by Crissy Moss
I found myself missing the evening conversations and questions as I curled up under the furs. Ayrula didn’t speak much, but she was good at listening.
If I hadn’t been awake…
There was nothing to warn me. No sound, no breathing, no scuff of feet on earth. Just the utter silence all around me and an eeriness that seemed to grow out of the dark.
I don’t know what alerted me, but the uneasiness in the pit of my stomach would not be ignored. I couldn’t sleep, and I kept tossing and turning. The feeling grew until I found myself jarring to the side, away from a ball of darkness and flailing blades. Claws.
I scrambled to my feet, tossing the furs at whatever had come for me, and ran.
It felt all too familiar. The ball of shadow and spikes. The stalking in the night. And the slash of claws ripping into a place where my head had been only seconds before. It was Orin’s little ifrit. She had sent it after me, again, and it had been very close this time.
I ran, yelling for help, directly toward camp center. Faster than I’d ever run before, barely able to call for help as I dodged through the tents, panting with exertion.
Then I ran into a wall, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, girl, where are you going so fast?”
I looked up from the wall to realize it wasn’t brick I’d run into but flesh and blood. Mykul the mercenary. He gently took my shoulders in his big hands and held me a step away, looking down on me with concern and maybe a little confusion.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“That beast,” I said, my breath coming out in short gasps. “It snuck into our tent. It tried to attack me!”
“Orin’s servant?”
Sheepishly, I nodded. Everyone must have heard the story of our first chance encounter on the planes. Orin had been very vocal about it and had tried to blame me for her pet’s burn.
What must everyone think of me? And which version of her story had they heard? Surely, Orin wasn’t spreading anything nearly as kind or generous as Edwum had been saying.
“She’s a little brat, that one,” Mykul went on, glaring over my shoulder. “Unfortunately, I can’t say she’s harmless.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I whispered. “It almost killed me this time. It would have killed me if I hadn’t been awake.”
I could feel the tears again, and I shook my head, denying them, holding down the fear and sadness that tried to assault me. I’d been through worse than Orin could throw at me. I had lost my mother, my father, my friends, and my home. I had been thrown into a pyre and survived. I had crossed a mountain and survived an attack from a thunderbird. Why did this one child, and her pet shadow, make me tear up after all I’d been through?
He pressed his fingers into my shoulders, steadying me.
“And what are you going to do about it?” he asked.
I looked up and found him staring down at me, eyes filled with a steel I hadn’t seen before.
What would I do about her? I could run, leave the caravan, and go back into the grasslands on my own. At least now I knew the general direction to civilization, and I had newer clothes to keep me warm. But even if I ran, there was no guarantee that Orin and her servant wouldn’t come after me.
And what would running do for me? Save my life? Maybe saving my life wasn’t good enough anymore.
“I can’t fight her,” I said, determination boiling up inside me, “but I won’t run from her, either. Running won’t get me anywhere, I’d just get lost out in the grasslands or meet someone else that might not be as kind. I need to get to the collegium—that’s all that matters anymore—and I’m not going to let Orin stand in my way of getting there.”
“Good,” Mykul said, dropping his arms to his side and taking a short step back from me. He reached for the pack that always hung on his back and fished around inside for a moment then came out with a dagger as long as my forearm.
I gasped, seeing the moonlight flicker off the long steel blade, and took a step back.
“You’re right; you can’t run anymore, Sybel,” he said. “You have to fight. You have to protect yourself. You might be a mage, but you’re not trained yet and can’t protect yourself with magic, so protect yourself with this.” He wrapped my hand around the pommel.
“I...I don’t know what to do with this,” I said, letting the dagger hang limply in my hand.
“I’ll show you,” he said. “Orin is rather good at what she does, and she enjoys it. I suspect that’s why the madam has taken a liking to her. That doesn’t bode well for you. Even if you left, that wouldn’t mean you’d be safe from her. In fact, she’d probably hunt you down if you don’t have the protection of the others here. Learn to use the dagger. If nothing else, it will be a last defense when trouble comes calling.”
I gripped the hilt a bit tighter, clutching it to my chest. I didn’t know how to use it, but having the blade meant a chance, even if a small one. If he taught me how to use it, I’d have an even greater chance.
“Do daggers work against ifrits?”
“Ifrits aren’t impervious. They might not stay dead like people, but they can be sliced up and banished back to their hell plane for a while. It’s enough to give you time to deal with their master, usually. Take out the master, and the ifrit can’t come back.”
“You’ve fought a servitor?”
He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby then leaned in closer to me, lowering his voice.
“It’s not something to brag about,” he said. “Servitors aren’t like other men and women that you fight. If you kill one, that doesn’t make you safe; it makes you a target. Their family is just as likely to come after you. So be careful, Sybel. I’ll show you how to use the blade, but always remember the danger. Always remember that winning against a servitor isn’t the end.”
Training
Mykul insisted we start training that night. Tired, hurt, and with emotions stretched to their limits, I couldn’t say no to him. How could I sleep? My mind was racing although my heart had slowed its restless thumping. Sleep would wait.
He took me out past the edge of the camp to a small glade where the full moon shone down on us, a solitary lantern giving us some extra illumination. There he instructed me on the basic care of a dagger. How to keep it clean, the edge sharp, how to hold it for the most effective use. And what to do if you should get blood on it.
I did not find the last part appealing. I grew up around animals, of course, and had been involved with butchering them, but butchering an animal was far different from impaling a human. Still, if it came to my life or another's, I had to choose mine.
We didn’t sleep that night. I offered Mykul the opportunity, more than once, to go back to his bed, but he declined, instead staying up with me until the light crested over the horizon and the camp started to wake.
“Take it with you,” he said when I tried to hand him back the blade. “Sleep with it, eat with it, bathe with it. The more time you spend with it, the more a part of you it becomes.”
He walked away before I could say another word.
Tired but not regretting the evening's adventure, I turned back to the cook fire where Akwulf was stoking the flames under a pot of water. If nothing else, I had a good story to tell Akwulf.
***
Training continued the next morning—and every morning after that. He gave me the day off when we packed up from Ashton to start heading toward Ludwald but made up for it in the evening. It consisted of rising well before dawn to go out beyond the edge of camp with Mykul and being knocked to the ground repeatedly.
“Eventually, you’ll learn to block it,” he said, helping me to my feet yet again.
“How do I keep you from knocking me down if I don’t know what to do?”
“It’s less about knowing precisely what to do,” he explained, “and more about feeling like the weapon is a part of you. Once you feel like it’s just another part of your arm, then you will move it whe
re it needs to go without thinking about it. Once you learn that it’s impervious, you will start putting the blade between you and whatever’s attacking, and then you’ll stop falling on your arse.”
“I don’t think I understand. Don’t swordsmen learn how to move their feet and place the sword? How to dodge and slice?”
“Aye, that they do,” he said, “but things like that take years. A good swordsman will know thousands of moves that they can draw upon and be able to do so in a split second without thinking. But you don’t have years to learn sword skills.”
“No, I suppose I don’t.”
“That’s right, so I’m not going to teach you all of that. It’s of no use to you at the moment. I’m going to teach you how to handle a sword without slicing your fool head off and how to use it like it’s part of you. You get a few steps, not all of them. That’s all you need to have a fighting chance most of the time. The more advanced moves are only useful when you’re up against other swordsmen.”
“And what about servitors?” I asked. “They are good fighters. I’ve watched you spar with Ayrula. Will basic skills be good enough against them?”
“Depends on the servitor and their servant,” he said, shifting from side to side. “Some rely heavily on their servant and can’t fight themselves. Others are deadlier than their servants and use them as distractions. Orin is the former, and Ayrula is closer to the latter. In fact, someone like Ayrula is probably the worst to find yourself on the wrong side of. She’s deadly in her own right, and she has no hesitation in using her servant to further her goals. Ayrula is a deadly fighter because she uses all of her assets and doesn’t take anything for granted.”
***
All of his talk about making the weapon a part of me I didn’t really understand. Not at first. I had used tools before, and you didn’t think of the pail of hay you used to feed the horses as an extension of your body. Nor was the ax for firewood, or the broom for dirt. They were simply tools to be used then discarded.
And yet each morning I got up before dawn, trudged out beyond camp, and allowed Mykul to knock me to the ground—over and over again.
After a week, I started to dodge his sword when it moved in to trip my feet up. After two weeks, I started to try to block the sword. I wasn’t very effective at first, but I tried.
After the first couple of weeks, some of the caravan travelers would come to watch us spar. They would jeer when I landed on the ground and shout if I managed to land even a small blow upon my instructor. I had no illusions, though. Mykul was going easy on me, allowing me to edge in and get a hit only to block that same strategy the second time and leave me lying on the ground again. He was teaching me not to rely on repetition. Teaching me to think on my feet and improvise.
I caught Orin watching from a distance once. She took utter glee in a particularly bad tumble I took. She quickly turned and walked away when she saw me staring at her.
The training started to show itself outside of our mock battles. I found myself moving faster, lighter on my feet, and raising my endurance. When moving through brush while hunting for new spices, I managed to slip through thick brambles with ease and go farther from the camp, faster than I thought I could.
But the biggest change came at night when I lay down to sleep. With the dagger tucked under my pillow I fell asleep quickly, comforted by the fact that I would at least have a fighting chance and not be eaten in my sleep like prey.
Ayrula sometimes came out to watch our sparring, though I felt like she was watching Mykul’s movements, not my progress. For all the things she said about not falling in love and never having ties to anyone, she certainly seemed to be enamored with the burly mercenary.
I tried to ignore the furtive glances. I would never accuse Ayrula of making doe eyes at anyone, but I don’t think I could say the same thing about Mykul. Thankfully, he only did so over the evening campfire.
One evening after everyone else had wandered off for the night, Ayrula stayed longer than usual. She watched intently as I moved with Mykul, dodging his swing and thrusting the blade out to block him.
He swung for my feet, and I jumped up, clearing the swing, then smashed the flat of my blade against his exposed chest. He pushed me back, and I windmilled wildly but managed to catch my balance.
“Why are you teaching her to fight like a lumbering ox?” Ayrula asked.
“What are you talking about?” asked Mykul, never taking his eyes off me. That had been one of the lessons I learned quickly, never take your eyes off your opponent. The moment you did, they used it to their advantage.
“She’s a small girl, not a great brute of a man. You should be teaching her finesse. Quick moves, lean on her dexterity and agility. The way you have her moving, she’ll be like a bull in a pottery shop, throwing around a blade to do as much damage as possible.”
“And what of it?” he asked, crossing his arms as he faced her. “She’s not a swordsman; she’s a mage. I’m not trying to teach her the art, just the basics. If you think you can do better, you’re welcome to try.”
Ayrula looked from me then back to Mykul before turning her back on us in disgust and storming away.
“Is she upset?” I asked.
“No, if she was that upset then she’d come in here and start teaching you. She knows you're a mage, just as I do. But she’s right; you’re a small thing with quick reflexes. Maybe it’s time to teach you a little more footwork and finesse.”
I gave him a wry smile. Hadn’t I asked for finesse and fancy footwork? But I didn’t dare sass my instructor as he took a step to my side.
I quickly learned that finesse took more work than the bull in the pottery shop.
I had to learn where to place my feet, how to sidestep, how to weave the blade between his arms and body. It took more concentration—and a lot more skill.
When I finally made it to bed after that session, sleep came slowly, creeping in through the crevices in my thoughts. Analyzing movements, watching for opportunities, breaking in through the gaps. And before I knew it, sleep had whisked me away into a thankfully dreamless sleep where fighting to learn finesse had given way to peace.
Cold
Morning came with a resounding clatter, shattering the peacefulness of dreamless sleep. I sat up in bed, blinking my eyes and trying to figure out where the loud noises were coming from. A gust of wind blew through the tent, chilling me to the bone.
I yelped, pulling the furs around me to block out the worst of it. Ayrula stood at the open tent flap, her hair whipping around her and eyes gleaming with an intense light. Her servant hovered behind her, shielding her from the rain and wind.
“Close the tent flap!” I called.
Ayrula gave me a smirk as she pulled the flap down and cinched the tie back in place. Usla waited outside, too big to fit inside the tent and leave us with any room to move. The flap rattled in the wind, the edges lifting to let in smaller gusts, but the icy chill had been cut back.
“The wind’s picking up,” Ayrula said.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
She gave me a bland look, letting my sarcasm slide right off her.
“I meant,” she continued, “that it’s unusual. The wind shouldn’t be so biting. It’s like winter's coming down from the mountains sooner than it should be.”
“Does that affect us?” I asked, rolling over on an elbow to look up at her.
“It might.”
She went to the large chest at the end of the tent and opened it. Inside were more furs, knitted fabrics, and quilted tunics. She pulled out a thick woolen sweater in a soft green and pulled it over her head then turned to me.
“Well, that’s not going to keep you warm,” she said, looking over my outfit.
I looked down at the simple dress I’d been wearing since Ashton. Just an old hand-me-down from one of the farmer’s daughters in the small town, but serviceable. In normal weather.
Ayrula turned back to the trunk and fished out another bundle of fabric
, this time in a rusty brown. She tossed it to me over her shoulder.
“Put that on. You can’t stay cooped up in here all day.”
I did as she said, pulling on the sweater, the woolen fabric scratching against my skin. The thick sweater hung down to my knees, but I was grateful.
“But what does the early winter mean for the caravan?” I asked.
“I’m not sure yet. We’ll find out at breakfast, though. Let’s go.”
She peeled back the tent flap, and the cold blast of air swept through, lifting up the edge of the sweater and chilling my spine though it wasn’t as biting as it had been. I quickly wrapped a strip of cloth around my waist and cinched it tight, cutting down some of the bite.
I followed her through the small tent complex, making our way to the center. The closer we got, the more the wind seemed to die down, funneled around the center by the wagons and tents on the outskirts of the caravan. Once we reached the center, the wind was more bearable but only barely. There weren’t enough tents and wagons to block it all out.
A small group of people gathered around the fire as it whipped about in the breeze.
“Ah good, Ayrula and our young guest,” Edwum said, holding a steaming mug of something out to each of us.
I took the mug, nodding my thanks, and carefully sipped at the bitter brew. At that point, I couldn’t afford to be picky—it was warm, and I could feel the heat spreading through my insides, driving back the chill a bit more.
“I trust you slept well, young Sybel.”
I nodded, giving him a smile.
“Good. Ayrula, get her some food, please. We shouldn’t let the young girl wither away any more than she already is.”
Ayrula quickly moved to the campfire and started ladling out some of the hot porridge into two earthenware bowls. I was glad to see the dark flecks of a spiced bark had been added to the porridge. It was just one of the spices I had found while foraging, and added a lot more flavor than that first bowl I had a month earlier.
