He leaned against the gate, content to watch and not wanting to disturb her concentration. Why was she practicing in Green Run? Wasn’t she staying in the palace? He figured he’d get the story from her after she finished practicing.
He relaxed himself into the morning quiet, hearing only the murmur of water birds, Wren’s breath, the scuff of boots on stone, and the whirling of the staff as it pivoted at high speed.
A few moments later, he heard other steps approaching. He saw a figure still wrapped in shadow pause at the intersection in the paths, then turn and come towards him. When the figure was closer, he noticed it was the burly warrior Corim, dressed in smoke gray togs. The man nodded to Bannor and he nodded back, neither saying a word aloud.
Corim approached the gate and looked through to see Wren’s rapid exercises. Running a hand through his long hair he looked to Bannor and pointed to Wren with a ‘she’s good’ thumb and fist gesture.
He nodded back his agreement. Together the two them admired her workout in silence. After a few long breaths, she finally whipped to a stop, either at the end of her routine or tired. She did a spinning formal salute then looked around. She focused toward the shadows where they were standing.
“Hey, come out of there. I thought I felt someone watching.”
Bannor looked at Corim. The other man shrugged. Bannor opened the gate and stepped into the private yard.
“Bannor?” Wren said. “What are you doing here?”
He laughed. “I live here, remember?”
Wren rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Oh yes, I forgot.” She looked to Corim. “Helping Bannor peep were you?”
“We were observing your formidable shadow forms skill is all,” Corim responded. “G’yaki kiabo I believe.”
“Yesss…” Wren drew out the word.
Bannor looked at Corim. “G’yaki?”
The other man nodded. “Shadow warriors, sometimes assassins. They are renowned in the underworlds for their lethality with every conceivable weapon, including the open hand.”
Bannor recalled a certain situation when the ground was quaking when Wren had just magically flattened him. One moment he was trying to get in her way, the next her knee had been up under his chin.
Wren leaned on her staff. “Don’t you practice in the morning, Bannor?”
“Me? No. The only practice I get is when something tries to kill me.”
The savant frowned. “Come on, you can’t be in that good a condition if you don’t do some physical regimen.”
He shrugged. “Can’t be fat if you’re hiking ten leagues a day, especially up in the mountains. Before I met Sarai, that’s about all I did, trap and track, and do warden duties for the baron.”
“No way, Bannor, I’ve seen you fight. You must have gotten some training and practiced at some point.”
“Well, I did get some when I was young, basic things my father taught me, and then later from my unit commander. The rest was learned under duress I suppose, just trying to stay alive in the war.”
Wren frowned. “What about you, Corim? You must work out regularly, no way else to get muscles like those.”
“About three bells a day,” Corim admitted. “Not as much lately, I haven’t had the time to enter any tournaments.”
“Tournaments?” Wren asked. “Which ones?”
“Blackstar, Ivaneth, Corwin, Coormeer, the major ones.”
“Ever go to the All-Worlds?” Wren asked.
“I have heard Tal and Beia speak of it, but haven’t yet seen for myself.”
“You should,” Wren said. “Well, you guys can’t just stand around and watch me exercise. You should do some yourself.” She went to a case that she had obviously brought with her and pulled out some wooden weapons.
She tossed a wicker sword to Corim. “You wouldn’t be any good in Caan Lajaar would you?”
“Not pure form,” the burly man answered. “I know the style though.”
“Good.”
She tossed Bannor a pair of short weapons about the length of his axes. “I know you fight two-handed.”
He picked up the wooden weapons. “I didn’t say I would train with you.”
“Come on,” she urged. “It’s good for you.”
Corim glanced at Bannor, he shrugged and stretched out and rolled his shoulders. As he warmed up, he looked at Wren. “Are you certain about this?”
“Of course I am, you won’t hurt me with a piece of wood.”
“All right. On your guard.”
Wren nodded and tossed aside her staff. She dropped back into a low crouch and made a hissing sound, fists turned out. Corim watched her, his face serious, he obviously didn’t think for an instant that Wren would be an easy target. Wren’s face was a mask of ferocity, eyes narrow and jaw set, hands and feet shifting constantly as she turned with Corim.
When she attacked it was with startling speed that made Bannor lurch back in surprise. Wren’s hands and feet thrashed the air, high and low, spinning and diving.
Corim stood his ground, slipping along the vicious assault and thrusting into the heart of it. He wasn’t sure how Wren got around the blade but she was bringing her fist down on the big man’s head.
He swayed out of the way, and took as sweeping step back out of the range of a heel kick that she shouldn’t have been able to throw. The big man yanked her fist which came at him suddenly and sent her reeling forward, he pointed the sword at her back as she passed.
Wren turned and looked at Corim at the sword. “Wow, you’re good. It’s like trying to hit Beia.”
Corim bowed. “I endeavor to reach her level of skill. She spent a lot of bells pounding on me.”
“Oh, she trained you for real, I thought perhaps you had just gotten some lessons in passing.”
Corim shook his head. “Oh no. I have heard every speech and taken most of the lumps.”
“With Beia teaching, there’s always plenty of those,” Wren reminisced.
“Indeed,” Corim agreed.
Wren turned to Bannor. “Come on, your turn.”
He frowned at her. “Why do you want to embarrass me? I don’t know anything about that fancy fighting.”
“Oh come now, I watched you fight Odin. You got your licks in.”
“Yes, and he destroyed me!”
“Bannor, he had fifty millennia of battle experience—you shouldn’t have been able to hit him at all. At least, not if you’re as lame as you profess.”
He blew out a breath. “Fine, but I’m telling you I’m no good at this…”
He stepped out into the middle of the yard, spun the sticks and adjusted his grip, allowing for their lighter weight. He took a stance.
Wren stepped out opposite him and made a bow.
He nodded back.
The blonde savant didn’t hold off, she was flying at him before he even had a chance to think about what he would do. He side-stepped, cross-patterned, and whacked her in the rear with the stick when she overextended.
“Ow.” Wren yelped, frowning at him.
“Left yourself open,” he said, serious.
She narrowed her eyes, and lunged forward, hands and feet churning the air. The woman was fast and strong, a punch from a normal man twice her size would hurt less. He spun the jos, taking advantage of their lighter weight to create a tighter guard; knocking down her kicks and sliding between her punches. Even the glancing hits had jarring power. He feinted, counter-stepped, and brought the broad part of the jo-stick against her ribs with a thud.
“Punta,” Corim said, arms folded. The man’s brow was furrowed.
Wren backed up a step, rubbing her side. “Lords, what do you mean you’re no good? What do you think is good?”
He wiped the perspiration from his brow. He looked at the sticks. “I don’t do anything special, when something comes at me, I get out of the way.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “Gaaah, well yesss… I spent a long time learning how to ‘get out of the way’.”
He frowned. �
�And?”
“Well, that’s not average dodging you’re doing.” She looked at Corim. “You teach fighting don’t you?”
“Eighth circle, yes,” Corim agreed. “Bannor is not utilizing a style. He’s an instinct fighter—reactive. His type are tough to fight because they aren’t predictable—they fight according to how their opponent fights.”
“Corim it has to be more than that. I’ve gotten bigger pieces out of Beia than I did him.”
Bannor frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Beyond a certain level of skill, it’s impossible to block all of an opponent’s attacks,” Corim explained. “Perhaps it is just reach. Let me have a go, and you watch us.”
Bannor stared at him. “You too?”
“It is said, you never really know a man until you fight him.”
He sighed. “Okay. I still don’t know why you two are making all this fuss.”
He walked back out to the center, and took a stance. He felt a bead of perspiration run down between his eyes and he rubbed it away. Corim was a far more imposing opponent than Wren. The two of them were about the same height but the other man was significantly thicker with trained muscle.
Corim had a smooth, deceptive way of shifting that made him seem to move more slowly than he actually was. Bannor was guarding away the wooden sword even before he recognized that the man had attacked. The other man did not waver but kept in, his sword a blurring study of angles, sweeps, thrusts and feints. It was not just his weapon, he used his body—elbows, knees, and shoulders trying to crowd Bannor’s defense.
With this stronger and faster opponent it was all Bannor could do to keep from getting pounded. Despite his soft voice and easy-going demeanor, Corim was every bit as fierce as one expected of a trainer of warriors.
Techniques that worked on Wren repeatedly failed as Corim muscled through tie-ups and refused to off balance himself for feints.
Corim sidestepped, leaving himself open and Bannor chopped for it. His stick bit the meat of Corim’s side as the other fighter’s sword came down on Bannor’s neck and shoulder.
Breathing heavily the two men looked at one another.
“Damn,” Bannor panted, rubbing his shoulder. “Good hit.”
“Sacrificial opening,” Corim breathed let out with a gasp. “Only way I could get through.”
Wren was shaking her head. “That was impressive. It’s almost like the harder you press him, the better he gets.” She looked to Corim who was wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
The man’s brow furrowed. “It is almost exactly like that, although it seemed more like something related to patterns.”
Bannor sat down on the stone. “I have no idea what you two are talking about. I do know one thing…” He pointed a finger at Wren and then at Corim. “I—” He drew a breath. “I do not want to have to fight either of you. She was just using her frelling hands and feet.”
“And you don’t practice?” Corim asked him eyes narrow.
Bannor shook his head.
“My friend, I envy you. I’ve fought in tournaments for eight summers, a couple hundred fights at least… I’ve trained so much I have grooves in my hands.” He held up his palms. “For you to tilt with me like that…” He shook his head. “That’s just not fair.”
“Imagine if he practiced every day,” Wren said.
“He would be remarkable,” Corim said. He shook his head. “Just not fair.”
“What’s not fair?” A deep female voice asked.
Another figure stepped from the long shadows, silver hair glinting in the early morning light. Dressed all in dark gray breeches and a leather vest she looked like a part of the shadows, and moved with a silky predator’s stalk.
The Baronian creature of war was no more evident to Bannor than right then. It was not in Senalloy’s voice, it was her bearing, the thrust of shoulders and hips. The simple way she came upon them in silence, circling them the way a carnivore might corral its prey. It was subconscious Bannor was certain, but heredity and instincts told a story.
She circled Corim and put an arm around his neck. Sitting on the ground with the Baronian woman looming over them, she was an imposing creature despite her friendly semblance. She brushed back her hair and smiled.
They were safe. The predator was not hungry.
“What’s not fair was the two of them against me,” Bannor said into the silence.
“I hardly think Corim would conspire to gang up on you, Bannor,” she said with a tilt of her head. “He’s much too honorable for that.”
“Well, they’re both convinced I’m some wizard at fighting,” he looked to Wren. “You’ve seen my scars. I stink at fighting. I just barely get by—I hold my own, but that’s all.”
Senalloy blinked violet eyes and focused on Corim. The man’s broad face tightened. He shook his head.
“Well, perhaps I can settle the argument,” Senalloy said.
Bannor’s jaw dropped. “What? You too? Come on, I know that’s not going to be an even fight.”
Senalloy rolled her eyes. “I just want to see your technique.”
He snorted. “I don’t have a technique. I told Wren. It’s simple, something comes at me. I get out of the way. That’s all.”
The Baronian woman grinned and looked at Corim. “How elegant, just ‘get out of the way’. I wish I had come up with it.” She pulled the wooden sword from Corim’s hand. “Please, Bannor, favor me with a bit of your battle.”
He rubbed the back of his head. “Why is everyone so set on fighting today? Wasn’t there enough hitting yesterday?”
“The more we train in peace, the less we bleed in war,” Senalloy replied rolling her shoulders and twisting her neck from side to side. “A trite saying but true.”
“You know, you never practice with me,” Corim said, frowning.
“It would rile your dear Dulcere,” the Baronian responded. She looked at Bannor with a raised eyebrow. “Fighting with a Baronian woman is like having a midnight tryst with her.”
Bannor rolled his eyes. Corim folded his arms, brow furrowing.
He pushed himself to his feet. He knew he wasn’t going to get out of letting this huge woman pound on him. She would have to be able to. She was ancient, with a body honed for battle. As pleasing as her curves might be, she was all steely muscle underneath.
He picked up the jo-sticks and spun them to find the best grip.
“Are you afraid of me, Bannor?” Senalloy asked.
“Of what you can do, yes,” he responded. “I don’t think you want to hurt me—much.”
She grinned. The woman was very casual, sweeping the sword from left to right and then in circles. When she thrust it was with a lazy sway of her body, the tip of the weapon snaking erratically as it came at his chest. Though the weapon didn’t seem to come fast, the way it spiraled as it came in made it deceptively hard to counter. Forcing him to twist, guard and step back.
Senalloy didn’t even seem to be focused on him, her eyes seeming more intent on something off in the distance. Her sword continued to fan the air in sweeping curves as she circled him.
“You know,” Bannor said. “This wasn’t how I envisioned how you’d fight.”
The woman smiled. “If I just flailed you, that wouldn’t be a test of your skill—” Her sword flickered in, syrupy slow but insistent and almost impossible to avoid. She wasn’t moving that fast, why was it so hard to get out of the way? “That would be a test of strength and endurance.”
Bannor decided that waiting for one of those slow moving thrusts to gouge out a rib was not going to prove anything. As she pulled back for the next attack he whirled into her with both sticks.
Again, Senalloy barely seemed to move, her body swaying more like fluid than steel. Ducking around his chops, shouldering aside one wrist and flicking aside the other weapon with the sword.
With startling suddenness, his face was quite unintentionally stuffed between her ample breasts. She smelled nice—
a musky flower scent. The Baronian shoved him back. “No no, Bannor, those are for Corim. I’m flattered, but you’re already engaged.”
He staggered back, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise in his cheeks. She did that on purpose. She must have. At the edge of the yard, Corim frowned. Wren scowled at him hands on hips.
“It was an accident!” he protested.
“It helps if I trip you,” Senalloy grinned. “Watch your feet.”
Bannor growled. “I knew you were doing this to make fun of me.”
“Tease you a little, perhaps, but I am quite serious. A little more—please.”
He sighed. He glanced at Wren who had her arms folded. He wasn’t sure whether the savant was annoyed with him or Senalloy. A glance at Corim said the man was annoyed with Senalloy. He nodded.
The Baronian began weaving her sword in its shimmering path. Still, he was not content to just let her test his defenses. He went after her, the way she moved her weapon was just plain annoying.
For someone so big, she stepped with surprising lightness. He thought the sword was annoying before, when he pressed the woman it suddenly became a wall. She did things that didn’t even seem possible, guarding high and on the side at the same time. She used her, hips, legs and shoulders, tying up his attacks and then pushing him back, pressing the attack. The creature was strong, probably two or three times as strong as him. At this level of exertion, she wasn’t even breathing hard.
Senalloy smiled as she fought. She liked fighting, and for whatever reason she seemed to like him. Fighting like this actually was like a show of affection for a Baronian it seemed. She could have hit him so much harder than she did—though she was hitting plenty hard enough. Those elbow and shoulder blocks would have him black and blue in the morning.
He was running out of energy, and Senalloy, it seemed, was just starting to have fun, as he chased her through a maze of sword strokes, trying to at least make some dent in her defense. Even an elder made mistakes.
Apparently though, she made none that he could take advantage of. A few tortuously long breaths later she called a halt.
Bannor fell to his knees gasping. Damn. He hoped the he could put her between him and the enemy in future. He sure as Hades never wanted to fight her for real!
Reality's Plaything 3: Eternal's Agenda Page 18