Vol.5, Ch.2, P.4
With shirts back on our backs and wasters in hand, Sig and I set our disciples to task, our blades of wood swishing and swooshing along the lakeside shore.
Of course, I scarce fancied myself the instructing sort, but neither was I one to turn away a bright-eyed student of the sword. For their part, it seemed my drills and demonstrations during my time as their commandant had left some impression on Dan and Tomas. Thus explained today’s very arrangement: they had asked for a lesson, and I had obliged.
“Like this, then?” they said, as together they raised their wasters to the high guard and swung the things down.
—Fh-fhwohh.
So whistled the wake of their twin strokes. It was as fine a sound as it was a sight, I’ll gladly admit. Indeed, the men’s rustic looks well-belied the sharpness of their swordcraft. Though perhaps that was to be expected. After all, with just each other had they felled several knights of the 3rd, all whilst keeping safe a pair of children behind them. Never mind that they had come out of that a bloody mess; no, Dan and Tomas were true of the sword, a quality none ought ever doubt.
“Like that,” I answered them, nodding at their technique. “Not bad, men. Not bad at all. Though I ought say you’re minding your weapons a mite overmuch.” I then raised and readied my own waster aloft in demonstration. “Balance is key,” I said. “Head straight; hands unstrained; feet fast. As you swing,”—foh—“put all your body into it.”
“Aye…” they uttered, “…thass reight grand, innit…”
Down my waster had swung. All but a sough had sounded as it went. And where it had halted, the blade was now primed in the low guard, ready for the next stroke. Much subtlety can be gleaned from a simple swing of a sword; that Dan and Tomas were left so wide-eyed proved enough their own powers of perception—a fundament most significant.
“There,” I said to them. “Have a try.”
“Eh?” they both gasped. “Er, yer kiddin’, ser!”
“Hardly,” I insisted. “Come, practice makes perfect; you’ve only to take the first swing.”
Tomas rubbed his bony chin. “First o’ millions, more like…”
Whilst Dan scratched his head doubtfully. “N-no, we ain’t got th’knack fer it, I reckons…”
“And I reckon that you do,” I insisted further, before showing them next the basics of swinging practice.
Quality and quantity are both key when it comes to it; each stroke must be as straight and sure as one could muster, and withal replicated over and again. Dreadful drudgery, many would complain, but such inculcation cut-and-dried is, in fact, one of the most effective regimens for sword mastery.
“And swing and stab like you mean it,” I instructed the two. “That’s another bit you’re missing: not enough pressure on the opponent, you see. A lion never lunges unkeen for the kill, and neither should you. I know, it’s an awful earful I’ve given you by now, but there’s nothing for it: swing practice is all fine and well, but it alone scarce becomes swordcraft, you must understand.”
“Aye, thass been reight growin’ on me mind o’ late, in fact,” said Dan, “but I can’t fer th’life o’ me get it down proper…”
“Same ’ere, ’urts t’say,” Tomas confessed. “We lunges like we means it, we does, but… oy, it ain’t do nowt t’daunt the en’my.”
“That’s cos ya cockers ain’t puttin’ spurs to it,” Sig snarled from the side. “Don’t ya jus’ be standin’ daft an’ swingin’ dumb—fight like a bull! Like you’ve got ballocks on ya!”
“Sig’s got a point,” I said. “The enemy’ll be eyeing you like an eagle. The sway of your shoulders, the cadence of your breaths; everything about you will be watched—and turned swift against you, at that. So, what’s the solution, then? ‘Cunning’—that’s what. Trick your enemy’s eyes; tease him to a mistake. He knows the lunge is coming; better then to leave him guessing the ‘when’ of it than the ‘how’.”
With that, I gave the men another demonstration. Facing them square-on in the centre guard, I stood there, silent and intent, till at length and without sign, I lunged unto them. A heartbeat, and my waster was stopped right afore both of their necks.
“Uwoh…!?” they yelped, recoiling with jaws ajar.
“You blench, forgetting that this is merely practice,” I said to them before standing at ease. “But therein lies the crux: as with you, so with others. Pressure your opponent; show him the threat of uncertainty. The more skilled he is, the harder he falls for such deception. Remember that well.”
“A-aye, ser!”
“All right, fellas,” said Sig, strutting in. “Lecture’s done; time for dirty work.”
And there, the wild swordsman poised himself afore the two men, both of whom at once broke in a cold sweat as I went to watch from the sidelines. By now had hearsay of Sig’s prowess reached their ears. And as well, his sheer savagery.
“Come! Giz all ya gots!” he cried.
But I worried little. Sig ought go soft enough on these two. And for their part, an opponent as unpredictable as Sig should prove to them more help than harm in the long run.
“N-nice an’ easy, if ye will!” they whimpered as their wasters quivered in their hands.
∵
“Sig” and “soft”—two words that ought never share the same sentence. What in the world had possessed me to think otherwise, I wonder? As though to doubly mock my misjudgement, there was Dan and Tomas, both lying flat as pancakes upon the lakeside shore, their breaths thin and haggard, their bodies bruised and steeped in sweat.
“Oi! Ya sorry sops!” barked Sig. “Up on ’em trotters! Up-up!”
“Hyeh… haaeh… A-aye, ser…!”
“Nice… an’ easy! Please!”
Back to their feet the two tottered, panting and wheezing as they went, and then with knees yet shivering as though shocked by fright and frost, they readied their wasters once more. They had quite the spine, Dan and Tomas; spine and aspiration both. Already I saw them to be sterling swordsmen, and more sterling still would they become.
Yet all that would be for naught were they to crack and quit here.
“That’s enough, I think,” said I. “We’ll take this up another time.”
“Wot!?” squawked Sig. “We’s jus’ gettin’ warm’d up! Bugger!”
“Arno!” I called to the side. “We’re done here. Sig’s all yours.”
“Really!?” rejoiced the boy, who then came splashing in from the water. “Come on, Big Sig! There’s something you should see!”
“Agh! Bloody ’ell!”
Snatched at the wrist, Sig was soon tugged away by an ecstatic Arno. After watching them dwindle into the distance, I turned back to the two men.
“Dan, Tomas,” I addressed them sternly. “The next battle’s nigh; you ought know whom against.”
“S-sorry, ser! A… a moment, pray! To… t’sit down… an’… haah…”
“P… pardon me arse, ser…! Owwfh… ol’ thing’s sore as a bee sting… ach…”
So begged the two, and with as much deference as their tired selves could muster, no less. Seeing as they could scarce stand another second on their sore soles, I gave them my nod, and straightway they splayed themselves upon the damp gravel. There, the men moaned and squirmed, wincing with every rickety movement they dared make.
Poor fellows, them. Spent till their last drop they very well seemed. Nevertheless, all during their training had their eyes been tinged with determination, and not even now was it faded in the least.
A stick and a stone they were, their miens meek and plain almost to a fault. Not from such features could spring forth such strength, most would reckon. Yet they were remarkable swordsmen in my eyes; diamonds in the rough, one might say. Indeed, my hopes for them were higher now than before.
Now sat on their bottoms, Dan and Tomas continued to collect their breaths, till at length the taller of them spoke.
“…‘I wants yer ’elp, but I’ll not force it from ye’,” Tomas began. “Yer words, Rolf-ser. Well, I sure ’opes we play’d th’part well ’nough today… as bloomin’ practice dummies, oy…”
“Dummies? Hardly,” I answered his dejected words. “I meant more to say that I need fellows strong and sure—fellows like yourselves.”
Dan laughed thinly. “…Never knew ye fer the kiddin’ sort, ser,” he said. “‘Strong’? No way, that. ’Ave a good gander at us. ‘Strong’ we ain’t.”
“Nay, strong you are,” I returned firmly. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten or noticed it not at all, but on that day at Balasthea, when you risked life and limb to save those children, you showed to me—to all the world—what a mountain of strength it is that sleeps in you.”
Neither men made an answer. Instead, they sat in silence for a good while. Deep thought was graven clear on their faces. If I had to guess, they were either coming to terms with a long-held thought, or wrestling with a troubling one.
“…Ye’ve got me there, ser,” Tomas spoke again, quiet but sure. “Next battle, ye said? Aye. I’ll fight, then, I will. Thass wot I’m ’ere fer—t’do th’damn’d reightest thing that I cans.”
“An’ I’ll be there reight beside ye, Tomas ye ol’ cocker!” Dan said with increasing spirit.
To that, I couldn’t help but smile. “My thanks, you two,” I said to them, who themselves came to share in the mirth. It was then that Emma came nigh, holding in her hands a barber’s dressing box.
“Good braves, you’re all black and blue!” she gasped. “Come—let’s see to those bruises.”
“Sorry for the trouble, Emma,” I said, scratching my head. No doubt had my neighbour been worried as she watched from afar the veritable battering these men had endured. “I’ve not introduced them, have I? There’s Tomas, and there’s Dan. Sons of Londosius they were, but they’ve flown the nest—and now look to join ours.”
“Oh, yes, that I’ve heard,” Emma nodded, and then with all gladness, said, “Dan and Tomas, heroes of Hevo’s sons. A thousand thanks for you, from all of us.”
And as she said so, Emma knelt down beside them, took out of the barber’s box some salves and bandages, and began dressing the men’s wounds. For their part, Dan and Tomas seemed greatly obliged, if even a trifle confused.
“M-me thanks, good miss,” Tomas stammered.
“A-aye, that,” Dan followed. “Ye’re very kind.”
Hands and fingers flowed as they bandaged the injuries. What tenderness there was in Emma; what care and consideration she employed in dressing the men as painlessly as possible—all these could I perceive from just the delicate industry of her fingertips.
“Dan, Tomas,” Emma said, “again must I thank you. For bearing these bruises; for training and striving for our folk. Thank you very, very much, you two.”
And as her hands continued to work, so did a simple and serene smile glow from her face. And upon seeing it, the two men flustered at once.
“A-aye! Tomas I am! Aye, thass me!”
“A-an’ Dan! Dan’s me name!”
…So they introduced themselves, apparently having forgotten the introductions made mere moments before. But I couldn’t blame them, and neither did Emma, it seemed, who but chuckled softly at the gesture. Indeed, the men were both red as apples at the cheeks, a sight most curious to behold.
It was the case that most kins of Man court no love or lust for the Nafílim. Yet, too, was it so that such resistance be rooted in cold creeds and ideology. What their hearts felt to be right or wrong, what their eyes saw to be fair or foul—that, I doubted not, was something else altogether. Something that ought set seed in the hearts of Men, who, after conquering the discrimination in their minds, might one day feel a blooming love for the Nafílim. The smitten looks on Dan and Tomas’ miens were tokens enough of that to me.
Unfortunately for them, however, Emma was a woman wedded. Wife of Frank, the couple were in as happy a matrimony as could be, and withal were known far and wide for it. That neither Dan nor Tomas stood any chance at stealing Emma’s heart, then, was a conclusion long-forgone. And, oh, how I dreaded breaking the news to them.
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)