morphed to something else: respecting her. Of course,
she had not fought in battles, as these other men had, had never killed a man,
or stood guard at The Flames, or met a troll in battle. She could not swing a
sword or a battle axe or halberd, or wrestle as these men could. She did not
have nearly their physical strength, which she regretted dearly.
Yet Kyra had learned she had a natural
skill with two weapons, each of which made her, despite her size and sex, a
formidable opponent: her bow, and her staff. The former she had taken to
naturally, while the latter she had stumbled upon accidentally, moons ago, when
she could not lift a double-handed sword. Back then, the men had laughed at her
inability to wield the sword, and as an insult, one of them had chucked her a
staff derisively.
“See if you can lift this stick
instead!” he’d yelled, and the others had laughed. Kyra had never forgotten her
shame at that moment.
At first, her father’s men had viewed
her staff as a joke; after all, they used it merely for a training weapon,
these brave men who carried double-handed swords and hatchets and halberds, who
could cut through a tree with a single stroke. They looked to her stick of wood
as a plaything, and it had given her even less respect than she already had.
But she had turned a joke into an
unexpected weapon of vengeance, a weapon to be feared. A weapon that now even
many of her father’s men could not defend against. Kyra had been surprised at
its light weight, and even more surprised to discover that she was quite good
with it naturally—so fast that she could land blows while soldiers were still
raising their swords. More than one of the men she had sparred with had been
left black and blue by it and, one blow at a time, she had fought her way to
respect.
Kyra, through endless nights of training
on her own, of teaching herself, had mastered moves which dazzled the men,
moves which none of them could quite understand. They had grown interested in
her staff, and she had taught them. In Kyra’s mind, her bow and her staff
complemented each other, each of equal necessity: her bow she needed for
long-distance combat, and her staff for close fighting.
Kyra also discovered she had an innate
gift that these men lacked: she was nimble. She was like a minnow in a sea of
slow-moving sharks, and while these aging men had great power, Kyra could dance
around them, could leap into the air, could even flip over them and land in a
perfect roll—or on her feet. And when her nimbleness combined with her staff
technique, it made for a lethal combination.
“What is she doing here?” came a
gruff voice.
Kyra, standing to the side of the
training grounds beside Anvin and Vidar, heard the approach of horses, and
turned to see Maltren riding up, flanked by a few of his soldier friends, still
breathing hard as he held a sword, fresh from the grounds. He looked down at
her disdainfully and her stomach tightened. Of all her father’s men, Maltren
was the only one who disliked her. He had hated her, for some reason, from the
first time he’d laid eyes upon her.
Maltren sat on his horse, and seethed;
with his flat nose and ugly face, he was a man who loved to hate, and he seemed
to have found a target in Kyra. He had always been opposed to her presence
here, probably because she was a girl.
“You should be back in your father’s
fort, girl,” he said, “preparing for the feast with all the other young,
ignorant girls.”
Leo, beside Kyra, snarled up at Maltren,
and Kyra laid a reassuring hand on his head, keeping him back.
“And why is that wolf allowed on our
grounds?” Maltren added.
Anvin and Vidar gave Maltren a cold,
hard look, taking Kyra’s side, and Kyra stood her ground and smiled back,
knowing she had their protection and that he could not force her to leave.
“Perhaps you should go back to the
training ground,” she countered, her voice mocking, “and not concern yourself
with the comings and
she had not fought in battles, as these other men had, had never killed a man,
or stood guard at The Flames, or met a troll in battle. She could not swing a
sword or a battle axe or halberd, or wrestle as these men could. She did not
have nearly their physical strength, which she regretted dearly.
Yet Kyra had learned she had a natural
skill with two weapons, each of which made her, despite her size and sex, a
formidable opponent: her bow, and her staff. The former she had taken to
naturally, while the latter she had stumbled upon accidentally, moons ago, when
she could not lift a double-handed sword. Back then, the men had laughed at her
inability to wield the sword, and as an insult, one of them had chucked her a
staff derisively.
“See if you can lift this stick
instead!” he’d yelled, and the others had laughed. Kyra had never forgotten her
shame at that moment.
At first, her father’s men had viewed
her staff as a joke; after all, they used it merely for a training weapon,
these brave men who carried double-handed swords and hatchets and halberds, who
could cut through a tree with a single stroke. They looked to her stick of wood
as a plaything, and it had given her even less respect than she already had.
But she had turned a joke into an
unexpected weapon of vengeance, a weapon to be feared. A weapon that now even
many of her father’s men could not defend against. Kyra had been surprised at
its light weight, and even more surprised to discover that she was quite good
with it naturally—so fast that she could land blows while soldiers were still
raising their swords. More than one of the men she had sparred with had been
left black and blue by it and, one blow at a time, she had fought her way to
respect.
Kyra, through endless nights of training
on her own, of teaching herself, had mastered moves which dazzled the men,
moves which none of them could quite understand. They had grown interested in
her staff, and she had taught them. In Kyra’s mind, her bow and her staff
complemented each other, each of equal necessity: her bow she needed for
long-distance combat, and her staff for close fighting.
Kyra also discovered she had an innate
gift that these men lacked: she was nimble. She was like a minnow in a sea of
slow-moving sharks, and while these aging men had great power, Kyra could dance
around them, could leap into the air, could even flip over them and land in a
perfect roll—or on her feet. And when her nimbleness combined with her staff
technique, it made for a lethal combination.
“What is she doing here?” came a
gruff voice.
Kyra, standing to the side of the
training grounds beside Anvin and Vidar, heard the approach of horses, and
turned to see Maltren riding up, flanked by a few of his soldier friends, still
breathing hard as he held a sword, fresh from the grounds. He looked down at
her disdainfully and her stomach tightened. Of all her father’s men, Maltren
was the only one who disliked her. He had hated her, for some reason, from the
first time he’d laid eyes upon her.
Maltren sat on his horse, and seethed;
with his flat nose and ugly face, he was a man who loved to hate, and he seemed
to have found a target in Kyra. He had always been opposed to her presence
here, probably because she was a girl.
“You should be back in your father’s
fort, girl,” he said, “preparing for the feast with all the other young,
ignorant girls.”
Leo, beside Kyra, snarled up at Maltren,
and Kyra laid a reassuring hand on his head, keeping him back.
“And why is that wolf allowed on our
grounds?” Maltren added.
Anvin and Vidar gave Maltren a cold,
hard look, taking Kyra’s side, and Kyra stood her ground and smiled back,
knowing she had their protection and that he could not force her to leave.
“Perhaps you should go back to the
training ground,” she countered, her voice mocking, “and not concern yourself
with the comings and
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