by Cody Loewen
He moves smoothly, catlike, deliberately placing each foot as he walks in the same direction I do, forming a circle with my movements. He rolls his wrists, sending his daggers into a small rotation, eyes never leaving mine as we continue the dance. I come out of the circle without warning, charging forward, sword raised for a fast strike, testing his reflexes. Without much weight behind my strike, he easily side steps out of the way of the slash, returning to his slow circling.
He is too fast, I think to myself. I need to get him off balance.
Stepping forward again, I sweep my sword up diagonally to the right. With a subtle shift of his feet, he leans back, outside of the swing. Having anticipated this movement, I bring my sword up and around, pulling through my shoulders to swing it horizontally back to the left. Maintaining perfect balance, he bends over backward, parallel to the ground, and my sword glides inches past his face. Before I can react, he snaps straight back up to his ready stance, no expression on his face. What the hell? He isn’t even trying to counter me at this point. A cat playing with a mouse. Frustrated, I rush at him, hoping to overwhelm him with the force of my attacks. Lowering my shoulder, I lead with my sword pointed straight ahead, keeping my weight over my feet, ready to change the angle of my charge with his movements. His body shifts ever so slightly to the left, and I turn my shoulders that direction to meet him. As I move, he drops his right shoulder, spinning around my blade, and kicking a foot out in between my legs. I fall and feel the bite of a dagger slicing my shoulder.
Refusing to lose, I tuck into a roll and come back to my feet several steps from him, fuming. Obviously, I will never be able to move fast enough with my long sword to catch up to him, and I growl in frustration. My opponent, seeing my anger, and knowing he has the upper hand, smirks at me as he twirls his daggers around his fingers. My hands begin shaking at his taunting, anger roiling like a living creature just beneath my skin. My vision grows dark in rage, and I imagine how much faster I could strike if my sword were shorter. His steps suddenly falter, and his eyes widen in surprise as they dart down to my hands. I let out a gasp as I follow his eyes down, looking in disbelief at the sword in my hand. While the design of the blade, down to the carvings of the handle match my sword, the blade is half the length it should be. I lift the blade up, feeling the dramatic decrease in weight.
“What the-?” I whisper, catching a sudden movement in front of me. I instinctively dodge to the side, avoiding the stab of a dagger, as my opponent hopes to catch me off guard. I swing my—new—no, not new—smaller sword in one hand, hoping to connect with the incoming blade. Amazed at how fast my sword now moves in the direction I want it to, the sounds of metal ringing on metal confirm the successful parry. I whirl back toward him and go on the offensive, stepping forward, my sword arm moving in a blur. Rage replaces surprise, and I drive him back in a flurry of strikes. Furiously, I attack from every angle, and my sword begins to connect with his blades instead of air as he is forced to block instead of dodge. Unrelenting, I drive him back under my blows, and I feel him begin to slow. His reaction time suffers under my assault as each of his parries catch my blades later and later. Concern replaces the smirk on his face as sweat begins to role freely down his face. Finally, an overhead chop slips through his defenses, cutting a line down his chest. Without slowing, I turn the blade easily into a horizontal chop that cuts across his neck. A killing srike.
He falls back choking, and the anger that has consumed me, fueled my strikes, immediately flows out of me. I reach down and help him to his feet, sliding my sword back into its sheath, which has somehow shrunk to match the sword.
“That’s one hell of a sword.”
“I don’t know what happened. It’s never done that before.”
“There must be some serious magic in your blade,” He replies, almost reverently. “I have heard stories of such blades, but I never believed them until today.”
I think back to the stories my father told me of the supposed magic in the sword. He made it sound like the magic was minimal, limited to keeping the blade eternally sharp. Did he know more than he let on? Was he truly unaware of the depth of the magical properties of this sword, or did he know and chose to keep it a secret for some reason?
As I study the blade, a shadow blocks out the sun behind me. One of the instructors, an older elf, witnessed the exchange and is now also staring intently at my sword.
“Well, that was a new development,” the instructor remarks matter of factly like nothing out of the ordinary has just happened. Fighting is still going on all around me, and I hope my sword hasn’t drawn too much attention. He motions for the other fighter, whose name I still have not learned, to go get a drink and rest before the final fight of the day. Once he is out of ear shot, the instructor turns back to face me. “Tell me about this sword.”
“There isn’t much to tell.”
“Obviously, this is no ordinary sword. What do you know?”
I explain the blade’s heritage, how it has been passed down in our family for generations. I tell him about my father’s stories of fighting in the war, of the sword possibly possessing some form of magic, and how I never believed him. He listens intently, without interruption, until I am finished.
“Have you ever witnessed the sword changing for your father before?”
I can hear the eagerness in his voice and wonder just how rare something like this is. I almost catch a hint of recognition in his voice, and wonder for a heartbeat if he has actually heard about this specific sword before, but he doesn’t elaborate, and I am left to my own thoughts on the matter.
“No. My father trained me to fight, wielding this sword for more than half of my life, and in that time, I never saw it change shape. I think he always believed that the stories about its magic were just stories too.”
The instructor’s face crinkles up in confusion at my answer. “In all the time your father held this sword, its magic never showed itself, yet it changes for you mere weeks after you acquire it. This can’t be a coincidence. Can you make it change shape again?”
I hold my sword, still in its shortened form, in one outstretched arm in front of my face. I try to will the sword to revert to the longsword I have always known. Nothing. I try again, closing my eyes, and imagine pushing my concentration into the sword. I push, every muscle in my body tight as I push outward. I open my eyes and see the blade has still refused to change back. I sigh in frustration, shaking my head at the instructor.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he encourages me. “The magic in this blade is old magic. Ancient in fact. Unlike most magic today, which comes from nature and elements, this type of magic is driven by your mental will power, not any physical effort. Legends say that this power of will often presents itself for the first time during a strong emotional response, like when you were fighting. As the frustration and anger that you were feeling became strong enough, the sword’s magic responded to you. Once you discover the secret of waking the blade, its magic, you will be able to practice that skill. With time, you should be able to shift its form effortlessly in combat. I would suggest continuing to practice with the magic in the weapon, utilizing both the power of your will and emotions to learn what you can about its abilities. But with any power connected to the strength of your emotions, do not let it control you. Your willpower to keep the emotions in check will be just as important as your ability to harness the power that comes with them.”
As he walks away, I stand in the same spot, reflecting on what he said. Somehow, I need to learn to control the magic with my mind.
I thought that’s what I was trying to do. Frustration creeps back in as I slide the sword back into its shortened scabbard, deciding to wait until later to try again. As I move through the rest of the day, I realize that getting this newfound discovery out of my head is far harder than I first thought, and I keep coming back to the same realization.
My father’s sword truly is magical.
I lose my next fi
ght, unable to focus, as thoughts assault my mind. My opponent wasn’t a better fighter than me, but I could not keep myself from drifting away.
Did my father really not know about this?
Even during weapons training, where we trained with the throwing knives again, I couldn’t enjoy myself. I throw the knives methodically, relying solely on muscle memory because my thoughts and emotions are still far away.
Why did the sword change for me? What did I do different? Why now after all this time?
The questions continue to bombard me as I make my way back to the clearing for dinner. I sit apart from everyone else and eat as fast as I can, my newfound obsession controlling my every move. As soon as I finish, I make my way to the tents. Everyone will be hanging by the fire until they are forced to retire for the night at curfew, but I need to be away from them to solve this puzzle. I need to discover the secret behind this magic. While I enjoy spending time with Caria and Rayfe and the rest of my newfound friends, the abilities this sword possesses could be the difference between life and death for me, and my success on my quest for vengeance over the monstrous troll warlord.
As I suspected, the tents are abandoned. Good. I need solitude for what I am about to attempt. I sit on the ground behind my tent so no one can see me from the fire. Drawing the sword and holding it flat in my palms, I take a deep breath. Ok, Lykara, you can do this. I concentrate on what the instructor told me about mental will power.
I close my eyes, squeezing them so hard that colorful shapes begin to swim under my eyelids. At first, my mind wanders, and the questions that have been filling my mind come back to the forefront. I shake my head and make a conscious effort to relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. I let the questions fade to the background and focus on the sword itself. I picture it in my head, filling my thoughts with the single image of the sword. The gleam of the blade. The smoothness of the hilt. The runes running its surface. The balance as it fits perfectly in my hand. I envision the sword as I have always known it—at its full length rather than the shortened version it has become. I sit there unmoving, holding that image in my head, until my thoughts begin to wander again, and the image dissipates in a cloud of stray thoughts.
I open my eyes, waiting for my vision to return, blinking dark spots away. The first thing I notice when I can see again is that darkness has settled around me.
How long have I been sitting here?
The second thing I realize, is that my hands are exactly where I left them, but they are now empty. My sword must have rolled out of my hands at some point, and I didn’t even notice.
The gleam of metal in the moonlight catches my eye. My sword, lying in the grass in front of me. I stare hard at the weapon, still shorter than it should be, and I slap my leg so hard it stings, frustrated at my failure. I am not used to struggling so hard to learn how to do something. I will not fail at this. I can’t fail at this. I will sit here all night if I have to, if that’s what it takes to get my sword to change again.
I snatch the sword from the ground, this time holding it vertically in both hands by the handle, and let out a frustrated breath of air, my eyes focused on the blade. I try to physically push my thoughts into the metal, sending the image of my full-sized sword out toward the object. My jaw clenches and I can feel the physical strain in my face as I do so, to no avail.
I let out a small growl, and a single tear escapes down my cheek, guided by rage at my failure and my lack of control over what is happening.
How am I supposed to kill Kromm if I can’t even control my own sword?
I close my eyes once more as the image of Kromm killing my father fills my head. I replay that terrifying moment, except this time, I envision myself thrusting my sword into his huge body, his hot blood exploding over me as I watch the life slowly drain out of him. My breath comes in ragged gasps as the grisly scene plays out in my mind. As I gain control of my breathing, my anger dissipates slightly, and I remember why I am sitting here, what I am trying to do. I look once again at the sword I still hold in my hands. I let out a small gasp of surprise at the sight of the weapon, which has miraculously extended to its full size once again.
I had done it! My chest swells with pride, a smile quickly spreading across my face at the victory. The instructor was right. The magic is tied to emotion. I just needed to get angry.
Excited by this discovery, I can’t help but try again. I stare at the blade in my hands, once again taking in every detail. My focus goes entirely to the sword, pushing everything else into the background. I visualize the sword shrinking down to its smaller size, all the details remaining the same, and then open my eyes, expecting to see the short sword once again. Nothing. The sword has failed to change. With another deep breath, I close my eyes and let my thoughts of the sword drift away. As I had before, I focus on my quest and the vow I made to my village and my father. Rather than pushing down the ever present anger that threatens to overwhelm me and haunts my dreams every night, I welcome it in, letting those emotions wash over me. I relish the pure hate and rage at the trolls that roils under my skin and flows through my veins. White, hot rage seems to seep out of every pore, acting as a balm to my raw emotional wounds. As the heat slowly dissipates, I remember once again where I am. I open my eyes. The short sword is once again in my grasp.
Obsessed with these newfound abilities, I repeat the process over and over again, letting in the anger and using it as a conduit into the abilities of the sword. I conjure an image of Kromm in my mind for each attempt, and I imagine myself killing him with my sword, in whatever form I want it to change into. The practice begins to pay off. With each repetition, I am able to complete the change faster, until I no longer need to close my eyes. I wonder what else the sword might be able to do. Can it become something other than a sword? Instinctively, I draw on my emotions and envision the sword as a dagger. I watch in amazement as the blade shifts before my eyes. Exhausted, but too exhilarated to stop, I watch in delight as my magical sword shifts from a dagger into a curved scimitar and then a spear.
Is there anything this sword can’t become? I wonder to myself as it takes on the identity every weapon I can think of. As night fully descends on the forest, I am forced to stow the wondrous weapon and move inside my tent. Thoughts of the endless possibilities for combat fill my last thoughts as I drift to sleep. No nightmares fill my dreams.
The rays of the sun shining through the tent flap wake me. Caria is already gone. Then I remember. Today is the final day of the first phase of our training. Today, our fighting will no longer be single combat. By the end of the day, I will have a partner who I will fight with and for, whose life is tied to mine. As we filter toward the clearing for breakfast, one question fills my mind.
Who is my partner going to be?
“Good morning initiates,” The deep, clear voice of Ambrosius carries through the drone of conversation. Silence falls, and an almost tangible cloud of anticipation hangs in the air as we all wait for him to continue. “As you know, today marks the final day of your individual training. We will proceed this morning as normal, but after lunch, you will be paired with your partner. Most of you will have already fought the person who will be your partner, but you will do so again to familiarize yourself with each other’s fighting style. This understanding is vital in the formation of your fighting bond. After this, all of your training will be conducted as a pair.”
As soon as he finishes, the cacophony of talking resumes. I scan the groups of people all around me. Caria and Martin stand in a large group across the fire from me. They are laughing, clearly excited about what today will bring, and I realize how much I have separated myself from the others. Caria and I talk briefly at night in our tent, but when I see the relationship that she has formed with some of the other initiates, a sadness washes through me. I have spent so much time focusing on training and winning my fights, consumed with thoughts of my revenge that I haven’t taken the time to really get to know anyone else here. While I have interacted with the oth
ers, I don’t feel as if I have developed the connection that I can clearly see when Caria talks to the initiates around her. I am still just as alone as I have been since my father died. As I think about my father, images of my village, burned to the ground, once again wash through me. I can feel my anger returning, like a fire raging in my stomach, burning its way through me.
Kromm will pay, I determine. I will avenge him.
The morning passes as if in a haze, my mind completely occupied. Ambrosius informs us that he wants to simulate the idea of fighting in a large battle once you are already exhausted and leads us on a grueling series of exercises to fatigue our bodies and muscles before we begin our fights. This means another long run through the forest, stopping periodically to perform sets of exercises meant to wear out our legs, core and arms. After what feels like hours of these exercises, we find our way back to the clearing, where we are immediately paired up with a sparring partner once more. I know that my opponent will be just as tired as me, but I still have to steady myself, prepared to fight through the soreness and pain against my enemies.
