Picking up the second sword, Sanden began examining the blade, running his thumb over the marks left by a hundred sparring sessions. ‘Yet, to truly master the Form, one must learn to see with more than just the senses and the mind. One must observe with dispassion, creating an objective view with which to judge one’s environment, but without compassion, one’s actions will be misjudged and appropriate only to the instant of action. A true master sees with their spirit and knows the right action to take, even when that action is to do nothing. Now we will practise your counterattacks.’ He raised his sword into first, the tip pointing right at Ayah’s eyes.
Ayah groaned. She always ended up with bruises when they practised counters. Still, she shifted into first and prepared herself. This was what she wanted to learn.
4th Day, Second Marita.
Ayah set her feet in a wide, well-braced Earth stance and eyed her opponent. His name was Eaharan and he was a little older than Ayah and quite a lot bigger. Ayah always ended up sparring with boys on the regular Earth Day training sessions: the girls had declared that she was too rough and the boys were… boys. Not one of them had ever complained about the opportunity to grapple a girl. Not that Ayah had any intention of letting Eaharan get a grip on her.
Compared to the swift, agile elegance of Metal Form, Ayah felt that Earth Form was clumsy and brutish. It relied on strength. No, that was doing it a disservice. Many who practised Earth Form relied on strength and mass, but it taught the proper use of strength, balance, and leverage. The only reason Ayah could lift her practice sword was that her training in Earth Form had taught her how to use her muscles to best effect. Everyone in the village learned Earth Form, but not everyone put their all into it, or continued with it as Ayah intended to.
Eaharan would, she thought, go on with it for a few more years, but he did not put his mind to it as she did. He was stronger, but he was not as quick on his feet and he preferred to employ brute-force tactics over subtlety. Ayah waited while Eaharan made up his mind and committed to a shove. Appropriately for Earth Form, it was rather like watching a mountain shift into position for an attack: it was right there, slowly and carefully shifting into the right posture. As he pushed forward, Ayah slid her right foot around in an arc and turned. Her palms pressed against his left forearm and she redirected his attack past her chest. And then she slid her palms down his arm and brought her leg forward to brace against his shin. Her hands caught behind his shoulder and pulled, and there was a spluttering sort of ‘Oof!’ as Eaharan went face down in the dust.
There was laughter from somewhere at the side of the village’s central square – which was round – but Ayah did not look to see who had laughed. She reached down and offered Eaharan a hand. Her opponent looked annoyed, but she knew his anger was not directed at her. ‘Ignore him,’ she said. ‘He’s never had the courage to fight me.’ The he in question was Baraban, the son of a local landowner. To be fair to him, he was a Great Year older and would not have been allowed to spar with the younger villagers, but he had not taken any of them on, even before reaching his sixth Great Year, and he did not spar with the older students either. Baraban had a private Earth Form tutor who, Ayah had heard, despaired of the man ever being any good at the Form.
‘Why does he come anyway?’ Eaharan asked as he climbed to his feet.
‘No idea.’ She knew. She knew precisely why Baraban came every Earth Day to watch the training. But she was not going to tell Eaharan the reason. ‘You need to learn to hide your intentions better when you attack. I could see you coming from the middle of last week.’
Eaharan gave her a lopsided grin. ‘You’re smarter than me. I’m never going to trick you.’
‘You don’t have to trick me. You just have to stop telling me exactly what you’re going to do before you do it. Warfare is deception, or at least obfuscation.’
‘See? I have no idea what that means.’
‘Well, get back into position and I’ll show you.’
‘And then I’ll end up on my face in the dirt again.’
Ayah smiled. ‘Nah. Next time I’ll put you on your back.’
~~~
Baraban closed in as Ayah left the square and started for home. He was, she thought, an attractive sort of man, if you kept your inspection to the surface. He put at least some effort into keeping himself fit and his tutors had taught him how to put on muscle. His features were ‘chiselled,’ though Ayah thought the craftsman was not a first-class sculptor: his jawline was strong and he had high cheekbones, and his smile seemed to have far too many teeth in it. He wore his blonde hair down to his shoulders and he had blue eyes, though they were a dark shade Ayah found less appealing than a clearer colour. He was quite tall – a hand or more over the average for the area – and healthy. Of course, his family rarely had to worry about food and tended to get the best. Ayah expected him to end up fat since his father was. She worried that if Baraban got his way, she would end up fat too.
Because Baraban had decided that Ayah was the woman for him. She was not actually a woman, in the legal sense, so his overtures could be ignored for now and he had to keep them to expressions of admiration. He wanted a commitment from her to accept his proposal when she was of age, but for another couple of years she could evade him as she would a punch to the face.
‘You were exceptional out there, Ayah,’ he said as he stepped up to walk beside her. ‘That boy you were sparring with–’
‘Eaharan,’ Ayah said, mostly because she knew he disliked being interrupted.
‘As you say.’ There was a hint of strain in his voice as he tried his best to avoid displaying his annoyance. ‘He didn’t have a chance.’ He had given up complimenting her on her beauty after only a couple of months of trying. It had taken him a while to notice that it had no effect on her, but eventually even he had got it. Ayah knew full well that she was considered attractive, but the last thing she wanted to be judged on was her looks.
She stood only a little over sixteen hands, but she was still hoping that she might stretch to seventeen in the same way that she hoped for a bigger bust. She was something of a late developer and so she had hope, but Baraban – others too, if she was honest with herself – seemed to think she was already looking pretty good. She was a slim, fit girl and she already had a relatively feminine shape. Her face was quite angular, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her cheeks still had a hint of youthful plumpness about them, but they were thinning rather pleasingly as far as Ayah was concerned. Her nose was another point of disquiet: she thought it flared too much. It was quite small and rather cute, which was not so bad. She had got both nose and mouth from her mother; they both had full lips and quite obvious eyebrows, though Ayah’s were a little more arched and a little thinner and also a reddish shade. Ayah’s hair was also red, and she had got that from her father – her mother’s hair was an odd shade of brown, though there was grey in it despite her relative youth. Athelynn also kept her hair short, above her shoulders, while Ayah wore hers long and generally pulled back into a ponytail which fell to the middle of her back. She was attractive, sure, she got that, but pretty seemed to attract people like Baraban, and she could have done without that.
‘He had a chance,’ Ayah said. ‘Misfortune can befall even the most experienced fighter. Eaharan does not pay as much attention to his lessons as he might so his chances were slim, but he had a chance. Only someone with no commitment to fight has no chance of winning.’ It was one of Sanden’s sayings. He said that the best generals were always fully committed to a fight. And that the greatest generals won wars without ever engaging in battles. It also happened to be a veiled insult, since Baraban never fought anyone, even in a friendly sparring match. Somehow, Ayah was sure Baraban would not notice.
‘Every man should learn to defend himself,’ Baraban said. There was a very slight emphasis on ‘man’ which signified the primary reason that Ayah would have nothing to do with Baraban: she knew that, were she to marry him, that would be the end of h
er learning the arts. Baraban wanted a pretty trophy and would certainly not accept a woman who could better him in combat.
‘Yes, everyone should. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have chores to attend to and Sanden needs help in the forge.’
Baraban did not like the tone of dismissal she tended to employ in such statements, but he appeared to have gained sufficient strategic knowledge from his tutors to understand when to avoid a fight. Or perhaps he just figured he would eventually wear her down. ‘Your diligent service does you much credit. Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, Baraban,’ Ayah said, and waited until he was several paces away before heaving a sigh. She would never allow that man to take her hand.
Avrilatha Wood, 5th Day, Second Marita.
Ayah rather liked collecting herbs with her mother. It got them out of the village and, usually, into the wood a couple of myls away. In summer it was glorious: the shade of the trees kept the temperature down and the flowers gave the wood a beautiful scent. It was not quite so nice in spring, but the plants were growing, the trees were full of birds, and Ayah was enjoying herself as she hunted for the shadeleaf her mother wanted.
Athelynn was looking for mushrooms. Ayah had learned a lot about the various culinary and medicinal herbs and fungi, but not enough to be quite sure that she got redcap yellowfin rather than firehat mushrooms. The former were very tasty in a stew; the latter would result in debilitating stomach cramps and possibly death.
If Ayah were to say so herself, she had become quite a competent naturalist, but there were always things to learn. As she stooped to pluck more of the broad shadeleaf leaves, her mother walked over and presented her with two apparently identical mushrooms. ‘Can you see the difference, daughter?’ Athelynn asked.
Ayah peered at the two caps. They both seemed to have the same red pigment on their caps, and the gills beneath were identical shades of yellow and the same sort of formations. Or… almost. ‘There’s an orange colour deep into the gills on this one,’ she said, holding up one of the two.
‘And that one is a firehat. What makes it harder is that the orange colour will fade now that it’s been picked. By the time we get this back to the house, the two would look identical. You have to check the gills when you pick them. Not that we’ll be taking this back at all.’ She tossed the poisonous fungus fruit into the undergrowth.
There was a sudden rustle of bushes and something darted out of the spot where Athelynn had thrown the mushroom. A shape, reddish and sleek, darted across the nearby path and into the bushes on the other side. Ayah giggled. ‘Good shot, Ama, you startled a fox.’
Athelynn gave a low chuckle, but what she said was, ‘You shouldn’t make fun of foxes, Ayah. Some of them are not what they seem.’
Ayah gave her mother a look. ‘Spirit foxes, Ama? Those are children’s stories.’
‘So say you, but many a man has been seduced by a beautiful woman only to discover that she was a disguised fox.’
‘I think I’ll believe that when I see it, but…’ Ayah turned toward the bushes where the fox had vanished, pressed her right fist to her left palm in front of her stomach, and gave a short bow. ‘My apologies, Mister Fox. It was impolite to laugh.’
From somewhere in the bushes, a series of barks sounded: four almost soft ‘wow’ sounds which sounded almost like an answer. Athelynn chuckled again. ‘You see, daughter? That fox has an idea of manners. I believe you are forgiven.’
‘Perhaps. I think I’ve enough shadeleaf. What else do we need?’
‘Ah… Coltshoof. I’m almost out, so we’ll need a good-sized bundle.’
Ayah gave her mother a nod and a grin. ‘I’m on it.’
Avrilatha Village.
Once again, Ayah was working the forge and listening to Sanden. Today they were shaping metal bars for horseshoes. It was not exactly the most exciting of tasks, but it did work her muscles and produced something important for the community.
‘Knowing when to fight and when not to fight is the key to winning any battle,’ Sanden said as he watched the bar he was working on heat in the fire. ‘A wise general picks the place and time for his battles, attacking when the enemy is weak and using overwhelming force. So too does the single fighter. You must pick your fights carefully, knowing that you will win before you ever attack.’
‘But if everyone followed that rule,’ Ayah said, ‘no one would ever fight anyone else. The weaker fighters would avoid fights they couldn’t win.’
‘And wouldn’t the world be a better place for it?’
‘Oh… Well, yes. I suppose it would.’
Sanden smiled and picked up his tongs. ‘The weak do not always realise they are in a weak position. The strong can be deceived into fighting when, in fact, they have the weaker force. War is deception, Ayah. Always remember that.’ Then there was the sound of hammer on metal, and that did not stop as three men walked up to the smith’s shop leading horses.
‘I’ve need of–’ one of the men, maybe the leader, began.
‘A moment,’ Sanden interrupted. ‘This is just out of the fire and you’ll want fresh iron on your mount’s hooves I’ve no doubt.’
The man frowned in annoyance, but he let the matter rest: he did want quality and it never paid to irritate the man about to shoe your horse. The pause gave Ayah the chance to examine the three strangers, something she rarely got the chance to do with Imperial Army soldiers. They were dark, like Sanden. All of them had black or brown hair cut short to sit under a helmet and brown eyes, though the leader’s eyes were a little lighter, perhaps even hazel. They were all tightly muscled under a mail shirt and leather padding. They all carried straight swords, like the ones Ayah practised with, slung at their hips. Dressed for war – aside from the full-face helmets they wore into battle – even to visit a smithy in a small village.
There was the question of what the men were doing in Avrilatha at all. The Empire of Iron had its capital in the Iron City, across the Eastern Sea and very far from the village. A little over five years ago, they had taken Garia City – to the south and east of Avrilatha – which put them on this side of the water, but they rarely seemed to stray so far to the north and east.
Still, if there was one thing Ayah recognised, it was the slightly arrogant nature of the armoured men. Imperial soldiers moved with a swagger which spoke of belonging to the most powerful military force on the planet and coming from the most advanced nation. Everyone else was beneath them, at least in their eyes. Perhaps even in reality.
‘Now,’ Sanden said, putting down his hammer and pushing the bar he was working on back into the fire. Ayah began working the bellows again. ‘It’ll be the right foreleg, yes? Do you want me to check them all, lieutenant?’
Ayah was not sure how Sanden had identified the man’s rank, but the leader of the soldiers lifted his head. ‘That would be for the best. She was shod in Istollam, but it seems that they didn’t do as good a job as they might.’ His lip shifted into a sneer. ‘Of course, I can’t expect perfection outside the Iron City.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Sanden replied without rancour. He lifted the mare’s right foreleg and examined her hoof. ‘You can expect better than this, however. Two of the nails have been trimmed too short. Shoddy work. I’ll have her fixed up as good as new, but you should take it easy on her for the next day or so. Her hoof is tender.’ Sanden took a hoof pick out of a pocket on his apron and, as if to stress his words, the mare gave a snort as he applied the tool.
‘Unusual having a girl as your apprentice.’ The comment brought colour to Ayah’s cheeks and she lowered her face and focused on working the bellows.
Sanden gave a short laugh. ‘Ayah has no interest in learning to make horseshoes, though she may pick up a few tricks in passing. I’ve no apprentice at the moment. Ayah helps out when her other duties allow.’
‘I see. And where did you learn your art?’
‘The Iron City. I apprenticed there, but there are more smiths in that city than forges. Here, I’m a val
ued member of the community, but there, I’d be just another metalworker.’ Turning from the horse’s hoof, Sanden checked the metal and plucked it from the fire, placing it on the anvil. ‘Ayah, hold the bar still while I cut it.’
Ayah did as asked, holding the bar steady while Sanden cut the metal with hammer and chisel by eye. Then he began the work of forming the shoe and Ayah stood back, ready to work the bellows again when Sanden needed more heat. The soldiers were silent, but Ayah noticed that the lieutenant seemed oddly puzzled about something. He watched Sanden, a look of bemusement on his face. It was almost as though he recognised the smith but could not work out how or where from. The other two seemed more interested in Ayah and she did her best to look as uninteresting as possible. If she was not interested in Baraban’s attention, she was even less interested in that of a couple of imperial soldiers. The sooner Sanden shoed the horse and they were gone the better.
~~~
It was just after the evening meal when Noffren, Taiana’s husband, came banging on the door of Athelynn’s house. There had been a couple of false alarms over Taiana’s baby. Noffren was looking more than a little frazzled when Ayah opened the door to him.
‘She’s sure this time,’ he said, his eyes pleading. ‘She waited to be sure and she’s sure. Your mother has to come. Now!’
‘I’m coming, Noffren,’ Athelynn called from back in the private rooms. ‘Ayah, get the bag I prepared. Noffren, how often are the contractions?’
‘Contractions? What are– I don’t know, but she seems to be really in pain.’
‘Hm. She’s probably left it a little longer than I’d like, but we’ll be in time. Go home and boil some water. Noffren, try not to scald yourself.’
‘Water. Right. I can do that.’ And the man hurried back toward his house.
Athelynn emerged from the back, tying an apron around her back. ‘How that man has made it through his wife’s pregnancy I do not know.’
Ayah grinned, hefting her mother’s ‘birthing bag’ onto a shoulder as she did so. ‘Hopefully this won’t be another false alarm.’
The Iron Princess Page 2
