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Dearest Readers, may your summer skies be the bluest, clearest, and infinite.
THE HIDDEN SWORD: A TALE OF BALDUR'S GATE
Book One: From the Earth | Chapter 27: Across the Sky, Fireworks (Part One)
Summer. And across the sky, fireworks.
But only imagined, pictured in her mind.
For the sun still ruled the firmament at this hour and no true colored fire bloomed in the heavens above their heads. No fireworks in the sky, only sparks in the air where they flashed and flickered at the meeting of ignescent steel.
She spared a glance at the weapon in her hand, a mirror of the one in Okami's grip. No longer the wooden bokken but now steel, an iaito, a true sword except with the edge still dull. Were they honed to killing sharpness, the verdant summer grass would be soaked in red and littered with more than cut cloth.
Yet all the same, his landed hits still felt like the bokken's. Strange. Painful indeed though she expected steel to hurt even more; they should be counting his repeated scores with fractures, not bruises and welts.
Or maybe the teasings about elven skin being the distant cousin of onions were nothing more than envious hooey.
Not bothering with a guarded stance, Irse charged again. Though each of her strikes were batted away, she pressed on, trusting in sheer will to break through his defense. Yet Okami never dashed clear of her range, his maai, striking distance, always too narrow between them. Tempting.
Irse saw opportunity, fruit hanging so low and practically handed to her. She pushed in with an upswing. Countered. Hah! Expected that one. Rather than retreating, instead overstretching, forgoing defense, committing all to landing one on him. A quick glance at his eyes, and exhilaration quickly gave way to regret.
Fluid and swift, not even needing to drive forward thanks to her heedlessness, his counterattack met no resistance.
Irse staggered backwards, clutching at her side, hissing through her teeth as she tried to ignore the new pain. But he didn't pursue after her. Okami reverted to a neutral posture, blade at mid-level seigan no kamae.
Attempting to center herself, Irse breathed deeply, parched throat sored by the warm air, before crouching into a defensive position, sword likewise before her, its pommel at level with her waist. Seeing her at the ready, Okami shifted his stance and brought his blade to tail behind him.
Irse frowned. Opening himself with unguarded wakigamae? Length of the blade hidden behind his body, his left shoulder facing her. A familiar attempt to conceal the direction of the strike, she herself having used the same to defeat her first opponent, not many years ago. Must have been reflex, and even Irse could no longer perfectly recall if it was to avoid the slaver guard's stab, or if because she had anticipated some opening.
Either way, now shouldn't be the moment to be fiddling with past victories.
For this time, Okami made the first move.
Startled, Irse merely jerked her own sword forward in defense, not knowing the true direction of his attack. Bounding across the space between them, the blacksmith kept the blade at his tail.
Upswing from below or a sideways slash, she weighed in near panic. At the last instant did Okami move his sword – looping swiftly across the body before climbing above his head for a downstrike.
Unsure and hastily she parried, their blades glancing. Not giving him chance to push forward, she lunged and swiped from the side aiming for his torso. Cleanly deflected by her Teacher. But she struck again, this time driving with sword level at his chest, all strength and frustration and desperation committed to this one stroke.
Unhurried and unthreatened, Okami casually stepped to the side, allowing her own momentum to pitch her forward and past him. Instinct pulled her head to glance behind, seeing him pivoting to face her, his sword already coming down.
Pain heavy and stinging exploded, a lightning bolt on the shoulder blades. Yet despite the sudden agony, Irse twisted herself, knowing a true blade would have rendered her incapable with a severed spine, rashly swinging the iaito in a frantic attempt to catch him. The force of his riposte more than knocked her sword askance, it sent her to the ground on her haunches.
But he wasn't done. Never will it be done while the sword stayed yet in her hand.
He advanced as she scrabbled back to a crouch. Down came his sword once more but she dodged, rolling forward. Irse stopped behind him, but the man was ready. Always ready. For no sooner had she begun to rise on her feet did she behold the blade gyre around him and towards her neck.
Too late to block, sword in hand but couldn't rise in time. Irse blinked and froze and waited to receive.
Then the rasp of breath.
Her gaze darted down to the false edge where it suddenly halted; the cold of steel lightly touching the side of her jaw. Unhindered, a true blade would have cut clean through all; this blunted one would have only snapped the neck bone.
That he ended the sword's momentum didn't surprise her. Rather, the look on his face did. His brows furrowed but eyes broad with – anger? Disappointment? Fear? No, it couldn't be fear. What could he possibly be afraid of?
Okami tensed, sending a minute tremor through the blade, as it were a breeze through her hair. He withdrew the sword and stepped back.
"To be ready to strike when you must. Not when you want to. In opportunity, not in convenience," he broke the silence sternly.
"I haven't forgotten," Irse mumbled, indignant. One among the earliest lessons, one governing all.
"Yet you failed to counter the last."
"I was… getting up," she reasoned languidly.
"And you expect your opponent to wait for you?"
"But Teacher, isn't it the honorable thing to do? And didn't you? A number of times?"
"And were I one truly seeking your life and willing to dispense with honor, that space would not be for generosity but to consider all the ways to cut you down. And from your earlier demonstration, there need not be many."
Meekly, Irse hunched her shoulders. "I suppose, I understand." She paused, eyes averted, tongue curling against teeth as she pondered. "The sword should have been first to rise before the feet," she said, sure of the lesson.
"Beyond that. As the blade is part and extension of you, there must be no space, no barrier between its point and your will," Okami concluded.
Today's lesson, done. He returned his iaito in its scabbard. Likewise Irse sheathed her practice sword. They bowed at each other and the blacksmith walked away while the student remained in place and waited.
As soon as he disappeared inside the smithy, Irse clutched at the scabbard and dropped to her knees. Steadying breaths. A click as the guard disengaged, and steel flashed in step with feet leaving the earth, the maneuver repeated several times by the hand, a thousand times in the soul.
"In the larder you will find a kettle of pork ribs stewed with bone - that is for your midday meal. Leave none for me for I do not expect to return until sundown. As to your afternoon tea, heat the crock of rarebit and have it with the remaining bread. Now for supper, find the pots with the braised burdock and turnip, and the one with fish poached in soy paste. Set some of it aside for my portion but commence with your evening meal and do not wait for me. There is no telling if Mister Kagain might bid me tarry to discuss more commissions," Okami reminded his apprentice.
Irse pushed the crate of horseshoes further into the cart, mentally listing down his instructions – food, food, food, and food.
"Got it," she said, then paused and fidgeted.
"Have I overlooked a matter of significance?" Okami questioned at seeing the unease on her face.
She twiddled her fingers. "Well, Teacher, you did forget something. Something very important. Grievous neglect how you didn't even mention it."
The blacksmith's eyes widened in alarm.
Irse shot him a grave look. "Teacher, you're leaving me all this food for each of today's meal, but nothing for elevenses?"
Okami sighed. "This fox with the appetite of an entire division of ogres," he murmured as he plucked an imaginary stone from the ground and feigned pelting it at her.
Irse snickered and dodged the pretend projectile.
"There is leftover lotus cheese procured from the Chessentan peddler the other day. If it will not suffice, ration the bread for the morning and afternoon," he called out while clambering up to sit beside the carriage driver.
She watched the wagon pull away until it disappeared over the Dusk Road. On any trade day, Irse would've joined her Teacher. However, some menial tasks needed attending at the smithy and the meeting with Kagain boded no unusual arrangement requiring her assistance.
In other words – a free day to herself! Sort of. No slacking off, of course. A dollop of hasted diligence to grease the elbows, and soon every mundane chore had been crossed off the list except for the final and most tedious – pickling iron.
Across the backyard, Irse dragged a large steel tub and a sack of rusted sledgehammer heads and newly forged skillets in need of descaling. Over an open fire she set the pickling tub, dumped in the heads and pans, and poured vinegar, completely submerging the iron. Within the hour the concoction simmered to a brownish frothy foam flecked with bits of boiled-off hammerscale.
"Gah! Grotty!" she exclaimed, fanning at the noxious odor with a leather glove. Not too far removed from her own previous attempt to make porridge in the kitchen. After that, Teacher had to cook outdoors for days.
Using a pair of tongs, Irse pulled out one of the heads for inspection and scrubbed its side with a brush. Rust sloughed off the surface with ease.
Interesting, the ways iron could be repaired, she mused. If heat could reform the crooked, then bitterness can clean the stained and polluted.
With the pickled ironworks scrubbed and rinsed in water, she put everything away and made ready the polishing abrasives for the descaled skillets. Irse spied her Teacher's iaito in the corner, laid flat on a bench. Perhaps a bit of cleaning and oiling might convince him to ease off with the blows, she schemed.
The elf casually grasped the sheathed practice sword by its length. Lifted from off the bench, and suddenly let it slip from her hands in surprise.
The blunt sword landed on the floor with a thud. Irse gawked at the weapon, blinking furiously.
A weighted sword. At least three, maybe even five times heavier than hers.
Irse picked it up once more, hoisting the iaito with both hands. She remembered now. They had forged hers first and she helped with Okami's. However, the blacksmith took it upon himself to complete his iaito alone at nights.
Why wouldn't he tell her of this? Unsure of its effectiveness or perhaps planning to put it in practice before letting her have one of her own? Either way, it bothered her not. Rather, she felt an odd sense of appreciation. Had he been using this to harden her against future injuries? Or even better – testing to see if it could improve muscle strength and speed? Giddy excitement coursed through her as the mind took in the possibilities.
But one more puzzle required solving. And for that, the help of a friend would be needed.
"You want me to… hit you? With this?" Kerda asked, staring wide-eyed at Okami's unsheathed practice sword in her own inexperienced grip.
"I can barely lift it from the ground and I'm even using both hands!" Kerda complained. Brown eyes narrowed above freckled cheeks. "And for what reason, too?"
Irse blew a sigh, shoulders deflating as she wrung her hands and explained. "It's made of steel and I've learned only now it's weighted as well. Yet it hurts no more than a wooden sword. And you're going to help me understand why."
The elf sank into a defensive crouch. "Hit me. Here," she commanded with confidence, pounding a fist at her abdomen.
Kerda swallowed nervously, nodding once before hefting the sword, almost dropping the weapon, a foot skidding to regain balance.
"Can't you just hit yourself?"
Irse rolled her eyes. "What do you take me for - a ninnyhammer? It'd be the equivalent of biting your own tongue on purpose. It'll hurt, but not as much as it truly should."
"What?" Kerda stammered, confused but more disturbed.
"Just do it!" Irse hissed with impatience.
"All right? Here goes," the other girl mumbled, finally managing a feeble swing and a timid tap at the elf.
"Harder. Use your hips. Put some muscle to it."
Determined lines furrowed between Kerda's brows as she tried once more.
"Not hard enough. Again."
"I can't!"
"Again."
"But it's so heavy!"
"Again."
"My arms hurt."
"Stop trying to tickle me."
"I'm not tickling you!"
"Again."
"It's too hard!"
"Come now. You beat your rugs like that? No wonder Thadd and I are always sneezing our brains out when we're at your house!"
The last did more than goad. It roused a slumbering domestic dragon.
With a pitched war-cry, Kerda heaved the weighted sword, umbrage fueling strength of arms, rage propelling instinct to assume proper form as she swung the iaito and connected the blunted steel with elven flesh.
"I. Don't. Under-Beat. Our carpets!"
What felt like a herd of aurochs butted her in the midsection. Were it not for the stance, the impact would have certainly thrown her to the ground. Instead, Irse clutched at her stomach and crumpled into a quivering pitiable ball of agony in the grass.
"Healing... potion…," she croaked.
Babbling her apologies, Kerda immediately tossed the sword aside, rushed to her friend, uncorked a readied vial and poured the contents into the elf's mouth. Irse pursed her lips and swallowed, gasping with relief as she knew anything broken or smushed within had already begun to mend itself.
Well then, that definitely didn't feel like any of her Teacher's blows!
When clearly all danger of grave injury had passed, Kerda placed both palms on the ground before her, peered into the elf's face and timidly asked, "How did I do?"
Still bunched in a fetal curl, Irse held up a hand to give her friend a shaky thumbs-up. Though healed, an echo of the pain lingered along with questions.
"I don't understand. Why did it hurt more?" Irse groaned her thoughts aloud.
Kerda leaned back and sat cross-legged beside the prone elf. "I think… it hurts more because the blow came from a friend, from someone you trust, someone you didn't expect would ever raise a hand at you," she said thoughtfully.
Irse rolled her eyes. Not and far from what she had in mind. It baffled her. In Okami's hands, the weighted iaito felt no more than a wooden bokken and yet in the hands of an unschooled with unhampered control…
"Yes… sure… indeed," the elf replied just for its sake.
The other girl laughed. "See? I can be wise too, like your Teacher!"
Kerda glanced down and wrinkled her nose at Irse still twisted up like a spasmic croissant.
"Oh, please! You can't possibly be hurting still when you ought to be used to it by now."
"Guh. Do enlighten me, Miss Carpet Warrior Maiden. How in the realms can anyone get used to this?"
"For one thing, you and Mister Okami are practically doing it every day and for hours on end."
Kerda crossed her arms, shaking her head disapprovingly.
"Why if you asked me, I'm surprised how the two of you get anything finished at all!"
Irse glared up at her friend and grimaced, scribing a mental note to sneeze extra-snottily the next time she comes calling at Kerda's house.
"Teacher! Please permit me to handle your sword!"
Irse pleaded with a zealous thump of the fist on the table followed by a hastily remembered suppliant bow. "Practice sword, I mean!"
Okami raised an eyebrow at the rattled cutlery, then calmly slurped his tea, narrowed sight peering over the rim of the cup.
"You have discovered its true property," he remarked, unsurprised, clearly referring to the augmented load.
Irse looked down at her own hands, knuckles twitching with elation. Finally uncovered the secret to his speed and strength, the final step to her own mastery! With that mastery, sweet victory over her Teacher finally within reach!
Yesterday, Okami returned at sundown from his trip to the City. It took unfathomable willpower to restrain herself from wringing the permission out of him. Best to let him first have supper and a good night's rest – ensure he'd be more inclined to agree to her proposal. The elf herself hardly slept through the night, for once impatient not only for breakfast.
"Perhaps, it is not yet the day nor the hour for you to train with such an instrument. I will consider when," Okami said.
Irse scowled. Why not now? Years ago she would have wholeheartedly accepted this restriction, as with her interest in learning the rapid draw technique despite lack of experience with a true blade. Although a bit of, well, not exactly-persuasion overturned his initial reluctance.
"Remember how you didn't want to teach me battojutsu? But you did and look where it got me. Still alive!"
"And nearly slain as well. Have you still no thought for how it could have ended otherwise?" he said, his voice taking on a harsh edge. Okami looked away.
"My own mentor would have never permitted it. He would have foreseen how indulgence encourages recklessness."
Irse bit her lip, unable to deny that in some way, overconfidence from that small victory over the slaver guard and the newly gained skill indeed emboldened her to go after Safana and the others. But it had been necessary risk, she justified. What then if she had waited for him to regain consciousness?
Grunting in frustration, Irse shook her head. Why is he even bringing this up now?
"No matter. Why not let me practice with your iaito while I forge a weighted one for myself? Using a weighted sword will make me faster and stronger in less time."
"To what end do you desire to be such? No one disputes your ability to outfence every soul who can hold a sword in this village."
Every soul except him. Irse folded her hands above her chest. "I don't desire to be better than anyone, if that's what you mean. All I've ever been is lucky. I only wish to make sure I'll win every single fight I find myself in."
"I am not teaching you to win every fight. You place inordinate value on winning -"
"Regardless of the way you see it, winning completely and without quarter is the only way to ensure survival in battle," she interrupted.
Okami frowned, but she was already past worrying about manners and offenses. Predictably he would go again on a tangent about the need to be more cautious but right now, another lecture isn't going to help her outstrike an opponent. Rather, training the muscles will. Why he refused to see her reason was beyond understanding.
The blacksmith lowered the teacup to his lap, nursed in both hands, his countenance impassive. Unconvinced. Irse wanted nothing more than to tear at her hair. A simple and reasonable request and yet he wouldn't yield.
"Do you remember that day on the road, when you first held a wooden sword?" he asked.
That day on the road, years if not a lifetime ago. "How could I forget? I still have one of the splinters buried here," she muttered impatiently.
"Meek and unsure then. But here now, by your own merit, with each passing year growing in skill and confidence."
Irse observed him, feeling her own heart upcast, noting what seemed the beginning of a proud smile on his face.
"And yet, this whole time you have learned nothing from me," her Teacher pronounced with sudden dejection.
Startled at the change in his tone, Irse stared at him. At it again with his way of confounding around with words! Why wouldn't he want his student to better herself at the very determinants of winning a duel?
"You think I don't understand, do you?" Irse scoffed, bristling. "I owe you much; if it weren't for you, I wouldn't even be here. But hadn't you taken me in to teach me to be stronger, so that I'll never be helpless again? A simple thing I ask but you refuse by holding me back. All because you have no intention of letting me surpass you one day. Or is it because you don't find me worthy however you measure it?"
Okami glared at her, his face darkening with displeasure as if his judgment had been proven.
"Your showing betrays your unreadiness," he pronounced as he laid the cup on the table and rose from his seat.
Stunned, Irse watched him as he walked to his room. She opened her mouth, about to protest when he paused and cast a cold parting glance at his student.
"And you will learn nothing from wielding my sword," Okami decreed, and closed the door behind him.
The elf seized the abandoned cup, clutching with such force until the knuckles paled. Irse looked down, unsurprised at the lack of cracks on the smooth surface.
She rolled it around her palm, put it down gently, and peered through the window, staring at the empty summer sky.
Summery Scribblings:
And now a PSA: Please do not leave your 19-year old curious elf unattended at home unless you want an episode of: "Hi, I'm Bhaalspawn. And this is Jackass!"