Chapter 3
Training Bouts
Michael
(Right, this is Captain Michael Seamus MacNamara, reporting on the events of April 21st to December 5th, year 28 of the Kingdom of New Ulster. Where do you want me to start, General O'Neill, sir? Brooklyn? Alright, let's see…)
I spent three days in the infirmary in the house in Brooklyn, with the blonde girl, Jaz, constantly asking me questions about myself, and where I came from. I didn't answer, though. I didn't trust those people, and I'm not sure I do, even now that all the mess is over.
On the fourth day, I said to the black guy, Carter, "Oy, ye. Oi need m'sword."
He had been walking by the infirmary's door, and looked over at me when I spoke. "What's that, man?"
"M'sword. Oi need't. Oi haven' practiced me sword-work in three damn days, Oi'll be rusty."
He walked inside. "Three days and you're rusty, man?"
"Oi'm an officer o' the King's Fianna," I said. "Oi need ter practice ev'ryday, else me skills dull an' Oi can't function loike Oi oughta."
I trusted Carter more than the others, because I sensed in him a kindred spirit- a soldier and an officer. As such, I told him probably more than I should have.
"Alright, yeah, I'll go get it."
"Go raibth maith agat."
I lay in bed until he returned with my blade.
"Ah, m'sword!" I got up and grabbed the hilt. "An' whit a sword y'are, me trusty friend…" I swung the bastard sword in a wide arc, then shifted into a dazzling series of swipes, backhanded cuts, thrusts, and two-handed cleaving blows.
When I finished, Carter had stepped back and was smiling. "Nice, man. You definitely know what you're doing with that."
"'Course Oi do," I said. "Ye don' make't inter the King's Fianna without knowing which end'f the sword's the sharp bit. We learn ter foight so the blade's an extension'f our arm- a' least, we feel loike't is." I held the blade in ready position. "Care ta have a bout?"
He grinned, the unsuspecting fool. (Huh? Oh, aye, General O'Neill. Just the facts, no editorials. Got it, sir. Right, then…)
He grinned and said, "Sure. Let me get my sword." I'm not sure what he did, but a curved blade appeared in his hand. "Let's go up to the roof."
We did, and stood at opposite corners of the building.
"Whit terms?" I called.
"I dunno," he replied, "Let's just spar for a bit."
I nodded. "On three, then- one, two, three!"
I walked towards him, swinging my bastard sword in slow, wide circles. He came at me in a full sprint, swinging his odd curved blade. I swung, knocking his sword aside, and swung at his ribs. He jumped back, and I pulled back the sword.
We began circling each other, swords at the ready. I swung, bringing the sword at his head, and he brought his blade to parry, but I switched directions to a backhanded strike, which, to his credit, he angled his blade to deflect. It didn't do him any good, though, because I had been double-feinting. My sword-point pushed past his defenses and pierced his thigh.
As I pulled my blade back, he pressed down on the wound to staunch the bleeding. "What was that for, man?"
I blinked. "Whit was whit fer?"
"You just stabbed me, in case you hadn't noticed!"
"Aye. An' yer point is…?"
He looked baffled, for whatever reason. "You aren't supposed to stab someone during a practice bout!"
I chuckled. "Whit the Hell's the point o' tha'? If ye know y'ain't gonna git hurt, why bother foightin'?"
He didn't seem to have an answer to that, so I raised my sword again. "Come an' have a go if ye think yer hard enough!"
He swung his sword in a double-handed downward stroke, which I sidestepped.
"If y'ain't gonna try, whit's the point o' this?"
He growled something, and he was suddenly encased in a 2.1 meter, golden, glowing image of a hawk-headed man with a larger version of his sword, which mirrored his movements.
"Now we're talkin'!" I said happily. I swiped the sword at his legs, then flicked it up and leapt to the side, infuriating him by staying just out of reach.
"C'mon, then!"
He swung his blade in a cruel arc, which I was barely able to parry without breaking my shoulder. That image-warrior was a lot stronger than it looked. I pushed the sword up long enough to jump to the side and slice at his knees. He parried and swung his blade at my stomach in an eviscerating strike, which I vaulted over.
"Tsk tsk tsk… yer gonna hafta do be'er than tha'…" I smirked and swung again, rolling forward and coming up behind him. I stabbed his avatar in the small of the back, and he growled, swiping at me. I ducked under the blow, grinning as he got angrier.
"Hold still!" he shouted after I rolled past him again.
I drew my knife from the sheath sewn into my sleeve. When Carter swung overhand at me again, I crossed my blades as I stepped forward, parried, and knocked his blade to the side. Then I slammed the pommel of my sword into his ribs, kicked him in the cherst, and grabbed the collar of his shirt, knife to his throat.
His avatar dissipated, and he looked completely… dumbstruck, I guess is the best word.
"Yield?" I asked.
"…Yeah."
I let him up and sheathed my weapons. "Yer a decent foighter," I said. "How long have ye been trainin'?"
"About two years. You?"
"Eleven an' a half."
"… Well. That explains a lot."
So, the premise of the Celtic chapters is that the characters are giving reports after the events of the story are over, and there will be occasional interjections like the ones in this chapter. For the most part, though, it's just story.