by Morgan Rice
She knew, of course, that it would never be allowed. She was too young to be eligible—and she was a girl. There were no other girls in the ranks, and even if there were, her father would never allow it. His men, too, had looked upon her as a child when she had started visiting them years ago, had been amused by her presence, like a spectator watching. But after the men had left, she had remained behind, alone, training every day and night on the empty fields, using their weapons, targets. They had been surprised at first to arrive the following day to find arrow marks in their targets—and even more surprised when they were in the center. But over time, they had become used to it.
Kyra began to earn their respect, especially on the rare occasions she had been allowed to join them. By now, two years later, they all knew she could hit targets most of them could not—and their tolerating her had morphed to something else: respecting her. Of course, she had not fought in battles, as these other men had, had never killed a man, or stood guard at The Flames, or met a troll in battle. She could not swing a sword or a battle axe or halberd, or wrestle as these men could. She did not have nearly their physical strength, which she regretted dearly.
Yet Kyra had learned she had a natural skill with two weapons, each of which made her, despite her size and sex, a formidable opponent: her bow, and her staff. The former she had taken to naturally, while the latter she had stumbled upon accidentally, moons ago, when she could not lift a double-handed sword. Back then, the men had laughed at her inability to wield the sword, and as an insult, one of them had chucked her a staff derisively.
“See if you can lift this stick instead!” he’d yelled, and the others had laughed. Kyra had never forgotten her shame at that moment.
At first, her father’s men had viewed her staff as a joke; after all, they used it merely for a training weapon, these brave men who carried double-handed swords and hatchets and halberds, who could cut through a tree with a single stroke. They looked to her stick of wood as a plaything, and it had given her even less respect than she already had.
But she had turned a joke into an unexpected weapon of vengeance, a weapon to be feared. A weapon that now even many of her father’s men could not defend against. Kyra had been surprised at its light weight, and even more surprised to discover that she was quite good with it naturally—so fast that she could land blows while soldiers were still raising their swords. More than one of the men she had sparred with had been left black and blue by it and, one blow at a time, she had fought her way to respect.
Kyra, through endless nights of training on her own, of teaching herself, had mastered moves which dazzled the men, moves which none of them could quite understand. They had grown interested in her staff, and she had taught them. In Kyra’s mind, her bow and her staff complemented each other, each of equal necessity: her bow she needed for long-distance combat, and her staff for close fighting.
Kyra also discovered she had an innate gift that these men lacked: she was nimble. She was like a minnow in a sea of slow-moving sharks, and while these aging men had great power, Kyra could dance around them, could leap into the air, could even flip over them and land in a perfect roll—or on her feet. And when her nimbleness combined with her staff technique, it made for a lethal combination.
“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.
Maltren blinked back at her in surprise, clearly not expecting tha
t response. Then he narrowed his eyes.
“Why?” he shot back. “So you can run for your father’s protection?”
“I need not my father’s protection, nor anyone else’s,” she replied. “This is between you and me—whatever should happen.”
Maltren looked over at Anvin, clearly uncomfortable, as if he had dug himself into a pit which he could not get out of.
Anvin stared back, equally disturbed.
“We spar with wooden swords here,” he called out. “I won’t have anyone get hurt under my watch—much less, our commander’s daughter.”
But Maltren suddenly darkened.
“The girl wants real weapons,” he said, his voice firm, “then we shall give it to her. Perhaps she will learn a lesson for life.”
Without waiting any further, Maltren crossed the field, drew his real sword from its scabbard, the sound ringing in the air, and stormed back. The tension became thick in the air, as all grew silent, none sure what to do.
Kyra faced Maltren , feeling her palms sweating despite the cold, despite a gust of wind that blew the torches sideways. She could feel the snow turning to ice, crunching beneath her boots, and she forced herself to focus, to concentrate, knowing this would be no ordinary bout.
Maltren let out a sharp cry, trying to intimidate her, and charged, raising his sword high, it gleaming in the torchlight. Maltren, she knew, was a different fighter than the others, more unpredictable, less honorable, a man who fought to survive rather than to win. She was surprised to find him swinging right for her chest.
Kyra ducked out of the way as the blade passed right by.
The crowd of men gasped, outraged, and Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael stepped forward.
“Maltren!” Anvin called out, furious, as if ready to stop it.
“No!” Kyra called back, staying focused on Maltren, breathing hard as he came at her again. “Let us fight!”
Maltren immediately spun around and swung again—and again and again. Each time, she dodged, or stepped back, or leapt over his swings. He was strong, but not as quick as she.