Etherwalker by Cameron Dayton Page B

setting and his own ruined life. Everything that he had known and loved was gone. Was dead. The numbness he had felt in the days following his master’s burial was leaving—evaporating—in the frigid heat of true sorrow.
    The following night, Enoch had drawn his swords and made an effort to move through the opening steps of Cisne Caido. Rictus was impressed, but he thought that it might be useful to teach Enoch something a little more “lowbrow.” Every night since then, they’d sparred with shrouds wrapped around their weapons to muffle the sounds—and to minimize dismemberment. Rictus was reminded to disconnect the cable and silence his humming longsword after his shroud shivered apart in a flurry of dry powder. Enoch shuddered to think what would have happened if he’d tried to block that first strike.
    At least I wouldn’t be feeling these bruises! It’s a good thing I’m covered in grave-wrappings—my arms look like they’ve been through a wool carder.
    Enoch smiled in spite of his sore limbs. The nightly bouts had been a surprising remedy for his sorrow. Not curing, but bridling his grief. As he moved and spun and cut through the air, Enoch could feel the heartache softening in his chest, flowing along his arms and out along the flashing edges of the derech and the iskeyar . The sadness was still there, but it didn’t rule him.
    It wasn’t the exercise alone. Training with Rictus was very different than training with Master Gershom. Laughter in place of stern command. Clever suggestions instead of orders. And the specter was good . Surprisingly, delightfully good. What Rictus lacked in quickness and agility, he supplemented with an amazing reach and brilliant swordplay. He focused on pressing the attack, often leaving himself wide open as he sent a whistling volante across Enoch’s chest. The frenzy with which Rictus pressed the attack was unnerving, and Enoch could see how even the most seasoned warrior might panic under such a flurry of blows.
    But Enoch wasn’t a seasoned warrior, just a quick student with a talent for seeing through patterns. After two close losses to the specter’s tireless blade, he concluded that if he could just keep his focus enough to step through the volante with a cabra breve , he would be able to riposte under the specter’s extended arm and end the bout.
    If he closed his eyes, he could remember everything about that duel, the third bout of that night; how he’d focused on holding off the onslaught of flying attacks, waiting for Rictus to pivot back on his left foot in preparation for the sweeping horizontal advance. The longsword had come rushing towards him, and this time Enoch had stepped into the arc, leaning backwards and spinning on his heels so that Rictus’s elbow passed inches from his face. It had been a simple matter of extending his right arm as he completed the turn. Rictus laughed and lowered his blade. Enoch’s derech was lodged tightly between his third and fourth rib.
    “Well that’s an impressive little piece of ballet. I tell you what—I’ll give you this one.”
    Enoch was surprised.
    “You’ll give it to me? My blade is still stuck in your chest! You’re dead!”
    “No, no, no. No, sir. First of all, I was dead before you met me. Second, that sword would be a real worry for me if I actually had a lung there that you could open, but I don’t. The fact that I can stand here discussing the merits of said fatal blow should be evidence enough of that.”
    Here he waved off Enoch’s sputtering protests with a bony hand. Enoch remembered the odd feeling of anger at how unfair it had seemed. Master Gershom would have complimented him on the flourish. But what Rictus had said next still burned in his ears:
    “Listen, Enoch. The real issue here is that you treated this duel as a game between equals. You saw my top-heavy offense as a flaw rather than a stratagem.
    “Tell me, kid, what would you do now that your longest blade is lodged in between