‘Begin.’

Master Tyler’s command resulted in a flurry of strikes and yells as the boys began the exercise.

With a mocking smile plastered on his face, Fynn’s opponent maintained eye contact as he spun his sword in a lazy arc from the attack stance. Fynn concentrated on the movement, willing himself not to be distracted by the other boy’s confidence. Judging from the angle and trajectory of the sword, he felt sure it was going to be a strike using the first form. He immediately moved to adopt the relevant defense but as he did, the older boy’s sword continued its arc all the way around, now moving into a position to strike using the second form. Fynn desperately tried to recover but it was too late. It had been a feint and moving to soon meant that all he had done was telegraph his intentions and leave himself vulnerable with no way to recover. The wooden practice sword connected soundly just below his ribs, had it been a real sword it would have no doubt sliced opened his stomach.

He groaned as he fell to his knees, doubling over and clutching both hands to the flaring pain, his practice sword lay dropped on the ground, forgotten. There was a chorus of laughter and snide comments from some of the closest boys who had clearly been keeping an eye on this unusual matchup, this in turn caused others to try and see what had happened.

‘Silence,’ master Tyler’s voice, like a sword of its own, cut through the commotion. ‘Everybody focus on your own exercises, the next person that I see slacking off will spend the rest of training doing laps,’ he didn’t need to ask twice and order was quickly restored. Turning to Fynn he said. ‘Get up, you can’t be down after just that.’

Fynn grabbed his sword and staggered to his feet, his face red with shame.

‘Tell me what you learned from that exchange boy?’ Master Tyler demanded.

Fynn still rubbing the sore spot thought quickly. ‘It was a feint and I fell for it. I should have been more patient before reacting.’

The large instructor nodded. ‘A lesson well learned and one only afforded by the use of wooden practice blades. On the real battlefield, it is a delicate balance with your life at stake. Remember, on the other hand, if you wait too long and your opponent had indeed meant to attack with the initial form then you would have suffered the same fate. A useful tip to know is that it goes both ways, in addition, the longer you fight an opponent the better you will be able to read them. Now with that in mind, I want to see you defend once more. Berwick you get to attack again, don’t go easy on him.’

His victorious opponent, who had until then been absentmindedly adjusting his hair back behind his ears, eagerly took up his stance, clearly needing no encouragement.

It goes both ways. Those words rang in Fynn’s mind as he adopted the defense stance once more. He very briefly closed his eyes to collect himself as a worm of an idea began to take shape. He was breathing in the manner taught to him by his father but it was too much to simultaneously try and gauge its effect on the chi within him and that in turn on his body and senses let alone try to manipulate and bend the chi to his will. He did, however, feel much calmer and more focused this time around and thought that could very well be a side effect.

Berwick with his customary smirk in place, once again began to arc his sword, this time in the opposite direction, clearly trying to mix things up a bit. Which meant his sword would arrive in position to make a strike using the second attack form before it did the first.

Fynn decided to waste no time putting his plan in action, it required him, in any case, to make the first move in anticipation. A feint can go both ways too. As his opponent’s sword just about arrived at the position from where it could strike in the second form, Fynn deliberately began the motion and movements that would position his own sword to defend the first attack form. Let Berwick believe that he had hastily anticipated a feint and moved accordingly.

It worked. A look of delight flashed, none too subtly, across Berwick’s features as he read his young opponent’s intention and he moved swiftly to take the proffered gift of an unopposed strike using the second attack form.

Fynn having never really had the intention of defending the first form and upon seeing Berwick take the bait had in an instant reversed his movement and instead placed his sword to defend against the second.

Clack! The unmistakable and underwhelming sound of wooden sword on wooden sword. It was gratifying to see the smirk wiped off Berwick’s face, replaced with one of shock and disbelief, albeit one partially covered with that annoying hair.

‘Well done,’ master Tyler cut through the stunned silence with a laugh. ‘The boy learns quickly. Berwick, tell me what you learned from that exchange?’

‘He got lucky,’ was the sullen response.

‘Wrong answer. What you should have learned, though you clearly haven’t but which I suspect will soon be remedied,’ he said loud enough that all the boys in the group could hear, ‘is to never underestimate your opponent. This is one lesson we all have to learn the hard way. No matter how good you think you are, there is always going to be somebody better than you out there.’ Turning to an exhilarated looking Fynn he said. ‘You were listening to me, that is good. However, against any half-decent opponent, that trick would never work. In addition, you have been restricted to two attack forms which makes things a lot easier. The difficulty of anticipating your opponent’s moves will increase immeasurably the more forms they have to choose from, particularly against more experienced fighters, so don’t rest on your laurels. The only remedy for this is to continue improving by gaining experience through sheer hard work, on the practice fields, against different opponents, on your own, in your sleep, you get the idea. Now continue, it is your turn to attack.’

Over the next hour or so, Fynn learned three things. First, was that he was very quickly able to read his opponents intentions and therefore respond correctly. He looked for subtle cues that Berwick seemed unaware he was giving away, the way he held his head before he actually meant to strike for example, or the flicker in his eyes that revealed his true target. Even after the number of forms they were allowed to use increased to four and then finally to six, it didn’t seem to help his tall opponent much, if anything it made him much less decisive and easier to read.

Secondly, Fynn realised that he hardly had to bother because as he began to adapt to using the wooden blade, it also became apparent that he was significantly faster than the lanky boy. He now thought he understood what his master had meant when he said that he would have certain advantages. Even on the rare occasion that he incorrectly anticipated Berwick’s intention, he was nevertheless able to recover in plenty of time to make the correct block. The incoming attacks almost began to feel ponderous to him.

Berwick, on the other hand, seemed simply incapable of reading or stopping Fynn’s strikes, especially as the small but nimble boy became ever more imaginative with his feints and misdirection’s. It seemed a small blessing that Fynn’s small size meant that he still lacked the power to cause significant damage, though if he was being honest he would have to admit to holding back a bit.

And the final thing he came to understand was that he loved it, he loved this game of wits, of speed and the thrill he got when he was successful.

The mutterings of the other boys sometimes reached his ears, some bitter and others awed. ‘No way it’s his first time with a practice sword,’ was one comment. ‘His father must have paid for him to have private lessons,’ was another. ‘I heard some people are just born naturally gifted with the sword,’ was his favorite. He couldn’t help but puff up with pride.

‘Jonan,’ the bald master boomed across the field to the group that contained the most talented pupils. ‘Come over here.’

A boy of middling height, shorter than Berwick with brown hair cropped short detached himself from his group and walked with confident and smooth poise towards master Tyler.

‘Berwick, take a breather,’ master Tyler said. ‘No doubt you have learned a valuable lesson today. I expect to see far more effort from you going forward.’ The disgruntled, sore and clearly embarrassed boy retreated before the master continued. ‘Fynn, I’m now going to pair you up with Jonan here, I believe you are also in need of some pointers on that very same lesson. I want you both to use any of the six attack and defense forms. Jonan you will start by defending until I tell you otherwise.’

Fynn appraised his new opponent with some apprehension. Jonan wore a neutral and composed expression, and though Fynn had never seen a panther, he imagined its poise and aura would be similar to that which the boy, on the cusp of being a man, now exuded. A subtly coiled and constrained power in a compact and powerful frame. He looked positively intimidating, a far cry to Berwick and judging from the intensified whispers from the others which now included those from the other groups as well, Jonan wasn’t just any pupil. Fynn realized that he might now be paired with the most talented of the lot here.

‘When you are ready, you can begin,’ master Tyler said as he moved back to give them space.

As Fynn took up his stance, he once again used that brief moment to compose himself, ensuring he was breathing correctly and thought of a plan. He decided to initially avoid any feints and simply test the other’s reflexes and speed. Berwick had had no answer to it and he wanted to see how it compared to a clearly superior opponent.

The instant he initiated his first attack, the now-familiar telltale noise of wood on wood told him all he needed to know. He had barely seen his opponent react and yet the other boy’s sword was firmly in place to block the vale step third attack form that Fynn had opted for.

‘Again,’ Barked master Tyler.

The result remained unchanged. Despite his best efforts and using every trick he could think of, attack after attack was seemingly effortlessly blocked and after a while, the weight of so many failures began to weigh heavily on his mind worsening his performance further.

Eventually, it was almost with relief that he heard the instructor say. ‘Okay switch over now. Fynn you will defend.’

A flash of unspoken understanding passed between Jonan and master Tyler before the boy took up the attack stance.

Needless to say, things didn’t turn out much better for him this way round. Jonan’s speed was dizzying and in addition, he gave away none of the telltale signs that the previous opponent had. His array of feints and tricks were astounding and Fynn knew without question that he was far beneath this boy’s level. On the rare occasion that Fynn almost thought he was getting to grips with his opponent, it seemed that the other boy was able to effortlessly step up his level again and despite his superiority, he always maintained a professional and respectful expression. Neutral, albeit deep in concentration.

Why does he even bother? Fynn thought irately to himself. This is clearly child’s play to him.

Interestingly, although every strike connected painfully with various parts of his body, they didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as Berwick’s first one had. He almost wished they did so he could have an excuse to beg out of the contest, instead he simply had to endure it knowing that his opponent felt sorry for him and was clearly pulling his strikes. He now had an inkling of the humiliation Berwick must have experienced earlier.

Another thing that just barely registered in his tired mind was that none of the boys, who had now all gathered round to watch, were laughing. Master Tyler had clearly deemed it impossible to stop them watching so let them stay.

‘Okay that’s enough for today,’ master Tyler said finally calling time on the exercises.

Fynn gasping in exhaustion and pain groaned in relief.

Speaking to all the assembled boys master Tyler said. ‘I want all the practice blades back in storage neatly. Don’t forget to thank your instructors before you leave. Dismissed,’ as the boys all began to disperse, he turned. ‘Fynn, Jonan a word with you two before you go,’ turning his steely gaze towards Fynn he said seriously. ‘Remember son, pride comes before a fall. Always remain respectful of your opponent, no matter how good or bad you think they are. You acquitted yourself well today but you needed to learn that things will not always go your way. This is no game and the only way you will rise to the top is if you take it seriously and professionally.’

Fynn nodded a heartfelt acknowledgment. ‘Yes Han.’

‘Good. You haven’t learned all there is to know about the valestep-single-handed sword style, not by any stretch of the imagination so I would like us to meet here tomorrow at sunrise to go through the rest. I know Sentor won’t be here long so I am rushing you through it a bit, however you do seem to be as quick a study as he said you’d be, so I have no concern about your ability to take it all in. Jonan will join us to help out with the practical side of things,’ he said that with a wry smile. ‘The rest though will be up to you, practice hard enough and I’m sure you will master this style in time. Well done the both of you, dismissed.’

‘Thank you for your guidance master.’ Jonan said respectfully and with a nod to Fynn went to thank the other instructors standing nearby.

Fynn, taking his cue from Jonan thanked the burly man in a similar fashion then began to walk to where the others were neatly packing away their borrowed practice swords.

‘Oh, Fynn you can keep that wooden blade. It’s much lighter than a real valestep-single-handed sword, but it’s measurements and balance are nonetheless the same and is ideal for practice. You will need it on your travels if you intend to master the style.’

Humbled by the man’s generosity Fynn bowed and offered further thanks.

Soon after, as he walked back towards the market, Fynn noted that the sun lay low in the sky indicating that there were no more than two hours left until sundown, that meant they had been training for at least three hours and his body certainly felt it. The numerous bruises he was now keenly aware of would no doubt show clearly the following day.

Up ahead of him, a few of those that had left before him slowed their pace noticeably when one of them spotted him. An uneasy feeling overcame him, no doubt a legacy of his time in Tenbi-waypoint spent constantly avoiding trouble. But with nowhere else to go he eventually had no choice but to catch up with them.

‘Think you are better than us do you?’ One jeered as he tried to get passed them. ‘Just so you know, Berwick is the worst amongst us. No way you could beat anyone else.’

A few of them moved behind him jostling him roughly as they did.

Fynn froze, clutching the wooden sword tightly to himself. Without any instructors around to mediate, his earlier bravery completely deserted him and he reverted back to being the scared little boy that had endured years of bullying. He could think of nothing to say either. At this moment he hated himself.

‘Awe look he’s scared,’ one laughed.

The others laughed with him and a rough push from behind nearly sent him sprawling. ‘Not so sure of yourself now, are you? Let’s see how good you can fight without a wooden sword you fucking brat.’

‘Leave him be.’

The voice, quiet but firm with unquestionable assuredness, came from the direction of the path that led back to the sparring fields from and immediately caused the group surrounding Fynn to pause. With the sun low and in his eyes, Fynn could only see the approaching silhouette of the person who had issued the command.

‘Fuck, it’s Jonan,’ the boy that had first jeered whispered urgently.

‘We were just having a little fun with him Jonan,’ another piped up unconvincingly, clearly worried.

‘Yeah, this shit bag thinks he’s better than us,’ the first speaker continued with false bravado. ‘You saw it yourself Jonan, he even thought he could take you on.’

‘That’s because he is better than you all.’ Jonan said calmly. ‘Now leave before I decide to have some fun too.’

‘Awe, you always spoil everything,’ grumbled the skinny boy that had earlier shoved him. ‘Come on boys lets go, it’s not fun anymore.’

After they had left, not without much complaint, Fynn looked sheepishly down at his feet. ‘Umm… thanks Jonan.’

Jonan said nothing and merely continued to walk by, steady and assured, once again reminding Fynn of a panther. Fynn could only watch the older boy’s back, sick at himself for his cowardice and unashamedly envious of this young man who seemed as unflappable as a wielder. Just as Fynn thought Jonan would leave without a word the boy jerked his head lightly and said. ‘Come on.’

Fynn moved hastily to catch up with him.

‘Why didn’t you stand up for yourself?’

Fynn felt a flush on his cheeks. ‘There was too many of them.’ The lie felt hollow even to himself.

Jonan didn’t challenge him on it.

‘Where did you learn to use a sword?’ was the next question that came after an uncomfortable period of silence.

Fynn immensely glad at the change in topic, blurted out without much thought. ‘I haven’t before, this was my first time. You are incredible Jo…..’

‘Liar,’ Jonan spat out angrily as he turned to face Fynn. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

The furious expression on his face left Fynn startled and aghast. Did I say something wrong? He thought frantically.

‘I’m not lying, I promise,’ he eventually managed with a squeak.

A look of disgust flashed across Jonan’s face, immediately followed by an aloof frosty expression, the self-assured mask back in place. ‘If you don’t have the decency to be honest with me then we have nothing further to talk about. If you didn’t want to tell me, you could have just said so. I must have read you wrong, I thought you were different to the rest of the clowns here. But I guess I was mistaken.’

With that, he turned and strode off.

Fynn finally felt something other than fear and shame. More than anything it was the look of disappointment in the other’s expression that had finally jolted him out of his self-pitying cocoon. White-hot anger boiled up instead, washing away all reason. Without quite realizing what he was doing he threw the wooden blade he had been holding with all his might at the retreating back whilst simultaneously yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Fine! I’ll tell you the truth.’

The sword struck Jonan between his shoulders, hilt first before falling to the ground. Its impact causing the older boy to whirl round in anger. Upon seeing what had struck him and without missing a beat, he used his foot to flick the wooden sword neatly up into his waiting palm and began to stalk back towards Fynn. A dangerous look of retribution in his eyes.

Fynn experienced instant regret and began to retreat backward, his hands flailing in comical fashion as he tried to get away. However, he somehow managed to trip over himself and landed on his backside, despite that he continued to try shuffle back anyway.

‘The reason I didn’t fight back against them was I was scared,’ he screamed defiantly. ‘Because… because I’ve been bullied all my life and the only thing I know to do is run away. I was ashamed so I didn't want to tell you.’ tears were now obscuring his view of the boy who now loomed over him. ‘But I wasn’t lying when I said today is the first time I have trained to use a sword. You can hit me if you want, I don’t care. Just don’t call me a liar again.’

He sat there now, arms held up to shield himself and his eyes squeezed shut to brace for the pain, but nothing came. Eventually, he opened his eyes to find the hilt of his wooden sword hovering near his face.

He gripped it and let Jonan pull him to his feet.

‘Fine, I believe you,’ Jonan said with a casual shrug. ‘No need to cry about it.’

That evening, Fynn sat close enough to the campfire that he could use its light to write in the large book he had spread open upon his knees but far enough that it wouldn’t accidentally catch alight from the sparks that occasionally shot out from the red hot coals. They were camped just ten minutes out of the village, not too far from the sparring fields that had given Fynn the first taste of his experiences to come. As he had predicted, his master had been absolutely remorseless in his questioning and they had, for some time now, been going through everything he had learned in such excruciating detail that Fynn eventually suspected Sentor knew far more about the sword style than master Tyler himself.

The soothsayer was leaning comfortably on a log, picking his teeth with a twig and occasionally flicking something into the fire. ‘The valestep-single handed sword style was adopted centuries ago to be used by the defenders of valley-watch fort. Is it therefore surprising that the style is still being taught here in the very village where the ancestors of those that made best use of it now live?’

Fynn supposed not but he merely grunted as he frantically scribbled down the information.

‘The style needed to meet the criteria of the duties of those soldiers. On their regular horseback patrols, the single-handed sword is far easier to utilise at a moment’s notice than a two-handed one and further, allowed for a shield as well. On the ramparts of the fort, the single-handed sword enables the soldiers to easily switch to the bow, crossbow and other such weapons as and when the need arises. It also means a more mobile force better able to swiftly respond to any threats. And again, the soldiers can fight with a shield which is compulsory in siege warfare.’

‘Go slower,’ grumbled Fynn. ‘I can’t write that fast.’

Later, once the soothsayer seemed moderately satisfied with his understanding of the origins and nuances of the valestep-single-handed sword style, Fynn brought up what had occurred after the practice session with Jonan.

‘I still don’t understand why he got so upset.’ Fynn whined for what must have been the fifth time.

‘Don’t you?’ Sentor asked, a warning in his voice.

‘No I don’t,’ Fynn said emphatically, unheeding of his master’s tone. ‘I mean, one moment he was relaxed and cool as anything, and the next he looked like he wanted to kill me.’

The soothsayer turned then to look directly at him, eyes flickering ominously in the light of the fire. It brought to mind the image of a wolf, languid and graceful with piercing eyes. For god’s sake, why do I keep thinking of animals today? Fynn thought irritably to himself.

‘Perhaps…,’ Sentor said slowly and deliberately, clearly spelling it out for Fynn, ‘he, simply couldn’t understand why he, the best amongst his peers, was nearly bested in a sparring session by a small boy four or five years his junior!’

Fynn could only stare as the truth of the words slammed home.

‘Not to mention, it was only the first time the boy had ever held a blade.’ The soothsayer added sardonically as if it were merely an afterthought.