The days marched on, and though the calendar was the only reliable measurement that time was passing, indeed the time approached for the boy’s departure.
Sturm was alone in his chambers, the early evening upon him. He had spent a long morning in the central courtyard, Lord Gunthar instructing him roughly in the particulars of swordsmanship. Still panting from the exertion, his shoulder swollen and heated, Sturm removed the heavy vambraces from his arms, wincing as the metal and paddingrubbed over bruises due to the fall he had taken riding the Wings, but also those from more recent outrages, born of training in combat and his teacher Lord Gunthar’s enthusiasm. It had been
arms courteous
, the wicker weapons padded and blunted to boot, but Gunthar was terribly strong, and the blows were telling, no matter the precautions.
Sturm groaned and tossed the vambraces to the floor. Leaning back on his hard bed, he stared at the ceiling, his face flushed with exertion and embarrassment. Exertion, because Lord Gunthar had worked him over. Embarrassment, because the older man had done it easily, almost effortlessly, in a calm voice lacing the rout with instructions.
“Raise your shield, Sturm!” Gunthar had railed. “You’re shuffling and puffing like Lord Raphael!”
Sturm had winced. Lord Raphael was a hundred and twenty-three years old and babbled in senile rapture about the Cataclysm he really did not remember.
Slowly the two men circled each other, student and tutor. Gunthar’s gray eyes never left the lad, fixed on the padded sword that bobbed in his right hand.
“Your guard is low, lad,” Gunthar urged. “Vertumnus’ll have a sword in amidst you before you raise it!”
Sturm had stumbled then, and Gunthar had pushed him back, seating him on the hard bailey ground. The Knight stood over him grimly and explained in a clipped, cold voice how Lord Wilderness would not wait politely for him to regain his footing.
For the Green Man is not of the Order. He cannot be expected to fight with dignity and according to the Measure. There is no Measure in the outlands, which is why there is a Measure here. You will be the Measure at that meeting!
Now Sturm closed his eyes, and the sudden knock on the door startled him. He must have been sleeping, he thought with dismay, and he struggled with the laces to his greaves as the door opened and Lord Boniface Crownguard of Foghaven stepped into the room, broadsword in hand, on his shoulder a large canvas bag, filled with something thatrang and clattered as he closed the door behind him.
For a brief and nightmarish moment, the lad thought that instruction was about to resume with another sound thrashing at the hands of Lord Boniface. For a moment, he even thought something darker, even worse, was about to waylay him in the shadowy guests’ chambers. But Boniface was quiet, even mild, setting down his burden and seating himself at the corner of Sturm’s cot, the sword across his knees.
His boots were muddy, and vallenwood leaves clung to the soles.
“I saw you with Gunthar. You tire too easily,” Lord Boniface said gruffly.
“And Gunthar tires not easily enough,” Sturm answered with a weary smile, dismissing his bewilderment and fear. The older man chuckled.
“Angriff Brightblade’s boy you are, though,” Lord Boniface concluded, and Sturm looked at him hopefully. “Somewhere down in the cellars of yourself. Yes. It’s just a matter of letting the Brightblade out to air. You see, Angriff would have stayed at Gunthar in the courtyard until he won—’tis as simple as that. Till death or Cataclysm come, Angriff used to match me sword on sword, and though I was the better swordsman …”
Boniface paused and cleared his throat.
“Though I was the better swordsman,” he continued, “your father would have won on sheer mettle and daring and backbone.”
Boniface paused again and looked curiously at the lad beside him. “There was also,” he said thoughtfully,
Sturm was alone in his chambers, the early evening upon him. He had spent a long morning in the central courtyard, Lord Gunthar instructing him roughly in the particulars of swordsmanship. Still panting from the exertion, his shoulder swollen and heated, Sturm removed the heavy vambraces from his arms, wincing as the metal and paddingrubbed over bruises due to the fall he had taken riding the Wings, but also those from more recent outrages, born of training in combat and his teacher Lord Gunthar’s enthusiasm. It had been
arms courteous
, the wicker weapons padded and blunted to boot, but Gunthar was terribly strong, and the blows were telling, no matter the precautions.
Sturm groaned and tossed the vambraces to the floor. Leaning back on his hard bed, he stared at the ceiling, his face flushed with exertion and embarrassment. Exertion, because Lord Gunthar had worked him over. Embarrassment, because the older man had done it easily, almost effortlessly, in a calm voice lacing the rout with instructions.
“Raise your shield, Sturm!” Gunthar had railed. “You’re shuffling and puffing like Lord Raphael!”
Sturm had winced. Lord Raphael was a hundred and twenty-three years old and babbled in senile rapture about the Cataclysm he really did not remember.
Slowly the two men circled each other, student and tutor. Gunthar’s gray eyes never left the lad, fixed on the padded sword that bobbed in his right hand.
“Your guard is low, lad,” Gunthar urged. “Vertumnus’ll have a sword in amidst you before you raise it!”
Sturm had stumbled then, and Gunthar had pushed him back, seating him on the hard bailey ground. The Knight stood over him grimly and explained in a clipped, cold voice how Lord Wilderness would not wait politely for him to regain his footing.
For the Green Man is not of the Order. He cannot be expected to fight with dignity and according to the Measure. There is no Measure in the outlands, which is why there is a Measure here. You will be the Measure at that meeting!
Now Sturm closed his eyes, and the sudden knock on the door startled him. He must have been sleeping, he thought with dismay, and he struggled with the laces to his greaves as the door opened and Lord Boniface Crownguard of Foghaven stepped into the room, broadsword in hand, on his shoulder a large canvas bag, filled with something thatrang and clattered as he closed the door behind him.
For a brief and nightmarish moment, the lad thought that instruction was about to resume with another sound thrashing at the hands of Lord Boniface. For a moment, he even thought something darker, even worse, was about to waylay him in the shadowy guests’ chambers. But Boniface was quiet, even mild, setting down his burden and seating himself at the corner of Sturm’s cot, the sword across his knees.
His boots were muddy, and vallenwood leaves clung to the soles.
“I saw you with Gunthar. You tire too easily,” Lord Boniface said gruffly.
“And Gunthar tires not easily enough,” Sturm answered with a weary smile, dismissing his bewilderment and fear. The older man chuckled.
“Angriff Brightblade’s boy you are, though,” Lord Boniface concluded, and Sturm looked at him hopefully. “Somewhere down in the cellars of yourself. Yes. It’s just a matter of letting the Brightblade out to air. You see, Angriff would have stayed at Gunthar in the courtyard until he won—’tis as simple as that. Till death or Cataclysm come, Angriff used to match me sword on sword, and though I was the better swordsman …”
Boniface paused and cleared his throat.
“Though I was the better swordsman,” he continued, “your father would have won on sheer mettle and daring and backbone.”
Boniface paused again and looked curiously at the lad beside him. “There was also,” he said thoughtfully,
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