Fourth Tale

Chapter 4

4

She found him in the training ground the next day, smashing his mace into a straw dummy over and over again. She could see his skin glistening from where she stood (she was a good twenty feet away).

"Aye, lass?" He didn't even stop pounding the dummy.

"I did what you said, Sir," Amani called out, "Introduced myself to the nuns at the Ward and the Church."

He stopped and straightened. "Lass," he sighed heavily, but she took a couple steps in his direction before he could continue, she cut him off.

"Wait!" she licked her lips from behind her veil, and then she in turn took a deep breath, "Before you turn me away," her eyes searched his back but he raised a hand to stop her.

"Just stop," he muttered, his shoulders sagging.

"I want you to train me!" she spoke hurriedly, speaking over him, "I am but capture away from death. I want to be able to fight on my own!"

"Another..."

"The Heir said you were the best," she raised her voice as she spoke firmly, "I need the best."

The was a long silenced followed by a brief laugh. "I am not the best, lass, merely the last ."

"I can pay," Amani persisted. He finally turned to look at her. His blue eye was dulled, his cheeks were pink, and she felt sucker punched. "You're drunk."

"Not drunk enough," he muttered surly, raising a gloved hand to rub down his face. His shoulders sagged even more as he dropped on his anvil.

She stared at him through slitted eyes.

"Listen, lass," he shook his head.

"Who is Lizzie?" she asked, cutting him off. This Lizzie must have something to do with his drinking.

That got his attention. That blue eye sharpened and burrowed into her skull as he stared at her from his sitting position. The silence dragged on for a long minute before his shoulders sagged in defeat.

"My wife," he said simply, and he picked up his mace gently. He was staring intently at it, picking at imaginary debris on the spikes. Amani showed no reaction as the old man swallowed, but kept his mouth shut.

When it became obvious he was not going to continue, Amani prodded, "What happened to her?" Exactly like pulling teeth.

He slammed his weapon down on the ground and jumped to his feet. The anger in his face didn't frighten her, merely intrigued her.

"She died," he snarled accusatory, blue clashing with black.

"Your fault?" Amani questioned, arching an eyebrow. She'd guessed death.

He glared at her for a moment longer before he sat back down on his anvil. "Why do you want to know?" he grumbled, grabbing his mace again.

"Curious," she answered truthfully.

"She and our son died in childbirth," he finally said after an eternity. His voice was neutral, and calm, a complete contrast to mere moments ago, "It happened over twenty years ago," he added quietly, rubbing his hand over his face again.

That surprised her, and then a spike of uncharacteristic envy (or jealousy... she wasn't sure which) went through her mind. Twenty years... the woman had been dead twenty years! And still he pined for her. For Lizzie.

Amani had never met anyone that dedicated. She had never had anyone love her... Well... she'd always assumed her mother had at one point before Amani had been taken from her as a toddler, but she had no recollection of such (she'd daydreamed about it though). Amani had always been a slave, and slaves were not permitted relationships (not even parental ones...).

"Happy?" he snarled, his mood obviously foul.

Amani stared at him before she right hooked him in the face. She'd surprised both him and herself. Her knuckles hurt and he fell off his anvil.

"Now what was that for?!" he snapped, struggling to his feet.

"Being a fool," she retorted angrily (at him and herself, but he didn't need to know that).

He rubbed his jaw and narrowed his eyes. "And you want this old fool to train you."

"Yes." She rubbed her pained fingers along the bandages of her stump.

He stared at her for a while longer before he finally took a deep, steadying breath. "All right, lass," he muttered, grabbing his mace from the ground and tying it to his belt, "Come here then," he grabbed her right hand unexpectedly and massaged her fingers, "First off," his thumb rubbed soothingly over her knuckles, "You punch like a girl."

"I am a girl," she deadpanned, not understanding what he was insinuating, but liking how his thumbs eased the pain.

His mustache twitched and his blue eye bore into her. "Loosen your hand," he explained, "Your fist was clenched too tight."

She frowned at him and he, in turn, made a fist with his right hand, "I don't understand..."

"Look," he showed her his fist, "my fingers are loose, and your thumb wasn't placed correctly." He wiggled his thumb, "You should always turn your fist downward as you strike."

She followed his instructions and he nodded. "Like that?"

"Aye, lass," he stepped back and rubbed at his jaw with consideration, "Next hit shouldn't hurt as much."

She raised her head and squared her shoulders. "Thank you, Sir."

He grunted and turned his back on her. She was obviously dismissed but decided to stay anyway. He didn't say anything else to her for the rest of the day, and when they left for the barracks later in the evening, he nodded in her direction in acknowledgement.

She nodded back, secretly pleased with herself.