goings of a young, ignorant girl.”
Maltren reddened, unable to respond. He
turned, preparing to storm off, but not without taking one last jab at her.
“It’s spears today,” he said. “You’d
best stay out of the way of real men throwing real weapons.”
He turned and rode off with the others
and as she watched him go, her joy at being here was tempered by his presence.
Anvin gave her a consoling look and lay
a hand on her shoulder.
“The first lesson of a warrior,” he
said, “is to learn to live with those who hate you. Like it or not, you will
find yourself fighting side-by-side with them, dependent on them for your
lives. Oftentimes, your worst enemies will not come from without, but from
within.”
“And those who can’t fight, run their
mouths,” came a voice.
Kyra turned to see Arthfael approaching,
grinning, quick to take her side, as he always was. Like Anvin and Vidar, Arthfael,
a tall, fierce warrior with a stark bald head and a long, stiff black beard,
had a soft spot for her. He was one of the best swordsmen, rarely bested, and
he always stood up for her. She took comfort in his presence.
“It’s just talk,” Arthfael added. “If
Maltren were a better warrior, he’d be more concerned with himself than
others.”
Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael mounted their
horses and took off with the others, and Kyra stood there watching them,
thinking. Why did some people hate? she wondered. She did not know if she would
ever understand it.
As they charged across the grounds,
racing in wide loops, Kyra studied the great warhorses in awe, eager for the
day when she might have one of her own. She watched the men circle the grounds,
riding alongside the stone walls, their horses sometimes slipping in the snow.
The men grabbed spears handed to them by eager squires, and as they rounded the
loop, they threw them at distant targets: shields hanging from branches. When
they hit, the distinct clang of metal rang out.
It was harder than it looked, she could
see, to throw while on horseback, and more than one of the men missed,
especially as they aimed for the smaller shields. Of those who hit, few hit in
the center—except for Anvin, Vidar, Arthfael and a few others. Maltren, she
noticed, missed several times, cursing under his breath and glaring over at
her, as if she were to blame.
Kyra, wanting to keep warm, pulled out
her staff and began spinning and twirling it in her hands, over her head,
around and around, twisting and turning it like a living thing. She thrust at
imaginary enemies, blocked imaginary blows, switching hands, over her neck,
around her waist, the staff like a third arm for her, its wood well-worn from
years of molding it.
While the men circled the fields, Kyra
ran off to her own little field, a small section of the training grounds
neglected by the men but which she loved for herself. Small pieces of armor
dangled from ropes in a grove of trees, spread out at all different heights,
and Kyra ran through and, pretending each target was an opponent, struck each
one with her staff. The air filled with her clanging as she ran through the
grove, slashing, weaving and ducking as they swung back at her. In her mind she
attacked and defended gloriously, conquering an army of imaginary foes.
“Kill anyone yet?” came a mocking voice.
Kyra turned to see Maltren ride up on
his horse, laughing derisively at her, before he rode off. She fumed, wishing
that someone would put him in his place.
Kyra took a break as she saw the men,
done with their spears, dismount and form a circle in the center of the
clearing. Their squires rushed forward and handed them wooden training swords,
made of a thick oak, weighing nearly as much as steel. Kyra kept to the
periphery, her heart quickening as she watched these men square off with each
other, wanting more than anything to join them.
Before they began, Anvin stepped into
the middle and faced them all.
“On this holiday, we spar for a special
bounty,” he
Maltren reddened, unable to respond. He
turned, preparing to storm off, but not without taking one last jab at her.
“It’s spears today,” he said. “You’d
best stay out of the way of real men throwing real weapons.”
He turned and rode off with the others
and as she watched him go, her joy at being here was tempered by his presence.
Anvin gave her a consoling look and lay
a hand on her shoulder.
“The first lesson of a warrior,” he
said, “is to learn to live with those who hate you. Like it or not, you will
find yourself fighting side-by-side with them, dependent on them for your
lives. Oftentimes, your worst enemies will not come from without, but from
within.”
“And those who can’t fight, run their
mouths,” came a voice.
Kyra turned to see Arthfael approaching,
grinning, quick to take her side, as he always was. Like Anvin and Vidar, Arthfael,
a tall, fierce warrior with a stark bald head and a long, stiff black beard,
had a soft spot for her. He was one of the best swordsmen, rarely bested, and
he always stood up for her. She took comfort in his presence.
“It’s just talk,” Arthfael added. “If
Maltren were a better warrior, he’d be more concerned with himself than
others.”
Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael mounted their
horses and took off with the others, and Kyra stood there watching them,
thinking. Why did some people hate? she wondered. She did not know if she would
ever understand it.
As they charged across the grounds,
racing in wide loops, Kyra studied the great warhorses in awe, eager for the
day when she might have one of her own. She watched the men circle the grounds,
riding alongside the stone walls, their horses sometimes slipping in the snow.
The men grabbed spears handed to them by eager squires, and as they rounded the
loop, they threw them at distant targets: shields hanging from branches. When
they hit, the distinct clang of metal rang out.
It was harder than it looked, she could
see, to throw while on horseback, and more than one of the men missed,
especially as they aimed for the smaller shields. Of those who hit, few hit in
the center—except for Anvin, Vidar, Arthfael and a few others. Maltren, she
noticed, missed several times, cursing under his breath and glaring over at
her, as if she were to blame.
Kyra, wanting to keep warm, pulled out
her staff and began spinning and twirling it in her hands, over her head,
around and around, twisting and turning it like a living thing. She thrust at
imaginary enemies, blocked imaginary blows, switching hands, over her neck,
around her waist, the staff like a third arm for her, its wood well-worn from
years of molding it.
While the men circled the fields, Kyra
ran off to her own little field, a small section of the training grounds
neglected by the men but which she loved for herself. Small pieces of armor
dangled from ropes in a grove of trees, spread out at all different heights,
and Kyra ran through and, pretending each target was an opponent, struck each
one with her staff. The air filled with her clanging as she ran through the
grove, slashing, weaving and ducking as they swung back at her. In her mind she
attacked and defended gloriously, conquering an army of imaginary foes.
“Kill anyone yet?” came a mocking voice.
Kyra turned to see Maltren ride up on
his horse, laughing derisively at her, before he rode off. She fumed, wishing
that someone would put him in his place.
Kyra took a break as she saw the men,
done with their spears, dismount and form a circle in the center of the
clearing. Their squires rushed forward and handed them wooden training swords,
made of a thick oak, weighing nearly as much as steel. Kyra kept to the
periphery, her heart quickening as she watched these men square off with each
other, wanting more than anything to join them.
Before they began, Anvin stepped into
the middle and faced them all.
“On this holiday, we spar for a special
bounty,” he
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