Zander circled around his sparring partner, flowing with the grace of his stance. “Observe how my feet are placed. By leaning on my leading foot, I always have my weight moving toward my opponent. Your feet should never be still. Your legs should never be straight.”


    Zander sprang toward his partner. Theo was thrown off his feet and onto his arse. The wind rushed out of the lanky warrior as his back hammered into the ground. “That is how you fall down and die,” Zander said as casually as if he was explaining that princesses wore gowns. “Do not fall down and die...” Zander paused as murmurs of laughter came and went. “Do not keep your feet under your trunk. It works for trees...” Theo stood at his side nodding, with his feet under him. Zander sent him back to the dirt with a mighty push. “But we are not trees.”


    Theo launched back to his feet. This time he staggered his footing. Zander pushed hard and Theo was thrown back but maintained his footing.


    “Much better,” Zander declared in an orotund voice that carried through the training yard. Zander stood tall at the front of the pasture. He looked every part the blademaster that they thought he was. At long last, Zander wore the matching breastplate, pauldrons, rerebraces, vambraces, gauntlets, tassets, cuisses, greaves, and sabatons of a distinguished warrior. Ovidon’s Forge! They even fit!


    “Observe how my knees are bent. In your basic warrior’s stance, your front knee should be bent slightly more than your hind knee. You should be pushing toward your enemy, forcing them to lose ground. If you keep your opponent moving backwards, they are much more likely to stumble. They cannot see where they’re going, and they don’t have their weight centered. Your opponent is fighting their own body to keep balance! When they stumble, their strength is gone, and you finish strong.”


    Theo held the stance that Zander had taught. Without warning, Zander charged him. Theo kept his feet, but Zander kept driving him backward. He drove successively harder until Theo stumbled to the ground.


    The lanky Hometown Hero rolled, springing back to his feet. He stepped into the warrior’s stance and pushed toward Zander. Zander let him push, testing to see if he would overextend himself. Theo did well, maintaining a good stance until Zander was backed against the cattle fence.


    “Well done, Theo!” He rallied the squires until they applauded the Hometown Hero. Zander elaborated on what Theo had done well and how Zander had maintained his stance to keep from falling, while still eventually running out of room. He set the squires into dyads with instructions to take turns practicing both the role of the warrior stance aggressor and the defensive footwork role. Theo sported a delighted grin as Zander sent him off to train with Vernon and Gordan.


    Zander gave each training dyad several turns under his warm scrutiny as they practiced this basic stance. He highlighted everything they did well and worked with each squire to correct and adjust any errors in their form. He moved with them, helping them learn to flow in the stance, until they were able to execute it with their partner. His goal was to help them learn from their mistakes without becoming their mistakes or feeling like failures. Always, he finished strong, sharing his pride in their growth and fostering their confidence that their hard work would turn into great skill.


    The soldiers stood taller when he came near, they beamed at his praise and eagerly responded to his instruction. Truthfully, they made him stand taller and smile broader too. This task and their devotion to him pushed away thoughts of Alexia’s absence, of the death he wrought, and channeled his sadness at River’s death into purpose. On the first day of his appointment, Zander had been appalled that even though most of the Brighton Hedgeman had been in Mirrevar for moons, many of them were woefully underprepared. He learned that they hadn’t received training until they arrived in the encampment and the Hedgemen regiment was inadequate and even counterproductive. They received little specific instruction and their blademasters had let them practice fighting without individual correction. Errors had been embedded into habits. Those habits would get them and their companions killed. The few Bearbreaker Peacewatch in the camp were almost universally better prepared, but even they had much to learn.


    Zander noticed within himself the giddy pride he felt when Vernon kept his feet after a vicious assault, or when Harriet of Noraligrove was able to keep her weight on her front foot and drive her sister Henrietta back to the posts. He provided gentle, but firm feedback and effusive praise for the rapid growth his squires demonstrated. The dyads saluted him and thanked him for his feedback. Each day more of the camp followers, often women with nowhere else to go who found themselves performing menial roles in the encampment, joined in on his sessions. Zander welcomed them all and even a few of the medican women who had fathers important enough to give them a second name hopped over the fence to participate in Zander’s drills. Of course, they often found themselves somewhere close to Alfread and were varying levels of shy about their flirtation with Zander.


    Zander gave all of his squires respect and that respect increased with each passing session, and they seemed to work harder each day. Zander was a peg that had found its slot. He had oft dreamt of taking over as blademaster for Sir Edward, but to experience this fulfillment before he was even knighted helped him in ways he hadn’t dreamed. He felt called to the role of blademaster as if the Divine Thirteen had chosen this fate for him before he was in the cradle. He was not to be the sword that slayed but the whetstone that sharpened the blades of peace.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Toward the end of his rounds, Zander nodded at the person who assigned him the position. Asa watched the morning’s training session from the edge of the pasture. Her light was dim; her face faraway and gloomy. She returned the nod and gestured for him to continue his work. Several of the medican holdouts and camp followers watched beside Asa. They were the gossipy members of the lot, and they giggled whenever Zander’s attention went their way. He couldn’t believe he used to savor adoration like that. Only a few moons ago, he would leave Sir Edward’s training grounds with an admirer and tally up the tribute for Leverith. Now, his admiration was for those willing to try to learn, and his goal was to fortify the confidence of those who made that effort, whether they were a comely lass or the leanest lad.


    Zander gaped when he reached Alfread’s dyad. This feral beast before him was not his gentle best friend. Alfread unleashed a relentless assault on his partner, Petr of Noraligrove, sending him sprawling to the ground. Alfread’s form was far from perfect. Alas, flaws in form could be forgiven when executed with brutality, speed, and strength against a weaker foe.


    “Well done, Alfread.”


    Alfread’s only response was an enraged grunt that sent Zander’s brow furling.


    For years, Zander had been trying to coerce Alfread’s inner beast onto the training ground. Alfread had the strength, the stature, and the dexterity to be an elite swordsman. Yet, he had lacked the disposition to excel. This sudden change was jarring. This battle demon hadn’t been in the training grounds yesterday nor the days before. Zander stole another glance toward Asa and wondered just how she had unchained this caged beast last night.


    Zander helped up Petr. “Show me what you can do, Petr.”


    Petr set his feet and attempted to rush Alfread. His stance work was sloppy, but his effort was everything Zander had hoped for, or at least it would have been had Alfread allowed it to be. Alfread ignored the instructions of the drill, battered Petr’s training sword out of his hand, sidestepped and shoved Petr down to the ground with his shield.


    “Alfread!”


    Zander’s anger welled up and was ready to burst. Yet, surprise overtook anger as forcefully as Alfread had taken over Petr. Evan’s son took a dramatic bow toward Asa and threw sword and shield toward the witch’s feet before marching off the training grounds.


    “That horseshite is not welcome in my training grounds! Get out!”


    Alfread dared to howl back. “I am getting out, you bastard.”


    Zander wanted to chase him down and throttle him. If Alfread thought he could bully the other squires, Zander would knock his arse down until the ground slammed some sense back into him. He stomped after the fleeing Alfread before noting the forlorn faces around him. Clenching his teeth, he set Alfread aside for later.


    Zander finished the sun-up training session distracted with thoughts of Alfread and Asa. He gave less scrutiny and less praise, nodding and saying a more passive “good job,” rather than fulfilling his duty.


    When Alfread hadn’t returned to their tent last night, Zander assumed that meant that Alfread had given Asa his candle and that they had kept it lit all night long. However, Alfread’s were not the actions of a man who had a delightful evening.


    Zander remembered his first time. Joyce had guided him through it and been understanding when he finished almost instantly after arriving. Rather than embarrass him, Joyce had normalized his experience and stayed with him. She taught him how to use his mouth and hands as she used hers with the practiced skill of an elite tavern maid. Later that evening, in his second passage on the great journey of love, he had found the wondrous pleasure of reaching the destination in synchrony.


    Alfread’s actions were the deeds of a man embarrassed who had to prove his manhood. Like swordsmanship, lovemaking needed practice and experience to become skilled. Zander decided that rather than berate Alfread, he would share the story of his first time and offer whatever strategies he could.


    Zander dismissed the training session, to preoccupied to finish strong for his squires. He rushed to the finale, as if this was his virgin session as a blademaster. “I was pleased with your effort this morning! Practice the warrior’s stance for a degree each angle. Tonight, you will learn how to counter that stance. Dismissed.”


    Zander rushed headlong, hoping to find Alfread in the mess hall. Asa accosted him first. He hoped the terseness in his greeting would deter her. “Master Asa.”


    Her light was pale and gray in the morning sun. She was no match for the sunrise. Nor was she deterred. “You are the best blademaster I have ever had the privilege to observe, and I have observed Crimsonblades and seasoned knights from most of the militias. Your charges are devoted to you, and they are learning fast. You would make Philladon Godseer look like Werner Bearbreaker!”


    Zander resisted the urge to grin. “How was your Brighten?”


    “How was yours?” she countered, tapping his gauntlet.


    Zander had given his candle to Gordan and joined him on a morning patrol yesterday. He told Gordan some of the Mirrevar stories he heard from his mother growing up, such as the tale of Alexia Leveria constructing a tunnel that was supposed to run beneath the Eagle River.


    Zander kept that to himself. “I asked you first.”


    Asa sucked in her lips, nervous rather than seductive. Her voice shook and she seemed to keep her words brief to stop from losing her composure. “Report to me after your meal. Alone.”


    Zander shrugged. “I have a patrol scheduled.”


    “Then meet me in my tent tonight, Zander.”


    “Forget it,” he told her.


    He quickened his pace to leave her behind his longer stride. Zander stalled, unable to outpace his anger, he drew his mouth for battle like he would a sword. “I believe in you, and I gladly fight for you.” Zander approached and leaned into her until his face was inches from hers. “And you will never get what you seek from me.”


    Without looking back, he left her and sought out Alfread.