Chapter Fourteen

He heard steps behind him and identified them as belonging to Tyrell.

"Now that ye be practically a smith, do I yet have the honour of striking past that slow and sloppy stance ye call a guard," quipped Tyrell matching his jogging pace.

"Aye, he do. Ye poor excuse for a sheepherder who spends joyfully wasted time rutting than profitable hours tending thy family herd. Just try that clumsy feint today and ye won't be visiting Lynetta for a fortnight."

Tarn and Tyrell, the last pupils to arrive at the practise grounds, received admonishing looks from the two adult warriors who taught today's session. They joined the circle of youths at the same time as Nathan finished explaining the lesson.

"I'll need a volunteer," Nathan asked. A few of the other students indicated their willingness, but Nathan pointed his finger at Tyrell, motioning him inside the circle. "Draw thy sword and attack."

Tyrell drew his blade but hesitated when Nathan failed to draw his.

"What are ye waiting for? Attack!"

"Be ye afraid of an unarmed man, boy!"

Laughter rippled through the ring of youths. Tyrell's cheeks flushed red. He charged Nathan with his sword held high over his head in a two-handed grip. Tyrell brought his blade whistling down through empty air. Nathan had sidestepped left, flowing smoothly to a ready position. The momentum of the wildly swung blade carried Tyrell past Nathan, who kicked him in the backside on the way by.

"Ye will have to do better than that, boy. Now thrust at me with that sausage sticker," Nathan ordered.

Nathan stood lightly on the balls of his feet; his arms folded across his chest. Tyrell thrust at Nathan's middle. In a move almost too quick for the eyes to follow, Nathan somersaulted under the blade to stand up inside Tyrell's guard. By the time Tyrell drew his sword back for another strike, he found himself laying on the ground staring up at the sky with his sword in Nathan's hand. Its point rested lightly against his throat.

"What was the lesson?"

"I know not."

"Be on time and ye might. Rejoin the circle."

Tyrell picked himself up and walked sedately to his place beside Tarn, who grinned good-naturedly at the sour face his friend wore.

"Never mind the others. They would not have fared any better."

Nathan bestowed the boys with a stern look that instructed silence as he marked lines in the ground and explained how to execute the manoeuvre.

"The key to avoid the thrust and to disarm thy opponent is only good timing and a fair amount of quickness. First, ye must anticipate the thrust. Watch the shoulder muscles for bunching, and pay attention to the elbows. Most people can't but help drawback before moving forward. Exploit this weakness in technique―"

Engrossed in his discussion with Tyrell, Tarn failed to note the sudden interruption in Nathan's speech until it was too late.

"Tarn. Perhaps ye be the master of the day and not I? Since ye chatter like a sparrow, it must be because ye know this lesson and need no further instruction." Tarn shook his head in reply, putting penance into his eyes. "Well then, then. Tell us what's so important that ye interrupt me."

"It was Tyrell's face as his own sword rested on his throat, sword master Nathan."

"Do ye believe ye would fare better?"

"Aye, I would."

"Then step forward and show us thy expertise, young swordmaster."

Knowing Nathan would eventually bait him into the centre ring, why not get it over and done with. It was the instructor's favourite game to embarrass students into submission. Tarn never forgot his first lesson.

Winking confidently at Tyrell, Tarn walked into the middle of the circle. He stopped five paces from Nathan, and stood flat-footed, hands resting on his sword belt buckle. Nathan surveyed Tarn's sloppy stance with unveiled disgust and then turned his head to address the boys behind him.

As soon as Nathan's eyes left his body, Tarn went up onto the balls of his feet and leaped forward, executing windsong, the draw that contains death, the first blade release that Dennen had taught him. Forge tempered muscles worked and reworked by practising the draw thousands of times previously answered his call. By the time Nathan's reflexes registered and reacted to the sound of whispering steel, Tarn's blade rested inches from Nathan's exposed neck, all before he had drawn but a third of his sword. Nathan turned slowly to meet Tarn's grinning eyes. There was no hate in his visage, but it was the closest thing to it. Never had an instructor been outdone by one so young. To be ready and vigilant always was the first lesson any student learned. Fairness and equality played no part in battle. Subterfuge and deception were expected, even admired for their ingenuity. Successful adherence to the precepts found within the art of the sword began with one basic tenant: be unpredictable.

"Can ye do that when there's steel in another's fist?" Nathan asked in a cold and icy tone.

"Aye. I can," boasted Tarn.

Tarn removed his lowered his sword cautiously and retreated three steps ere he sheathed it. His eyes never left Nathan as he readied himself, watching alertly for the telltale flicker of tensing muscles and narrowing eyes.

"Ye be a bold lad to sheath thy sticker," Nathan said coolly, turning sideways and taking half a step back to hide his hand from sight.

Poised for such deception, he read Nathan's true intent. His hand came up filled with steel. Tarn had his sword drawn and at Nathan's neck before his weapon had reached the guard position. The circle of youths immediately cheered Tarn's speed and cunning and began to discuss animatedly about seeing the impossible happen, about witnessing one of their own triumph over a veteran sword master. Nathan's hot-blooded grimace shot spears into Tarn's merry eyes. He would not make the mistake of underestimating this man-child again. One backward step yielded the point to Tarn, who nodded acknowledgment.

"Ye be quick lad, but can ye fight?" When Tarn nodded again, Nathan added, "To first blood then."

It was not unheard of for two men to duel to first blood but never had a warrior challenged an untried student to such a match. Nathan's rage at being taken twice overcame his good sense. Though Tarn could have withdrawn from the challenge without shame, by accepting Nathan's terms he entered the warriors' arena. Should he perform the unthinkable and win the match, no longer would the village consider him a youth, and he would be eligible to receive a man's name.

Nathan circled away from Tarn's left-handed stance. He wished to blood this whelp quickly and teach him a lesson not soon to be forgotten. With this in mind, he unleashed a furious volley of strokes that his grinning opponent parried agilely.

Adrenaline coursed through Tarn's veins, filling him with giddy excitement to at last test his sword skills against a seasoned warrior. When Nathan slashed at his shoulder, Tarn swept the blade to the side, stepped inside his guard, and delivered a stiff palm thrust to the village instructor's exposed solar plexus.

Air whooshed out of Nathan's lungs. The force of the blow punched him to the ground. Rather than landing on his backside, exposed and vulnerable, he rolled expertly to his feet, gasping for breath, sword held at guard had Tarn followed. Vulcan, but the lad his like a mule, he thought, now circling a still-grinning Tarn. The stark realisation that he was in dire jeopardy of losing the bout came upon him suddenly. Dennen had trained Connor's whelp well and proper.

Tarn watched his opponent's shoulder flex. His father's Atlantean blade blurred through the waning sun to black a high stroke aimed at his torso. In the next instant, he jumped over a stroke that came in low and hard at his legs. Tarn feinted left and thrust at Nathan's broad chest, testing his speed and reflexes, expending strokes that measure his opponent's reach. Every lesson he had ever taken swirled in his mind, coalescing and harmonising until all conscious thought retreated until thought and action united seamlessly. Reflexes developed by repeating the same patterns thousands of times coalesced.

The sound of earnest steel rang out, drawing onlookers from the furthest reaches of the village―chores and tasks forgotten. Word spread quickly: an unproved sword had challenged a veteran blade and was holding its own. Led by the shaman and the headman, villagers gathered to watch the spectacle, forming a wide circle that enclosed the combatants like children drawn by a scuffle on the school field.

Shaurii gasped into her hand when Tarn blocked a vicious overhand swing that would have split him into two pieces had it landed true. Nathan no longer pulled his strokes or thrusts but fought with a cornered lion's determination. For Tarn's part, he found himself excelling at this lethal game, filled with giddy excitement that left him feeling more alive than ever before. For years he longed to test himself in battle, but the absence of feuds during his eligible years made it impossible. And while he had spared often with Dennen while tending the herds, this was duel was no holds barred.

His musing almost cost him the match. He stepped quickly to the side to avoid a thrust that grazed his wolf-skin vest, threatening to open his side and end the match.

Tarn warily circled Nathan, watching and learning. As the match progressed, Tarn studied Nathan's classic style and discerned a pattern. The next time Nathan slashed high, Tarn blocked the trike and let Nathan's sword ride down the length of his blade. They met over crossed swords. Hot breath warmed Tarn's cheek. A quick twist of his wrist locked their crosspieces, entwining them. Nathan's muscles bunched, preparing to push off. Tarn flexed his iron-forged blacksmith forearm, turning it inward while pulling backward, wrenching Nathan's sword from his grasp as the veteran pushed off. It landed on the snow a few feet away and slid to a stop.

Still-quiet rippled around the crowded watchers.

Nathan stood weaponless, waiting for Tarn to draw first blood. But Tarn did not blood him, instead, he took a step back and saluted Nathan with his sword, the need to be recognised as a blooded warrior no longer contained the importance it once did. The drive to become an adult by village custom was replaced by an attitude that said, 'How others view me is none of my business. This man before me deserves my gratitude.'

"Ye present a valuable lesson swordmaster. My skills have profited. I am in thy debt."

"As I am in yours. Well done, lad."

Tarn returned to his place in the circle amid many hardy cheers and backslapping from his euphoric peers. He had left Nathan's pride intact. There was no shame in being bested by one's better―no matter how young he might be. And each knew the narrow margin by which Tarn had succeeded. After Nathan came over to clasp Tarn's shoulder in congratulations, he called an end to the practise session.

With a noticeably proud mother on one arm and Shaurii on the other retelling each moment of the duel, they moved through the crowd accepting praises for his skill and good fortune. When they reached the hut, Shaurii retrieved his leopard-skin cloak, spears, cater skin, and trail rations she had readied after lunch.

"Now don't dawdle, my young warrior to be. Not more than two days," Marta cautioned. "Storms are inbound."

"Aye, mother. I know how thee fret."

"Mind what I say now, son. There be a heavy snowfall in the air, and avalanche season is upon us. Herd camp won't be of any use if thee can't reach it."

"Before sunset, two days hence."

Hoisting a small backpack into place, Tarn secured the hut flap tight and headed down the mountain at an easy lope. He had sighted mountain ram west of the pass last time he and Tyrell passed through. If fortune favoured him, he would be back on the morrow with his kill before the new moon lit the night, a full day early. Lots of time to complete enlarging the cold pit. This season's harvest had produced a bumper load of clay jars filled to bursting with berries, vegetables, and fruits. Marta even managed to acquire additional grain with which to brew a few extra kegs of small beer.