Chapter 318: The Momentum

"Is that all?" said Kellar, the mace still in his hand. "There were not too many. Or maybe the queen has not come out of her hiding place yet."

He looked toward the black holes.

"Should we look for her?"

Lennis came over, crouched beside one of the dead ones and ran his palm along its back.

"It is rather good hide, my lord," said he. "It could be very useful to us for making clothes or parts of armor."

Kellar touched it from the outside. It seemed hard as rock and gave entirely under his finger, like rubber.

"What an unusual feeling." He pressed a little harder. "But you are right. Start loading the corpses."

He straightened and swept the clearing with his eyes.

"Fine. We have new recruits, right?"

He turned to the tribe.

"You. Move your asses and come help. Bring every member of the village. From today you work for us."

Krag was already going around among his own.

"Get moving on wooden carts!" he shouted. "There are too many serpents! We will make a great caravan!"

"That is a great idea, Krag." Kellar pointed at the bodies. "If we load them all there will be no room for everyone. We will make a great procession. Let them carry the remains of their old gods as penance."

The warriors of the village lowered their heads.

They were absolutely humiliated and did not dare show it. They had their families behind them and nothing to trust in. A man spat in silence and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You," said a corporal, and put a knife against his chest. "Start with the plates. Bottom to top, do not break them."

The man cut badly. Another knelt beside him and corrected his wrist.

The women brought rope. The boys dragged branches for the carts. An old man began to murmur toward the empty holes, hands clasped, and as soon as one started the rest followed.

They begged the great serpent god’s forgiveness for failing him.

The work went on. The plates fell to the ground with a hollow knock and the wheelbarrows filled up.

Rosalind came over with a canteen in her hand.

"Great shaman."

She put the canteen in his hand and did not wait for an answer. She took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. The serpent blood had dried and did not come off easily, so she had to press.

Kellar drank and let her.

"Thank you," said he, when the handkerchief was already brown.

Julian came over with his hands behind his back.

"Great shaman."

"Tell me."

"I am no expert with a mace, so take it for what it is." Julian pointed at the weapon resting on Kellar’s shoulder. "I feel it wastes your strength. You just swing it from one side to the other. Your blows lack control entirely. You need to focus each one on a point. Not strike at random."

Kellar laughed.

"I never learned to use it. I just have fun hitting everything I see."

"I see." Julian did not laugh. "If you allow me, I will give you a piece of advice. I had a friend who used the mace. He never gave a single blow."

"Never?"

"Never. He said the second blow goes with half the strength and the third is free." Julian turned his wrist in the air, slowly, tracing a circle. "He always struck one after another, completing the whole circle, to strike again and again."

Kellar stared at the path the general’s hand drew.

Then he slung the mace onto his shoulder with both hands.

Kellar took his stance.

"Like the circle," said he, and brought the mace down.

The first blow came out well. The second followed with half the strength, just as he had been told. On the third he tried to close the whole circle and overshot.

The mace left the line. It turned with him, and the weight kept him turning, and instead of finishing the circle Kellar ended up spinning. His feet tangled. He went sideways and fell flat on his back.

The mace fell a meter away with a dull knock.

Some of the recruits laughed and shut up at once.

Julian did not laugh. He came over, picked a dry branch off the ground and stood in front of him.

"Get up."

Kellar got up, brushing off the dirt.

"Watch my feet," said Julian. "Not the hip, not the shoulder. The feet."

He stood sideways with the branch in both hands and turned on the balls of his feet.

"The turn is not done with strength. It is done with the ball of the foot. You turn, and the weight of the weapon drags you, and the drag leaves you set up for the next blow." He turned again, slower, marking every step. "Do not fight the inertia. Let it carry you and reappear where it suits you."

"And if I overshoot."

"Then you already have the circle. The circle is the position, not the blow." He put the branch against his chest. "Again. Slow."

Kellar let out his air and went back to his stance.

The first try came out clumsy. So did the second. On the fourth he found the ball of his foot and the mace carried past where it should, and he followed the weight instead of braking it.

"There," said Julian. "Again."

They repeated it. Ten times. Twenty. Kellar fell twice more and on the third he stayed up.

"You are not thinking about it anymore," said Julian. "Now the weight carries it. What is missing is the point."

He put a mark on a tree trunk with the edge of his hand.

"One point. Always the same one. The circle is to get there, not to show off."

Kellar struck. He hit the mark.

"Again."

He hit it again. And again, and again, and the circle closed on its own, and by the seventh blow there was no pause between one and the next, only a continuous turn that always ended in the same place on the trunk.

The bark came off. The wood inside opened into splinters.

"Enough," said Julian. "Like that."

Kellar lowered the mace. His arms were shaking and his mouth was open.

"I forgot to ask," said he, panting. "Is your friend still alive?"

"No."

"How did he die?"

"He hit a man with the mace and did not stop." Julian wiped his hands. "The circle keeps going on its own when you are no longer there."

Kellar looked at the ruined trunk, and then at the mace.

"Again," said he.

Julian nodded and put the mark back.