Some level of Sorn took in the room’s layout with a cool eye, nodding in approval at the frequent air ducts placed between numerous forges wherein even now men were intently forging various weapons and armaments of war. The vents letting in what amounted to a constant breeze blowing through the chamber had been expertly crafted, and sufficiently interspaced so as to allow for a steady supply of fresh air, as well as venting fumes that would otherwise have slowly poisoned the workers within.
It was, interestingly enough, of a design approximating that of the elven smithy in the lower reaches of his own clan's nest of caverns, though cruder in design. Of course, his people had little to fear from fumes or toxins, but for the elves, proper ventilation had been a necessity.
The clanking of the hammers against metal was a familiar one to Sorn, though the cold song of steel against anvil lacked the resonance of mithril, and the warmth washing over him was as nothing compared to the heat to be found in a mithril forge. Yet as comfortable as it had been for Sorn to bathe in that soothing warmth, it had been of an intensity sufficient so as to necessitate the elves' constant use of their magic wards against fire, puny as they were, lest they drop in seconds from the overwhelming heat.
A forge-scarred man, skin thickened and rough, soon made his way to his guests, giving the Captain of the Royal Guardsmen a friendly clap on the shoulder.
"Captain Vrelin! A pleasure to see you."
He gave Sorn an appraising look and a respectful nod both, before turning his focus once more to the captain.
"Your friend seems filled with a wrath to do a warrior proud. So how may I help you on this most ill boded eve?"
"So you have heard?" Captain Vrelin's voice was cool, his eyes intent. Sorn in that moment realized that this was the first time that he had ever heard the man's name spoken.
The weapon smith gave the captain a grim nod. "Aye. Rumor flies faster than a girl's chastity in these castle halls, as you should well know, Captain. Is it true that Lord Vorstice turned traitor and attempted to assassinate the king?"
The captain nodded grimly at that. "And were it not for my fierce looking companion here, he may well have succeeded at poisoning the king's daughter as well."
The man gasped, his eyes widening in genuine horror at the thought. "By all the gods, not poor little Elissa!" The man's fists clenched in outrage. "May that bastard be flayed alive for the crimes he committed!"
"We're working in that," Captain Vrelin assured with a grim little smile. "In the meantime, Vorbin, if you would be so kind as to accouter whatever our good companion Sorn here may require in terms of armaments, you would have the king's own gratitude."
Vrelin's gaze held the still shaken blacksmith's for a moment. "Equip him as he desires, and shirk not his requests, good blacksmith, no matter how… unexpected they may be. The king himself has made his will clear in this, and indeed it appears that our young friend here is not one to be underestimated in any way."
The burly figure favored Sorn with a bow, his thick curly head dipping almost to his waist. "My lord. Know that you have my eternal gratitude for the service you have rendered in saving our fair Elissa. Whatever equipment you desire, should it be within my power to give to you in these halls, is yours."
Captain Vrelin gave a pleased smile. "It seems you are well in hand, my young friend. Vorbin is our chief weaponsmith, and will no doubt be competent to your every need. When you are equipped as you see fit, you have but to send for a page to be led directly to His Majesty who I am sure will want to see you, regardless of whatever else transpires on this night. And Sorn?" Vrelin said, turning his gaze full onto Sorn. "For saving our princess, you have my eternal thanks as well."
Favoring Sorn with a bow of gratitude of his own, Captain Vrelin quickly left the chamber.
Vorbin cast an appraising gaze at Sorn's frame. "You seem a fit enough lad, strong of arm and thigh, if not a natural bruiser, and your stance looks to be a balanced one. I would imagine that you are quick on your feet as well. Would I be correct in concluding that you were trained as a fencer?"
Sorn smiled coolly at Vorbin, his rage banked for the moment under an icy amusement as he gazed at the good-natured weaponsmith.
"You would be correct," Sorn said, recalling when he had finally felt worthy of the distinction. It had been many seasons back, during an intense bout between himself and his grandfather, who had at that point still been his denmother, the season before his cousins had been placed under his own care.
24
It had been a furious battle, their swords clashing with blazing speed, Sorn's blade all but dancing with the elegant grace his grandfather had worked so hard to instill in him. It had thrilled him when his series of feints, parries, and ripostes had finally resulted in his scoring a telling blow upon his grandfather's chest, just prior to his grandfather knocking his own blade free and smacking Sorn's skull with the hilt of his sword, and a dizzy Sorn had found himself on his rump with his opponent's sword to his throat.
Sorn still remembered his grandfather's warm chuckle as he gazed with pride at his stunned grandson.
"Your skills are developing nicely, my little clutchling. No doubt you would give near any mortal a fair run for their money. Your score to my chest was a telling one, but it left you just off balance enough for your present unenviable condition."
His grandfather smiled. "Fret not too greatly, Sorn. No mortal would have stood against your blow. His heart would have been cleaved in twain, and it is unlikely indeed that he would have had the will or strength in those last seconds of life to successfully disarm you and wound you in turn."
His grandfather's warm demeanor suddenly snapped into something cold and firm, mercurial as he often was, the very epitome a dragon. "But then again, grandson, you never know. Practice. That is your one hope of salvation from the random folly of death in battle. Practice."
His grandfather's gaze turned reflective. "Not that you need to worry, seeing as your form is hardly likely to be easily penetrated by their paltry weapons. Your essence enhanced flesh is far too strong to permit its easy dissolution. No doubt your aunt will recognize this in time. Already your skill in the art of forms is beyond that of most, and you should take pride in achieving a feat heretofore unknown in one so very young, and a clutchling at that. Nonetheless, it is wise that you seek to master the arts prevalently used by this form, for any of a number of reasons."
The powerful form master then clapped Sorn's shoulder, Sapphire blue eyes peering into Sorn's own. "I have taught you how to fence, true enough, grandson, and the grace and balance it has taught you to harness in this form will no doubt serve you well. So too your style, relying as it does on the quickness of your well-trained wrist, will allow you to effortlessly parry and counterstrike your opponents. For more often than not, your foes would be using blades requiring a slower style of swordplay, using their shoulder as much as their forearm. Thus their strokes will appear pitifully slow compared to your own quick snapping blows. Against such opposition you shall inevitably prevail, I should think, so long as your focus is intent and your skills sharp." His grandfather squeezed Sorn's arm as he said this, smiling as he continued.
"And your strength is already greater than a handful of men, allowing you to strike with the speed of a dueling saber, and the power of a greatsword! In speed and strength, you shall best them all, with the bastardized fighting style I have taught you, eschewing the flaws and incorporating instead the strengths of multiple fencing systems into one grand whole, skilled in countering the strengths of numerous opposing weapons and bringing quick deaths to your foes! And you, Sorn, are my most worthy disciple. In the realms of mortals, only a handful will be your better in skill."
"Your analogy is quite fitting, Grandfather," Sorn said wryly, though his eyes were bitter. He was all too aware of how appropriate his grandfather's words fit him. For, after all, it was his father who should be giving him these lessons, testing his limits, and complimenting him when he finally showed himself
worthy. Most of the time he was content with his life and well satisfied with his accomplishments, but being without a father he could call his own still troubled him from time to time. His ache was distracted quickly enough by his grandfather's powerful blow, striking with lightning speed and sending a surprised Sorn off balance, stumbling to the floor.
"There will be no self-pity in my grandson," Sorn's grandfather said grimly.
His normally benign countenance was now quite fierce with the hot glare sent his grandson's way, giving evidence to his true nature normally so well concealed under his mortal form. "Your talents are the envy of any dragon even thrice your age, and your skill with forms is second only to that of form masters themselves. You are bright, quick of wit and body, and most importantly, thoughtful. You consider things.
Further, you have me for your denmother, a gift no clutchling would be ungrateful to be so honored with. Indeed, many would suffer great peril to find one such as I to teach them."
Sorn’s grandfather's eyes now blazed, and Sorn had to prevent himself from instinctively baring his throat and keening, to show his ritual submission to his grandfather's sway. Yet he knew his grandfather would just laugh at him, leaving him feeling even more foolish than he did now.
"It matters not that you are a bastard, Sorn. Your abilities are no less for that in any case. They merely show the strength of and heighten the honor of your mother. Only one dragon has used that as grounds to challenge you, and so weak a claim that has in our culture you could have ignored it with utter impunity. Yet you did not. You fought him. You fought him bravely, cleverly, with strength of will and mastery over arcane lore and form both, allowing you to overcome a dragon twice your age and near half again your size. You could have killed him, Sorn. For all the wounds you had suffered in that duel, in the end it was his throat that was in your mouth, and all he could do was keen for mercy. And you gave him that. You gave him his life, he who had been so ready to take advantage and goad to his death a youngling half his age, still under the care of a denmother. Yet you spared him still. Taking only the smallest fraction of his hoard and his oath of acquiescence to you." His grandfather gave a now embarrassed Sorn a weighing glance.
"None could doubt your skills then, my grandson. And the honor you accrued was twice over, for in showing one who had so obviously sought to goad and destroy you anything but death bespoke to all the mercy of the crow. Phenomenal to see in one so young, though in truth, many of us weren't sure if it wasn't the height of foolishness as well.
“Nonetheless, Sorn, you have acquitted yourself well, demonstrating skills and arcane battle prowess that no dragon your age has ever matched before. It matters not a damn wit who your father was, a lesson which you should by this time know well."
His grandfather gave him an affectionate smile before backhanding Sorn with another expert blow that set him flying into the weapons racks, his grandfather chuckling as a now dizzy Sorn picked himself up.
"Come, grandson. It is time for a new lesson for you! I have taught you well the mastery of the light blade, controlling its every movement so as to allow you to move it effortlessly where you will, when you will.
But now, I believe, it is time to show you a different style. This style, my youngling, is not based on feint and parry, countering your opponent’s move to riposte with your own."
His grandfather smiled, pleased as he often was when talking of arts martial or forms both.
"With this style, as with any martial art; speed, power, and grace are your cornerstones as always, yet the movements and tactics are different. It is time that you learnt the style in which heavier blades were meant to be used.”
With those words, his grandfather slowly drew from the weapons racks a long weighty sword no less than five feet in length with a slight curve to the blade. He immediately sent it spinning in a dizzying series of movements that took Sorn's breath away, the sword arcing through the air at a speed near that of his grandfather's saber, yet with a power that would have effortlessly cleaved any opponent in twain, whether he wore chain mail or no.
"You will note, my grandson, that there is no graceful riposte with this form. And a parry, when done, is quickly turned into a slash, the moment the opponent's blade is stopped."
So saying, his grandfather demonstrated a second series of slashes, though this time stopping it abruptly at various points with perfect precision before sending it slicing through the air once more with blinding speed at a completely different angle.
"Now we shall go over the basic katas that will serve you well with all types of Zweihanders, Gross Messers, or Odachi, using the series of interconnecting slashes, spins, spearing thrusts and cuts you saw me demonstrate but a moment ago. The power of your blade shall be such that you will be able to brush aside near all attempts at parries, striking with killing blows even as your opponents still must close to use their own weapons. Spears and pike alone could strike you first, yet you shall, with your own strength and my skill, be able to blast through such with ease, shattering those wooden shafts to kindling. When you are ready, I shall also teach you how best to dodge an opponent's blow even as you strike with your own, how to best pivot and spin so as to change your facing and lash out at opponents gathering to your rear or sides in but an eye-blink, refining all the skills you already have from our fencing practice.
"But first things first. With these heavier, longer blades, until one is quite proficient, the best defense is almost always a powerful offense. Even so, you must maintain perfect balance, so as to be able to dodge or pivot in an instant. Here, even more so than in fencing, your strength will give you a devastating damage. The power of your blows will be magnified many times over what a mortal might bring to bear, delivered at such speed that your blade shall cleave free limbs and crush even armored skulls before most opponents can even get in range. Thus your first lesson as an initiate will be in mastering the offensive katas I will now show you."
His grandfather's eyes peered intently into Sorn's own, and Sorn could feel his own desire to learn this intriguing style lighting inside him with the familiar passion he took to all of his lessons with his grandfather. He gave an eager nod, and his grandfather smiled at his enthusiastic grandson.
"Good, my little wyrmling. Now take this sword."
With that, his grandfather handed Sorn a blade slightly shorter than his own had been, four and a half feet in length, dull as all the practice blades were in his grandfather's training room, yet expertly balanced for the spinning series of slashes and strikes that were the hallmark of the katas his grandfather began to teach him that day.
"Now you see how this style differs from the saber? Here you are commanding far greater force and power into each blow, and here you seek to power through all resistance, not feint around it as you would the saber. Ideally, the rapidity and fluidity of your strikes coming from multiple angles will overwhelm your opponent as he tries to parry the consecutive blows, a struggle made all the more futile by the fact that with your power, your blade would most likely cleave through his first parry or block, in any case."
Sorn smiled at his grandfather's words, understanding by the feel of the blade, and the motions that the sword compelled, that his grandfather understood these weapons perfectly.
After countless days of diligent practice, his grandfather gave him an approving nod at his near mastery of the basic offensive katas he had taught. "Your body now knows the basic motions needed to fight aggressively with this blade. Though what you know now combined with your natural strength, speed, and power will easily let you overwhelm any number of mortal opponents you might cross, this is only the first step of your training. Against one well trained in the sword who also has great strength, you are dead if you don't know specifically how to dodge and counter his strikes, to meet the feints of this blade, so different than the saber, and counter in turn.
"Now first we shall practice developing your ability to parry. You will find the motions flowing naturally after the fir
st few times I rap you on the head, as you learn how to quickly respond to my threat. Now remember, Sorn, you are just to counter my blows."
His grandfather carefully led him through learning the motions to the eight major techniques of parrying with his blade at various angles, soon enough forcing Sorn to counter his blows with increasing speed and ferocity. In truth, Sorn was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the fourth time his grandfather sent him spinning to the ground with his ears ringing and, surprisingly, actual blood welling from his nose.
His grandfather's amused chuckles served as some small consolation, signaling that a break was imminent. They would then allow their hungry bodies to transform into their true shapes, reveling in the freedom of their now unfurled wings as they prepared to descend from the mountain ledge to hunt the several horses his grandfather had ordered released for their enjoyment from the preserves before their daily lessons.
"You are coming along well, grandson, never fret. Always keep alert, and you shall do fine!" So said his grandfather after every practice, such that it had almost become a mantra, just before they leaped forth from the cliff's edge, launching themselves into the deep blue afternoon skies just begging for the kiss of their wings. How Sorn would luxuriate in those afternoon flights beside his grandfather, soaring above the landscape below, riding currents mundane and etherial alike.
And so in truth, Sorn had looked forward to his martial lessons as much for his grandfather's company as for the sake of learning itself. Soon enough Sorn learned how to convert his parries into strikes of his own and, just as importantly, how to parry a counter in turn. It was not so long before Sorn found himself thinking that this was not so very different from saber work, after all. Of course the style was quite different, the blows were fiercer, if a tad slower, and an offensive stance had what seemed to him a considerable edge over a defensive stance. Still, in terms of keeping one's balance and judging an opponent, countering his blows and responding in turn, timing his strikes to best take advantage of his enemy's momentary vulnerabilities while always probing for an opening, the two styles of swordplay had a lot in common.
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