men
appeared disoriented as they came out of their magics. But it was
over quickly, and the stranger helped MichaelOff to his feet, both
of them laughing and brushing dust from the younger man.
“You’ll have to teach me that one, Hwatok,”
MichaelOff laughed.
“Gladly, Lord MichaelOff,” the stranger said
as they walked off the field.
“All right, boys,” Beckett hollered, “Line
up again.”
They rushed to obey.
“Now what you’ve just seen is a combination
of skilled swordsmanship and magic. It will be many years before
you’ll be skilled in either, and until you are, you’ll never use
the two together. Is that clear?”
They all nodded quietly.
“Good. Others will teach you magic, but it
is I who will teach you the sword. You must learn to be a good
swordsman without magic before you can combine the two to good
effect, and that will take some years.”
Old Beckett turned away from them and walked
slowly to the edge of the yard, retrieved a large bundle, returned
to the line of boys. He unwrapped the bundle, spilling several
steel rapiers on the ground, each with a rounded tip and dulled
edge.
“Each of you pick a sword, and a partner,
and we’ll review the lessons you’ve supposedly learned in the past
two years. But remember, you’re using steel now, not wood.”
Morgin and JohnEngine were practice
partners, as they were partners in almost everything, including,
but not limited to, mischief. Most of the afternoon was spent
getting used to the feel of the heavier steel blades, with Beckett
moving among them offering advice and correcting errors. Later in
the day he had them trade partners quite regularly, even using some
of the more advanced students as combined opponents and
instructors. The day was almost over when Morgin paired off with
DaNoel, JohnEngine’s older brother. And without prelude the older
boy began immediately with a rain of blows that Morgin was hard
pressed to deflect. But it was not until DaNoel’s steel hissed
menacingly past Morgin’s ear that he realized this was no lesson,
but a venting of some anger that might leave him maimed or
crippled, or perhaps even dead. In desperation he fought back with
what little strength and skill he could command, but his arm tired
quickly, and DaNoel used that to advantage, stepping suddenly
beneath his guard and batting him to the ground with the hilt of
his sword. “Defend yourself, peasant,” he snarled viciously.
Morgin climbed reluctantly to his feet,
then, as DaNoel’s sword drove for his face, ducked quickly beneath
a stroke that could have taken off his head, dull edge or not.
“What are you doing?” he pleaded.
DaNoel’s face reddened with uncontrolled
anger. He gave no answer, gripped his sword with both hands, and
brought it down with all his might.
Morgin threw his own blade clumsily in the
way. It met DaNoel’s with a clatter that rang painfully through his
arm and shoulder. He knew that he couldn’t defend himself this way
for long, not with a heavy steel blade, nor with such intensity.
Then DaNoel again slipped beneath his guard, and while Morgin
concentrated on DaNoel’s steel, he completely missed DaNoel’s knee
until it crashed into his groin.
He fell to the ground, tried to roll over
quickly to avoid DaNoel’s sword as it bit into the dirt near his
face, but the painful knot in his crotch slowed him and he lay in a
sprawl with DaNoel standing over him, his sword clutched in both
hands and raised high over his head, his face a mask of hatred.
Morgin ignored the pain in his crotch, rolled over quickly as
DaNoel’s sword cut a furrow in the earth where only moments ago his
head had been. Morgin rolled again, then stumbled to his feet.
DaNoel’s rapier hissed past his nose. He
back-stepped blindly until DaNoel’s boot hit him in the ribs and he
went down again. DaNoel stepped quickly over him and raised his
sword high over his head, but was suddenly swept off his feet as
JohnEngine plowed into him with a
appeared disoriented as they came out of their magics. But it was
over quickly, and the stranger helped MichaelOff to his feet, both
of them laughing and brushing dust from the younger man.
“You’ll have to teach me that one, Hwatok,”
MichaelOff laughed.
“Gladly, Lord MichaelOff,” the stranger said
as they walked off the field.
“All right, boys,” Beckett hollered, “Line
up again.”
They rushed to obey.
“Now what you’ve just seen is a combination
of skilled swordsmanship and magic. It will be many years before
you’ll be skilled in either, and until you are, you’ll never use
the two together. Is that clear?”
They all nodded quietly.
“Good. Others will teach you magic, but it
is I who will teach you the sword. You must learn to be a good
swordsman without magic before you can combine the two to good
effect, and that will take some years.”
Old Beckett turned away from them and walked
slowly to the edge of the yard, retrieved a large bundle, returned
to the line of boys. He unwrapped the bundle, spilling several
steel rapiers on the ground, each with a rounded tip and dulled
edge.
“Each of you pick a sword, and a partner,
and we’ll review the lessons you’ve supposedly learned in the past
two years. But remember, you’re using steel now, not wood.”
Morgin and JohnEngine were practice
partners, as they were partners in almost everything, including,
but not limited to, mischief. Most of the afternoon was spent
getting used to the feel of the heavier steel blades, with Beckett
moving among them offering advice and correcting errors. Later in
the day he had them trade partners quite regularly, even using some
of the more advanced students as combined opponents and
instructors. The day was almost over when Morgin paired off with
DaNoel, JohnEngine’s older brother. And without prelude the older
boy began immediately with a rain of blows that Morgin was hard
pressed to deflect. But it was not until DaNoel’s steel hissed
menacingly past Morgin’s ear that he realized this was no lesson,
but a venting of some anger that might leave him maimed or
crippled, or perhaps even dead. In desperation he fought back with
what little strength and skill he could command, but his arm tired
quickly, and DaNoel used that to advantage, stepping suddenly
beneath his guard and batting him to the ground with the hilt of
his sword. “Defend yourself, peasant,” he snarled viciously.
Morgin climbed reluctantly to his feet,
then, as DaNoel’s sword drove for his face, ducked quickly beneath
a stroke that could have taken off his head, dull edge or not.
“What are you doing?” he pleaded.
DaNoel’s face reddened with uncontrolled
anger. He gave no answer, gripped his sword with both hands, and
brought it down with all his might.
Morgin threw his own blade clumsily in the
way. It met DaNoel’s with a clatter that rang painfully through his
arm and shoulder. He knew that he couldn’t defend himself this way
for long, not with a heavy steel blade, nor with such intensity.
Then DaNoel again slipped beneath his guard, and while Morgin
concentrated on DaNoel’s steel, he completely missed DaNoel’s knee
until it crashed into his groin.
He fell to the ground, tried to roll over
quickly to avoid DaNoel’s sword as it bit into the dirt near his
face, but the painful knot in his crotch slowed him and he lay in a
sprawl with DaNoel standing over him, his sword clutched in both
hands and raised high over his head, his face a mask of hatred.
Morgin ignored the pain in his crotch, rolled over quickly as
DaNoel’s sword cut a furrow in the earth where only moments ago his
head had been. Morgin rolled again, then stumbled to his feet.
DaNoel’s rapier hissed past his nose. He
back-stepped blindly until DaNoel’s boot hit him in the ribs and he
went down again. DaNoel stepped quickly over him and raised his
sword high over his head, but was suddenly swept off his feet as
JohnEngine plowed into him with a
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