“We’ve seen longswords before,” said Sam dryly.

Vic swung it about, the blade flashing in the sun, and then rested it on his shoulder. “You see, this is my thinking. Sam, wine?”

“Fetch it yourself.”

“A shocking lack of respect for your instructor. Regardless, there is no earthly way that you’ll catch up to Yeoric in terms of sheer physical fitness or actual sword technique. He’s a Level 3 Iron Vanguard, but to you, Harald, he might as well be the Skull Harvester. There’s no sense in pushing you into the dueling ring as promising novice who has made impressive yet limited gains. You need to enter the ring with a Class.”

“All right, yes.” Harald felt another frisson of excitement. “But those are only awarded by the Fallen Angel after months if not years of dedication followed by a moment of singular exaltation.”

“True, but it’s your only hope. Without a couple of Actives or Passives, you’ll be as challenging to Yeoric as a slab of beef hung from a butcher’s hook.”

Harald dry swallowed.

“For about five minutes I considered how best to put you on the path to some rare and lethal Class. Something like the legendary Dreadnaught, say, or a vaunted Stormblade. But again, we don’t have time to faff about trying to convince the Fallen Angel you’re worthy. No, what we need to do is simply lock you into a basic class, and then push that as hard as we can. A Warcleaver, say, or Flameguard.”

Harald felt a spike of disappointment; he’d always dreamed of reviving one of the lost classes, of being handed down a mythic class such as a Shadowstriker or a Darkslayer. But Vic was right.

“Hence the longsword.” Vic again considered the large blade. “Deadly, simpler to learn, and less taxing on the body.”

“It looks heavier,” said Harald.

“You’d be surprised. Its center of balance is close to the hilt, making it easy to wield. You can grip it with both hands instead of one, which is an enormous advantage for those who lack conditioning and training. Further, the basic guards are all easy to hold. Instead of extending your arm and sinking into a deep crouch, you can remain like this and be perfectly ready to fight.”

And Vic demonstrated by standing straight, left foot forward, both set slightly wider than his shoulders, and the blade held directly vertical with its crossguard pressed where his shoulder met his chest.

“You’ll need every advantage you can get against Yeoric,” said Vic. “And while I’m no expert in the longsword, I know enough about fighting with a blade to train you for a week. What is your Constitution again?”

“Six.”

“Six.” Vic made a face. “The whores of the Kitty Kat Club wept.” He lowered his blade. “Harald.”

“I know, I’m working on it.”

“No amount of instruction will help if you’re vomiting on your shoes within fifteen seconds of the duel beginning.”

“I know,” grated Harald. “I said I’m working on it.”

“I’m not deaf. I just…” Vic shook his head despairingly. “Your Strength? Your Dexterity?”

“7 and 6.”

“You’re as fearsome as an old woman. Still. We’ll work with what we have. Sam? Wine?”

“The kitchen is that way.”

“How quickly the faithful hound becomes a wolf. Let me think.” Vic tapped his chin. “All right. This is what your day will look like. A two hour morning run, or as close to one as you can approximate, starting at Sixth Bell.”

“Already doing that,” said Harald, trying not to feel proud.

“A light breakfast, then we’ll work on sword forms for an hour, followed by another light refreshment—”

“I’m trying to lose weight,” cut in Harald, flushing.

“You need your strength if you’re to learn. The weight will take care of itself. Now, don’t interrupt. After your second meal, we’ll give it a moment to settle, then you’ll do your first Marheim training exercises, say for an hour and a half. Then a big, glorious lunch, entirely at your expense and of my choosing, and then nap.”

“Nap?” asked Sam.

“Napping is essential.” Vic pointed his blade at her. “Napping is what sets us apart from common beasts -”

“Cats nap all the time,” protested Sam.

“- and allows our spirits to restore themselves and surge, upon awakening, to glory. So we nap, then you’ll both go for a two hour walk, followed by a snack, a final hour of sword work and then a light bout of Marheim exercises before dinner. Understood?”

“Run, breakfast, sword forms, snack, Marheim exercises, lunch, nap, two hour walk, snack, sword work, Marheim exercises, dinner.” Sam glanced at Harald. “That sounds like a lot. Harald’s just gotten started.”

“I fully expect the walls to be redecorated with copious amounts of vomitus,” said Vic airily. “But yes. If you can show me as much vigor and enthusiasm on the last day of the week as the first, I might consider finding you a proper longsword instructor. If, however, you’ve slacked off to lie moaning and wheezing upon a fainting couch, then I shall collect my earnings and bid you both adieu.”

“That’s fine with me,” said Harald. “I’m not afraid.”

“That just shows how little you know.” Vic sighed dolorously. “Let’s do our hour of sword forms, then.” He gestured at the long bag. “Fetch out two of the steel blades. Oh, but this feels like a waste.”

Harald crouched by the bags, his legs weak, and saw that a dozen weapons filled it. Wooden blades, big heavy swords wrapped in black cloth, and two actual longswords of live steel.

He drew them forth, and realized they were dull. Even the tip was stubby, though no doubt it would sink into a man if thrust hard enough.

“Yes, yes, practice blades. It would ruin dinner if you were bleeding all over the place.”

Harald hefted the sword. It was surprisingly light, and its length was responsive; the center of gravity was indeed close to the hilt, making it easy to whisk the point back and forth.

The blade with which he’d ventured into the dungeon had been slightly smaller, its crossguard curved gently upward on either side, its pommel a large iron coin. Its hilt had been substantially shorter, as well.

“All right, let’s begin with the most painful of basics.” Vic sighed and moved to stand next to them. “This is how you don’t hold your blade like a chair leg. One hand, your dominant hand, always goes flush against the crossguard, like so. If you ever see a man—or, to be fair, a head maid—holding a longsword bang in the middle of the hilt, you can relax, because they’re an idiot. Your dominant hand right under the cross guard, and then you have a choice with your second. No, Harald. Don’t grasp the pommel itself. Not unless you plan to unscrew it and throw it at your enemy to knock them out, which is, I’ll admit, an excellent way to win a fight. You either grasp it just above the pommel, with a large gap between both hands, or in the center of the hilt, leaving no gap. Can you tell me what the difference between each grip does?”

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Sam and Harald both raised their hands.

“Actually, I don’t care what you think, you’re no doubt wrong and will waste my time.” Vic moved his grip so that there was a large gap between his fists. “This allows for maximum dexterity with the blade. You can lever it as you desire, cutting rapidly to the sides and engaging in swordplay.” And he demonstrated by slashing to each side, recovering quickly. “The closed grip, on the other hand, allows for more power. It’s for great crushing blows, or attempts to break your opponent’s guard.”

Again he demonstrated.

“For now, do the dexterous grip. Yes, good, good, you can follow the most basic of instructions, I’m pleased.”

Vic’s constant haranguing didn’t phase Harald. Instead, he stared at this blade, realizing just how little he’d gone into the dungeon knowing. He’d never even considered how to hold a sword. Or that there might be different ways to different effects. He’d simply gripped it, yes, like a chair leg, and swung it like a club at the rats.

He was fascinated.

“Now!” Vic moved to face them. “Let’s begin with a basic blow. This will be amusing. Adopt my stance. Legs a little wider, Sam, good. Harald, deepen it a little, left foot forward. Fine, I suppose. Actually, let me ask a question: what is your single greatest priority in a sword fight?”

“To kill your foe,” said Sam.

“To not -”

“It was a rhetorical question,” snapped Vic. “Never speak, never assume you know anything, or that I am remotely interested in your opinions while giving class. That is probably the only way we’ll retain my good humor and interest in this charade. Your single greatest priority is to not die. Which influences how you fight. Don’t get cut.”

Harald nodded vigorously.

“I’m serious,” said Vic more slowly. “Don’t get cut. That means your attacks are still prioritizing your safety. Don’t get sloppy and present easy targets to your foe. For example, if I return to my Tower position.” And Vic brought the sword to vertical and pressed it against his chest again. “Notice how I’m standing. Everything is tucked in tight. My elbows aren’t flaring out. My hands are protected. Everything is safe. Now, if I stand like this…”

And Vic raised his elbow.

“Or put my hands forward.”

Now he thrust the sword’s hilt forward, the blade angled slightly back.

“A quick-witted foe will caress your offered body part with his blade and the fight will be over. Which brings me back to how to make a strike. Most idiots, the kind that will accost you in an alleyway or their wife’s bedroom when they find you there to their horror, will swing a sword like this.”

And Vic drew the blade all the way back behind him, then twisted his whole body and swung the sword slowly through the air, his shoulders and hips behind the blow.

“It’s natural.” Vic did it again. “Idiots and cuckholds swing swords like axes. The longsword is not an ax. It does not need all the strength in your body to kill a man. How defended am I while I swing the sword back like this?”

And Vic paused, the blade behind him, biceps pressed against his chin. “My head, my upper arms, my ribs, all are tempting targets. The fight will end right here.”

Again he returned to his Tower stance, blade vertical, elbows tucked. “Instead, you lead with your sword. Imagine that your blade is pulling forward of its own accord. Never do you lead with a part of your body. You thrust the sword forward. It will feel strange, you will be tempted to wind up for greater strength, but a longsword is perfectly capable of killing a man with a well placed, weaker blow. And the bonus?”

Harald went to answer then clamped his jaw shut.

“The bonus,” continued Vic, “is that you don’t get cut. Your blade moves forward, leading with the edge, and then your body follows behind. You now think you understand, but you don’t. In a real fight, you will no doubt still swing the sword like an ax, and die. Which is why I will now make you look like fools so that you may understand.”

Sam glanced at Harald, her expression complex, but bit back whatever complaint she clearly wanted to make.

“What you’re going to do,” said Vic, “is swing your sword as hard as you can. Forget about form. Just don’t move your feet. Left foot forward, just swing it as if you wanted to cut a tree in half.”

“Now?” asked Harald.

“No, tomorrow,” said Vic in a long suffering tone.

Harald inhaled sharply, settled into the wide, left-footed stance, and drew the blade up and back. Then he swung the blade in a downward diagonal slash as hard as he could. The blade whooshed down clumsily, but such was the strength of the blow that it pulled Harald forward and into a stumble.

“Bravo!” Vic pretended to clap as he sank into a crouch. “Sam?”

She did the same, though Harald had to admit she had a natural grace and predatory look that he simply lacked. Her cut was vicious, and also twisted her forward and around into a stumble.

“Beautiful. Now. Did you feel that? How your blade pulled you forward? You didn’t move and then swing. You swung and then moved. That is the essence of ensuring you don’t get cut. Swing, and allow that swing to draw you after it. Did you feel the chain that pulled you from your shoulder down across to the other hip? That is what you want to emulate whenever you strike. The blade leads. You follow. Where the blade goes, you are protected.”

Vic bounced to his feet. “Now watch. This is wrong.” He brought the sword all the way back again, and then took a step forward, his entire front exposed, even as he swung the sword around in a great arc that swooshed through the air. “It feels satisfying, but my body led, and I am dead. Instead.”

He reset to his guard, then suddenly blurred forward. His blade leaped ahead of him, not winding back, just simply cleaving toward an imaginary enemy in a diagonal chop. Vic followed after, stepping as his blow landed, then immediately drew back.

“See my posture? Chest puffed out like a dandy at court. Shoulders back, arms low, elbows in. I don’t lean forward and overextend, I don’t lean back out of fear. My strength comes from my posture. Swing, step, then back. Now. You both do the same.”

Harald felt thrilled.

This was it.

As elementary as the instruction might be, this was the key to everything. To fighting and surviving. To learning the art of the blade. It began right here, and his own near-death to the dire rats made every one of Vic’s warnings visceral.

He settled into his stance, blade up and vertical, and then tried a slow version of the attack. He shoved the sword forward, resisting the urge to draw it back like a wood ax, and then stepped in after.

Vic walked around them, tutting and tsking.

“Shoulders back! Don’t slouch, you look like a whipped dog. Chin up, Sam, don’t watch your sword, you should know where it is. What are you waiting for, Harry-boy? When you strike you return, you don’t linger close to your foe. Strike and back, strike and back! Chest out, Sam! Don’t be shy, nobody’s judging what your mother gave you. Good, swing, and back. Diagonal, not vertical. Follow the blade. Imagine it being drawn out of your hands by some powerful magnetic force. Good. Thrust then step. Thrust then step. Now, Sam, face me.”

Harald’s heart was pounding. Sheer excitement had made his fatigue and aches fade away. Moving to the side, he watched as Sam squared off against Vic.

“All that theory disappears the moment someone is swinging their sword at you,” said Vic. “It’s the same difference between practice kissing your reflection in the mirror to using the Venissar technique with a willing whore. Now, Sam, the exact same swing from the Tower guard, but aim to strike me. I’ll strike back and parry. When I say ‘cut’, you swing.”

Sam nodded sharply, her face pale, her knuckles white on the hilt.

“Relax, Sam. Breathe. Now: cut!”

Sam stepped forward and swung. Vic moved and mirrored her attack, and their blades clanged.

“Terrible,” said Vic. “You’re leaning forward. Look at your stance, it’s far too narrow. You stepped forward first, I could have slashed open your knee.” And he slid his blade down hers and swept it aside. “Back.”

Flushing, Sam returned to her stance, blade up, feet in the right posture.

Vic stared at her, a careless smile curling the corner of his lips. “Relax, Sam. You literally can’t hurt me. Swing as if you mean to kill. Lead with the blade. Chest out, arms down, in your strength. Cut!”

Sam leaped forward and let out a cry as she chopped at him, and Vic stepped in to meet her, parrying neatly.

“Better! But still shit. Your arms are straight and stiff like boards. Bend at the elbows. You’re still leaning forward. Chest out! Shoulders back! No, do it now, feel the difference.”

And Sam adjusted, puffing out her chest and squaring her shoulders.

“There,” said Vic, tone approving. “See the difference in your strength. You’re not fighting me with your wrists, but with your body. Arms a little lower. Now, push against my blade.”

Sam frowned and did so, and the blades slithered against each other like metallic snakes.

“See the difference?”

Sam nodded rapidly, then grinned with surprised delight.

“Again. Now. Cut!”

Again and again their swords clanged together, until Sam was sweating, her shoulders rising and falling.

“Enough. Go collapse somewhere, you useless child.” Vic grinned. “The excitement of live steel can make you feel as if you’ve run a mile after just a few moments of sparring. It’s why Constitution is so vital in a real fight. Nothing will arouse you more than a foe coming at your with a naked blade, intent on cutting you apart.”

Vic considered.

“Well, almost nothing. Harald, step up.”

Harald wiped his sweaty palms on his hips, and moved to stand across from Vic.

Who settled into his stance, blade at the ready, his face callously amused, his expression cruel, contemptuous.

Vic’s sword gleamed.

And Harald felt it. The rise in tension, his chest growing tight, his excitement, his nerves. The world seemed to narrow to just Vic, his blade, the moment that was about to come.

“There it is,” whispered Vic. “The body responds to steel. Relax your grip, Harald, you’re not throttling your snake. Check your stance. Good, shoulders back. Lead with your blade. Now, ready to try and kill me?”

Harald did his best to put all the pieces together, but he felt jangly, loose, alarmed, all flushed and fevered with excitement and fear.

“Good.” Vic’s smile never quite disappeared, though the gleam in his eye turned predatory. “Now: cut!”