Estaan nodded. ‘That's true,’ he agreed. ‘But training is mutual learning. This is for our benefit, not just yours. If you hurt me, the fault is mine.'
Antyr shook his head and did not move.
'Don't worry,’ Estaan said, smiling. ‘I didn't survive so long by taking risks with novices. As soon as you're anything like proficient,
Despite this reassurance, Antyr still hesitated.
'A straight lunge is invariably the best attack,’ Estaan offered, encouragingly. ‘Do it slowly if you're worried.'
With an effort, Antyr brought the sword up and lunged weakly towards his mentor. Estaan did not move, and the point stopped half a pace in front of him. He looked down at it wryly, ‘Hardly fatal I think,’ he said. ‘Try again.'
Embarrassment and nervousness vying with one another, Antyr lunged again, a little more purposefully. As the point approached, Estaan walked quietly around it and tapped the extended blade with his wooden training sword. His movement alone took him out of any danger, but the blow further deflected Antyr's lunge and, lightly but definitely, Estaan drew the edge of the training sword along Antyr's throat.
'Don't stop, lunge again,’ he said as Antyr was about to lower his sword and wait for criticism.
After a few minutes of similar futile effort, Antyr, despite himself, began to grow angry at this elusive figure casually avoiding his lunges and poking him with the training sword or drawing its rounded edge across his throat, his wrists, the back of his knees and ankles, and various other places.
Eventually he lowered his sword in frustration. ‘This is a waste of time,’ he said irritably, thrusting the weapon back into its sheath.
'No it's not,’ Estaan said quietly. ‘I need to see where you're strong and where you're weak if I'm to help you.'
'What do you keep running away and hitting me with that damned thing for, then?’ Antyr burst out, gesturing towards the training sword and involuntarily denouncing the Mantynnai's calm with his own agitation. ‘Show me something!'
Estaan looked straight at him, his gaze penetrating. ‘First rule when training and practicing is to remember that there's no such thing as training and practicing.'
Antyr's forehead furrowed.
'There is no trying, only doing,’ Estaan went on before Antyr could protest. ‘There's not one way of fighting in here and another out there. If I just drop my guard and debate with you after I've avoided each of your attacks, because this isn't … real … then I'm teaching my mind and my body to do just that, and that's what they might do against a more serious attack.’ He stepped close to Antyr. ‘As it is, I teach my mind and body only how to kill or immobilize you after
Antyr looked uncertain.
Estaan's manner became unexpectedly stern. ‘No,’ he said, taking Antyr's arm firmly. ‘Have no doubts about this. Grasp it if you grasp nothing else that I tell you, and it'll help you towards the knowledge that might save your life one day.'
'I have used a sword in combat, you know,’ Antyr protested defensively.
Estaan nodded, but there was denial in his expression. ‘You told me you left your sword on the field because of what you'd done with it,’ he said. ‘Injured someone badly, I suppose.'
Despite his sternness, his voice was sympathetic. ‘Saw your flailing, panic-stricken efforts to tear him open and heard him scream. Saw a wild enemy suddenly become an ordinary man who never wanted to be there and who wanted nothing more than to flee. Saw wife, mother, children.'
Antyr closed his eyes in a vain attempt to shut out long-dormant memories suddenly re-awakened. ‘Damn you. It was a battle, man,’ he said, grimacing. ‘We'd no choice. They were through the pikes and splitting the ranks. We had to draw swords and fight or…’ He stopped.
'They'd have killed you.’ Estaan finished the sentence. ‘And many more.'
Antyr turned away from the Mantynnai's gaze. ‘You don't have to justify yourself,’ Estaan said. ‘Least of all to me.'
There was such pain in his voice that Antyr's anger faded.
'Your salve for your memories is that you did what you did to save yourself or your comrades,’ Estaan went on. ‘That's all you're ever going to have. That's all you can possibly have. And if that's insufficient for your pain, then take the sword off now. You'll be safer unarmed.'
His manner was unequivocal.
Antyr gazed at him helplessly. ‘I can't go unarmed,’ he said eventually. ‘But I can't face…’ He grimaced. ‘I can't face that horror again.'
Estaan nodded again and, looking at Antyr very intently, said simply, ‘You can.’ He brought his face close to Antyr's. ‘Because some part of you enjoyed the butchery…'
There was a brief, agonizing silence in the old hall. Antyr tried to denounce the accusation, but the words he wanted refused to be spoken.
'It's in all our natures, Antyr,’ Estaan pressed on, softly relentless. ‘And your only salve for that is that having seen it, you learn to accept it for what it is, and know that when need arises, it is right that it be given rein.'
Antyr gazed from side to side, like a trapped animal looking for escape. But Estaan's brutal honesty permitted no flight. Antyr felt tears filling his eyes.
'You've no right to speak like that,’ he managed hoarsely and pathetically.
'I've no right not to,’ Estaan replied softly. ‘If I'm to give you such a weapon and show you how to use it. If I'm to let you go to face unknown enemies, while you're not aware of the realities of your own nature … of combat…'
With a desperate effort, Antyr found his voice. He tore away from Estaan. ‘I need no lectures from anyone about the realities of fighting,’ he shouted angrily. ‘I may not be any great soldier, but I've stood in the line and held, with arrows and missiles falling all around. And people and horses screaming and dying.’ He shook his head as if to dispel the sound. ‘I've seen … comrades, enemies … who cares … whimpering and howling, with limbs half hacked off … bodies trampled under countless hooves … brains and guts leaking into the mashed earth, great feathered arrows sticking out of gaping faces and barbed heads sticking out through backs…'
He fell suddenly silent. The pain of the old memories made him want to lash out, to strike someone down. He raised his hand towards Estaan. ‘Why do you pursue such a calling?’ he asked, his face almost scornful.
Estaan started slightly.
Antyr felt a gasp in his head and then the word, ‘Gently', followed in its wake. Tarrian and Grayle spoke simultaneously, and with such feeling that, despite his own pain, the judgement he had offered Estaan for his cruel honesty seemed to fly in his own face.
'I'm sorry…’ he began, but Estaan waved his apology aside sadly.
'I do it because it's the right thing for me to do,’ he said simply. ‘How that came to be, I won't discuss with you. But I learned long ago that such skills and self-knowledge as I have I must place between those who are possessed by their destructive natures and those who cannot adequately protect themselves.'
Antyr made to speak again, but Estaan continued. ‘I look at Ibris and his great city, so full of beautiful things, and I watch him strive endlessly to make it more beautiful, and to tear the whole land away from its obscene and bloody history into a future where war becomes a sick and distant memory.’ Passion seeped into his voice. ‘Creation is the work of lifetimes, Dream Finder, destruction the work of moments; a knife, a hammer, a flame. I take pride that I can use my own dark skills in the ways of destruction
Antyr looked at the Mantynnai and, for a brief moment, felt the man's wholeness, his inner balance. Felt his understanding of the terrible deeds that lie within the depths of all men, and felt the will that had accepted them and that strove to use them as servants not masters. Here indeed, he realized, was a man from whom he could, and should, learn much.
'I'm sorry,’ he said again, after a long silence. His demeanour added content to the inadequate words. ‘I was wrong to reproach you. I'll do as you say. I'm ready to learn whatever you're prepared to teach.'
Estaan smiled slightly and bowed.
