Westhaven by Rowan Erlking (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

forge, so using theirs was not an issue anymore. It was his dignity and self-respect he was fighting for now. He was tired of being considered nothing more than the punk kid from the Herra Hills.

*

“So what value is it to find this punk kid anyway?” one of corporals asked, as they worked on the print for a new wanted poster.

The other soldier shrugged, carving out the wood so that the image would match the sketch drawn for them by the lieutenant. The words offering a ten thousand in silver for the boy named Key alive were in perfect backwards print on the block. Once on paper, no one would miss the reward, and many would vie for it.

“Who knows?” the other corporal said, comparing the pictures. “The general is a man of strange motivation.”

“These posters didn’t help last time,” the first corporal said. “We didn’t find his missing slave at all.”

“That’s because the boy was dead.”

Snorting, the first corporal took up the ink. He gestured for the other corporal to put the carved picture into the press. “Or maybe no one wanted to turn him in.”

Setting the carving into the printing press, the second corporal waved for his partner to ink the image. “Nah. With humans, greed always wins out.”

They put the first sheet of paper on it. Then lowered the press down to assure the image would transfer evenly. Letting the rollers go over it and then back again, they lifted it open and peeled off the first sheet. Peering at it, they both smiled.

“Perfect. The general will be pleased.”

*

“It doesn’t look anything like me at all!” Key snapped, waving at the printed-paper that Polan had brought back from his supply trip in Wingsley. “That’s Kleston there. Not me.”

“Then how come it has your name on it, and your bandana?” Polan said with a smirk. All the Herra boys had gathered near his forge when he had returned.

“You have to admit, it has got to be flattering that they raised the bounty on your head,” Berd said with a snicker. “You’re now worth ten thousand with no option of dead.”

Key only made a face. He was worried that someone might actually take up the offer. Ten thousand in silver was almost twice as much as the last reward.

“You know, though,” Tiler said, leaning on the stone where Key was still sharpening his sword. “I bet they don’t even know that you are the same guy they had posters out for last time. If they did, don’t you think they’d show your hair? Or mention any other scars?”

Blinking at him, Key nodded. “You’re right.”

“I think,” Rainold said sitting on the edge of the table where several tools were laid out, “what happened was someone who didn’t know you well let out that Kleston was watching out for you. I bet they think you’re Kleston’s son.”

“But what happened to Kleston?” Polan lowered the poster.

Key shook his head, already guessing what had happened.

The boys looked at him and then also bowed their heads.

“One things for sure,” Rainold said. “General Gole survived.”

Nodding, Key ran his whetstone along his sword blade harder.

“Are you ready, kid?” The smith with his pals walked up to him. The man stood with his sword in hand, a smug grin all over his face. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

Key hopped off his seat and nodded. “I’m ready. I was just waiting for you. Let’s show her the swords.”

The smiths laughed, sounding too amused.

“No. That’s not how it works,” the smith said with another laugh at Key. “To test a sword’s true strength, you have to fight with them.”

Blinking, Key stared at him. “But I’m not a swordsman, just a swordsmith.”

“I don’t care. This is how it works,” the smith said. “If you aren’t man enough to take me on, then you have already lost.”

Wrapping his fingers around the handle, Key narrowed his eyes into a glare. “That’s not a fair judgment of swords. Even if I can make a better sword does not make me a better swordsman.”

The smith snorted. “Every swordsmith is swordsman. It is the code of the trade. So if you claim to be a better swordsmith than me, you had better also be a good swordsman.”

“Fine.”

Key walked over the campground to the clearing where there were few trees and no fire pits to step into. The ground had dried up only some. It had rained off and on since the day of the challenge. He raised his sword point.

“No, Key!” Tiler chased after him, sliding over the fallen leaves and tree needles. “I’ll fight him for you! You don’t have the killer instinct.”

The smiths stepped back, the one taking his position. He stretched, flexing his muscles to show off how he would squash this little irritating bug.

As he did, three traveling men walked into the camp from the southern forest. Their eyes watched the coming and going of the people, especially those gathering around the grown man and the teenager that had not yet filled out into his full stature. Watching both swords go up, they recognized the fighting stance and immediately became interested. Walking nearer, the threesome took seats on a felled tree next to the lone smith forge.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Rainold murmured not far from them.

Polan shook his head. “What should we do? We promised our old leader we’d watch out for him.”

“I’m getting Frad,” Berd announced, and rushed out of the clearing. He went to find their two adult guides from Herra.

The three travelers shifted in their seats, glancing at the boys. One set down a long sword, leaning on it. The others made themselves more comfortable.

Key narrowed his eyes on his opponent. This was no longer a stick fighting game. His opponent’s sword could kill him.

“Don’t do this,” Tiler begged, still standing in front of Key to block him.

“I have no choice,” Key said, preparing himself for the attack. “Now move.”

Huffing, Tiler shook his head, remaining where he was. “Kleston would not like this at all.”

“Kleston is dead,” Key said, clencing his teeth to prevent himself from crying.

The crowd around them thickened. Men and women gathered to see the long-awaited sword challenge.

“What are you? A sissy boy?” The smith shouted at him. “Take your shirt off and prove you are a man!”

Key twitched, clenching his sword tighter.

“Don’t let him goad you,” Tiler shouted back. But he got out of the way, standing to the left. “You are a better swordmaker than he is. Just prove it to him.”

The smith jumped in to attack. Key sprang past Tiler, meeting the Wingsley smithy, and blocked him.

Considering the tremendous difference in their sizes, Key held up rather well. As the grown man attacked with forceful swings, Key defended—though he was unable to do more than just that. The grace in Key’s moves was still there, almost dancing with how he dodged. He kept his feet and blocked his attacker. But grace held up little against size and experience. The shouting of the watching crowd in favor of the local smith also did not help much.

Already Key got knocked down. His friends rose to interfere as the smith slashed.

“No! Key!” Tiler jumped in to stop the fight.

But the other two smiths seized him to keep him out of the way.

Key panted, kneeling. His chest bled from a slice across it. He looked up at the smith who stood over him, gloating.

“You lose, boy,” the smith said.

But touching his cut, Key shook his head. It was not deep. It was only a scratch in comparison to some of the scars he had on his back. Catching the breathing in his chest, Key rose and lifted his sword higher.

“I’m not dead yet,” he said and went in for the attack.

The smith blocked.

“No! Stop this fight!” Frad and the other group leader from the Herra Hills ran up. They tried to shove through the crowd, but there were too many voyeurs that held them back. “You don’t understand! We need him alive!”

The three sitting on the log looked interested. Shifting in their seats as they watched, they did not interfere. The woman leader of the camp also came down from the mountain. But she also watched without a word, waiting for the outcome of the fight.

Key’s and the smith’s swords clashed. They clanged against each other with sparks. Both of them shoved off to get in a better position to strike. The dance of motion that Key had with each blow only moved faster, though still deliberate. The smith struck with savage instinct. His skill in experience for survival enabled him to strike hard. His blows carried the weight of his thick arms. Key’s blocks held only with his sure balance.

The smith slashed away Key’s sword in another stroke, knocking it to the side while cutting across Key’s shirt again. This time he barely even nicked the boy. Key had jumped out of the way.

Rolling in the dirt, Key scrambled to his blade and picked it up again. He raised his sword point to fend off his opponent. His hair dropped into his eyes with his sweat. His bandana was now in the dirt. Breathing hard, he went after the smith again.

“Well, well, well,” murmured one of the three men sitting on the long log. The man looked to his neighbor and said, “Fancy finding him here.”

“It’s no wonder he covered his hair.” The other nodded.

Rainold blinked, hearing them. He peered at the three men, then elbowed Polan in the side. “Who are they?”

Polan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Berd looked over, narrowing his eyes inspectingly. “Looks like mercenaries.”

One of the men on the log noticed the three boys staring and, smirking, tipped his floppy hat to them.

Key tore across the clearing, meeting the smith sword to sword. Their blades clashed, scraping together, though the local smith’s sword unexplainably cracked.

The crowd broke into a collection of gasps.

Key jumped away, pointing his sword at the smith. He panted hard while the cuts on his chest bled.

“Your sword is finished,” Key declared. “One more blow, and I win.”

But seeing only red, the smith howled, charging at him. “No! You will die!”

“No!” Tiler shouted out, kicking at the smiths that still held him back without effect.

“Stop!” Rainold burst out, shoving through the crowd with his elbows. Polan helped him while Berd struggled with a man on the edge of the ring of people. Frad actually made it to the center, stumbling in to stop the fight. He drew his own sword.

“Don’t interfere!” A local man grabbed Frad, pulling at the Herra man’s blade to get it out of Frad’s hands.

The smith’s sword met Key’s. When it did, the man’s sword shattered.

But the edge of the broken blade sliced up Key’s arm, and the smith reached in with his fist to knock Key out.

Luckily the young man dodged. Key clutched his wounded arm as he slid out of reach.

“My sword won,” Key declared though heavy breaths as he glared at the local smith.

The smith dived at him.

“Enough!” The head of the camp called in a booming voice that seemed to make the very air rattle.

Everyone froze, including the smith whose fury was not equal to his fear of her.

The woman walked in through the crowd as it parted for her. Her guards looked ready to take on any fool that would dare go against her. Strolling with a high head, she looked down on both Key and the smith. “That was quite a show. But it is over now, and the better sword won. Young swordsmith, you have proven yourself.”

“Swordsmith?” one of the three men on the log said rather, sounding surprised. “You mean to say he is also a swordsmith?”

Everyone who heard them turned. The elegant woman’s casual smile perked up to real pleasure, as she turned also.

“Callen? Have you returned?” Leaving key, she walked at a faster pace, ignoring the crowd as it parted for her. She reached out her arms and greeted the three travelers with a warm smile. “Edman and Luis also, so nice to