Chapter Twenty-Eight: Techniques

In their final stretch of the journey to Wyrmhaven, Ash finally understood how to maintain control of his elar. Winter was not something you could embrace. Doing so would lead to a dark, frozen death. He couldn’t fight it, either. One could not overcome winter itself.

Ultimately, the secret was twofold, or at least that is what worked for him. First, he needed to surround himself in mental layers, retreating from the tempest of elation and senses. Finally, he had to grow used to it, which meant enduring it.

A furious gale of ice, exhilaration, and heightened awareness battered his mind.

He endured.

Until there came a time when it no longer felt like he would be overcome, he waded out into those feelings, and he found he had control. With gentle nudging from his mind, he could direct his elar throughout his body.

Snapping his eyes open, he grinned. Lilith clapped her hands, approving thoughts washing through his mind.

“You’ve done it,” Amalia observed.

Ash stood. Now that he wasn’t overwhelmed, he marveled. Looking down at his hand, there was strength within him that had not been there before. Slowly, he closed his fingers into a fist, taking a deep breath. He could hear the bird hopping on a branch. He was more aware of his body than he ever had been before.

He fetched his blade, and to his surprise, Amalia did the same.

Hanging in the air, the moon watched them square off.

A wolf howled, and a stream burbled quietly.

Amalia’s dark violet eyes watched him.

When she moved, she came at him faster than ever. Ash had no trouble seeing her now. He knew she could move even faster if she wished. Amalia was merely matching the level she felt he was at.

He didn’t recognize her form, but it was all speed, all offense.

Ash shifted into a defensive stance, and it was trivial to fend off her attacks. Wood smashed against wood, the cacophonous sound ringing out. His elar was a hurricane of hail within. Truly, he thought his blood would freeze.

Instead, with the cold came clarity. His eyes tracked the storyteller, and he could see the patterns in her movement. If Ash was a winter squall, then Amalia was a shadow. She slipped by his attacks, countering not with powerful force but deadly precision.

She spoke as she struck, Ash parrying.

“You’re picking up the fringes of it now, aren’t you? Masters of the blade would tell you that sword fighting is a dance only sword wielders can hear. A dance of life hanging in the balance, while all hold their breath, waiting to see which thread is severed.”

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She slashed at his side, but he saw it coming, so he twisted, knocking her wooden blade away.

“True masters, they know better. Swordplay is not the art of the dance-” She thrust her blade toward his heart. He could see it before it happened; before she even took the step, he knew she would do it. He moved around it, wooden sword casting shadows in the ember light. Her attack was smoothly countered.

“It is the art of seeing. It just looks and feels like a dance.”

Their next few exchanges were so fast that Ash didn’t think. He just moved. He just saw.

With a thunderous detonation and splitting wood, Ash’s blade was knocked out of his hands; it landed on the ground, a crack down the middle. Amalia’s wooden sword rested against his throat.

“Your mistake was not accounting for the fact that just because I did not strike with force doesn’t mean I am incapable of doing so.”

She fell silent, then calmly lifted her blade from his throat just slightly before lowering it to her side. She regarded him.

“In Drakosia, before it was burned to ashes, you would have just been raised to the rank of Cayosin, which means blade master in dracian.”

Ash opened his mouth in awe, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No way I’m that good. I haven’t even used a real blade yet! This is just wood!” He pointed at his broken wooden practice sword for emphasis.

“True, and there is a little adjusting that will need to be done. However, it is little. I don’t give out compliments lightly, Master Lorcan, and I will not repeat myself, so listen well.”

Oh, he was paying rapt attention.

Amalia spoke slowly,

“You are perhaps the most gifted student of the sword I have ever seen or trained. Truly, I say this to you: if you make it past dragon steel rank, you will go down as one of the greatest swordsmen this world has ever seen. Mark my words.”

Ash sat down. Lilith poked his cheek.

He didn’t even notice.

He had thought he had talent, that he was okay with the blade.

But a blade master?

He blew out a breath.

“It is time you learn a technique. Wyrmhaven approaches, but the exam is not easy.”

“What does it entail?”

Amalia flicked a hand,

“There will be time for that later. Come.”

She flourished her staff, and a violet swirl coalesced before pulsing. A shimmering doorway stood before them. Amalia pointed with her staff.

“Inside.”

Ash moved his mouth into a dubious frown, but Lilith hopped right in. He sighed, following after his dragon. Amalia stepped through, and the portal snapped closed behind them.

They were in a circular chamber with over a thousand silent statues. Or, Ash thought they were that. They were made of some padding and all wielded weapons. They dotted a hill that crept upward, with a room Ash couldn’t make out beyond it.

There was a flag at the top of the hill, plain gray and waving in a slight breeze.

“Before you ask, this place is an elar realm. You will learn about it in school. Tonight, we focus on techniques.”

He was used to her withholding information, so he didn’t fight her on it. Instead, he asked,

“How do I use a technique? What are they? Oh, and why didn’t you show Rosalia, Will, and Nick?”

“I will show the others when we reach Ivalia, the town at the base of the mountain path that leads to the valley Wyrmhaven is in. That is where your friends should be. We still have some time before the exam. As to what techniques are, they are expressions of your elar. Or, in other words, abilities. There are a few types, and I will not cover them all. Tonight, we discuss just one type. Enhancements.”

She pointed at him with her white staff.

“Draw your elar from your elan, Master Lorcan.”

He did as she bade.

“You have succeeded in the first step already, controlling the effects of elar and moving while drawing it. All those days of perseverance in attempting to draw your elar were not wasted. You must have noticed that elar responds to your mental direction. We call this your intent. As much as it appears separate from you, elar is not. Your elan is a part of you, who you are, and so is your elar. This has many implications we will not discuss today. Instead, all I want you to do is direct your elar to push outside your body, surrounding you like a cloak.”

“When I’ve done that, then what?”

Amalia pointed her staff at the flag.

“It’s simple. I want you to retrieve that flag. Do mind the homunculi; they do not like intruders.”