Stranger (The Aevyanthis Chronicles, Book One)

Chapter Eleven

"Square your shoulders," Taanyth ordered. "Widen your stance. You need to push your chest out, use your core."

Luke clumsily obeyed, ignoring the elf as he watched with narrowed eyes. As the forest began to glow with the soft haze of twilight, the guards had commenced their nightly duties, the starlings had softened their songs, and Luke was outside swinging a wooden training sword.

"You need to raise the sword vertically, at shoulder height."

"It's a stick," he muttered.

"When you learn to wield the stick like a sword, then you shall get to wield a sword," Taanyth warned. "Again."

Luke stepped forwards, and the wooden handle bounced off the training dummy with a CRACK.

"Control the recoil, do not let it control you. Step slightly to the side, and drive through your core when you strike, don't use your wrists. Again."

Taanyth paced around as he practiced, correcting every step and strike.

"Can't we move onto something different?" Luke sighed, breaking form to wipe at his forehead. "Let me practice on a real person, get some hands on experience or something."

"The babe must learn to crawl before it can walk. Every move is important, especially the basics," Taanyth growled.

Luke gritted his teeth and continued in silence, not wanting to seem ungrateful. Compared to the elves and their natural poise, he was a poor choice for a student, and Taanyth was being very patient. Every time he moved, there was something to correct. Balance with your core. Don't lean too far over. Don't choke the hilt.

Together they would practice until Taanyth resumed his duties or was called away for a meeting. Even then, Luke would continue deep into the night, until his hands were raw and his muscles seized. It was one thing that Luke could pride himself on; he may lack the grace and the skill, but he was no quitter. He believed the elf saw that too, for after a few nights he had gotten what he asked for.

"You think yourself ready for one on one?" Taanyth asked. It was meant to sound mocking, but Luke could hear the sincerity in his voice.

"You bet I am," he replied.

The elf handed him a long sword, and even before Luke could look over it, he knew it was different from what the other elves used; it was weightier, with the blade longer and less curved, and the hilt was made with lambskin that molded to his grip. There was a symbol of a tree carved into the steel pommel, its branches stretching out towards the sky. His chest had swelled with delight as he practiced swinging it to and fro, getting a feel for the blade.

"Be careful with that," Taanyth said. "I doubt our healers will be able to reattach a severed arm."

Luke readied the sword with both hands. "I'm sure Enda could."

"Yes, I will give the wood elf some merit," Taanyth replied as they began to practice. "But only the strongest of magick can return life to something that is already dead. Mind your fingers."

Luke quickly dodged a diagonal slash, stepping back.

"Her salve is magick to me," he defended, remembering how his shattered arm healed in mere days.

"Hah! You have not seen magick, child. You are not from this world, and cannot know of these things. When skin has woven itself together before your very eyes, or when sight has returned to the sightless..." Luke dodged a backhanded strike. "...That is when you have seen magick."