The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (12 page)

Kethe fought to control her breathing. Nostrils flaring, she stepped carefully out to the side, her slender sword held out before her. Elon has made it specially for her, a castle-forged blade with a hand and a half hilt so that she could swing with all her strength. No matter how much she exercised, ten minutes into combat practice her blade felt like a greatsword. Sweat trickled down her temple, and a lock of hair fell across her face. She blew it away without taking her eyes from her opponent.

Brocuff stood at ease, the tip of his sword pointed at the loam. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. She knew he was alert, however, his casual stance meant to provoke her into a rash attack—but those days were long past. She grinned, her heart beating fast, excited. Oh, no, she’d not rush at him just yet.

“Widen your stance a little,” he said. “You’ll trip over yourself if I run at you.”

“Maybe I want you to run at me,” Kethe said, though she did as she was bid. A cool breeze blew through the canopy overhead, causing the coin-sized beech leaves to rustle and whisper as if commenting on the scene below. “Maybe I’m lulling you into a sense of over-confidence.”

“Ha!” Brocuff slapped the side of his thigh with his blade. “If so, you’re doing an excellent job. Mind that root.”

Kethe flicked her gaze down to the forest floor and regretted it immediately. Brocuff burst forward, bringing his sword around with the speed that always surprised her. She didn’t have time to adjust her feet; instead, she threw herself backward, her sword coming up barely in time to deflect his blow. Another lesson she’d learned early on: it was better to deflect than to simply block attacks from stronger men.

Brocuff didn’t let up. As his blade slid off her own with a metallic slither, he stepped into her space, hitting her upraised sword arm with his shoulder. Kethe’s stagger turned into a stumble and she nearly fell onto her rear. Gritting her teeth, she dropped into a crouch, placed one hand on the ground and spun away, wincing in anticipation of the blow that would fall across her back.

It never came. She skitter-stepped out of his reach, panting, and brought her sword up before her, holding it with both hands now.

Brocuff was all smiles. “C’mon, my lady. You can do better than that. Stop fighting like a milkmaid.”

His goading was obvious; clearly, he expected her to hold back as a result. Instead, Kethe immediately attacked. Without warning she ran at him, swinging her blade in a series of ‘X’ strokes with both arms, driving him back. It was a feint. If she kept at it, he’d trap her blade, but she didn’t plan to give him the time. Just as he detected her pattern she leveled a vicious blow at his head, swinging her slender sword parallel with the ground. Brocuff swayed back as she’d known he would, surprisingly limber for such a stocky man, and then moved in for his counterattack. She’d not give him the chance.

Instead of checking her swing for a return stroke, Kethe followed it around and down into a spinning crouch. She heard the sound of his blade passing over her head along with his surprised grunt. Trees blurred as she pivoted on her heel, all the way around, and slammed the flat of her blade against his thigh.

Brocuff cursed and then laughed. Kethe beamed up at him just as she felt the tap of his sword’s edge against her neck. Her smile slipped. “Damn. I thought I had you.”

“Almost did.” Brocuff offered his calloused hand, then helped her up. “No, let’s be fair. That move would have taken off my leg. I’d have bled out a couple of minutes after you. Where’d you learn that fancy spinning move?”

Kethe wiped the sweat from her brow and laughed. “The ballroom floor, I think. I’m not sure. I’m not often asked to dance.”

“With moves like that, I’m not surprised. But you’re spinning too much.” Brocuff walked over to where a waterskin nestled among the roots of a tree beside his gear. “That first one was fine, if a bit desperate. But if you start spinning every time you get in trouble, people will figure you out and you’ll get a sword in the back.”

“True enough.” Kethe caught the waterskin one-handed and took a swig. The water was cool and tasted faintly of wine. “But this time it worked.”

It had been over a week since her father’s Mourning, and she was surprised to find that she didn’t actually miss him; instead, his memory had impelled her to work even harder. Her mail coat was finished. A little more training with Brocuff, and then she might reach out and seize her dream.

Brocuff grunted and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “ And you’re still relying too much on your eyes. I told you, in a real battle, you won’t be able to keep everyone in sight. You’re bound to get surrounded. Enemies on all sides. You need to relax. Sense ‘em. If we could, I’d bring a half dozen of the boys down here and arm them with sticks. Let ‘em have a go at you. You’d see what I mean soon enough.”

“Yes, well.” Kethe tried not to let his words sting her. “I’m afraid that might ruin the ‘secret’ aspect of my training.”

Brocuff grinned, showing all his yellow teeth. “Right. Which is why I’m right proud of my alternative. Here.” He pulled out a kitchen rag.

Kethe raised an eyebrow. “You want me to clean some tree trunks?”

Brocuff snorted. “That’d be a first. No. Tie this around your eyes.” He bunched up the rag in his fist and tossed it to her.

She tossed him the waterskin at the same time so the two crossed paths in midair, and caught the rag in her free hand. It was clean enough. “A blindfold?”

Brocuff nodded. “Trust me.”

Kethe sighed. “Fine. Though if you spin me around three times and tell me to pin a tail on a donkey, I’ll come after you.” She trapped her sword between her knees and pulled the rag about her eyes, knotted it closely behind her head, and then straightened, taking up her sword.

“Now you can’t see me, so don’t bother trying to. I want you to relax. I ain’t going nowhere.” And then Brocuff went quiet.

Kethe stood stiffly. She expected a blow at any moment, but resisted the urge to lift her sword. A breeze blew past once more, and she heard the branches sighing overhead. It felt good against her brow. She forced herself to lower her shoulders and took a deep breath. Held it. It was so hard to relax.

Silence. No, not silence; Greening Wood was never truly quiet. A branch fell somewhere in the far distance and she started. She thought she could hear Lady whicker in the near distance where Hessa was waiting, but that might have been her imagination. She became very aware of her own body. Her heartbeat. The burn in her shoulders and arms. The tension in her calves. The ground through the soles of her feet. Despite her having just taken a drink, her mouth was dry.

“Now. I’m going to walk around you in a circle. Try to track me.”

Kethe closed her eyes beneath the cloth and focused. She heard steps, but from where? She turned her head to one side, then the other. To her left? She started to turn.

“No, stay still. Just follow.”

She stilled. She heard the faint crack of a branch. The soft tread of his boots on the loam. A crackle of leaves. Then silence. He was right behind her.

“What you’re doing right now, this using your other senses, it’s purposeful. You’re putting your mind to it. But you need to get to where you’re doing it all the time. In the keep. In the bailey. Start feeling people all around you. Tracking ‘em. Exercise this skill. Always know where people are, even if you can’t see them. You lose track of somebody, they might run up behind you with a knife. A trained soldier—a good one, at any rate—is always alert. You never know where an attack might come from.”

Kethe nodded. It seemed obvious, but she’d never thought about it. Training meant sneaking away to Greening Wood. But she should always be training—while doing her needlework, or sneaking down to the kitchen for fresh cream.

“That’s enough. You can take it off now.”

She did so. The gloom under the canopy seemed extra bright, and she blinked before tossing the rag back to Brocuff. “I understand.”

“No, you only think you do.” Brocuff grinned again. His smile could be so annoying sometimes. “Listen, and listen good. I’ve seen some real killers in my time. Men to whom fighting was as natural as breathing. You can mark ‘em out in a battle when you know what to look for. When everybody is gasping like fish out of water, leaping around and waving their swords like fools, these men are as calm as you please. They’re in control of themselves. And as a result, they’re
aware
. They’re masters of the battle. What you felt there for a moment with that blindfold on? They’ve got that going on all the time.”

Brocuff paused, watching her. Watching to see if his words were sinking in. “First you master your fear. That done, you work on getting past being excited. Then you swallow your pride and kill the urge to show off. In the end, your final challenge will be to subdue your anger. Only when you’re calm and clear and collected, with all those emotions passing through you like the wind through these branches, only then will you be on your way to being a real fighter. Master yourself, girl. Stop thinking so much. Calm down. Be in your skin, and open your mind to the world around you. Odds are you’ll still die screaming, but until then, you’ll fight hard and you’ll fight true.”

This time it was Kethe’s turn to snort. “Great. That’s a rousing note to end on. For a moment I was almost inspired.”

“I’m a constable, not a bard. Now, let’s do the three-chop against your favorite tree. Five minutes. Neck, chest, knee, then the other side. One-handed. And in the other,” he said, moving back to gear, “you get to hold this lovely shield.”

Kethe refrained from groaning. Groaning meant double the time spent hacking at a tree trunk. She took the shield with her left hand, heavy boards rimmed with iron. Great. Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the scarred beech tree. It probably hated her to no end, unable to fathom why she attacked it every few days.

“All right,” said Brocuff, sitting down and leaning back against another tree. He kicked his legs out in front of him and sighed contentedly. “Let’s see some spirit. Start!”

Kethe fell into her fighting stance and chopped at the tree at neck height. The blade bit into the wood and she immediately hauled it free only to slice it back in. She fought back a grimace and put all her focus into the blows, over and over, until she forgot about the passage of the seconds and the world narrowed to her elbow, wrist, her knees, the strength coming from her hips, the blade dancing and flickering, over and over and over again.

The tree disappeared and she saw the knight approaching. His dense, bristly black beard. Face like a shovel blade, hooked nose, eyes blank with murderous hatred. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. One of her father’s best Wolves. Her blade thunked harder against the tree, sending a jarring vibration up her arms that felt right. The knight was closing on her, lips pulled back in a snarl. It was his eyes that had terrified her so. He wanted to kill her. Was willing to charge an armed caravan to cut her open. She heard her screams again, knew that she would not get away. He was massive. He loomed like a monster, blotting out the sun.

Kethe tightened her grip and cut faster. Each blow slammed into the knight’s body. Neck. Chest. Knee. Still he came, unstoppable, death incarnate. She put more weight behind each blow. The blade sank deeper with each cut, but she wrenched it out all the quicker. Over and over again, she poured her fear and anger into the strikes. Nobody would find her helpless again. Nobody would take advantage of her. Nobody would tell her what to do. Tell her who she was. Hold her life in their hands. Make her scream. Make her fear.

Faster. Harder. Her blade was thunking into the tree so quickly now that the blows were becoming a drumming tattoo, hard to tell apart. Kethe felt something blossom within her. Felt something open, like the petals of a morning glory opening to meet the sun. She was snarling, she realized. Something was wrong with her sword. Brocuff was calling her name.
No
. She dropped her shield and grabbed the hilt with both hands.
Thunk-thunk-thunk
. Switch sides. Sweat was flying from her brow.

She felt something burning in her shoulders, her breath scorching her throat.
Faster
. Strength flowed through her. She could do this forever. The knight’s face blotted out the sky, lined and cruel and driven mad by hatred. No matter how fast she attacked, he still came after her.
Faster
. Each blow was digging several inches into the tree. Wood chips were flying.

His blade was coming down toward her face. Death. Death.
Death
.

Kethe screamed and struck the tree as hard as she could. Her blade shattered. Half of it remained embedded six inches into the trunk. The rest went spinning across the ground.

Kethe stared at her hand. Blood was welling from the creases of her palm. She could barely hear over the ringing in her head. She looked over at where Brocuff was standing, his eyes so wide she could see the whites all the way around his irises. She followed his gaze to the tree. Three massive wounds had been dealt to the old giant on each side, as if a pair of woodsmen had attacked it with great axes for an hour. She’d cut deep grooves right into the heartwood.

“By the Ascendant,” whispered Brocuff.

She straightened and stared at the constable. “Not a word,” she said, voice low. “This stays between us.”