Early dawn on a warm spring day was the perfect time to practice sword forms in the garden. Birdsong flitted into the world’s pre-dawn hush, lifting the sun above the horizon to fill the valley with light. Luther soaked it in from the center of his garden.
His green hedges had yet to let their flowers bloom. Wet dew on their leaves made the garden smell green. Solid stone formed a dais in the center of the hedges. The dais was an island of gray amidst the green. Luther was its sole inhabitant, and the only one on the grounds awake besides the servants.
He stepped carefully, his body flowing through the movements of parries against remembered enemies, half-turns, pirouettes, and lunges. Parry, parry, thrust, parry, parry, and swing. Each movement flowed into the next until sweat glistened on his brow, matching the dew in the dawning sunlight.
Luther’s longsword hadn’t drawn blood since he’d drawn it against Branan and Lucas. Despite his fears, no one had stepped forth to challenge him after that, nor had he leveled a challenge to anyone. Perhaps his enemies thought that months of noble living, feasting, and courting might soften his strength. Lack of use could dull any skill, but he remained ready.
The Le Fey union remained strong, and anyone who saw their duel with the Feothes had no interest in testing their might. It had been months since that memorable duel, and the valley still discussed it, sharing stories. The romance and vengeance of the fight had passed from lips to legend through the retellings. Luther even heard several before people realized he was listening.
“My lord, there you are,” Wyll panted at the edge of the dais. The young valet adjusted his uniform, making himself more presentable after a sprint.
Luther stopped his practicing, but held his stance as he paused. Brown dirt, gray stone dust, and sweat stained his plain white shirt. His black trousers were just as dirty, making him appear to be a peasant beside the young man in the tailcoat, despite being his employer.
He looked at Wyll. “Is something the matter?”
“No, my lord, but Wulfric is looking for you. He says Miriam is ill and won’t be at work today,” Wyll said.
“That’s fine,” Luther said, resuming his practice against his imaginary enemies. “I won’t require a scribe today. We’re departing in a few hours.”
He’d written too many letters to keep up and not suffer from hand cramps while holding the pen. The solution? A scribe. She’d proved invaluable, with faster and neater handwriting than Luther, and when he didn’t have work for her, she spent her time copying books in the library. It worked well.
After the Feothe duel, Luther worried the challengers would come by the dozens to test themselves against his novel arcanum. The duke’s spouses had announced their begrudging confirmation of its veracity, and word had spread. Yet no challengers arrived on his doorstep to test themselves or demand he surrender his title as lord, as was the law.
Instead, the suitors came in a flood of invitations, dinners, dances, and letters. The pile of paperwork was never-ending. He spent most of yesterday writing or dictating letters. Almost every noble family in the dukedom, and many outside it, had at least written the Le Fey union a letter congratulating them on their victory. The friendly overtures were a welcome break from Branan’s constant harassment, even if the stink of politicking clung to them.
Speculation abounded concerning the limits of his magic and the heights the Le Fey clan might ascend to within the empire. Dangerous tongues wagged about the Le Fey clan becoming the next imperial dynasty. Luther never responded to such suggestions; he had no ambition to rule this empire.
“Speaking of your departure, sir, are you sure you won’t be needing any of your finer clothes? You’ve packed your old travel clothes, but no finery,” Wyll said. “And Wulfric is worried you may need them.”
Luther laughed. “No, I won’t. It’s a journey into the mountains for an exploratory excavation. I don’t imagine I’ll attend any dinner parties while I’m away.”
He looked up to the windows during his sparring, but Criella was not watching him, nor was she illuminated by one of the many magic crystals installed in the manor. Even with his soul-bound connection to her, he couldn’t see her without the aid of the magical light. A condition he hoped to remedy soon.
The months flowed by, and winter was too dangerous a time for a mountain journey.
Now, it was spring, and today was the day they began their forbidden expedition. The carts stood ready at the stables. They’d packed their luggage and prepared their food. Nothing might stop them from leaving the manor today.
Two seasons of preparation were longer than Luther wished to take. But there were many variables to consider. His holdings had to be secure, and the town needed to acclimate to him, which his fame didn’t help. Quarter day had come and gone. The winter holidays, and the daily work and play of a noble, had distracted him as well. Still, his wife, Rhosyn, proved capable with the books, and she was ready to stand in for him during his time away.
Luther pushed himself to complete the forms. He finished his routine and stopped, calming his breathing into a meditative state. Wyll shuffled, drawing Luther’s attention to him as he stood off to the side. “What else was there?”
“Oh, uh, I was wondering if you’d let me come with you on your adventure, sir,” Wyll said. The hope in his voice inspired pity rather than confidence. “I’ve asked Wulfric, and he said–”
“And he told you no,” Luther said. “Because I told him no.”
“Yes, sir, but you’ll need a valet, won’t you?” Wyll asked. “Even if you don’t pack your finery.”
“You’ll still have your employment and receive your wages while I’m away,” Luther said. “If that worries you. You don’t need to come with me to keep working. I’m sure Rhosyn and Emily will keep you busy, or you can enjoy the paid vacation.”
“Oh, it’s not that, sir; it’s just that I want to go with you. I can wield a sword, and my magic is getting stronger,” Wyll said. “I might be of use on the road, in the mountains, fighting barbarians.”
Luther examined Wyll at a distance, judging the young man’s frame. He was lithe, but hardworking and trustworthy. Unfortunately, Luther didn’t need a valet on the trip, and bringing Wyll along to a fight might create more vulnerabilities than strengths. He was younger, with plenty of years for adventure ahead of him. He was still less than twenty, and while Luther didn’t mind giving the young man a job, he had no intention of putting the man’s life in danger.
“We’re not fighting any barbarians on this trip, Wyll,” Luther said. “But I appreciate the offer of your help. When you’re older, and there’s more strength in those sword-bearing limbs, you can join me on such travels.”
“That’s a no, sir?” Wyll asked, frowning.
“That’s a no for now,” Luther said. He offered him a small smile to soften the blow. “But keep your chin up and keep practicing.”
“I’m good enough now,” Wyll protested. “I swear it.”
“Show me,” Luther said, tilting his head at Wyll. “Do you have a blade?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Can you make one with your magic?” Luther asked.
Wyll looked around him. “Well, I could make a wooden one. I’d just need the wood. Maybe with enough of the hedge trimmings?”
“Make two,” Luther said, grinning.
“Two, sir?” Wyll asked.
“Well, it wouldn’t be fair to spar with you if I had a blade and you had a wooden practice sword,” Luther said.
“Oh, uh,” Wyll hesitated. “I’m not as good with a sword as you are, sir.”
“Of course not,” Luther said. That wasn’t vanity or pride on his part. He had at least one decade, maybe two, more of practice. Most of that practice had been outside the empire. People, monsters, and nature itself had tried to kill him. He’d survived, and what didn’t kill him gave him wisdom—or, as some preferred to call it, trauma. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to kill or beat you. I just want to gauge your skill as a beginner.”
Wyll nodded. “Firewood will work better. I’ll be right back.”
Luther nodded, and Wyll turned and ran. Luther returned to his forms, practicing and wondering which forms Wyll might know.
Wyll reemerged from the hedge twelve minutes later with two wooden practice swords in his hands.
Luther sheathed his blade and examined the wooden swords.
Wyll offered both to Luther, and he chose one at random. They appeared the same, and the weight surprised him as he turned it in his hand and tested it with his blade in its sheath.
“Heavier than I expected,” Luther commented.
“I made them solid throughout, though they’re more dense at the core,” Wyll explained.
“What a wonderful arcanum fabrication is. Have you studied?” Luther asked.
“No, my lord. Not outside of my apprenticeship. But I’ve made these before for my brothers,” Wyll said.
Luther admired the wooden sword in his hand. Its crude but detailed engravings had never seen a blade or chisel, but they were a product of Wyll’s imagination as he cast the spell. He’d even made the handles appear wrapped, with slight grooves marking out the leather strips on an actual blade.
“You show remarkable talent for your specialty,” Luther said.
“It’s not as impressive as yours, my lord,” Wyll said, bowing his head. “But thank you.”
Luther nodded and took a few practice swings before settling into a fighting stance. “Ready when you are.”
Wyll nodded and assumed a fighting stance. Well, he took his approximation of one. His feet were too narrow, and he kept his hands near his shoulder, with the tip of his blade pointed in Luther’s direction. Luther raised his eyebrow. It appeared to be a poor approximation of the ox guard. He wondered if Wyll had any instruction in the blade, since he had no formal education in magic beyond that of a tutor.
“Who is your instructor in swordsmanship?” Luther asked as he settled into a midguard plow stance, intending to keep his defense as he tested Wyll’s offensive maneuvers.
“My older brother,” Wyll answered. “Or he was. He trained with the town guard, and when he had the time, he showed my brothers and me the techniques.”
“In Raefendale?” Luther asked, probing forward with his sword.
Wyll shuffled back, swinging his sword at Luther’s tip with enthusiasm. He missed and took too long to recover, but Luther didn’t thrust and end the spar. Where was the fun in that?
“Yes, my lord, in Raefendale,” Wyll said. “He hopes to make sergeant soon, but he’s a constable.”
The town guard needed better training. Either that, or his brother was a terrible teacher, or Wyll was an awful student. He suspected it might be a training issue, though. He’d have to talk to his father-in-law. Petros Cerul was a captain of the guard in need of promotion over whoever had taught this foolish swordplay.
Magical skill was, of course, more common than weapon skill. Luther presumed that the guard focused more on magical training, but both steel and spell required study and practice. To treat it as an afterthought instead of the second half of a complete skill set was slapdash and disastrous. If this were a proper fight, Wyll would be dead, and Luther wouldn’t have touched his magic to do it.
“And you’re sure that’s the stance he taught you?” Luther asked, trying his best to be diplomatic.
Wyll adjusted his feet and lifted the sword handle to his chin. It was better, but far from perfect. Perhaps it was better to show him the weaknesses that an improper stance collected than to condescend and critique.
Luther probed his guard with his sword, and Wyll swiped it in the wrong direction, then, smiling as if he saw an opening, Wyll thrust forward in a deep lunge. Luther slipped to the right, stepped forward, and brought his practice-blade sideways under Wyll’s guard. With a steel blade, Luther would have chopped him in half as Wyll’s momentum met Luther’s. Luther’s wooden sword formed a bar across Wyll’s stomach, knocking the air out of him as he folded over the blade.
Luther slid the wooden sword sideways, as if slicing Wyll’s guts, and he stepped away.
Wyll sank to his knees. “Ow.”
Luther hadn’t thought he’d been that hard, but he’d forgotten how much stronger he’d gotten over the months of training with Helena. He might’ve underestimated how frail Wyll was, but he offered him a hand. Wyll was on his knees, one hand on the stone and the other hugging himself across his stomach.
“I thought I might be faster than you, since you’re so strong.” Wyll gasped the words. “I knew you were stronger, but I thought my speed could make up for it.”
Luther chuckled. “Speed comes from strength, but you’re right to think that you’re more flexible than a more muscular opponent. You didn't use it, but you’ll get there. The important thing is that you stand up after getting knocked down.” He offered Wyll his hand again, and Wyll looked up and took it. He pulled Wyll to his feet, helping him to stand.
“Thank you, sir,” Wyll said as he regained his feet. He brushed his valet uniform, the tailcoat jacket, and the trousers that had pale gray dust on their knees. He did his best to clear it. “Perhaps, when you return, you can give me lessons in the sword?”
Luther nodded. Wyll wasn’t stupid and knew that Luther had denied his request to join him, or realized that he needed more practice before he faced a fatal foe. The monsters of the mountains, raiding barbarians, and the challenge-prone members of the empire didn’t show mercy.
“Of course,” Luther said. “And based on your stance, I might need to hire an instructor to teach the guard.”
“Oh,” Wyll said, frowning as he picked up his practice sword. “Was I that dreadful?”
“Don’t blame yourself for poor teaching,” Luther said. “Here, I’ll show you the proper stance.”
Wyll’s eyes lit up, and he brushed himself off and stood beside Luther faster than if Wulfric had cleared his throat. Luther allowed himself a smirk and took up the stance, holding the sword next to his head, with its end pointed forward. His left elbow was low with his arm across his body, and his right was higher, beside him.
“The point of this stance is defensive, so it’s a good opening stance. It allows you to knock aside your opponent’s blade and thrust.” Luther mimed a light thrust, not going as deep as Wyll had. “You over-extended. It would have been a good killing blow if I’d thrust first and you’d come in over my guard, but you went on the offensive, leaving yourself open, and over-extended.”
Luther showed him the proper form and the proper method. “You won’t have much use for this stance in a proper fight, even if it looks good from the outside. It might impress the bystanders at practice, but if you want to live when someone is coming at you with steel or spell, stick to your basics. Don’t be fancy or cute. Strike, and move on to your next target.”
Luther demonstrated both the stance and the move he’d done to end their earlier practice session. It didn’t look as entertaining as other methods, but it worked.
“Thank you!” Wyll said, trying the forms for himself.
Luther smiled as he watched him, wondering if the growing sense of pride in his stomach was what he’d feel when teaching his own children one day. He corrected Wyll a few times, using the wooden practice sword to poke, prod, and point. He demonstrated when necessary and watched as Wyll improved before his eyes. With practice, the young man might become capable with a blade.
They practiced until the dawning sun cleared the peaks and began its trek across the morning sky. Luther’s wives would be waking soon, if they were still asleep. The house would be buzzing with the day's business.
Wyll seemed ready to go without sleep for the next week if it meant practicing more and learning more swordplay. He didn’t ask for a break or to stop, but his improvements plateaued. Soon after, weariness tugged at his limbs and bent his form, signaling the end of his first lesson.
“Very good,” Luther said, grinning. “Why don’t we call it for today? The house will wake soon, and my wives will want me there for breakfast.”
“Of course, sir,” Wyll said, smiling despite the sweat on his brow. He lowered his practice sword and took Luther’s from him. “Should I leave these here for when you wish to practice?”
They didn’t have a stand, so Luther shook his head. “No, put them inside the training room in my apartment, by the practice dummies.”
“As you wish, sir,” Wyll said, hesitating as he and Luther walked through the hedges toward the house. “Sir, if I may ask, why do you practice in the garden instead of your practice room?”
“I used it over the winter,” Luther said. “But I prefer the outdoors. Always have.”
“Ah, I see,” Wyll said, nodding as if he understood. “So there’s no secret training reason for it? It doesn’t make you hardier from enduring the chill of the morning or forge a stronger connection to the elements?”
Luther laughed. “No, when you’re training, the only thing that matters is you and the tools you’re using. One location is as good as another.”
Wyll nodded, understanding.
They emerged from the garden. Luther passed his sheath, sword, and belt to Wyll, and Wyll ran ahead to the house. Luther took a more leisurely approach, strolling along the drive toward the mansion that loomed ahead. The approach of horse hooves in three beats made him check behind him.
A chestnut stallion cantered toward him. The woman on its back wore trousers and sat astride. Her suit was that of a noble, but the hour was too early for a social call. Besides, Luther didn’t recognize the woman in the slightest, and he’d met the nobles of the dukedom, which meant she was someone from outside it.
Luther held up his hand in greeting, standing to the side of the lane. The woman ignored him, cantering past him until she reached the roundabout at the end of the drive. She dismounted and looked around. Spotting Luther, she waved him over.
“Here! Stable boy! Water and stable this horse,” the woman said, offering Luther the reins to her horse.
Surprise faded as Luther realized his dirty, sweaty training clothes did nothing to reflect his station. He must appear as a vagabond, or a lowly servant, gardener, or stable hand. Meanwhile, the noble lady was quite pretty, clean, and well-put together. Still, she was here long before normal calling hours. Luther wondered who she was and why she was here.
As usual, he allowed his curiosity to drive him to mischief.
“Of course, my lady,” Luther said, playing the part he appeared to be. He took the reins from her and introduced himself to the chestnut stallion by letting him sniff his hand. “Shall I let the house know that you’ve arrived?”