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

at study, I never figured to have a two-handed great sword as my weapon of choice.

“I’m game, but my Tower needs work,” I admitted. “Why don’t you try?”

He nodded, and we exchanged weapons. It was odd to wield Adamant, the sword was a much a part of Crylwin as his charming personality, but it wasn’t my first time with it. Often when sparring, Crylwin would have me use Adamant while wielding something lighter, longer, and thinner. If he could see what tactics were more or less effective against the techniques used with the broadsword, he would be better prepared to counter when the chance presented itself.

He wasn’t wrong; it was quite genius as was his desire to always practice with real metal. Many favored a wooden replica of their blades, balanced and weighted to approximate the feel. “It has to be your sword in your hand,” Crylwin argued. “Not a child’s toy.” He wasn’t alone in that opinion; it was one of the Northern traditions the Ruk and Roharans shared. All that preparation had earned him a name even better than the mine. The Red Hand, they called him, the deadliest duelist in Belen. He took his craft seriously, and he was a serious man—when he wanted to be.

This round ended three to five in his favor. As it ended, he dropped Nahdril to the padded floor in frustration. “It’s no good,” he growled. “Tower needs weight…. It needs momentum to carry into the next swing, this thing has no backbone to it; it’s like trying to strike someone with a feather.”

My eyes went wide, struck with inspiration.

“I know that look,” Crylwin said, grinning. He bent down and tossed me the weapon. I caught it deftly and spun around.

“Wind stance,” I called out to him.

He nodded.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. It was a form designed for quick strikes, usually favoring daggers or the rapier, as all Air stances did. Nahdril was not the prototypical weapon intended for the form, but it was certainly light enough to follow the technique.

I lost zero to three in the next two bouts. It wasn’t that the stance was wrong, only that a blade as long as Nahdril wasn’t a fit for something meant to strike and retreat in close combat. It was less about the weight and more about the angles needed to set for your next strike. Nahdril was twice the length required to work it properly, and any reach advantage was lost when the form required a close-quarter parry or riposte.

Frustrated, I walked off the floor. “Let’s take a break.”

What I meant was I needed to calm down before I considered taking the true out of my truesilver. Crylwin walked to the tankards and poured us a few cups. I waved him off; I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

“You’re in yer head, mate,” he said, holding up the silver cup. “Maybe this will help ya clear it.”

He was right. I was in my head, but I wanted to solve this. Having a priceless weapon that I couldn’t wield would be as worthless as a horse I could never ride.

We had been at it for nearly an hour, and despite Nahdril’s weightlessness, fatigue was starting to creep into my arms. Crylwin sat at the table, drinking as I worked through a few moves. I used a practice dance Ada had shown me; one he said helped to balance your quin. I used it for little more than a warm-up. The moves consisted of simple stretches at first, nothing specific, something meant to wake the muscles and focus the mind.

I closed my eyes, breathing in deeply, then began again with the sword in hand. I held Nahdril outstretched above my head, left arm parallel below it. My fingers pointed outward, aiming along the plain like I was holding a javelin. I swung down from my position, turned my body, then brought my second hand up, redirecting the cut at the opposite angle. I repeated the move, but this time used my body’s motion—not the weight of the sword, to pull me into a half-crouch and a mid-level slash. The move felt natural, inspired even, as I sprang from the crouch into an upward cut. I reversed the strike into an overhand cut, spun again, then finished with a lunging thrust. Usually, such a movement would have me feeling off balance and overextended, but my feet felt firm and steady.

The moves felt familiar, like rereading a book long ago forgotten. Was this a form I had studied with Ada? Was it something I had seen during my time in the South? I wasn’t sure that I was doing anything intentional as much as I was just reacting to my own body’s momentum.

Crylwin stood from the table. “What’s that you’re doing there? I’ve never seen that form before; it looks almost like Ice, but…”

“Not sure. It feels familiar, however, I can’t recall.” A single word flashed through my mind. “Sky,” I said before realizing I had spoken. I looked down at the sword in my hand. “It’s called Sky.”

Crylwin nodded slowly. “Show me.”

He took the next round five to seven, but I led for a good portion of the match before he got in a few timely hits. The next, he took me nine to seven. I held the lead in this match as well, but true to his sword’s name, he refused to give in. On the next round, I beat him handily five to three.

Crylwin threw Adamant clear across the room in frustration. The massive broadsword slammed into the table of refreshments—smashing the jars of coffee. Dark liquid erupted on impact, showering the table and spilling to the floor below.

“Fuck your blue sword, and fuck your Sky dance,” he growled, storming over to retrieve his weapon.

This was not my first time beating him in a match, but judging by his reaction, it may have been the first time I did so on my merit rather than the will