Chapter Three #2
“Maybe they just enjoy watching the cripple struggle.” Orval said bitterly, then regretted his words at Roth’s raised eyebrow. Roth was a good teacher, patient but firm, far better than Orval’s former weaponsmaster. But the memories of his training during his fostering still burned.
“I doubt that,” Roth said. “I think they are curious about Yfin’s knife skills. They get to learn something, perhaps master a new skill, and keep it secret from their elders.”
“Did you ever foster?” Orval asked.
Roth snorted. “Fostering is for the nobility, Lord High Baron. I got my training by coming up through the ranks.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “You said you fostered?”
“I did.” Orval grimaced. “It went about as well as you’d expect.”
“With Xyrath?”
Orval grimaced. “And his ilk.” He still felt a flush of shame every time he thought of it. “It was certainly…memorable.”
“Hmmm,” Roth mused. “I suspect that they went about it the wrong way, tried to teach you sword and shield. Not suited to you at all.” He glanced toward the gatehouse. “Yfin! Lessons!”
Orval stopped, staring at the back of Roth’s head. Taught the wrong way? But—
Yfin trotted out with a big grin. “A’mum said she’ll make fry bread.”
“After you teach this lesson,” Roth said, tossing him one of the wooden daggers. Yfin caught it, setting his shoulders, hope and pride in his eyes as he looked at Orval.
Orval smiled, sharing the boy’s joy. “Let’s see if I manage to survive this time.”
He didn’t.
“The idea is for you to survive the first attack,” Roth observed when they stopped for a breather. “Fighting back just enough for aid to reach you.”
Yfin attacked as soon as Orval reached the middle of the circle, but this time Orval was ready for him. He managed to push Yfin’s arm, deflecting the blow, then moved in to grab Yfin’s neck and try to wrestle him down.
Invariably, Yfin squirmed free and his wooden blade poked Orval in the stomach. Not hard. The boy was very careful not to hurt him.
“Hit,” Roth called, then added the dreaded, “Again”.
Orval gritted his teeth and tried again. His bad leg limited his movement, but he could drop and roll with the best of them. But that gave Yfin a chance to chase and stab down or pin him and slice his throat. Thankfully, the lad didn’t grin or mock. He took his role seriously.
“Use your weight, Orval,” Roth coached. “Your weight against his momentum. It’s not about strength.”
Tired and frustrated, Orval sighed and tried again.
“Wait,” Yfin said. “There’s a trick I learned. He grabbed Orval’s scarf and wrapped one end around one hand, letting the rest hang. This time, when Orval attacked, Yfin flicked the scarf into the Baron’s face.
Orval flinched away.
Yfin stepped back. “You distract,” he said. “The enemy focuses on the scarf, not the knife.”
“Huh, I like it,” Roth said. “Let’s try that a few times.”
Orval took the scarf and they started again. It seemed to work, but Orval found he had to attack, not just defend.
Roth could see his unease in his face. “Orval, you can’t hold back. Everything is a potential weapon. The idea is to survive until help arrives.”
“All the while screaming bloody murder,” Orval grumbled. “How heroic.”
“Heroic counts for little if you’re dead.” Roth said bluntly. “One more slow pass, one fast, and then we will call it done.” Roth glanced at the ruined walls of the Keep. “Yfin and I should practice a bit more with sword and shield.”
“You won’t let me hurt you?” Orval asked Yfin.
“No fear,” Yfin grinned. “I know a counter.”
Of course he did. Orval just shook his head. Yfin laughed and lunged in slow, and Orval repeated the maneuver with the scarf. Yfin backed off, then lunged in fast. Orval managed the first part, deflecting and lunging forward.
But Yfin slipped from his grip and rolled away, doing a few extra somersaults in the process before jumping to his feet.
Roth laughed. Orval just shook his head, breathing hard and sweating, and made for the bench.
“Oh, no,” Roth said. “You walk yourself cool before you sit. Yfin and I will do some sword and shield before his reading lessons.”
“Awww,” Yfin wrinkled his nose.
“Keep your end of the bargain,” Roth reminded him. “You teach him, he teaches you. Get your shield.” Roth pointed to Orval. “You. Walk.”
“Aye,” grumbled Orval. Walking did help with stiffness, he had to admit. Didn’t mean he had to like it.
Yfin and Roth picked up swords and shields and started sparring as Orval paced the edges of the courtyard. Past the stables, the rubble of the stone walls, the ugly barn cat basking in the sun, staring at him with narrow eyes.
“You’re going to have a time of it,” Orval muttered. “When the babes start chasing you.”
The cat yawned.
Orval kept moving. He had to admit that he felt good after the lesson, tired, yes, but stronger, more flexible.
There had been fewer cramps in his bad leg lately, fewer aches.
That fall he’d taken after chasing Lara would have laid him up for at least a day before Roth and Yfin had started teaching him.
Not like the bad days during his fostering, when he was battered, bruised, and aching—and embarrassed.
Orval frowned, turning what Roth had said over in his mind. In all his shame over his fostering days, it had never occurred to him that his failure might not be his fault.
Fostering was a tradition of the noble families, to build friendships, nurture connections, and build loyalty and trust. Older Barons and Lords teaching the young.
His had been mostly miserable, but had had some good moments.
Mostly in the library. Still, he’d come to know the other boys, learn their strengths and personalities.
Fostering did work, or it had before the civil strife and would work again, if or when—
Stones clattered deep in the Keep.
Orval stopped and considered, then shivered at his own daring. But if they were to make their way in the Black Hills, he had to start somewhere.
“Walk,” came the command, and Orval resumed his task.
At the first sign that the fighters were taking a break, Orval made his way over the sparring circle and caught Roth’s eye.
“Invite them to spar,” he said.
“What?” Roth asked, puzzled.
Orval went to the bench and sat, stretching out his bad leg and taking up his book. Yfin poured water for everyone.
“Reading lessons later,” Orval said. “I have an idea. Invite our watchers down to spar.”
Yfin’s face lit with delight; Roth stared, then shrugged.
“You and your ideas,” he muttered, then finished his drink.
With one last look at Orval, he shook his head.
“By your command, Lord High Baron,” Roth muttered, then raised his voice.
“Hey, you there on the walls. Come spar with us. I want to work on multiple attackers.”
Heads popped up, then popped back down. Orval didn’t look up, but the wind brought the sound of a furious, whispered debate.
“Yes, you, hiding in the Keep. Get down here, we haven’t got all day,” Roth shouted, then winked at Orval. “Mother Bercie’s not expected until tomorrow and I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Orval suppressed a smile as figures started to emerge from the ruins and Roth and Yfin went over to greet them.