“Faster! I’ve seen cows with more fluid movements!”

Sam grunted as the wooden training sword struck him on his already bruised chin. He tried to move his legs and bring up his sword to resume his guarding stance, but his movements were too slow, and Mikhail had time to slap him on the arm with the wooden sword yet again.

“Bah, enough!” Mikhail said, stepping away. “This isn’t going anywhere. You’re just as bad today as you were five days ago!”

Sam panted, rubbing at his new bruises, and glared at Mikhail. “Yeah well I didn’t exactly ask for this, did I? And I’m still trying my best.”

“No, you’re not trying your best! That’s the thing!” Mikhail spun around to face him. “I heard about how you moved when you fought that wolf. You were quick! Decisive! Precise! All the things you need to be in a fight! You had a little knife in hand and you messed it up more than you would have with a bloody sword, acting like you are right now!”

“Acting like I… Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sam said, cheeks warming up.

“It means,” Mikhail said, with the patient tone of someone talking to a particularly slow child, “that you’re moving with the speed and grace of an overladen cargo barge on a windless day. Nevermind feeling dangerous, you’re barely keeping up with your own sword!”

“I… Alright, now look here.” Sam growled as he stepped towards the priest. A glint in Mikhail’s eyes was all the warning he got as his wooden sword flashed towards his face. He’d barely had time to start moving his practice blade when his vision flashed and he found himself sprawled on the floor, tasting dirt.

“Hmm, no, that’s not it either,” he heard Mikhail note conversationally from above him, his words distorted as if through a pillow. “I was thinking that perhaps anger might make you sharper, but it actually dulled your movements even more.”

“I… Urgh.” Sam groaned from the courtyard’s floor, ears ringing. He tried to get up, but his already mistreated muscles refused to obey, and he just flopped to the dirt again. He retched. If his stomach hadn’t been mostly empty right now, he’d be puking all over himself.

“Well, I can see you’re done for the morning. We’ll meet here again at second bell.” He heard the priest’s clomping gait head away from him, and into the chapel. Sam stayed to the ground for a bit, gasping as he the stars stopped swimming in his vision, then he heaved himself up, groaning at the ache from his whole body as he did.

“He’s really not going easy on you.” He heard a voice to the side. He looked over and saw Camille standing in the chapel’s doorway. She stepped forward to help him get up.

“Th-thanks.” Sam said, cheeks burning, but not too proud to refuse the help. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this, Camille. I’m not much of a fighter. I don’t even like fighting, or violence.” he trudged his way to the courtyard’s stone bench and dropped down to it with a grunt.

“Bullshit,” Camnille said as she moved in front of the bench, arms folded. “No offense, Sam, but you’re a beast in a fight. That wolf had your freaking arm in its jaws, it was thrashing at you, and you still managed to remember about the knife in your pocket and start stabbing at it. And those weren’t delicate stabs, either. And if you really hated violence, you probably would have less of a temper.”

“I— Well, look,” Sam rubbed at his nape, embarrassed, “that was different, and it was one time. And it’s not like I can decide to reproduce those circumstances at will, you know?”

“True, I guess,” Camille said. “Well, you’ll figure it out. You do have it, so it’s not like you can’t do it.”

“Er, thanks, I guess?” Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What about you, how’s your training going?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“Alright enough, I guess.” she shrugged. “I haven’t done fencing in a long time, but it’s kind of like a bike, except with a sword. It’s a bit different too since the sword is heavier than any épée or foil, and also you can move to the sides instead of being in a straight corridor, but I think I’m getting the hang of it. Hey, let’s go get some lunch? Kaisei should be getting back soon.”

“Sure,” Sam heaved himself off the bench. “I need to start again at second bell, and you just know that maniac’s not going to accept ‘I haven’t eaten lunch yet’ as an excuse for being late.”

“Too bad,” Camille said, with a surprisingly good impression of Mikhail, “if you wanted to eat, you should have thought about that earlier, shouldn’t you? Now what are you, dickless? I swear on the Lady I will beat some profanity into you!”

Sam stifled a laugh, but couldn’t suppress the smile from his voice. “Oh, stop it. One of him is already too much for me, I don’t think I could deal with two.”

Tasha was already in the kitchen when they arrived, lost in thought as she munched on an apple. She glanced at them as they entered, then looked at Sam. “No better?” She asked, looking at his bruises.

“Nope.” Sam plopped down on the kitchen’s bench with a sigh. “Worse, actually. He’s getting impatient. In practical terms, that means the beatings are coming faster and harder. Soon I’ll look like a blueberry, with all my bruises.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, eyes soft. “I would help if I could.”

“Thanks, but focus on your own training, even if you’re the one doing best out of all of us.”

Tasha shrugged. “I am small, and he is crippled. Avoiding him isn’t very hard.”

Tasha’s training program was the most different of all of theirs. Instead of learning stances, clashing swords, and actually fighting the fat priest, he’d had her focus on evasion. He went after her with his stick, and her job was to dodge, deflect with her two short “daggers”, and deliver counter-attacks when she could. Past the first day, he hadn’t been able to touch her, even when he’d picked up a longer staff and reduced her to a single knife.

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They heard the door open, and after a bit, a panting Kaisei stepped into the kitchen. “Ah! Just in time?” he said with a wide smile when he saw them all seated there. “Who’s cooking today?”

Tasha and Camille’s eyes turned to Sam. “I know you’re bruised like hell…” Camille began, apologetic.

“No, it’s fine, I’m the only one here who can cook.” Sam sighed, and carefully got to his feet.

“Oh wow, you’re really not looking so good Sam,” Kaisei noted. “Are you alright?”

“It’s fine the least I think about it,” Sam grunted, and then set off to find a pot. “How’s your own training going, anyway, with Myrrin?”

“Oh it’s really interesting!” Kaisei said, excitably. “I’ve only been doing the theory stuff so far, but I’m moving really fast through it! I think Myrrin’s actually getting a bit grumpy with me about it.”

“Are you kidding?” Camille laughed. “The rest of us have been there twice by now, and it’s obvious he’s ecstatic with you.”

“Wait, really?” Kaisei blinked.

“I mean,” Sam commented as he knelt to light the kitchen’s chimney. “Every time we’ve been there, he was loudly talking about how much progress you’re making and how fast you’re learning everything he throws at you.”

“Well, yeah, to complain about it!” Kaisei protested.

“Kaisei,” Tasha said, “sometimes people say one thing and mean another.”

“I— wait, do you think he’s actually happy to be teaching me?”

Camille rolled her eyes. “Dear God, only you could still be asking that question at this point. If he were any happier I’d be getting the wedding bouquet ready.”

“What!” Kaisei said defensively. “How am I supposed to guess this kind of thing!”

Sam smiled and turned to his pot as Kaisei and Camille bantered back and forth, with Tasha tossing in the occasional comment. The bruises didn’t hurt so much anymore.

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“Oh man, Sam, am I glad you’re here with us,” Kaisei said, as he patted his belly.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly anything incredible.” Sam shrugged as he finished cleaning his plate. “Just a sort of vegetable stew with a little bit of everything tossed in.”

“No, he’s right,” Tasha said. “You’re a good cook. He would have just burned it.”

“H-hey!” Kaisei protested, “That was one time! Because I didn’t know how to cook over fire!”

“Oh? So you’d be willing to give it another shot, then?” Camille asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Ah, er…” He shifted in his seat. “Well, maybe not, seeing as Sam is already good at it and all…”

Camille snorted. “Right, that’s what I thought.”

Kaisei was about to answer when the Chapel’s small bell rang twice. He turned to Sam. “Oh, that’s you, isn’t it?”

Sam sighed. “Yeah, afraid so.”

Kaisei winced. “Damn. Good luck, man.”

“I feel like I’m going to need it,” Sam said as he rose. “I’ll see you guys after this.”

He trudged over to the chapel courtyard once more, good cheer from the lunch quickly dissipating as he prepared for yet another pummeling.

Instead of standing with his club in hand, Mikhail was sitting on the bench when Sam arrived, with a large cloth bundle on his knees. “Ah, there you are. Punctual, if nothing else.”

“Yeah, yeah, get them in.” Sam grumbled. “What’s that?” he pointed at the bundle on Mikhail’s legs.

“That? A relic.” Mikhail said as he stood. “Here, take it. It’s a gift.”

“A gift?” Sam narrowed his eyes as he took the heavy bundle in his arms and unpacked it.

Sam didn’t know much about swords, but the one he saw when he unpacked the bundle was the biggest he’d ever seen. It had a long handle, crimson red and made for wielding with two hands, and a large stylized pommel carved in the shape of a horse. Its blade, though, was nearly five feet long and single edged, the back straight, but the edge curving out elegantly before rejoining the back into a deadly, sharp tip.

Aside from the pommel, the sword was devoid of any ornamentation, but its curved, swooping edge gave it a strange sort of deadly elegance. Sam gripped it. Despite his lack of knowledge, the balance felt perfect. It was lighter than it looked.

“What is it?” He said, looking at the huge blade.

“An Ulfvar blade.” Mikhail said from the side. “Say what you will about those giants, but they know how to make good swords. I call it ‘Steed’, because it’s about as big as a horse, and because it is a tool to carry the wielder into battle.”

Something about the word “Ulfvar” made Sam pause, and he turned to look at Mikhail. “Wait, Ulfvar, is that…” He trailed off when he saw the fat priest. His face was a stony mask, and he held his own sword, drawn from its scabbard, in his hand.

Mikhail said nothing. He rushed forward with shocking speed with his blade held in a high stance, and its deadly steel tip pointed right at Sam’s face.

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Time slowed down as Sam watched the large man hurtling towards him. Before he had time to fully process the attack, the giant Steed in his hand moved, almost of its own accord, into a sloppy guard. It was enough. He hastily managed to slap Mikhail’s sword away before it pierced right into his face.

“Mikhail what the fuck!” He shouted, but the priest didn’t respond. Unhindered by his wooden foot, he stepped to the side and darted forward again, aiming a slash at Sam’s midsection.

Sam scrambled backwards, interposing the giant steel sword in his hands with Mikhail’s blade. The clang of metal on metal rang as the two edges collided, but Mikhail pressed on, recovering from the slash with a second one on the backswing, and Sam had to step back to adjust his blade in time to—

The priest’s blade didn’t complete the slash, right before it collided with Steed, he instead darted forward, thrusting at Sam’s gut. Sam cursed as he pivoted to the side, letting the deadly tip sail past his exposed skin, then growled. Mikhail wanted to play this game, then? Alright, then!

The priest’s long thrust had the consequence of putting his face close to his opponent, and Sam let go of his sword with one hand to aim a punch at Mikhail’s face. The bearded man saw it coming in time and ducked to the side, but it had the intended effect of forcing him to back off.

Sam took a few steps back and adopted a low guard, to exploit his sword’s longer reach. Mikhail said nothing, and began moving to the side with practiced motions, good foot leading the movement, wooden foot rapidly joining it to avoid unstable overextension. Sam didn’t let him circle around him, and he moved to the side as well, carefully keeping his sword’s tip between them.

Mikhail darted forward once more, but this time, Sam was ready for him. He took two steps back as he deflected two thrusts and a slash, then he sprung his trap with a thrust of his own when Mikhail was extended on his good foot. Mikhail’s eyes went wide as he hurriedly tried to step back and bring his sword up, but the speed of the motion on his clumsy wooden foot unbalanced him, and he gave a cry as he tumbled to the ground.

Sam rushed forward and held Steed’s tip to Mikhail’s throat, and the fat priest stood still. His sword clattered from his fingers to the dirt floor.

“Finally,” he grunted. “And all it took was trying to kill you.”