“You may get a chance sooner than you think,” Colm said. Then he mentioned what he had overheard about the upcoming trials. He waited for looks of surprise but instead got knowing nods and an eye roll from the wannabe barbarian, clearly unperturbed.
“There’s absolutely nothing that stunted little leathery turncoat can cook up that we can’t handle. Am I right?” Lena looked around the table.
Colm nodded. She was right. Provided she didn’t bleed and Quinn didn’t open his mouth and Colm didn’t have to Scratch anything.
“Still,” Lena added thoughtfully, “it might not hurt to get in a little extra training before then.”
Colm was about to ask her what kind of training she had in mind when they were cut off by three familiar faces leering over them.
“If it isn’t the freckled fainter.”
Colm tensed. It was Tyren again, flanked by Vala and Minx. Colm noticed that Vala had her necklace back and wondered if she’d dug it out herself or if someone had given it back to her. They weren’t alone this time, either. Standing back a few paces, as if she were tethered to them by an invisible cord, was Ravena Heartfall, her face firmly planted in another book. She didn’t look up.
Tyren practically radiated smugness. “Just wanted to say I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to make you swoon like that.”
Lena cocked her head, looked at him with disbelief. “Tyren Troge, you should know by now that just looking at you puts butterflies in my stomach.”
Tyren blinked repeatedly, cheeks pinking. “Completely making me want to throw up,” she finished.
Vala twittered and covered her mouth. Tyren’s face turned full-out red. He took a moment to gather himself before turning to his companions. “She’s just jealous because she knows a guy like me has a ten times better chance of making his name as a barbarian.”
“Uh-oh,” Quinn mumbled.
Lena was up out of her seat in an instant, her nose inches away from Tyren’s, who at least had the sense to take a step back.
“Are you suggesting that I can’t be a barbarian because I’m a girl?”
“We should get somebody,” Quinn said anxiously, looking around the room for one of the masters.
“I’m saying,” Tyren shot back, “that anyone who faints at the sight of a parchment cut has no chance against a real warrior.”
“Well, if you ever see a real warrior, you point her out to me, all right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you should shut your stew hole before I cram my foot down it.”
“I’d like to see you try!”
Lena looked at Tyren. Then at her foot. Then back at Tyren. She was going to try.
Colm stood up beside her and was reaching out to grab her arm when a deep, steady voice told them, “Enough.”
Ravena Heartfall closed her book softly and glared, not at Lena, but at Tyren. “You’re acting like a toddler with a tree branch, standing on top of a pile of cow dung pretending to be king. Go sit down.” It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command. Colm waited for Tyren to blow her off, push her away, but to his surprise, Tyren snorted, then turned and left without a word, the other two following him, leaving Ravena standing in front of Colm and Lena, her thick leather tome pressed close to her chest, her black braid falling down her back.
“I apologize,” she said. “Tyren can be a little brusque sometimes. I’ll have a talk with him.” Then, without another word, she turned and followed the others to the back of the dining hall, leaving Colm just standing there, staring after her.
“Guess we know who wears the breeches in that party,” Quinn whispered, clearly impressed.
Lena crossed her arms gruffly, blowing her bangs from her eyes. “That big mouth. I could have shoved both feet in there if I’d wanted to.”
“If you ask me, I’d say he probably likes you,” Serene said.
Lena turned and glared.
“But you didn’t ask me,” Serene mumbled.
“He just better hope that girl keeps him on a short leash. Right, Colm? Colm?” Lena tapped Colm on the shoulder, but he didn’t really notice.
He was busy watching the long, black braid pendulum back and forth across Ravena’s back.
“Yeah,” he said. “One can only hope.”
They woke the next morning to a special announcement. All morning sessions would be suspended to accommodate special combat training, led by Master Thwodin. All junior guildsmen were expected to attend.
“Combat training?” Quinn mumbled for the seventeenth time under his breath. “I’ve only held a sword once in my life, and I dropped it on my foot.”
Colm had done more than that, at least. After Quinn had fallen asleep, Colm had practiced, lunging and twisting, imagining he was battling one of the orcs that had cornered Lena. Imagining, in fact, that he had swung down from the ramparts on a rope just in time to parry the blow that would surely have killed her, then picturing the two of them fighting, back to back, as the three orcs multiplied to six and then to a dozen, each one of them falling to his stroke or hers. Then Quinn stirred in his sheets and mumbled something about his ears burning, and Colm self-consciously put Scratch away and crawled into bed.
Fighting imaginary orcs in your room at night dressed only in your underwear probably didn’t count as combat training, though. Colm wished Finn had spent a little less time making him pick locks and a little more time teaching him how to use Scratch. Serene didn’t make things better, stating smugly that she was surely exempt from the training because she was not permitted to wield weapons of iron or steel.
“They’re expressly forbidden by my druidic order,” she said, smiling.
Then Master Merribell came by the table to remind Serene to bring her nice, new wooden staff. Serene’s face fell.
“Come on. It will be fun,” Lena said. Then Quinn pointed out that she was the only one of them wearing armor, including a set of gauntlets that covered all but the tips of her fingers. Almost no hope of anyone drawing blood from her today.
They gathered in the largest training room in the castle. Several different areas had been roped off, providing stages for two or more combatants to have at each other with blunt weapons designed to do little more than raise welts. The masters had all lined up at the back of the room next to the weapon racks, Tye Thwodin in the middle, wearing his suit of golden armor to match his beard. Colm noticed Finn standing off to the side, looking distracted. Thwodin cleared his throat.
“In the wake of the recent attack, and with the trials looming, I’ve decided that we all need to spend a little more time trying to beat the snot out of one another.”
Beside Master Thwodin, Herren Bloodclaw frowned. Colm wondered how many of the goblin’s ancestors’ heads Tye Thwodin had bashed over the course of his career. “To that end,” Tye continued, “I’m going to teach you all a move or two. I will, of course, need a partner.”
Tye Thwodin combed his thick beard, then turned to the row of masters standing beside him. Colm fully expected him to pick Master Stormbow. She seemed the most qualified as resident weapons master, at least with Grahm Wolfe back in the wilderness hunting for who knows what, but instead the headmaster looked to the end of the line.
“Master Argos, would you mind?”
The rogue flashed Colm a look, then bowed graciously and stepped into the center ring, now walled by trainees. Finn carefully undid his cloak and handed it to Master Merribell. Then he and Master Thwodin each selected a blunted sword and a wooden shield from the rack.
“Go easy on me, Argos. I’m twice as old as you,” Master Thwodin grunted. And twice as big, Colm thought to himself.
“I’ll do my best,” Finn replied, then instantly took to his guard as the head of the guild barreled toward him. The hall was instantly filled with the repeated clash of dulled steel as the two masters danced around the circle. Rather, Finn danced; Tye Thwodin moved like an avalanche. As they fought, Master Thwodin bellowed instructions, gruntin
g out his moves: “Downward thrust!” “Cross slash!” “Reverse parry!” Finn, on the other hand, stayed silent, seeming to retreat across the arena under the bigger man’s advances, taking measured steps, every move precise.
Colm watched wordlessly. It was exciting to see the two of them have at each other—but something seemed off. No doubt Master Thwodin was strong, every swing carrying enough force to send splinters of Finn’s shield flying. But he was also slow, often overswinging, revealing weak spots that the more nimble rogue should have easily exploited. Colm thought back to the riders who had confronted them on the road out of Felhaven. Finn had managed to fend off three attackers at once, and all on horseback, no less. Here he seemed reticent, offering only weak thrusts and slashes that just barely missed their mark, yet missed it every time. It wasn’t long before a blow shattered his wooden shield completely. The next one sent the rogue’s sword clattering to the ground. Finn dropped to his knees, bested.
The masses cheered as Tye Thwodin raised his fists into the air, then turned and helped Finn to his feet. “Well fought, Master Argos.”
“Thank you,” Finn replied. “I’m afraid I’m just no match for you.” Then the rogue glanced Colm’s way once more, offering a hint of a smile, before retrieving his cloak and taking his place back in line.
“All right, dungeoneers. Let’s see if you learned anything!” Tye Thwodin bellowed. Then he clapped his hands and all the trainees were separated by class: fighters versus fighters, rogues versus rogues, and so on, breaking into small groups and heading to their designated lines. Colm tried to comfort Quinn, who was handed a short iron sword so blunt it could barely cut water.
“You hold this end,” Colm reminded him. Quinn just shook in place.
Soon the whole hall was filled with ringing metal and split wood. Occasionally you would hear a grunt instead and see one of two dungeoneers lying on the stone floor. The victor would cheer, the loser would slouch off; then whichever master was watching would say, “Next!” and the next two adventurers in line would enter the arena.
Colm gripped his practice sword uneasily; it was bigger than Scratch, with a thicker blade and a leather-strapped handle that was somehow harder to get a grip on. His only hope was that he would face off against somebody who knew even less about sword fighting than he did.
“Candorly!”
Colm turned to see Master Bloodclaw glaring at him, handing him a shield, the wood already cracked halfway down its center. “Do you have anything that’s not already broken?” Colm asked, but the goblin just snorted and pushed him into the roped-off area. It’s all right, he told himself, giving his blunt sword a few practice swings. What’s the worst that could happen? A skinned knuckle or a bruised shoulder. Who knows, he might even win. He turned to see who he would be fighting, hoping for another fresh-faced pickpocket like himself.
He felt his legs nearly give out beneath him.
Ravena Heartfall spun her sword and took a couple of practice lunges. Her hair had escaped from its characteristic braid, cresting her shoulders and cascading down both sides. Before, she had always looked so closed off. Wound tight. Now she looked almost feral. Beautiful . . . but in an alarming, I-think-I’m-about-to-devour-you sort of way.
“Good luck,” Herren Bloodclaw said, then motioned for the match to start. Across the floor, Ravena bowed, then brought her sword up.
“Wait, how do I—” Colm began, but he didn’t have time to finish the thought; Ravena was upon him, closing the space that separated them in a single breath. He felt her sword strike once, saw his own sword fly from his hand, then felt the blunt tip of her weapon pressed against his chest. The match lasted three seconds.
Ravena didn’t say a word. She wasn’t even breathing heavy.
“That doesn’t count,” Herren Bloodclaw spit. “Pick up your sword, boy, and try again.”
Colm stood and retrieved his sword and looked again at the girl, who had retreated back to her side of the ring. At the goblin’s command, she charged again, unblinking. Colm tried to remember what he had just seen Master Thwodin do—cross thrust or reverse-downward-parry-spin-something-or-other. But watching wasn’t the same as doing, and while he managed to somehow deflect two of Ravena’s blows, a swift kick to his gut sent him sprawling across the floor. Again, he felt the tip of her sword in his chest as he tried to catch his breath.
The goblin shook his head.
“That’s the best you can do?” he grumbled. “My blind grandmother could beat ya with her legs tied together. Now stand up and fight!”
Colm gathered himself, rubbing his gut where she had planted her foot. Quinn had said that Ravena Heartfall was a talent, good at everything. Obviously that included kicking Colm’s butt. “How is this teaching me anything?” he pleaded with the goblin.
“It should be teachin’ ya to stay out of her way, at least. Though it looks like you still need another lesson.”
The goblin raised his hand and Ravena charged again, spinning her sword effortlessly, dancing toward him, except this time Colm didn’t wait for her. He leaped backward, once, twice, avoiding the kinds of blows that had disarmed him before. He kept his shield in front of him—blocking the strikes that he couldn’t dodge, simply trying to stay on his feet. He thought about what Finn might say, about being patient, watching, anticipating, waiting for just the right moment.
Except there didn’t seem to be a right moment. Ravena was relentless, doubling her attack, spinning and thrusting, until she was practically chasing Colm around in a circle. He spun and ducked and scrambled, but he didn’t get hit. He could see the frustration in her face as she swung wildly, overreaching. She lashed out, seeming to want to take his head off. Colm ducked and gave a halfhearted thrust with his sword.
Ravena’s hands dropped to her sides. She stood there, the blunted tip of Colm’s sword pressed to the tea-colored skin of her neck. She smiled. Colm had never seen her smile before. Her already-narrowed eyes narrowed further.
Then he felt his sword knocked out of one hand and his shield knocked out of the other. In a blink, she had him on the ground. Again.
“Rule number one,” she said, leaning in, whispering to him. “Never let your guard down.”
“That’s not rule number one,” Colm grunted.
Ravena stood up, letting Colm breathe again. Then she reached down and took his hand. “We don’t all play by the same rules,” she said, pulling him up. Beside him, Herren Bloodclaw simply shook his head.
From behind, Colm heard a familiar voice shouting in triumph. He turned and craned his neck to see Lena standing over the prone body of Tyren Troge, who was rolling around on the floor, clutching his ear. It appeared to be bleeding, but Lena clearly had no problem with that, judging by her smile. Colm waved to her, trying to get her attention, but he couldn’t see if she waved back. He couldn’t see anything anymore.
The whole room was suddenly filled with shouting and smoke.
It was a miscalculation, Tye Thwodin said afterward. We weren’t all created equal. Every dungeoneer was blessed with certain abilities, and it was, perhaps, better to nurture those naturally inborn talents than to try and impose others.
In other words, Quinn shouldn’t have been asked to hold a sword.
Not that the sword itself had anything to do with it. Only that, in his frustration at trying to use it, the mageling had lost control. His nerves got the better of him. He panicked, said a few things he didn’t mean to, and didn’t say any of them quite clearly enough. The result was a sudden end to Thwodin’s Legion’s impromptu combat training.
The clothes, of course, could be replaced. The injuries were minor, easily treated by Master Merribell, who had plenty of remedies for basic burns. The scorch marks along the floor, however, were probably permanent, an indelible tribute to the unbridled power of a mageling with a nervous disposition.
The fire, apparently, shot out from practically everywhere. Ears. Nose. Throat. Fingers. Everywhere.
Afterward, as they we
re all making their way through the great hall, Quinn couldn’t hide his embarrassment, blushing at everyone who passed. “I mean, what did they expect? Isn’t that why we work together? They didn’t stick a spell book in your hand and ask you to shoot fire out your ears, did they?”
Colm couldn’t argue, though if it had just been the ears, it might not have been so bad.
“It’s common sense,” Quinn continued. “Rule number one. Leave the fighting to the big lugs with the swords.” Quinn suddenly stopped and looked up at Lena with her sword strapped to her side. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest . . . you know . . . it’s just something Master Velmoth told me.”
Lena just smiled. “That’s okay. Rule number seven. Never let one of those crazy, unpredictable mages cast a spell unless you’re hiding behind a very thick wall.”
“Rule number four,” Serene echoed. “Always pack extra healing potions for when those thick-headed warriors and masochistic mages go insane and get themselves hurt.”
They all looked at Colm.
“Rule number fifteen,” he said. “Don’t share your rules with others.” He had just made that one up, though he imagined Finn would appreciate it.
“That’s a good rule,” Serene said.
“Well, the morning wasn’t a total waste.” Quinn sighed, leaning up against Lena. “I got a new set of robes, and I bet Tyren Troge thinks twice before he teases you again. You nearly took off his ear.”
Lena shrugged. “I was swinging for his teeth. I need to work on my aim, I guess. And you,” she said, looking over at Colm, “need to work on just about everything. Can’t very well tackle those trials with you fighting like that. I can’t kill everything for you. I mean . . . I probably can . . . but just in case.”
Colm couldn’t argue. He had about as much business carrying a sword as Quinn did.
Lena wasn’t the only one who thought he needed to work on his swordplay. When he arrived at Finn’s workshop for his afternoon training, the rogue was waiting for him outside.
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