Chapter X

⛨A Glimpse of the Swordmaster’s Past⛨

Greymor 2 Mayfornad Pferdjahr 53, Castle Dorne

Early in the morning, just before the sun has risen upon the mountains where Castle Dorne is perched, Ilina attempts to sneak out of the castle to get away from her sword training with the Captain of the Guard, Arnold. Perhaps not as determined and eager as he would have liked her to be. Following closely behind her is the small luminous orb, known as Spook, a name she had given him years ago during one of their first encounters.

Of course, this wasn’t his real name. No one knows his real name, not even he knows it. Unlike the other ghosts she has met, he has a rare case of mental or magical amnesia. Due to this, he has never been able to show Ilina his true form. Simply for the fact he is unable to recall what it looked like and, therefore, unable to manifest it altogether.

All he remembers is waking up in a burned-down castle and wandering aimlessly about before coming upon a young girl who could see him one day. Ever since then, he had been an ethereal presence in her life, as she was the only person who could see or hear him, given her unique ability as a Soulsinger.

She is only really keeping the amnesia-stricken spirit around because he is rather good at keeping all the other ghosts and malicious spirits from bothering her and has an innate ability to tell if someone is lying. Through the years, he has remained by her side, becoming a constant influence in her life. Whether he felt like a real friend or a nuisance depended on how frustrated he was currently feeling.

“You know he’s going to catch you… Again!” Spook remarks, floating to a junction in the corridor as Ilina peers around the corner.

“Preposterous, only a fool would get caught by that colossus. He’s so gigantic, I’ll see him coming from the other side of the castle.” She quietly whispers back at him, gazing around the corner and seeing if the coast is clear; she begins moving down the corridor to the next one, one more turn and she is home clear.

“I don’t know. Do you recall how often he’s caught you in the last few years? Let alone the last few months since you started all of this.” He taunts her, knowing the best ways to get a rise out of her. “It’s in the thousands now? I mean, you’ve never gotten away with it, not once. I’m still waiting to see a miracle here.”

Turning to him, she quietly chastises him, “Listen here you… you… ball of light, I can banish you anytime I want. Now, just do your job and keep an eye out for him.” As she finishes, she notices him sinking into the floor and disappearing. ‘Great.’ she thinks, ‘He’s right behind me, isn’t he.’

A quiet yet still booming voice gruffly asks, “Goin’ somewhere, lass?” Turning to face the hulk of a man, she awkwardly smiles, half-heartedly shaking her head, denying any intention of skipping his lesson. Able to see right through her and the poorly crafted lie. “Well, then ye’re up, nice and early enough fer practice. Go get yer duds on and meet me in the courtyard, the usual spot. Ye have until the maids begin cooking breakfast,” He sternly orders her, pointing back toward her room.

Pouting, Ilina protests, “I can’t do training today. We have guests I would very much like to meet, and I’d rather not do so covered in blood, sweat, and dirt.”

Scoffing as he turns away from her and travels back the way he came, insisting, “If ye’re quick enough, ye’ll maybe have some time to wash up beferehand.” He continues to walk away until disappearing into the darkness, leaving her alone, defeated, and feeling a little foolish.

Reappearing from the spot he had disappeared to, Spook floats up toward her, “Told ya.” Allowing a moment for it to all sink in, he asks, “So does that make you the fool, then?”

Glaring toward him, she lets out a quiet shriek, “Piss off.” Reluctantly heading back to her room to change into her duds, she ignores Spook and his constant yapping. After finishing, she makes her way down to the courtyard to begin training with the monster of a man, Arnold.

When she arrives, Arnold is already there, his long grayed hair blowing in the current of wind blowing through the elongated courtyard. “Good, now that ye are here, we can properly start.” He says, tossing her a wooden training sword while raising his own, showing her he is ready for anything she might throw at him. “Now then, tell me, young princess, what are the feur styles that the old Impies left fer us, and how are they best utilized?”

She smiles, knowing that he speaks of the different sword styles their country has used since its inception. “The first one,” she says, gripping the wooden sword firmly with both of her hands, “Is Basic Form.” She begins to use simple swings and strikes to attack him as Spook watches from the side, cheering her on.

“Good, and how is this style best used against a combatant?” He inquires, easily parrying and blocking her swings, reading her movements like a book.

“As the simplest of melee fighting, it balances attacking and blocking while utilizing dodging and countering when necessary.” She correctly answers as she continues to use simple attacks and parries against him.

“Cerrect.” He answers, with a hint of pride for his pupil in his voice, “And ye have shown much pregress in this style; without masterin’ these simple principles, ye cannot master any other style effectively. Ye need to ingrain these principles into every fiber of yer fightin’ spirit.” Continuing to block her attacks with ease, he then demands, “Next style?”

Breaking away from her attack, she holds the wooden sword up at the ready. “The next style is the Fox Style.” Beginning a chain of attacks, Ilina starts using more complicated footwork and faints to try and confuse her mentor. “It was developed by the House of Fuchs, cunning as they are, to confuse their enemies during a fight.”

“Again, cerrect, ye are me little fex; now show me how ye can best utilize it.” Arnold orders, carefully watching her feet and other motions, ensuring his past teachings have stuck.

Nodding, Ilina attempts to use faint after faint while using her sword in more complicated swings, doing all she can to confuse him. Spook continues watching, quietly relaying where to strike next. Watching her tactics closely, and even with all of his skill, Arnold is still hit twice by the end of her display.

“Wonderful. Ye keep that up, and ye shall confuse the best swerdsmen in the werld.” Gripping his wooden sword tightly and preparing himself, knowing this following style is the one she still cannot fully grasp, he asks, “What is the next style?”

Giving it a moment of thought, she responds, a little unsure in her words. “Um, Bearglove? And it is meant for combatants to use physical strength to overcome their opponents.”

“Wrong.” He says while using his leg to swipe her leg out from under her, bringing her quickly toppling to the ground. Stepping over her, he looks down at the dust-covered protege and points the wooden sword toward the center of her face. “Ferst, it isn’t Bearglove, it is called Bearclaw. Ye sound like a damn fool, callin’ it that. And second, it isn’t just about usin’ raw physical strength alone to overcome an enemy but fer ye to learn how to best use yer own strength to overcome them instead. If it were just merely raw power, someone like ye would never stand a chance against someone like me. Ye need to find yer own strength to bring me down, me little fex, whether that be kickin’, grapplin’ er usin’ any number of strikes er methods. Ye need to find and use what werks best fer ye and make that strength yer own; that is the way of Bearclaw.”

Determined not to be so easily patronized, Ilina rises to her feet, ready to answer his final inquiry. Seeing the fierce determination, he matches it with his own before asking, “What is the last swerd style, me little fex?”

Smiling, she begins jumping from side to side toward him, staying light on her feet as she points the sword toward him. “Snakefangs!” she excitedly yells as she begins rapidly hitting him from every side with great precision, a result of practice. Out of all the styles he has shown her, this is the one she has picked up the quickest and the one she has fully made her own.

Going on the defensive, Arnold blocks as many hits as possible, having great difficulty due to his large stature. Proud of her progress, he grabs the sword to stop her strikes. “Excellent, me little fex, ye would make a fine serpent.” His breaths begin to closely resemble his age, coming in shallow and harsh. Taking a few deep breaths, he asks, “How is this style best utilized, little fex?”

Breathing heavily, she bends over to catch her breath before responding, “Using speed and precision to best attack your opponents and hitting them repeatedly where it will do the most damage.”

“Cerrect, ye’re really beginnin’ to understand at least a few of them. Ye’ve shown some real improvement, keep this up, and ye’ll be able to easily take me on,” he says, acknowledging her progress.

“You?” She inquires as they sit on a pair of stone benches next to one another on the courtyard’s edge. Due to Arnold’s massive size, they are unable to share the same bench. “I don’t think a man or woman alive could take you in a fair fight. You are, after all, the greatest sword master in the entire Empire, if not the world.”

Hearing this praise, Arnold falls silent and looks down, moving one of the training swords around in the grass as his thoughts momentarily consume him, ‘Fair?’ His thoughts turn to a man who was once his friend. “Ye know there used to be one who was better than me.”

Her curiosity piques, “Really? There’s no way. You’re the strongest man in the world. There can’t be a better Master than you.” She confidently says before turning to see him gloomily, looking at the ground with a giant frown stretching across his face. “Who was he?”

The frown turns into a slight smile as he recollects the old days. “He was like none other, me best friend and a Master of all five swerd styles.”

“Five?” she inquires, a bit confused. “I thought you said there were only four.” Furrowing her brow, her curiosity grows, “What’s the fifth?”

“Well, it is, now at least, a long-fergotten swerd style that used the strengths of all the others to combine and make a lethal, unpredictable, and effective mix.” He replies, “I also saw no point in teachin’ ye about something that I couldn’t even learn me-self.” Shrugging, he continues, “Even though I spent a lot of me time with the masters who once taught it, I could never learn it. Too stuck in me own ways.”

“And why is this the first I’m hearing about this? What happened to it? What was it called? And you mentioned you spent time with the old masters of it? Who were they?” Questions flooded her mind. For a reason unknown to her, this topic piqued a hidden interest in her. Leaning in closer, he captures her attention completely, and his feelings about the subject don’t matter to her as much as the answers she didn’t know she needed.