Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

He laughed at her suspicious tone.

“Steel doesn’t inhibit the flow of magic,” he said in correction. “Not exactly. The pain you feel when you pick up a blade. This blade, if I remember correctly, is a manifestation of what the Quintessentialists feel when they are exposed to steel and iron. So it’s not really inhibition, its more-”

“Aversion,” she said, cutting him off. “The steel doesn’t stop the magic; the pain stops them from concentrating.”

“Exactly right,” he said, beaming at her.

“So since you feel less pain, you can still concentrate, and therefore cast.”

“Right again.”

Tiadaria picked up another apple from the basket. “Do it again, Sir?”

* * *

The sun had just begun to tint the horizon beyond the training field. Tiadaria stood across from the Captain, her arms outstretched, her palms facing the sky as he had taught her. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel the warmth of the sun climbing slowly on its path across the morning sky. She reached out with her mind, counting each of the blades of grass under her feet, seeing every individual leaf that moved in the gentle sway of the trees at the edge of the clearing.

Further out she cast, feeling the roughness of the stones in the small path that lead down to the cottage. Feeling the coolness of the water as it rushed in the stream beside the narrow trail. Something flashed at the periphery of her awareness and her eyes snapped open.

Tiadaria saw the glint of the arrow in the morning sun, it spun lazily through the air and she ducked below it with ease. Another arrow crawled toward her on the left; she danced out of the way. Yet another arrow on the right was closer to its mark. The head sliced a thin furrow on her upper arm, drawing blood and knocking her squarely out of her commune with the Quintessential Sphere. Her magic collapsed and the world sped back up to its normal speed, arrows raining down around her as the Captain fired them as quickly as he could fit them to the string.

The assault stopped when the Captain saw she was injured. He slung the bow over his shoulder and walked toward her, plucking arrows from the ground as he approached. She touched her arm and winced at the fire there. The wound was shallow, but the lips had pulled back from the slice and burned at her touch. It bled quite freely for a wound so superficial. Her arm was covered in a thin sheen of scarlet by the time the Captain had reached her.

“Overconfidence will kill you,” he said without preamble. “You’re lucky you ended up with just a cut and not an arrow in your meat. Did you forget where you were? Who you were fighting?”

As he berated her performance, he was taking a thin pad of cloth from a pouch on his belt. He mopped up the worst of the blood and then held the pad firmly against the wound. His eyes searched hers. His questions were never rhetorical, and she resented the fact that he treated her like a child.

“No Sir, I didn’t forget.”

The Captain peeled back the pad, peering at the edges of the wound. From another pouch, he took a hefty pinch of fine white powder which he sprinkled over the cut and ground it in. It burned as surely as if he had laid a brand against her bare skin and Tiadaria yelped, grabbing her arm at the surprising pain. Her eyes flashed in mute accusation.

Brushing his palms together to clear the rest of the powder from them, he tucked the soiled pad back into his belt and gestured to arm.

“The clay is sterile and will keep the wound clean. It will scar. This is desired. Your scars will remind you that you are mortal and fallible, that losing your concentration may also mean losing your head. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” She wanted to add that the fire in her arm would preclude her from any sort of concentration for the rest of the day, but she wisely kept her mouth shut. She had learned from almost her first day with the Captain that his sense of humor waned completely when he was training or performing his other duties.

His role as Constable, she had discovered, was largely an honorary one. The people of the village would often come to him with petty disputes and quarrels, but rare was the time when he was actually required to hand out any real justice or punishment. The few times that she had seen him do so, he had done so impartially and quickly, without any apparent remorse or emotional involvement.

It was a side of him completely at odds with the passionate storyteller who often inhabited the cottage in the evenings. The Captain would re-live spectacular battles and military actions and would retell them with such vivid detail that Tia could often feel herself standing by his side in combat, fighting against whatever enemy of the Imperium he had stood against.

A sudden pain in her rump broke her reverie and brought her forcefully back to the here-and-now. The Captain had slapped her sharply with the broad side of his scimitar and it hurt. A lot.

“Pay attention, little one,” the Captain snarled. “Next time it might be the edge of the blade.”

Without any further warning, he brought his blade up in an offensive stance. As the blade flashed toward her, Tiadaria looked beyond the physical realm into the Quintessential Sphere. Time slowed and she saw the tip of the blade crawling through the air. She ducked below it, bringing her shoulders parallel to the ground before she drew her blade. It was an old weapon, short, stubby, and much nicked and dinged with the abuse of who knew how many training sessions.

Tiadaria kicked off with one foot, spinning on the axis of her spine, just below his blade. She felt buoyed by the air, buffeted by the gentle breeze of his weapon sliding through the air above her. She brought the short sword up, intersecting his blade. She felt the shock of the contact in every nerve in her hand, arm, and shoulder. He quickly reversed his stroke and Tia had to drop to the ground, and roll away.

In the timeless void of the Quintessential Sphere, seen only through their eyes, they appeared to move at a glacial pace, a graceful dance of gentle curves and arcs that moved like flowing honey. In the physical world, they sparred at such a frenetic pace that, to the casual onlooker, their strikes and counter-strikes seemed to blur together like the beating wings of a hummingbird.

How long they fought that way, Tia couldn’t be sure. She felt and ignored the cries for succor of her arms and shoulders as their blades rang together time and time again. He dropped, his legs flashing out in a circular motion that brought his heavy boot into her ankle. She crumpled to the ground, every muscle in her body throbbing with abuse and exertion.

Tiadaria was quite set to wallow in her misery, until she saw that the Captain lay in the grass beside her, his chest heaving. She felt a grudging sliver of pride, in that she had driven the breath from him. He had beaten her, true, but she hadn’t made it easy. Her own breath began to slow as her body relaxed.

She sat up and it was then that she realized that the Captain’s breathing was far more labored than hers had been. His eyes locked on hers and she saw the pain and fear there. Whatever was wrong, their battle hadn’t caused his current state of distress. The blood ran cold in her veins and she scuttled over to him on hands and knees.

“Flask,” he panted, his face ashen white. “Belt.”

Tia’s shaking fingers went to his belt and searched the pouches there, finding the small stoppered metal flask. She pulled the cork free with her teeth, her hands trembling so badly that she feared she might spill whatever liquid the vessel contained.

She put a hand behind his head and tipped it forward, holding the flask to his lips. He struggled to drink, managing to get the first sip down in an audible gulp that Tiadaria felt, even through the back of his head. He swallowed again, and then shook his head. She took the flask from him and, with slightly calmer hands, replaced the stopper. He closed his eyes.