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Authors: Morgan Rice
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announced. “To the victor shall go the choice portion of the
feast!”
A cry of excitement followed, as the men
charged each other, the click-clack of their wooden swords filling the air,
driving each other back and forth.
The sparring was punctuated by the
blasts of a horn, sounding every time a fighter was struck by a blow, and
sending him to the sidelines. The horn sounded frequently, and soon the ranks
began to thin, most of the men now standing to the side and watching.
Kyra stood on the sidelines with them,
burning to spar, though she was not allowed. Yet today was her birthday, she
was fifteen now, and she felt ready. She felt it was time to press her case.
“Let me join them!” she pleaded to
Anvin, who was standing nearby, watching.
Anvin shook his head, never taking his
eyes off the action.
“Today marks my fifteenth year!” she
insisted. “Allow me to fight!”
He glanced over at her skeptically.
“This is a training ground for men,”
chimed in Maltren, standing on the sidelines after losing a point. “Not young
girls. You can sit and watch with the other squires, and bring us water if we
demand it.”
Kyra flushed.
“Are you so afraid that a girl might
defeat you?” she countered, standing her ground, feeling a rush of anger within
her. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and no one could speak to her
like that.
Some of the men snickered, and this
time, Maltren blushed.
“She has a point,” Vidar chimed in.
“Maybe we should let her spar. What’s to lose?”
“Spar with what?” Maltren countered.
“My staff!” Kyra called out. “Against
your wooden swords.”
Maltren laughed.
“That would be a sight,” he said.
All eyes turned to Anvin, as he stood
there, debating.
“You get hurt, your father will kill
me,” he said.
“I won’t get hurt,” she pleaded.
He stood there for what felt like
forever, until finally he sighed.
“I see no harm in it then,” he said. “If
nothing else, it will keep you silent. As long as these men have no objection,”
he added, turning to the soldiers.
“AYE!” called out a dozen of her
father’s men in unison, all enthusiastically rooting for her. Kyra loved them
for it, more than she could say. She saw the admiration they held for her, the
same love they reserved for her father. She did not have many friends, and these
men meant the world to her.
Maltren scoffed.
“Let the girl make a fool of herself
then,” he said. “Might teach her a lesson once and for all.”
A horn sounded, and as another man left
the circle, Kyra rushed in.
Kyra felt all eyes on her as the men
stared, clearly not expecting this. She found herself facing her opponent, a
tall man of stocky build in his thirties, a powerful warrior she had known
since her father’s days at court. From having observed him, she knew him to be
a good fighter—but also overconfident, charging in the beginning of each fight,
a bit reckless.
He turned to Anvin, frowning.
“What insult is this?” he asked. “I
shall not fight a girl.”
“You insult yourself by fearing to fight
me,” Kyra replied, indignant. “I have two hands, and two legs, just as you. If
you will not fight me, then concede defeat!”
He blinked, shocked, then scowled back.
“Very well then,” he said. “Don’t go
running to your father after you lose.”
He charged at full speed, as she knew he
would, raised his wooden sword hard and high, and came straight down, aiming
for her shoulder. It was a move she had anticipated, one she had seen him
perform many times, one he clumsily foreshadowed by the motion of his arms. His
wooden sword was powerful, but it was also heavy and clumsy next to her staff.
Kyra watched him closely, waited until
the last moment, then sidestepped, allowing the powerful blow to come straight
down beside her. In the same motion, she swung her staff around and whacked him
in the side of his shoulder.
He groaned as he stumbled sideways. He
stood there, stunned,
feast!”
A cry of excitement followed, as the men
charged each other, the click-clack of their wooden swords filling the air,
driving each other back and forth.
The sparring was punctuated by the
blasts of a horn, sounding every time a fighter was struck by a blow, and
sending him to the sidelines. The horn sounded frequently, and soon the ranks
began to thin, most of the men now standing to the side and watching.
Kyra stood on the sidelines with them,
burning to spar, though she was not allowed. Yet today was her birthday, she
was fifteen now, and she felt ready. She felt it was time to press her case.
“Let me join them!” she pleaded to
Anvin, who was standing nearby, watching.
Anvin shook his head, never taking his
eyes off the action.
“Today marks my fifteenth year!” she
insisted. “Allow me to fight!”
He glanced over at her skeptically.
“This is a training ground for men,”
chimed in Maltren, standing on the sidelines after losing a point. “Not young
girls. You can sit and watch with the other squires, and bring us water if we
demand it.”
Kyra flushed.
“Are you so afraid that a girl might
defeat you?” she countered, standing her ground, feeling a rush of anger within
her. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and no one could speak to her
like that.
Some of the men snickered, and this
time, Maltren blushed.
“She has a point,” Vidar chimed in.
“Maybe we should let her spar. What’s to lose?”
“Spar with what?” Maltren countered.
“My staff!” Kyra called out. “Against
your wooden swords.”
Maltren laughed.
“That would be a sight,” he said.
All eyes turned to Anvin, as he stood
there, debating.
“You get hurt, your father will kill
me,” he said.
“I won’t get hurt,” she pleaded.
He stood there for what felt like
forever, until finally he sighed.
“I see no harm in it then,” he said. “If
nothing else, it will keep you silent. As long as these men have no objection,”
he added, turning to the soldiers.
“AYE!” called out a dozen of her
father’s men in unison, all enthusiastically rooting for her. Kyra loved them
for it, more than she could say. She saw the admiration they held for her, the
same love they reserved for her father. She did not have many friends, and these
men meant the world to her.
Maltren scoffed.
“Let the girl make a fool of herself
then,” he said. “Might teach her a lesson once and for all.”
A horn sounded, and as another man left
the circle, Kyra rushed in.
Kyra felt all eyes on her as the men
stared, clearly not expecting this. She found herself facing her opponent, a
tall man of stocky build in his thirties, a powerful warrior she had known
since her father’s days at court. From having observed him, she knew him to be
a good fighter—but also overconfident, charging in the beginning of each fight,
a bit reckless.
He turned to Anvin, frowning.
“What insult is this?” he asked. “I
shall not fight a girl.”
“You insult yourself by fearing to fight
me,” Kyra replied, indignant. “I have two hands, and two legs, just as you. If
you will not fight me, then concede defeat!”
He blinked, shocked, then scowled back.
“Very well then,” he said. “Don’t go
running to your father after you lose.”
He charged at full speed, as she knew he
would, raised his wooden sword hard and high, and came straight down, aiming
for her shoulder. It was a move she had anticipated, one she had seen him
perform many times, one he clumsily foreshadowed by the motion of his arms. His
wooden sword was powerful, but it was also heavy and clumsy next to her staff.
Kyra watched him closely, waited until
the last moment, then sidestepped, allowing the powerful blow to come straight
down beside her. In the same motion, she swung her staff around and whacked him
in the side of his shoulder.
He groaned as he stumbled sideways. He
stood there, stunned,
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