22th day of Breezedays, eleventh month of the year, 983

  “No slacking off, greenhorns! I see anyone running below their normal pace and I will double the training for all of you.” Andras roared while on the head of the procession, leading the training. The morning sun was, thankfully, too weak to properly overheat the men at arms to be. Thirty hundred steps left before finishing the run, their efforts kept them warm, for now, on the progressively colder days of the end of autumn.

  Their training gear had been already improved with chain mail armour, with a weight sitting at almost ten kilograms, soon to be twenty three when they changed to plate once they had made some muscle. Of course, the armour was not really needed for their sessions, only being there to bust their stamina as marching long distances was a requirement of being a soldier. Coming to that, almost all of his current four hundred men were capable of holding a relaxed run, more of a brisk walking pace, for two hours. And he took pride in that, as it had been a massive improvement from their humble beginnings.

  Still, they would be hard pressed to continue at this intensity, as winter was rearing its icy head already. Only a month till it started in earnest, with snow piling on the barony’s lands, and, once the cold wind started, six months of never ending snow were on the menu. For all the problems they were having right now, winter training would add a lot of dangers.

  But not all things were going above and beyond his expectations. Yes, while fitness and physical progress was important, very much so, and were already at an acceptable level for the professional army Soral was planning for, in all of the other parts of being a soldier they were, well, very lacking.

  Both the run and some more exercises with weights for body strengthening, with corresponding rest of course, the real training started. The swordsmanship training. With wooden swords.

  “Now, we are picking it back from where we left it yesterday.” Andras bit his lips as to not say ‘the past three weeks.’. “You will do a few series of basic strikes and, once the trainers have given you the blue light, you will start. Quick reminder. Dominant feet forward, non dominant at a forty to ninety angle and a bit back. The hand above the dominant feet neat the guard, the other on the bottom of the handle. Important, swords at a low point for balance as we are practising the plow stance. I really did not want to say this but, remember yourselves of the following. The not pointy end near you, the stabby end near the enemy.”

  Andras, remembering the last thing, shouted a final order. “You are fighting the opponent, always remember that! Not their sword, not a nothing. You can be all the flashy you want while narrating your exploits in the tavern, not while in the fight!”

  What followed were two hours of what a seasoned veteran would describe as Nether. Andras and the rest of trainers were forced to repeat the same guidelines time and time again to correct the same mistakes multiple times. Flow with the sword. Put the sword between your head and the enemy. Remember the footing. Feints are based on a good sense of distance. Remember the footing. Don’t flinch when an attack is coming. Don’t defend an attack that is coming from two metres away and could never hit you. Remember the footing. Remember how to grip the sword. Use the terrain, such as sunlight, to your advantage. Repeat to oblivion.

  Some didn’t manage to get paired at all. At least he could see his daughter, Samil, who was eighteen at the time, knocking down partner after partner. Happily holding out thanks to that, the morning session finished in the blink of an eye.

  “The training session is over. You may all go.” Seeing the men leaving the garden, Andras sighed. He ignored the commentary about the public baths in the middle ring as he looked around.

  Settling for a long rest on a nearby bench, he brought out of his backpack his lunch. He guessed it was the curse of the teacher to feel like all the progress they had made yesterday had been forgotten by today. Yet, no matter how much Andras cursed in his mind, he knew first hand that practice was king. In a few weeks he could introduce some shields and spears. He feared they would forget how to use swords in a day if he did that, yet it would be necessary. Deep into planning the next training session, he didn’t notice as his daughter sat on the same bench and pulled out her lunch too.

  In the middle of their time together Noct, with a displeased face, entered the main garden by the smaller one. Following him, with great difficulty Soral, trailed behind. Completely ignoring the frown of Samil, Noct glared at Andras.

  “Good morning, regent.” Andras got out of the bench and nodded, half smiling at the angry look of his daughter, stronger the longer she rested from the training. “To…”

  “Cut the chase and go to the point, High Commander. Why have you called me to the training grounds?” Noct crossed his arms. His complete disregard of the main point of that conversation was making Samil fume, who also put her meal to the side.

  “The point is me wanting to introduce you to the best soldier up to date, as I told you before. Samil here, at her young age of eighteen, has bested most of the trainers we have.” While he could not contain his parental pride, Samil also not being able to keep it in check had become an increasing problem in training. Already disregarding instructions, it was a point of worry. He knew both of them and he knew what could happen did not need pushing.

  Soral rolled her eyes, also seeing the future, and rested against the nearby tree.

  After a pause of a few seconds, Noct didn’t even gaze at the soldier in question. “You…you called me to meet a kid who is a bit better than average at playing with wooden swords? You want a demotion, is that it, High Commander?”

  Before Andras could answer, his daughter jumped out of the bench, energy fully replenished

  “If I am not being too disrespectful, I could demonstrate my abilities to you, regent.” Spat Samil, not bothering to put up a mask of respect. Her hand was already on the handle of her training sword.

  “Demonstrate on who? The baroness has just ended her training and I won’t allow any injuries that would happen if you were to duel her now. If you are insinuating duelling the High Commander, it would be a bad joke and not remotely entertaining to consider.” Stated Noct, in the most bored tone he could manage, as he gazed at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Think before you speak, amateur, duelling your trainer will only highlight your missteps.”

  “I meant you.” Hissed Samil, clenching, and almost breaking, the handle. “Of course I wouldn’t even dream of winning against the second best swordsmen of Alpin. And, how could you ever lose against a tired amateur, right?” Now Noct turned towards her fully. His eyes narrowed as his patience dwindled. But beating up a random kid would not be enjoyable.

  “I believe I misheard you, soldier in training?” Was the last out he gave to her.

  Samil bowed her head, just to shield from his view her grin, “If you do not feel ready for the task it is of no offence, my regent.” Andras’ mask of respect almost cracked, having to turn to look at a flying bird to keep his smirk in check. Soral simply smiled outright.

  Noct bit the bait, the hook, the line and the very own fishing pole. The air cooled down even more as Noct forced his mana out as he sized the trainee up.

  “So be it. High Commander, arbitrate our duel.” The reality of beating up an amateur had changed to kicking down an arrogant bastard so he readily accepted the duel.

  Andras faked a sigh and nodded. His expression turned real sour when Noct pulled out two metal longswords. With edge. Not one to back down, Samil threw aside her wooden sword and picked one, making Andras start to sweat. Not caring about him, both walked out of the bench and into the clearing.

  After a few moments, Noct and Samil had both readied themselves. Five metres apart, they waited for the signal. Yet, only Samil appeared to be in a stance.

  “Start!”

  Samil sprang into action, rushing towards Noct. The latter simply strolled towards her, his combat stance based around an altered fool’s stance with the sword trailing along the ground.

  Going for an early feint, an horizontal slash towards the chest, Noct flinched and receded a little. Already smiling, confident in her victory, she went for a stab towards the centre of mass. Instead of hitting, she felt her stab continue past her target, as Noct had sidestepped the attack by a hairbreadth. His sword darted upwards, hitting hers near the guard with so much force that it pained her hand, causing it to tremble and almost drop the sword.

  Having failed for the bait, her stance broken and too overextended for comfort, she tried to move towards her left. Noct, using the reeling time as she recovered, didn’t wait for her. He grabbed her armed and pulled her towards him, further empowering the knee strike aimed at her guts. Coughing in pain, she was thrown to the side. Quickly recovering, she rolled further away and got up in a dash, as her developed build had tanked fairly well the hit.

  “Rushing head first without a plan? And this is the best one you have, High Commander? Maybe I should demote you after all.” No unease from his early flinch could be seen. Nonetheless, the continuous mocking had gotten into her nerves. As casually as if he was commenting on the weather, he was disrespecting both her efforts and talent. Putting arrogance at the side, she focused, finally taking her opponent seriously.

  Acting as if he had not noticed the change Noct, smirking now, made the first move. Relaxingly walking towards her, Samil readied her defensive stance, feet firmly planted and sword at low point, trying to gauge where he would attack. Yet Noct simply walked into striking distance. Her amazement didn’t stop her from lunging forwards with another stab, this time for the head. Noct jumped backwards, dodging the attack, and struck the sword again, causing another wave of numbness and pain. Using that same pain, he backed away further, fully disengaging from her.

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  Samil, unable to chase and feeling her pride in the line, was soon caught in this loop. Noct entered her range. She tried to hit. He evaded and hit her sword. Repeat. A few rounds of this and Samil was both tired and enraged, as Noct had yet to fight her seriously and was just prolonging the duel.

  A slash. A fade. A stab. Another fade. A diagonal hit. Another damned fade. As seconds advanced, her movements turned bigger, more ambitious, looking more and more into finally getting a hit in. Noct smirked, as he noticed she had completely forgotten about his free hand as she focused, again, on his sword and movements. Another slash and this time the loop stopped. Instead of fading, Noct parried, sliding her sword along his, closing the gap and punching Soral into the guts. Forcing herself through the pain, she backed as Noct hit her sword again, which she almost dropped. Rushing forward, Noct kneeled her guts again, knocking her backwards.

  Stalking around her for a second time, Noct’s smirk grew as he waited for her to get out of the ground. “At least you didn’t let go of your sword, trainee.”

  Andras cringed as he watched her daughter raise with difficulty. Noct wasn’t as rash as to gravely injure a random soldier, right? He shook his head, trying to dispel the doubt. If anything was going to happen, he would be ready to intervene, hand crawling towards his own sword. Not noticing him, her daughter readied herself again.

  Lunging for Noct, she had learned her lesson. He was way better. But, he was toying with her, leaving her with a few tricks. Noct waited for her attack, predicting from where it would come and parried it, sliding both blades downwards. Chests almost touching, Samil was prepared for that, and she was the first one to move, headbutting Noct. Reeling from the broken nose, Samil tried to get some payback and punched Noct, or Noct’s armour, breaking a few fingers in the process. After that came his knee strike followed by a pommel strike on her side. A crack sounded and, after a hook to her head, she toppled to the ground.

  Tasting dirt, she tried to get up before a sword touched her neck. “I…I surrender.” Blood and spit trailed from her lips. Cleaning her face, she noticed a hand waiting for her. Grabbing it, Noct raised her to her feet. Looking at him, she saw surprise and pride.

  “I owe you an apology, High Commander. She does have spirit.” His words sounded less funny by the moment as he healed his nose. “You weren’t all talk. I can respect that. Keep this one sharp, High Commander.”

  Andras beamed, worry forgotten, as if he was the one being praised and not his daughter. Not expecting outright praise, she turned her gaze down.

  “Name?” Asked Noct as he grabbed her right hand, testing for injuries.

  “Samil.” Out of adrenaline, an exhausted and now humbled Samil struggled to say that lone word. She had also been proved that he wasn’t all talk either. She now believed his position as second best.

  “I will remember it.” Glaring now at her other hand, he added, as he started to touch the left hand, not minding the grunts. “You are pretty rough around the edges. You fight straight out of the rulebook, but experience will fix that. Keep the work up and the next duel may be less of a circus and more of a real combat. Nonetheless, I will allow you to feel pride, few sapients have pulled one over on me.”

  Samil struggled to get her next words out. “It was but a bout, regent. In real combat I would have never touched you.” If he had, at any point, fought seriously, she would have been done in two strikes. That did not mean she had not had to chew that compliment out, of course.

  “And in real combat I would have died once. Enemy soldiers usually don’t have an empty left hand.” Having healed the hands, his gaze turned to her side. “Now get that chainmail off. I should have, if not outright broken, cracked one or two ribs.”

  Struggling under the increasing pain, she nodded, undressing her armour and letting herself be treated.

  Soral, on the other hand, was smirking after having had a good laugh. Seeing her brother get a bloody nose was a good damn way of calming down her frustrations. Getting her own ass handed to her every morning training was getting real tiring, after all.

  On the third hand, Andras was honestly happy for Samil. She had done better than he had expected. Nodding, he joined in.

  “As a father, I could not be more proud of her, my regent.” Puffing out his chest, he left his watcher position and went towards both of them.

  “I see. The apple didn’t fall that far from the tree.” Bussy healing, he answered half absent minded, not really hearing the sentence. A few seconds more, and with a more healthy, if a little embarrassed patient, his brain processed the new information.

  His head turned towards Andras in a flash. “Your what? But didn’t you have a son? You remarried?! Did I just kick the soul out of your daughter? Why was I not informed of any of this beforehand!?” Too surprised to not revert to the jargon he used to speak in to Andras, he loudly asked, not really connecting the dots.

  He gazed at Samil, at Andras, and did a double take of Samil, the information not really sinking in. He had broken her bones. But once it sank, Noct’s face turned sour. This was not how a regent should be acting. Coughing a bit, he raised to his feet. “Nothing hurts, yes?” He asked.

  Andras stood, silent, for a few moments, as Noct rechecked Samil again. That settled in. No man that could make true of his threats would treat that very threatened life like that. Seeing the old medic version of Noct as he continued to check his patient was somewhat heartwarming. He sighed. Now, how could he get Noct out of his damn predicament? He was too old to be saving his ass again.

  Soral, who had been laughing as Noct acted the fool, had also gotten quiet. Frowning, she turned around and left towards the castle.

  “If nothing else hurts…” Asked more than stated, for the third time, Noct.

  “No, everything is already fine. See? Just calm down.” Samil looked at her dad for help and that was enough to bring him back from his silence.

  “I would believe the kid, regent. She is a tough woman, that I can assure you. But, no, I did not remarry. It is the same child, but she was known before as Andil. The alchemist you recruited was fairly helpful with the potions. The retirement payment I got from you was more than enough to cover the costs and more.”

  “I see, glad to hear.” Noct lightly nodded along. “But I know of no such thing as a retirement payment. If you could out the miscreant…” His uneasy eyes returned to Samil.

  “Strange. Well, I for one am not a snitch.” Laughed Andras,, strongly patting Noct on a shoulder and almost throwing him to the ground. “But I will pray for that bastard.” Noct, every bit as uncomfortable as Samil, tried to get away by calling duties. Andras paid no mind, continuing to chat about his daughter, her future and all of her exploits, actuals and past.

  ……………….

  “Well. Nobody lives up to their reputation, do they?” Started Samil as they walked back home.

  “Huh?” Hummed in question Andras.

  “I’m speaking about N…the regent. I expected a, well, a terrifying tyrant.”

  “I do find him scary when he gets angry. Or just normal. And he was certainly horrifying on the battlefield.”

  “Well, that could be it. He was imposing at the beginning but I didn’t expect him to be so…mellow? He is very ruler-like with arrogance to fill that title but respects effort? I don’t get him.”

  Andras, who coughed at the ‘mellow’, laughed again. “To call that man mellow…yet yes, I guess he could have been called that before. He always had a stick up his arse but was more relaxed.”

  “This does not mean I will forgive him for randomly kicking you out of your post.” Samil frowned. “And the duel of today was a fluke. I will beat him next time.”

  “Keep your training up for a few years and you for sure will. However, remember to always show respect to your superiors. Showing hate is only going to get you demoted.” ‘Or killed.’

  “I can’t hold my people’s smile as well as you can! He just infuriated me before I could focus on it.”

  “I am sure of it, young lady.” Andras rolled his eyes.

  …………….

  Night calling to the world of dreams, and Samil already sleeping like a log, Andras was still sitting on a chair in their kitchen. On the table in front of him rested a silver-like sword.

  It was more a work of art than a weapon or war. A blade of shining white metal worthy of a paladin, made out of enchanted platinum. It had cost a fortune, that was sure of it. And it was also not steel. The guard followed the symbolism of the Cult of Elenia. It was engraved in ornamentations of scales. The crossguard mimicked the leathery wings of the angels of Elenia, not losing functionality in the process. The hilt fitted his hands perfectly, even after all of this time, and they were most accommodating. The blade did not rust nor did it need maintenance. Its edge did not leave anything to complain about, as it could cut through plate as easily as molten cheese. The sword itself was lighter than a feather for his hands, and as heavy as lead for enemies.

  Gifted to him on the day he had been handed his medals. The after party with his spouse and fellow men at arms had been one of the best days of his life

  He had had time to digest the different course of actions he could take. And knew the one he thought best to take. He should dig a hole, throw the sword there and march behind Soral. Her arguments were sound. As fast as he had changed, he could change back. Noct was also far from having acted as a good man should, and some could say that judging him would be better than a lifetime of atonement. And helping him could end in another civil war. More to it, she was going to inherit the barony.

  All of those reasons were just that, reasons, excuses. He knew what he wanted. Grabbing his scabbard, he unsheathed his old blade. Filled to the brim with nicks, he put it on the table. Picking the platinum longsword, it raised it to the light of the candle. Its name, carved in runes, shone to life. ‘Light of Hope’. He had never let Noct live this name down.

  But it had lived to its name on the battlefield, when death had seemed all that too close. This light had not been a joke, nor had it proven weak. Yet it had also not shred hope as it would have wanted, he supposed. He himself had also failed. A tattered retreat, chaotic orders, another betrayal, this out of incompetence, the commander had left a third of their troops behind. Only Noct, bathed in blood, had come back. A soulless gaze and a limp were the signs of a part of Noct dying that day. It had taken the bastard six months to finally break down. Recalling the bodies he had had to bury alone, Andras shook his head. That was a burden no youngster could carry, yet he had. Or maybe he hadn’t, cracking upon its weight.

  He had forged his own sword later that day. One forged out of obsidian. A blade that seemed to suck the light out of the very air. Plain and simple in design, with a cross type hilt and the blade a palm and a bit longer than a normal longsword, it cooled the atmosphere of the battlefield each time it came to sight. He had never told him its name.

  Andras reclined on his chair and continued his nightdream. Two very different swords. One colder than winter. One that chilled him every time he saw it. His, on the other hand, had always brought him hope. Light. One purely a weapon. Another more of a symbol, a hope. A prayer.

  Getting up from the chair, he sheathed ‘Light of Hope’. Maybe this was not the right thing, maybe it was foolish. Yet he felt lighter. Looking at the small mirror in the kitchen, he looked determined.

  ‘I should ask him for a sword for the graduation of my daughter. He does good work, after all.’

  ……………