Chapter Twelve

Draw

Michael and Oliver wandered out of the armoury and both winced in the glaring sun for a moment. Michael weighed the weapon in his hand and looked down his arm, as though sighing a shot.

Oliver smiled slightly as he watched. “Looks good on you. But, just sayin’, swords are always a good second choice...”

Michael chuckled quietly and looked at the young man, for the first time noticing his clothes. They were re-sewn all about and worn almost all the way through. On his strong frame, it was almost complimentary, stretching along his broad graceful shoulders, pulling at the seams by his arms. One might have been content to think he simply loved the clothing and was too attached to disregard it, but Michael knew it wasn’t the truth. The truth was more solemn and quiet. Michael saw it all the time in Dim-side. People could never quite manage to leave, despite its ugliness, its faults, they clutched on to the very little they had, out for fear of it vanishing when they reached for anything else.

Oliver led Michael back up toward the keep and as the swordsman pulled Michael in toward the multi-environment archery range he lit up with pure, uncontained delight. Michael knelt down to the point where two different types of grass came together and let out a breath of wonder when he found that it wasn’t merely two types of grass planted side-by-side, but that even some of the blades of grass were split up the centre, coloured deep green and then dewy yellow. Even the broad tree growing on the line between two lanes was beautifully marbled. It swirled partially with white birch bark and partially dark-oak browns.

Oliver smiled bright and darted over to a table setup near a rack of practise bows and cheap wooden arrows. He snatched up a thick tome and opened to an early page.

“I think we need something simple, so you’re not too distracted. Here, read this out loud. I want to see the look on your face,” Oliver said excitedly.

Michael frowned, already suspicious and read the words on the page, written Em roeb si ihat esilam. He stared at them and then asked, “What if I mispronounce something?”

Oliver shook his head and said, “It’s about the intention. You could think them and say what you want, but verbalising helps most people focus.”

Michael had no idea what it was he was about to do but he picked up the book and read as clearly as he could. “Em roeb si ihat esilam!”

As the words flowed from his lungs to his tongue, a wave of warmth, like he was breathing sweet fire, poured from his chest, and before his eyes, as though the scene were nothing more than breath on glass, it all vanished in one, great outward wave, as though the air from Michael’s lungs had blown through it. The grass dried up and turned to mist and the trees and bushes shrunk and shrivelled down into the soil beneath. The colours bled into each other and the seasons all merged, leaving the meadow green and natural like a landscaper’s canvas. Michael stood staring at the clean, strip of land, dotted only with targets at set distances.

Michael turned to Oliver with wonder painted across his eyes. “Did I do that?”

Oliver smiled and nodded. “Not Arcancy, but magic sure enough. Spell-book magic. Old and reliable, but fairly stiff. Spell-book magic is like a tool chest, there’s a lot of useful devices but most of them only do one thing well. Anyway!”

Michael had so many questions his head started to throb but Oliver whisked the book out of his hand and drew an arrow from his quiver, handing it to the would-be archer.

“Ever fired a bow?”

Michael blinked, still staring at the now-freshly cut range before him. “I have a friend with a range, so we used to practise there sometimes. But I’m no marksman. I’ve got a knack for nocking arrows, though.” To prove his point, he pulled the missile onto the string in one swift stretch of his arm.

Oliver looked from the bow to the boy, as though he’d just performed an entirely different kind of magic. “That kind of thing will save your life, you know.”

Michael chuckled, mumbling, “Not if that’s all I can do with it...”

Oliver had him line up one of the closer targets, which was little more than a red, black and white painted circle. Slowly he took him through some practised breathing.

“Ready?” Oliver asked.

Michael wanted to laugh but his nerves bungled him. “Sure.”

“Draw.”

Michael tugged the bowstring back and all the muscles in his arms and back yawned and stretched. His shoulder hitched as he sighted the target once more, waiting for his que.

“Loose!”

At the height of his breath, Michael released. The arrow flung hard and sharp, ripping dead into the target and causing the entire post to tremble.

Oliver’s jaw dropped so low Michael was worried he’d trip on it.

Michael’s shock was more verbal as he tried to utter about seven confused things, achieving clarity and sense in none of them.

“You dirty liar!” Oliver shouted, blooming with pride. “I’m no marksman. What in the Dark Lands do you call that?”

Michael blinked. “Luck. I call it luck.” Though there were some humble falsities to Michael’s description. He had only practised a little, however, he seemed to have a knack for shooting too, something which he’d been hesitant to say in front of an actual warrior.

“Again, damn-it!” Oliver smiled and watched eagerly as he strung another arrow, quick as blinking.

Michael sighted the second target on the range, accounting for the distance and the gentle wind blowing in from his right side. He felt the bowstring creak, and he imagined it was just another of his muscles singing through the weapon. Michael let his fingers be thrown outward by the launching string and he watched the arrow arc gently through the air and twist idly in the wind before it slammed into the target with a twang!

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Oliver whooped and jumped with joy before shaking Michael by the shoulders and yelling, “Beginner’s luck, he says!” He looked Michael gently up and down and sincerely asked, “Michael Williams, right?”

“Spot on.”

Oliver smiled brightly and repeated the name softly to himself, like he was tasting it. “Once is luck. Twice could be a coincidence. But three times... is a skill. Now, show me.”

Michael did. And then he did again. And again, and again until Oliver was so aghast with bewilderment that he dragged Michael away and into the neighbouring sword field. “Alright, alright, let’s go do something you’re terrible at, so I can feel better about myself.”

“Hey now!” Michael walked backwards in front of him, yelling, “I never got to see you fire this thing!”

Oliver recoiled like the weapon would burn him and he chuckled. “If I wanted to embarrass myself, I’d have asked you to dance.”

Michael cackled and said, “Mental note, made. Now, before I sober up from this confidence, teach me how to swing a sword.”

Oliver pulled Michael up onto the raised stage and Michael found a group of other Legacies, all standing in a loose group chatting and limbering up. Oliver guided him into the mix and introduced him handily to everyone. Michael caught only a handful of names and dropped them soon after. Then Oliver moved him into a clear space and snatched up two training swords from the weapon rack. Michael then watched with interest as he unstrapped his iron broadsword from his hip, leaving it in his sheathe.

Michael frowned and said, “You don’t fight with your own sword?”

Oliver hung it carefully in the now-empty space and teetered his head hesitantly, casting an unsure glance at him. “Not when training. It’s a long story.”

Michael took one of the practise shortswords and felt the weight of it in his hand. He’d seen a lot of swords in his life and handled a couple, but only ever at Carter’s mansion. Wearing a sword, let alone holding one, when you weren’t born in the gentry was punishable by ten public lashings per possession. Michael once saw a rebel arms smuggler caught on the docks of Mid-side. He was found with fourteen concealed daggers. Michael didn’t stay to watch, but he heard that the lasher lost count mid-punishment and was forced to count the stripes on the man’s mangled back before continuing.

Oliver walked him through a foundation of a sword-work known as Leverest-short fighting. According to Oliver it was the style most famously used in his home province. It was deliberate and sharp, yet each jab and crack was elegant and smooth, like the metal merely extended from Oliver’s wrist.

Despite Oliver’s jesting, he was patient as a summer breeze. He walked Michael though the movements, the attacks, the defences, the stepping and stances for over an hour while the sun beat down. By the time Oliver was comfortable enough with Michael’s education to start a duel, Michael was covered in a thick sheen of sweat.

Oliver smiled and said, “The reason I exhaust you like this is because you may very well need to fight on your best form even when you’re close to death. Often enough, it’s the only time when you need to be as good as you possibly can be. Now, press me.”

Michael spent the next half-hour striking firmly at the swordsman. Oliver wasn’t pandering or polite but at no point did the young archer feel as though he was putting him in any danger. After his tenth unsuccessful attempt to make him sweat, Michael moved out of the prescribed fighting style. In an attempt to surprise him, Michael brought his sword around in a high swipe.

Oliver had the audacity to smirk before he blocked the blade, grabbed Michael’s arm, twisted him and put a foot behind Michael leg all in a single movement. It was like a dance designed to be embarrassing.

“What happens now?” Oliver asked, having so much control over Michael’s unbalanced stance that even if he just released him, the archer would have tumbled to the floor.

“I lose?”

“You learn.” He helped Michael regain his balance and said, “If you’re going to open yourself up, make sure the attack is worth it. Don’t tell me what you’re going to do before you do it. In your case, you tend to give yourself away by recoiling too much before you spring. Right now, all I have to do is watch you.”

Michael frowned and shifted his feet back into fighting position. “So, I should be unpredictable?”

“Nope!” yelled a voice off to his side.

Oliver turned to see a familiar face and Michael watched him try to decide between a dozen different smiles in a hasty moment.

A young woman, roughly the swordsman’s age strolled directly toward them. Her sunny hair was messily tied out of her face, outlining her sharp blue eyes. From her hip hung a long, serpentine sheathe with an amazingly ornate design. She moved with a casual energy but her footing was precise. Her complexion was tanned from much work in the sun but she was also naturally light-skinned. She stopped short of Oliver, smiling politely but they both seemed to find an easy comfort in one-another. “Oli.”

“Miss Robinson,” he smiled, hurriedly brushing his hair back and pulling Michael between the two of them. “Meet Michael. Michael- this is Sarah.”

Sarah held her hand out to the newcomer. “Michael...”

“Williams,” Michael said, curiously noting just how effortless her poise was, from how her out-held greeting to her upright posture. The only other person he knew who stood like that was Carter. “Are you a dancer?”

She looked slightly taken aback and broke into a grin. “No, no- well, I can dance, I’m not Oliver-”

Oliver threw his hands up.

She continued, grinning through her teeth“-and I had some training but no, not really. Why do you ask?”

It was Michael’s turn to stammer. “You just- you have great posture. Sarah, right?” he added, trying to divert the topic.

Sarah nodded and gave the slightest, mock curtsey with the ends of her shirt. “Or Miss Robinson, if you’re Oliver.” She gave the sandy-haired boy a rough smirk. “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you around in a bit?”

Oliver’s hands couldn’t seem to find a place to settle, and he shrugged far too many times as he said, “Oh, you know. Helpin’ out. Term-harvest just came in so.”

Michael frowned and shook his head. “It’s mid-autumn.”

Sarah understood all too quickly. “Environmental Arcancy means we can get a dozen crop-wide harvests in a cycle.”

“You could help a lot of people with that little trick,” Michael mused.

“We actually do, when we can. But there’s about three hundred people at the fort, so it’s harder to keep us feed than you think.” Sarah turned toward Oliver, setting her hand on her sheathed weapon. “Want to have a tumble?”

Oliver blushed and grabbed Michael by the shoulder again, muttering, “You know I’d love to, but I’ve got to keep this fella close. I’m getting him orientated. Plus, you always bring hand-to-hand into it and I don’t mind a bit of fighting dirty but-”

“I’ll bet,” she said, unshyly.

Michael stared frozen at the furthest wall.

Oliver blinked and scantly stopped himself from turning a different colour.

Sarah pursed her lips, seeing he was about to start sweating and asked, “How about the Arena, then?”

Michael frowned and gestured to the surrounding stage. “Wait, isn’t this the Arena?”

Oliver shook his head, glad for the distraction, and gestured over behind himself off to the left of the keep, where sat a small, dark, stadium with an iron portcullis on its front and seating for a hundred people or so raised high above its fight-floor.

Michael’s heart sped slightly in his chest. “Why the two different settings?”

Sarah threw her hands up and jumped down from the stage, calling, “Come find out!”

Oliver looked after her as she made her way and Michael smiled gently. “Maybe rehearse that opening line, next time?”

Oliver rolled his eyes, shoving Michael and the Dim-sider cackled as they started after Sarah.

“But I’ve got to hand it to you, the awkward charm seems like it’s working.”

Oliver raised a suggestive eyebrow at Michael. “Is it?”

Michael shrugged, matching his energy. “Maybe.” His face split into a grin. “Let’s go ask her!”

Michael turned and bolted after Sarah and Oliver shot after him. They bickered and laughed as they ran. Michael couldn’t have kept the smile off his face if he’d tried and sprinted like his life depended on it.