Page 9 of Of Glass and of Gold

I’d be lying if I said that didn’t boost my confidence. Odion was a giant of a man, and I stood only to five-feet-four inches, five inches maybe. I didn’t need to have three hundred pounds of muscle on me to stand a fighting chance, just the right techniques.

“Alright, now that you’ve managed to get free of capture, you’ll have really pissed them off.” He freed his sword from its sheath.

“Really?” I asked with an arched brow, passing glances between my tiny little daggers. What kind of unfair nonsense was this?

“You think the guards are going to go easy on you? My girl, you’ll have just knocked them on their ass. They’re gonna be out for blood.” He balanced on his feet, pointing the blade in my direction. “Now come at me, slowly.”

My fatiguing muscles didn’t help my form, but I raised my arms, holding my daggers level with my chest, and inched toward him.

“Chances are, their anger and embarrassment will have fueled them to want to deliver an immediate lethal strike.” He raised the sword over his head, the metal begging to drop and slice me in two. “You need to use their momentum against them. When I start to bring this down, I’ve lost all control. Everything in me is set to follow the strike through to the end. You need to sidestep out of the way. You’ll spin, and when the sword has finished its path, you need to have already struck.”

“Got it.” Shifting my weight from side to side, keeping myself limber, he slowly brought the sword down. I spun on my heel, rotating until I faced him again, and mimicked the path of my dagger plunging into Odion’s neck.

“Good. Again.”

We rehearsed the move ten more times. Each time he’d increase the speed, getting me used to reacting quickly. He even brought me close to one of his work tables, where I couldn’t spin to the right as I had been. I didn’t have a fast enough response time moving in my less dominant direction, so I had to somersault away. He warned me how it gave him the opportunity to strike before I could reach him with a dagger. I’d have to practice that until it felt just as natural as turning right.

We concluded the session as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Odion’s home sat at the edge of town, so he took advantage of the surrounding forest. He’d cleared out a circle just through the trees where he could forge more metal and it gave us a space to train, hidden from curious eyes.

He tossed me a clean rag he’d dipped into the rain barrel, and I wiped the sweat from my face, neck, back, and minimal cleavage briefly when he turned away.

“You’re progressing nicely,” Odion complimented while returning his weapons to the host of racks that bordered the small field.

“I can feel it. It’s becoming second nature.”

He paused, not lifting his head from returning the sword to its rack. “You know I only teach you for defense, right?”

His fatherly tone came out in full force. Every so often, he’d reiterate that point, and my response was always the same.

“I know.” Said as if I agreed to those terms.

“I’m serious, Nora.” His gaze pierced through me with a stern intensity he hadn’t given before.

A lump formed in my throat, and I tried not swallowing so I didn’t look guilty. I nodded. “I know.” A lighthearted inflection would hopefully diffuse the situation.

He sighed and tore his stare away, and I gulped down the deceptive guilt that lingered. “I need to get going to my shift. Thanks, Odion. You’re the best.”

“Too good, I fear,” he muttered. I swore he was part human, part truth decipherer—if that were a thing. Maybe he just knew how to read me a little too well.

I grabbed my satchel filled with a set of clean clothes for work and headed back into town. By the time I reached the rusty-colored wooden tavern, evening blue enveloped the sky. The walk had cooled my overworked body, and the chill of night now pebbled my skin. Perfect timing as I opened the door.

The warmth from the large hearth, multiple torch lamps on the wall, and the sea of bodies surrounded me in an instant. The stale smell of ale soaked every floorboard, but roasting meat masked majority of it.

Snaking through the crowd, I made my way to the back hall. Helena, the nightly bartender, wiped the countertop. Her frizzy blonde curls topped her head in a loose mess, and her apron cinched her waist between her curvy features. She tipped her chin in greeting when she saw me, and I did the same. Once I got to the back, I quickly stripped out of my sweat dried clothes and donned the dark linen shirt and pants that identified me as staff.

Tossing my hair up, I wrapped it around itself and slipped a long-handled spoon through to keep it in place. My night of aching muscles, touchy men, and vulgar names was just about to get started. Lucky me.

The shift began as did most, making the rounds to the tables to collect used dishware and clean the sticky surfaces. Having no piles of vomit to take care of was nice, though. Not all shifts were as fortunate.

As the hours dragged on and I barely kept this place together, Helena flagged me over the crowd. I picked up empty mugs on my way, and traded her for refills.

“The group in the back corner, they’re askin’ f’r ya.” She plopped down two full mugs of ale and slid them toward me. Her attention had already moved on the second she finished speaking, addressing the demanding patrons barking their orders for more booze.

Same old, same old.

I held firm to the handles and, as carefully as I could, maneuvered around staggering bodies until I reached the back corner. Barely a drop spilt.

“Two ales,” I shouted over the ruckus of belligerent men and nearly drowned out live music. I set down the mugs with every intention of returning to cleaning, but my gaze stuttered when I recognized the face before me. “Alejo?”

---