Mike Shevdon: The Road to Bedlam

There was an answering grunt as my blow sank home and the figure folded over, at the same time trying to tangle my wrist in her grip. I wrenched the sword away, lowering my stance to give me posture and drawing the blade up in a long slice. It found only shadows.

"Good. You remembered." This was the voice of my tutor and I smiled at the rare praise. It was he who had taught me that both ends of a sword were a weapon.

I circled slowly, regaining my position at the centre. This would not end until someone went down. The fight wasn't over until it was won or lost, another maxim from my lessons.

I barely saw the next attack. The figure emerged at my left flank, almost casually. He cut downwards in one clean strike, my ears registering the whistle of the blade even as I stepped sideways to avoid it, no time for a deflecting blow. It glanced painfully off my shoulder, but I used the angular momentum to launch a horizontal cut that would part his head from his shoulders.

My slice whirred through empty space as I felt something hook behind my ankle. It was whipped upwards and I sailed over backwards landing with a crunch on my shoulders. The air was driven from my lungs in a great whoosh, my blade bouncing out of my hand across the floor.

A point pressed against my throat, just hard enough to make breathing difficult.

"How many times have I told you not to let go of your weapon?" Garvin paused, literally pressing home his point, and then withdrawing it, allowing me to respond.

"I couldn't hold it."

"No wonder. You went down like a sack of gravel."

His form blended and shifted from the indistinct shadowy figure that had decked me into a lean wiry man in a charcoal jacket and turtleneck shirt. The style was austere and it suited him.

The fluorescent lights flickered on and the circle vanished in their glare.

I lay on my back, trying to catch my breath. Amber was by the door, switching the lights back on. She showed no indication of being winded after the punch in the midriff, her quiet eyes observing me as she observed everything.

Tate, the other assailant, grinned at me in the harsh light. Garvin collected my sword from the floor and then walked across the tiles to the wall-mounted rack where the weapons were stored. He checked down the length of each blade carefully before stowing his sword and mine in their appointed places.

Then he took another practice blade from the rack and paced back towards me. I recognised it immediately and sagged at what the heavier, longer blade meant.

"Two hundred," he instructed me.

Sitting up, I took the heavier blade from him. It meant two hundred practice cuts against the car tyre that hung at chest height from a chain in the corner before I could leave for the evening. I sighed deeply, knowing that I could tell him no, but that if I did, he would instruct me no further.

I nodded and he turned and walked away towards the door. Tate stood, leaning on the end of his sword, his grin widening at my misfortune.

"It's a sword, not a walking stick, Tate," Garvin reminded him as he came to the door. "Clean and check the weapons."

The smile vanished from Tate's lips and he lifted the end of the sword from the floor, saluting in acceptance of the rebuke and of the chore that went with it. Though I rated Tate as a fighter, I also knew that he would do whatever Garvin told him, almost without question. It was a matter of leadership. Garvin led and Tate followed.

I pulled myself to my feet, careful not to use the practice sword for support in case that earned me a further two hundred cuts. A glance towards the door showed that Garvin had left, Amber in tow.

"He had you clean there, Niall." Tate's rumbling chuckle made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"That's true, but a few weeks ago he would never have had the opportunity because either you or Amber would have been there first."

His smile widened. "You're coming along, sure enough," he said, nodding, acknowledging the progress I had made, "but I could still take you in an even fight."

I let the wooden sword swing gently back and forth in my hand and looked him over. He was taller than me and heavier. His dark brown hair fell in long waves to his shoulders, adding to the impression of bulk. He was certainly stronger than me and I knew that for all his muscled bulk he could move like quicksilver when he wanted to.

"With one of these, maybe," I indicated the heavier practice sword, "but with something lighter? I'm not sure that's true any more, Tate."

It wasn't a challenge. A challenge implied ego and that had been knocked out of me in the months since I'd started my training as a Warder, at least as far as swords were concerned. But part of mastering a weapon was knowing how good you were, who you could take and who you couldn't. A few weeks ago, I wouldn't have speculated, but now? I really didn't know who would win.

"Some other time, huh? I've the weapons to check over."

It was my turn to grin.

He nodded and turned to the weapons racks to carry out his chore. I knew that he would inspect every blade carefully, rather than have Garvin find one later with a chip out of it or a crack along the grain. Garvin had told him to check them and he would, because that was what Garvin expected.

I went over to where the tyre hung from its chain. I knew that cutting at the heavy reinforced rubber built strength and stamina, but that didn't make it any easier. In a real fight it wouldn't matter if I was tired, bruised and sore, but this wasn't a real fight.

My first two cuts set the pace and after that I let my body take over, varying the cuts each time as I'd been taught. Overhead down, left side, inside left, slide and cut, turn and slice. My body followed the rhythm of it, the heavy thwack of the sword against the rubber punctuating the turns and twists, my brain counting down the cuts to zero.

After fifty strokes I broke the rhythm, preventing my imaginary opponent from guessing the timing. The whistle and thwack of the blade accelerated and slowed, doubled and paused. I tailored my movements, becoming sharp then smooth, elaborate then direct, spurring myself to find new ways of hammering the swinging rubber.

I missed the time on one, sending shock waves vibrating up my wrist, and reacted by turning and sliding the blade through the centre in a long thrust designed to impale before spinning around, letting the blade whistle out in a flat blur that whacked the tyre into a spin. I spun back to intercept and then let it spin.

I had reached two hundred.

The tyre wound down, turning one way then the other, as I went through a series of stretches and stances, letting my muscles recover slowly, using the effort to ease the tension between my shoulders and the tingling in my wrist.

Tate had waited for me and took the practice sword with a grin. He wiped it over with a cloth and then inspected it for damage before returning it to its place on the rack. We walked in companionable silence through to the changing rooms. I stripped off gingerly and inspected the livid bruises I had accumulated through the day. My fey genes meant that they would be gone by tomorrow, only to be replaced by a fresh set.

Tate shed his clothes and was already in the shower by the time I had my towel ready, his gravelly voice singing a song I didn't recognise about a fair maid whom he was trying to tempt with a variety of unlikely and sometimes grisly gifts.

"Did you make that up?" I asked him, stepping under the cascade of hot water.

He stopped singing. "Mostly not, though some of the verses are mine."

"It's an unlikely courtship," I suggested. "What kind of girl wants a severed head as a betrothal gift?"

"It's the head of her enemy, so I suppose it has its attractions." He shrugged.