"You've died, Gruki" A step back, and Master Hawken let the squire stand. "Quicker than usual, but, let us try again," he raised the practice sword once more.
Other squires stood around watching wide eyed and short of breath.
It was not every day a Master trained with them in the way of the sword. Much less, when Gruki was trounced.
"Don't hold back," the old Knight said, sure as stone, and his knees bent, with the shift of his guard, from the high Heron's Gate, to the low Boar's tooth. "Come now, like you did to those beasts that sought to claim your Knights in the farmstead,"
A dark cloud descended upon Gruki's thoughts. Does everyone know about that? She tsked. 'Okay.' Taking a breath to centre herself, the squire reaffirmed her intent, her posture shifting as she assumed the Tower.
With a nod to Master Hawken, Gruki went on the offense.
The weapon of the day was the longsword. Blunt, and made of the wood, they were facsimiles of the real thing. Shaped the same, weighted the same. The only real difference was between the combatants themselves. One, a Master of his Path. The other... a novice, when it came down to it.
Clack, clack, clack, whoosh~
Clack! 'Better?' Grinning toothily, Gruki disengaged, her blade levelled to keep distance. Her breathing was even, stance firm. It was a foregone conclusion; she was destined to lose. But that was no reason not to fight with all she had.
So why are you holding back?
Pausing, Gruki's attention wandered. Half a second, no more. It was all Hawken needed to bypass her guard. You've died, Gruki, she imagined him saying as she stepped back, defeated and annoyed. Quicker than usual...
The Master's gaze remained stoic. His breath easy. His body still as a gravestone as the wooden sword hung back behind him in the long-tail stance.
A shift in his lead foot, gravel scraped beneath the tread of his boot.
When the opening presented itself, the swords came to cross. A quick touch, cut rising to bat the counter away, and line the point.
Master Hawken, near half a foot smaller than the squire, stood with his sword's point aimed at Gruki's throat.
"Better," he said, "But dead,"
A shift of feet, a shove of weight and the Squire came toppling down in a cloud of dust.
Hawken stood over Gruki, his brown eyes as cold as frozen earth. "Are you that same Gruki?" he asked. "Who stood against the blighted curse?" He stepped back, and rose his false blade once more. "I wonder,"
Some of the onlooking squires grumbled in distaste. Muttered as to the unfairness of it all. Only Piplin and Ruthiford stayed behind to watch.
"Don't give up, Gruki!" Piplin the halfling cheered.
The Squire stared up at the sky, ashamed, and angry. 'I sometimes wonder that myself.' Rolling onto her front, the tall half-orc huffed, found her feet. Piplin's words did little to lift her spirits. How someone so sweet could have so much faith in her was anyone's guess.
Picking up her sword, Gruki brushed herself off. Leather padding crumpled under her touch, strong as it was.
'A hollow victory, Syr,' the she-orc grimaced, watching him, the Master of Life. 'The farmstead, meaning.' It had all seemed so simple at the time. "Monsters" preying on the weak and defenceless. Innocent people in need of protection. The same old song sung for the millionth time in as many days.
The monsters had turned out to be men. Their bloodlust... a curse.
Shaking her head, Gruki took up a fighting stance, feet apart, weapon held before her. 'I remember feeling... anger, and hatred.' Gravel crunched as she shifted forward, closer. 'I remember becoming an animal, frenzied and wild. No fear, just...' Gruki left the rest unsaid. Her eyes, glued to Hawken and the blade in his hands, narrowed. 'That is not me. I am not that person.'
No, you are far, far worse, her inner voice growled, baring its fangs in vicious grin. Go on, show him your anger!
Hawken's eyes remained fixed on the Squire. On her stance.
How her breath came more natural as she remembered. How her strength grew with the memory.
His own steps took him around the outside. Shift the angle, just so as his sword came high and and angled with the ground. Heron's Gate.
A thrust. A counter. A bind. The wooden blades sounded with strong strike and deft parries as the dust of the yard kicked up.
"Who is that person then," he cut stepped forward, the point of his sword a blur that gave feint, but aimed to thwack at her hands. "Gruki!" he shout a warrior's shout. Wrathful and defiant.
Piplin shrunk back, and Ruthi's eyes widened behind the mess of his thick brown curls.
Growling, Gruki twisted aside, allowing Master Hawken's blow to waste itself on empty space. The Knight corrected himself in time to parry the counter-cut. Shock reverberated up Gruki's arms, and the she-orc smiled as she followed it through, angling her blade up and over in false cut.
The two warriors parted, circled each other.
'Woo! Gru-ki! Gru-ki!' Piplin laughed between cheers, clapping her hands excitedly. Ruthiford, however, seemed worried. 'Doesn't she normally... y'know, pull her blows?' He asked quietly, leaning down to speak into Piplin's ear. The halfling clapping ceased. She shrugged. 'I guess so? I don't know. I can't recall the last time Gruki actually hurt someone.'
Watching their friend duel, the two squires grew contemplative.
Blind to them, blind to everything, Gruki cried her delight as she managed to kick Syr Hawken's legs out from under him. Her blade came down to churn up the dirt where he had fallen. The Master, rolled, came up swinging.
Gruki felt warm air brush her cheek as the weapon came within inches of kissing her flesh. Close, but not close enough. 'Is this what you wanted, Syr?' She asked, feeling the rush, the excitement of a fight left in the balance. 'Is this the... the Gruki you hoped to see?'
Ruthi looked down at Piplin, and her mousy brown hair. "You don't think she'd, hurt one of us, do you, Pip?"
Piplin blew a raspberry from her lips. "Gruki?" her hand reached out, fingers splayed as if she were holding up her friend in presentation. "Our big ball of red haired sunshine?"
Master Hawken's white cape that snapped before them, his sword raised to guard still, though it was his footwork that kept him safe now, measured and calm before the bullish charge of the powerful squire.
"Is this the Gruki that kept Syr Faramund alive at the battle of Dun Valley?" he kept his gaze impassive. "A reveler of violence?"
He pressed the attack. Drew out her guard, feinted again, met her weakside with his strong side, turned her mordhau into his entrance as he slipped past her. The edge of his false blade ran long against her neck, and he shift straight into his next stance as he came away from the bind.
"You are a Knight Prospective, Squire Gruki," he said, cold as the grave. "Not a mindless killer," he let the dust settle, and brought his sword ready. His lungs filled with breath and he attacked. "Fury," blow came strong and swift, a test of the guard, but his body had already moved away from the follow up. "Wrath!" he parried the blow, and when her large body came behind it for the bull, he was a monolith unto himself.
Unmovable. She crashed into him, and he remained upright. "These are your tools to control!" with his pommel and guard he bashed her back at the chest plate, slipped his sword to the half grip in the scrum, and gut under her center of gravity.
Gruki didn't appear to be listening. Dancing the blade-dance, she slipped and slapped aside Master Hawken's attacks, answering here and there with a few of her own. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temple, and the surge of fiery blood through her veins was unlike anything she had ever felt before.
This is... this is...
'I fear I am- I am... both, Syr!' Cat-quick, she twisted away from Syr Hawken, her offhand seizing his collar, as if to throw him. Shoving him away, she whipped her arm back suddenly, her boot coming up to assist in bringing the old knight down.
There was a blur as the two of them tumbled together, rolling, grappling, fighting for dominance. Gruki was stronger, and faster than her size belied. Master Hawken, on the other hand, had experience... and the urge not to lose in front of two witnesses.
'Pride!' Gruki laughed, booting him in the pad covering his chest. 'Ask Syr Faramund. He'll tell you he,' she scissor-kicked to her feet. The practise blade found its way to her hand. 'He'll tell you he kept himself alive.'
Old as the Master was, he was no stranger to the test of combat. No stranger to fighting opponents far stronger than he. Making them pay for every inch that they took.
Till the cost was too great.
Strong as the squire was. Quick as she was. She was far from the greatest foe he had faced. Far from the limit his old bones could still reach.
For each blow he had taken. Each bruise from kick or trip. Gruki had died, time and time again. Cut down, just like all the rest he had faced.
But here was no opponent. But his student. His ego, a husk he left behind long ago.
Ruthiford and Piplin watched on in stunned silence. But neither of them would leave.
Standing. Breathing. Master Hawken stared down at his pupil, his sword still held. Unwavering, unshaking. "I am asking you, Gruki, daughter of Yuki and Tloki," he said easy as the wind breezed. "Who are so quick to the victory, you would see your head lost, time and time again," he lowered his sword. "I am no mindless beast, corrupted by hate," his stare bore into her. "I am no mercenary, hired to kill,"
Silence spoke louder than words. Grimacing, Gruki brushed herself down, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She had pushed herself, farther, faster. Strike, strike, strike. Die, die, die again. It was infuriating, how easily he took her life. Any other day and she would've at least made him work for it.
Not a lie, as such. Merely a half-truth. One to raise flagging spirits.
How low hers had sunken over the days following the battle at Dun Valley. It was the first time she had been forced to take the life of a human. To defend her knights, she told herself. To safeguard those entrusted to her by those in command.
The bond between Squire and Knight was a sacred thing, worth fighting for. Even so, the deaths she had inflicted upon that snowy hillside haunted her dreams. Faces of shadow and flesh, eyes full of fear. Voices blaming her for doing her duty, or for not doing it well enough.
How easy Syr Hawken made it sound. Fury. Wrath. Which are you?
'I am dead, Syr.' Gruki spoke sadly, her exhaustion and her self-hatred getting the better of her. 'I am a Knight Prospective, and a failure.' She had tried once already, had she not? To be found wanting... 'Sometimes I feel like I have been cut adrift, Syr. Blood stains my hands, but it's the killing that scars my soul.' Frowning, she shot a look at Piplin and Ruthi. The two squires stood quietly outside the practise ring.
Witnessing her shame, in all its tawdry colour.
'I feel like I am letting them down, Syr. My parents. Yuki and Tloki.'And Roki. The little ball of fire that brought light to her life. She was glad he wasn't here to see her now. 'What do I do, Syr? I feel like I am losing my way, my Path, and it... hurts. It hurts a lot.'
Syr Hawken's eyes did not waver. "What does the sun do, whence the night grows darkest, Gruki?"
He kept his sword in his hands, his eased about the hilt, but his stance gave no windows, save the fool's.
"What of the stars and the moon, when the day grows its brightest?"
Simple as the truth was. It was rarely easy to hold on to.
"You are not dead, for you fought, and you have lived," he assured her. "You have not failed, for you stand to try again," he said softer. "There is no pride to be won in war, Squire, no honor in the kill. It is hell. It is death. It is the evil we must face, lest we let it claim us whole, an evil we embrace, so that others are spared from it," Not all would walk the warriors path. Not all could pursue the ways of death. "You are no less a Prospective for feeling the weight of those lives, Gruki," he let the weight of his words sink in. "No less a protector, and no less yourself,"
Gruki let the Syr Hawken's words hang in the air between them. No less a protector, no less yourself. Funny. She could recall Syr Faramund saying something similar, after the battle. To buoy her spirits, just as Syr Hawken was doing now.
There were footsteps, behind. Turning, the she-orc smiled wanly as Piplin passed her a skin of water.
'Thank you!' Gruki nodded, her eyes following Ruthi as he made to their Master's side. 'No worries!' Piplin smiled back. 'You did good... better than last time,' the halfling kicked at the ground, and Gruki saw a hint of a blush touch her cheeks. 'I did good, huh?' Piplin nodded. 'Ruthi counted thirty-three seconds. That's ten seconds more than the time before!'
Smiling truthfully now, Gruki returned the waterskin. 'Think I could add another ten to the score?' She asked, before the squires returned to their posts. Piplin tilted her head, thought about it. Then, nodding decisively...
Two thumbs up.
Laughing, Gruki saluted the small squireling. She turned to face Syr Hawken, her stance solid, almost unassailable. 'Ready?' She smiled, saluting him too.
There was the hint of pride then, on the Master's lips, to see his pupil find herself again.
Though he knew it would not be the last time the gentle Gruki found herself at such a crossroads, he was glad to see her steel herself with the aide of her friends.
Still, he took a drink, thanked Squire Ruthiford, and wiped the moisture from his lips with a handkerchief. Brought his sword up to salute his opponent.
Ruthiford hurried away.
"Now," he assured. "Come at me once more, in true," he let let his breath empty out of his lungs as he settled into the geometry of his guard. The angle of his sword shared the simple truth between them. That logic they both pursued. The sword logic.
"Do not hold back! Do not lose yourself!" he shouted.
Someone's getting excited. Smiling behind her eyes, Gruki answered the Master's challenge, step by step. She could see the trap now, as clear as day. "Do not hold back," he had said, guiding her, baiting her forth. How foolish she had been, to think speed and strength would win the day.
'Patience is a virtue, Syr,' she reminded him, sword up, leading leg slightly forward.
A step, two. The yard fell silent, the outside world ceding away. No longer was there the sound of birdsong or braying, nor could she hear the laughter of her fellow squires in neighbouring spaces. Even Piplin and Ruthi seemed to be holding their breath.
A step, three.
Hawken moved in the blink of an eye. No longer the passive opponent she had come to expect, he struck with all the speed of a coiled viper. And yet his blade did not find its mark.
Not holding back, Gruki slipped the strike that followed, her own weapon going low, then high.
Like a viper, a small part of her realised, way up high, above and beyond the battleground on which they fought. Thirty seconds. Forty. Fifty. Around and around they went, riding the ebb and flow. Piplin was making sound, now. Clapping accompanied by laughter. Pure and joyous. The kind of sound worth drawing blood for.
When death finally found her, Gruki was smiling.
'We're dead, Syr,' she grinned, withdrawing. 'Well, I'm dead, you're just short a leg.'
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"You've died, Gruki" A step back, and Master Hawken let the squire stand. "Quicker than usual, but, let us try again," he raised the practice sword once more. 
