~ Chapter XII ~
Maeleth of the Knife

The next morning, Fíohra woke not to Maelé's touch on her shoulder but rather to the deep reverberation of something under the mountain. Disoriented for a moment in the dimmed light of the torches, she sat up on her mattress of furs, panicking. But after a few more moments, the tremor and her terror subsided, leaving only curiosity. Though Fíohra had never felt an earthquake, she knew instinctively that whatever it was was no natural phenomenon. It was too resonant, too sustained. It puzzled her, but she was not given the opportunity to contemplate it further. A knock shook the door to her chambers and Fíohra jumped unsteadily to her feet.

"Who's there?" she cried, hoping it was Mórdúil's servant come to fetch her and not…something else.

"It is maeleachlainn, small one. I have come to escort you to the armory for the start of your training."

Fíohra breathed a sigh of relief, though it was soon transfigured into annoyance. She glanced at the torches, which still burned at pre-dawn strength. The maeleachlainn would have to wait, at least until she had breakfasted. "I've yet to eat," she cried.

"Then I will wait here," came the level reply.

Satisfied, Fíohra rubbed the sleep from her eyes and approached the enchanted wardrobe, her stomach rumbling a 'good morning' to the lettered wood. "Porridge," she mumbled, placing her hand between the knobs as Maelé had shown her. Counting silently to three, she removed her hand and opened the wardrobe.

A silver pitcher of cream, a basket of almond scones and half a dozen apples greeted her instead.

Fíohra stared in bewilderment. But before she could express her frustration, the wardrobe doors tore themselves out of her hands and snapped shut.

"Oi!" she cried, pulling the knobs open again. The breakfast offering had not changed, except that the wardrobe had added a silver pot of tea and matching cup. Grumbling but realizing the truth of Maelé's warning about the wardrobe, Fíohra retrieved the breakfast tray and retreated to her bed to eat. She could not deny that it had made a delicious choice, but it did not mitigate her irritation at being overruled by an inanimate object.

Nevertheless she dutifully finished her breakfast and returned the dishes to the wardrobe. But no sooner had she shut the doors than they sprang open again, making Fíohra jump. "What now?" she mumbled, subduing the twitch of guilt she felt at making the maeleachlainn wait so long. The wardrobe, however, was insistent, so Fíohra went forward to investigate.

The dishes were gone, replaced with a new outfit. Surprised, Fíohra lifted the pile from the floor of the wardrobe. She had not expected clothes. Used to owning only one dress, her morning habit had never included a change of outfit. Looking down, she wondered if she should keep the leggings and tunic from the day before. But her concern was proved unnecessary as she held up the wardrobe's offerings.

Rather than the fresh legging-tunic ensemble she expected, the shirt she held was lined with leather plates, sewn onto tough, starched linen. The leggings, likewise, were thicker than the ones she'd worn the night before, and the knees were plated in leather as well. And instead of the belt from yesterday, the wardrobe had given her a broad buckler with notches for both sword and dagger scabbards. Fíohra dressed with a smile on her lips, her annoyance with the magical article dissipating. Somehow it had known she was to be engaged in swordplay, and had prepared her accordingly. Once attired, she offered the wardrobe a pat on its door.

"Thank you," she whispered, glad of its quirkiness. "Thank you very much." Straightening, she took a deep breath. With one hand on her dagger, Fíohra made her way to the door. She was ready for whatever Mórdúil and his servants had prepared for her.

At least, she hoped she was ready.

The maeleachlainn waiting outside was not one Fíohra had met before, though she had caught a glimpse of it the previous night, when it had come forward to receive instructions from its master. It was a male, and shorter than both Maelé and the first maeleachlainn she had encountered. No more than six feet tall, it was cloaked in brown and belted in a similar manner as Fíohra. She tried to make conversation as she followed it up to a higher level, but it seemed to prefer silence. Nevertheless, Fíohra managed to convince it to give her a name—any name, she begged. It hesitated for a long moment before answering.

"Maeleth," it said at last, and Fíohra was satisfied.

Maeleth led its human charge past many deserted halls and crumbling staircases before arriving at the armory. It too had a lettered door, but the symbols looked different that the ones on Fíohra's door. She asked Maeleth about them as the paused on the threshold.

"They do not allow the weapons of the room to pass without permission from the master," it explained in a clipped and gravelly voice.

"Ah."

At a touch of Maeleth's stone hand, the door swung open on silent hinges. Fíohra felt her breath stick in her throat as the torches leapt to life inside, revealing an enormous hall lined from floor to ceiling with rows of armaments. Mute, she entered, dazzled by the silver glint of battle axes and the bronze-work on the hilts of ceremonial claymores. There seemed to be enough weapons to supply an army, and Fíohra wondered for what Mórdúil used them all. But she was not allowed to tarry long in her musings; a word from Maeleth brought her attention back to the task at hand.

"Mortal," it said, and she forced her gaze back to her instructor. It stood in the center of the great hall, a longsword already in hand. "The master has commanded me to teach you the ways of these weapons," it explained.

Fíohra nodded. "Aye."

"What experience have you had in battle?" Maeleth asked unexpectedly.

"Ah…none," she replied, caught off guard. Part of her wanted to ask the maeleachlainn the same question, but she held her tongue, determined to learn.

"Come forward," Maeleth ordered. "Which is your sword arm?"

Fíohra extended her right arm. "I supposed it'd be this one."

Maeleth took a few steps to the wall, replaced its longsword and pulled down two blunted practice swords. Without expression, it offered one to Fíohra's left hand. She frowned and reached for it with her right, but the maeleachlainn withdrew before she could take it.

"No, small one. I shall teach your weakest arm first. When you have mastered it there, your stronger will accept the knowledge more easily." Understanding her teacher's logic but reluctant to display her inability, she took the sword with her left hand and tested its weight. It was heavier than she expected. Maeleth took the other in its left hand. "Your first lesson," it began. "Know your weapon. I will teach you the sword and the knife, the bow and arrow. Each is handled differently, and you must know the feel of each one. We will begin with this. Study it, human. Tell me what you see."

Fíohra obeyed, gripping the sword in both hands. "I see…a piece of steel the twice the length of my arm. It's heavy. And there are no decorations on the hilt," she offered.

Maeleth made a sound that might have passed for a sigh. "You have much to learn. You do not see it at all." It extended its hand for her sword and she passed it to him, wondering what she was supposed to have been looking for. The maeleachlainn held both weapons in front of it, studied them, tested their weight and gave each a practice swing. Then it returned Fíohra's. "I see a kill at a single body-length—perhaps more if you were quick. If sharpened, a clean beheading from the back of a carraiglas. A useful weapon, though not the best. A good start, in short, for one as inexperienced as you."

Fíohra accepted the sword with a gulp. She wondered again what sort of things she would ever be defending herself from, what creatures she might have to behead from the back of a carraiglas. The thought was far from comforting.

"We will start on the defensive, human," Maeleth announced, taking several steps back from its student. "I am certain you will need to protect yourself more often than you will need to go on the offensive."

Fíohra wondered if her teacher was trying to anger her to give her an incentive to fight. She also wondered if she should tell Maeleth that its strategy wouldn't work. Already she had accepted the fact that she was woefully unprepared for any sort of serious swordplay, let alone a genuine attack. "A'right," Fíohra replied with a swallow. "Show me what to do."

~o~

Three hours later, Fíohra was bruised, battered and more exhausted than she had ever been in the whole of her short life. Begging the maeleachlainn for a respite from its unforgiving assaults, she collapsed in a corner near the door, her hand nearly frozen to the hilt of the practice sword. Pushing aside her sweaty hair, she recognized her gratitude to the wardrobe once more; the armored shirt had protected her from the worst of Maeleth's hits. But not all of them. Wincing, Fíohra lifted the cuff of her left sleeve. The maeleachlainn had used care to avoid seriously injuring her, but its blunted blade nevertheless left some painful welts. Her wrist ached, as it had received the brunt of Maeleth's force instead of her sword. She felt foolish, weary, a little embarrassed and more than eager for her lessons with Maeleth to end.

Unfortunately, they were only beginning.

"Up, small one," Maeleth instructed, pausing just long enough for Fíohra to catch her breath. "You have much more to learn today."

Fíohra groaned. It was all the response she could muster.

But Maeleth would have none of it. It strode over to the place its student had collapsed and extended its hand. "Rise," it commanded. "You must not allow yourself to rest until we have finished. If you stop, you will never be able to start again."

Reluctantly, Fíohra grasped the stone hand and let Maeleth pull her to her feet. Though her mind saw the sense of her teacher's order, her body still protested. "What…what else have we to do?" she panted, following the maeleachlainn to the center of the hall. Part of her feared the answer, but another part just wanted to get through it and return to her room. The hot bath and bed of furs had never seemed so appealing.

Maeleth replaced its practice sword on the wall and withdrew two battle-knives, each as long as Fíohra's forearm. "I shall try to teach you the art of this blade." The increasing dryness in its voice—the subtle intonation that passed for maeleachlainn emotion—was the only sign of Maeleth's lack of faith in her. Fíohra shrugged and reached for one of the knives with her left hand. To her surprise, Maeleth nodded. "Good, young one," it said, the first word it had spoken in approval. "You do learn."

Heartened a little, Fíohra took up the fighting stance that Maeleth had taught her earlier. But it shook its head. She frowned. "What?"

"We use different blades now. Everything must change. The fighting-knife is a close range-weapon; you must not stand so far off." Again, the subtle rise in its voice was the only indication of sarcasm. "Unless you plan to throw it, small one?"

Vigorously, Fíohra shook her head and moved closer.

"Bend your knees a little more, mortal. And hold the knife firmly. There is even less room for error here than there was with the other."

Fíohra obeyed, sticking the tip of her tongue out in concentration. She shuffled her feet and bent her knees until Maeleth nodded, satisfied. It then explained the rules of the weapon. Its student listened closely, though inside she hadn't the faintest idea how she would remember them all. When Maeleth had finished explaining, the two began.

To her surprise, Fíohra found the dagger much easier than the sword. For one thing, it was lighter; for another, she was naturally quick on her feet. And it helped that the maeleachlainn was so much bigger than her; where in the sword fight it had been to Maeleth's advantage, here Fíohra found an edge. She could dodge around the stone servant more easily, and once she even managed to get a solid hit, ducking beneath its dagger-sweep and thrusting upwards into its exposed stomach. Unfortunately, the maeleachlainn's stone-flesh proved impervious to the steel of the practice blade. Fíohra came away from her attack cradling her arm. But her sore muscles were soothed at Maeleth's emotionless acknowledgement of the hit.

"Well done," it said.

Fíohra smiled to herself. She was learning.