The White Shadow

9. Life As Commander

Firmin ducked. The sword flew over his head. He lunged forward, bringing his knife to the throat of his opponent.

     Tris stepped back and raised his hands. Breathing hard. "Once again," he said, nodding, "well done."

     Gethin lumbered to the two. Gethin was tall, which meant Firmin really had to depend on his skill and speed. His trainer's shoulders were even wider than his own, and Firmin's well-muscled build usually was what balanced his lesser height, though his muscles had dwindled greatly. It had taken many gruesome days to regain just enough strength to get out of bed after that . . . incident.

     Shaking those very unpleasant memories, of strenuously being dragged to his feet and train his body to do just the simplest of things, when all he wanted to do was sleep forever, he focused back on the fight ahead. Though he could adapt and wield almost any weapon, Gethin's favorite was a mace, large and with many sharp edges that Firmin had to fight to evade.

     "I see you are ready for me early today," Gethin said. Relief claimed Firmin as he spotted the mere wooden staff in his hand.

     "Yeah, Firmin really is getting better," commented Tris, always trying to be friendly. "But who am I to judge? He always wins our duels. I will never beat him."

     "No, you will not," said Gethin, tying his long blond hair into a tight tail. "As Firmin shall never best me. If he won't try harder!"

     Gethin's loud and booming voice never stoked Firmin's vigor like he seemed to think, or rather hope, it would.

     "Challenge today, commander," Gethin said, pacing back and forth as if restless.

     Firmin sighed, not quite weary yet. What could another fight, other than a few bruises and sore muscles, hurt? He turned to face Gethin.

     "No, lad!" he yelled. "You will never survive if you fight with only half that heart and muscles that are not pressured to give their all."

     Survive? Firmin watched as Gethin reached out, motioning at Tris, who, after a few moments of pretended confusion, brought to him his largest and most foreboding weapon—his mace.

     Firmin gripped his daggers tighter. He stood in position. Swinging one dagger at Gethin.

     The man did nothing.

     Firmin jumped back. Jabbed, swung, again, sliced—practicing a combination he had recently learned. Gethin didn't move so he merely tapped him like he was a practice puppet, not an opponent. He lightly hit Gethin again with the dull blade, holding back his energy.

     "This will never do," Gethin growled. He bellowed. His mace came from the height of his shoulders and flew down towards Firmin.

     He jumped back. The mace did not stop its course until it nearly touched the ground. Tris gasped behind him. Had Firmin not dodged that, he would have been crushed. No joke.

     Firmin rushed at Gethin in the time while the mace remained in the ground. He shoved aside Gethin's arm, stepping around him and in one swift motion, reaching to wrap his arm around Gethin's neck. To end the fight with a knife to the throat.

    But a hand grabbed Firmin's neck, another his wrist. First wrenching the knife from his own throat, then still with both grips tight enough to rip his skin away, Gethin jerked Firmin over his head. Firmin felt the ground flip and then slam into his back.

     The air hurled from his lungs as he blinked up at the sky, trying to gain a breath.

     He heard shuffling. Then he saw Gethin rise to his feet and loom over him. Reaching out. But the large man didn't offer Firmin a hand to get up. He reached further, grabbing something on the ground—and then he pulled up his mace. There was a wildness in his eyes—the one Firmin saw when he was fighting to kill.