Chapter Eight #4
I soon found out how mistaken I was about Faeries in general, too, as all the old legends and rumors I’d heard about them didn’t seem to be accurate—oh, the part about them being cold-hearted bastards was very true.
Branwyn proved that every few minutes. But not the impression some had that Faery men were in any way weak or effeminate.
At least, none of these Sidhe Faeries I’d met so far were like that in any kind of way.
The ones I’d met up to this point were strong and muscular and would as soon slit your throat or gut you as look at you.
Most especially if you insulted or crossed them in any way.
I wasn’t convinced they were completely sane at all, especially once they had a sword or an axe or a bow in their hand.
Branwyn had taken me to the center of an enormous room on the bottom floor of the castle, empty except for fencing equipment hanging on the walls, and there the lesson—also known as the torture session (to me, at least) began.
It continued over the next few hours or so and grew more and more intense as I tried hard to follow Branwyn’s directions.
I was soon informed that I had almost no discernible talent at all when it came to using a sword, and the best I’d ever be able to hope for was a low level of skill that even a mentally challenged ape might be able to approximate.
That might keep me alive long enough to be rescued by my guards.
And while there was no way that I’d ever be able to defend myself against an enraged warrior, I might be able, with enough time and practice, to use the element of surprise to attack them first. Perhaps I could learn to sneak up on them from behind or jump down on them from a tree.
All of this abuse had come straight from Branwyn’s mouth and those were the nicest things he had to say about me.
Branwyn taught me that a good combatant always tried to gain and then keep the initiative, if possible, in order to maintain control.
He told me that he despaired of my ever being able to do that, but I could practice launching myself at my opponent and surprising him so badly that I’d put him on the defensive immediately.
Then when and if I could manage to get my opponent off-balance enough, and if he didn’t kill me first, then I might be able to use my short sword to wound him enough to keep myself alive—or at least enough to distract him, as I waited for help to arrive.
Branwyn said that I did move pretty quickly, with a natural grace, which might help me get away or keep my opponent working hard to corner me if I ran around the room dodging him.
He said that my shield and my ability to run fast would be my best chance of survival. He also suggested a bigger shield.
The use of the shield was one of the first things he taught me.
When I first saw the thing, made of stretched and tanned animal hide, my first thought was that my arm would soon tire as I held it, but I found that with practice I could learn to handle a well-balanced one for fairly long periods of time.
Especially when Branwyn gave me the added incentive of a sword or battle axe coming at my head.
Branwyn taught me to hold the shield in a forward position, parallel to my body, a good position to shift an incoming attack with little effort on my part.
Which he said was a good thing, because from what he’d seen so far, I’d be sure to put very little effort into it.
He said the best weapon for me would be the short sword. With the addition of the hide shield, and finding a suitable tree to climb, he felt they would be my best defenses. Running away quickly was also highly recommended.
“The short sword is best used underhand, which would be easier for you as you’re inexperienced, and likely a bit shorter than your opponents.
Here…” he pointed to a spot beneath his breastbone.
“Here is the spot to aim for. Avoid the breastbone—it’s harder than you think and can deflect your weapon— go straight in and up and you’ll be in the heart.
If you get the short blade stuck in the bone, they’ll have you. ”
Branwyn acted as a victim, turning his back so I could try to sneak up on him or leap at him from behind (which I thought was cowardly), or come at him with a longsword overhand.
At first, I told him it was a bad idea because I could hurt him.
Later, I wanted to do just that, but he said there was such a slight possibility of it happening that he’d take his chances. He was right.
It was hard work and exhausting, and Branwyn was able to easily repel my attack.
But slowly over the course of my “lesson,” I improved—in my mind at least. At least enough, I thought, to show me how to hold my opponent off for a few seconds with my shield to give my guards a chance to save me.
Branwyn told Lord Fionn it was the best he could reasonably hope for, and that if he had any interest at all in keeping me alive, he would keep me far away from any battle or swordfight if he could.
And with that remark, my lessons ended pretty abruptly. There was no more talk of me avenging my father, and if I even looked as if I were going to bring the subject up again, Fionn simply walked away.