arms from the force of the blow.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
His answer came in a sudden flurry of blows. His eyes were hard, focused, as he spun his practice sword in a dizzying pattern of blows. The wooden sword seemed almost alive in his hands, spinning in and hitting her once, twice, three times in rapid succession before she could get her feet under her and slip into a middle guard position. With each blow that connected, her arms ached. The strength in his arms was incredible! She marveled that someone so crippled could move with such grace.
Suddenly, his onslaught slowed. He broke into a more measured, steady rhythm, spinning the sword in a sequence of moves that she recognized. She had memorized all the practice sequences that the Sidena warriors trained with and so slipped into the form designed to counter the smith’s movements. Still, she was wary. Why was he attacking her?
The man shifted into a second sequence, and she responded in kind, slipping into its counter sequence and matching him blow for blow. The blood pounded in her ears, pushing adrenaline throughout her body, and her muscles loosened with the warmth of motion. The blacksmith was good, incredibly so, yet she almost smiled as she slipped into the forms. He shifted to a third sequence, and again she responded with the appropriate counter.
Their speed picked up, practice swords coming together with more force behind each blow. Lhaurel had never drilled so long before. Her muscles ached, her arm felt leaden with fatigue. But she felt a thrill of happiness running through her.
With a muffled grunt, the blacksmith executed a sudden twist on his blade, and Lhaurel’s practice sword was ripped from her weakened grip and dropped to the sand.
Sweat dripped down Lhaurel’s face. She breathed heavily, almost panting. The blacksmith didn’t even look winded.
“What . . .” she gasped, “what was the point of coming at me like that?”
“Would you have fought an old cripple if he’d just asked you?”
She pondered the question for only a few moments before answering, “No.”
“First thing you need to learn is to never trust what you see,” the smith said, bending down with a groan and picking up Lhaurel’s discarded sword. “Trust is more precious than water. You can’t trust anyone, not even your own eyes. Trust only your weapons.”
Lhaurel nodded, unable to articulate her words as she gulped down air.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked. He shuffled over to one of the bins and dropped the wooden practice swords inside.
“Kaiden brought me.”
“No, girl, I’m not talking about here with the Roterralar. I’m asking if you know why you’re here with me right now?”
She shook her head. Hadn’t she just asked him why she was here?
“Khari wants me to make you a sword,” he said, voice becoming quiet and raspy again. “The fool woman thinks you’ve got enough promise to be one of the warriors. Well, maybe she’s right. Rare to find a woman fresh from the clans that knows the basic forms. Knows them badly, but knows them.”
“Badly?”
He ignored her. “Do you know what it takes to make a sword? Heat and pounding. Blood, sweat, and tears. Metal has to be thrown into the fire until it gets so hot that it can’t bear another moment in the coals. And then it gets beaten down. Shaped. Harder metals take more beating and more heat. They get abused more, but they make by far the finer blades. And the proper fuel creates the proper heat. Everything has a cost, has a price to be paid. That is the second thing you should remember.” He peered at her, eyes sharp and penetrating.
Lhaurel stared back at him blankly. He’s insane.
The man rolled his eyes and shuffled around the furnace to the small opening that led deeper into the chamber. He muttered something under his breath, running one hand through his tufty, grey hair. His bad leg, the left one, dragged along in the sand, leaving a furrow in the
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
His answer came in a sudden flurry of blows. His eyes were hard, focused, as he spun his practice sword in a dizzying pattern of blows. The wooden sword seemed almost alive in his hands, spinning in and hitting her once, twice, three times in rapid succession before she could get her feet under her and slip into a middle guard position. With each blow that connected, her arms ached. The strength in his arms was incredible! She marveled that someone so crippled could move with such grace.
Suddenly, his onslaught slowed. He broke into a more measured, steady rhythm, spinning the sword in a sequence of moves that she recognized. She had memorized all the practice sequences that the Sidena warriors trained with and so slipped into the form designed to counter the smith’s movements. Still, she was wary. Why was he attacking her?
The man shifted into a second sequence, and she responded in kind, slipping into its counter sequence and matching him blow for blow. The blood pounded in her ears, pushing adrenaline throughout her body, and her muscles loosened with the warmth of motion. The blacksmith was good, incredibly so, yet she almost smiled as she slipped into the forms. He shifted to a third sequence, and again she responded with the appropriate counter.
Their speed picked up, practice swords coming together with more force behind each blow. Lhaurel had never drilled so long before. Her muscles ached, her arm felt leaden with fatigue. But she felt a thrill of happiness running through her.
With a muffled grunt, the blacksmith executed a sudden twist on his blade, and Lhaurel’s practice sword was ripped from her weakened grip and dropped to the sand.
Sweat dripped down Lhaurel’s face. She breathed heavily, almost panting. The blacksmith didn’t even look winded.
“What . . .” she gasped, “what was the point of coming at me like that?”
“Would you have fought an old cripple if he’d just asked you?”
She pondered the question for only a few moments before answering, “No.”
“First thing you need to learn is to never trust what you see,” the smith said, bending down with a groan and picking up Lhaurel’s discarded sword. “Trust is more precious than water. You can’t trust anyone, not even your own eyes. Trust only your weapons.”
Lhaurel nodded, unable to articulate her words as she gulped down air.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked. He shuffled over to one of the bins and dropped the wooden practice swords inside.
“Kaiden brought me.”
“No, girl, I’m not talking about here with the Roterralar. I’m asking if you know why you’re here with me right now?”
She shook her head. Hadn’t she just asked him why she was here?
“Khari wants me to make you a sword,” he said, voice becoming quiet and raspy again. “The fool woman thinks you’ve got enough promise to be one of the warriors. Well, maybe she’s right. Rare to find a woman fresh from the clans that knows the basic forms. Knows them badly, but knows them.”
“Badly?”
He ignored her. “Do you know what it takes to make a sword? Heat and pounding. Blood, sweat, and tears. Metal has to be thrown into the fire until it gets so hot that it can’t bear another moment in the coals. And then it gets beaten down. Shaped. Harder metals take more beating and more heat. They get abused more, but they make by far the finer blades. And the proper fuel creates the proper heat. Everything has a cost, has a price to be paid. That is the second thing you should remember.” He peered at her, eyes sharp and penetrating.
Lhaurel stared back at him blankly. He’s insane.
The man rolled his eyes and shuffled around the furnace to the small opening that led deeper into the chamber. He muttered something under his breath, running one hand through his tufty, grey hair. His bad leg, the left one, dragged along in the sand, leaving a furrow in the
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