Training Grounds

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash

She’s surrounded.

Her initial plan was not quite like this. It was taking on one, or two of them, but four swords point at her, waiting for the first move to be made. There’s always an opening, just she has to wait for the right moment for it to appear. She could always create one, giving in for just a moment, but that maybe the riskiest more she can make.

“Last chance.”

Could she risk it? She might be able to take them, even if the odds are against her. She would have to move quick.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Too late.”

The first man stabs, slower than she imagined. She gets the break she was hoping for. The opening reveals itself, and she enters the man’s space at a speed he wasn’t ready for. He reacts too late, swinging in desperation. Red bursts from his neck, and his hands drops. His body follows, and she already wipes her dagger clean with the back of his tunic.

The rest of the men watch, unsure of what they saw.

The leader looks up at her and points, and the other two men rush her, hoping to avenge their comrade.

Their angle creates another opportunity for her, and she dives in between them, rolling to get to her feet. She claims the dead man’s sword, and as they turn, she flings her dagger at the one to the right. The dagger lodges in his head, and doesn’t move until the man hits the ground.  

The man to the left looks down, then flees.

She points the new short sword at the leader’s face. The boiled leather he wears is tough, potentially too strong for her to penetrate. The only thing she’s been able to stab through so far is flesh, and she doesn’t want to push her luck. It served her will so far, but she knows luck has limits.

The thug rages.

He slaps his head with an open palm, course correcting his rage to his front. The ritual is complete, and he sees through a red lens, looking at a woman that killed two of his partners in less than thirty seconds. Nothing drives him other than revenge.

#

“Keep your guard up!”

An older man stands across from a small girl outside of a barn. Another impromptu training session, which he is wont to do, especially right after farm chores. He knows this is always the right time for this type of training. People tend not to threaten your life when you are vitalized and brisk.

“Daddy, I’m not ready, and the sword is too heavy.”

“No whining. That sword is the only thing protecting you.”

She struggles to hold the short sword on this hot day, and the sword her father holds is much larger, capable of far more damage.

“It’s too small. It’s not fair.”

“Fair has nothing to do with staying alive.”

“But Dad—”

He charges.

She waits until he’s a step away to straighten her sword, and it she parries the first attack just in time. The surprise deflection makes the second swing come late, and she dodges it, moving around his back, tapping his leg with the flat part of the sword, signaling a tag.

She smiles, and he turns, smiling back.

He swings now with full focus, and she deflects with precision, making sure not to block any of the blows. His weight and strength would send her flying if she tries to stop any of his attacks, so she uses their momentum and guides them out of the way. She withdraws with every strike, giving herself enough distance to retreat if she has to. Only a few of the sessions ended that way, but she is not prideful to have this one end in similar fashion.

Her father is quite the swordsmen, which she recognizes now. Even with him pulling the strikes, they are quick enough to keep him on his guard. She knows it’s the only reason he could have taught her as well as he has. Nobody could guess any of this was possible. He lives as such a humble man and is known as nothing but a farmer to the rest of the town. Knights aren’t known for secrecy, but he always spoke to his family as the best thing for them. He always like the element of surprise, and didn’t want to give it up if he had to.

Soon, as her energy wavers, the father sends three quick swings, each knocking her sword a bit looser. The third clang knocks the sword out of her hand, and he sheathes his own, signaling his victory. She realizes these strikes were real, due to the strength and quickness. As usual, he toyed with her a bit.

“Good, you’re getting better.” He handed back inside. “I even liked the whining as a distraction. You’ll need all the distractions you can get.”

“Hey dad?” She asks. “Should I start working with long swords too?”

He stops.

“Of course.”

He takes it out from his belt, and looks at for a bit. He holds it up high, then slams the blade into the ground. He lets go, and it stands on his own, waiting to be pick up.

“You can use it as soon as you can hold it.”

He goes inside.

She eyes it for some time before she touches the handle. The carving is elaborate, with a fist forming at the end. It looked beautiful, and when she grabs it, it feels stronger than anything she touched before. She yanks up and the sword doesn’t budge. She tries to move it until it gets dark. He comes out to retrieve it and her, holding her hand as he walks her inside.

“Hopefully, you’ll never have to use it.”

#

The thug charges.

She parries each wild swing, reflecting that each of them is stronger that she anticipated. She realizes the purpose of the inaccuracy. He wants to wear her down. She knew he would be strong due to his size, but she can’t be toyed with, not with the stakes being this high. His onslaught continues, and she decides to slow him down a bit. One of his swings is wide, so she parries stronger, giving her the chance to stab at the armor. It gives, but not enough to stop his swinging back first.

He connects with her face, and she wheels backwards.

She recovers quick enough bring up her guard. He follows up, and she worries. She sees two of him.

His first swing leaves him open, so she dodges, and stabs down into his leg. His second back fist is predictable and slow, which lets her slice upwards into his side, nicking at his armor, but slicing at sewing at his side. She connects.

He backs away, favoring his other leg, until he holds his longsword with two hands. He balances on the strong leg for a moment, then settles back on the wounded one. His rage fades. His stance widens. He invites a calm on his face like she’s never seen before, she realizes something.

He’s a swordsman.

In a panic, she throws her second dagger. With a flick on his wrists, the blade flies deeper into the woods. This is what her family trained her for.

She’s been lucky with her previous encounters. Each of them been just men with swords, swinging aimless, relying on their strength more than anything. The focus emitting from the brute now shows practiced hands, waiting for an opportunity, or steading himself to make his own.  

“Come, girl. Come finish what you started.” He taunts.

Stronger and faster swings, armor that buys him time to counter, and a wiliness to wait for me to make a mistake. She feels in over her head. A part of her feels like she’s done enough. She’s killed enough bastards to make a mark on her world. She kept a few animals at bay from roughing up from villagers, or causing women to disappear. A small reprieve would be enough to the people she grew up around.

She’s not ready to give up quite yet though.

He raises his sword, aiming his first strike. It’s slow; she dodges it but realizes she took the bait. He follows up with a faster attack, forcing her to take the brunt of the blow, sending her flying backwards. He closes the ground, but she buys time by kicking his leg wound. He yells, and brings his sword down. It slams in the dirt as she rolls to the side. She jabs forward, but he deflects it. He counters, forcing her to dodge bending backwards, but giving her a thought.

She goes on the offensive, throwing a flurry of stabs. Each are defended, and she feels her grip loosen on her own blade. On the last attack, he parries strong enough to sent her sword flying. Both watch as the weapons leaves her hand.

The brute readies his final attack, spinning to cut the woman in two.

His blade cuts through the air, confusing him. He loses sight of her, baffled until she springs up.

He feels the steel, ripping the roof of his mouth open.

She jumps back. He feels his face, the warmth covering his chin, his mouth, and now his chest, and it continues to leak through the bottom of his jaw. He looks up, eying his opponent for the last time. He drops his sword, clasping his wound with his other hand. He realizes he can’t stop the life leaving him.

He thinks of all the battles he survived through, the ones his friends and family couldn’t. He remembers the speeches from the commanders that meant nothing then, and they mean nothing now. He remembers the stench the dead as he roamed the battlefield, finishing off the enemies that couldn’t die yet. As he starts to choke on some of the blood, wondering if he can finally sleep now, no longer haunted from the lives he has taken, both in suits of armors and without. He can no longer hear their pleads for life.

He chooses not to plead for his own, and wishes that this woman end it.

She obliges.

She always waits for a grandiose gesture to be made by something, or someone. A part of her still expects someone to appear and thank her for the duty she’s done. It always disappoints her that nothing is left but the smell of dead bodies, so she searches for her deflected daggers. She cleans up her self and her weapons. She has a collection of the weapons back at her home, but she never carries them with her. She knows the value of her surprise, and the daggers are just small enough to get it done.

She eyes his longsword. A few might spot her with it, but its dark. They may mistake her for a small boy, pillaging a site he shouldn’t be at. It doesn’t look as heavy now, but it the training she could do with it would be vital. Her father isn’t around anymore to help her, but she feels like she can handle the task.

He always hoped she’d never picked one up, but she figures it wouldn’t hurt to learn it, just in case she might need to use it.