Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2) by Vaughn Heppner Page B

there. A rearing stallion, on the broad face of the wood, lashed out with its front hooves at a sabertooth.
    Herrek scowled at the slith, and then stared at his hands. They were big, callused and strong.
    Gens stopped whittling, and straightened his back. “You need something to do,” he said.
    “My hands are not as skilled as yours,” Herrek said.
    “I don’t mean that you whittle.”
    “What then?” Herrek asked.
    Gens chewed over his words, as if searching for the right combination. “I love horses,” he said. “My mind overflows with them.” He grinned. “I even find horses in driftwood.”
    “Do you mean—”
    Gens held up his stick, stopping Herrek’s coming tirade about abandoning the stallions. “You’re a warrior,” he said.
    “Yes,” Herrek said, frowning, trying to understand.
    “Did you not give a promise in a cave to a certain groom?”
    Herrek glanced at Joash. Joash smiled. “I see,” Herrek said. “Did you put him up to this?” he asked Joash.
    “Not I,” Joash said.
    “Do you wish to learn the sword?” Herrek asked.
    “Yes, Warrior.”
    “I’ll find some wooden swords.”
    “When?” asked Joash.
    Herrek grunted as he stood. “Now, before the singer comes, and addles your mind.”
    Joash blushed, while Gens laughed.
    Soon, a duo of sailors produced the wooden swords. The hardwood was as long as a longsword, a good three feet in length. Herrek took off his sandals, and had Joash take off his. The deck was smooth, the wood worn by wind, salt and sea.
    “Aboard a ship, it’s wiser to go barefoot,” Herrek explained. “For the most important rule of swordsmanship is to keep your footing. On a slippery surface the skin on your soles is better than just about anything else.”
    Joash nodded, his expression grave.
    “Your first lesson will be in the correct placement of your feet,” Herrek said. “To properly wield the sword, you must know how to stand. To properly swing, to retreat and to advance, in all those things, you must know where to position your feet in order to gain the maximum advantage.”
    Joash nodded tightly, his forehead furrowed in concentration.
    “Notice,” Herrek said. He struck a poise, his feet positioned exactly. Smoothly, he lunged, touching the longsword’s tip against Joash’s chest. “You are dead,” he said.
    In such a manner, the lesson began.
    The Tiras entered the bigger swells of the deep sea. It made footing harder. Joash found his training difficult.
    “This is excellent!” Herrek said. “A pitching deck is the perfect place to learn how to stand, how to keep your balance. If you lunge, and try to stick your opponent, but you overbalance yourself, then you will die. To learn balance is critical.”
    Some of those who managed to keep their lunch down watched the training. Joash burned with embarrassment every time Herrek corrected him. Then, however, he glanced at a few of the grooms whose envy was plain. Joash grinned until Herrek raised his voice, “No, no! There!” He knocked Joash’s foot into the correct position.
    “Look!” Gens shouted, pointing over the starboard bow.
    The sea wasn’t choppy, but had long, low waves. What Gens pointed at skimmed low over the water, its long black beak parted, with the lower half in the green sea. The gigantic slith closed its beak, holding a fish twisting to be free. With a swift flip of its red-crested head, the slith swallowed the fish. Then it trailed its lower beak in the water, feasting on a passing shoal.
    “It’s huge,” Joash said, the wingspan had to be a good sixty feet from tip to tip. The skin was sleek, a mottled gray. Sharp-looking claws trailedits huge span of leathery wings. It peered at them with over-intelligent eyes. The slith sailed far enough away so neither javelineers, nor archers, could get a shot. Finally, glutted on fish, the slith flapped its huge wings, and rose into the sky. As it wheeled to go, a second slith took up station high above the Tiras .
    Being