fell weapon to be thrust just so: in the groin, or under the eyelid, or in the mouth, or in one or two other places of vulnerability. And even then the weapon may shatter against the Troll, no matter the blade's birthforge, for the Ogru is like a rock: hard and obdurate."
"Bane! Bane will sorely wound any foe," averred Perry in a grim voice, drawing his sword from its scabbard and flashing it to the sky. "It was made by the Elves, and it is said that Bane's blade-jewel shines with a blue light if Rucks or other evil things come near. It is a potent Troll-bane, and I trust my life to it."
"Indeed, Bane is a fell weapon of Elvish origin," said Kian, reaching out a gentle hand to touch Perry on the shoulder as the Waerling lowered the glittering blade, "and it may penetrate even the Troll-hide of the Ogrus. But, Perry, Bane is just an Elven-knife, though a long one, and may not reach an Ogru's vitals. Bitterly wounded he may be, but crush you he still will. No, you must flee and let others more able try to vanquish this foe."
Borin, sitting beside Anval on the driver's seat, twisted about and growled, "Even Chakka, as skilled in fighting as we are, give Trolls wide berth, yielding back rather than doing battle. But if we must, we will attack in strength; great numbers of axes are needed to slay an Ogru. Even then, many warriors will perish."
Somewhat disconcerted by Kian's but especially by Bonn's words, grim-lipped Perry slipped Bane back into the scabbard fastened to his pack. Cotton vowed, "Well you can be sure, right enough, that if ever I see a great Trollish Ogru he won't see me: I'm going to take to my heels and fly!"
Kian smiled at Cotton's words, then grew serious once more. "Heed me now," he said. "Time is short and much needs doing. We must take advantage of every moment to train you at swords. While travelling in the waggon we will speak on the art of swords and the strategy of fighting Rukha and
Lokha—for your tactics must vary according to the size of your opponent, the weapon he is wielding, and the armor he is wearing and bearing. And at each of our stops to rest the horses we will put that art and strategy into practice, drilling at swords."
"But we've only been stopping a short while each hour," protested Cotton. "Is that enough time to learn? What I mean to ask, Sir, is, well, with such a little bit of practice, will we actually be able to fight Rucks and Hloks?"
Upon hearing Cotton's question, a surge of uncertainty washed through Perry, for now that it had come to the reality of beginning to learn swordplay, the buccan felt strangely reluctant to be schooled in the art of killing—as if some inner voice were saying, Not for you, Warrow.
Kian noted this hesitancy in Perry's eyes, and he knew that it was now or never: he had to start the training immediately, for it was vital that these gentle Waerlinga be able to defend themselves. "Let me show you, Cotton, Perry," he said, and turned to Anval, at the reins. "Anval, stop here. We must begin now."
Anval pulled off the road and into the eaves of the bordering woods. All jumped down from the waggon, Borin tending the horses. And then Kian revealed the product of his previous night's whittling: three swords made of hickory wood—two Warrow-sized and one Man-sized—blunt-tipped and dull-edged: the wood was green and supple and not apt to break. Unlike some who would have been chagrined at wielding wooden "toys," both Warrows seemed relieved at not having to practice with real weapons.
Kian allowed them each in turn to do unschooled "battle" with him, Cotton stepping back to allow Perry to "have the first go." Trie buccan started timidly, but the Man cried, "Ho, Waerling! Be not afraid of hurting me! Swing hard! Though I am not a real enemy, you must learn to strike with force as well as with finesse!"
With this encouragement, soon Perry was slashing and hacking at Lord Kian with abandon, yet the Man fended off the crude assaults with ease.
"Bane! Bane will sorely wound any foe," averred Perry in a grim voice, drawing his sword from its scabbard and flashing it to the sky. "It was made by the Elves, and it is said that Bane's blade-jewel shines with a blue light if Rucks or other evil things come near. It is a potent Troll-bane, and I trust my life to it."
"Indeed, Bane is a fell weapon of Elvish origin," said Kian, reaching out a gentle hand to touch Perry on the shoulder as the Waerling lowered the glittering blade, "and it may penetrate even the Troll-hide of the Ogrus. But, Perry, Bane is just an Elven-knife, though a long one, and may not reach an Ogru's vitals. Bitterly wounded he may be, but crush you he still will. No, you must flee and let others more able try to vanquish this foe."
Borin, sitting beside Anval on the driver's seat, twisted about and growled, "Even Chakka, as skilled in fighting as we are, give Trolls wide berth, yielding back rather than doing battle. But if we must, we will attack in strength; great numbers of axes are needed to slay an Ogru. Even then, many warriors will perish."
Somewhat disconcerted by Kian's but especially by Bonn's words, grim-lipped Perry slipped Bane back into the scabbard fastened to his pack. Cotton vowed, "Well you can be sure, right enough, that if ever I see a great Trollish Ogru he won't see me: I'm going to take to my heels and fly!"
Kian smiled at Cotton's words, then grew serious once more. "Heed me now," he said. "Time is short and much needs doing. We must take advantage of every moment to train you at swords. While travelling in the waggon we will speak on the art of swords and the strategy of fighting Rukha and
Lokha—for your tactics must vary according to the size of your opponent, the weapon he is wielding, and the armor he is wearing and bearing. And at each of our stops to rest the horses we will put that art and strategy into practice, drilling at swords."
"But we've only been stopping a short while each hour," protested Cotton. "Is that enough time to learn? What I mean to ask, Sir, is, well, with such a little bit of practice, will we actually be able to fight Rucks and Hloks?"
Upon hearing Cotton's question, a surge of uncertainty washed through Perry, for now that it had come to the reality of beginning to learn swordplay, the buccan felt strangely reluctant to be schooled in the art of killing—as if some inner voice were saying, Not for you, Warrow.
Kian noted this hesitancy in Perry's eyes, and he knew that it was now or never: he had to start the training immediately, for it was vital that these gentle Waerlinga be able to defend themselves. "Let me show you, Cotton, Perry," he said, and turned to Anval, at the reins. "Anval, stop here. We must begin now."
Anval pulled off the road and into the eaves of the bordering woods. All jumped down from the waggon, Borin tending the horses. And then Kian revealed the product of his previous night's whittling: three swords made of hickory wood—two Warrow-sized and one Man-sized—blunt-tipped and dull-edged: the wood was green and supple and not apt to break. Unlike some who would have been chagrined at wielding wooden "toys," both Warrows seemed relieved at not having to practice with real weapons.
Kian allowed them each in turn to do unschooled "battle" with him, Cotton stepping back to allow Perry to "have the first go." Trie buccan started timidly, but the Man cried, "Ho, Waerling! Be not afraid of hurting me! Swing hard! Though I am not a real enemy, you must learn to strike with force as well as with finesse!"
With this encouragement, soon Perry was slashing and hacking at Lord Kian with abandon, yet the Man fended off the crude assaults with ease.
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