10th Bell. 14th, Summer, 514 AV
“Put some strength into it!” Iztel watched the Guardian practice his swordplay, unimpressed. Alistair could feel his arms start flopping with fatigue. His swings grew lower with each repetition. He was panting heavily, and large heavy beads of sweat flung off his arm with each slash, thrust and parry. How much more before my arm falls off? Alistair could only wonder.
“What? Tired? I was doing more when I was but ten! Lift those damn arms up! Slash! Thrust! Swing! Again! Again! Again!” Training Marshal Iztel had been shouting at him ever since the lesson began early in the morning, much to Alistair’s chagrin. He swung the heavy solid metal pole with what little power he had left in his arms. His forearm screamed, his fingers felt as if they were falling off, and his legs were beginning to wobble from the constant movement, yet he continued, or at least he tried. The rod grew lower in height with every consecutive swing, strength escaping from his limbs.
Alistair was almost drawing arcs in the dirt when the Marshal finally stopped him. “I’ve seen enough.” Iztel snapped. “Has my sister been too soft on you, Vaetryn? Is this all you can manage?” She eyed him with borderline disgust. A sadist, to be sure. Alistair was too busy catching his breath to scowl at her. “Drop the pole. Take your weapon, show me the sword stances you've been taught. First four.” Iztel commanded, circling around him as a predator would its prey. Alistair was only too happy to oblige. He picked up his sword, almost too light after he held the pole for so long. “First four, get on with it!”
Alistair positioned himself into the first stance. Left leg forward, sword held low at his right. This is the most natural stance after unsheathing a weapon, and the foundation for all the complexity of swordplay. It looked deceptively simple.
“This is the stance where the fight begins. It is simple, elegant, yet treacherous. A thousand different ways a sword can kill, and it all begins with one.” Eleuia’s teachings echoed in his mind. Iztel smacked her stick into Alistair’s right calf. He winced slightly, but his legs did not move.
“Good. Stable. Stability is key in the first stance.” Iztel circled around him in nonchalant steps. “Do not move, do not blink, do not let your movements betray your intentions. The first to see through his opponent is the one that holds the advantage. Next!”
Alistair shifted into the second stance, pulling his sword up above his shoulder, the sword level with the tip facing front. He arched his back, shifted his weight onto his hind leg, bending slightly at the right knee. Iztel circled past, observing. Alistair’s arm was teetering ever so slightly. Iztel whacked against his leg again, this time he shook. “Balance! Stability Alistair! How are you to fight with wobbling legs? Stand!” She whacked at it again. Alistair cursed under his breath, but this time he did not wobble.“Ugh…Passable.” Iztel leered at him. “Next!”
Alistair shifted his step again into the third stance. Sword in the middle, arms held straight, chin down, back tight. The third stance focused on defense, with the sword centered in the middle to allow for quick and easy parrying and ripostes. Iztel hit her stick into the broad of the blade, nearly knocking the sword out of his hand. Alistair fumbled, grabbed onto it. He gripped as hard as he could, but with the fatigue of the training of the metal pole earlier his fingers were limp and soft. Iztel spat on the ground in front of him.
“Almost being unarmed from a stick? And you call yourself a soldier?” She hissed.
Alistair could feel his fists clench on the hilt, his teeth ratting from the rage. Bitch. He cursed in his mind. My time will come.
“Curse me Alistair, curse me all you want." Iztel saw through him as if he were made of glass. "A soldier without a weapon is no soldier, he is but a man waiting to be killed, slaughtered, tortured, toyed with.”
“Iztel-“ Eleuia frowned.
“Silence! I will not have one my men disarmed in battle! This is utterly unacceptable!”
She hit Alistair’s hands. “Grip it!” He tightened his palms. “Grip it with your life!” She hit his hands again. Alistair tightened his grip. He could hear the sound of his teeth crunching from the anger. One day I’ll be better than you ever will be. And when that day comes… He thought of at least twelve ways he would humiliate the Marshal. My time will come. He told himself. It helped him through the rest of the beating.
“You are to never drop your weapon in battle. NEVER. Is that understood?” Iztel glared at him, staring him straight in the eye.
“Yes Marshal!” Alistair yelled at the top of his lungs. Were his voice any lighter she would have asked him to repeat.
“Good. Next stance!”
Alistair raised his sword again into the fourth stance, sword raised overhead. He stood still with the most amount of effort possible, kept his arms tense, and gripped onto his weapon for dear life. To be honest Alistair had no idea what the purpose of this form was, but he did the motion well enough. Iztel took a step back and observed. She clicked her tongue, grunted a meaningless grunt, spoke. “You miss the essence of this stance. Nevermind, you’ll get there eventually. At ease!” Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. He still felt a burning sensation inside. I’ll have my revenge, one day.
Iztel talked to her sister while Alistair slumped on the ground for a rest. His body ached, most of all his arms, not to mention the beating on his hands. They’re swelling. Soon his fingers would become red, swollen sausages. Alisatiar could only give a bitter laugh at the thought.
“What? Tired? I was doing more when I was but ten! Lift those damn arms up! Slash! Thrust! Swing! Again! Again! Again!” Training Marshal Iztel had been shouting at him ever since the lesson began early in the morning, much to Alistair’s chagrin. He swung the heavy solid metal pole with what little power he had left in his arms. His forearm screamed, his fingers felt as if they were falling off, and his legs were beginning to wobble from the constant movement, yet he continued, or at least he tried. The rod grew lower in height with every consecutive swing, strength escaping from his limbs.
Alistair was almost drawing arcs in the dirt when the Marshal finally stopped him. “I’ve seen enough.” Iztel snapped. “Has my sister been too soft on you, Vaetryn? Is this all you can manage?” She eyed him with borderline disgust. A sadist, to be sure. Alistair was too busy catching his breath to scowl at her. “Drop the pole. Take your weapon, show me the sword stances you've been taught. First four.” Iztel commanded, circling around him as a predator would its prey. Alistair was only too happy to oblige. He picked up his sword, almost too light after he held the pole for so long. “First four, get on with it!”
Alistair positioned himself into the first stance. Left leg forward, sword held low at his right. This is the most natural stance after unsheathing a weapon, and the foundation for all the complexity of swordplay. It looked deceptively simple.
“This is the stance where the fight begins. It is simple, elegant, yet treacherous. A thousand different ways a sword can kill, and it all begins with one.” Eleuia’s teachings echoed in his mind. Iztel smacked her stick into Alistair’s right calf. He winced slightly, but his legs did not move.
“Good. Stable. Stability is key in the first stance.” Iztel circled around him in nonchalant steps. “Do not move, do not blink, do not let your movements betray your intentions. The first to see through his opponent is the one that holds the advantage. Next!”
Alistair shifted into the second stance, pulling his sword up above his shoulder, the sword level with the tip facing front. He arched his back, shifted his weight onto his hind leg, bending slightly at the right knee. Iztel circled past, observing. Alistair’s arm was teetering ever so slightly. Iztel whacked against his leg again, this time he shook. “Balance! Stability Alistair! How are you to fight with wobbling legs? Stand!” She whacked at it again. Alistair cursed under his breath, but this time he did not wobble.“Ugh…Passable.” Iztel leered at him. “Next!”
Alistair shifted his step again into the third stance. Sword in the middle, arms held straight, chin down, back tight. The third stance focused on defense, with the sword centered in the middle to allow for quick and easy parrying and ripostes. Iztel hit her stick into the broad of the blade, nearly knocking the sword out of his hand. Alistair fumbled, grabbed onto it. He gripped as hard as he could, but with the fatigue of the training of the metal pole earlier his fingers were limp and soft. Iztel spat on the ground in front of him.
“Almost being unarmed from a stick? And you call yourself a soldier?” She hissed.
Alistair could feel his fists clench on the hilt, his teeth ratting from the rage. Bitch. He cursed in his mind. My time will come.
“Curse me Alistair, curse me all you want." Iztel saw through him as if he were made of glass. "A soldier without a weapon is no soldier, he is but a man waiting to be killed, slaughtered, tortured, toyed with.”
“Iztel-“ Eleuia frowned.
“Silence! I will not have one my men disarmed in battle! This is utterly unacceptable!”
She hit Alistair’s hands. “Grip it!” He tightened his palms. “Grip it with your life!” She hit his hands again. Alistair tightened his grip. He could hear the sound of his teeth crunching from the anger. One day I’ll be better than you ever will be. And when that day comes… He thought of at least twelve ways he would humiliate the Marshal. My time will come. He told himself. It helped him through the rest of the beating.
“You are to never drop your weapon in battle. NEVER. Is that understood?” Iztel glared at him, staring him straight in the eye.
“Yes Marshal!” Alistair yelled at the top of his lungs. Were his voice any lighter she would have asked him to repeat.
“Good. Next stance!”
Alistair raised his sword again into the fourth stance, sword raised overhead. He stood still with the most amount of effort possible, kept his arms tense, and gripped onto his weapon for dear life. To be honest Alistair had no idea what the purpose of this form was, but he did the motion well enough. Iztel took a step back and observed. She clicked her tongue, grunted a meaningless grunt, spoke. “You miss the essence of this stance. Nevermind, you’ll get there eventually. At ease!” Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. He still felt a burning sensation inside. I’ll have my revenge, one day.
Iztel talked to her sister while Alistair slumped on the ground for a rest. His body ached, most of all his arms, not to mention the beating on his hands. They’re swelling. Soon his fingers would become red, swollen sausages. Alisatiar could only give a bitter laugh at the thought.
