhaps they weren't too keen on her frequent breaks for a bite and two.
As she suspected, they only hired her to produce magical weapons for which the Tel'Quessir were known and envied. But she had been forthright with them, disclosing her own lack of skill in enchanting items. That the adamantine Kogitsune cannot simply be replicated for it was made by the faith and labor of two.
Of being rude to customers, no dispute on that. One can only take so much of the snippiness from buyers questioning why she couldn't make the equivalent of a moonblade in a day. As if she only had to reach behind her ear and pull out a legendary ancient sword like some trick coin.
A plastered smile and feigned courtesy should've been easy even for her. But how, with these piling worries? Whether in or out of Beregost, no one had seen Okami nor even Kagain, compounded by the meager trickle of coin barely covering meals and room and board at the most rundown of inns in this town. Hard to be nice on an angry stomach.
From afar the sight of the Flaming Fist barracks taunted her, there where she had headed straightway upon arriving in town. Useless. Nothing came out of lodging a complaint about this Tranzig fellow and his bothersome bounty. Excuses, excuses. Not enough men to spare for an investigation, they said. Why meddle with what's likely an internal matter among the bandits, they said. If she was so scared, why not just don a hood and stay out of sight forever, they said.
Irse clawed at the kerchief on her hair, bitterly tugging the cloth free, unmindful of the tangled locks flying in the dusty breeze. What rueful waste. Two days of keeping to the smithy and the inn. Two days of fruitless asking and waiting, nay, hiding. Enough.
Eventually, angry aimless steps led her to the Red Sheaf, where a couple coppers could fetch a bowl of stew thinner than water itself, ale weaker than the knees of the most soused drunk, and a room as sparse as her purse.
Weary sigh cut off by the grumbling in her stomach, Irse dragged her feet up the rickety stairs of the porch.
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At a table in a hidden corner beneath the stairs, Irse stirred the murky tomato stew until the spoon finally fished a lone browning carrot lump. What a rare favor from Tymora. Normally, the trimmings were something undefinable and dubiously edible. The kitchens must be on a generous streak today.
"You! All of you, get out of my town! We don't need your unruly lot here, raising hells wherever you set your bloody boots!"
Ah, just in time for the hourly bar scuffle. Across the room, a middle-aged man loomed threateningly over a long table where lounged several men of the rowdy sort. Closest to the angry patron sat a dwarf and a human woman. Seasoned adventurers, judging from their well-kept armor and weapons.
"Dunkin! Get yer friend outta here," the barkeep hollered at a man who nervously slid off a stool and approached the raving drunk.
"Marl, calm down," begged Dunkin, pulling at the man's arm. "You already got kicked out of Feldepost's. Let's just leave these folks alone, eh?"
Marl thrust his friend away and edged closer to the others, slamming his fists on the table. "No! Why should they be living the life, proud with their stolen gold, answering to no one not even the gods?" His voice broke into slurred sobs. "Why? Why? When my Kennair lies cold beneath the earth?"
Not a trace of pity flickered on the patrons' faces, but the barkeep and another customer at the block looked away while Dunkin awkwardly tugged at his friend's arm. Eyes down, Irse stirred the stew again. She had supper at Feldepost's Inn before, boasted by the town crier to be a place of good dining, where she got a little carried away with the cucumber buns and mushroom tarts. Ah, wait. That was on her first night here in Beregost. Irse winced while patting at her near empty coin purse. A grave miscalculation on her part.
It was also the same night she had seen Marl make a ruckus, afterwards escorted through the door by the innkeeper himself. And what a sad tale the patrons there whispered of the man – of his son leaving behind their homestead, convinced by a passing band of adventurers to try his luck with them. Be a hero, save the world and make enough coin to pay the farm's debts, he was told. Only to die in a gibberling ambush in the wilderness. Poor Marl received the sad news because Kennair's adventuring pals returned with the lad's body. They had hoped that dragging back the corpse for a proper burial would convince the father to reimburse them for the coin spent on his son's meals and gear. To say that Marl took it kindly with a rake in his hands was an understatement.
Wistful, Irse lifted the spoon from the bowl. Drops like the color of blood trickled down, minute ripples upon the stew, a small lake within a walled world. Not so different from each other - she, the blacksmith's apprentice, from the farmer's unfortunate son. Yet, too late now to even think of what might have been if she had waited for the iron plague to blow over, waited until the roads were safe again for them to visit Candlekeep. If only she had listened to the unspoken worry in hiseyes and stayed, instead of rushing headlong into this whole rusty mess.
None of the patrons at the table stirred nor talked back, except for the dwarf who raised his tankard. "Luckless lad, taken too soon," he said, chuckling. "If I could, I'd stand o'er his grave and raise a toast."
Marl slapped the mug out of the other's hand. "You mock my son? "
Clucking his tongue over the spilled drink, the dwarf stared up coldly at the old farmer. "Aye, I'd go there all right. Raise a toast and piss on his tombstone. This dirty ball of mud we're on got no spot for weaklings like him. I'd say, the gibber-rats did a service wiping the realms clean of your sorry sod of an issue."
The woman and everyone else at the table laughed at the jibe, interrupted when Marl reached over and skimmed their tankards and plates to the floor. Riled, the dwarf sprang from his chair and sent a meaty fist into the farmer's gut. Wind knocked out of him, the man doubled over while his friend feebly tried to catch him. But with a quickness belying his hefty frame, the dwarf darted in between them and thrust Dunkin away.
"Karlat, don't be a fool," the woman tutted. "We're not here to waste our time on drunken riffraff."
Yet the dwarf ignored his companion, reaching up to grab Marl by his collar. Forced near to his knees, Marl struggled pathetically, clawing and sobbing even as Karlat wrung him one-handed like a ragged mutt. The others at the long table hooted and brayed.
"C'mon, Neira, don't be a spoilsport," one of them egged on.
"Please, just let him be. He's lost too much already," Dunkin wailed over the jeers from the other patrons, even as the barkeep defeatedly wagged his head.
"Who cares? Snuff the lights outta' this dirty geezer!"
Snuff out his lights. Irse turned away, wincing. Not her problem anymore. And then there flashed a memory of a father made daughterless, of a hope extinguished too soon. At least candles can be relit.
With a groan, she got up, absently wiping the sweat from her brow and tucking the stray fringes behind her ears. Approaching them, she raised her hands in an appeasing gesture.
"Hey, how about we stop roughing up sad folks, respect the dead, and just let everyone enjoy their meal in peace, hmmm?"
Patrons looked on with sudden interest while Karlat shoved Marl to the side, luckily caught by Dunkin who dragged him back to the bar.
"Eh, who do you think you are, wench, barging in on our fun?" shouted one of the men.
In answer to his question, Karlat and Neira looked the elf from head-to-toe, to the tachi at her belt, and seized their own weapons. Irse grimaced and looked sideways, stiffly tugging at a lock of hair on the left temple where a scarf should have been.
"I was under the impression that the target is a man," the lady mercenary said. "And one for a hunt and chase in the wilds, not some scruffy girl foolishly posturing in some backwater town."
"Boy elf, girl elf, it don't matter, not a whit nor a nugget," Karlat said. "All knife-ears be looking ugly alike to me."
Of course, a murderous gold-hungry dwarf would say that. Irse cast him a needling look. "Unlike you, I can tell your kind apart. By the way, nice kitten whiskers. Who groomed you today? A goblin?"
The beard twitched with rage. "Why you rat-nosed-"
But his retort was cut off by the sudden creaks of stools pushed back and steel sliding out of other scabbards. Their table companions and those from other benches had risen from their seats and gathered around. Neira regarded them suspiciously while Karlat clinched the haft of his axe tighter.
"Now hold on a breath here," one of the men said, canting a chin at his fellows. "We caught word of seven hundred gold piled on the head of some elf with a busted ear. I says there's enough of it to go around."
Irse blinked. Seven hundred gold? Wasn't it a mere two- three hundred? How did it jump so much so fast?
"Don't look so surprised," Neira cooed while caressing the length of her steel spiked cudgel. "Why wouldn't they raise the price on your life? When you seemingly could be in two places at once, sending so many souls to the shadows from both ends of the Sword Coast in so little time?"
True, she may have done a quarter of all that bloody work, Irse agreed to herself. On the other hand, couldn't these idiots tell the difference between the mysterious mad elf's rabid ravaging versus her more certainly neatly sliced handiwork?
"Listen, please, I'm not the one you're looking for."
"Begging for your life won't work," Karlat jeered. "And neither will bargaining with our blades. A contract's a contract, and a bounty's always for collectin'."
"If I had gold to pay you to keep off my back, I wouldn't be slurping slops in this dive." She waved apologetically at the owner. "No offense, Mister Barkeep."
"Meh," the bartender muttered and shrugged as he turned away to replace bottles in a shelf. "Just take it outside. Don't have enough coin to patch the windows again."
Irse threw everyone a querying look, brows flicking up in a wordless request. Everyone else murmured while nodding, agreeable to resume the standoff in the street. After all, this part of the town sat a good many blocks from the Flaming Fist barracks, itself almost empty since the current troubles had the enforcers mostly holed up in the Gate. Best of all, it was a bright and cloudless sunny day today. Perfect weather for a wee scuffle, all in all.
Irse brightly smacked her palms together as she made to step towards the exit. "All right! Agreed, then let's-"
"Die, elf! That gold's all mine!" cried one man, either greedy or stupid or deaf, who raised his sword and rushed at her.
"—go," she finished, absently stepped back, grabbed a chair without thinking and smashed it against his face.
All eyes followed the man as he slid senseless to the floor with a thud, and all eyes accusingly rolled back to her. Irse glanced down at the broken chair leg in her hand, then at everyone.
Awkwardly she chucked the stick at Karlat's face. The sliver of wood bounced harmlessly against the fore of his iron helm.
"Bye, muttonheads!" the elf hollered without looking back, hands fluttering like chicken wings as she ran straight for the exit.
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The door of The Red Sheaf burst open. Irse leaped over the porch's balustrade, startling a handful of passersby, then scurried away just as the mob streamed down the steps in pursuit.
Past unfamiliar streets, Irse sped, cursing the pair of bounty hunters spoiling this already tricky jam she had found herself in, cursing the greedy thugs wanting in on the cut and the action, and cursing herself for wasting precious breath in cursing them aloud in tempo with her stride.
"Stupid idiot nut-faced scum can't even finish my sad soup without all your blasted meddling!" the elf sputtered over her shoulder.
Frantic glimpses counted only a blurred tide of faces. Ten men after her? A dozen? Twice that?
Not the first instance she had faced more than one at a time. But then in the woods, Okami had been at her side, his help and presence an encouraging gale. After that, the others had been in small groups of three or four, but them she overcame though not without some cost. Even when she had cut down six men all by herself, it had been with a hasting spell from Edwin, windbag that he is but had been nice enough to lend her the equivalent of a magical breeze in her arms.
But now, on her own? A chance to apply a little lesson.
Through a few more streets they chased her. Another quick glance over the shoulder, and her mouth crooked into a small smile. As Okami once taught for when faced with overwhelming numbers, as she trusted it to happen – the pursuers thinned their own ranks until the slower ones fell behind and only the fleetest of foot, not even a handful, remained.
With that, one foot abruptly planted itself in the ground, skidding forward as she pivoted to face them, in the same movement rapid-drawing the tachi in battojutsu just as the first one reached her, his sword held high. The Kogitsune flashed from her scabbard to his undefended torso. He floundered to the side as she darted past him, the return arc of the tachi blocking the second man's blade. But this one, taller and heftier, tried to push against her, hip to hip, their weapons locked at the hilt. Back foot digging against the ground, Irse glowered at his taunting grin. A glimpse of the mob in the distance, and she made a quick choice. Twisting away and their swords dislodged, she let him pitch forward. Across his exposed back, the adamantine edge raked through leather and cloth. Not waiting to see him fall, Irse fled, picking the first street to the side, darting into a tight alleyway.
Dead-end. A trio of them followed and squeezed through in single file. The first hefted his axe and swung it in a wide oblique, axe head caught by the wall, its rim buried in the soft wood. Swearing, the man struggled to dislodge his weapon while his companions, barred from advancing, cautiously edged back.
Irse grinned, a fond memory recalled in a flash, an early lesson in another alley, in another city and another time. Advancing, she flipped the Kogitsune, deftly keeping the lengthy blade vertical and free from the confines of the narrow passage. A single swipe parted the thug's hands and his axe forever. Blood spattered from the flailing stumps; his companions frozen by the curdling screams.
No time to waste pushing back against the rest, and the building to her left stood low enough to climb. Blood flicked off the tachi and it was sheathed once more. Leaping, the elf scuttered spider-like on the coarse wall to grab at the eaves and pull herself up. The sight of her retreating aloft roused the other men's nerves, and they trod over their fallen fellow to follow suit. Along the ridge Irse ambled delicately, calculating the distance between this roof and the next building. But the gap spread wide as a full street. Down below, a small crowd milled around, confused by the commotion.
Only one of them managed to clamber up the roof. Irse glanced at him then at the gap. Jump and likely break a leg or stay and fight? Decision quickly made and the tachi unsheathed again, she charged, met him midway. But up here where both sides sloped and clay shingles made for unsure footing, they parried each other's attacks too cautiously, untrusting of the tottering surface to confidently cross and strike.
Eventually her foe lost his balance and stumbled. Seizing the opportunity, Irse lashed at him, the adamantine blade cleaving him clean through the thigh, another slash taking him by the throat. Like a sheared log he toppled and rolled down the slope, stopped from completely tumbling over by jutting rafter tails.
At least his pitiful pieces didn't fall upon the people below.
"What's this dripping here? Blood?"
"It is!"
"But how? The gods be making it rain blood from the sky now!"
Irse flinched, then gingerly stepped closer to the edge, peeking slightly before shouting down at them. "Sorry about that!"
Back to the alley's side of the roof she went. Gone, the third fellow, perhaps thinking it not worth his trouble to follow. The Kogitsune quickly sheathed again, Irse crouched and grasped the eaves, then gradually lowered herself. Rotting wood broke beneath her fingers. With a yelp she plunged ungainly to the ground. And by reflex landed square and stable on all fours.
"Hah! Elven balance," she cheered smugly.
"What in Lathander's light is going on there?" someone shouted from a window somewhere.
Irse bristled, eyes darting.
"Meow?" she yawped from the side of her mouth, then when none queried further, scampered up and out into the street.
No sign of them, nor of the woman and the dwarf. Good. To the Flaming Fist barracks then, where hopefully this time they would give ear to her. Hopefully haul up their lazy bottoms and do the minimum of patrolling the streets of this town and maybe scare away these ruffians off her trail.
"There she is!"
A handful of them gathered at the end of the road, having returned from their fruitless search elsewhere, led by the man from the alley. Irse made to flee the other way but the other half of the mob appeared with Karlat and Neira at their head. Where to go? Another lane cutting across this street caught her sight, and she dashed into this one, praying it won't lead into another dead-end. It didn't; it branched into another street, this one wider and teeming with peddlers and townsfolk.
Perfect. Here among the crowd, common and unassuming, she and her sword could stay hidden.
Eyes darting, Irse strolled, feigning calm, looking away whenever someone seemed to take note of the blood on her shirt. And then she turned, tried to gaze over the crowd. And unwittingly locked eyes with Neira. While the rest of humanity streamed past her, the woman mercenary stood alone and still, smiling and sure of her triumph at having cornered a prey. Among the aimlessly ambling throng, more than a dozen heads, same greasy leery faces from the tavern, rushed towards her. A sharp intake of breath, hand on the hilt, yet hesitant eyes on the folks unaware of the danger. But the glint of steel from the approaching thugs made the decision for her.
Sode surigaeshi it is then as Okami had taught her. To counter a foe hiding himself in the crowd, an initiative without causing harm to the bystanders. Quickly Irse drew the Kogitsune, held it in the right hand and crossed both arms over her chest, the tachi now at her left side, edge face-down, tail pointing straight behind her, and in the same motion charged through the crowd, the blade safely tucked flat against the left shoulder.
Unexpecting of the elf to draw the sword and barge through the throng, the thugs froze in their tracks. Barely raising their weapons in time as Irse burst past the people like a breeze through a narrow gorge, then zipped towards them as lightning across a plain. Clear of the bystanders, she spread her arms, the tachi crossing from level furikaburi to overhead, then the downstroke of kirioroshi catching one between his eyes.
Someone somewhere screamed, alarmed by the flash of steel and the fall of a body. Dust and panicked cries filled the air as the people fled. The second man sprang at her, swinging his flail. Irse ducked and swerved away from the threshing heads until an opening winked – as he pulled back and arched the flail over his head, the elf dived in and hewed his torso.
But more came, new ones, ready and fresh and alert, who quickly set upon her. Parried the first, then the other, but forced to turn before she could exploit an opening in either, making a wild counter at another coming in. Then she dodged the second man, defended again from the first, the third darting in closer, while a fourth with a wooden club lurked at the edge of the fight. With three relentlessly darting in and charging, Irse found herself reduced to frantic rebuffs.
From behind a glancing blow landed at her left shoulder blade. The one with the club, grinning at having scored a hit. Barely had she time to register the extent of this injury, the others and more swarmed in, suddenly emboldened and daring to assail almost in unison. From nearly all sides, she warded off their attacks, but with diminishing ease and growing drag. One fell, then another, but those from the fringes took their places. Like unrelenting tides troughing for a moment but suddenly cresting again. Where's Karlat and Neira?
From afar she glimpsed the woman and the dwarf standing back, not complacent, rather ready and calculating. The two of them anchored still, like a pair of craggy cayes amidst a tempestuous sea where she was now a lone oarless skiff buffeted and caught in the whirlpool.
Craven yet clever. Let the small fry throw and cut themselves first against the rock. Wait until the waves grind her down, weakened and wearied, then finally swoop in for the kill. All at once the men closed in, and where the single tachi could block, the unshielded side took a hit, grazed by either the sharp or the blunt. Strategy whittled down to nothing more than desperate defense.
Just a little more room. Hilt grasped with both hands, Irse reeled the Kogitsune in frantic abandon and the gyring blade proved enough to drive them off. Enough to give her space. She turned around and ran. Just a little more distance, enough to trim their numbers again as before.
A handful of men, those who had not joined the fray before, blocked her path. No, Irse protested inwardly while skidding to a stop, too soon.
Yet they hesitated, unwilling to risk themselves right away. Irse held out the tachi in seigan as she sidestepped slowly, leveling the blade at all sides, a warning to anyone who would dare to strike. Unhurried but in tense silence, the men encircled her in a wide ring, staying out of reach of the steel already glistening red over its true hue. Neira and Karlat still waited apart, but nine enemies surrounded her now. Irse breathed, blinking at the sweat, undaring to remove both hands from the hilt to wipe her eyes.
Blocked from all sides. Nine weapons against one sword. If only the blade could be like the wind. Velocity unhindered by the confines of solidity. Unpredictable and unimpeded. A single force striking with innumerable hands. Like a hundred swords at once.
Two would be enough, though, one in each hand. Of course, Okami hadn't been neglectful and had ensured to instruct his apprentice in that technique. Years of exerting with the hammer had granted her strength enough to wield a sword in one or either hand. Oh, how regretful that thrice-rued skirmish in the woods by the Chionthar. If only she had sheathed her old katana first instead of carelessly discarding it in favor of the Kogitsune. If only she had the same foresight as when planning for the next snack, then she could've been wielding both swords here and now.
Karlat must've sensed the hesitation, for he barked a taunting laugh. "Hah! Is the whelp giving up too soon?"
"Just when you're about to run out of bodies to throw at me? Want to round up more rats, huh? I'll wait. I'm an elf, aren't I? I've got all the time in the realms."
"You are as fell and thirsty for blood as they warned," Neira said. "Yet even if you defeat us here, more will come for your head. You cannot fight forever against the surge of the sea and shadows. Against the tides, you are but a drop in the ocean."
Tighter now, her grip on the sword. Truer now, this woman's words. All the wicked and cruel seeking a prey that have crossed the path of her blade so far - are these merely a taste of what is to come, whether by fate or consequence?
What's the point of continuing this bloody road without end? Even now, breath came in heaves burning through her throat. Cuts stinging from sweat. Muscles dissenting from weariness and bruises. How much easier it would be to cease the struggle, the flailing against the waves? Let the waters close over one's head. Hadn't she already tried enough, fought enough?
A drop in the ocean. A single soul worth no more than the countless others floating in the vastness of nothing. Only one dot in the infinite.
A dot against the odds. Still unsure, Irse nevertheless sank into a defensive stance. And as it were a puppy demanding attention, the Kogitsune's scabbard, this unadorned saya, brushed against her thigh. At the nudge, a tiny spark.
The infinite, Okami's voice echoed in her, the infinite where all is now and possible. And that dot of the infinite? Eyes widened, as if finally seeing something within. Why not, if a dot of an idea is possible in the infinite?
Keeping the tachi in seigan, slowly and with the other hand she drew the scabbard from her belt. At the movement, everyone readied themselves, yet remained hesitant, puzzled by her oddly calm motions.
With the swordhand, she leveled the adamantine Kogitsune in seigan before her. Over the head, the ironwood scabbard raised by the off-hand in kasumi.
"You're right. What am I then, but a drop in the ocean?"
And the ocean in one drop.
Irse smiled as she beckoned at them with the Kogitsune.
"Let's flow."
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