1.5 EIGHT ’TIL EIGHT
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Glim dreamed he stood atop a tall tower with clouds swirling below, obscuring the ground. Silvery streaks writhed in the dark sky, lighting the gray clouds beneath him with diffuse white light. He took a step towards the edge so he could look down. As soon as his step landed, the floor tilted beneath his feet. Glim yelped in surprise as he fell to his knees. The floor tilted even more, sending him tumbling. Glim slid towards the edge of the tower, slipping over the smooth, wet stones. He clawed at them, but they offered no handhold. Just like he had in the cleft, Glim knew he was going to fall. But this time, nothing saved him. With a sickening lurch, he plummeted over the edge and fell into the clouds, screaming as he plunged towards the ground.
He woke with a start, sweating under his blanket. When he saw the stones of his tower chamber’s floor, Glim had a brief moment of panic, still experiencing the sensation of falling. He stood and stowed his bedroll quickly.
As his father headed out the door, he wished his luck in his lesson.
“I don’t have one today,” Glim said.
“Oh?”
“The mind is like a muscle that needs to be stretched. I have to let it rest today.”
His father raised an eyebrow. “In that case, would you like to stretch your other muscles and join me for some training?”
Glim smiled eagerly and threw on breeches and a jerkin. He took his father’s hand as he stepped onto the rampart outside their tower door. Dawn had just broken over the tip of the eastern mountains, casting a ruddy orange glow that caught the edges of thin clouds scattered across the sky. Roosters cried out from various corners of the fortress. Some of the chickens were already walking up to the door, seeking scraps.
They skipped the dining hall and went straight to the guard’s quarters. This squat row of stone buildings nestled along the wall, flanking the main gate. Yellowish slants of light from the arrow slits lit the snowdrifts, cast by the cheerful hearthfire of the guards’ mess hall.
When he walked in with his father, several of the guards smiled from the long wooden table. Hunks of bread and bowls of porridge lined the tabletop, and mugs of spiced applewine sent curls of steam into the air. The room smelled of spice, sweat, and bravado.
“Why if it isn’t Glim the Grim!” said a voice behind him. Rough hands scooped him into the air as Garrick the armorer tossed him onto his shoulders. Glim laughed and beat at the man’s back, like raindrops trying to knock down an oak.
“Alright, settle down,” Garrick said, dropping him and handing him a bowl of porridge. Glim saw bits of apple inside and smiled. He wolfed it down and handed back the mug, raising his eyebrows for seconds.
His father stood at the head of the table and gave out patrol assignments, to the occasional groan.
“And I’ll be training a potential recruit today,” he said, winking at Glim, and beckoning him to follow. He hopped up from the table, giddy with anticipation.
When Glim stepped into the armory, sights and smells flooded his mind. Rows of armor, with the warm scent of leather and the tang of metal. Racks of spears, axes, and swords lined the walls. Long tables held hammers and awls for working leather. He’d spent many happy days here “repairing” armor, fighting with staves, and soaking up what tips the guards had to give him.
Garrick scanned the room, his bushy eyebrows knitting together like mating woolly worms. He harrumphed and clucked from somewhere inside his massive beard, examining and discarding sword after sword. “Here, try this one,” he said.
The handle of the wooden half-sword felt smooth in Glim’s hands. Almost polished. But its blade had dents, chips, and scratches all over. It surprised him with how little it weighed. He nodded at Garrick, who nodded back, as if this were the most serious transaction he’d ever been privy to in his decades as armorer.
Glim followed his father into a wide chamber with rings of white marble embedded into the gray stone floor. Benches lined the walls. Morning light streamed in from large, arched slits in the wall. Hanging banners featuring the crest of Wohn-Grab fluttered in a breeze: a white torch in front of crossed lines, like a snowflake with a flame at its top, set against a dark gray background. The stinky snowflake, as he thought of it.
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Father walked in front of him and looked over his shoulder.
“Now then. Shadow me. Watch my elbows, hips, and feet. The sword will follow.”
Glim stood a comfortable distance behind his father, who held the hilt of his sword in both hands and brought it out in front of his body. Glim did the same, pushing his elbows out, as if he were hugging the air. He knew this one well enough: the ready stance.
“Check your feet,” his father said, without looking back.
Glim quickly shifted his stance, left foot forward and knees slightly bent. He always forgot that part.
“Recall, if you will, the eight-in-eight.” His father tilted his sword straight up. “One!” he said, then returned to ready. “Five!” he said, swinging straight down. “Seven is a swing to the left.” His right foot twisted around as he pulled his left elbow in tight against his hip. “Three is to the right.”
His father seemed powerful, and graceful, as if holding a sword was what he had always been meant for. Glim had to think about every step and angle. He felt awkward, but followed his father’s lead. “What do those numbers all have in common?” he asked.
“They’re odd numbers,” Glim replied.
“Correct. It all stems from one, which is straight up. Now the diagonals. Two!” He lifted his left elbow into the air, tucked his right elbow in, and his sword swung back over his right shoulder. “Eight!” His right elbow lifted and the sword went over his left shoulder. “Four!” His sword swung down diagonally to the right. “Six!”
He cut downward to the left then returned to his ready position. “Remember that the small numbers go right, and the large numbers go left. Right?”
“Right!” Glim agreed with gusto.
His father smiled in amusement at his enthusiasm. “Remind me, what is the purpose of these numbers?”
“To get from ready to guard.”
“And what is the difference between ready and guard?”
“You can’t slice from ready. You can only thrust.”
“Very good. Now you call the numbers out, and we’ll step through them. Back to ready each time.”
“One!” Glim said, raising his sword in unison with his father. “Five!” he said, slicing downward.
“Come on, now, mix it up.”
“Two! Four! Eight! Two! Two! Seven!” Glim kept calling out random numbers, matching his swing’s to his father’s.
“Freeze!” he said. Glim stopped moving.
His father walked over. “Hold that stance. Where do you feel it?”
“In my shoulders,” Glim said.
His father put his hand on Glim’s belly and pressed. “You should feel it in your stomach. It should be clenched tight, and you should feel the twist in your muscles from there all the way up across your shoulder. Now let’s switch places. I will call the numbers out and you do the movements.”
Glim felt his father set up ready position behind him. He put his hands, knees, feet, and elbows into their proper places and waited nervously.
“Six! Three! Four! One!” As his father called out each number, Glim made the movements. It took him a second to remember each position.
“Back to ready position every time,” his father said. “And more quickly. Make the move, then immediately return to ready. You always want to keep the sword between yourself and your opponent. And you always want to be ready to assume any of the eight guards. Now then. Why do we call this the eight-in-eight?”
“Because there is another one for your feet,” Glim said. So far they’d been standing in one place. The balls of his feet were getting tired.
“Exactly. You’ve done this before. I’ll stay back here and call them out. Keep your sword at ready.”
“Seven!” he said, and Glim slid to the left. “Three!” he slid right.
He called numbers out faster, with Glim moving forward, backward, diagonal, and to the sides. Until at last he called out four, Glim stepped backwards, and felt a sword at his back.
“Four is diagonal. Five is back.”
“Oh, right.”
“Also, I wonder what would happen if I did this?”
His father extended one finger and pushed gently on Glim’s shoulder. He started to fall, and took a large step sideways to keep his balance.
“You always need to think about your feet so you can stay balanced. They were way too close together. Keep them at least a head’s width apart so you can’t topple easily.” He checked Glim’s feet and nodded. “Let’s take a break.”
Glim went to one of the benches and sat. His arms and legs felt wobbly. It surprised him how heavy the sword had become.
“Rest up,” his father told him. “Stretch a little. You know what’s coming next.”
Glim groaned.