Chapter 26

Day Ten – Evening

There was an unrhythmic harmony to the three veterans singing. None of them hit the right notes and their pitch was all over the place. Sitting around the small fire inside the mill, Torm and Thyra listened to ‘The Crow’s March’, a widespread and popular song among soldiers – not just in Albion. The rugged woman had asked to learn a song from them, and there they were.

“I march no more, my path ends here,

Dear mama, will you cry or will you cheer?

The end has come, we lost the war,

And my body’s eaten by a crow.”

Buron had shed a tear, and Breg’s eyes were closed while they continued to hum the melody. This wasn’t the first time that Torm had witnessed them singing. The veterans did this on the regular when they came together. But for the rugged woman in her pallid undergarments, this was the first time she saw them as human beings. Vulnerable and hurt. Reveling in shared memories that she did not understand.

The unreasonably tall man had his arm around his scrawny companion, bare-chested, while Zaber stared into the flame. Drips of rain had accompanied them and a cauldron of bats roosted in the ruins above them. The wooden parts of the mill were charred or destroyed, but its base was made entirely from stone. The stairs to the upper story were rotted away, leaving a hole in the second floor, which now served as their roof. Only two giant, broken grindstones and a trapdoor were left behind from the mill’s glory day.

“We take second shift,” said Breg after the solemnity became too awkward. Thyra noticed an underlying sob as he wiggled his arm out from under Buron. The pair stood up and walked towards the basement’s entry, right next to the grindstones. A rope had been hidden in the broken parts, as it was a common smuggling route, which Buron let down the hole. For the giant, though, this wasn’t needed and he just hopped down.

Sitting on the edge to the cellar, Buron turned around, smirking and winking at Zaber. “Grind them hard. Would be a shame if they kicked the bucket before us,” he said and lowered himself into the dark.

Zaber’s gaze twitched out of the flames, nodding at his friend. “There, you heard us.” He only wore the old braies with plenty of holes and spots on them, and his worn-out brown gambeson. With opened buckles, most of the scars on his chest and ribs lay open too. “What did you get from it?” After a big stretch and yawn, he stood up. The belt with all his weapons had rested next to him and he put it onto his bare hips while walking through the room.

“There’s a lot to work with,” said Thyra, tilting her head as she reveled in the melody. “Don’t you know the words?” She looked at Torm.

“Haven’t earned them,” said the boy reluctantly with a gloomy smile. “Yet.”

“You have,” said Zaber, rummaging through the pile of armory. “Next time we sing, you sing it for Seyfe and Kovada.”

“And Asher and the others,” replied Torm, leaning against the mossy walls. He fixed his wet hair, waiting for his felt cap to dry next to the fire. The small bronze fibula in the shape of a sheep reflected the flickering flames.

Torm wore a plain short tunic and braies as well, which were the only spare clothes he had packed. It was his usual attire in summer when he was hanging back in the temple to read, or needed an extra layer for the winter. Watching his mentor sort through the metal, the boy rubbed his hands together while thinking. He didn’t wear these clothing for the same reason Thyra did, who was about to strip like the men. But seeing Zaber uncomfortable changed her mind. No, Torm felt inadequate next to the veterans. Not because of Breg’s muscles or the size that Buron packed. They wore something he felt he lacked – their scars. He himself was clean and smooth, no impurity or much hair on his body. These men had proven their worth in a world that Torm yearned for… and they called him a boy for it.

“There it is,” said Zaber to himself and pulled out Ermin’s captured sword. A plain leather sheath, connected to a robust belt. “Everyone up,” ordered the veteran. “Break’s over.” He picked up a buckler with a thick leather knot on it and held both in front of Thyra’s nose. “These are yours now, whoever takes them, blah-blah, you heard me before.”

“Glad you’re doing better,” said Thyra, a sparkle blinking in her eyes as she inspected the steel.

“Hrmph,” twitched the corner of Zaber’s mouth.

“Why cavalry?” The rugged woman’s hands hovered over the buckler and sword, reluctant to touch them. “Am I going to fight on horseback?”

“It’s an arming sword; a regular sidearm,” said Torm and flipped onto his feet. “What makes it cavalry is that it’s pretty long for a one-hander, but not yet a bastard sword.” He grabbed the blade’s hilt from his mentor’s hands and pulled it out, startling Thyra for a moment. But soon her gaze became inquisitive, as the boy held it up for her. “See the tip? It’s less pointy. Not made for stabbing as much as it is thick and sturdy to withstand clashing into armored men at full speed.”

“Many poor and unskilled duelists use them,” added Zaber. “They’re more forgiving if you hack-and-slash away – with a reach buffer.”

“Perfect!” Thyra’s mezzo voice swung up and down, as she tried to show her best villainous smile. The mentor and apprentice duo looked at each other. One raised an eyebrow, the other rolled his eyes, as the young woman grabbed the shield and sword. “Exactly what I need.”

“Listen,” said Zaber dryly, grabbing Thyra’s wrists to pull her onto her feet. “I’ll train you to survive, not to win.” He guided her through the room at her back, giving her a confused expression while she avoided stumbling over debris and bundles. Close to what used to be the stairs upwards was more than enough space to move back and forth a couple steps. “Torm will assist me and be your dummy while I do–” He examined Thyra from head to toe. “I do whatever you tell me.”

“Alright!” She clapped her hands, making the steel in it collide. “So, you ne–”

“Wait for me to finish,” interrupted Zaber with Torm positioning himself behind his mentor. “Fall in line!” ordered the former mercenary and Torm did as he was told, jumping in front of the new student. “Take a step forward, bend your knees,” instructed Zaber and the boy demonstrated it at the same time. The young woman hesitated and looked down at her legs, until Zaber stepped next to her. He put his own foot between her legs and guided her feet to the correct position.

“Like this?” asked Thyra, still staring at her feet.

“Lower your arse and hips.” A different man, Zaber wasn’t shy to touch his new student at all, directing her body. “Back foot builds pressure, front foot digs itself solid. Not from your heels – they only support – but from your toes.” The veteran drew his lange messer and used the flat to tap against the errors that stood out to him. “Take your time, look at Torm, and correct yourself.”

Unsure about her own, Thyra fumbled back and forth, looking for cues in Torm’s eyes. The boy guided her with nods and shakes of his head, or moving the parts of his body that she needed to correct. She still felt her butt and thighs from the riding lessons, and her knees were about to join them. But later than sooner, she was able to get into a position that satisfied her teachers.

“Straight posture, torso slightly to the side. Shield arm up front, hand to your chest’s height,” continued the veteran, guiding her arms and back while stepping between her and the boy. He pressed against Torm with his knuckles, showing her how hard it is to move him. “Tension is the key, your whole body needs to work.” Zaber nodded at Torm, whose face had a stupid grin all over it. Afterwards, Zaber tested Thyra in the same way, making her budge backwards until she was about to trip. “We need to get you proper boots. Your shoes will get you killed.”

“My mother and I made them from rabbit hide,” said the rugged woman, defeated. Returning to her stance, she wiggled her toes as she looked down at herself again. “I like–”

“I ain’t giving no single fuck about what you like,” interrupted Zaber and moved on. “You’ll do nothing but stand like this and move around as the boy tells you.”

“Not a boy,” commented Torm, provoking his mentor’s stare. “I’m your adjutant now.” He smiled.

Zaber stepped in front of Torm, coming face-to-face with him. “You’ll use my blade. Our enemy is armed with the same weapon she wields right now. The line magician only wore a dagger–” he scoffed. “He’s a bitch that’ll avoid a melee at all costs.” Shifting around Torm, Zaber spoke loud and clear for Thyra to hear him. “The Captain’s sword is a couple inches shorter, with a bigger shield. His lieutenant dons a bastard sword, a hand-and-a-half.” He handed his lange messer over to the boy and turned around on his heel to face Thyra once more. She struggled to find the correct posture. “When you move, you don’t cross your legs. Front leg first, whole soles on the ground, leaned onto the toes. Then you trace your standing behind; don’t hop like a bunny. If you get intercepted with both feet in the air, you’re dead,” he explained, and made room between his two students, gesturing at Torm that he can take over. “Now move!”

At that very moment, Zaber felt good. Reverting back to his former self wasn’t something he took pleasure in. Except when he was teaching Torm and now Thyra as well. A young corporal who wanted nothing more than to keep even younger recruits alive. With a keen eye on every move the well-fed, healthy woman did. The first drops of sweat building up, how her arms became lame and her legs gave in until she lost posture. That was when he swept in to correct her, as Torm still tended to lose himself in the moment too much. “Move along his lead. You ain’t as strong as a soldier, nor are you a real peasant girl toiling away every day – or gets punished by a bad harvest or her liege,” he said, as harsh as he could. “We sweat in peace so we ain’t bleeding at war.”

“Ye–” Thyra breathed heavily. “Yessir!” she replied, laughing.

Snapping his head at his new recruit, Zaber’s teeth were grinding with a smirk – forehead to forehead. “Call me Sir one more time and you’ll learn what happens if you slow down.”

Thyra flinched and lost the grip on the buckler, which hung from the leather knot on her wrist. She gulped and gained distance between her and Zaber. “I, I–” she stuttered. “It was a joke, alright? Don’t talk to me like that. You scare me.”

Torm placed a hand on his mentor’s shoulder, leaving his stance. “No need for that,” said the young man. “She gets it, calm down.”

As he shook off Torm’s hand, Zaber took a few steps away and took a deep breath. Rubbing the stubble on his chin, his fingernails dug into the scar on his jaw. His skin ached and he ruffled his own wet hair, which finally stopped being so damned smooth. “I can’t afford to have you die on me,” said Zaber frenetically, turning around. “Or him. Or the nasty dogs down there.”

“Just–” Thyra’s voice trembled, but she took a step forward again. “Just teach me normal,” she said, trying to smile through the scare. “Your first instructions were good. And I’ll stop joking, I swear, this is serious to me too.” Her eyes sought reassurance with Torm.

“I’ll stay behind, as you said, and guard her. If you are worried that–” nodded Torm, reaching for the former soldier’s shoulder.

“’aight,” interrupted Zaber, stretching his tense neck and shoulders. “Let’s get back. I’ll–” He walked up and down between Torm and Thyra, pointing at the dangling buckler. “First you learned how to walk, now you gotta learn how to hold your cutlery.”

Thyra raised her hands and held the buckler directly in front of her chest. The cavalry sword was right next to it, pointed upwards. Her teacher tipped the flat of his lange messer against it.

“Wrong,” said Zaber and moved right next to her, to make his own hand easier to see in the flickering light. “You ain’t wanna lose this, but you gotta stay flexible. Lots of this gets personalized with experience, but for now you do as I do.” Holding his empty hand as if he was holding a shield, his blade pointed towards Torm’s chest and neck. The tip was very close to where the buckler should be, but he emphasized his sword-hand first. “Thumb on the pointer to form a loose ring; gives you wiggle room to move the sword around. Stinker adds to this, but tighter,” explains Zaber and showed how the blade was allowed to shake a little in the upper half of his fist.

“The… what?” asked Thyra, following the blade’s movement, confused. “My what?”

“The stinker,” repeated Zaber, glimpsing over at Thyra’s reaction. “The middle finger.” He stuck said finger of his free hand out, flipping Torm off. “The one you use to tell someone to go fuck yourself.”

Torm snorted and his whole body trembled under the chuckle. “Man,” he squeezed out. “I doubt she ever told her mother to go fuck herself.”

“Why would I?” Thyra shook her head, curling her lips. “If either of us needed alone time, the other one would take a walk.”

“Wait, you wha–” Torm broke form again. “Why didn’t we ever come up with that?”

Zaber coughed. “So–” he said, loudly. “Your medicine and little finger. These assert all the power to keep the damned thing in your hand.”

The rugged woman pressed her lips shut to avoid bursting into laughter. Zaber’s uncomfortable glimpse, yet dry tone, got to her. She didn’t want to provoke him again. Keeping a serious face was beyond her power. Seeking out Torm’s eyes again, the two looked at each other as if they were telling a silent joke.

“Show me.” Zaber continued, correcting the height of how far up or down Thyra held her blade, and the bend of her elbow. “Buckler’s less tricky. Just place your thumb on top of the handle. Makes it easy to turn it left and right,” he said, stepping aside so that Torm could face the young woman unobstructed. The teacher guided Thyra’s off-hand, raising it from the position she chose on instinct. “Raise it as high as you can without losing your foe’s face and shoulders. Arms are always slightly bent; don’t be a fragile twig.”

Snapping his fingers and pointing at Thyra, the mentor gave his apprentice the order to mock-attack her. Torm’s blade never developed any real momentum to overwhelm the novice. Without any pressure, steel connected with steel gently. Only to show how it would block incoming strikes to her body and head.

“This is your cone of defense. Keep the hilt a hand-width to your chin, angled to your ear.” Zaber grabbed Thyra’s swordhand and moved it along with his words. “Your hands will stay in this position for this exercise. You focus on your movements, Torm will correct you if you slip,” said the veteran and moved out of the way. “And when you move, I want to hear a sharp exhale. A short burst; make your stomach and chest muscles twitch.”

Not wasting any time, Torm moved and struck the buckler while showing off the breathing technique. Back and forth, slow steps, and a lot more pain in the soft parts of her body. Thyra was learning. The closest she had ever done before was chopping wood. She would be lying if she never pretended to fight a villain or monster like that. The stick fighting her mother and she did when she was little wasn’t like this at all. No posturing, no dramatic pressing of blades against each other, or fun swirls. What Zaber and Torm did was real work and all she wanted was a break.

“Show her something fun,” said Zaber from the side, thumbs stuck into his belt. He inspected every move and commented on every error, but also on everything well done. “Like that useless spinny thing every amateur show-off does when they think they’re hot shit,” ordered Zaber, keen eyed with narrowed brows. He feinted a smile at Torm for just a moment, while scratching, moving his shoulders a bit, with a crack.

The boy did as he was told, enjoying himself in the adjutant’s position. The trick was easy, but looked way more impressive than it was. Keeping the ring that held the hilt in place, but opening up the rest of the hand and letting gravity do the rest. Closing one’s fist to get the grip back was how the blade swung up, finishing the circle.

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“This is the only use this trick has. A hand-drill to become quick-wristed and get a feel for the blade,” said Zaber, rubbing the skin on his forearms. “If someone does that in front of you to intimidate you, it’s a tell-tale sign that they are shit at fighting.”

“I did this for half a year when I got started with Zaber,” said Torm and smiled silly.

“He still does when thinks he’s alone,” said Zaber, stopping their exercise by putting a hand on Torm’s shoulder. “Straight posture, solid stance, cone of defense, sword read.” He listed everything off his apprentice’s body, and pointed at what Thyra was lacking. “Moving, breathing, body tension. Hard to get right all at once. That’s why you need to be strong and resilient. Shouting in short bursts can help with the breathing, or overwhelm an unprepared opponent. Not today, though, we do that tomorrow, ‘aight?”

“Yes,” Thyra nodded and looked down on herself, then at Torm, and started wiggling her feet. “I think.”

“’aight,” repeated Zaber. “Now’s your turn. Take a break and tell me what I gotta do. Then we’ll train parallel to each other.”

Both switched to a casual stance, and Thyra’s body slumped down exhausted. Torm was also sweating, but looked energized by it. Thinking while panting, the rugged woman pulled on the undergarments she wore with her fingers to let in the cold air. “So… uhm–” She looked around, straightened her back again and bent her spine. “Sorry, uh–, I’ve learned most of this when I was little, and mother made many lessons into games for me.”

“And?” asked Zaber dryly, scratching the scar on his jaw. “I also learned this when I was very little.”

Rolling his eyes, Torm sat down on the grindstone. “Man, I’ve always had fun with you,” said the boy, lying down. “Don’t be an arse.”

“Let’s start with breathing and posture as well,” said Thyra, and tapped Zaber on the shoulder with the flat of her sword. She moved very slowly, afraid to cause an accident, when she touched the old, tattered brown gambeson. It had many dark spots on it and reeked like a wet dog. “You might want to take this off.”

“I might not,” replied Zaber, and grabbed the blade with two fingers, directing it away.

“Why do you still wear it? You’ll get sick overnight, and isn’t it sticky?” The rugged woman put the sword and buckler on one of the bundles to free her hands.

“I never get sick,” said Zaber, while Torm sat behind him and shook his head, forming a wordless ‘no’.

Thyra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Hear me out,” she said, staring down Zaber. “I did what you told me, and you do the same. Take that yucky thing off and stand up straight. Don’t push your belly out, and your chest needs to be able to fill with air so that your voice can move.”

The former soldier was used to this kind of language. He recognized justified authority, as he was the recruit now, whether he liked it or not. “’aight, straight posture,” he said, took off the open gambeson and threw it close to the fire. Zaber wasn’t as hairy or strong as Breg, but lean and trim. There wasn’t much belly to stick out.

“Alright, next comes the hard part.” The pitch of Thyra’s sharp, dramatic mezzo rose in excitement. She saw Torm mimicking his mentor in the background. “Relax, you’re always so stressed and tense,” she said, as she placed her hands on his rib cage to guide his lungs. Her thumbs pressed the lowest ribs, on Zaber’s backside, while her index fingers were just beneath the short ones in the front. With closed eyes, she took one deep, slow breath, raising her entire chest. “Through your nose. Allow your lungs to open; deep. From your midriff, not the chest.”

Running her hands over Zaber’s body, it tensed up even more. “Am I doing it right?”, asked the veteran with pinched eyes.

“Not at all,” said Thyra after opening her eyes. “Do it like him.” Her gaze pointed at Torm, participating silently in the background.

Opening his eyes again, Zaber turned around to see what his apprentice was doing. His eyes were narrowed, but not in his usual stare. Torm recognized that he was looking for flaws and strengths. “What’s the difference?” asked Zaber.

“He doesn’t look like he’s an animal blabber that’s about to pop,” giggled Thyra and stepped away from her pupil. “Think about something nice. A thing that makes you comfortable. Close your eyes, and relax…” She waited, giving Zaber the time he needed. “What’s your favorite memory?”

Lowering his hands, Zaber stared at the ground to think about that question. There were many things to choose from, but none of the thoughts that flooded his mind were pleasant. When he closed his eyes, all he could see were Asher, Yann and Ceyhan. All he could hear was Brenz. The muscles of his jaw were about to burst from grinding his teeth, until he looked up again at Thyra, frustrated. “Some poppy juice would really help me right now. I ain’t thinking straight with the pain going on.”

“No,” said Thyra, losing no time. “You’re all healed up. Just focus on something else. It’ll take a couple days, but you’re going to be alright.”

Torm placed his hand on Zaber’s shoulder from behind and presented him with the lange messer he was given. “Need this back?”

With aching skin and hair, Zaber looked at his own weapon in disgust. He sighed and shrugged before turning back to his instructor. “Let’s get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Thyra with a rattled smile. Taking a few steps back, she hummed up and down a ladder of pitches. She directed herself with rising and descending hand waves. “Go easy on yourself,” she inhaled again, looking rather serene. “Make some noise. Start low; go up, then low again. After that, take a deep breath and start over. Let me hear your range so that we can figure out what spells are best suited for you.”

“What if I don’t match the–” Zaber halted, looking upwards to think. “Fire scale?” he asked, before starting to hum.

“Some kinds of songs are more suitable for different ranges. It doesn’t limit you, everything can be sung by everyone,” explained Thyra, while listening. “Same way your Birthstar and the current sky influence what works best at a time.”

Trying to support his mentor, Torm hummed as well. Zaber wasn’t the type who was unsure of himself when push came to shove, and seeing him like that made the boy anxious as well. Thinking about the worst outcome, Torm was sick of waiting for everyone else to tell him what to do.

“Please, I can’t concentrate on both of you at the same time,” intervened Thyra. “Let me figure out Zaber’s range first, and later yours.” At the same time as saying this, her hands were apologizing. “Right now we’re still under Bear. Spells that regard your body are strong right now, as well as earthen manipulation. Mother–” Stopping herself to look up at the roof with small droplets of rain coming through, she smiled sad. “Mother sang an old song that invokes the dangers of the swamp. It’s an earth, water and growth song titled ‘Death awaits in the Wetlands’. The song we sang to stimulate your health and vivify your body’s own ability to heal is called ‘The Song of the White Sister’, which is a prayer to the white moon and works most of the year, with different strength. It’s only useless on the white’s new moon.”

“I kno–” Zaber stopped his humming, but got put in his place.

“Ah, ah, ah!” interjected Thyra. “No questions. You are a high baritone, as I thought. A hearth song is within your natural forte.” She wagged her finger to the rhythm that Zaber returned to. “You said you’re a Rooster, which is more than an entire cycle away. Songs of the sky, temper and loud songs are best for you.”

“Stallion is right after Rooster and your Stag comes next, with the Griffon in-between,” said Torm, while the young woman was still listening with one ear to Zaber. “Fire Festival is soon, and I assume Firebird is good for fire spells? Would it be best to wait until then?”

“It would,” replied Thyra halfheartedly. “Let’s pray neither of their singers has their Birthstar coming up in the next twelve days.” She looked upwards again, as if she was asking a favor from the Stars. “We should make a sacrifice to Bear and Firebird. My Stag is for earth, temper and growth. Stallions are good with body and loud spells, as well as attraction.”

Running his hand through his hair, Torm smirked and winked at himself. “You have no idea how much that explains,” he laughed. “So… we probe them for the next eleven days and attack on the twelfth?”

“That’s too late,” said Zaber and stopped humming. “Even if we slow them down, we have to strike as soon as we find an advantage. They’ll have reached the mines already by Fire Festival, which will have a fortified garrison.”

Walking to a bundle at the side, Zaber rummaged through everything around that area. Both his companions watched him befuddled, until Torm’s eyes widened and he set out to stop his mentor.

“Please, don’t take it,” uttered Thyra, powerless. “You can die from too much–”

“Calm your tits,” exclaimed Zaber and swatted Torm’s hands off of himself. The veteran held Airich’s scabbard and sword in one hand and a small leather bag in the other.

“Wha–” Thyra looked down her own bosom, in sweat-soaked undergarments, mouth slightly open. “The bird or…?”

“I didn’t–” Zaber looked at her, shook his head and pointed at Torm. “I meant him,” he said and stared his apprentice down. If he wanted to take the juice, neither of them could stop him.

“All this humming ain’t going to work if we don’t get the spell right,” said Zaber, walking towards Thyra. He opened the bag and showed its insides to Torm and Thyra, revealing a fine red dust.

“By the Dragon, what’s–” uttered Torm, nearly poking his nose into the bag.

“Don’t! Fucking idiot.” Zaber pushed Torm’s face away, and slapped him on the back of his head. “This shit’s poison.”

“What is it?” asked Thyra, leaning away from the substance.

“Arcanium,” replied Zaber, smirking at it. “It’s what killed Airich of Belge.”

“You said he was sick,” commented Torm, blinking confused. “I heard that from others too.”

“”It made him sick.” Zaber sounded satisfied. “The High King demands miners from all over Albion for the rare sites you can get it at. I’m sure the First King of Galázion and the Grand King of Krasnia do the same. Damned, I bet the Yesilian Sultan can’t do without it either,” said the veteran, widening the bag to jolt it a little. “The black dust that’s left in the blade’s letters is of a higher quality – at least that’s what Airich said. He only used the best. All I really know about is that breathing this shit fucks with your lungs and blood, and that it burns away when used.”

“Mother taught me nothing about this. I doubt she knew much. We only read about it existing,” uttered Thyra in awe. She wanted to reach into the bag and feel it between her fingers, but pulled away, biting her lips.

Zaber closed the bag and put the Arcanium aside where it was safe. “A knight without any of his magic horseshit is hard to beat, but with it, they’re near-invincible. You’ve seen the armor, shields and blades, Torm,” he said and got a nod from the boy. “They use them in temple statues and altars too. Saw a noble’s daughter use a longer spell to make light with a stone tablet when I was a kid. It’s their biggest secret. Airich didn’t trust any other enchanter with his steel; did everything himself. He used so much more Arcanium than any other officer in his army. Studying spells and what they called constructs… until it rotted him away from the inside.”

Pulling out Airich’s sword, Zaber swung it slowly, one-handed, around. The dust that he himself tried to get into the letters, to close the gaps of the old dust that was still in there, crumbled out. He held the blade straight in front of him for Thyra and Torm to have a good look at it. “The fog in Teblen and every other big city?” Zaber looked at Torm, who waited a moment confused before nodding again. “That’s everywhere after a big battle with many line magicians and knights.”

“Is that also dangerous?” asked Torm, trying to read the inscription on the longsword.

“Dunno,” replied Zaber, running his finger along the letters and turning it around to do the same on the other side. “I also dunno which side is which spell. One is Involcoro Igni, which sets it ablaze. The other is the one I need to win – Ignam Voco. Do you think you can sing these?”

“I–” Thyra was hypnotized by the swinging of the sword and took it out of Zaber’s hands; without resistance. Humming at the sword, moving it through the air, she tried to get a feel for the steel. “I don’t know. I need to study this. Experiment around with what I know and how to apply my knowledge to the words you’ve said,” said the rugged woman, feeling the dust in the letters, then cleansing herself of it on her undergarments. “Did your–” She stuttered. “Uh–, you know–, whatever he was to you… ever–”

“No,” interrupted Zaber. “Some of the officers talked about it behind his back; which he knew. Nobody dared to accuse him of teaching me magic in secret… and he didn’t.” The former mercenary shrugged and scratched the scar on his jaw. “I have no clue how this works or what Airich did when he was alone.”

“So–” Torm looked back and forth between Thyra and Zaber. “When are we trying? What’s the plan?”

“On the morrow, we four are preparing for the next ambush,” replied Zaber, and held his hand in front of Thyra, who behaved like some mythical sword maiden. She didn’t hesitate to hand over the sword. “While we do that, I want you to figure out how to get the Arcanium into the sword, ‘aight?”

“I won’t let you down, by my mothers’ and father’s name,” said Thyra rhythmically, her mezzo swinging unsteady from exhaustion. “I want revenge.”

“What’s their–” Torm and Zaber spoke at the same time, halting and looking at each other. The mentor shook his head to point from his apprentice towards Thyra. “You,” he said.

“What was their name?” asked Torm.

“Their names were…” she swallowed audibly, faltering on her own words. “Rhuma – Rhu –, and Usa. And Tonna.”

“Those are midlander names,” said Zaber, remembering that they crossed that part of Albion multiple times. It was a region that was mostly comprised of the Landgraviates of Nessen-Haerm, and Esterthum, and the Duchy of Felham. “I knew someone from there once.”

“They are,” replied Thyra reluctantly. “I hoped I could go there one day.”

“Let’s see about that.” Zaber put the sword next to the bag of Arcanium. “You have no other task than this. We’ll do the murdering, you suppress their magic from a safe position in the rear.”

“I’m not sure if I can do that,” said Thyra and knelt next to her buckler and cavalry sword. “If two songs are sung at the same time, they cause disharmony. But the three together will have no problem overpowering me. I’m not even sure if my magic can interfere with even one of their spells.”

“I’ll be your bodyguard, you have nothing to worry,” said Torm and bumped himself on the chest with a fist. “Just sing them into the ground.” The boy gave Thyra a buddy slap on the back that made her cough and slip forward.

“That’s the spirit.” Zaber examined Thyra from head to toe, smiling at her overwhelmed reaction. “We gotta work on that stance, break’s over. You do what I told you, and I–” He stopped and inhaled playfully. “I’ll hum and breathe.”

What little sunlight remained settled behind the rain clouds. Only breaks for rekindling the fire, and drinking were allowed. The droplets accompanied the trio until the sky ran dry. Torm commented on Thyra’s progress and faults, while she gave instructions to Zaber whenever she heard him falter. Too tense. Relax. Deeper breaths. While Thyra was taught some more footwork, Zaber was told to add noises to the hums. Make his pitch more distinct and bring forth his voice. The veteran had sung before and was used to yelling, but the rugged woman’s body ran out of steam, in need of more breaks. Zaber pushed his companions as far as he could. If it was up to him, sleep would be nothing but an obstacle. But it couldn’t be helped.

With Buron and Breg reemerging from the cellar, it was time for Torm and Thyra to sleep. While everyone was preparing for either watch duty or sleep, the former mercenary picked up Airich’s longsword and went outside. Silhouettes of the Red and White Sister shone through the thin veil of clouds. Zaber put on his half-dried gambeson and rubbed his aching skin. Giving into the itch, he swung the sword through different forms and stances. Fighting an invisible foe.

“That’s the dead bastard’s sword?” rang Breg’s grizzled voice out of the mill’s entrance. Buron stood right behind his giant companion in the old door frame. “How long since we had a spar? Two white moons?” He held his bardiche axe and long paddings, still bare-chested.

Zaber’s ears shifted backwards, and he turned around mid-swing, effortlessly changing directions. Changing to a straight position, the broken veteran’s sunken face looked tired and dark. “By the Stars,” he said and reached for Breg’s hand and smiled gratefully. “That’s what I need now.”

“Me too,” replied Breg, shook his friend’s hand and pulled him into a misshapen hug. “Three rounds, then you gotta rest.”

“You also need this,” said Buron and threw a vial towards Zaber. Squatting on the old steps, the scrawny veteran leaned against the wall and watched his friends do their thing. “I really hope the blackhead’s worth it.”

Snatching the medicine out of the air, Zaber opened it right away and downed it in one go. His face looked disgusted, yet relieved, when he raised Airich’s sword and shifted back into a fighting stance. “Asher and I owe him,” said the greasy and unkempt man. “We got his older brother killed. And without folk like us, he wouldn’t even be here.”