been
outsmarted.
The crowd dispersed, the tension gone,
and there came a sense of relief. Many of her father’s men approached her
approvingly, laying hands on her shoulder.
“Well done,” Anvin said, looking at her
with approval. “You shall make a good ruler someday.”
The village folk went back to their
ways, the hustle and bustle returning, the tension dissipated, and Kyra turned
and searched for her father’s eyes. She found them looking back, he standing
but a few feet away. In front of his men, he was always reserved when it came
to her, and this time was no different—he wore an indifferent expression, but
he nodded at her ever so slightly, a nod, she knew, of approval.
Kyra looked over and saw Anvin and Vidar
clutching their spears, and her heart quickened.
“Can I join you?” she asked Anvin,
knowing they were heading to the training grounds, as the rest of her father’s
men.
Anvin glanced nervously at her father,
knowing he would disapprove.
“Snow’s thickening,” Anvin finally
replied, hesitant. “Night’s falling, too.”
“That’s not stopping you,” Kyra
countered.
He grinned back.
“No, it’s not,” he admitted.
Anvin glanced at her father again, and
she turned and saw him shake his head before turning and heading back inside.
Anvin sighed.
“They’re preparing a mighty feast,” he
said. “You’d best go in.”
Kyra could smell it herself, the air
heavy with fine meats roasting, and she saw her brothers turn and head inside,
along with dozens of villagers, all rushing to prepare for the festival.
But Kyra turned and looked longingly out
at the fields, at the training grounds.
“A meal can wait,” she said. “Training
cannot. Let me come.”
Vidar smiled and shook his head.
“You sure you’re a girl and not a
warrior?” Vidar asked.
“Can I not be both?” she replied.
Anvin let out a long sigh, and finally
shook his head.
“Your father would have my hide,” he
said.
Then, finally, he nodded.
“You won’t take no for an answer,” he
concluded, “and you’ve got more heart than half my men. I suppose we can use
one more.”
*
Kyra ran across the snowy landscape,
trailing Anvin, Vidar and several of her father’s men, Leo by her side as
usual. The snowfall was thickening and she did not care. She felt a sense of
freedom, of exhilaration, as she always did when passing through Fighter’s
Gate, a low, arched opening cut into the stone walls of the training ground.
She breathed deep as the sky opened up and she ran into this place she loved
most in the world, its rolling green hills, now covered in snow, encased by a
rambling stone wall, perhaps a quarter mile wide and deep. She felt everything
was as it should be as she saw all the men training, crisscrossing on their
horses, wielding lances, aiming for distant targets and bettering themselves.
This, for her, was what life was about.
This training ground was reserved for
her father’s men; women were not allowed here and neither were boys who had not
yet reached their eighteenth year—and who had not been invited. Brandon and
Braxton, every day, waited impatiently to be invited—yet Kyra suspected that
they never would. Fighter’s Gate was for honorable, battle-hardened warriors,
not for blowhards like her brothers.
Kyra ran through the fields, feeling
happier and more alive here than anywhere else on earth. The energy was
intense, it packed with dozens of her father’s finest warriors, all wearing
slightly different armor, warriors from all regions of Escalon, all of whom had
over time gravitated to her father’s fort. There were men from the south, from
Thebus and Leptis; from the Midlands, mostly from the capital, Andros, but also
from the mountains of Kos; there were westerners from Ur; river men from Thusis
and their neighbors from Esephus. There were men who lived near the Lake of
Ire, and men from as far away as the waterfalls at Everfall. All wore different
colors, armor, wielded
outsmarted.
The crowd dispersed, the tension gone,
and there came a sense of relief. Many of her father’s men approached her
approvingly, laying hands on her shoulder.
“Well done,” Anvin said, looking at her
with approval. “You shall make a good ruler someday.”
The village folk went back to their
ways, the hustle and bustle returning, the tension dissipated, and Kyra turned
and searched for her father’s eyes. She found them looking back, he standing
but a few feet away. In front of his men, he was always reserved when it came
to her, and this time was no different—he wore an indifferent expression, but
he nodded at her ever so slightly, a nod, she knew, of approval.
Kyra looked over and saw Anvin and Vidar
clutching their spears, and her heart quickened.
“Can I join you?” she asked Anvin,
knowing they were heading to the training grounds, as the rest of her father’s
men.
Anvin glanced nervously at her father,
knowing he would disapprove.
“Snow’s thickening,” Anvin finally
replied, hesitant. “Night’s falling, too.”
“That’s not stopping you,” Kyra
countered.
He grinned back.
“No, it’s not,” he admitted.
Anvin glanced at her father again, and
she turned and saw him shake his head before turning and heading back inside.
Anvin sighed.
“They’re preparing a mighty feast,” he
said. “You’d best go in.”
Kyra could smell it herself, the air
heavy with fine meats roasting, and she saw her brothers turn and head inside,
along with dozens of villagers, all rushing to prepare for the festival.
But Kyra turned and looked longingly out
at the fields, at the training grounds.
“A meal can wait,” she said. “Training
cannot. Let me come.”
Vidar smiled and shook his head.
“You sure you’re a girl and not a
warrior?” Vidar asked.
“Can I not be both?” she replied.
Anvin let out a long sigh, and finally
shook his head.
“Your father would have my hide,” he
said.
Then, finally, he nodded.
“You won’t take no for an answer,” he
concluded, “and you’ve got more heart than half my men. I suppose we can use
one more.”
*
Kyra ran across the snowy landscape,
trailing Anvin, Vidar and several of her father’s men, Leo by her side as
usual. The snowfall was thickening and she did not care. She felt a sense of
freedom, of exhilaration, as she always did when passing through Fighter’s
Gate, a low, arched opening cut into the stone walls of the training ground.
She breathed deep as the sky opened up and she ran into this place she loved
most in the world, its rolling green hills, now covered in snow, encased by a
rambling stone wall, perhaps a quarter mile wide and deep. She felt everything
was as it should be as she saw all the men training, crisscrossing on their
horses, wielding lances, aiming for distant targets and bettering themselves.
This, for her, was what life was about.
This training ground was reserved for
her father’s men; women were not allowed here and neither were boys who had not
yet reached their eighteenth year—and who had not been invited. Brandon and
Braxton, every day, waited impatiently to be invited—yet Kyra suspected that
they never would. Fighter’s Gate was for honorable, battle-hardened warriors,
not for blowhards like her brothers.
Kyra ran through the fields, feeling
happier and more alive here than anywhere else on earth. The energy was
intense, it packed with dozens of her father’s finest warriors, all wearing
slightly different armor, warriors from all regions of Escalon, all of whom had
over time gravitated to her father’s fort. There were men from the south, from
Thebus and Leptis; from the Midlands, mostly from the capital, Andros, but also
from the mountains of Kos; there were westerners from Ur; river men from Thusis
and their neighbors from Esephus. There were men who lived near the Lake of
Ire, and men from as far away as the waterfalls at Everfall. All wore different
colors, armor, wielded
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