by Damien Lake
Braydon picked a sword from the cart. Other than the orders for laying the mats, Marik had yet to hear him speak and assumed he merely acted as an assistant for Mylor and Nyla. Mylor took the sword, holding it point upward.
“This is the most common design around Galemar and the weapon you’ll be seeing the most of. You can see the guard to the left and right of the hilt curves upward toward the tip. This gives you an advantage when blocking an enemy sword since they have to pull their own blade back rather than slide it off to the side.
“The pommel is this giant medallion of steel. It’s heavy and very effective for smashing your enemy’s face when your first strike misses to the side. The grip is leather over wood; one of the best types in my opinion. It’s easy to clean or replace and maintains a firm grip.
“Look at the blade color, a bright silver-gray. It’s the best quality steel our smithy can produce, which means it’s among the strongest steel in the kingdom. The wide fuller running the length of the blade cuts down on weight and also maintains the blade’s strength. This particular blade is two and a half feet long and two inches wide for the most part.
“It has its own strengths and weaknesses, just like any other weapon around. It’s best suited to unit fighting, by which I mean lots of men close together. It’s great for chopping and even thrusting in the right circumstances. Not much finesse is required of this blade.
“Its weakness is its short grip, suitable for only one hand. It’s unwieldy in a one-on-one fight. The one-handed grip works best in a lighter weight sword such as a rapier, several of which are in the cart, but in larger blades it makes for a slower response to threats. In spite of that, don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a slow weapon. When I say this blade is unwieldy, I mean when comparing it against other types we’re going to look at. Take your eye off this for a moment and you can lose your head. Now, I need a volunteer.”
No one leapt forward. Mylor pointed to a man at random. “You there. You seem to have a similar blade next to you.”
The man sat without moving for a moment, unsure what Mylor expected.
“Come on! Get your sword and your ass up here!”
Obviously feeling ill treated, the man rose and stepped onto the raised flooring. He was uncomfortable standing before everybody as the object of their attention.
“Pull out your sword so we can compare.”
Marik happened to recall the man’s name from the role call; Orbier, if he remembered correctly. Orbier drew his blade and irritation flashed across his features when Mylor snatched it from his grip. Their instructor resumed as he held the two side-by-side.
“I see this one is nearly the same length, though a tad longer. The metal is also darker, a lower quality steel, and the guard is straight rather than curved. It has the same fuller design and pommel and the blade’s weight is greater by a half pound if I’m judging it correctly. Here.”
He tossed the blade to Orbier who, surprised by the move, fumbled with it before tightening his grasp on the hilt. Mylor stood oblivious to the gaze leveled on him while he spoke to Orbier directly.
“Show me how you attack with that chicken killer there. I’ll show the crowd how to defend against it.”
Whether it was the rude reference or the implication Orbier’s skills were nothing to his own, Mylor offended the man to the point of not needing to ask twice. Probably that had been his intention.
Orbier struck with a horizontal slash that Mylor easily saw coming. He blocked with the demonstration sword, then slid the blade quickly up before Orbier could recover. Mylor turned the sword hard so his opponent’s blade caught between his own and the curved guard. Angry, Orbier jerked his blade. Only a few inches pulled backward. With a sidestep and a harder yank, he retrieved his blade.
He prepared to retaliate when Mylor halted him with a raised hand. “As you can see, the curved guard really does add an advantage to a group fight. It doesn’t hold the opponent’s blade for long but if you can trap it for a few moments in battle, he is defenseless and one of your unit mates can deliver a fatal blow. In a one-on-one, as here, you can hold the blade, but unless you have a secondary weapon in your other hand, like a dagger, it doesn’t do much good, does it? And in case you were thinking you might lift a foot and stomp your enemy in the nuts, think again. The instant you shifted your weight, the strength trapping your enemy’s blade will be gone. It’s not smart to be fighting one-on-one and suddenly be standing on just one leg after he frees his sword. Now, come at me again.”
The morning lessons continued until the noon bell rang. Orbier showed the skill that had gained him entrance to the band, but Mylor obviously possessed far superior abilities and demonstrated many other maneuvers to showcase the sword’s strengths and weaknesses. Once he finished with the one-handed short sword he displayed other blades of similar type.
“There are minor differences in width and length, grip and guard, but at heart, the differences don’t matter much,” he said. “Learn one well and you can handle most the others. The guards are what you really need to be most aware of, and the points. Those are what most amateurs pay no attention to.”
He let them return to their barracks for lunch with the admonition to return in a candlemark or not return at all.
* * * * *
Marik and Dietrik retreated to the Ninth’s barracks along with their few fellow D Class squad members. They had dined in a tavern on the Row with Hayden last night. This would be their first experience with barracks food. Baskets with bread, hardboiled eggs and small cheese blocks had been sitting on the tables that morning. Bread and cheese hardly reflected the quality of a kitchen’s culinary expertise.
Most tables in the dining area bore one or two men. Nowhere near as many as Marik would have thought. Perhaps twenty men in all. Each table held pitchers filled with different drinks. Once he had retrieved his plate, bowl and tin cup from his closet, he returned with Dietrik to the window between the mess area and the kitchen.
On the other side, two large pots containing a red substance rested on a counter beside a sizable basket covered by a white cloth. Two men ahead finished and left for their tables before Marik could determine the fare.
A dark olive-skinned man in the kitchen held out his hand for their utensils without saying a word. Onto Marik’s plate he scooped inch-long meat strips in a red sauce with white swirls. The bowl received a mixture of cooked vegetables and two lumpy bread rolls from the basket were dropped on top. Under an Olander accent so thick Marik could barely understand, the man asked, “Watte or shuse?”
Marik struggled for a moment before figuring it out. “Water.”
He filled Marik’s cup from his own bevy of pitchers, then loaded Dietrik’s plate and bowl. “I think I’ll try a smattering of that juice, if you don’t mind.”
They found a table empty except for a man at the other end they did not recognize. Marik studied the concoction before him and ventured, “Well, it doesn’t smell bad.”
“No, it smells rather delectable, in fact.”
Marik dipped his spoon into the meat dish. He brought the mixture to his mouth…then smiled.
“Hey, that’s pretty good. It’s pork strips, in a kind of tomato sauce I think.” He tasted the white swirls. “And some kind a cheese too.”
Dietrik nodded after tasting his own. “Very good. I wasn’t expecting much.”
“I’ve always heard stories about the food in the army.”
“I assure you that it managed to live down to every tale ever told. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“I suppose it gets worse out on the road though.”
“Most likely that’s an accurate forecast. Still, the Kings must make a bloody fortune to afford this kind of food on a daily basis.”
“Probably, but the dish seems a simple one. The real difference is probably the cooks.”
“Hmm. Let’s ask Hayden about it the next time we cross paths with the fellow.”
The rolls also turned out to have
cheese cooked into them, though a yellow type instead of the white in the pork dish. The vegetables were fresh, if from the last crops. All in all, it proved to be a better meal than Marik had eaten in quite awhile. He sipped his water and asked Dietrik how the juice tasted.
“Interesting,” he replied. “It’s tart, but not sour at all. I’ve never encountered it before. It must be local. I believe it’s a berry juice.”
“Probably the berry is all we can get now that most of the fruit crops are over.”
“It’s not bad. I think I like it.” He reached for a pitcher placed in the table’s center and refilled his cup. “Definitely not bad at all.”
“I’ll stick to water.”
They took their dishes to a set of large water basins next to the kitchen window. The pair rinsed the dishes and dried them with a rag left there for the purpose. After stowing them in their closets, they hurried back to the training hall.
* * * * *
“Before we go to the next sword, I want you to keep a fact in mind. I’m saving most of the technique and method for after the displays, but I want you clear on this one point before we go any farther.
“No matter what weapon you’re using or defending against, there are only nine different types of attack. High and mighty fighting masters pass their styles on to apprentices, especially among the upper classes, but no matter how fancy the technique is, all the attacks are one of the following nine. First, North.”
Mylor raised the short sword and struck from above, as if crushing the head of an invisible foe.
“Northeast.”
He slashed at an angle from his right diagonally downward.
“East.”
A horizontal slash this time from right to left, stopping the blow where an opponent would have stood.
“Southeast. South.”
This last formed a strike upward from below that would have ended the possibility of his enemy siring any children.
“Southwest. West. Northwest. And Point.” With the last, he thrust the blade forward to skewer his imaginary foe through the chest.
“On a bloody field or in the civilized fencing duels of the aristocracy, any attack is, at heart, one of these nine. Any technique you ever encounter, disregarding speed and accuracy, is one of these nine. Any weapon you ever see will use one of these nine. A fancy technique’s power only stems from how it combines these simple attacks to fool an enemy into lowering his guard in a specific area. My only advice for your next few months of training is to master these nine attacks, then once you have done that, work on increasing your speed, accuracy and strength.
“So, moving on. The next sword type we’ll examine are the hand-and-a-half blades. On the whole, the uses are the same as the one-handed swords but with a few significant differences. Braydon?”
The assistant handed Mylor the larger sword. He took the short sword and stowed it back in the cart.
For the rest of the day Mylor spoke about longer swords, slowing only to humiliate several reluctant volunteers. Around him, men were restless and kept glancing out the door, hoping the day had passed faster than it seemed within this wooden box of a room, but not Marik. To him, time flew on silver wings. When the twilight bell sounded he needed to peer through the open doors before he could believe it. Mylor sent them back to their barracks, his surly attitude harsher than ever as his battle instincts were choked into submission.
“Dawn! Anyone late is late for good!”
This time the dining area nearly burst to overflowing when they entered, looking forward to the next meal if it turned out to be as delicious as the last. It not only turned out to be as delicious as the last, it turned out to be the last meal, the pork in red sauce making an encore appearance.
After questioning others at their table, they learned that the kitchen cooked the main dish for the day in the afternoon and kept it warm until evening. The bread and vegetables were freshly made for supper, and the meat remained as tasty, having toughened none at all despite the marks it sat in the cook pot. Marik and Dietrik hardly minded the repetition of such delicious fare. Most squad members, aware of the routine, chose to have either lunch or dinner in the barracks, taking their other meal in a tavern along Ale House Row.
“Lunch is cheaper, so I saved the extra metal for ale tonight!” This comment emitted from a large, muscular man wedged beside Marik with food dried into his beard. Marik had missed the man’s name and tried not to look at him while he brayed laughter, spitting food chunks from his mouth as he did so.
Oddly, considering he spent the day sitting on a mat, Marik found himself exhausted. He thought he ought not to be so tired as he stored his eating utensils.
“It’s all that mental exercise, mate. You shouldn’t work an underdeveloped muscle that hard without a good warm up first!”
“Thanks.”
He turned his back on the grinning Dietrik to fall like a man shot by an arrow onto his cot. Marik only had long enough to wonder if Mylor would leave him any time at all to track down Maddock and the others before succumbing to a deep sleep.
* * * * *
Nyla reappeared the next morning. She seemed content to sit in a small office with the door open, listening to Mylor’s presentation. Today they began with the giant two-handed swords nearly tall as Mylor himself. Marik listened as attentively as the previous day, except this time he discovered nothing he had not already learned from Maddock and Chatham on the road.
Mylor’s opinion of anyone who chose such a blade as their primary weapon ran low. As he put it, “There are only two real uses for these monsters. Running up and cutting off the spear heads of an enemy line with your unit defending you, or taking on a mounted enemy. This cludge is too big and far too damned heavy to swing quickly and leaves you wide open, inviting death. The leather wrap on the blade immediately fore of the hilt is called a ricasso. Its purpose is to provide a shorter grip. Once the spear heads are all hacked off, you adjust your grip like so, with one hand on the ricasso and the other on the hilt. That let’s you wield the monster like an awkward hand-an-a-half until you retreat far enough that you can switch to an actual combat sword.”
After scorning the weapon with his vitriolic derision, he effectively brought down three ‘volunteers’ with it. A short break later they reassembled to begin interesting discussions on rapiers, made all the more so since Nyla took over while Mylor claimed her seat in the office.
“None of you men carry a rapier.” She paused for a moment, leaving the men to wonder if that had been a statement or some sort of obscure question. “A rapier is not a very effective field blade. It’s favored by the privileged classes more than us deprived serfs, so we don’t encounter them often. We only bring it up because you might encounter them in specific circumstances.
“For most contracts, at least one unit is sent, and most times multiple units are assigned. Hardly ever is a fighting force smaller than a unit sent, but it does happen. Most of the time it’s for bodyguard duties, in which case a unit suffering from heavy casualties is usually assigned until the new recruits arrive. This last summer, units were broken up and assigned to the nobility’s sons who competed in the Arm of Galemar tournament; nobles who needed extra men and were willing to pay our fees.
“If you ever pull duty like that, the blades carried by those around you will likely be rapiers of one variety or another. Braydon has a few for you lasses to play with.”
Ignored for the most part, Braydon handed her a thin blade from the cart’s stock.
“In essence, a rapier is a one-handed blade. You’ll see most of these have a basket hilt made of shaped bars curving around the grip in various designs.” She ran her finger along sweeping steel curves, weaving around the thin-gripped hilt in an artistic spider web. “This protects the hand as well as providing balance for the sword since many have no distinguishable pommel.
“They’re light-weight swords, and the blades are always thin, narrow and long. Their greatest strength is their speed. They are t
he fastest blades you’ll ever see. In the hands of a master, they are very, very deadly.” Nyla stopped caressing the sword to whip it before her in a whistling slash. Its point targeted the nose on the man nearest her, only six inches separating flesh from steel. She twinkled when he flinched backward, then continued as though she had never stopped talking.
“Their weight is not much of a weakness. They’re light enough to be pushed away by the opposing blade rather than broken, but that means a wielder will be using dodges instead of blocks for their defense. The sweet trick to remember is never focus solely on the armed hand. Most rapiers have a companion blade; a small dagger of similar design usually carried in a belt behind the wielder’s back. Concentrate only on the hand wielding the rapier and the dagger will let your guts out.”
All that morning she demonstrated on the men how to be killed by a rapier with greater enthusiasm than Mylor. The blades were passed around. Marik’s appreciation arose from how light they were. Many had ridges rather than fullers running their length. It decreased their flexibility, but increased the thrusting strength, the rapier’s strongest attack. Not all had the basket hilt design, many sporting ring guards like most of the hand-and-a-half blades. He noticed Dietrik appeared enraptured with the blades.
Nyla let them go early for their meal, giving them an extra half mark.
Marik’s head felt heavy. The effort of straining to memorize everything he heard for the last day and a half blunted his capacities. He was not about to mention it to Dietrik, knowing what the man would probably say. All in all, it was a bad time for a confrontation.
“Hey! I been looking for you!”
Marik wished the voice were unfamiliar. He looked up to see Beld The Not So Beautiful approaching with his two siblings in spirit. Unsurprisingly, and proving the wisdom of Mylor, all three giants carried big two-handed claymores.
Dietrik stopped behind Marik. He could not tell if his new friend stood with him or only waited for this conflict to run its course.
