This is the beginning of Book 2. You don’t need to read the first book to enjoy this new adventure, but you can find the beginning of Book 1 here.
In my first lesson, I realize Jilli went easy on me. Leito does not.
His strikes are heavy, no holding back.
I parry and stagger another step back, driven by the strength and speed of his strike. I shuffle my feet as I try to adjust them into a stronger stance. The next strike comes before I can get my weapon back to ready.
Leito’s wooden sword strikes my shoulder, making me flinch as he adds a new layer to the bruise forming there.
“Too slow, little Lo,” Leito says, his every word like music. He’s smiling at me. I bet he doesn’t have any bruises. I doubt they’d even show on his dark skin.
I drop the tip of my wooden sword to the ground. It makes a gritty sound in the dirt. The smell of sweat and yellow dust hangs sharp on the air. I rub the bruised spot. “Does it always have to be in the same spot? I think I’m tenderized enough here.”
A squeaky chitter answers before Leito can. Mieklo runs up my leg to curl around my neck, tangling himself in hair that’s fallen loose of the leather strap. The xichu strokes a lock of my ponytail with his delicate rodent hands and chitters something reassuring. His long tufted tail wraps around my shoulder.
“I’m alright, Mieklo. Training comes with a few bruises.”
I can feel his concern, brought on by my distress. I give him a reassuring smile as I stroke his soft fur.
“No distractions, young lady,” Leito says.
I untangle Mieklo from my hair and nuzzle him before setting him on the ground. “I’ve got work to do. Why don’t you help the others with cleaning up?”
The xichu’s head tilts, but he doesn’t move. He does not trust the others yet, and that thought comes across to me in his emotions through our bond. So instead of leaving, he scampers up a blackened pile of debris and settles himself in to watch, stroking at the tuft on his tail nervously.
“Okay, then be my cheering section.” Gods know I need it.
I rub my shoulder as I take the wooden sword in both hands. “How about aiming for a different spot next time you beat me?”
“If you remain so negative, you’ve already lost,” Leito says, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disapproval.
“I expect I’ll get beaten many times,” I say.
“Yes, but if you do not have the confidence in yourself to know you can win, you beat yourself.”
“No, I’m pretty sure you’re the one beating me.” I crack a self-deprecating smile and hold my wooden sword out before me.
“Do you think me impossible to disarm?” Leito asks. He flourishes his wooden sword before him, his empty hand raised and all dancing fingers, as if he will cast a spell. But no power gathers there.
I ponder the question. There’s what I think, and then there’s what I think Leito wants to hear. I reply carefully. “I know you’re better with a sword than me. So I know that means I’ll likely fail.”
“Bah! That’s logic. Do you think logic will save you when you’re staring down death? Do you think a haz-dra will be cowed by your logic, no matter how infallible? Will your logic stop a blade? No! Every battle will pit you against injury and death. You can’t think your way through that. You have to act. You have to fight. Fight! You live too much in your head!” The colorful bard is dancing and throwing his arms around for emphasis by the end of his speech.
I bristle at his words. Of course I live in my head. Books and dreams were all I had before the erebus destroyed the library in Northend. Living in my head saved me those eight years. They were hard habits to break, even in the midst of my new friends.
“Forgive me. Sometimes my passion overruns me,” Leito continues. He doesn’t look sorry. He looks like he’s ready to conquer a hundred erebus with one hand tied behind his back. He’s flush with excitement from hearing his own voice.
”You want me to say, ‘I’ll beat you’? Is that it?”
“It’s a start, though that hardly sounded convincing.”
Leito settles into a fighting stance. His style is much different than Jilli’s too. He favors a thin, light blade as opposed to Jilli’s massive zweihander. The wooden sword is not as delicate as his sword, but he wields it like an extension of his arm.
I try to mimic the pose.
As soon as my wooden sword is up, Leito knocks it aside with a surprisingly heavy blow. He strikes near the tip of the blade, and while I fumble to regain control, he slides forward on one foot and strikes again.
The wooden sword tumbles over itself and clatters onto the sandy ground.
I hiss something very unladylike, staring at my empty hand.
“First lesson of swordfighting: Don’t let go of your blade,” Leito says. “That’s certain death.” He lowers his weapon and approaches me. A flick of his wrist flips my wooden sword into the air and into his offhand. He offers it to back me, hilt first.
As I take it, I squint up at him. The sun is unrelenting. “I thought you were going to teach me bard magic?”
Leito’s smile tempers, quenched like a blacksmith’s blade plunged into a bucket. “First, you need to know how to handle yourself without magic.”
“Let me guess, magic won’t stop a blade either?”
The bard chuckles. “No, it won’t. No matter how well you sing.”
The words leave a cold weight in my stomach. I might joke, but I am terrified to learn about being a bard. What if I’m no good? I’m barely any good with a sword.
I give the wooden weapon in my hand a fierce look.
“This is only your first day, miss Lola-Grace,” Leito says. “There’s no need to rush. We have plenty of time. Let’s finish our lesson for today, and I promise we’ll start with our first magic lesson tomorrow. Sound good?”
I nod.
“Excellent. Now raise your sword and come at me. Disarm me!”
The hollow crack of wood striking wood fills my ears as we dance backwards and forwards, left then right. Within minutes, my arms are quivering from the heavy blows. I continue to slash and stab, but Leito counters every one.
I parry and retreat a step. Leito comes forward, driving me back several more steps. As I give up more ground, my back strikes a burnt out merchant wagon.
Leito doesn’t ease his pressure. He comes in harder. His sword is a blur of wood, but I meet each blow, continuing to fend him off.
But I have nowhere to go.
No, I just can’t go backwards anymore.
Knocking aside his sword gives me the precious seconds I need to spin to my right and free myself. I step clear of Leito and the wagon and set my feet to prepare for the bard’s next attack.
“You should have pressed me while you had the chance,” Leito says. “You can only stay defensive for so long. Eventually you have to attack.” His sword never falters as he speaks.
I can’t reply. I’m using all of my physical energy just to hold him off.
He’s right, I can’t defend forever.
This is the longest I’ve held my own. My arms ache and burn, but they hold the wooden sword steady as I watch for Leito’s next move.
When he lunges, his weapon straight out before him, I’m ready to meet it with my own. Instead of knocking it away, I slide up along it and twirl my wooden sword until the blades tangle, rasping as they run along one another.
Leito twists away, and for the first time, he retreats to regain his footing and bring his sword back up.
I beam, but my elation is short lived.
He comes at me with short, quick attacks, and suddenly I’m back on my heels. “Attack me!” he shouts, knocking my sword to the side.
I clench my teeth, barely fending off his flurry of strikes.
“Don’t think about it, little scribe. Do it.”
I watch for an opening, but Leito gives none. His attacks are too quick. There’s no way to pierce the barrier he creates around him with his sword.
Then I knock it to the side. Leito’s off-hand side is bared to me.
Instead of pulling back to settle into a new defensive stance, I drive forward, leading with the tip of my wooden sword.
But Leito’s no longer exposed. His blade comes up. It tangles with mine. I try to hold it, but the hilt twists until it slips from my fingers. It flips from my hand and clatters against a sand-worn rock on the ground.
Leito strikes me on the shoulder, the other shoulder, starting a new bruise. “You think too much, but we will find a way to turn that to your advantage. That’s enough for today. Clean up. Rest up. Tomorrow the real training begins.”
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Effy J. Roan is a writer of dark and epic fantasy. She loves dragons, dogs, and endless worldbuilding. She likes to create monsters and research cultures and food for her fiction. You can find her on Facebook and Instagram.
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