Mariah peeked out the door into the castle hall impatiently, but just as she suspected, it was quite empty. There was no sign of Eria anywhere. Gritting her teeth, she slid the door closed and resumed her pacing. Was it not bad enough that this sparring test, meant to prove her skills after years of hard practice, had been set up against the one sparring partner she had never bested? No, now it seemed she would have to fight it without her swords.
A Cousland did not go dashing through the halls of Castle Highever begging passer-by if anyone had seen her maid or her swords.
She flung herself bodily on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, trying to calm her fluttering stomach. After a few moments of staring at the grey stone, she closed her eyes and focused on the sounds which echoed against the walls of her family's home. Men, horses, and even a few mabari roamed hither and yon training, equipping, and organizing. Despite their hardships in the scant few decades since their last war, her father's vassals were responding quickly their teyrn's call on behalf of Kind Cailan. Of course, this time they would reportedly be fighting off some darkspawn raids, rather than a fighting a desperate rebellion against Orlais and a civil war. This was a chance for Ferelden to fight as one against a monstrous enemy. Surely, a few darkspawn could be easily put down by the combined might of the forces of Ferelden, which might help the morale of a people who had struggled for so long to rebuild their.
Mariah knew her father's inclination was not to send his youngest with his armies, but she was determined to prove herself worthy. She had practiced hard for many years with a zeal that was fueled in no small part by the tales she had heard as a child of the great Rebel Queen Moira and her personal hero, the Warrior Queen Rowan. She would never admit that out loud, of course. Her father would counsel her once again on difference between historic tales and the reality of war. Her mother would, also once again, scold her for impractical daydreaming. Worst of all, her brother would be unable to resist a bit of friendly mockery that such a comparison would inevitably provide. Mariah was well aware that she was no Warrior Queen, but her pride rebelled against letting anyone poke fun at her for how little she measured up.
Today was to be, however, her chance to prove that she was capable of more than being an administrator, politician, and, eventually, wife to some poor hapless arl's son who might be tricked into such a political marriage. It would likely be the weasel faced Thomas, Arl Howe's son. She sighed forlornly and sat up, elbows on her knees. If she could prove she had learned enough from her swordsmanship training that she could lead even a small number of her father's forces, she might have a chance to earn some semblance of recognition before she packed into some frilly, Orlesian inspired dress and set up for display in someone's hall. Perhaps she might finally earn some respect for herself, instead of the reflected glory of the Cousland name. Really, wasn't that the heritage she had learned for so long? She came from a long line or courageous and just warriors; compassionate and strong leaders. Thus had she always and constantly been reminded. They were only one step down from the royal line, and their family history stretched back just as far. She had this chance to show that such a bloodline did not run thinly in her veins.
And there, she was back to thinking about the duel despite her attempts not to. She could hardly win completely unarmed, either. She could smell the stew Nan was cooking for lunch. If she did not reach the sparring circle soon, she would forfeit the match. She heartily doubted that, "My apologies, but I could not find my swords" would be a very impressive excuse. Yes, some Warrior Queen- like impression that would make. She doubted Rowan had ever inconveniently misplaced her sword.
She smacked a gauntleted fist against the foot of the bed and pulled herself to her feet. He rmother had said it was too great an indulgence to have a maid, and Nan had told her that elves could not be trusted to work hard without constant supervision, but Mariah had over-ridden both of their objections and chosen Eria as a personal maid anyway. If cornered, Mariah would admit that most of her reasoning had been based on a rather unseemly amount of willful defiance of being told what NOT to do. However, since then the young elf had given lie to those warnings, and had been both courteous and hard-working without fail. She was also a loyal companion and discrete confidant. Eria was one of the few who knew how important today was to Mariah. She would not dawdle without reason today, of all days, and on such an important errand as fetching Mariah's newly crafted swords. No, something important must be keeping her.
Armed with this convenient excuse, Mariah gave up on useless pacing and headed out into a hall. A brief look both directions confirmed that there was no blue-dressed, red-haired elf in sight, so she set off at a brisk pace towards the armory. Her armored footsteps echoed hollowly against the stone walls as she struggled to walk with a determined and purposeful gait instead of desperate one. She was just able to keep from a completely non-decorous trot. It wouldn't do to be chastised for lack of decorum while scouring the castle for her lost maid and swords, now would it?
Most of the staff hopped out of the way when they saw her coming, and Mariah resisted the impulse to stop and ask every one of them if they seen Eria. It would rather disrupt her determined and purposeful façade, after all. To her relief, she caught sight of Eria's distinctive auburn pony-tail right outside of the armory door. The petite elf was surrounded by three large, armored strangers, hopping and squirming to avoid one set of groping hands only to encounter another. Narrowing her eyes, Mariah finally did break into a run.
"Give us the swords and stop squirming," one of the men said to Eria in a hard voice, "and we won't tell anyone you were trying to steal them."
"No," another chuckled, "I think we would need to talk in private about how wrong it was. Stealing from her betters should require some…compensation after all."
The nasty laugh that followed made the hairs on Mariah's neck stand on end. It also made her voice a little louder than she meant when she responded.
"I'd rather she did not hand the swords over, as they belong to me," she said as she came to a halt before them. "And I'll thank you to take your hands off of her."
Though they were all strangers to her, one of the men's eyes widened in recognition when they turned in her direction. He pulled one companion back, but was not quick enough to catch the other before he snarled, "And who would you be?"
She crossed her arms and tilted her chin up. "I am Mariah Cousland, daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland, and I do not appreciate being spoken to in that tone within my own castle."
Technically, it was her father's castle, really, but this situation required some heavy handedness if any did. Mariah took some satisfaction when the soldier who had recognized her winced, and the one who had addressed her turned pale and licked his lips nervously in sudden appreciation of his predicament. The third man blurted something Mariah was fairly sure was highly blasphemous, then the man flushed red and fell silent again.
The one who had recognized her gave his companions a quelling look as he stepped forward to address her with a small bow. "We thought we had caught this elf stealing from the armory."
"Yes, I heard that part," she growled in return. She took several steps forward as she did and, as she had hoped, the uncertain men backed away as well, leaving Eria free to take refuge behind Mariah. "I also heard your proposed solution, which was not precisely 'Fetch the magistrate'."
They all looked at each other uncertainly. She nodded towards the insignia on their tabards. "You are Arl Howe's men, correct? Leave now, and I will only report this as a misunderstanding."
Well, he was her father's friend. She was…fairly certain he might listen to her complaint, anyway. Eria made a small sound of protest behind her, so she added, "But if common decency will not stay your hand in the future, know that if you lay a hand on her again, I will have you flogged."
Even the most diplomatic of the group found this too much. "Over a servant?" he demanded. "Over an ELF?"
Mariah clenched her fists at her sides. It was most likely a bluff on her part. She doubted she could get more than a mild reprimand for this, regardless of how vile she felt it was, but that knowledge galled her as much as their behavior, so she squared her shoulders and did her best to use her frustrated anger to channel her father's voice at his most imperious. She stalked up into the man's face. "In what way have I failed to make myself clear?"
The men seemed on the verge of rebellion, and for a moment she wondered if she shouldn't have claimed her swords before pushing them, but after a moment they bowed and beat a hasty retreat. There was what seemed be a sullen exchange of words between them, but they were well out of earshot by that time, and they didn't pause as they disappeared down the hall to the side door. Mariah tried not to sigh too loudly in her relief. An actual fight would have brought her father's guards to defend her fast enough, but she was glad that hadn't been necessary.
Actually, it had probably been that very fact that had made them back down, rather than her own authority. The thought just made her more angry for a moment, then she guiltily recalled that she was not the victim in this circumstance at all.
"Are you alright, Eria?"
There were tears in the elf's eyes, but she seemed just a furious as frightened as she shoved the swords she had been clutching in Mariah's direction. Mariah accepted them, trying to think of something to say as Eria crossed her arms tightly against her chest and bowed her head.
"I could still have them flogged anyway, if you prefer?"
Eria made a coughing sound and covered her face, though Mariah wasn't certain if it was a laugh or a sob. She still said nothing, which was generally a bad sign with Eria, but Mariah could not think of anything more helpful to say. At a loss, she belted her swords on and put a hand on the maid's shoulder.
"Come then. I have another fight on my hands in the courtyard."
Eria bobbed her head again but still refused to make eye contact as she followed Mariah back out to the front hall doors and into the morning air. A crowd was already gathered outside the corral when Mariah approached, which wasn't altogether unexpected. Most were various soldiers of her father's, and a few others were from the troops of lower nobles and landed freemen who supported him, curious at the interruption in their preparations, no doubt. At one end of the fence, a lone robed figure stood. Judging from the buffer of uncomfortable distance between him and the rest of the milling crowd, it would be no other than the Circle representative requested by her father. The mage seemed to withstand the sullen glances directed his way with more grace than he took standing at the muddy end of the horse corral. Mariah wondered if perhaps he was more used to one than the other.
A ripple went through the milling people as they caught sight of her. Several people tapped shoulders, elbowed neighbors and pointed her pointed her out, resulting in more tapping and elbowing.
"Maker's Breath," Mariah said under her breath, "You would think they had never seen a woman in armor before."
"They surely have. See, there's two female soldiers over there by the mage." Mariah looked to the elf beside her in surprise, and Eria managed a wan smile. "Probably it's just you."
Mariah gave her a mock scowl, and sighed dramatically. Shrugging, she forced her chin up and eyes forward as she sought out her quarry. Ser Gilmore separated himself from the crowd and approached her, following closely by her brother, Fergus. Fergus wore his breastplate, buffed to a high shine as always, and glittered in the morning sun as if the Maker himself held a spotlight to the Cousland heir. Ser Gilmore, in contrast, wore something more practical, made of steel reinforced leather, and had only bowed sufficiently to convention to be wearing her father's insignia. The old tabard smelt strongly enough of moth balls that Mariah caught the scent of it as they stopped before her.
"I thought you might have changed your mind, little sister." He grinned easily, as he sauntered up, looking all the world like he DIDN'T have a five foot long slab of a sword strapped to his back. "Or did you merely misplace your swords, perhaps?"
"There is still time before I forfeited," Mariah replied, stung at how close his mockery came to the truth. She winced at the surly petulance she heard in her own voice, and cleared her throat roughly. "Regardless, I am here and I am prepared."
Ser Gilmore stepped forward, stepping just enough in between them to get the attention of them both, before turning to Mariah. "I feel I must remind you once more that this is wholly unnecessary." Despite his words, he didn't seem very hopeful they would make much difference.
He could be a wise man, Ser Gilmore.
Mariah did her best to let not an ounce of doubt show on her face as he searched it for any sign of hesitation. Finally he stifled a sigh. "I didn't think so," he muttered, stalking towards the corral. Fergus met her eyes once the knight's back was turned, and raised his eyebrows as she hesitated. With a dramatic bow, he waved her before him. She shot a look skyward as he immediately fell in step beside her when she started walking, rather than walking behind.
"You can still choose another to fight," he said, his words pitched low enough that the nearby soldiers could not hear.
"I think that would defeat part of the purpose," Mariah responded. "Of course, if YOU wish to forfeit to avoid fighting me, I will oblige you."
He flashed her a brief, annoyed look, though not completely without some amusement. "We will use real swords this time Maria," he said, his tone serious. "Mage healing or no, a wrong step could result in some fairly significant injuries."
"Well, let us DO try not to decapitate each other then." She didn't look behind her as she swung herself over the corral fence. Some muttering and a loud clank, however, let he know that he followed her lead. Of course, he had to. There was no way he would open the gate after she hopped the fence, even if her armor weighed half as much. She grinned to herself over this minor victory.
They walked together to the center of the ring where Ser Gilmore awaited them.
"This is a friendly match," he began, using a bellowing tone that carried far. The murmuring of the crowd around them quieted. "Both combatants have agreed to a non-lethal duel. A combatant loses by yielding, being unable to fight as determined by myself, or touching or crossing the fence."
Mariah peered into the crowd as Ser Gilmore recited the rules of the duel. At some point Eria had wondered away from her, and was now safely ensconced in a small group of servants, both elven and human, which had gathered just outside of the ring of soldiers. Good. She was safe from any strangers with wandering hands, then.
"Mariah Cousland. Do you understand and agree to abide by the rules of this match?"
Mariah snapped her eyes back to Ser Gilmore, whose long-suffering look let her know he had noticed her inattention.
"Yes, ser," she responded briskly.
"Fergus Cousland. Do you understand and agree to abide by the rules of this match?"
"Yes, ser."
Ser Gilmore looked at them both, the thin line of his lips speaking volumes about his disapproval. "Very well." He turned and walked to the gate. Closing it behind him, he turned to face them again and motioned them to opposite ends of the corral. Mariah scuffed her boots on the damp sandy soil. It could be slippery if she wasn't careful, but it was hardly the muddy pit she'd had to fight in last time, for which she was grateful. Once she reached her side, she turned about and drew her swords.
Now across the corral, Fergus pulled the massive sword from his back. It was the first time she had faced him while he was armed with that heavy piece of steel, and her heart start to thump hard in her chest as he raised it before him, at the ready. That was a mighty big sword.
She didn't have time to reconsider, however, before Ser Gilmore spoke once more. "Begin."
A hush fell over the crowd, and for a few moments Mariah could hear little more than her pulse and the distant sound of sea birds. She hesitated to move, eyeing her brother's sword, until he finally stepped forward. If he closed on her while she was so close to the fence, Fergus would fairly easily be able to force her backwards outside of the duel bounds, and she would lose for sure. She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. Did she expect to lead men into battle if the sight of a great sword sent her cowering? She huffed another breath, and forced her swords into an en garde position. She had training on battling a stronger foe. She knew what approaches to take. She had fought her brother before.
Of course, he had always won against her, despite being only armed with a wooden practice sword.
Mariah snarled at herself in disgust, and forced herself into an attack. Fergus easily blocked with his sword, and countered with a slow swipe she just as easily evaded. They traded blows a couple more times, as she carefully tested his defenses and speed. Was he really so much slower using his real sword? She might actually have a chance, if that was so. She could certainly evade until he tired and she found an opening. Enthusiasm was just starting to bloom when he stepped back and swung his sword easily from one side to another, much faster than he had in any attack against her.
"Mariah, you are fighting like an Orlesian dandy," he said, grinning impishly at her. Howls of amusement rose from the gathered soldiers.
Mariah growled in return. She would teach him to take this seriously.
She went on the offensive, leading with her larger sword, and holding her smaller clear and to her side. After blinking with surprise, he switched his grip on his sword, blocking each of her attacks with first one side and then the other of its massive blade. He was moving quicker now, she noted with satisfaction, even if it was only in order to counter her blows. She paused her attacks, shifting her stance slightly, but Fergus remained on the defensive, refusing to attack. Gritting her teeth, she reversed the grip on her short sword and while he blocked the attack from her larger sword, swung the second at his face.
He flinched, training and instinct pulling his head away from her, but the hilt of her sword still struck with enough force to send him staggering back a few steps. A surprised exclamation erupted from the crowd. Mariah stood her ground, frowning fiercely at him as held one hand to his face, and the crowd's noise turned to rumblings of barely heard commentary. Blood smeared Fergus' nose and gauntlet as he lifted his hand to wave away the approaching Circle mage. He glowered at her, his eyes bright as he waiting for the mage to get clear of the corral again. Were his eyes bright with pain? Fury? She wasn't quite sure. But he took a deep breath and clenched his teeth briefly, rubbing his nose again with the back of his gauntlet before speaking grimly once more.
"Right."
Mariah braced herself as he attacked in earnest. She was back on the defensive again, shifting her weight and moving quickly to evade his attacks, using her second sword to redirect as those that came too close for comfort. Well, they all came to close to comfort to her mind. He moved the sword with surprising speed, redirecting momentum with grace and fluidity. The roaring sounds of the crowd blended into an indistinct background as she focused her full attention on Fergus and her own footing; watching his body language to determine where and when he blows would come, moving about him to avoid them while she also kept on eye on how close she was to the fence. She took an attack when she could, trying to find a way to interrupt his momentum.
Finally, he made a swing was too wide, leaving it too far away from his body to block a blow, but she saw her mistake as soon as she made it. She should have known not every opening was a real one, and that he would bait her into an attack she shouldn't have taken. Her sword made only a glancing blow against his armor, but the lunge with her long sword left her too over-extended. It was too late to avoid the return blow, but she twisted as he pulled his sword into a quick arc, struggling to shift her balance fast enough to pull her left arm out of harm's way. She got her arm moving with his blow instead of against it, but the heavy blade still struck with bone jarring force. She heard her short sword hit the ground as her pain-paralyzed fingers let it slip from her grasp.
Her vision blurred briefly, and she scrambled clear of him, blinking quickly to try to clear the unbidden tears. She risked a glance at her arm. The sword had scarred a deep slash in the middle of her forearm brace, though the reinforced leather had apparently taken the blunt of the blow. Her fingers twitched painfully when she tried to clench her fist, but did little more. She glanced up at Fergus, who remained several feet away at the ready. She refused to risk wiping the unshed tears from her eyes, for fear of missing a follow up attack.
Besides, she was certain that a Cousland would not cry on the battle field.
"Do you yield?" Fergus bellowed. The background roaring of the crowd tapered off in response to his challenge.
She put her aching arm behind her back and turned her side to him, lifting her sword in the single weapon battle stance they had both learned. He noted the change with narrowed eyes.
"I still have a sword," she informed him, and with strength fueled by her pain, proceeded to demonstrate that to him. Though he blocked, she struck his sword with enough force that she felt the impact in her shoulder. His sword actually slipped in his grip, turning sideways against her blade. The blow deflected onward, giving her a chance to keep most of the momentum and turn it into a second, back-handed blow with enough strength in it that it forced him back a few steps to give him a chance to recover his grip.
She kept trying to clench and unclench her fist behind her back, using the pain to spur herself forward, moving her sword as fast as she could to keep him off balance. His broad blade seemed everywhere at once as he struggled to fend off the series of blows, but with every move he was forced to give just a little more ground. She risked a glance over his shoulder, trying to judge the distance to the fence. It only a moment's hesitation on her part, but it was enough. He pulled up his sword at one of her swings, trapping her blade against his cross-guard. They struggled for a moment as their blades locked, but she knew as soon as he got his feet under him that her drive was finished. He heaved her back with all of the strength of his legs and back, and she her feet skidded across the loose sandy soil. She back-pedaled, scrambling to get control of her footing.
She barely got her balance back when, by chance, she saw her fallen short sword. Driven by either inspiration or desperation, she jumped over to it and took the chance to lower her defenses enough to pick it up. Her arm and hand protested the move painfully, but her grip held, and she turned back to Fergus, returning to her two weapon defensive stance.
Either the crowd was really roaring, or the blood in her ears just made it sound that way. Fergus said something she couldn't hear, and came forward, sword high. They traded blows, Mariahs' pain and fear merging into a strange sort of heart-pumping euphoria for a bit. She was tiring, however, and every time she moved to deflect one of her brother's blows with her injured sword arm, a lance of pain shot from her fingers to her shoulder. She tried changing back to the one handed style, but it was awkward, and Fergus did not take long to figure out why she had once again changed her stance. He moved quickly, feinting with the hilt of his sword, then pulling up his sword in a quick strike she reflexively tried to block with her short sword. Another shock of pain finally number her fingers enough that she lost her blade once more. This time, however, Fergus immediately followed up with a powerful blow with the flat of his blade against her chest, pushing her violently backward.
Mariah found herself on her back, breathless, and didn't clear her head fast enough to roll away when Fergus dived at her. His armored knee hit her chest with stunning force, and she felt the rest of the air leave her lungs. Gasping, she planted her hand against the pommel of his blade, twisting it in his grasp, struggling to get control of his blade or at pull it from his grip.
"Off. Me. Great. Oaf," she grunted.
"If you spent more time in the barracks, you would have thought of a much better name than oaf," someone joked from the sidelines to much laughter.
Her long sword was several feet away in the sandy soil. If only she could break free, she could roll towards it, and have a chance. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, though, and her injured arm ached from the strain of trying to pull the sword from Fergus' grasp. It wouldn't be too much longer.
"Maybe you should get off," someone else called, sounding worried.
"You don't know my sister like I do," her brother panted. "She is," he paused and grunted as she tried one last push to get his sword from his grasp. "She is still eyeing her sword."
Instead of pressing with his blade, Fergus suddenly leaned back and put all of his weight on the knee planted on her chest. Her vision grayed around the edges. Then she felt the cold press of steel against her neck.
"Enough," Ser Gilmore called from someplace very far away. "Fergus is the winner."
The weight lifted from her chest immediately. Disbelief and denial flooded in as fast as the air did. She couldn't have lost. It couldn't be over. Not yet.
As she gasped for breath and stared up at the sky, it became fairly clear that it was indeed VERY over, regardless of what she might wish. She closed her eyes. The faint smell of horse manure wafted up from the ground below her, but it still crossed her mind that laying here forever would be preferable to opening her eyes and accepting defeat.
Laying forever in the middle of the horse corral would hardly be fitting of the Cousland honor, though, would it?
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes once more, and lifted her right arm to Fergus. He smiled in wry relief, and pulled her up. She staggered, vertigo threatening to push her right back to the ground again. Her brother's strong arm kept her on her feet, however, and he guided her across the corral to the fence as her vision cleared and her balance returned.
Her heart fell even more as money changed hands around her. They had been betting on the outcome of this fight? This fight? Didn't they realize how important this was to her? Had been. It was over now. Seeing people collecting on bets against her was just…galling. She snapped her teeth together and kept her peace, however. Making a scene would hardly make things better. Cousland honor. Cousland discipline. The whole thing made her sour, regardless.
"Well fought, Fergus," Ser Gilmore said, shaking his hand.
Mariah forced her jaw to unclench. "Ser Gilmore, what did I do wrong? What was my mistake?"
He looked at her, and shook his head. "Your form was fine," he replied. "You merely fought against a stronger and more experience opponent."
Mariah sagged against the fence and studied her boots. It was not the reply she had longed for. A suggestion on where she could improve or what she might do differently next time meant she could make some plans. She could fight harder for next time. But his answer held none of that.
You really never had a chance.
Fergus cleared his throat, "Really, Mariah, you fought well. You are likely as good a fighter as most men in father's forces."
Most, perhaps, but not all. Not the one she needed so badly to better. She nodded, regardless. "Thank you," she managed.
He stood before her, somewhat awkward, as she resumed studying her boots. Finally he sighed, and patted her shoulder before heading back towards the castle. Mariah struggled not to wince too badly as the brotherly pat sent a wave of pain through her injured arm.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and tried to acknowledge with some dignity the soldiers and servants who came to give her well meaning praise and condolences once her brother left. When they were done, she stayed leaning against the fence as the crowd dispersed and returned to their duties, trying to convince herself that she was certainly NOT pouting.
She didn't succeed at that either.
"Should I fetch the healer?" Eria's voice was hesitant, and as Mariah looked up at her, she glanced with great reluctance towards the Circle mage, who loitered in the courtyard well away from the muddy corral. Likely, if Mariah asked it, Eria could still find some servant lower in the pecking order to actually summon the mage to help her. Mariah imagined this starting a series of requests resulting in some poor scullery lad from the kitchen eventually being sent back out of the castle to fetch the mage to her. She chuckled at the ridiculous picture, gaining her a very concerned look from her elven maid.
Mariah forced herself to take a deep breath. Her chest hurt, but there were no sharp pains to indicate a broken rib, like when she had been thrown from Whirlwind two years ago. She made a fist a few times with her left hand. It still hurt, but she could move it.
"Not necessary," she said briefly, to Eria's great and obvious relief.
"For whatever it's worth," Eria added quietly, "I thought it was brilliant how you used that attack to push him back, and make him think you were trying to push him against the fence so you could go back and get your other sword."
Mariah snorted. "It might have been a brilliant plan, if that was what I was trying to do." She looked wryly at Eria, "I was, however, trying to drive him into the fence. Being pushed back towards my sword was an accident."
Eria winced and blushed. "Oh."
Mariah pushed herself away from the fence. Bending to retrieve her blades caused some mild discomfort, but nothing too serious. She could hold her short sword in her left hand again, as well. She paused, and looked down at the sand covered swords. Part of her want to throw them away from her. What good would they do? Still, she couldn't help feeling that Ser Gilmore was wrong. She HAD made mistakes. If she hadn't made them, then she COULD have beaten Fergus. The more she mulled it over, the more certain she became. She had lost the battle when she had allowed herself to be disarmed the first time and had taken the injury to her arm. If she could have avoided that, she might have won.
She thought back on the battle, and how he had swung his sword in that attack, and set herself as she remembered her stance being. She winced as she lifted her blades. Sighing, she swung her arms gingerly, then lifted them again. Yes, that had been where she held them when he had made the opening. If she had instead attacked like this. No, that would have left her whole right side open to a counter swing. That would have been much worse than her arm. She shifted her footing, and started again. She tried various attacks, and rejected them all. She paused, her swords still held high. Maybe her first instinct had been correct, and she shouldn't have taken the opening at all?
Eria cleared her throat from the edge of the corral. "My lady? Brother Aldous will be waiting and I'll still need to…uh…brush out your hair first."
Mariah gave her a puzzled look, before recalling lying on the sandy mud on her back. Looking around, she noted several soldiers, both familiar and unfamiliar, watching her with curiosity. No doubt she looked fairly odd fighting this ghost of hers in full view. She started to sheath her swords, saw the dirt on them as well, and instead wandered towards the smithy to pick up a cleaning rag. She would take care of her equipment, then take herself to the tutor. Regardless of what she might dream, being taught how to keep the castle household looked like it was going to be more relevant to her future than practicing swordplay.