Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  He had to teach himself how to use the ralat as his former commanders were shoddy swordsman. He had read a few books on elven swordsmanship, but mostly he used the same strokes, movements, and stances he had been taught during his time in the human military, improvising a bit due to the more limited cutting area. He always thought they were terrible for stabbing, but he had heard from his men how Keenas had delivered a fatal strike to the heart of the last prisoner. He had interrogated Dorim about it with some interest, gleaning how the archon had thrust the blade in at an angle, pushing along the curve in the blade. Perhaps that was why Aoden always had trouble; he always used straight stabs as he would with a longsword. He felt a strong desire to give that a test.

  He realized then that he lacked the tools for a proper training session. Training dummies and practice swords would be necessary, especially given some of the sloppy blade work he’d seen from some of the men. They sparred slowly and gently with real ralat, distrusting both the blades and their own ability to wield them, daring not to fight too quickly for fear of harming one another. No proper skill was going to be built up that way. He called for the scout, just returned from Valdon’s, and ordered him to select four elves and retrieve the supplies he had written down. He then spent the next two hours practicing his thrust.

  As it had been a while since he last handled a blade, muscles he hadn’t utilized this way in years were already tired when Dorim knocked on the frame of the tent’s entrance flap. “The men are preparing for the training. How do you want these, uh, ‘supplies’ set up?”

  “Stand the dummies fifty hands apart and give a practice sword to each soldier,” Aoden said, putting his ralat back into its sheath and buckling it onto his belt. “Have them leave their steel in their tents.” Dorim nodded and left. Aoden grabbed a waterskin and took a quick drink, then tied it to his belt next to his ralat and made his way out.

  He could already see the men eying the wood blades and dummies with an air of disdain. While used to targets of straw for archery practice, wooden dummies were foreign to them. Foreign to most elves, it would seem, as all three dummies were in terrible condition like they had been pulled from a crate after many years in storage. The wood had been last treated so long ago that one of the dummies was severely rotted. Surely, being elves, those sent to retrieve the dummies would recognize rotting wood. He suspected the better dummies had already been taken from storage due to the increased interest in swordplay that infected the battalion since Keenas’s demonstration. It was a fad that would quickly fade once Keenas departed and, so long as he kept up the training, better equipment would come their way eventually. Aoden realized, not for the first time, what a foolish thing it was for him to have put off this training. The looks on their faces and the condition of the equipment didn’t fill him with confidence, but he was already standing before his men with his hand resting on his ralat, so it was too late for cold feet.

  “Lieutenant,” he called out, raising his arm. “Toss me one of those training blades.” Dorim complied, sending it smoothly into Aoden’s outstretched hand. He caught it gracefully and arced it swiftly downwards, cutting the air. “Nice throw. You seem to have quickly gotten a feel for the practice blade’s weight. Maybe you’re a bit better with it than you’ve let on?”

  “Someone has to train this lot properly,” he said, looking pleased with himself.

  “Then I hope you won’t mind coming up here and giving me a demonstration of, say, a proper sword grip?”

  “Alright,” he said, though Aoden sensed a note of reluctance.

  “I’ve seen some sloppy gripping in your sparring,” he said to the assembled elves as Dorim made his way to the front. “There are many ways to grip a sword and even the most experienced masters will disagree on the proper method. With the ralat in particular, there are five acceptable grips, though I think we’ll only cover one or two of the more common ones. The style I prefer is simple enough: wrap the fingers and thumb of your dominant hand around the hilt right below the crossguard with the blade facing away, like so. It allows for quickly turning the blade and, if an opponent’s blade is on your guard, this allows you to put plenty of force into it as you push them off, whereas gripping too far down causes you to lose most of that control and leverage. Don’t leave any space between your fingers and get a nice, tight grip. I’ve been seeing a lot of this.” He loosened his grip and wobbled the sword around for effect. “If you use both hands, they can be together, or you can leave some space, whatever feels best for you, just don’t overlap your fingers: you gain nothing and risk hurting yourself. Let’s see which grip the Lieutenant defaults to.”

  Dorim hesitated, but Aoden gave him a nod that was part encouragement, part order. Dorim held the blade out for Aoden to inspect.

  Aoden gave him an odd look. “Is, uh, anything wrong with my grip, sir?” Dorim asked.

  “Your grip is fine,” Aoden said, gesturing towards Dorim’s hand as he spoke. “As you can see, the Lieutenant uses a different grip than I do. That’s good; otherwise, you’d be hearing more of the same. See how these four fingers grip the hilt while his index finger lies at the base of the blade itself, wrapping around the quillon here? Less conventional, but not strange. Having your finger on the guard gives more leverage for pulling the blade, making swings a bit snappier, or so I’ve been told. Just watch out.” He put his practice sword against Dorim’s and slid it down the length, bumping against the finger. “If you’re not careful, you’ll be short a finger. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Dorim stepped back, instinctively rubbing his threatened finger.

  “When it comes to striking,” Aoden continued, feeling himself getting into a good rhythm, swinging his blade in a demonstrative fashion as he spoke, “don’t just twist your wrist. I see a lot of floppy wrists out there as you’re turning the blade. You’re making so much unnecessary work for yourselves. Don’t pivot at the hilt because you’ll be pulling unnecessary weight. Rather, turn along the blade’s center of gravity, which can be found further up the blade. Your movements will be smoother and faster.”

  Some of the elves were nodding, and one was even staring intently at his hand as he tried to move the blade in the controlled manner Aoden suggested. Most looked bored, however.

  “What’s the purpose of this, sir?” one elf said, his practice sword held loosely so the tip sat in the grass. “What sort of situation could we possibly be in where the ralat becomes necessary?” A few elves voiced their like-mindedness.

  Aoden felt a spark of his old reluctance again, paused in his lesson, and stared at the soldier for a moment. He suddenly felt absurd in front of this group of elves, all older and more experienced than he, trying to teach them how to properly hold a stick. He wanted to put his sword down and tell him that of course he was right for voicing disapproval, of course there was no purpose, and he was sorry for wasting their time. But then he remembered Mendoro’s words about the men’s fading respect, and how Dorim said he was cowering, and it seemed they weren’t wrong. Even now, mentally, Aoden was cowering from this lone elf, not because he was intimidating but because… why? There was no good reason. Well, he wouldn’t cower here. He shouldn’t feel doubtful, but disrespected. He was a commander and his rank demanded—no, to hell with his rank, Aoden deserved respect from this half-witted soldier.

  “What purpose?” he breathed, his tone suggesting he had just heard the greatest idiocy in his life. “What situation? Have you forgotten who dwelt in the cities to the west? And how they don’t anymore? Are you such a simpleton that you’ve forgotten about the impending deadline for war? I didn’t fight in the Fury, but you did, you all did, so why are you the ones who apparently need to be reminded of the danger?”

  Aoden looked around at the elves as if expecting an answer.

  “Orcs are faster than you,” he announced. “They’re stronger, they’re more numerous, and they can’t wait to jump the Line and burn our whole civilization to the ground. They’ve done it to me once before, an
d I’ll be damned if they’re going to do it to me again. They won’t be polite enough to stay a field’s length away while you fill them with arrows, either. They want to get in close. They’ll tear down the tree you’re perched in. They want to get their hands on you. When you have one reaching out for your neck, you’ll remember the lessons of today, so pay attention! I guarantee this will save at least one of your lives, and if you need more ‘purpose’ than that, then go ahead and put your sword down because I wouldn’t trust it at my back.”

  The elf that spoke up didn’t look like he had anything more to add. He stared darkly back at Aoden, his fingers on the hilt of his practice blade flexing, deciding whether to throw it down, to make some sort of statement against the Commander. That sort of statement would have an impact. It was the kind that could ruin Aoden’s control over the squad, and instantly Aoden regretted his words.

  The elf was loosening his grip, ready to let the blade fall, when another elf spoke.

  “Come on now, Roonun,” the elf said, causing Aoden to turn. It was Mendoro, his own sword clutched tightly in the grip Aoden had demonstrated. “If someone like Archon Keenas deems the sword valuable enough to choose it as one of his grandmasteries, then you can’t simply dismiss it out of hand. You even tried for the apprenticeship.”

  Several elves nodded. Roonun looked at Mendoro, then laughed. “I suppose I did, didn’t I?” He renewed his grip on the practice sword. He turned back towards Aoden, and that was it; no apologies, no excuses, just waiting for the lesson to resume.

  Aoden barely avoided disaster and knew better than to make an issue of it. Instead, he called Dorim back to his side. “I’ll need your help with a few demonstrations.”

  Aoden went over several more basics, showing how to strike and parry, how to catch blades and counter, how to use the feet and hands, grabbing, punching, tripping, and all the other useful tips he had accrued from his years of fighting with the sword. All the while, Dorim struggled to keep up with the orders and demonstrations Aoden was throwing together on the fly, more than once finding Aoden’s sword against his neck or pressed into his stomach. They were at it for a good hour before Aoden began drawing things to a close.

  “Before I split you up into practice groups, I want to talk lunging and stabbing,” he said, patting Dorim on the back as he returned to the crowd of elves. “Since the ralat is curved, a simple straight jab won’t do.” He turned to the middle dummy, the one showing the most thorough rot, and gave it a half-hearted jab. “Even angling the blade so the point is at the fore won’t do much damage. Come in at an angle and turn the blade as you stab, like so.” He flicked the blade as he jabbed, causing the point to solidly strike the practice dummy. “Just like with your bow, you want to aim for the chest and neck, picking out the weaknesses in their armor, but don’t forget your opponent is still within reach. Most men will be stunned by a mortal wound to the heart or lungs long enough to bleed out or lose consciousness, but some won’t be and will have a very brief window to counterattack, perhaps being mid-swing when they’re struck. They may only have time for a single solid attack, but that’s enough to kill you right back, the petty bastards. Either move back or finish them swiftly.” He pulled out of the jab and performed a horizontal slice to the neck.

  “This dummy is practically useless, so I’ll give a more lively demonstration.” He put down the practice sword and unsheathed his own. He had practiced the stab a hundred times in the tent and he felt confident in his grip and in himself. He lunged forward, putting his left hand on the pommel for extra force, but it was wildly unnecessary. Angled correctly, the point dug into the dummy’s chest, passing clean through and splitting the wood all the way up to the shoulder. Without missing a beat, he pulled it loose and delivered the finishing blow, separating the dummy’s head from its body.

  There was a smattering of polite applause. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Hopefully provisioning won’t miss one dummy. We’ll do some drills against these targets for a few days until you get the hang of gripping and striking, then we’ll move back to sparring in pairs.”

  He and Dorim separated the squad into two groups, each with its own dummy. Aoden spent time going between each and offering advice and adjustments where needed. After an hour, he dismissed two to see to dinner, and after another, he began calling the rest to collect their equipment. Most were used to the grip Dorim demonstrated, seeing as he had been training them for over two months, but many gave Aoden’s a try and most preferred the decreased stress on the finger. Their strikes were still wonky, though. Aoden was beginning to wonder just how seriously Dorim had been pushing them during his reign as temporary commander because they didn’t seem to retain much training,

  “Alright,” he called out as the smell of boar and raspberries grew stronger. “Everyone grab some dinner and get back to your usual evening duties. We’ll resume training tomorrow. Mendoro and Iop, you’re in charge of equipment storage and transport. Lieutenant, a word.”

  The squad scattered and wandered away as Dorim strode to his side. “I hope you’re not calling me over so I’ll compliment you on a job well done. That would be tasteless.”

  “Funny, but no. Rather, I was curious as to why you didn’t tell me that your father taught you the sword.” Dorim blinked in surprise, which was all Aoden needed to see. “I knew it. Diplomacy is all about noticing the little details, my friend: that grip of yours is more common to rapiers and other swords with basket guards and dull fortes—neither of which any style of elven blade has—and no novice swordsman would use that grip of yours on a ralat precisely because they fear losing their fingers. So, you either had to be a reckless fool or a proper student, and I don’t take you for the former. With your family’s interest in the human military arts, it’s no surprise that your father would take matters into his own hands. I’m curious why you didn’t mention it.”

  Dorim looked strained. “That’s a bit embarrassing, actually.”

  “And what, am I going to gossip with the men?”

  Dorim sighed. “I suppose not. Truth be told, before I took over as the squad’s interim commander, I hadn’t picked up my sword in five or so decades. I never got the hang of it, so I stopped seeing the tutor my father hired, much to his dismay: he had called in a favor, apparently, and I was wasting it. After all this time, after sparring with you, I feel like a novice all over again.”

  “And you haven’t recovered, even after months of practice?”

  Dorim snorted. “The sad thing is I might be better than I ever was. You could’ve easily taken my head from my shoulders if we were really fighting.”

  “That was just training.”

  “Just training, right, but I had no idea what you were doing or where you were going, like when I was pressing on your blade with both hands and you pulled it away and I almost fell over; such a basic move and I couldn’t react properly. The state my swordsmanship is in is just atrocious. I’m half a mind that you only called me up there to embarrass me for all those times I harassed you about the training.”

  “I hope you don’t honestly think me that petty,” Aoden said. He was struck by a sudden realization. “Though I think I get it now. You tried for Keenas’s training, didn’t you?” Dorim gave him a dopey, embarrassed look. “So you were pressing me because the training was for your benefit, not mine. You didn’t care if I actually tried for the apprenticeship at all, did you?” Aoden shook his head. “I’ll tell you now, though, fifteen days of prep would only have seen marginal improvement, not nearly at the level Keenas desired.”

  “Says the one who didn’t even try for it.”

  Aoden lifted his hands in surrender. “I know my limits. If you want, since the squad will be splitting into pairs for sparring anyway, you can partner with me. If you’re still eager to learn, you can be a respectable swordsman in half a year’s time, I’d think. If you don’t mind, of course.”

  “No, that would be great, and much appreciated, but let’s not talk about it now. I�
�m tired, hungry, and more than a bit ashamed. I think food and sleep are in order.”

  “You know I didn’t do any of that to embarrass you, right?”

  “I know, sir.”

  As Dorim made his way to the fire pit, Aoden couldn’t help but wonder how different they really were. After all, he’d only just learned the proper way to thrust the blade, which any competent tutor could have taught him. If he had been practicing properly, he might have learned that himself much earlier. What other basic knowledge was he lacking? Already his mind was racing as to how he could apply this new technique into his style but he, too, was tired and hungry, and so went to join his men.

  Chapter 8

  Control and Confusion

  Mergau had never enjoyed bathing so much.

  Ezma brought her to a spot in a shallow stream that she herself used for bathing, and Mergau quickly understood why: the banks of the stream were steep and made of stone, and this particular area cut inward sharply, producing a half-bowl inlet. The stream was deep in the middle, but shallow on the sides, resulting in a sudden drop. All this created the perfect natural bathing spot with a seating area and a relatively clean place to lean against. Mergau could see herself falling asleep right there in the gentle eddies.

  But for now, she was more concerned with cleaning herself.

  The moment she lowered herself into the water, a swirling mass of red, yellow, and black was washed off her, the blood, dirt, sweat, and who-knows-what-else that had accumulated over nearly two months of rigorous training. Ezma had given her a bar of soap made of goat fat and lye from the ash of a burbur root, a particularly woody plant that was common in the plains. In other words, it was cheap and harsh soap, but it got the job done.