The war of the twelve realms - Book 1 - Of squires and scholars

Chapter 2 - Fyn

Chapter 2 - Fyn

Three days later, Tryssen could talk very basically to the men, saying simple sentences and understanding most of what was told him.  He was learning to count and write, but the letters and numbers were so different to Kaval’s that he could not fathom them. He had only just learned the Kavallan alphabet and numbers, so to be learning a new one so soon was very hard, though he did try a lot. He had also been learning basic swordplay with Fyn, although the inability for the two to communicate had made that hard too. He was, however, showing promise, and at least knew that he could dodge attacks easier than block them, although learning that had cost him several bruises.

On the third day since his arrival, Tryssen had taken to being called Trys by the men, and was out in the open area of forest that the men of Sir Derryn used as an exercise yard, using a wooden sword to practice with one of the men whilst Fyn stood by, watching. “Move, Trys. If he was a real opponent you’d be dead by now!” The young boy didn’t understand most of the sentence, but he got the idea and dodged the next attack instead of trying to block. “Good, Trys. Now counter!” Trys’ partner stayed frozen still whilst Trys deciphered the simple sentence, realised what he was being told to do and promptly whacked the man in the back of the legs. It wasn’t a hard blow, but each time it took Trys less time to realise what he needed to do, so he was improving his reflexes if not his strength. It’ll take time, but maybe the sapling will learn to fight proper, Fyn thought as he looked over the drills of all the men. He’ll need to learn the common tongue before he gets further though; I can’t teach a student that doesn’t understand me! 

Tired of watching the men hit each other with wooden sticks, Fyn walked over to the longbows that were on a rack, picked one up along with a quiver of arrows, and went to the edge of the glade. He stood in the archer’s stance, knocked, drew, aimed and loosed in a matter of seconds. The arrow flew through the air and hit a trunk fifty yards away. Wrong bloody tree, he thought. He’d been aiming for a knot in the tree on the left of the one he’d hit. He knocked again, drew again, loosed again and missed again; his arrow going into a tree on the left of his target.

 As he prepared to shoot again, a flash of white fletching whistled past his ear and hit the knot he’d been targeting dead centre. “Oh, stop it, Grein!” he said irritably. There was only one man he knew that was that accurate with a bow at that range and in that time. Grein Turrillan ran up next to him, jumped off a tree trunk, and in a blink another arrow was quivering in the tree knot next to the first. “What’s the matter, coz?” Grein asked. Grein was the bastard cousin of Fyn, and also the finest archer in the Redcrest army.

“Nothing. Just thinking about the Kavallan lad. He’s got potential as a swordsman, but I really can’t see him ever becoming a knight or even a commander of any men. We of the mainland realms would never follow a man of the Hammer Isles into battle. You remember the last war we had with them, before this petty squabble?”

“How could I forget? It’s when I shot my first man; dead-on in the eye!” Grein replied enthusiastically. “I seem to remember you went soft for a certain Kavallan woman in that time, though. Don’t worry about it; by the time that lad’s grown, there won’t be anyone except us old codgers to remember that war anyway. It was ten years ago that it finished, and half of the men we have now were hardly around at that time; just little sprouts with maybe a pimple or two. Besides, who said anything about him leading?”

“No one, but he’s got promise, and with Sir Derryn’s squire nearly a knight, who could he possibly take on next but Trys?”

“Perhaps his sister’s son or his young cousin. Maybe even you, old as you are!”

“I’m twenty eight this year, and poor born. I never even picked up a sword until the Kavallan war, and that was a learn quick or die situation. His sister’s son is a weed and his cousin is already squiring for Sir Gunstad.” Fyn replied. He shot another arrow, and just about hit his mark.

“You need to aim, coz!”

“There’s no chance to aim on a battlefield, why should I do so here?”

“Because the only way you learn how to fire without aiming is by earning how to aim well first. These aren’t bashy swords, Fyn. An arrow is a graceful-“

“-graceful instrument of death; precise in its use and deadly when shot with accuracy, so you’ve told me a hundred times before.” Interrupted Fyn.

“And I still need to repeat it, because you don’t listen.” Replied Grein.

“Ugh, I’ve had enough of archery.” Fyn grabbed his arrows from the trunks, replaced them in his quiver and out his longbow back. “I’m going back to play with my bashy swords.” He turned and went back to the sword training ground and joined in a melee with a man who was being faced down by three other men.

Fyn charged in and parried one strike before shouldering into his assailant, then came up in time to block another and kick him back before lunging, turning, and whacking the third on the back of the head with the flat of his sword. “Dead, dead and dead.” He said, “You three need to learn to watch your backs. In a real fight another attacker could come from anywhere and catch you with your breeches down.” He clapped the attacked man on the arm, “Good job defending, but you need to be a bit more forceful to get more attackers on the back foot or they’ll end up playing with you.”

Fyn walked over to where Tryssen was duelling with another man, being pushed back and clearly tiring. “Dodge and strike quickly!” he called. The opponent made a lunge that caught Tryssen square in the belly, winding him before striking down with the edge of the wooden sword towards the back of Trys’ head. Fyn lunged forward and blocked the strike, before pulling up and knocking the man down with an arm sweep. “Idiot! That’s a seven year old who’s never held a sword before, the belly strike was fine, but there’s no need to finish with a head strike on a seven year old!”

“Sorry sir. Battle instinct I suppose.” The man meekly offered as a justification.

“Battle instinct? That’s more like savage instinct, which is fair enough if you’re a berserker, but a ranger needs to think in battle. I’ve seen better swordsmen than you go down because savage instinct made them finish a fight that didn’t need finishing and then be killed because they didn’t see a new threat!” Fyn turned to Tryssen, “Are you ok, Trys?”

Trys stood up, his eyes were red with pain, but he had not cried. Instead he picked up his wooden sword and attacked the man who’d hit him, striking at head, body and feet with reckless fervour. The man cursed and stepped back, standing fully up, but Trys smashed his stick between the man’s legs and he went down again with a gasp of pain. Fyn decided that enough was enough and before Trys could do anything lasting, he interceded and picked Tryssen up, throwing the wooden sword to the ground.

 The boy was screaming in Kavallan as Fyn carried him away and sat him on a log a few hundred metres away whilst Trys screamed and battered his hands on Fyn’s back. “Trys, Trys. Stop it! That man hurt you, and he got what he deserved with the first hits, but you need to control yourself!” Tryssen still screamed and hit and scratched, but after a few minutes he exhausted himself and seemed to calm down, eventually sobbing and leaning on Fyn’s shoulder.

Fyn stood up, picked Trys up and carried him gently to his own tent, wrapping the boy up in his sleeping furs and letting him sleep. He turned away and went up to the main tent.