“Because of our narrow mountain paths and dense godwoods, our nation did not battle like other nations. Our armies did not meet in wide fields with ten-man-deep formations. Our wars were fought in skirmishes, nightly raids, and a thousand instances of one-against-one atop rope bridges and inside deep caves. The fighting style of our greatest warriors matched the need, and I was blessed to have a truly exemplary master as my teacher.”

“The Skull-Amid-the-Trees,” Cyrus said, remembering the story.

“Indeed, a legendary killer the Everlorn Empire learned to fear, for we eschew any concept of fairness or honor that hinders certain other nations in Gadir. I will teach you that same ruthlessness. Our foes will be paragons wielding weapons heavier than most men alive. They will be priests and magistrates whose prayers summon golden blades of light, the perfect manifestation of the empire’s cruel faith. Their forces outnumber us by a thousandfold. A fair fight is a dead fight, and so we will attempt no such thing.”

Cyrus accepted the two wooden poles that would represent his future weapons. The bottoms were wrapped in soft leather, and felt good in his hands.

“Given the skirmishing nature of Miquoan war, your greatest enemy is rigidity. I will teach you to analyze a foe’s weaknesses, and then exploit them. If they are stronger than you, then you will be faster. If they are faster, then you will be trickier. If they are trickier, then you will overwhelm their feints and bluffs with savage fury.”

“Why two?” Cyrus asked as he swung the poles about, enjoying the feel.

“Your off-hand will be heavier, and shorter. You will use it more like a shield, with an emphasis on blocks and parries. However, if the need arises, you may attack with both in tandem. Defensive, or offensive, as the situation dictates.”

So much emphasis on reactionary changes. He tried to wrap his mind around it, but struggled.

“I always thought sword fighting was more focused,” he said. “You swing, and I block it. If I’m slow, I die. If I’m faster, I can swing back, making you block. Again, you fail, you die. I know that’s putting it simply, but… what you’re describing makes it feel much more loose and confusing. There’s a right way and a wrong way to defend a hit, isn’t there?”

Thorda did not answer immediately. Instead he used his free hand to position Cyrus’s.

“Do not move,” he said. Cyrus obeyed. His master stood before him, using exaggerated slowness to lift his sword in an overhead chop and then bring it down toward Cyrus’s head. A foot away he halted it in the air.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I block it,” Cyrus answered.

“Which sword? Left, right, or both?”

He hesitated.