Page 3 of The Blight of Hollowmire

His rebuff would sting if I wasn’t used to it—if I hadn’t prepared for it. The training I’ve begged, bribed, and demanded from him over the years always begins the same way, with a few barbs of good-natured teasing and his inevitable capitulation.

“Not even for one quick bout?” I wheedle. “No one trusts me to help with preparations.”

He grunts, as though he either expects such or agrees, which cracks my heart a bit even as it hardens my resolve.

“Besides, it’s some hours before I’ll need to show my unwelcome face for the assemblage, and the best gift I can offer to Sephia today is to not spoil anything for her. I’m less likely to do so after a good thrashing in the ring.”

“You’re the only lady I know who seeks out a thrashing to improve her temper,” he grumbles. “Can’t you find something more constructive to do?”

“What, needlework? Watercolor painting? Caterwauling along with some discordant harpsichord accompaniment? Alas, I’ve tried it all, my dear dullard. Measures of violence are the only thing that will satisfy my anathemas,” I sigh, hiding the wicked gleam in my downcast eyes. “Unless you wish me to sit beside you and try my hands at smithing again. Tell me, how many swords did I rust through last time? Six?”

“Nine,” he snaps. “And you promised last time—no touching anything that I haven’t prepared for you.”

“A deal’s a deal,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “Now, how about that thrashing?”

Ulfrid’s wry chuckle kindles a flicker of hope within me. Instead of answering, he unfolds his massive body from its stooped position over the wheel, stretching his thick arms above his head and gripping the low rafters. The subtle pops and cracks of his joints suggest he’s been at his work for quite some time.

“Aye,” he relents. “I could use a bit of a break. A quick one, mind—I’ve no wish to set the household against me for keeping you from your responsibilities tonight. What’s it to be today? Blades or brawl?”

“A black eye is sure to anger Mother, so let’s stick with blades,” I say, unable to hide my grin. “We’ll see if I can best you with the short swords.”

Something sparks in Ulfrid’s gaze and I smile—it’s just enough of a challenge to guarantee me a bit of fun before the dreaded feast this evening. I eye Ulfrid’s broad frame as he walks to the back of the smithy to retrieve our practice weapons, fashioned of rot-resistant hardwood and covered in thin gold leaf to keep them from disintegrating in my hands. Ulfrid made them after losing one too many sets of dull practice blades to the rust leeching from my fingertips every time I gripped a pommel.

“Are we fighting fair today, little toadstool, or shall we fight dirty?” he asks, pulling his long brown locks back behind his neck and securing them with a strip of leather.

“Oh, dirty,” I grin. “Most certainly.”

Ulfrid nods, removing his apron and tugging his sweat-damp shirt over his head. He cuts a fine figure—his thick barrel-sized chest packed with muscle and dusted with dark hair, threaded by scars mapping the brutality of his former life as the Hand of the King—leader of father’s personal guard.

“If you think to distract me with your masculine charms, old dog, you’re about to be sorely disappointed,” I chuckle. A mere twenty years my senior, Ulfrid has been the object of my affections off and on since I stumbled through sexual maturity—a fact he’s used to his advantage to school me in resisting distraction. He’s displayed monk-like fortitude in the face of my early, albeit clumsy, flirtation attempts and eventually my pubescent crush was squashed beneath the weight of disappointment. Still, I can appreciate a well-made man when I see one and he tolerates my ogling with good-humored chagrin.

He steps into the training ring and tosses the two short swords at me. Almost as soon as I snatch them from the air, he’s barreling toward me, his handsome face set in a menacing frown. Before he can close the distance, I lunge low and to the side, thrusting the sword into the gap between Ulfrid’s elbow and ribcage—a tender area he’s suffered injuries to years prior. He twists away and curves around me, moving with lithe, lethal grace that belies his size and strength.

“Not bad, little toadstool,” he says with a laugh. “You’ve evaluated your opponent and sought an opening. What’s next?”

I don’t need to rack my brain to remember the lessons he’s been drilling into me for the last decade and a half. We trade a series of practiced lunges and parries, evenly matched with the small, light weapons. Lightning flashes nearby and the rain drives down in earnest, soaking us both and doing utterly magnificent things to the deep valleys between Ulfrid’s muscles. I catch myself just as he smacks my ass with the flat of his blade, tutting shamelessly.

“Let me hear you, Vireth,” he shouts over the rush of the rain.

A puddle of muddy water has pooled on the slick stones of the training ring. Ulfrid senses what I’m about to do just as I make my move, stomping down with wild ferocity and sending a wave of muddy water right into his face. He drops low and sweeps a leg out, sending me careening to the ground with a painful thud that reverberates through my knees. The forward skid scrapes my palms bloody—the sting sharpening my focus. Already recovered from my cheap distraction, he rolls me onto my back with the toe of his boot, holding the point of his wooden blade against my neck.

“What’s next, Vireth?” he repeats, grinning as muddy water drips down the bridge of his slightly crooked nose and onto my forehead.

“Environment,” I pant. “Make use of your surroundings.”

“Where was your fault today?” he asks, still not letting me rise.

The corpulent raindrops splattering my face begin to thicken into slushy sleet as a chill wind blows in. More than cold, it’s unsettling—Ulfrid’s brow furrows and he shifts uneasily, as though he senses it, too. His gaze lifts from mine in the direction of the storm blowing in from Moontide, concern written across his handsome, lined face. Never one to lose with grace, I whistle to Nibblebones who’s been safely ensconced in my now-sodden mess of hair. Immediately she surges forward, racing up Ulfrid’s outstretched blade and sinking her teeth into the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

With a hiss of pain, he pulls his hand back, allowing me the opportunity to strike his wrist and disarm one of his weapons. Nibblebones leaps to the side and dances to the edge of the training ring, watching our struggles with wide black eyes.

Ulfrid’s momentary surprise gives me the chance to rise to a crouch and throw my shoulder into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and bowling him backward two steps. My second sword slashes at his ankle—yet another ages-old injury—and his legs finally give out beneath him. He glares up at me for the briefest of moments when my main sword finds his throat.

“If I must admit my faults today, old dog—that of admiring my opponent’s gods-given form—so, too, must you,” I grin.

“My fault today was agreeing to spar with you when I shouldn’t have,” he grumbles.

I press the point of my wooden blade into his throat a little harder. It’s still too dull to draw blood, but the force will leave a bruise on his fine neck. A little love bite from the rot-tainted one.