Azrael found a relatively intact part of the dusty field and summoned two daggers. He turned to face Mors, before dropping into a stance ready for battle.

“Ready” he said.

Mors didn’t move, once again regarding him with his trademark blankness.

“Put them down. You’re nowhere near ready for that”

Azrael narrowed his eyes at the man.

“I nearly killed you. You said it yourself, I’m talented.”

“I said you had talent and that it was a waste if I didn’t train you. I didn’t say that you were talented. The fact that you have talent and waste it is pitiful, at best.”

Azrael adjusted his grip on his weapons, ready for any sudden movements that Mors might make. There were none though.

“Put them down” Mors said. “You won’t need them.”

Azrael chucked them to the side, dismissively, and crossed his arms.

“Fine, what are you going to teach me the?” he asked.

“Everything, apparently” Mors muttered under his breath.

Azrael pretended not to hear the man.

“But first’ Mors said a bit louder “you’re going to fix the mess you made”

He pointed to the war-torn field, marred by scorched craters and broken stone spikes. Raising his hand Azrael began infusing his mana into the ground, flattening the stone spikes and filling and raising the holes and craters.

It was a simple task really, He basically only had to infusing the stone with his mana and then let gravity do the work as it pooled flat like water. The raised hand had been an unnecessary gesture. He’d just wanted to look cool as he did it. It took more time and mana than he’d first calculated though, causing him to hold his hand up in the air like a fool for far longer than he’d thought. Eventually he lowered his hand. Though it was simple, it was still a time consuming task.

Around half an hour later and low on mana, despite [Meditation], Azrael found himself next to Mors, surveying his work. The once hazardous ground had once again been returned to a pristine flatness, though blackened and scorched sand was still visible in places. Unfortunately, the bubble of warped space refused to be affected by conventional mana – the stone inside the warped space unreachable through any means that he had tried.

Mors nodded at Azrael’s work.

“We may begin now.”

Azrael sighed gratefully, going to retrieve his daggers from the sidelines. Despite not being the hardest of tasks, flattening the field had drained him of almost all of his mana. That and a fair bit of mental power.

Mors grabbed Azrael’s collar as he turned to get his daggers, yanking him back.

“I told you to leave them”

This time there was a dangerous edge in the old man’s voice, causing Azrael to pause. Mors pushed him onto the newly reconstructed training field. When he next spoke it was as The Silver Sword, commander and general.

“Power, mastery and control.” he began, emphasising each of the three words. “These are the three things that separate and define combatants. Power is raw strength, and it lets you plough through those weaker than you. Mastery is your familiarity with your skills and lets you fight with those on par with you. Control is where it becomes an extension of you and lets you triumph over those stronger than you.”

He looked Azrael straight in the eye.

“Quite frankly, besides power, you are lacking in any of these categories. I have said it before and will say it again. Your fighting style is too simplistic, lacking any creative use of your skills. You underutilise the skills that you have and rely on the same techniques over and over again. You put too much emphasis on raw power, lacking any proper planning, instead trusting your own strength. In short, any advantage you have is wasted”

Mors paused, obviously wanting to say more, but stopped himself. Instead, he gestured to the field that Azrael was standing on.

“Because of that, we are going back to the basics. Starting from the bottom up.”

“So… What are we going to learn?” Azrael asked curiously.

“No we. You. You will be learning proper footwork”

Azrael looked at him incredulously.

“Footwork?”

Mors flashed in his sight, disappearing for a second, before Azrael felt his breath beside his ear.

“Yes, footwork” Mors said.

A second later Mors reappeared in front of Azrael.

“Footwork is the basics of all combat. You can press to your advantage, retreat to defend and move to avoid. Movement is what brings you to battle, allows you to avoid battle, or in a desperate case flee from battle. All movement in a fight can be described through footwork. It is the core, the foundation, of any decent fighter.”

As if to prove his point Mors briefly flashed out of Azrael’s sight for a moment and the next thing he knew he was lying on his back again, staring up at the blue sky and Mors’ face.

“Like a building without a cornerstone on which to build on, a warrior without footwork will fall.”

Azrael groaned and pushed himself back upright. All his bruises were throbbing and his sore muscles were rebelling against their rough treatment.

Mors waited until he rose to his feet, before dropping into a combat stance. It similar to the one Azrael used. Though it was too low to the ground for a sword, bit was perfect for someone that used daggers.

“Watch” Mors said “I will only show it once.”

With slow, deliberate steps Mors began to move. Each move, each step, was precise and each move flowed perfectly into the next. If it wasn’t for the way Mors held himself, then Azrael might have thought that he was dancing. Despite the seemingly languid movements, Mors covered ground faster than Azrael thought should have been possible. He watched enraptured as Mors made his way in a circle around the training field.

Azrael took note of the way Mors placed his feet, of how he shifted his weight, never staying in one spot for long. He made sure to watch the man carefully. It was difficult though. Mors never stepped how he expected, never moving the way he thought he would.

As Mors continued, he began increasing his pace, flowing through the movements, repeating them over and over again in a mesmerising display of skill.

At some point though Mors began to blur, or more specifically he began to blur around the edges. The old man’s entire form seemed to lose definition, becoming elusive, as if he wasn’t truly there.

Azrael knew that that wasn’t true though, because he’d seen the gradual build-up of speed. Mors hadn’t changed his movements from the form he used at the beginning. It wasn’t magic, just skill. Mors wasn’t even moving that fast.

Eventually though Mors came to a stop and Azrael saw beads of sweat roll down the man’s forehead. The old man grinned evilly at Azrael as he wiped those beads of sweat away.

“Your turn” he said.

Azrael complied, dropping into the same stance Mors had borrowed from him. Mors was a swordsman. If he thought that he could beat Azrael in knife-fighting foot work, then he was going to be sorely disappointed. This wasn’t punishment. This was an opportunity for him to prove Mors wrong. With a smug grin he stepped forward with his right foot, taking the first step he remembered Mors making.

A stick came down, smacking against his shin.

“Too far” Mors said “Keep your feet closer.”

The hated stick had returned and Azrael grimaced at the sudden pain, but otherwise forced down any other reaction. He moved his foot back. He would prove the bastard wrong. He took the next step, moving his left foot diagonally behind his right foot.

The stick came down again, this time against a kneecap. The force of the blow knocked him off balance and he toppled over. Mors met his glare unsympathetically.

“Your weight was on the wrong foot.”

Azrael got up without complaint, starting the sequence again. It hurt like hell. Each consecutive whack of the stick adding more pain to his already protesting body. He wasn’t going to let Mors gain any satisfaction from a reaction though.

Step. Thwack.

Step. Thwack.

The stick landed a blow on his body almost every move he made, correcting him. Rarely did it not strike and sometimes it landed twice, granting him the promise of a fresh patchwork of bruises.

Azrael took them without complaint. The blows stung but would do no lasting damage. He stuck to it, gritting his teeth. He would prove Mors wrong, and he would definitely snap that hated stick at the first chance he got. Azrael doubted he had ever had such a strong dislike for an object before.

In the end he never made it past the first ten steps. Azrael’s legs gave out under him, sending his body sprawling to the ground. Even as he pushed himself up to stand again his legs wobbled, unused to the strain from the unfamiliar movements and already crying out from the overexertion of the previous day. Azrael rose and dropped into the stance again, refusing to give up.

The stick came down again. This time though it blocked his path forwards, instead of landing on his body.

“Enough” Mors said, gazing down at him “We finish for today.”

“I’m not weak” he said, gritting his teeth.

Mors merely removed the stick from Azrael’s path and left for his own cabin.

“Pride is just as likely to get you killed”

Azrael spat at the ground. The old man just had to get the last word in. Annoyed he contemplated continuing without the man, but realised that just getting to his little outhouse was going to be a problem with how shaky his leg were.

A thought occurred and the irony of the situation wasn’t lost to him. This was probably exactly how Alena had felt after his training lessons. She’d always insisted that she could continue, but in the end she’d retreated to her outhouse to rest after he convinced her.

He snorted.

Even the fact that he lived in an outhouse compared to the main house wasn’t lost to him.

Wearily, he limped back to his cabin.