Yes, thought Ing, I remember now. I do recognize your voice. How could I have not realized it sooner?
***
By the time the Sun rose the next morning and light spilled into the cave, Ing was being awakened by his uncle, Erste. “Get your boots on, Ing,” he said. “And grab your sword. I have a weapon as well that I will use in our training. We must begin at once. Even now the Illusionists may be nearby.”
In short time, Ing and Erste were outside, busy training. Erste told Ing a bit about himself in his younger days to get the two acquainted and then moved to the art of swordplay. He instructed Ing how to brandish his sword; how to properly hold it; how to swing it at his foes.
“You don't hold the sword properly,” he proclaimed. “Hold it like this,” said Erste, and he used his wooden staff to demonstrate. “See how I grasp the weapon? This is the proper way to wield a blade.”
“But that isn't a blade,” said Ing. “It's just a piece of wood.”
“Is it?” said his uncle. “In the hands of the right man it could be a dangerous weapon. Sercus Floran once fought off a group of five knights with a practice blade before he might his untimely death. The knights were under the rule of King William and Queen Cecilia and the man was from Condeth Rahal. He died bravely.”
“Sercus Floran,” Ing said. “I think I've heard the name before.”
“That would not be unlikely,” Erste replied. “There are many songs that sing of him, including The Master of Sword. Erdwick is not the only hero to tell of. There are many others beside.”
“Now,” he continued, “the best way to brandish your sword is to grab it with your right hand. This may seem awkward as you wear it at your left hip so you will have to reach across your waist, but it's easier than grabbing it with your left hand. You want to grab it with your sword hand which is your right. Swing your blade at me and see if you can land a hit.”
Ing tried several times, but failed to land a hit on his uncle. All he got instead were bruises covering his arms and legs.
“You're getting better,” said his uncle. Now that you know some of the basics, you must test your skills. Now don’t rush into anything. Just keep calm. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Test my skills? What are you trying to say?”
“You must battle me—battle me as if I were one of the dark forces under Slithzalien’s rule.”
This was a matter Ing had to think about before responding.
When he did, his words were thus: “You may have been a knight a long time ago, but I’m not sure if I can fight against—”
“Someone of my age,” finished Erste. “A cautious notion, but unnecessary. I may not look it, but I am sturdy as ever. I have never been defeated in battle and I say that not to boast, but as a simple truth. Here take this,” he said and he handed Ing a wooden staff of his own. If you do manage to land a hit on me, I don't want it to be fatal. It would be a strange fate for Erste the knight to die in a mock battle.”
“I won’t fight you, Uncle,” Ing argued. “What if I ended up breaking all of your bones?”
The second the sentence was finished, Erste’s oak staff came crashing down on Ing’s forehead, causing him to feel as if his spine had been fractured. Without a thought, he was swinging his weapon—the oak staff that Erste had made for him--wildly at his uncle, who he soon found out was very agile for his age. A horrendous blow to Ing’s cheek elicited even more fury—not only due to the pain, but also because of his uncle’s expression. After the passing of several more minutes, Ing was pushed to the point of exhaustion and knocked to the ground by his opponent.
“Very good,” Erste said, smiling. “That is enough for today. Let me help you up. You’re alright aren’t you? I know you’re not cut out for this kind of thing—you’re a Roan and we are not warriors—but I know you want to learn how to fight to help your people. Your mother told me you are very passionate about that kind of thing.”
Ing brushed his hand away and got up himself, scowling as he walked back into the shelter of the cave, not wishing to speak. A tumultuous headache plagued him. A broken spine and a migraine to boot, he thought. What a lovely way to start the day.
For the next several weeks, Ing and his uncle, Erste trained long and hard. They would start early in the morning and would go until it was dark outside. The long hours left Ing feeling strange at night as if his life ceased to consist of anything but sword-fighting. His sword skills were improving, though, and that was good news.
As Ing got better, his uncle urged him to use his own sword, the one Horwin had given him, to get used to fighting with a real blade rather than a practice oak staff. “You will need to know the feel of a real sword,” his uncle had said. “You need to be familiar with the weight of it. It should be like another hand to you. Just as you know how to control your hand you should know how to control this blade. The two should be inseparable. One cannot exist without the other. Do
