Artículos relacionados a Jango: Book Two of the Noble Warriors: 2
Sinopsis
Seeker, Morning Star, and the Wildman return in this gripping sequel to Seeker and discover that the mysterious warrior sect they were so desperate to join is not what it appeared to be. Deeply disillusioned, the three escape and head off on quests they think are separate but soon become intertwined--and desperately life threatening. Fortunately, they have acquired the remarkable physical skills of the Noble Warriors, for they are certainly going to need them. The mighty warlord of the Orlan nation is gathering his forces and has vowed to destroy Anacrea--and everything and everyone that crosses his path. Includes a teaser to the third book in the sequence, Noman.
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WILLIAM NICHOLSON is the author of the acclaimed Wind on Fire trilogy as well as the screenplays for Gladiator and Shadowlands. He lives in Sussex, England.
WILLIAM NICHOLSON is the author of the acclaimed Wind on Fire trilogy as well as the screenplays for Gladiator and Shadowlands. He lives in Sussex, England.
Fragmento. © Reproducción autorizada. Todos los derechos reservados.
1
The Secret Skill
SEEKER ADOPTED THE COMBAT STANCE KNOWN AS THE Tranquil Alert: feet a pace apart and flat on the ground, arms loose at his sides, head erect, balanced and steady. He softened the focus of his gaze so that his eyes became sensitive to the smallest movement. He calmed his breathing until his breaths were slow and even. For a single brief moment he attended to the feelings in his bare feet: the prick of grit on the worn pavers, the slickness of water on stone.
The Secret Skill
SEEKER ADOPTED THE COMBAT STANCE KNOWN AS THE Tranquil Alert: feet a pace apart and flat on the ground, arms loose at his sides, head erect, balanced and steady. He softened the focus of his gaze so that his eyes became sensitive to the smallest movement. He calmed his breathing until his breaths were slow and even. For a single brief moment he attended to the feelings in his bare feet: the prick of grit on the worn pavers, the slickness of water on stone.
A chill winter rain was falling steadily from the gray sky. It soaked into his hair and his tunic and formed puddles among the loose stones of the courtyard.
He heard his teacher’s intake of breath and knew he was about to be given the first command. He exhaled a single long slow breath and slid into the attack stance called the Hammer and Nail. Two fingers of his right hand were the nail, tingling and still by his side. The entire combined force of his being, which his teachers called “the lir,” was the hammer. He had chosen his weapon and his initiating strike.
“Pay respect!”
The scratchy voice came from his combat teacher, a short middle-aged Noma with a sleepy face. All his features—his eyebrows, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth—seemed to droop downwards, and his heavily lidded eyes were half closed. However, as Seeker well knew, he was far from sleepy.
Obediently Seeker bowed, first his upper body from the waist, then his head: paying respect. Only as he straightened up did he allow himself to see his opponent, standing a pace away from him in the rainy courtyard, beneath the shadow of the high dome of the Nom.
It was the Wildman: his friend and fellow novice, and the only one of their group of eight he had never yet defeated. In the course of nine months of training, during which Seeker had felt his body grow strong and the lir flow to his command, he and the Wildman had met in combat fourteen times, and he had lost every bout. He had never yet, facing the Wildman, achieved that sudden overwhelming strike which breaks the opponent’s guard and shatters his concentration. With Jobal he could do it, and with Felice, but never with the Wildman.
His friend was now also straightening up from the respect. Their eyes met, unseeing as strangers. Seeker tracked for clues over the Wildman’s beautiful rain-streaked face.
The throat. He’ll strike for my throat.
It was the Wildman’s usual move. But he was so fast and so strong that knowing it was coming was not enough. Seeker’s mind moved smoothly and rapidly, using the few seconds now left to him. When the teacher gave the second command, the combat would begin. It would last for one, or two, or possibly three strikes—no more. Trained Nomana did not require lengthy bouts. Each fighter had at his disposal a single devastating blow, the blow into which his lir was concentrated, like the force of a great river funneled into a narrow jet. If this win-all or lose-all blow was struck too soon, or fell wide, the fight was lost. Timing was all.
Seeker’s web of feelings, instincts, and thoughts fused into a single bright blade of decision. Roll the attack, play the riposte, follow with the kill. His plan formed, he let his entire body hang loose, dangle in the rain, swing in the wind.
Don’t think. Never think.
React into action.
Meet your plan like a stranger.
Surprise yourself.
So much teaching. So much training. “Know everything and then forget everything,” their teacher told them.
To one side stood the line of silent novices, watching the combat that was about to begin. Morning Star, third in line, watched like the rest, hands clasped before her, silent in the rain. A thought flickered in Seeker’s brain.
Who does she want to win? Me, or the Wildman?
On the other side rose the stone pillars of the cloister, and beyond, the great outer wall of the Nom. Slots pierced this wall at intervals, and through the slots could be glimpsed the sea, stretching away, horizonless, into the iron gray sky.
The voice of the combat teacher sounded as if from far off.
“Engage.”
The Wildman struck first, for the throat, as Seeker had guessed. Seeker swayed back, outreaching the strike hand, and stabbed at the crook of the attacking arm, but only playing the riposte. If the Wildman went for the kill now, Seeker knew he would break him.
No time to hesitate. On he flowed, pouring his lir into the about-to-be-launched strike, begging the Wildman to make his throw now, at the bait moment, when he seemed so vulnerable, on the second strike, which had always been the Wildman’s strike of choice.
But not today. With dismay Seeker realized he had committed, and the Wildman had not. His timing was off. In his frustration Seeker lost perfect concentration and felt the lir spreading from the two speeding fingers over his right hand and up his arm, dissipating his force. His blow powered through, hammer on nail, and caught the Wildman’s left shoulder, rocking him back, but it was not enough to break him.
At once Seeker sucked back what lir was left and locked himself to the ground, but even as he did so the Wildman struck, the heel of his hand to Seeker’s brow: the kill blow. Not all his power was in the strike, of course. Seeker was not killed. But he was broken.
He fell as he must, crippled by pure force and by shame. The Wildman had pulled his blow and had still broken him. The impact of the wave of power rippled from his stunned brow all the way down to his stomach, making him want to retch.
“Withdraw.”
The teacher called the moves as if nothing of any significance had taken place. Seeker rose and bowed, a little shakily, and resumed his place in the line of silent novices, as did the Wildman. They stood still, hands clasped before them, maintaining the rigid discipline that had been drilled into them.
Their sleepy-eyed teacher now proceeded with the analysis, dabbing at his wet head with one end of his badan. His name was Chance.
“What did he do wrong? You.”
He pointed at Morning Star.
“He committed too soon,” said Morning Star.
“Could he have done otherwise?”
“Yes,” said Morning Star softly, glancing towards Seeker. “He could have waited. But he knew his opponent had the longer reach. His decision to attempt a first-strike win was sound.”
“Therefore predictable.”
“Yes, Teacher.” The teacher nodded, then raising his hands above his head, he clapped twice. This was the signal for a break. The novices retreated into the shelter of the cloister—all but the Wildman, who stood apart from the rest, by one of the slots in the wall that looked out over the sea.
Morning Star came to Seeker’s side. The last nine months had changed her greatly, as it had changed them all. In appearance she was the same, with her round face and her little button of a nose and her gentle blue eyes; but she seemed to Seeker to have grown older and more serious. Seeker found himself admiring her more each day.
“Almost won that time,” she said.
“What do you call someone who almost won?”
“Loser.”
He grinned. This was what made him feel so close to Morning Star. Their minds worked the same way.
But her attention was directed to the Wildman.
“Look at him,” she said. “He doesn’t smile any more. Why is he so unhappy?”
“Is he unhappy?”
Morning Star turned reproachful eyes on him.
“You hadn’t noticed?”
“I don’t see people’s colors like you.”
“Yes, he’s unhappy.”
Seeker had noticed how silent his friend had grown and how he liked to stand apart from the rest, but he had put that down to the training. Before all else, the Nomana were taught the art of stillness. Now that Morning Star voiced her concern, he saw that she was right, and was angry with himself for not having seen it before.
“I’ll talk to him.”
Seeker crossed the courtyard in the rain and touched his friend lightly on the arm.
“You win again,” he said. “But I’ll have you one day.”
He wanted him to feel some pleasure in his victory.
The Wildman turned and looked at Seeker. It was clear from his face that he hadn’t heard him. He gave an indifferent shrug.
“Yes,” he said. “Why not?”
“They’re saying you could be the best warrior ever.”
“Are they?”
He shook his long golden hair, now dark with rain, and looked up at the high dome of the Nom. On the far side of the dome, invisible from this courtyard, lay the silver-walled enclosure called the Garden. In the Garden, at the heart of the great castle-monastery, lived the god of many names: the All and Only, the Always and Everywhere, the Reason and the Goal.
Seeker followed his friend’s gaze, and he thought he understood. He knew how fervently the Wildman longed to enter the Garden. There, he had been told, he would find peace.
“You’re tired of waiting, aren’t you?”
“One day soon,” said the Wildman.
“When we’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
Copyright © 2006 William Nicholson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
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- EditorialHmh Books for Young Readers
- Año de publicación2008
- ISBN 10 0152061606
- ISBN 13 9780152061609
- EncuadernaciónTapa blanda
- IdiomaInglés
- Número de páginas432
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