Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) by Missy Sheldrake Page A

wide, and heavy enough that it must be wielded with two hands. It’s a drastic change from Feat, her beloved short sword, but the glint in her eye when I offer her this one tells me I’ve made the right choice. She takes the weapon with reverence, and I’m surprised when she holds it with her hands spaced properly right at the start. She knows the grip already, and she has the stance well-practiced.
    My own sword gleams in the light that splashes through the open ceiling and my heart quickens as it does every time I hold it. This sword is the one Da forged for me and gifted me on my sixteenth birthday. It was lost in the Battle of the Keep at Kythshire, sucked into a Sorcerous vortex. I had thought it gone forever until I found it again in the throne room of Jacek, the Dreamwalker who had stolen the mantle of Valenor, the true Dreamwalker. He used it to lure me to him, then he used it against me, enchanting Saesa and goading her to fight me with it. In the end, he was defeated. In the end, the sword is mine again, as it should be.
    All of it flashes back at me in the reflection of my eyes on the blade. Quick moments, there and gone. As trying as it had been, as threatening and dangerous, I want it again. My whole body aches for adventure. I anchor my feet into the dirt and raise my sword to Saesa. We bow, and the bout begins.
    She’s been practicing, I can tell. Her swings are more graceful and her thrusts more powerful. Over the two years she’s been my squire, Saesa has grown almost a hands-width taller. Her body is filling out its womanly curves, and her arms are long and leanly muscled. She didn’t bother to tie her hair back today. Her thick red nest of curls barely moves when she does.
    “Hey, your hair!” she says, echoing my thoughts as she swings a long downward arc. “How did you—?”
    “Check your grip.” I say sternly as I meet her blade with a hard parry, knocking her off center. “Hands apart. Plow stance, elbows in, pommel at your hip. Elbows, Saesa!”
    “Elbows, elbows,” she chastises herself with a murmur and tucks them in.
    “Someday, Saesa, you’ll be on the field. Someone will see those elbows poking out from a league away,” I thrust my blade close to her rib and she spins away, “and take them right off. Below the hip, strong arms stay close.”
    “Yes, my lady,” she says, “strong arms stay close.” She tries again with the proper stance, and I jump back as the blade glances my leather training vest.
    “See? That’s better,” I grin.
    “But your braid,” she tries some elaborate footwork and fails miserably, stumbling under the weight of her weapon.
    “You can do that with a short sword, Saesa, but it won’t work with a great sword. Left foot back, anchor yourself. Greatswords rely on strength over speed. Let the weight of the blade guide your strike.” I show her a strong forward thrust and she repeats it fairly easily. “Good, let’s practice that one.”
    “It was Flitt, wasn’t it?” she asks as she tries the move again. “I thought I saw her in your window.”
    “Anchor that left foot. Watch your arms, Saesa. Elbows!” I arc my sword upward and knock her right elbow hard with the flat of my blade.
    “Sorry!” she yelps.  “Ah,” she says under her breath and skips backward with the tip of her sword dragging in the dust. She tries to put on a brave face, but I know that had to hurt. I felt the crack.
    “Take a breath,” I say, but she shakes her head.
    “I’m fine, m’lady,” she says, and comes at me again but I sidestep the attack. Her blade wobbles dangerously as her injured arm fights to keep it steady.
    “Take a break, Saesa.” I slip my sword back into its scabbard at the bench and beckon to her. “Let me see it.”
    She comes as beckoned, and I unbuckle the clasp at her shoulder and pull the leather sleeve down. A dark bruise, blooms around her already swelling elbow. I take her arm gingerly and bend it, and she gasps and