Icy wind whipped Feren's hair into his face as he stood across from his opponent, wrapped fists raised in defense.
The male across from him sported a similar stance, a line of red on his cheekbone marking the center of what looked would become a flourishing bruise.
"I thought you said you'd go easy on me."
A hint of a smile tugged at Feren's lip. He pushed forward on light feet and reached a hand out to hit the male – Parron. He'd learned his name the other night.
Parron twisted away once within striking distance, toe dragging in the snow in an artful way, so that Feren's momentum would take him forward.
"Well done, Parron," said Toni from the sidelines.
"Good," Feren agreed. "Now make something useful out of the same movement." Without giving Parron a chance to think about what he meant, Feren lunged torward him again.
Parron stuck out his arm, but Feren couldn't tell if it was meant to catch his balance or swing to hit him. Either way, Feren knocked it away and sent the palm of his hand into the soft part of Parron's side. He yelped in surprise more than pain. Without slowing, however, Parron kicked one foot in between Feren's legs and used his momentum to try to twist him sideways. Not interested in falling, Feren grabbed a hold of his fist and twisted with Parron, ending the motion with their thighs locked and noses dangerously close to colliding. Parron's steamy breath caused condensation on Feren's cheek as he panted. When Feren released his wrist, the boy fell back into the snow.
The five other males on the sidelines chuckled.
They all turned in unison to the clattering of metal not three paces away. Nertín stood there, a now-empty roll of linen in his hand. There were weapons on the ground. Plenty of them.
"As promised," Nertín said.
Feren lagged behind as the others, a small group of six, carefully trodded toward the pile on the ground. They looked at the swords as if they were snakes ready to strike.
Feren turned to Nertín. "These are Elvish blades."
"Yes," Amelia's brother said, watching the others pick through the metal. "We have stores of them from when they maintained their forges in the east."
Starlight glinted off a long, thin silver blade in Toni's hand. Feren frowned. "They are not finished."
"I thought it would be wise to bring those which have yet to be sharpened," Nertín replied. "Just in case."
The crack of a smile was the first hint Feren had ever seen into Nertín's humor.
They looked toward a boy who lifted two swords from the pile, testing one in each hand as if he knew how to feel for the balance. He then dropped the unwanted blade gracelessly to the snow. The one he kept was swung around by the wrist as if the hilt itself were double-jointed.
Feren walked back to his place in their circle of trampled snow. This was the third morning they had all snuck out to the edge of Remalda to spar. As requested, Feren attempted to show them what he had learned in the ways of combat. It was awkward at first; he'd never been an instructor or critic of swordplay, but he had learned a lot over his years of watching Andrew and his tutors, and he'd learned even more thrown to the wolves in his time alone.
But why this had to be a secret, or at least quiet from Abett, when Feren was fairly certain Abett had been the one to threaten "militaristic action" in the first place was beyond him.
Feren unsheathed his own long blade. He hadn't honed it in weeks, though it was still much sharper than these blades that looked as though their smiths had been interrupted just before their final steps of production. Feren was confident, however, that he would be able to withhold any his own blows that might threaten opponents with its sharp edge.
He glanced down at the reflection of stars off the blade that warped down into the fuller. Thank the gods he'd had the forethought to hide his things in the woods prior to their escape attempt.
"I believe it is my turn," Nertín said from behind Feren.
Feren lifted an eyebrow. Nertín had been absent from the last mornings of sparring. Feren had yet to see how skilled he was. He had learned over the last several days that while swordplay was not entirely new to the Voerr, only a select few of them were trained to the point of proficiency. The Kiaris and the seekers among them, which included males like Teeknan and Varkner. While they had not necessarily been referred to as the Royal Guard, that felt like the most appropriate comparison. Nertín had told him that out of the entire realm, less than two hundred voerr had been trained in the art of warfare.
Unfortunately, Teeknan and Varkner were not present this morning. Feren had planned to use them to demonstrate certain maneuvers.
So, instead, he nodded to Nertín, lifting his blade in the prepared stance that he attempted to engrain into these males.
Nertín mirrored his stance, a proper — and sharpened — sword in his hands.
"Would you like to make rules?" Feren asked out of courtesy, raising his blade to the center of his body. "Best we decide on those before handing out blades."
"Don't kill me," Nertín said, his sword flying directly at Feren's hip – he had to rush to catch the metal with his own, sending a wrist-jarring ring up his arm. "And I won't kill you."
The words had only been loud enough for Feren to hear between the wind assaulting their ears and the distance between them and the others, who were still rummaging through the weapons. Feren's jaw clenched as he looked into the voerr's deep amethyst eyes.
A spark flashed in Nertín's eyes just before he flicked his own wrists and quickly stepped away, disengaging their blades with a hiss of metal on metal.
With a lunge, Nertín whipped away his blade and twisted, throwing the sword over one shoulder to swing around for Feren's midsection. The silver-haired one attempted to parry, but Nertín's blade glanced off the block and Nertín shoved his fist, hilt-first, directly into Feren's diaphragm. He grunted as the air was forced out of him on impact.
Feren remained upright, eyes glinting with anger; he refused to double over in pain. What in the hell was that?
Heat drove deep into his core and spread across his back with wings of invisible flame. Nertín had already backed away two paces, watching his opponent keenly like a hawk waiting for their prey. Waiting for Feren to take in that desperate gasp of air that his diaphragm refused to allow in.
Before he could breathe again, Feren leapt toward Nertín. His sword pushed through an attempt at a block, feigned left, and drove toward the exposed shoulder so quickly that Nertín had to step back in order to catch the blade before it split his collar in two. With an elbow he swung at Feren's throat, narrowly missing his windpipe by a hair as Feren ducked backwards, then twisted with an arcing swing around Nertín to let his sword fly toward a hamstring.
Nertín was too fast. He caught Feren's blade, pinning it down along with his arm, and planted his feet between Feren's, attempting to trip him.
Feren smiled at the snow as he felt Nertín's knee between his. With his left arm he hooked Nertín's waist just before he fell – and while Nertín's back landed in the snow, Feren knelt above him.
That little victory did not last long. With a graceful somersault Nertín was back on his feet and again slashed his blade toward Feren. Though he remained kneeling, finally – finally able to take in a much-needed breath, Feren was able to slam his blade into his opponent's and redirect the tip, sending the singing metal over his shoulder in a smooth glide until their blades met hilt-to-hilt. He dared a glance up to Nertín and smirked.
They continued in a twist of snow and wind, silver and dark, emerald and amethyst for several maneuvers after. The action would go through bouts of calm, calculating motion, then a desperate fight for the upper hand. Feren attempted to control his aching muscles. It had been a long time since he had fought anything remotely challenging – and even longer since he had faced someone equally as competent with a blade. Perhaps even more so. Nertín was expressing technique that Feren had never witnessed before, and only his instinct for survival supplemented enough to keep the tip of that spear from skewering his chest.
It was funny, he thought: how much effort the voerr had to throw into his motions just to have every blow matched and tossed away. Even though he was struggling to meet him.
In the middle of dodging a blow and twisting to provide another, Feren saw and remembered their audience: the other voerr who were standing to their sides, watching with open mouths at the flurry of steel and flesh. It was then that Feren truly remembered who it was he was up against. He was their leader. He was their role model. And Feren – he was just the guest.
So Feren slowed his turn and chose to only parry the next blow rather than returning it, and with a daring, defensive twist – Nertín sent his boot squarely into Feren's chest.
Feren flew backwards and was barely able to touch his feet to the ground to catch his momentum before falling. He stabbed his blade into the snow to bring himself to a stop – and a gash in the earth opened at least three feet before he finally came to a stop, kneeling over the hilt, panting a cloud of mist. A painful chuckle choked its way out of his tender chest. Feren shook his head and played it off as if he were simply tossing off the half-melted snow from his hair.
When he finally looked up, Nertín was panting in front if him – the same clouds of hot air rising from his mouth. He shook out his hair, as well, then he met eyes with Feren.
The other voerr were still standing, watching, speechless.
The crunch of blue-tinted snow alerted Feren that it was time to rise. Amelia's brother extended an arm to help him, and Feren only half-grabbed it as he suppressed the groan it took to stand. The tip of the blade was yanked from the frozen ground and wiped on the side of a boot.
Without another word, Nertín turned away to stalk toward his own men.
"Begin."
Clangs echoed through the air as three different spars ensued. Feren walked inside just as the first hints of morning began to stretch across the black silhouetted tree line.
***
Thunder rumbled through the mountain pass with a guttural growl that even the spirits could feel in their chests. All throughout the body of Remalda people were scrambling to tidy up their belongings. Laundry was quickly stripped from the hanging lines, wood to last the night was hauled inside, windows echoed shut down the street. As Feren walked back toward the main keep, an array of colorful drifting spirits were all that remained in the open.
Wind licked at the back of his hair, bringing only a few drips of cold rain with it. The real storm wouldn't arrive for a few minutes. It would be a cold one. Likely the first of many winter storms.
Feren ventured behind the barracks toward a stack of wood. Two days prior, he'd helped the men chop the fallen tree and pile it neatly here, knowing it would come to good use within the week's time. The voerr had been right. Apparently they had a much better sense of weather patterns than any human in Firica.
A fire's worth of wood under one arm, he strode through the back entry and into his shared room with Amelia. She was gone again. One quick mental sweep told him she was with her brother. The one who slept.
As he knelt to set the logs aside their dwindling flame, a cold crept up his back that had nothing to do with the incoming rain.
Steel was between his fingers before he turned around.
Rosa.
She'd certainly been beaten. That much was clear. Gold strands of hair did little to hide the shadows of a bruise on her cheek. A necklace of purple splotches encompassed her throat as well, despite her attempts to cover it with makeup. And her arm, though it appeared intact, was loosely hung from a cloth around her neck.
"If you knew what was good for you, you'd leave this room immediately."
Rosa didn't say a word in response. She just started at him, eyes slightly wider than her normal condescending glower, and he couldn't tell if her lips avoided a sneer because they were swollen, or because she truly was not scowling. Though he knew better, Feren furrowed his brow.
"What are you doing here?" he growled.
Her eyes appeared nearly glassy. But maybe that was a trick of the flame light. "I need her."
"You think she would trust you after what you've done?"
"No."
The crack in her voice nearly disarmed Feren, but after another glance at her throat, he decided that whoever had caused those marks had also likely destroyed the quality of her voice. At least temporarily.
"I will not play games with you, witch. Get out of this room. Before I finish the job."
Amelia never should have allowed her refuge. The marks on his arms burned with the urge to throw a spirit in her direction and end the threat once and for all.
"There is something unnatural happening in Fircia," she whispered.
"It seems perfectly convenient," Feren snarled, "That you would appear when you need a place to stay."
"What friends have I in the Capital?" Rosa scoffed.
A hand whipped through the air and pinned her throat to the wall, knocking back her skull with a dull thud. Feren bared his teeth above her. "I told you very clearly three years ago. If you ever dared to even disrupt the air around Amelia Kiari, I would not spare your life a second time."
The stridor hissed through Rosa's windpipe with her struggling exhale. Her hand rose to cover his as her eyes turned pleading. Only one word rasped through the tight grip of his hand. "Shadows."
Rosa dropped to the floor when Feren released her neck. She coughed and moaned as she landed on her slung arm.
Feren turned back to throw a log in the fire and grab his cloak. He would go directly to Abett if that was what it took to get this witch out of this province. Feren pushed her to the side with his boot to step out.
"They planned – they wanted to be rid of Amelia and her cadre. They wanted that Haymark bitch in her place."
Her voice sounded so painful even Feren winced.
"That mage; he is doing something dark –"
Feren's grip froze on the door handle.
"It's changing people. It's–"
Feren's growl was audible. Rosa coughed, then spoke faster before he could interrupt. "He knows how to find me. I can't go back. Not alone."
With a swing of his arm Feren scooped her up by the hood and sat her up against the wall. Her head lolled lazily.
"Explain this," he demanded, gesturing to her entire body. One of her eyes was bloodshot on the edge as she looked down at his fist in her hood.
"The mage – he discovered me as I was leaving. I was coming to track you down; I was dressed as one of Marybelle's knights on patrol, and the mage – Jed – he stabbed me in the shoulder before I could run, and his beast –"
Their eyes met.
"It was pure shadow. Just like the one they'd sent to us before. It nearly had me pinned."
"How did you escape?"
"I... I don't know. I didn't see. It was something – something barreled out of the bushes. It distracted him long enough for me to run. I fell in with a small group of voerr seeking the border pass and that's how I came in."
Feren's scowl only deepened, partially in disbelief, but partly in fear, too. Rosa had confirmed what he'd been suspecting for days now.
"Get out of my sight," Feren said, dropping her hood from his hand. "And stay away from her. Go."
She scrambled away without another word of argument.