The War God's Wife

Chapter 4: Training

The next morning, I woke before dawn.  Treading as softly as I could, I collected my baldric and stepped outside.  It had rained again in the night, and its clean scent still lingered on the pre-dawn air.  I walked lightly through the front yard to the path as it dipped downhill towards the town in the valley.  There was a small, flat respite that was perfect for what I needed.  I gently set my sword on the ground and then quickly stripped off my shirt.  Laying that aside, I drew my sword with a soft snk.

It was good to feel in my hand.  It had been at my side since I completed my training, and I looked at it more as a partner than a tool.  I hefted the straight, double-edged blade and gave it an experimental twirl, my eyes drinking in the sight.  The steel glittered in the pale light.  The brass-colored guard winked at me, though smudged and unpolished.  The leather handle creaked as I tightened my grip and swung it harder.  The unblemished edge whistled as it cut the air.  I nodded to myself and sunk into a ready stance.  Methodically, I worked through the drills that had been ingrained in me.  My feet slid through the mud with precision, stepping in time to the swings of my sword.  I imagined an invisible enemy before me, working in time with my rhythm.  I cut, then parried with the back, countered, and thrust, all in one fluid cycle.  I frowned.  My footwork had been off.  I reset and tried again, making sure my feet were exactly where they needed to be.  This time, my thrust was a little long.  I reset and went again.

By the time the sun had broken the horizon, I was drenched in sweat, and my form was perfect.  I was even able to speed up so that my sword was just a silver arc slicing through the air.  I breathed deep as I readied my sword.  Now I swung as if I was fighting multiple people, the scenario spilling into my mind.  A dozen soldiers clad in cheap, cloth armor and armed with chipped, rusted swords swirled around me.  I spun gracefully, batting away imaginary blades and skewering two that were pressed together.  There wasn't time to hesitate, barely even time to breathe or think.  But I had done this so many times.  I could see--no, sense--what each wraith-man would do before he was two steps there.  Three were about to rush my back, and I deflected an opponent's sword around me.  It took one backstabber in the throat as he was stepping into his thrust, and the silver arc of my sword flashed through the necks of the next two.  Still more to come. As I lost myself in the dance of combat, it became more and more real.  I could hear the screech of steel on steel.  I could taste the dust in the air.  I could smell the iron scent of blood.

Iron scent of blood . . . .

Iron . . . scent of . . . blood . . . .

Pain!

Rage!

Death!!

Death to the Tel'mak!!

DEATH TO THE TEL'--!!!

I gasped, the sword flying from my numb fingers.  My feet skidded on the mud, and I slammed into the ground.  Fire scorched into my veins, and I roared at the pain.  I scrunched my eyes shut and tried to control the fiery throbbing.  Moments dripped by as I forced deep, slow breaths into my lungs, desperately also trying to ignore the heavy smell of iron that had returned.  In, and out.  In.  And out.  In . . . and out . . . .  The fire was gone, replaced with only a dull, nagging ache.  I shoved it out of my mind and myself to my feet, opening my eyes as I did.  And still the smell of iron plagued me.  Snatches of those dark memories pierced the reality before me, and I shook my head like a dog trying to free itself from a rough collar.