“What is
she
doing here?” came a
gruff voice.
Kyra, standing to the side of the
training grounds beside Anvin and Vidar, heard the approach of horses, and
turned to see Maltren riding up, flanked by a few of his soldier friends, still
breathing hard as he held a sword, fresh from the grounds. He looked down at
her disdainfully and her stomach tightened. Of all her father’s men, Maltren
was the only one who disliked her. He had hated her, for some reason, from the
first time he’d laid eyes upon her.
Maltren sat on his horse, and seethed;
with his flat nose and ugly face, he was a man who loved to hate, and he seemed
to have found a target in Kyra. He had always been opposed to her presence
here, probably because she was a girl.
“You should be back in your father’s
fort, girl,” he said, “preparing for the feast with all the other young,
ignorant girls.”
Leo, beside Kyra, snarled up at Maltren,
and Kyra laid a reassuring hand on his head, keeping him back.
“And why is that wolf allowed on our
grounds?” Maltren added.
Anvin and Vidar gave Maltren a cold,
hard look, taking Kyra’s side, and Kyra stood her ground and smiled back,
knowing she had their protection and that he could not force her to leave.
“Perhaps you should go back to the
training ground,” she countered, her voice mocking, “and not concern yourself
with the comings and goings of a young, ignorant girl.”
Maltren reddened, unable to respond. He
turned, preparing to storm off, but not without taking one last jab at her.
“It’s spears today,” he said. “You’d
best stay out of the way of real men throwing real weapons.”
He turned and rode off with the others
and as she watched him go, her joy at being here was tempered by his presence.
Anvin gave her a consoling look and lay
a hand on her shoulder.
“The first lesson of a warrior,” he
said, “is to learn to live with those who hate you. Like it or not, you will
find yourself fighting side-by-side with them, dependent on them for your
lives. Oftentimes, your worst enemies will not come from without, but from
within.”
“And those who can’t fight, run their
mouths,” came a voice.
Kyra turned to see Arthfael approaching,
grinning, quick to take her side, as he always was. Like Anvin and Vidar, Arthfael,
a tall, fierce warrior with a stark bald head and a long, stiff black beard,
had a soft spot for her. He was one of the best swordsmen, rarely bested, and
he always stood up for her. She took comfort in his presence.
“It’s just talk,” Arthfael added. “If
Maltren were a better warrior, he’d be more concerned with himself than
others.”
Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael mounted their
horses and took off with the others, and Kyra stood there watching them,
thinking. Why did some people hate? she wondered. She did not know if she would
ever understand it.
As they charged across the grounds,
racing in wide loops, Kyra studied the great warhorses in awe, eager for the
day when she might have one of her own. She watched the men circle the grounds,
riding alongside the stone walls, their horses sometimes slipping in the snow.
The men grabbed spears handed to them by eager squires, and as they rounded the
loop, they threw them at distant targets: shields hanging from branches. When
they hit, the distinct clang of metal rang out.
It was harder than it looked, she could
see, to throw while on horseback, and more than one of the men missed,
especially as they aimed for the smaller shields. Of those who hit, few hit in
the center—except for Anvin, Vidar, Arthfael and a few others. Maltren, she
noticed, missed several times, cursing under his breath and glaring over at
her, as if she were to blame.
Kyra, wanting to keep warm, pulled out
her staff and began spinning and twirling it in her hands, over her head,
around and around, twisting and turning it like a living thing. She thrust at
imaginary enemies, blocked imaginary blows, switching hands, over her neck,
around her waist, the staff like a third arm for her, its wood well-worn from
years of molding it.
While the men circled the fields, Kyra
ran off to her own little field, a small section of the training grounds
neglected by the men but which she loved for herself. Small pieces of armor
dangled from ropes in a grove of trees, spread out at all different heights,
and Kyra ran through and, pretending each target was an opponent, struck each
one with her staff. The air filled with her clanging as she ran through the
grove, slashing, weaving and ducking as they swung back at her. In her mind she
attacked and defended gloriously, conquering an army of imaginary foes.
“Kill anyone yet?” came a mocking voice.
Kyra turned to see Maltren ride up on
his horse, laughing derisively at her, before he rode off. She fumed, wishing
that someone would put him in his place.
Kyra took a break as she saw the men,
done with their spears, dismount and form a circle in the center of the
clearing. Their squires rushed forward and handed them wooden training swords,
made of a thick oak, weighing nearly as much as steel. Kyra kept to the
periphery, her heart quickening as she watched these men square off with each
other, wanting more than anything to join them.
Before they began, Anvin stepped into
the middle and faced them all.
“On this holiday, we spar for a special
bounty,” he announced. “To the victor shall go the choice portion of the
feast!”
A cry of excitement followed, as the men
charged each other, the click-clack of their wooden swords filling the air,
driving each other back and forth.
The sparring was punctuated by the
blasts of a horn, sounding every time a fighter was struck by a blow, and
sending him to the sidelines. The horn sounded frequently, and soon the ranks
began to thin, most of the men now standing to the side and watching.
Kyra stood on the sidelines with them,
burning to spar, though she was not allowed. Yet today was her birthday, she
was fifteen now, and she felt ready. She felt it was time to press her case.
“Let me join them!” she pleaded to
Anvin, who was standing nearby, watching.
Anvin shook his head, never taking his
eyes off the action.
“Today marks my fifteenth year!” she
insisted. “Allow me to fight!”
He glanced over at her skeptically.
“This is a training ground for men,”
chimed in Maltren, standing on the sidelines after losing a point. “Not young
girls. You can sit and watch with the other squires, and bring us water if we
demand it.”
Kyra flushed.
“Are you so afraid that a girl might
defeat you?” she countered, standing her ground, feeling a rush of anger within
her. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and no one could speak to her
like that.
Some of the men snickered, and this
time, Maltren blushed.
“She has a point,” Vidar chimed in.
“Maybe we should let her spar. What’s to lose?”
“Spar with what?” Maltren countered.
“My staff!” Kyra called out. “Against
your wooden swords.”
Maltren laughed.
“That would be a sight,” he said.
All eyes turned to Anvin, as he stood
there, debating.
“You get hurt, your father will kill
me,” he said.
“I won’t get hurt,” she pleaded.
He stood there for what felt like
forever, until finally he sighed.
“I see no harm in it then,” he said. “If
nothing else, it will keep you silent. As long as these men have no objection,”
he added, turning to the soldiers.
“AYE!” called out a dozen of her
father’s men in unison, all enthusiastically rooting for her. Kyra loved them
for it, more than she could say. She saw the admiration they held for her, the
same love they reserved for her father. She did not have many friends, and these
men meant the world to her.
Maltren scoffed.
“Let the girl make a fool of herself
then,” he said. “Might teach her a lesson once and for all.”
A horn sounded, and as another man left
the circle, Kyra rushed in.
Kyra felt all eyes on her as the men
stared, clearly not expecting this. She found herself facing her opponent, a
tall man of stocky build in his thirties, a powerful warrior she had known
since her father’s days at court. From having observed him, she knew him to be
a good fighter—but also overconfident, charging in the beginning of each fight,
a bit reckless.
He turned to Anvin, frowning.
“What insult is this?” he asked. “I
shall not fight a girl.”
“You insult yourself by fearing to fight
me,” Kyra replied, indignant. “I have two hands, and two legs, just as you. If
you will not fight me, then concede defeat!”
He blinked, shocked, then scowled back.
“Very well then,” he said. “Don’t go
running to your father after you lose.”
He charged at full speed, as she knew he
would, raised his wooden sword hard and high, and came straight down, aiming
for her shoulder. It was a move she had anticipated, one she had seen him
perform many times, one he clumsily foreshadowed by the motion of his arms. His
wooden sword was powerful, but it was also heavy and clumsy next to her staff.
Kyra watched him closely, waited until
the last moment, then sidestepped, allowing the powerful blow to come straight
down beside her. In the same motion, she swung her staff around and whacked him
in the side of his shoulder.
He groaned as he stumbled sideways. He
stood there, stunned, annoyed, having to concede defeat.
“Anyone else?” Kyra asked, smiling wide,
turning and facing the circle of men.
Most of them wore smiles, clearly proud
of her, proud of watching her grow up and reach this point. Except, of course,
Maltren, who frowned back. He looked as if he were about to challenge her when
suddenly another soldier appeared, facing off with a serious expression. This
man was shorter and wider, with an unkempt red beard and fierce eyes. She could
tell by the way he held his sword that he was more cautious than her previous
opponent. She took that as a compliment: finally, they were beginning to take
her seriously.
He charged, and Kyra did not understand
why, but for some reason, knowing what to do came easily to her. It was as if
her instincts kicked in and took over for her. She found herself to be much
lighter and more nimble than these men, with their heavy armor and thick,
wooden swords. They all were fighting for power, and they all expected their
foes to challenge and block them. Kyra, though, was happy to dodge them, and
refused to fight on their terms. They fought for power—but she fought for
speed.
Kyra’s staff moved in her hand like an
extension of her; she spun it so quickly her opponents had no time to react,
they still in mid-swing while she was already behind them. Her new opponent
came at her with a lunge to the chest—but she merely sidestepped and swung her
staff up, striking his wrist and dislodging his sword from his grip. She then
brought the other end around and cracked him on the head.
The horn sounded, the point hers, and he
looked at her in shock, holding his forehead, his sword on the ground. Kyra,
examining her handiwork, realizing she was still standing, was a bit startled
herself.
Kyra had become the person to beat, and
now the men, no longer hesitant, lined up to test their skills against her.
The snowstorm raged on as torches were
lit against the twilight and Kyra sparred with one man after the next. No
longer did they wear smiles: their expressions were now deadly serious,
perplexed, then outright annoyed, as no one could touch her—and each ended up
defeated by her. Against one man, she leapt over his head as he thrust,
spinning and landing behind him before whacking his shoulder; for another, she
ducked and rolled, switched hands with her staff and landed the decisive blow,
unexpectedly, with her left hand. For each, her moves were different, part
gymnast, part swordsman, so none could anticipate her. These men did a walk of
shame to the sidelines, each amazed at having to admit defeat.
Soon there remained but a handful of
men. Kyra stood in the center of the circle, breathing hard, turning in each
direction to search for a new foe. Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael watched her from
the sidelines, all with smiles across their faces, looks of admiration. If her
father could not be there to witness this and be proud of her, at least these
men could.
Kyra defeated yet another opponent, this
one with a blow behind the knee, yet another horn sounded, and finally, with
none left to face her, Maltren stepped out into the circle.
“A child’s tricks,” he spat, walking
toward her. “You can spin a piece of wood. In battle, that will do you no good.
Against a real sword, your staff would be cut in half.”
“Would it, then?” she asked, bold,
fearless, feeling the blood of her father flowing within her and knowing she
had to confront this bully for all time, especially as all these men were
watching her.
“Then why not try it?” she prodded.