SONG OF WAR
She knows she has a long way to go before she can even stand a chance against him. The Commander's propensity for combat is no myth, no mere speculation whispered over the long tables in the dining hall. Her earlier bout (Our bouts, she corrects herself. There were nineteen others) with him has shown her that, and she has little doubt that the murmurs at dinner were far better-substantiated than they have been in a long time (Not that I'd know, though, she thinks. I haven't eaten yet).
Still, she thinks, I almost beat him a few times. Almost. In the rational part of her mind, she is aware that he's holding back, that even the overwhelming speed and strength he used against her in their first fight may not be everything he has to offer, but there's this feeling that if she just tries a little harder, if she had just moved that little bit more to the side, she could have had him.
She circles him in the dying light (their fifth bout), looking for an opening. He does the same, and suddenly there is a blur of motion (her body moves instinctively, but he anticipates her counter and works around it) and his hands are on her wrists, his teeth closing with infinite gentleness around her neck.
She goes limp in surrender, and he releases her. "Tell me, what did you do wrong there?" He asks.
She racks her brain. I must have made some minute change in my stance, something that left me vulnerable – maybe I chose the wrong counter, she thinks. She says so, and he shakes his head.
"You did nothing wrong," he says. "I was just a little bit faster."
An angry noise bubbles up in her throat, and she holds it in. Her frustration must be showing on her face, though, because he makes a placating gesture and says, "I think that's it for today."
She sighs. It would have been nice to win at least once, she thinks. Now I'll be up all night scrutinizing my losses.
The Commander frowns. "Actually," he says, "let's go again. One last round."
She loses again. But she comes close to winning – closer than ever before. And for the first time that evening, he gives her an encouraging grin and says: "You did good, kid. I almost had to get serious."
The smile on her face (When did it get there? She wonders later) lasts for the entirety of her journey back to her quarters. Maybe, she thinks, I'll just chalk that last one up as a win.
~a~
Three months rush by in an instant. They start with what the Commander calls the "higher arts" – the various stances and forms and body movements; the seemingly infinite set of strikes and counters. She learns how to counter the blade, the shield, the polearm and the hook (this takes quite a lot of time) and how to wield them (this takes even more). She learns how to win with humility, and how to lose with grace.
In her off-hours she joins the bodyguard squad assigned to an esteemed diplomat. The job is tedious and mundane, but she learns how to keep an eye out for the most innocuous of threats – every meal might hide poison, every servant a blade, every corner an assassin. The diplomat is every bit as good as the Commander says he is, if not better.
As the weeks go by, she finds herself developing a slight interest in the political machinations (another word added to my arsenal, she thinks wryly) of the Sunken Cities. Visiting dignitaries occasionally make small talk with her while waiting for their turn in the ambassadorial halls – while she finds these conversations to be overwhelming at first, they start being informative as she picks up more and more. When she mentions this to the Commander, he looks relieved and begins producing books and treaties from under his desk. "Read these in your free time," he says, and she immediately regrets her decision.
Three days later, a foreign diplomat sees the treaty she's carrying with her (she's stuck on the first one, being a slow reader; her busy schedule has not helped one bit) and asks her about it. She gathers her courage (HE DOES THIS FOR A LIVING) and offers her opinion (why is there so much diplomatic frippery? It's obvious your side is screwing mine, no need to dress the issue up). The aged meranth laughs and claps her on the shoulder, quoting a complicated phrase about the virtues of frankness (she looks it up later. It wasn't an insult, gods be praised).
She wonders what this has to do with her training, and the Commander quotes a complicated phrase about warriors needing to train their minds as well as their bodies (she looks it up later. He got it wrong).
~a~
The daily trainings get tougher. The fights are no longer instructive, where the Commander demonstrates a move and she attempts to incorporate it into their duel. Instead, he batters her from one end of the dueling circle to the other as she tries to keep up with him. She tries everything against him; pike, short spear, twin blades and the sword and shield (her favorite), but nothing works. There's no secret technique of his, no counter-move he's held back during their training. Analyzing her defeats while soaking her bruised body in the medicinal baths, she invariably comes to the same conclusion: he is leagues ahead of her in speed and experience.
That's good, though, she thinks. At least I match him in technical skill now. I just need time to spar and train myself.
Then one morning she enters the training hall and everything is different.
"You've learned enough," the Commander says, as two armored guards circle her on either side. "Time to put everything into practice. These two will stop either when they are beaten into submission or you are unconscious."
There's a moment of unbridled panic when they leap to the attack, training spears weaving, then she's parrying desperately, trying to stay within the carved markings on the training floor while keeping both opponents in front of her. A solid blow forces her out of the dueling ring (another loss for me, then) and relief floods her body. She readies herself to snap at the Commander (this is all happening too fast, I wasn't ready for two-on-one) when her opponents come at her again.
"Were you listening just now?" The Commander says. There is no warmth in his eyes, no indication he will call them off. No mercy. "They will only stop when they're down or you are."
Was the stern but kind teacher ever there in the first place? She wonders, giving ground as she looks for an opportunity. A spear slips under her guard in her moment of distraction, slamming the breath out of her body.
She staggers and they are inside her guard, raining blows down onto her armor. She tries to fend them off, parrying and blocking with her sword and shield and armored tail but they're in too close and something inside her cracks and she can't block everything and they're going to kill her and
and
And something that has been sleeping deep within her roars to life, screaming a song of battle as old as the seas themselves. The world crawls to a halt, crystallizing into a perfect training diagram of range and speed and angles of attack. She knows what she must do.
Then the world returns to normal (not completely normal, she realizes, something's changed. It all seems so simple now). She deflects one guard's spear into the other's, giving her just enough time to get in close, sword is useless at this range, drop it and HIT HIM IN THE CHIN and he'll let go of his spear, one more punch in the stomach and grab it, pull the other one off-balance with my tail and turn and RAM THE SPEAR HOME–
Both her attackers sink slowly to the floor, groaning in pain. The spear drops from nerveless fingers, and she is out cold before her body joins theirs on the stone.
~a~
She wakes up in the cool darkness of the medical wing and wishes she hadn't. It hurts to breathe, and she is sore and aching in places she didn't even know she had. She opens her eyes with a groan and the Commander is looming over her, concern on his face.
"Gods below," she mumbles, "everything hurts. Everything. I hate you so much."
"You have every right to be angry," he says. "I went too far."
"I'm alive, at least." She coughs, and a jolt of pain shoots through her chest. She winces in pain, and sees guilt in his expression. "Relax, boss, I'll be all right."
"I… that's good." He backs off as she levers herself into a sitting position. "Your two training partners are fine, by the way – just a little shaken up."
"Great," she says, relief flooding her body. If I'd killed them–
The Commander goes on: "I've assigned someone else to the diplomat's squad, so don't worry about missing work."
She grins despite herself. "A night off? Finally! I wonder what I should do."
"There are two hours till sunrise," the Commander says, and she tries in vain to hold back an obscenity. "You were… out for a long time."
"Gods. What happened to me?" She runs her hands over her body, checking for injuries. Her body is a mass of bruises and a cracked rib causes significant discomfort when she presses down on her chest, but nothing else is broken. I shouldn't have blacked out from this, she thinks. At least not for seven hours.
"What you did back there…" he says. "It tends to be mentally draining. Especially the first time."
"Tends to? The first time?" She asks, incredulous. "This has happened before?"
"Twice. I experienced it in my infancy, and much later on–" he cuts off, a pained expression on his face. "The… previous commander of the Guard."
She raises an eyebrow. He has never once spoken of her.
He lets out a heavy-sounding sigh. "I'm grooming you as my successor so I can leave the city. It was… a promise to her."
"I figured out the first part, but it's been," she tilts her head and counts the months, "a quarter-year now?"
He nods, but doesn't say anything.
"You know better than me. The chances are…" she lets the sentence trail off.
"There's still a chance," he replies. "That's all that matters to me."
She nods. "It's your decision, boss. I'll respect it no matter what."
"Good," he says. "Now, I suppose you have some questions about what happened back in the training hall."
She considers a few questions, but one stands foremost in her mind. "How can I do that again?"
The Commander smiles. "That's the spirit."