The man who had assaulted us was a well known local bully, one of the farmers sat near our table explained to us as we waited for our meal. Him and his group of thugs regularly frequented the inn, demanding the best seats and ordering large quantities of alcohol and food. More often than not, they refused to pay for their meals and caused more damages with violent bar fights.

When inquired as to how the local police sat by and let it happen, the farmer scoffed. “The officials don’t give a rat’s ass about us,” he said. “Whoever can line their pockets the most might as well have them on a leash, and that bastard’s master pays them more than we could scrounge up in a year.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the fragrant aroma of lamb stew. After the thugs had run out of the taproom, the innkeeper obsequiously offered us a table, and ordered the serving girls to bring out some plates of food and drinks for the “distinguished guests.” When inquired about the cost of rooms, he bobbed his head and informed us he would be charging us one silver a night for all three rooms, and, seeing mother nod, scurried off to hide in his office.

The girl gracefully set the tray down on the table. On it contained bowls of rich, thick stew and freshly baked bread, as well as mugs of ale. “Also a glass of juice for the young gentleman,” she said, noticing my mother’s gaze on the alcohol. “And, thank you, ma’am, for stepping in.” The girl did a quick curtsy in front of mother.

“Of course, sister,” mother assured. “Those pigs deserved it.” The girl giggled as she distributed the rest of the stew.

“Well, my name’s Susie, and if y’all want anything else for tonight, just holler, alright?” She made her way back through the crowd as we turned towards the meal in front of us.

All of us made short work of the meal quietly, too hungry to talk. The stew was hearty and rich, and the bread was perfect for mopping the bowl clean. Leaning back and burping, Frank reached to loosen his belt a few notches. He sighed contentedly. “Now, that was a meal,” he said.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Father grinned, then stood up. “Well, now that we’ve eaten, you guys can go check out the rooms. Gil, it’s about time I taught you some swordsmanship. That sword you got might as well be a stick without proper training.” He turned around, walking towards the back exit of the inn.

Following him out the door, we were deposited into a quiet alleyway, well off from the main roads. Drawing his sword and gesturing for me to do the same, he nodded at me. “Swing at me with all you got,” he commanded. Seeing me hesitate, he laughed. “Don’t worry, you won’t even be able to touch me,” he said.

Drawing my sword, I looked at him again. He looked back “Well? What are you waiting for?” I step forward and took a light swing in his direction. Without even moving his feet, my father simply leaned backwards, out of the reach of my sword. “You call that a swing?” he taunted. “Come on! SWING AT ME!” His last words came out a roar. Galvanized by the sound, I raised my sword above my head and lunged towards him.

With a quick step to the side, my father dodged out of the arc of the blade, the momentum still carrying me forward. I stumbled past my father, but he wasn’t done. “My grandmother could have dodged that,” he mocked. My temper flaring, I turned around and charged once again. No longer worried about hurting anyone, I put all my strength into the stab, aiming it at his chest.

In a swift motion, my father stepped away from the blade and, reaching out, grabbed the collar of my shirt. Before I could even comprehend what was going on, his blade suddenly appeared in my face. “Aaaand… you’re dead,” he said, completely serious. Any trace of derision in his voice was gone. Looking me in the eyes to make sure I had calmed down, my father began to explain.

“What you just did was normal,” he said. “When people start fighting with a sword, they tend to try and put all of their strength into their blows, even more so when they’re angry. When you piss off your opponent, more often than not, they’re going to forget about everything they’ve been taught and jump at you like a wild animal.” He looked pointedly at me. “Just like your last little stab.” I felt my cheeks flush.

“What these swordsman don’t realize,” dad continued, “is that all they’re doing is putting themselves off balance, which can easily lead to their demise, as you saw a few moments ago. The most important aspect of swordsmanship is not power, but balance. Bring your sword back up, and let’s get started with the basics.”

Father continued to instruct me on the fundamentals of swordsmanship, practicing with me until mother called us back into the inn for bed.