Summer, the 12th, 516 AV Into the Arena The intimidating, mish-mashed metal and icestone walls of the Tundra Stadium rose up in front of Solemn. Intimidation was something not easily lost on him. There was a prey instinct that stemmed from his animal side that underlay every moment, but having lived with it every day for his entire life, he knew how to easily override that sense. His mother had had the predatory instinct, and she had been the one to teach him how to master his fears. She was the reason he was here today. Before they had parted all those years ago, his mother, Dasha, had given him her shashka, the graceful, wicked saber with which she had made a name for herself. When she had given it to him, she had asked him to keep it safe until they met each other again. To him, back then, that had sounded like a promise to return to him, but his faith in people had lessened of late. He had little trust to give, and he was selective of who he gave that little to. Still, he would hold up his end of the bargain. Today, he had come to take up his training with the shashka again. Here, at the Stadium, members of the Icewatch were given priority, but all people were welcome and encouraged to train. There always seemed to be some Icewatch warriors present, current or retired, who were willing to impart knowledge, especially since this gave them a good way to evaluate potential recruits. Eyrwyn, of all the Icewatch, seemed to take the training of Avanthal’s people the most seriously. While her focus was on keeping the Icewatch the most formidable force in Taldera, if not all of Mizahar, she was proud to pass her knowledge and skills to any citizen of Avanthal. The Icewatch could not be everywhere all the time. Walking through the imposing gates, Solemn become even more intimidated by the open space that made the arena grounds. There were stands surrounding the arena and, in them, were several senior members of the Icewatch who were watching some apprentices train, whispering to each other about what could be done to improve the many skills the rookies would need. Solemn didn’t like being in the way or being the center of attention, so he kept to the periphery of the arena and made his way to the side opposite the apprentices. He selected a nearby wooden dummy and walked up to it, making sure to keep his back to those training. He hoped that would make him easier to ignore. One of the first things his mother had shown him with the shashka was the drawing slash. It was one of her favorite parts about the shashka. One could easily end a fight with the beginning strike. The saber’s design lent itself perfectly to the motion. While the curved blade allowed for a smooth draw, the forward curved pommel, if it could be called that, offered the appropriate grip to catch. Standing with both hands hanging loosely by his side, Solemn relaxed and calmed himself, visualizing the movements required in his head. First, his left hand would find the scabbard at his hip and right it. All the while, his right hand would cross his body. His little finger would find the crook in the pommel and, with a twisting motion, loose the shashka in its sheath while his other fingers found their place on the grip. Then, his arm would shoot out and upward, pulling the blade in a similar arc. The arc could be placed anywhere on one’s opponent: across the gut, across the chest, or across the throat. Relaxation was key. This required a precise, fluid motion. Suddenly, he moved. The hands swung to their appropriate positions on the sword and scabbard, but his arms were clumsy. They lacked the speed and efficiency that his mother had had. He knew what it was supposed to look like, and what he did was not it. He did not know what it was supposed to feel like, having never done it right, but what he had done felt wrong. The blade had struck the dummy at an angle and glanced off. Resigning himself to the fact that this was going to take a lot of practice, Solemn moved the shashka to its sheath. This was something his mother had done without looking, as if she just remembered where it was. He had to watch the blade until it was secure in the scabbard. To his mother, the blade was just another part of her body, an extra limb with the same killing potential of her wolf jaws. He rehearsed the action several times. Each time, it became a little smoother, a little quicker, but it had already started off so terrible that the result of all his improvement was still a slash that was useless in combat. He was preparing to attempt the motion for the dozenth time when a voice came from behind him. “Warborn.” He ignored the call to him. It was a name he had never accepted, one that spoke of his parentage, only one half of which he had claimed. His father had been a bear of the Icewatch but had disowned him when it was revealed that Solemn would not be some formidable beast of war. Solemn had never known who the man was and never wanted to know. His mother had raised him, and she was the only parent he needed. “Warborn,” Eyrwyn called again. Sol felt a calm from the rage that name made him feel. Ignoring Eyrwyn once more, he let the focus from his anger guide his hand. This time, the slash moved more rapidly, more smoothly, and with greater accuracy than it had before. It still lacked the beauty and viciousness that it had when his mother performed it. He sheathed his sword once more. “Solomon.” Eyrwyn sounded annoyed that she had been ignored. |