“Maybe they just enjoy watching the cripple struggle.”Orval said bitterly, then regretted his words at Roth’s raised eyebrow.Roth was a good teacher, patient but firm, far better than Orval’s former weaponsmaster.But the memories of his training during his fostering still burned.
“I doubt that,” Roth said.“I think they are curious about Yfin’s knife skills.They get to learn something, perhaps master a new skill, and keep it secret from their elders.”
“Did you ever foster?”Orval asked.
Roth snorted.“Fostering is for the nobility, Lord High Baron.I got my training by coming up through the ranks.”He paused, his eyes narrowing.“You said you fostered?”
“I did.”Orval grimaced.“It went about as well as you’d expect.”
“With Xyrath?”
Orval grimaced.“And his ilk.”He still felt a flush of shame every time he thought of it.“It was certainly…memorable.”
“Hmmm,” Roth mused.“I suspect that they went about it the wrong way, tried to teach you sword and shield.Not suited to you at all.”He glanced toward the gatehouse.“Yfin!Lessons!”
Orval stopped, staring at the back of Roth’s head.Taught the wrong way?But—
Yfin trotted out with a big grin.“A’mum said she’ll make fry bread.”
“After you teach this lesson,” Roth said, tossing him one of the wooden daggers.Yfin caught it, setting his shoulders, hope and pride in his eyes as he looked at Orval.
Orval smiled, sharing the boy’s joy.“Let’s see if I manage to survive this time.”
He didn’t.
“The idea is for you to survive the first attack,” Roth observed when they stopped for a breather.“Fighting back just enough for aid to reach you.”
Yfin attacked as soon as Orval reached the middle of the circle, but this time Orval was ready for him.He managed to push Yfin’s arm, deflecting the blow, then moved in to grab Yfin’s neck and try to wrestle him down.
Invariably, Yfin squirmed free and his wooden blade poked Orval in the stomach.Not hard.The boy was very careful not to hurt him.
“Hit,” Roth called, then added the dreaded, “Again”.
Orval gritted his teeth and tried again.His bad leg limited his movement, but he could drop and roll with the best of them.But that gave Yfin a chance to chase and stab down or pin him and slice his throat.Thankfully, the lad didn’t grin or mock.He took his role seriously.
“Use your weight, Orval,” Roth coached.“Your weight against his momentum.It’s not about strength.”
Tired and frustrated, Orval sighed and tried again.
“Wait,” Yfin said.“There’s a trick I learned.He grabbed Orval’s scarf and wrapped one end around one hand, letting the rest hang.This time, when Orval attacked, Yfin flicked the scarf into the Baron’s face.
Orval flinched away.
Yfin stepped back.“You distract,” he said.“The enemy focuses on the scarf, not the knife.”
“Huh, I like it,” Roth said.“Let’s try that a few times.”
Orval took the scarf and they started again.It seemed to work, but Orval found he had to attack, not just defend.
Roth could see his unease in his face.“Orval, you can’t hold back.Everything is a potential weapon.The idea is to survive until help arrives.”
“All the while screaming bloody murder,” Orval grumbled.“How heroic.”
“Heroic counts for little if you’re dead.”Roth said bluntly.“One more slow pass, one fast, and then we will call it done.”Roth glanced at the ruined walls of the Keep.“Yfin and I should practice a bit more with sword and shield.”
“You won’t let me hurt you?”Orval asked Yfin.
“No fear,” Yfin grinned.“I know a counter.”
