Sword and Sorcery

She is the youngest and newest of the slaves so she is the last allowed to use the chamber pot and is tasked with emptying it.  When one of the adult slaves opens their door the children scurry off to their daily chores like cockroaches.  She drags the two chamber pots to the emptying and cleaning area.  Her job, every day, is to collect the castle chamber pots, replace them with fresh ones, empty the dirty ones, clean them, and repeat the process after dinner.  So she walks up and down the halls gathering pots of feces.  Small, weak, and often sickly she hauls one or two pots at a time.  It takes her around two hours to gather all of the chamber pots and to replace them with fresh ones.  Then she dumps the pots into the drains of the sewage room.  Next she scrubs blood, piss, and shit from the pots.  Then she polishes them.

Now the sun is up and she has missed breakfast.  She arrives just in time to see a hot bowl of gruel thrown back into the pot for lunch.  She has to get clean quickly.  Her next chore is to help the ladies of the castle get dressed.  She can’t smell like shit around them or she will get the lash.  Scrubbing herself clean is hard with cold water from the communal wash pot.  She is quick to the first powder room, the Lady of the castle is already up and ready to have her feet scrubbed while she bathes.  As Lady cleans her beautiful pale skin in the hot waters of her bathtub the girl scrubs her feet, careful not to let her hands touch the water for too long less she contaminate it with her ugly black skin.  Once the lady is clean the girl must help her dress.  She is too small to carry the Lady’s dress across the room but she tries by holding its middle above her head.  Somehow it catches a loose stone in the floor and rips.  That will be five lashes for her.

One of the guards carries her out to the whipping post.  He ties her wrists above her head and steps over to where they hand the whips.  He takes a few practice swings against her that break her skin and bloody her back.  Then he begins the punishment.  One lash.  Two lashes.  Three lashes.  Four lashes.  Five lashes.  She isn’t standing now.  She is just dangling by her wrists.  Her back is ripped open like the dress only she is bloody and the dress is not.  Her face is a mess of tears and sweat.  She cries and each sobbing breath hurts.

One of the older female slaves unties her and takes her to the kitchen.  There the older woman cleans her wounds and tells her that it’s going to be alright.  She strokes the girls head and sings softly to her.  This is only a short reprieve as it is almost night fall.  The girl has missed lunch.  Its almost dinner time.  Back through the castle she must travel to exchange the day’s chamber pots with fresh ones for the evening.  Again she must empty them and scrub them clean.

Dinner is cold when she gets to the table.  What’s left for her to eat is a small bowl of dry gruel.  She devours it before walking off to bed.  She notices that all of the blankets are in use and not a scrap can be spared.  So she lays down with her bony arms on the floor for comfort.  Slowly she closes her eyes and sobs without making a sound.  Its ten lashes if she keeps the other children awake.  She doesn’t want to die.  She just wants it all to end.  She hates being black.  She hates being a slave.  She just hates being.

Oliver remembered his first time in this room.  He was 10 years old and already starting to awaken his own magic.  Moyra was a few years off from that.  When Oliver was brought here there was a design on the ground.  That design was the symbol of the order and a valuable tool for training.  However it was created by each master that trained an apprentice here.  Chessa had granted him time to do so as this was a test for him as well as preparation for this new phase of both his and Moyra’s life.

The ranger drew out his sword and stood in the center of the room.  Oliver centered himself then knelt.  He pushed the fingers of his left hand into the ground then thrust his sword into the ground as well.  Magic flowed from him, through his blade, and into the ground.  It had been a while since he had performed such an intricate working and with earth he would be hard pressed.  It was just against his nature.

The ground shifted around him and Oliver pulled stone from the earth.  He formed that stone into a circle around him and in that circle he formed three smaller interlocking rings.  For the first ring he seeded the earth with his magic and grew interweaving vines and roots.  Next he formed the second ring by reaching deep beneath the earth and pulling molten rock to the surface.  Carefully he managed the heat and cooled it before the first ring caught fire.  Two points of the first ring were scorched but that was to be expected.  For the final ring he used sand then filled it with mana to harden it.  His hands left the ground and the hilt of his sword to weave several interlocking hand signs.  Then he held his left hand above him.  Lightning surged down around him striking the ring of hardened sand, vitrifying it into mage glass.  This hardened glass could take the blow of a dwarven hammer without breaking however it could only be formed as a general shape and not an intricate design.  This ring branched and jutted in all directions.

Oliver pulled more sand from the earth and forced it to flow around the glass ring until it was smooth and flat on the surface.  He repeated it with the ring of igneous rock.  Finally he wove that sand into the ground within the circle to let his magic seep in and blend with the training area.  His work completed Oliver stood, retrieved his gear, then walked over to a sturdy wooden door with symbol engraved there that resembled the circle he had just made.  He entered the room and found it already furnished with items from his old room, newer furniture, a closet of fine clothes, and a bookcase filled with dozens of books.  Some were books of lore from the old age.  Most were books of proven and tested knowledge.  Others were just books he enjoyed reading.  Oliver threw his gear on the floor, stripped, then fell on the bed exhausted.  He had spent all of his strength on that working of magic.  It had taken five solid hours of continuous casting and concentration.  He fell asleep wondering how long it had taken all the masters before him.

“Show me the signs for air, earth, fire, and water,” Taoren told her.

Moyra considered the signs for a moment then began forming them with her hands.  Taoren cracked his wand against her knuckles the moment she formed the first sign.  Moyra cried out in pain and drew back her hands.

“I give you the four hand signs you are going to use the most and you bungle the first,” Taoren lectured.

“My fingers hurt!” Moyra cried.

The wand smacked against her desk.  “Suck it up.  You’re training to be a blade master.  This is nothing compared to being stabbed.  You’ve been whipped before, this must be easier than that.  Do it again.”

“But my hands hurt,” Moyra whined.

“Will you complain about your hand hurting when your spell fails and your chest takes an arrow or you are impaled by a lance?”

“Yeah,” Moyra pouted.

Taoren tightened the grip on his wand and reached to rub the point of one ear with his free hand.  He rapped his rod on the desk once more and said, “Again.  Sign air, earth, fire, and water.”

Moyra finished rubbing her knuckles before moving to make the sign of air.  No sooner had she positioned her hands than Taoren struck her knuckles again.  Moyra screamed in pain while Taoren screamed over her.  “That was the sign for north, not air.”

“You broke my hand!” Moyra screamed.

“Stop your bawling and make the damn sign correctly,” Taoren ordered her.  There was no rise in his voice, no edge of threat.  He was calm and ready to strike her again if she did not perform correctly.

“Now that’s no way to treat a student,” came a voice from the doorway.  Moyra looked over to see Mistress Chessa standing there in the white robes of her station.  Taoren did not turn around, he merely rubbed at his ear point again.

“Mistress I am teaching her the same way I was taught,” Taoren sighed.

“I don’t remember hitting your knuckles with a…is that a wand?  You’re hitting her with a wand?” the older elf scoffed.

“My original rod broke,” Taoren reported.

“Regardless I don’t remember hitting you like that when you messed up a sign,” she continued.

Taoren turned to face his mentor.  “No, you had Vahl punch me in the face.  You made us mimic each other and if one of us messed up you had the other punch them.”

“So again I didn’t hit you like that,” Chessa said.

“You were worse,” Taoren growled.

“Nonsense.  You learned and learned quickly.  It’s a sign that I am just a better teacher than you,” Chessa said as she walked over and inspected Moyra’s hands.  “Nothing is broken dear, just a bit swollen and very sore aren’t they?”

“A better teacher?  I am a wizard of the Blue Wizards Guild, the Master of the Tower of Water, and the only full magus of our order.  I am far more suited for teaching than you, who can barely sit through our morning meetings without fidgeting or trying to sneak out to fight someone out of bordem,” Taoren roared.

“I also never raised my voice,” Chessa said without looking to her accomplished student.

“Mistress, Oliver left her in my charge to teach,” snapped the younger elf.

“And you have been at it for weeks.  If he had asked me I would have her signing perfectly in a couple of hours,” Chessa shrugged.

Taoren’s laughter echoed off the walls, “Two hours?”

“Two hours.  One if you weren’t around to distract my student,” Chessa said.

“Impossible.  You would have her signing perfectly in two hours?  Are you mad my Mistress?” Taoren asked.

“You don’t believe me?” Chessa pouted.

“I believe you are daft,” Taoren laughed.

“Care to wager?”

The two elves stared at each other in silence for some time.  Chessa’s face was frozen in a smile while Taoren puckered and chewed his lips.  He tapped his wand against his cheek and chin.  But he never looked away from his Mistress.  Finally he nodded to himself.

“Name the amount,” he told her.

“Well since you think it’s impossible let’s say, oh, one million gold marks,” Chessa shrugged.

“One million?  You are forfeiting a small fortune, you’ve truly gone mad,” Taoren accused.

“Fine.  Five million.  I may be mad but I am fine with taking your money,” Chessa laughed.

“Five?  You can’t be serious,” Taoren told her.

“Five million, in gold marks, no gems or baubles.  Do you accept?” Chessa asked.

“Deal.  One hour,” he said.

“The bet was for two hours,” Chessa corrected him.

“Two if I was here.  I will leave you alone.  You said you could do it in an hour, did you not?” Taoren smiled.

Chessa started to reply but stopped.  She bit her lip and nodded in admission.  “Fine, a single hour.  But since I am now perfoming a miracle for your benefit how about we increase the bet?”

Taoren’s arms folded over his chest.  “To what?”

“Ten million,” Chessa shrugged.  “Unless you want to back out?”

“My Master I would be a horrible student if I did not make you see the errors of your arrogance in your old age,” Taoren laughed.  “Ten million gold marks.  I will return in an hour to collect my winnings.”  He walked out of The Forge leaving Chessa alone with a confused young apprentice.

“Moyra, how about you let me see that hand of yours again before we get started?” Chessa said as she pulled two pieces of string from her pocket.

When Taoren returned an hour later Moyra was sitting at her desk and Chessa was lounging on a beam suspended above the training floor.

“Did you give up?” Taoren asked.

Chessa waved at him dismisivly.  “Test the girl.  Once you are satisfied you can be dismissed from today’s lesson my pupil.  Just get me my money before sunrise.”

Taoren shook his had as he chuckled.  “Fine, let’s get this over with.  Moyra show me the signs for air, earth, fire, and water.”

Moyra didn’t make any signs.  Not right away at least.  She climbed onto her desk and sat there cross legged.  She snapped her fingers and clapped her hands together.  Slowly her fingers bent and locked into four different hand signs.  The first was air, followed by earth, then fire and finally water before she clapped her hands and snapped her fingers again.

“What is this snapping and clapping?” Taoren asked.

“Does it matter?  Did she get the signs right or not?” Chessa called down to him.

“That’s just four signs.  There are thirty signs in total,” Taoren stated.

“Then by all means give her another set,” Chessa scoffed.

Taoren turned his focuse back on Moyra.  The young apprentice wasn’t looking at him, she was just grouting her nails with her teeth.  “Moyra show me the signs for arrow, sky, and sand.”

Again she snapped then clapped.  Then again her fingers popped and locked into the signs for arrow, sky, and sand.  When she finished she clapped her hands and snapped her fingers once more.

“Satisfied?” Chessa called down.  She wasn’t looking at them just resting with her back to them and her eyes closed.

“Moyra, the signs for snake, bird, and winter,” Oliver demanded.

Snap went her finger.  Clap went her hands.  Then she signed snake, bird, and winter before clapping once more and snapping her fingers again.  She went back to grouting her finger nails before Taoren could tell her to perform another set of signs.

Shocked, the dark haired elf started rapidly calling out signs for Moyra to make.  He chained them together in a mad stream that would leave most young magi struggling to keep up. Moyra signed each while swaying back and forth.  Every request was met with a perfect hand sign and every so often she found time to clap or snap.  Taoren was rubbing both of his ear points by the time he stopped calling out hand signs.

Chessa dropped down next to him and patted his shoulder as she started away.  “All gold marks.  No jewels or baubles.  Delivered to my vault by sunup.”

Chessa began walking away but Taoren spun on her.  “How?  How did you teach her in just an hour?”

Chessa turned back to him and pulled a length of string from her pocket.  “I taught her to play cats cradle.  A different variation true but still effective.”  She laced the string through her fingers and began pulling at it. Taoren watched as his Master danced through all thirty signs effortlessly while making crisscrossing patterns with the string.

“Cat’s cradle?  A child’s game to teach arcane hand signs?” Taoren asked.

“Well my dear Taoren, she is a child after all.  A game now and then won’t hurt,” Chessa shrugged.  She walked away then but called back to him, “By sunup.  Oh, and if you hit her again because of your own short comings, I will return the strike tenfold.”

Taoren watched Chessa leave and stared after her for a long while.  He turned back to Moyra to find her picking her nose.  “You have no idea what just happened do you?” he asked her.

Moyra simply shrugged, “I wasn’t listening.  There was a big booger in my nose.”  She held her finger out for Taoren to see and all he could do was marvel at the snotty blob on the nimble fingers that had just cost him ten million gold marks.

Oliver rolled his eyes.  “Did you bespell the walls too when you set all of this up?”

“Of course.  Also before we begin your sword is in the corner,” Taoren said as he pointed to the corner with his trident.

Oliver turned to find a scabbard with an onyx and silver hilted sword sitting in the corner.  A growl rolled out from his throat as he stormed over to the weapon.  “You went into my armory?”

“Of course.  That’s where you said it was so I retrieved it for you.  Honestly running around on missions with inferior armaments when you have that sword just sitting around gathering dust,” Taoren lectured.

“You had no right to bring this here,” Oliver snapped.  Still he took up the sword and began inspecting it.

“It’s been ten years Oliver.  Ten years of you killing and killing and killing with no break.  Ten years of you avoiding us and living on your own.  Ten years of you drinking and wallowing in self pity.  It’s time to move forward.  You may not think so but somewhere in your mind you realize it.  Why else did you take that girl?  Why else did you give her a name, that name?”

Oliver drew the sword as he turned to face his friend.  He threw the scabbard to the ground and flexed the fingers on his free right hand.  “You wanted to fight right?  So why are we talking?”

Taoren saw the half onyx and half silver blade shining in the fire light from twenty yards away.  The blade looked as though it had just been freshly polished.  “To first blood or injury.  No magic.  Show me that you are still the man I grew up with.”  Taoren slid his right foot back as he took his trident up in his left hand to rest the bladed end along his left shoulder.  “Whenever you are ready.”

The words had barely escaped Taoren’s lips when Oliver’s hand took hold of his trident.  The swordsman had crossed the twenty yards to the lancer with blinding speed.  That dual-colored sword came toward his face and he had to bend to the left while throwing up his free arm to block the blade.  The razor edge of Oliver’s blade met the steel guard of Taoren’s bracer. Sparks filled the air around his face as he leapt into a sidelong flip breaking Oliver’s hold on his trident.  Taoren kicked his leg up high in his flip threatening to strike the sword from his friend’s grasp.

Oliver’s left arm bent at the elbow as the swordsman dropped into a slide underneath Taoren’s rising legs.  Both combatants came back to their feet.  Oliver came forward quick drawing a second sword, its blade slashing for Taoren’s throat.  His trident spun down bringing the shaft up to block.  His right hand took hold of the raised weapon while his left held the blade low.  Then he snapped his arms into opposite positions bringing the trident blade up, thrusting at Oliver’s chest.  The swordsman reversed the grip on his dual colored blade and punched across meeting the three-pronged blade and pushing it aside.

Taoren absorbed the momentum of that block and came forward spinning.  The spear-like counter weight of his trident flew ahead as he danced toward his friend.  Oliver spun as well but only enough to quick step away from that counter strike.  The lancer kept spinning, sending his trident in whirling slashes at Oliver’s throat and gut in an irregular order.  The swordsman back pedaled all the while spinning both blades about in wide arcs to fan away each blow.  Taoren spun his trident up high above his head thrusting the triple blade down to catch Oliver’s sword between two of his three blades.  With a twist he trapped that sword between the turning blades and swung his weapon back up high to wrench the weapon from Oliver’s grasp. 

Instantly a third blade appeared in the swordsman’s hand.  With a sudden fury Oliver halted his retreat to surge forward with both blades spinning in thrusting parries that rapidly struck not the lancer’s blades but the shaft of the weapon, altering the angles of Taoren’s attacks just enough to pass within a hairs breath of the swordsman instead of landing a blow.  Taoren halted his advance and tried to fall back from the barrage of sword thrusts.  But Oliver pressed the advantage and danced forward into a brilliant thrust under slash maneuver that had the lancer blocking the high slash and skipping back from the low thrust at his legs.  With his momentum halted and his feet in the air he watched as Oliver planted his dual colored blade in the dirt.  Using the other sword as a brace against the weight of Taoren’s block for balance the swordsman leapt forward while curling both legs then kicking out.  One foot went for his groin while the other went for his face.

Taoren pulled his trident across in a vertical block.  The shaft caught both kicks knocking them harmlessly aside.  He spun his trident blade down into the dirt and pushed himself out of the away to land out of the swordsman’s reach.  Oliver recovered as well by planting his feet and throwing himself into a sprint toward the opposite side of the room.  They squared off.  Neither injured nor willing to relent.

“You were faster than this before.  Too much drinking and cowering from your responsibilities instead of training,” Taoren said.  He charged then leapt into a spin to bring his counter blade stabbing at Oliver but immediately reversed the strike and brought his trident around in a wide arcing slash.  His speed made it nearly impossible for anyone to block the strike let alone dodge it completely. It wasn’t a killing blow and would end the fight with only minor injury to the swordsman.  Oliver managed to get both blades up in a double vertical block to meet the attack.  Taoren pressed forward knowing the blow would push his friend out of distance to counter attack leaving Oliver on the defensive.

Too suddenly the lancer felt no resistance to his strike.  Oliver had fallen backward into a half roll, planted his hands, and pushed up.  The swordsman came up behind Taoren’s strike with swords whirling in at his back even before completing the flipping maneuver.  The lancer threw himself into a forward roll avoiding the counter strike.  Halfway through the roll Taoren took his trident in his right hand while planting his left on the ground to flip up to his feet.  His trident surged out, again catching and trapping Oliver’s right hand blade.  Completing his roll back to his feet he whipped his trident up high to tear that sword away from Oliver’s grasp as well.

Lancer and swordsman came back to their feet in unison, both dancing back from the other, with their respective weapons whirling in defensive circuits around their bodies.  They each completed three full circuits and halted.  Taoren settled into a low stance with his left leg leading, his trident in his right hand with the shaft behind his back and resting along the curve of his bent right arm.  Oliver settled into a high stance with his right foot leading, right arm ahead in a guard position, and sword in his left hand above his head angled toward the lancer.

“No daggers?” they said in unison.  Both were angered by the twin response and both snapped at the same time “I would rather hit you!”

They both came forward with weapons spinning.  Then Oliver stumbled and fell over vomiting.  He was on his hands and knees retching up more than a single night’s worth of drinking.  Taoren’s foot connected with the side of his head sending him spinning and vomiting across the floor.

“I win,” Taoren said.  He retired to the resting benches, set his trident across his lap and produced a book from a deep pocket.  He licked his fingers and opened the novel to a bookmarked page.

Moyra darted left then spun back to her right, striking with a double slash.  Oliver caught both of her blades against the flat of his downturned practice sword.  He swept his arm down using his sword’s guard to force Moyra’s blades low, then he punched forward driving the pummel of his sword against her forehead.  Moyra yelped in pain as she feel onto her back.  She dropped her swords to grab her forehead.

“Tsk tsk” Oliver taunted.  When Moyra realized her mistake she sat up to scramble for her weapons.  Oliver kicked her in the side of her face sending her sprawling onto the floor outside of the master’s wheel.  He stabbed the ground with his sword and pulled a small square block of earth to the surface to sit on as he waited on Moyra to get her wits about her.  As he watched she spit out blood while struggling up to her knees.  “What was your first mistake?”

Moyra spit out blood as she gathered up her weapons then said, “I pushed my right hand to catch up with my left.”

“Why was that a mistake?” Oliver asked.

“On a double slash the lead hand sweeps away the defense and the second hand strikes,” she said.

“Yes.  Then what was your next mistake?”

“Dropping my swords,” Moyra said as she spit out more blood.  She gathered up her weapons then sat patiently on her knees.

“We are blade masters.  We practice steel sorcery.  We follow the old ways.  Our weapons are not just extensions of our bodies.  They are our life and our death.  They are our very souls.  Our weapons are never to be broken, discarded, or dropped.  If you are going to waste this teaching then there is no point.  Do you understand?” Oliver asked her.

“Yes Master.  Please forgive my mistake,” Moyra said as she bowed her head low.

Oliver nodded to her.  Then to himself as he pointed his sword to the laboratory.  “Go get a candle, a fresh one, and bring it to me.”

Moyra ran to the storage area and brought back a new candle.  Oliver snapped his swords together so that they created a small burst of sparks.  Catching a single spark on his right hand blade he willed it into a flame.  After lighting the candle, he willed the flame on his sword tip to extinguish.  Then he sat the candle on his sword.

“Make this candle fall to the ground,” Oliver said as he unsheathed his second blade.  Oliver took his position in the master’s wheel and Moyra took hers.  “Begin!”

Moyra flowed into her fighting stance.  Her feet were set apart, one ahead and one back.  She presented her swords, one leading at midlevel and held back low.  Then she danced.  Moyra raced around the perimeter of the master’s wheel until she was behind Oliver then sprinted at his back.  Leaping to his side she spun a full circle slashing at the candle as she passed from his back to his front.

Oliver flipped the candle into the air allowing Moyra’s slash to pass then caught the candle upright on his sword.  Undeterred, Moyra struck out again at the candle and this time Oliver blocked her attack with his other sword but her second sword darted in at the candle.  A flick of the wrist sent the candle spinning up over’s shoulder where he caught it behind his back with his sword.

Keeping one arm and the candle behind him Oliver slashed at Moyra’s stomach.  She dropped back but Oliver stabbed forward forcing her to block.  He slapped her sword away and pressed his attack, advancing and forcing Moyra into a fully defensive dance.  Oliver sent thrust after thrust at Moyra’s heart, lungs, stomach, and throat.  She parried every thrust but was on her heels as he advanced and lectured her.

“Attack, parry, and counter.  A beautiful dance.  At least when you aren’t out matched.  How do you expect to make this candle hit the ground if you can only retreat?”

Moyra spun to her right, avoiding a thrust and dancing past Oliver.  He kicked his foot out in the middle of her rotation.  The high kick sent her falling backward but she contorted into a roll to come back to her feet.  Oliver brought his sword to rest across his chest, the candle balanced on the center of the blade, to show her that he was not concerned with her efforts.  His other sword tapped the side of his leg as he waited.

“What are you doing?” Moyra asked.

“This?  The tapping of my leg?  It is a swordsman’s gesture.  It means you are bored with your opponent.  I am telling you that I am bored,” Oliver stated.

With a growl Moyra charged at him, her blades whirling about her hands.  Oliver slipped his sword from beneath the candle and sent his blades into separate parries.  Moyra’s strikes met Oliver’s defense and they both fell into a dance of whirling steel.  Oliver parried Moyra’s strikes with such precision and speed that he could retract his blade to catch or flip the candle back into the air.  Moyra’s eyes tracked the candle as she chased it with slash after thrust.  Always a second too slow as Oliver parried or forced her to retreat a step from a counter strike.

The candle danced between them.  Oliver kept it moving, flipping it from one sword to the other while knocking Moyra’s swords high or low.  She kept trying to advance but he kept kicking at her feet and fouling her footwork.  Moyra leapt and slashed both blades across her chest at the candle.  Oliver sent both his swords thrusting into Moyra’s chest, the blunted tips striking her ribs.

Pain surged through Moyra’s body as her ribs broke.  She screamed in pain as her swords fell from her grasp and she fell to the ground.  Oliver caught the candle atop his blade and folded into a sitting position on the ground.  As Moyra clutched her chest in pain he blew out the candle and glanced at her discarded weapons.

“You dropped your weapons again.”

“You broke my ribs!” Moyra gasped.

“This is your new test.  Once a month we will do this exercise until you can make the candle hit the floor.  Once you can do that, I will know that you understand what I am teaching you.  Today’s lesson is at an end.  I will call Orla to set your bones but she will not heal you.  If the heal improperly we will need to break them again and then, perhaps, I will let Orla heal you.”

Oliver stood and gathered up Moyra’s training swords.  He dropped them atop her and walked away.  “Drop your swords again, and I will break your arms.”

He left her there on the floor to learn from her pain.