3. Clash of Stone and Steel
Clash of Stone and Steel
Four Days Later Samhail
Every muscle in Samhail’s body was strung taut as a bowstring while he fought to keep from jumping into the fight playing out before him.
He stood in the training yard with his arms crossed and his teeth clenched as he watched one of the house guards exchange sword blows with his student.
He only managed to hold himself in check because crushing the guard’s skull in with his bare hands would likely deter any others from agreeing to this assignment in the future.
Across from the guard, Cyra just managed to get her sword up in time to block the man’s swing, and a bit of tension eased in Samhail’s body. Cyra spun to the side and went on the offensive, swinging her sword low, then immediately striking high.
Samhail’s muscles twitched with each move she made, as if his own body was trying to go through the motions with her, or as if he could somehow mentally impart to her what she should do next.
He could probably do the latter if he lowered his mind shield and allowed her to read his thoughts, but that wouldn’t help her learn to make her own combat decisions.
She’d been improving slowly before now, but the events a few days ago had lit something inside her, and Cyra had redoubled her efforts to master her fighting skills in their lessons.
Samhail knew he had things easier than Axenus did.
The merman was tasked with helping Cyra train her magical powers, and that job had gotten infinitely harder in the last few days.
Not only had Cyra’s powers grown exponentially, thanks to the gods themselves, but the same tragic events that had spurred her to improve her fighting skills had also made both Cyra and her powers much more volatile.
Axenus had once told Cyra her powers were a wagon she’d been ‘riding with the brake on’ and that it was time to release the brake and push the wagon down a hill.
Well, the merman had gotten his wish, and Samhail wondered if he now regretted it.
Samhail ground his teeth as Cyra just barely dodged another blow.
Enlisting one of the household guards to help in Cyra’s training had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he’d underestimated how difficult it would be for him to stand here and watch as the lady tried to defend herself, occasionally taking blows from the guard’s blunted sword that would leave angry bruises.
Cyra had already taken one nasty blow to her back that made Samhail flinch, and it had taken every ounce of his control not to blast the guard across the training yard with a forcefield.
Cyra could heal herself, of course, but it didn’t make watching any easier. Aside from Samhail’s concern for her as a friend, the divine imperative was sorely testing his resolve to stay out of the fight.
Samhail had enlisted the guard’s help to begin with because it was getting harder for him to train with Cyra himself.
When she’d just been learning to use a sword, it was easy enough to practice with her since he’d only had to use minimal effort.
It took a little while for him to get used to swinging the smaller practice sword just slowly and lightly enough that he didn’t hurt Cyra if he hit her during practice, but he’d eventually gotten a feel for it.
Now that Cyra had improved her swordsmanship, however, he needed to put more effort into both attacking and defending when he fought. Unfortunately, the extra effort made muscle memory and instinct kick in, and it was more difficult to restrain himself.
Yesterday when he and Cyra fought, she’d executed a clever move to almost land a blow to his exposed side, and Samhail had only just barely gotten his sword up to block it in time.
More than a century’s worth of fighting instincts had taken over, and his body had acted automatically to counter Cyra’s attack with one of his own.
Before he could stop himself, he’d pivoted and swung his sword at her, landing a blow to her side that knocked her to the ground and nearly cracked one of her ribs.
Cyra had cried out in pain, and he’d immediately dropped his sword, then dropped to his knees beside her to see if she was alright.
At the same time, pain had shot through his head as the divine imperative reminded him he was supposed to protect her, not hurt her.
Samhail was close to seven feet tall, and his body was densely packed muscle, honed to lethal perfection by decades of training and combat.
Cyra was half his size and had only started training to fight a few months ago.
In short, it was entirely too dangerous for him to continue fighting with her, so he’d asked one of the smaller guards – relatively speaking – to stand in for him when it was time for Cyra to do some sparring.
The guard, Yarris, had been hesitant at first, afraid he might hurt the Lady of Hiraeth and draw the wrath of her husband, Lord Bressen.
Bressen was extremely dangerous when provoked, and he was also fiercely protective of Cyra, so Yarris’s reluctance was understandable.
Samhail had assured the man he’d take full responsibility for anything that happened during training, and he promised to keep a close eye on things to make sure nothing unfortunate occurred in the first place.
In the end, a hefty bonus to Yarris’s pay had succeeded where promises and reassurances had not.
This was Cyra’s first day training with Yarris, and so far, it had worked out relatively well. The only issue was the damned divine imperative that kept demanding Samhail step in and protect Cyra from Yarris.
In addition to being a powerful syphon, Cyra was also a Hand of the Gods, a perimortal chosen by the Trinity to carry out a particular god’s will in the mortal realm.
As a gargoyle, Samhail was part of a race of beings created thousands of years ago with an obligation to protect the Trinity and all those who served them.
If Samhail himself hurt Cyra, he’d experience piercing pain in his head, or so he’d learned.
If anyone else tried to hurt her, he felt a deep-seeded compulsion to help her.
Samhail’s body tensed again as Yarris effected a series of attacks that put Cyra on the defensive.
Yarris had tried to go easy on the lady at first, assuming she wasn’t terribly skilled with a sword, but Cyra had shown him soon enough just what she could do, and Samhail felt a swell of pride at her progress.
Yarris learned quickly that going easy on her would only result in his own injury, and he’d stepped up his efforts.
He had Cyra retreating now, and if she didn’t find a way to turn the tables on him soon, she was headed for another ugly bruise.
Cyra tried to gain some ground and get back on the offensive, but Yarris hadn’t left her any opening.
In her attempt to get in a swing of her own, Cyra left her midriff unprotected, and Yarris saw the vulnerability.
Samhail’s hands clenched into fists as Yarris swung his blunted sword for Cyra, but just before it hit, an invisible force knocked Yarris to the side, and the guard went sprawling across the ground on his back.
Both Cyra and Yarris looked at Samhail, and Samhail looked down to see his hand extended toward Yarris.
“Fuck,” he swore as he advanced toward the guard.
Yarris’s eyes widened in fear, and he scrambled backward as Samhail strode toward him, but Samhail only held out a hand. Yarris flinched but realized the hand was an offer of help. He took it after a moment of hesitation, and Samhail pulled him effortlessly to his feet.
“My apologies, Yarris,” Samhail said as the guard eyed him with surprise. “The forcefield was a reflex. I’ll keep it under better control next time. You did nothing wrong.”
He turned to Cyra. “You, on the other hand, let him put you on the run, then you tried to go on offense prematurely. What could you have done differently?”
“Kneed him in the groin when we locked swords that first time?” Cyra suggested, and Yarris flinched again.
Samhail felt her words between his own legs but inclined his head.
“You could’ve done that,” he admitted reluctantly, “but we should get Yarris some protection for future sessions before you try it.”
Cyra gave Yarris an apologetic look, and the man returned it with an unenthusiastic shrug of understanding.
“But there was something else you could’ve done as well,” he told her.
“Yarris leaves his right shoulder vulnerable on his cross-swing,” Cyra observed. “If I can get my blade around, I can take out his sword arm.”
Yarris blinked in shock, as if this was news to him.
“Good,” Samhail said. “That’s what I would’ve done.” He looked at Yarris. “You might want to fix that, or you’ll have a very sore shoulder when she’s done with you.”
Yarris nodded slowly.
“That’s enough for today,” Samhail said.
“No!” Cyra cried. “Let’s go again. I can do this.”
“Tomorrow,” Samhail said. “You’ve been at this almost two hours. You need to eat and rest.”
“I need to train,” Cyra insisted.
Samhail set his jaw again. He recognized the look of stubbornness and wild desperation in her face.
It was a look he knew well, since he’d worn it himself decades ago after that battle in the war when Morland had captured his mind and almost used him to kill Bressen.
He’d never felt more helpless in his life than when he’d been barreling toward Bressen with every intention of ripping the man he considered a brother in half.
He still wasn’t sure how he’d broken Morland’s hold on him, but he’d thrown himself into training after that, both physically and mentally.
The physical training had helped him work off his frustrations, but he’d pushed his body farther and farther until he’d collapsed in the training yard one day and a healer had to be called.
It had never occurred to him he had physical limits, but he’d found them that day.