Snippet – The Blademaster’s Tale

Just a snippet of my story for the upcoming Fantastic Schools Wars. And if you want to contribute a story, please feel free to get in touch. Details here.

Prologue

Freedom is a constant struggle.

It was a truth I had drilled into me from birth, well before Lady Emily put the saying into words and the Levellers spread it from one end of the continent to the other. I was born and raised in the Free Lands, a community surrounded by aristocratic and monarchical territories and the one thing we all knew was that if we gave the aristos an inch they’d take a mile before we realised what had happened, let alone had time to stop it. Our ancestors had purchased the land from the aristos, back when it was scrubby wasteland, and turned it into a going concern … and they’d never forgiven us, not for proving they couldn’t be bothered to develop their own lands or for refusing to let them put the agreement aside and tax us into the ground. They put pressure on us every so often, from blocking the roads and charging access to covertly supporting bandit gangs to make us beg for their protection, and we pushed back as hard as we could. We didn’t always agree with each other – and there were times that the villages and towns disputed so roughly it seemed likely we would go to war – but the one thing we all shared was a common desire to resist aristocratic encroachment. If they ever got a solid foothold in our territory, it wouldn’t remain ours for long.

I was born on a communal farm, the ninth child and the fourth daughter. It wasn’t a bad life, as long as you knuckled under and fitted in, but in truth I wasn’t very good at either. I was too low in the family hierarchy to inherit anything from my parents and too troublesome, the elders said, to make a good match. They might have kicked me out completely, if I hadn’t been pretty damn good with a bow and arrow. I was one of the best hunters in the village and they said I might be the best, if I hadn’t had a habit of picking fights with everyone who even looked at me funny. It wasn’t easy to be a young woman in such a place, no matter how much you knuckled under, and – in truth – I wanted something more. The idea of being a full-time hunter struck me as boring, while being a mercenary or even a soldier would get me disowned … I could have been an adventurer, I supposed, but it wasn’t easy to get any traction. Or so I had been told.

Oh, and my name is Marian. Did I forget to tell you my name?

My life changed when I turned sixteen, an age where most young women would be seeking betrothals with varying levels of urgency. It was not uncommon for a young woman to be mocked for seeking a quick betrothal, and a young man for not being very quick about it, but everyone knew how it worked and as long as the formalities were observed no one would say anything once the happy couple tied the knot. I had had a handful of suitors myself, but in truth I hadn’t been interested in letting myself be tied to the land. I didn’t have to be a farmwife – like I said, I was a good hunter – but I was restless. In truth, the idea of marrying and having children and raising a brood, becoming just another part of the community, didn’t appeal at all. I didn’t like the idea of moving to a nearby village either. It would just be more of the same.

The magicians arrived in spring, the most auspicious time – we were told – for finding newborn magicians in non-magical communities. Those of us who thought we had talent were tested, one by one, with very mixed results. A young and rather silly girl with dreams of magic was told she lacked even a single spark; an older farmhand was offered the chance to study magic, but turned it down after being told he’d have to leave the village and travel far away, perhaps never to return. And I …? I had a little magic. Not enough to make me a magician, but perhaps …

The magician was blunt. “You can become a blademaster,” he said. “You have enough magic for that, if you wish to take the opportunity. But there will be a price.”

He didn’t hide anything from me. I didn’t have anything like enough money to go to Stronghold, but the Kingdom would pay my way in exchange for ten years of service after I graduated. And I better had, or else. I admit that made me hesitate, no matter how much I wanted to jump at the chance to do something with my life. The Free Lands had a very fraught relationship with the monarch – as the joke goes, we’d do anything he asked as long as he didn’t ask us to do anything – and if the relationship turned sour I might find myself on the wrong side of a war. I had had my problems with my parents and wider family – there wasn’t a child who didn’t – but I didn’t want to take up sword against them. And yet, there was no other way to get the training I needed, let alone the magic blade.

In the end, I couldn’t say no.

My departure was hasty, partly because I needed to get there in time for the intake class and partly because they didn’t want to give me time to change my mind. My father formally blessed me as his daughter, with a strange combination of relief and reluctance. My mother kissed me goodbye and promised that, whatever happened, I would always be her daughter. My siblings bid me farewell, in their own way, and wished me luck. I couldn’t help wondering, as I mounted the horse behind Dave the Magician, if I would ever see my village again. It was rare for someone to return, after they left to study magic, and when they did their homecoming was not always happy.

Dave – he did his best to pretend to be an experienced magician, but it hadn’t taken me long to realise he was just an apprentice, from a nearby village – proved to be a surprisingly decent travel companion. He didn’t flirt or try to convince me to do something – anything – I might have found objectionable; he kept his sword between us, when we slept under the stars, and generally treated me like a friend rather than a leman. It helped that we really had come from the same general area, although I would never have known it if we hadn’t shared so much time together. We had quite a bit to talk about, over the week-long trip to Stronghold.

“You should be aware that you are swearing yourself to the monarchy,” Dave said, on what he thought would be our last night before we reached the school. “You might be able to earn your freedom, or pay for it, but the monarch will be under no obligation to accept it. If this is really what you want to do …”

I looked back at him, a young man wrapped in a glamour that was almost painfully obvious. It couldn’t have been easy for him either, growing up in a village like mine … no wonder, I suspected, that he pretended to be older and wiser than he actually was. Or that he hid his origins. I wondered if he’d gone home, then decided I didn’t want to know. How different would I be, when I emerged from Stronghold? Would I truly be the same person?

“I know the price,” I said. It was a risk, but it wasn’t as if I spoke for anyone save myself. It would be a different story if the elders swore to the monarch. “Do you regret it, sometimes?”

Dave said nothing for a long moment. “It has its ups and downs,” he said, thoughtfully. “I have power” – I knew that; I’d seen him turn a gang of bandits into toads – “but it can also be hard to find a place, particularly without decent connections. You’ll have something to offer, if you graduate, but you won’t find it easy to make use of it.”

He paused. “And spending ten years working for the monarch will not endear you to others.”

I nodded. It was a risk. But it was one I was prepared to take.

“There are other places you can go,” Dave offered. He jabbed a finger in a random direction. “There’s a town down there, if you want to go there instead. I can always tell my master you ran off …”

I laughed, then shook my head. “No, thank you,” I said. I’d heard all about towns deeper into the kingdom, or free cities that were only as free as the local monarch allowed them to be. They were dens of iniquity, strewn with pitfalls just waiting for a young man – or woman – to come along and fall in, and populated by confidence tricksters, loan sharks, pimps, whores and taxmen. “I want to make something of my life.”

Dave grinned. “Good luck,” he said. “And I’ll be around if you need me.”

The following day, we arrived at Stronghold.

Chapter One

Stronghold was huge.

I stared at the great brooding hulk of a castle, looming over the swampy badlands surrounding the school, and felt very intimidated indeed. It was so large it was difficult, if not impossible, to get a clear idea of its layout, or just how many smaller castles could fit within its looming bulk. The air around the castle was hazy, making it hard to see anything beyond a certain point and creating the impression that Dave and I were standing on a very thin ledge, one we could easily fall off at any moment. I looked up at the doors and felt my heart fall through my boots. They were so big that the idea of opening them for anything less than a small army of horsemen seemed absurd. It was hard, so very hard, to convince myself I needed to knock.

“I’ll be around for a few days,” Dave said, after checking I had my papers. “If you ask for me at the nearest town, you’ll probably find me.”

I blinked, torn between the urge to ask why he wasn’t entering the school with me and a certain degree of relief he wasn’t. It was never easy to admit to fear, not in the Free Lands, and doing it in front of a young man could be disastrous. I clutched my papers tightly in one hand, stepped up to the door and knocked, sharply. There was a long pause, just long enough to make me wonder if something had gone horrifically wrong, before a tiny door opened inside the larger door. I almost laughed – I should have expected it – and stepped through into an enclosed gatehouse. A man stood facing me, wearing a simple suit of chainmail. He looked me up and down, his face unmoving and yet managing to convey the impression he’d seen more impressive specimens in alehouses, eating the sawdust. I forced myself to look back at him. It wasn’t easy.

“Papers?”

His voice made me jump. I held out the two pieces of parchment Dave had given me, my signed contract with the monarchy – and not with any specific monarch – and the proof the kingdom was willing and able to pay my fees. The greeter studied them coldly, his eyes running down lines I couldn’t read and narrowing in places, before he nodded to the inner door. I felt relieved, even though logically I knew there was nothing wrong with the papers. It was a great deal of effort for a practical joke.

“Go through,” he grunted. “Take a seat. Wait to be called.”

I nodded, unsure if I should drop him a curtsey or salute or something – anything – else, then stepped through the door into a wider chamber. It looked like the schoolhouse back home – rows of wooden chairs, a single wooden table at the front – but the walls were stone and the chairs were clearly designed for adults, rather than children. I saw a handful of young men, roughly the same age as myself, wearing outfits that resembled suits of armour while allowing them to move freely, shiny metal decorated with etchings of gold and silver. The swords at their belts looked disturbingly long. They looked at me narrowly, then made a show of ignoring me. I groaned inwardly. They looked like the noblemen I’d seen, more than once, demanding right of way through the Free Lands, although I had to admit they looked a little less combat-ready. The nobles I’d seen earlier might have worn fancy outfits, and carried fancy swords, but there’d always been an edge around them that suggested they’d been in real fights. These nobles looked much less experienced.

Which doesn’t mean they don’t know how to use those swords, I reminded myself. It wasn’t uncommon for Freelanders to carry swords, but we preferred bows and arrows. They should be very ashamed of themselves if they’re not better than you with a blade.

I sat and forced myself to relax, as time ticked on. The nobles kept chatting amongst themselves, their accents high and snooty and their attitudes weirdly familiar … it hit me, suddenly, that for all their wealth and training they really weren’t any different from the young bloods back home, preparing to prove they could be trusted as adults and yet fearful they’d make a terrible mistake and have to leave the community, rather than try again the following year. The nobles were here to prove themselves too …

A nobleman looked at me, his face cold. “What are you smiling at?”

I looked back at him, meeting his eyes. Freelanders did not bend the knee to noblemen – to anyone – who hadn’t proved themselves. The young man in front of me – he was strikingly handsome, with blond hair and bright blue eyes, in a manner that suggested he wasn’t used to any sort of physical work – had not, certainly not as far as I knew. I had heard all the stories from serfs who’d fled neighbouring lands, horror stories of living under the rule of aristos who thought serfs were nothing more than animals, and forced myself to keep holding his eyes. If I showed him the slightest hint of vulnerability, it would come back to haunt me.

“I am … I am Lord Nicolas,” the aristo growled. “Who are you?”

The door opened. A man – short, barrel-chested, incredibly muscular – stepped into the room, saving me from having to answer. ‘Lord’ Nicolas – there had been an odd little hesitation in his words – hurried back to his peers, who were hastily turning their attention to the newcomer. His eyes flickered across the chairs, somehow managing to convey the impression that he was even less impressed with us than the gatekeeper.

His voice was flat, cold. “And why are you” – his eyes narrowed at the aristos – “wearing livery and light amour here?”

Nicolas hesitated, then spoke. “We have a right to wear it …”

“Not here you don’t,” the man growled. “You wear our tunics until you prove yourselves.”

Nicolas flushed. I felt a rush of amusement, which I carefully hid behind a blank expression.

“I am Master-at-Arms Wentworth,” the man said. “My job is to turn you into blademasters, or weaponmasters, or see you gone before you manage to get yourself hurt – or killed. I am not here to be your friend” – his eyes pinned Nicolas mercilessly – “and I am not here to be your servant, lying to you about your skills and your chances if you go out into the real world and face someone who actually knows how to fight. If you refuse to listen to me, you will be lucky if you are merely kicked out of the castle and left to find your own way through the swamp. I have known too many young men who thought they were the ace, because their trainers went easy on them, only to have their asses thrashed when they faced someone who didn’t hold back. There are no second chances in combat.”

Wentworth paused. “If you want to leave at any moment, the door is over there. We won’t try to stop you.”

I shivered. There was no way in hell I was going to leave.

“There are hundreds of myths, most nonsensical, surrounding blademasters and weaponmasters,” Wentworth continued. “The truth is that you are all here because you have a little spark of magic, not enough to be worth fanning into a blaze, but enough to allow you to bond with a magical sword. That blade, once the process is completed, will effectively be part of you, tied to your magic and soul. The advantage of having such a sword is that it will turn you into a master swordsman without years of practice, and the blade – because it is partly magic – will give you both the ability to cut through certain types of spells and a limited degree of immunity to offensive magic. In short, once you master your blade, you will become a very valuable asset on the battlefield indeed.

“And with that in mind, why are there so few blademasters?”

An aristo I didn’t know leaned forward. “Because the training course is hard?”

“No,” Wentworth said. “The disadvantage of being a blademaster is two-fold. First, if your blade is shattered, you will be shattered too. It is rare, vanishingly rare, for a blademaster to recover after losing their blade. You’ll meet a couple of former blademasters during your training, both trapped so deeply within their minds that they cannot hope to recover or even beg to be killed. Second, if you are parted from your blade, you will weaken, lose the skills it granted you, and – if your blade falls into enemy hands – become terrifyingly vulnerable. It is quite easy for a sorcerer to take your blade and control you from a distance or worse. Much worse. Your blade is tied to your very soul.”

He paused. No one spoke. “If you master the blade, you will become a terror on the battlefield, an asset to your kingdom. If you lose your blade, however, the consequences will be disastrous. That is why there are relatively few blademasters. It requires someone with the right level of magic, and the willingness to risk their lives and their souls during their quest to become one, and afterwards.”

I found myself suddenly unsure if I wanted to proceed. The reward was immense, but the risk … I gritted my teeth. There was no way in hell I was backing out now. I wasn’t going to give the aristocrats the satisfaction of watching me flee with my tail between my legs. Not now and not ever.

“There’s a second point that should be discussed,” Wentworth continued. “Some of you are here because your fees were paid by others, with something expected in return. If you complete this course, if you are bonded to a blade, you will be expected to repay that debt. The consequences of refusing will also be severe.”

“I knew that,” I muttered.

Wentworth fixed me with a look. “Yes,” he said, sharply. “But not everyone is smart enough to realise all debts need to be repaid.”

Nicolas tittered. Wentworth shot him a sharp look.

“If any of you want to leave now, the door is over there,” Wentworth said. “There’s no shame in admitting you can’t handle the risk, or repaying debts you have yet to assume. I won’t judge you poorly, if you want to leave now. There are other places you can go, other trainers you can find. But once you commit yourself, you will be committed.”

I shivered, again. The risk was immense, but … I had nowhere else to go. I had promised myself I would return with a blade, or not at all, and … I doubted I could do anything else with my life. I was a good shot with a bow and arrow, but that wouldn’t be enough to get a job that would actually interest me …

An aristo stood and left. His friends pretended he’d never been there. I felt a stab of pity, despite myself. He had wealth and power, or at least his family had wealth and power, and now … he was going to be a laughing stock. I wondered what he’d do with his life, then shrugged. I had to worry about myself right now.

“I assume you have all chosen to remain,” Wentworth said, after a moment. He pointed a finger at a young man sitting next to Nicolas. “Your name?”

“Lord Louis of Alluvia,” the man said. “I am a …”

“I didn’t ask for your life story,” Wentworth said. “A word of advice. The only titles that mean something here are titles you earn. I don’t care if you spent your days learning how to be a lord or cleaning out the pigsty. If you try standing on your outside titles here, you’ll be knocked down very quickly.”

He looked at the next youth. “Your name?”

I gave mine, when asked, and kept my mouth firmly shut afterwards, all the while carefully linking names to faces as best I could. Nicolas, I noted, had stopped claiming to be a lord. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not, although I was fairly sure he was an aristo of some kind. Perhaps he’d been born on the wrong side of the blankets, raised amongst his legitimate peers and yet never quite one of them; perhaps he was a fake, citing titles from so far across the world they might as well have come from some half-mythical land. I didn’t think Wentworth would be fooled – someone had to be paying Nicolas’s fees, after all – but who knew? Dave had shown me just how little I knew of the lands beyond the border.

Wentworth motioned for us to stand, then led us into the next chamber. It was cold and grey and almost empty, save for a small pile of wooden boxes and a rack of clothing, all bright blue. Loose tunics, trousers designed to allow the wearer to move freely … they might look bland and boring, to the aristos, but they were finer than anything I’d been able to wear back home. I didn’t mind the patches. It was vanishingly rare for anyone to get anything completely new.

“Undress completely, then change into a tunic,” Wentworth ordered. “Put your previous clothes and anything you might be carrying, including your swords, in the boxes, then shut the lids and write your names on the top. If you don’t know how to write, ask your neighbour.”

Hamish spluttered. “But my sword is a family sword …”

“Put it in the box,” Wentworth said. “It will be returned to you when you leave. Until then, it will be kept safe.”

I heard some of the aristos muttering under their breaths as they carefully unhooked their scabbards and put them in the boxes. Wentworth pretended not to hear them, although I was sure he was compiling a list of grumblers and mentally planning to do something about it later. I didn’t have a sword myself, of course. I put my daggers in the box, then found a tunic and then stripped off. It didn’t bother me. I’d grown up on a farm. Privacy was rare, almost unknown. A couple of aristos seemed to have it worse than me, hesitating to undress until Wentworth snapped at them. I felt Nicolas watching me as I donned my tunic and gritted my teeth. He really was going to be a problem, wasn’t he?

“Your outfits mark you as first-grade blademaster trainees,” Wentworth said. “Should you move up in rank, you’ll be given a gold band to wear around your right arm. Until then, understand this; you cannot learn to lead unless you first learn to serve. Right now, you are at the bottom of the hierarchy. I expect you all to climb to the top.”

He led us outside, into a courtyard that was so large I felt a little exposed – and uneasy. There were groups of young men everywhere, running from place to place or being put through their paces by unsmiling sergeants and supervisors. Some were trading blows, others practicing with swords … one man was standing very still, unnaturally still, as his peers tickled him with long feathers. There weren’t many women, I noticed, and none of the ones I saw paid any attention to me. It wasn’t the first time I’d been surrounded by men – most hunters were men – but here I was alone, without the protection of being part of a larger community.

“Listen carefully,” Wentworth said, as we jogged around a pair of martial artists. “There will be a test later.”

I forced myself to listen as he rattled out details, from rules that could be circumvented to rules that would get any offender whipped … or kicked out, as well as dozens of other details I didn’t pretend to understand. It was hard, so hard, to commit them all to memory. The rules were simple, but the codes were complex … some officers could give us orders in certain situations; others had to be obeyed at all times, even if it meant disobeying other officers. It was tiring as we kept moving, Wentworth showing us the armoury, the swimming pool, the library … I found my eyes aching, as we went on and on, and I was sure I wasn’t the only one who was feeling a little overwhelmed.

“These are your barracks,” Wentworth finished, leading us into a simple room that managed to be bigger than any bedroom I’d seen back home. The walls were lined with bunks, each one disturbingly small and yet better than the bedroom back home. The washroom might have seemed primitive to my classmates, from their groans, but I had never seen hot or cold running water before. “You are responsible for keeping them in order, clean and tidy at all times. If you fail inspection – and inspections occur randomly – you will be forced to clean the entire chamber from top to bottom. I suggest you put your heads together and figure out a way to organise yourselves, or I’ll do it for you. You won’t enjoy that at all.”

I swallowed. I feared he was right.

“You are kept separate from the other trainees for a reason,” Wentworth continued, after assigning bunks seemingly randomly. “Their training program would be worse than useless for you. Do not think that makes you better than them, or they will put you in your place. Hard.”

I swallowed, again, and tried to repress a yawn.

Wentworth gave us all a toothy smile. “You can eat, then sleep,” he said. “If you choose to stay up all night, believe me you’ll regret it tomorrow morning. You won’t be allowed to stay in bed, no matter how shitty you feel.”

His smile grew wider, yet colder. “And remember, the only easy day was yesterday.”

Chapter Two

I had thought I was used to getting up early.

I had grown up on a farm, after all. There’s a never-ending list of chores for farmers, farmwives and their children, all needing to be completed before the sun rose too high in the sky. I had always been awakened by my sisters, or my mother, when force of habit hadn’t driven me from my bed, but this …

“GET UP!” The voice was so thunderous that I thought, for a horrible moment, I was having a bad dream. “GET UP! GET WASHED! GET DRESSED! GET OUT!”

I threw the covers aside and practically rolled out of bed, my hazy mind slowly realising that Wentworth was standing by the door, yelling at us to move. I stumbled towards the washroom, followed by three of the other recruits; we crashed into each other like children still learning to walk, knocking ourselves over before we struggled back to our feet and washed ourselves as quickly as possible. It wasn’t easy, and we looked a right mess as we dressed and hurried outside, into the bright sunlight. Nicolas crashed into me as we passed through the door, darting away so quickly I couldn’t tell if it had been deliberate or not. I suspected the worst.

Wentworth looked us up and down, his eyes narrowing in disdain. “That took far too long,” he said, coldly. I was sure it hadn’t taken us that long to get ready, but I kept my opinion to myself. “How many of you thought to prepare, the night before, for the following morning?”

There was no answer.

“None, I see,” Wentworth said. “You’re going to have to do better.”

He pointed at a tree, on the other side of the giant courtyard. “I want you all to run to that tree and back,” he said. “Slap your hand against the tree when you reach it, then head back. The last one to return will be cleaning the table, after breakfast. Go now.”

We turned and ran. Wentworth brought up the rear, shouting advice and criticism and bawling out Hamish for giving another aristocrat a shove. I was starting to like the master-at-arms, even though he was clearly not inclined to give anyone any slack. I slapped my hand against the tree and forced myself to keep running back, my heart pounding in my chest as I kept moving. My skin was damp with sweat as I reached the barracks, silently thanking all the gods that I wasn’t the last one back. Jon – he’d come in last, barely behind Hamish – was mocked and jeered by everyone else. Including me.

“Silence,” Wentworth said. He spoke to us all. “It could be you next time.”

I nodded, feeling a little guilty as he led us into the mess hall. I had never exactly starved in the Free Lands, although some harvests had been worse than others, but there was enough food in the hall to feed my entire village for years. Wentworth kept barking orders, telling us to fill our plates, return to our tables, and wait for his permission to start eating before we attacked our food. It wasn’t as tasty as I’d expected, for a school that catered to so many aristos, but there was plenty of it. Wentworth kept talking, telling us to make sure we ate as much as possible. We were going to need it.

There was no let up as he led us back outside, directing us through a series of exercises that left me stiff and sore, then marching us back and forth, snapping orders with every breath that we had to follow, or else. We got confused and crashed into each other … I expected he would lose his cool and explode, but instead he patiently corrected our errors and started again. I lost track of time as we went on and on, him shifting effortlessly between instructions and words of wisdom, some apparently nonsensical. It was quite some time before I realised they were actually very useful, once we had the context to understand.

The other students – the older ones – pointed and laughed at us as they marched past, moving with an easy grace and competence that made me feel clumsy and stupid. I did my best to ignore them – Nicolas made rude gestures in return, which got him a lecture from Wentworth – as we carried on, trying hard to master the skills we needed … Wentworth, never one to let us get too full of ourselves, told us we were mastering the skills we needed to master the skills. It took me quite some time to realise he was right.

After lunch, we marched to a very different part of the giant complex. Another training master was waiting for us there, leaning against the wall with a faint smile on his face. I disliked him on sight.

“The lines on the ground mark the training circle,” Wentworth told us, curtly. “If you are on the inside, crossing the lines means forfeiting the bout. If you are on the outside, crossing the line and entering the circle without my permission, or that of the supervisor, will get you fatigues.”

I winced. Wentworth had assured us, with mock concern, that of course Stronghold wasn’t so barbaric as to actually beat its students. Instead, they were given fatigues – press-ups, pull-ups, other exercises intended to strengthen the muscles and build endurance – and expected to carry them out. Wentworth hadn’t said what happened to a recruit who falsely claimed to have completed his fatigues without actually doing it, but I doubted it was anything pleasant.

He turned to look at us. “How many of you have used a sword before?”

Nicolas stuck up his hand. “I have,” he said. “I reached the fifth level …”

“That’s unfortunate,” Wentworth said. “You have so much to unlearn.”

Nicolas spluttered. Wentworth ignored him. “Anyone else?”

I tried not to show my dismay. I was the only one who had never used a sword, let alone had any formal training. It wasn’t good news …

“Here.” Wentworth passed Nicolas and Hamish a pair of training blades. “You can both enter the circle. On my mark, fight. First to disarm wins.”

Nicolas was still fuming as he stepped inside. I felt a twinge of sympathy for Hamish. The training blades might be wooden, but I was entirely sure being struck with one would hurt and Nicolas was in a foul mood, ready to take it out on someone – anyone – other than the person responsible for it. I leaned forward, gritting my teeth as Wentworth put his fingers in his lips and whistled, loudly. Nicolas darted forward, raising his blade and lashing out … and Hamish blocked it.

My heart sank further as they traded blows, moving so rapidly I could barely see the blades anything but a blur. I couldn’t follow the movements, but it was clear they were more evenly matched than I’d thought … and that I had a very long way to go. The two noblemen thrust and stabbed at each other, Wentworth watching coolly, until Nicolas managed to smack Hamish’s arm with his sword. Hamish’s blade went flying. Wentworth whistled again as Hamish stumbled backwards, ending the bout.

“Let me check that arm,” Wentworth said. “If it’s broken, you’ll have to visit the healer.”

Nicolas smirked. I felt a surge of pure hatred. Broken arms were nothing to laugh at, even if you were wealthy enough to be able to visit a magical healer, rather than a chirurgeon. I knew people back home who had been injured as children, and would carry the scars for the rest of their lives. Nicolas met my eyes and raised his sword in mocking salute, a grim reminder of the gulf between us. I shuddered. It was going to take years to catch up, if I ever did.

“Unbroken, but sore,” Wentworth said. He picked up the blade. “Master Yu” – he nodded to the other master – “will supervise this boat.”

He smiled at Nicolas. “You and me, boy. You ready?”

Nicolas smiled. “Yes.”

Wentworth smiled back. “Don’t hold back, boy,” he said. “Let’s see how good your fancy tutoring really was.”

Master Yu whistled. Nicolas darted forward … Wentworth blocked him, effortlessly. He barely seemed to move. I stared in awe as the second and third strikes were blocked, Nicolas’s face going red with shock a moment before Wentworth glided forward with an easy and yet terrifying grace. Nicolas struck out at him … Wentworth sidestepped the blow, somehow, and lightly tapped his blade against Nicolas’s upper arm.

“One,” he said.

Nicolas purpled – I had the impression he would have preferred to be really hurt, rather than lightly tapped – and drove forward. Wentwoth stepped aside and stuck out a foot. Nicolas fell, landing roughly. Wentworth tapped his back with his blade.

“Two.”

“You …” Nicolas scrambled to his feet and came at Wentworth, temper overcoming common sense.  “You …”

Wentworth darted forward, dodging all of Nicolas’s blows while tapping him time and time again, calling out the number each time. Nicolas grew more and more frantic, lashing out as hard as he could … the final time, Wentworth inclined his blade away from Nicolas, giving him an opening … and then produced a wooden dagger from his sleeve, mock-stabbing Nicolas in the chest. Nicolas grunted in pain and dropped his sword. Wentworth took a step backwards, his face perfectly calm. It struck me, suddenly, that the fight hadn’t been any sort of challenge at all. Not for him.

“So,” Wentworth said, as Nicolas got himself under control. “What did you do wrong?”

Everything, I thought.

Nicolas stared at him. “I … I took you too lightly.”

“That’s part of it, yes,” Wentworth said. He sounded as if he were ordering dinner, not discussing swordplay with a student he’d just thrashed. “That wasn’t your real mistake, however. What was it?”

“I …” Nicolas swallowed, hard. “I don’t know.”

“Your tutors taught you by the book,” Wentworth said. “Your patterns are predictable, even when you’re too angry to think straight. You have coped their techniques rather than developing your own style, and you are ill-prepared to deal with a swordsman who knows how to read the patterns and counter them. Nor can you deal with someone who was taught how to fight in a very different style, someone you cannot predict.”

He paused. “Worse, you have little experience of a real fight. Your opponents were never really your enemies. None ever set out to really hurt, let alone kill, you. You would be a severe disadvantage against a professional duellist, let alone someone who cares nothing for any sort of rules. The dagger in the slave? Dishonourable, at best, but victory cares nothing for such conceits.”

Nicolas made a choking sound. “You have a virgin blade!”

Wentworth showed his teeth. “If that had been a real blade, boy, that would have been the end of you. Now, curb your mocking tongue and pay attention. There is much more for you to unlearn.”

He turned to face us. “Now, before we continue, are there any other questions?”

Louis cleared his throat. “I thought a blademaster didn’t need to be trained in swordplay to use his blade,” he said. “Why are we …?”

“First, learning how to use weapons confers discipline and allows us to gauge your character,” Wentworth said, simply. “And second, there will be times when you will not want to use your blade. You will find it better to use a dagger, perhaps, or a bow and arrow. Or something more subtle than either.”

He paused. “Anyone else?”

No one spoke. I was almost relieved, even as Master Yu handed out training blades and started showing us how to use them. It wasn’t easy. I might have had less to unlearn, as Wentworth had said, but I still had an awful lot to learn. My arms ached after a long session of pretending to hack and slash at targets, the trainers patiently correcting my form time and time again and – sometimes – pointing out mistakes that could easily get me killed. It was humbling to realise that Wentworth had been toying with Nicolas, that he could have ended his life at any moment. The older man might not look as impressive as the young fop, but he was a hell of a lot more dangerous.

“Don’t extend your blade so far,” Wentworth corrected, mildly. There was no anger in his tone, no hint of impatience. I suspected I was very far from being the first complete novice he’d had to teach. Perhaps it was almost a relief. Nicolas and his peers thought they knew everything, and it would be a long time before they realised just how wrong they were. “You’re exposing yourself to a counterstroke.”

I nodded, trying to keep my face under tight control as – one by one – we were allowed into the ring and put through our paces. The blademaster might have been supposed to have an instinctive talent for swordplay, or so we’d been told, but every blow told me how much I had to learn. The idea I could master the blade in a single day was absurd … I knew the trainers were holding back, I knew they were offering me gaps in their defences, and yet it was hard to so much as score a single hit. The only consolation was that few of the others were doing much better.

“You don’t have to hold back, sir,” Maxus said. He didn’t seem to like Nicolas very much, although I had no idea why. They were very much alike. “I can take it …”

Master Yu slapped the training blade out of Maxus’s hand with a blow. “Any more stupid remarks?”

Maxus went red. Nicolas smirked. I gritted my teeth. Master Yu had moved slowly when he was facing me, giving me plenty of time to see his blade coming before it struck, but I hadn’t even seen his blade in the air when he’d struck Maxus. Maxus seemed equally shocked. He might have realised the older man was holding back, but he hadn’t realise just how much.

It felt like hours before Wentworth finally called a halt. My body was aching, my arms and legs on the verge of giving up the ghost. The aristos seemed much more accustomed to the motions, although several were clearly nursing nasty bruises. The trainers had taken care to check each one, showing a degree of consideration I hadn’t expected, but they seemed reluctant to do anything about injuries that weren’t life threatening. Pain, it seemed, was a teacher in its own right. I wiped sweat from my brow, mentally kicking myself for not exercising more before I’d left the village. And to think I’d thought I was young and healthy …

Wentworth surveyed us for a long moment, then spoke. “Many years ago, when I was on campaign in the Blighted Lands, I had a comrade called Brutus. He was everything I had been raised to despise. He thought himself the greatest swordsman in all the lands, the most handsome young blade you ever did see, the gift of the gods to women. He bragged that he had that indefinable charm that made women want him and men wish they were women.”

I made a face. I knew the type.

“To be fair, Brutus really was almost as good as he thought he was. He was a master swordsman, with enough experience to develop his own style and avoid the mistakes many of you made, earlier today. He might have been incredibly conceited, and he was, but he was also brave and heroic, and – I’ll grant – had a genuine streak of decency. A little girl got stuck up a tree, once, and Brutus climbed up to get her down, asking for no reward afterwards. He could be difficult to like, but easy to follow.”

He paused. “And do you know what happened to him?

“There was a battle, one that we were on the verge of losing. Brutus ran out, sword in hand, and cut his way through a gaggle of enemy troops with ease, threatening to turn the battle in our favour single-handedly. There was a moment of hope, true hope, and then the enemy archers opened fire. Brutus was hit so many times he looked like a pincushion, when he was done, and there was nothing anyone could do to save his life. He died on a battlefield none of you, I am sure, have ever heard of.”

He let the words hang in the air for a long moment. “Brutus made a very simple mistake, you see. He assumed he was invincible. He thought his genuine skill and talent would be enough to protect him against anything. And then he was killed … he died bravely, yes, but he died for nothing. It could happen to you.”

His eyes seemed to meet mine, just for a second.

“There are two things you should always bear in mind,” he said. “First, there is always someone better, or smarter, or simply luckier, then you. Second, you might be a master of your chosen weapon – or a blademaster – but your enemy doesn’t need to fight you on your chosen ground. You might face a sorcerer who’ll turn you into a toad, instead of fighting fairly, or a common-born rebel” – his eyes lingered on Louis – “who will not meet you in honourable combat, but attack you from the shadows, using techniques that will seem dishonourable and yet effective. A blade in your hand does not make you invincible, and years of lessons in swordplay are no guarantee of victory when all hell breaks loose.”

Nicolas flushed. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Wentworth said, sternly. I had no idea if he was needling Nicolas or making a play on words. “Next time, you could face someone a great deal more inclined to hurt you. Or worse.”

I swallowed. He was right.