A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

“Richard!” Crylwin shouted, his voice echoing throughout the hall.

Richard appeared in the open doorway a moment later. “Yes, my lord?”

“Bring some extra guards up, anything we have for tall swords.”

“Very well, my lord,” he said, exiting as quickly as he entered.

I strolled over to the racks and removed my jacket and shirt, hanging them on a peg. I stripped out of my blue pants, folded them neatly on the small table, and then selected a familiar white dueling coat.

Coat was perhaps the wrong term; it was more a thick robe with long tails of cloth that you repeatedly wove around your body in interweaving patterns, not unlike the braiding technique I used on Nahdril’s grip. The garment was Roharan in origin and was as practical as it was ceremonial. It took me cycles to master the wrap’s proper technique, which needed to be tight enough to protect the torso from strikes while still allowing the freedom to execute the many different sword forms.

As I wrapped the coat around my waist the final time, I looked to the right at the rack of weapons. There Adamant rested, with a strip of thin copper wrapped along its edge, protecting the sword as well as the dueling partner. Sets of black cord attached to rivets along the flat of the blade, securing the guard in three separate cross-sections.

“You don’t waste any time,” I chuckled, tying off the loose end of the dueling coat into a belt around my waist.

Crylwin stood over Nahdril as I approached.

“Can I hold it?” he asked.

I nodded, gesturing with an open palm.

Crylwin didn’t hesitate to grab Nahdril immediately with his sword hand and take a few swings through the air. “Gods, it’s so light,” he marveled. “How much does it—”

“Less than two pounds,” I said with fatherlike pride.

“It’s remarkable,” he said, balancing the sword with two fingers. He lowered the blade, inspecting its edge, then reversed his grip and swung it like a painter’s brush against an invisible canvas. I was reminded that this was his realm of expertise. Warcraft, siege tactics, swordplay, Crylwin had been tutored early in life on such things. And just as I gravitated towards my interests, Crylwin always showed an affinity for the sword.

In truth, I had never seen a finer, more natural swordsmen—save perhaps Ada. It was a pity the two of them never squared off while in their prime. Crylwin was still a young man when Ada first introduced me to the Monroes, and by the time he could properly wield Adamant, Ada was grayed and well into his final years.

Crylwin spun Nahdril in hand, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. He bent his legs and settled into form. Stone was first as I had done, thinking it the most natural stance for a blade of such length. His strikes were conservative and framed, following the angles expected of the form, but his movements looked stiff and rigid. He stepped into Water form, a base variant of River. His strikes elongated, sweeping through the air in broad strokes. He did better than my first attempts, but his movements still looked unnatural, and he stumbled more than once in his footwork.

The complexity required of each sword form was challenging in itself to master. Years spent in practice would condition you to the proper feel of a form. Any deviation, no matter how slight, would require some adjustment. Consequently, using a sword that weighed only a third of what it rightfully should meant every thrust, step, and counter step felt slightly off.

Crylwin was attempting to compensate as I had done, but he was overcorrecting. He stopped midway through what looked like Ember and let his arms fall to his side in irritation. “The sword’s too fucking light,” he barked, “I can’t find a rhythm in it.”

“It was the same for me,” I admitted. I was more than a little pleased that he was having as much trouble with it as I had. That confirmed it wasn’t my lack of skill that led to a poor form.

Richard arrived a moment later with Jaeron in tow. The boy had a dozen or more guards in his outstretched arms. On his face, he wore a grin wider than Crylwin’s. They headed to the racks on the far wall and began hanging each guard on a separate peg.

“Bring us a few of those, lad,” Crylwin called to Jaeron.

The boy did as commanded and carried three guards over to the table nearest us.

Crylwin inspected the guards and held one aloft. He turned to Jaeron. “You ever see a truesilver before?”

Jaeron’s eyes went wide.

Crylwin patted him on the shoulder and held the blade out for him to see. “You want to hold it?”

The boy looked confused and more than a little nervous.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Crylwin said reassuringly, “Faerin won’t mind. The thing belongs more in your Rukish hands than a Roharan’s at any rate.”

Jaeron hesitated, his hand frozen inches away from the hilt.

“Go on, boy,” Crylwin prompted, holding the handle out to him. “Take it.”

Jaeron’s hand shook as he willed himself closer to the handle. As soon as his little fingers wrapped around it, Crylwin let go. His eyes filled with terror at the sudden release, fearful that he would drop the priceless artifact. Only he didn’t. His smile returned, one of supreme satisfaction. “It’s… it’s so light,” he said as he cut a few small circles in the air.

“Too light,” Crylwin growled. “I think Faerin ought to take her home and fatten the girl up.”

“You think it’s a girl, then?” I asked, “I haven’t decided.”

“Oh, I’m not getting into all that quin nonsense with you,” he said, waving his hand. “Go talk to Quill for that. But with those curves?” He let out a sharp whistle.

We watched as Jaeron took a few more cuts in the air. It might have been the first time he ever held a sword. Everyone remembers their first, he especially.