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“Your grandfather explained it to me. The silver pommel passes down each generation. When the bearer grows too old to bear it, the blade breaks. A hardened blade of wood serves the next bearer until adulthood; and then a sword of steel; always with the same pommel. I know little of magic — my wife’s the witch in the family — but it must be a good sign that you picked it out on the first try, without having to touch the others. I take it the swords speak to you, after all.”
I nodded, excited to get on with this now. The blade felt eager in my hand.
“Old blades have many secrets,” he continued. “We trust them with our lives, as others have trusted them. Come now, Anders, let’s spar. We’ll see if there’s any hidden strength in you.”
“You wouldn’t be so strong if you were locked up in a room,” I said defensively. I guess it was that hidden strength comment that got to me. Or maybe it was the lack of my morning tea. In any case, I was cranky.
But he just shrugged. “So, your mother keeps you inside too much. You eat a little too much to compensate for your lack of excitement. We all have excuses, son. But if someone attacks you, you better be ready to fight.”
Giancarlo bent over, and picked up one of the other blades.
“Who is going to attack me if I’m locked up in my ro
om all day?” I asked.
“Life is full of surprises, not all of them pleasant,” Giancarlo said. “Now give me your best. We spar until first blood. If your blade has anything new to teach you, maybe I will learn something too.”
He bowed, and I bowed to him.
I spoke the same words I’d said every morning for over a year now.
“May our blades be sharp, and our bladework true.”
This was the first time they really meant something. We were sparring not with wooden poles but with blades.
Until first blood.
Giancarlo nodded. “Let the wisdom of the blade teach us our daily lesson.”
He brought up his sword, and I did the same. Behind my back, the sun began to rise. I could feel its warm light on the back of my neck, as I swung my sword and the sweat began to flow, stinging my face.
But I felt stronger, more coordinated, even with the armor. Like the blade was an extension of my arm, I felt like I could just reach over and touch Giancarlo.
But I couldn’t. Giancarlo was too quick, and I spent most of the time knocking away his attacks. Several of them went past my guard. Soon I was feeling bruised, slow and stupid.
Then, suddenly, came a crashing blow, the side of Giancarlo’s sword slamming into my ribs, and I fell to the ground, on my bottom. Talk about embarrassing. I felt my face turn hotter, if that was possible, and tried to get up as quickly as possible.
But a shooting pain in my side made me sit right back down on the ground.
Giancarlo stopped suddenly.
“You graceless, self-absorbed boy. You worry more about the pimples on your face than the sword in your hand. You let shame and pain and anger distract you. In battle, you won’t be ashamed, or embarrassed. You won’t be wincing in pain. You’ll be dead, or seriously wounded.”
“Alright, then kill me, put me out of my misery,” I said.
Giancarlo seemed to fight off a smile.
“Stand up,” he said. “And focus on two things. My blade and yours. Squint, do your wizardly nonsense, say your words of power, do whatever you need, but fix those two lines in your mind and defend yourself. Our bodies are just extensions of these two blades. Focus on the blades and the bodies will follow.”
I got back up. My muscles cried out for mercy under my bruises. Really, it wasn’t just getting hit that was hurting me.
Swinging the wooden sword was making me sore too.
Tomorrow I was going to be in agony, but I didn’t care. There was no one in the world I wanted to impress more than Giancarlo, not even my father. And here I was instead making a fool of myself.
It wasn’t fair. I hadn’t chosen to be locked in my room half my life, forced to study instead of exercise.
Here I was getting upset. If I couldn’t control my own feelings, how could I expect to win a sword fight?
