Page 52 of The Source of Storms

“Slide your hand down a bit.” Byrgir corrected my grip. “How is it?”

“Heavy,” I said. “Feels like I want two hands on it instead of one.”

“You could wield it that way, if you wanted. But I want something that feels natural in one hand. Light enough that you have one hand free for spells when you need it, but something strong.” He turned toward Gundrad, who nodded.

“Then, Miss, I suggest ya try this.” He slid a bundle wrapped in burlap off the table and held it out to me, then pulled it back before I could open it.

“What’s yer budget, Ulfarsson?”

“On the Ironguard tab,” Byrgir said.

I shot him a look, but he ignored it and nodded toward the bundle Gundrad presented to me. I carefully unfolded the wrapping.

Inside rested a flawless blade, edges wavy and oil-slick rainbowed from the heat of the forge. On the blade was engraved a raven, wings outstretched in flight. Below the raven, just above the guard, was etched a complex stave, its top and bottom halves a mirror of one another. I recognized many standard bindrune patterns within, but the intricacy of it was impossible to decipher at a glance.

“Raven, to guide the dead ya send from the battlefield to the Underworld,” Gundrad said, pointing to the blade with thick fingers stained black. “The rune’s Hagall, nature’s power and wrath. Also a blessing for success in yer trials, worked into a sigil with other bindrunes. Taken all together, the sigil is the balance of life and death. The unstoppable coming storm, and the peace thereafter. A completion of the natural cycle. As above, so below, and that.”

“Did you design it?” I asked.

“Aye, I did. Carved it myself. Bet ya didn’t think these ol’ sausages could work so tiny, eh?” Gundrad laughed and wiggled his thick fingers. I smiled.

I gripped the hilt and lifted it from the box. It was, indeed, much lighter than the previous sword. The black wrapping gripped my hand as I held it. It warmed with the heat of my palm, becoming increasingly supple, almost tacky, in my grasp.

“That’ll never slip, never slide from yer grip, Miss. No matter the rain, mud, or blood, she’ll stay put. It’s treated with pine resin in the tanning process. The warmer and sweatier yer hands get, the better she grips, without ever getting sticky.”

I swung the blade once, twice, three times. Byrgir set down the great sword he’d been trialing, watched how I moved with it.

“I don’t know shit about swords,” I said to him, “but this one feels good.”

∞∞∞

We purchased the beautiful hand-and-a-half bastard sword with the raven and stave engravings, three cruel-looking long daggers, a delicate misericorde, and a set of two hand axes. Byrgir chose the catalog of weaponry based on my responses to each, and I blindly trusted his expertise.

We trained daily after that, my body quickly adjusting to the new types of stress. For the first few days I learned footwork and simple defense without weapons. Then we added my new arsenal of weaponry, to my deep frustration. I was terrible with the weapons, and with hand to hand combat. Thinking quickly enough to remember the name of each strike as Byrgir called them was difficult enough, let alone executing the proper technique and putting enough power into my blows each time. But the frustration and challenge of being a complete beginner at something was enjoyable, in the way slow, humbling work was. The smallest improvements felt like victories.

Byrgir and Crow were excellent coaches, and were quick to make adjustments to my training when I felt overwhelmed or they saw my frustration building too much. They kept me on the edge of my ability, always pushing and learning, but never so defeated that I wanted to give up. The skin of my right hand was soon thickened with calluses from the rough grip of my sword. And for all the rain we trained in, for as much as I sweat, that grip never slipped.

CHAPTER TWELVE

El and Crow met with the Council the day after we purchased my weapons. Crow had informed the head of the Rangers of Eilith’s arrest immediately after it had occurred, but they needed to meet with the entire Council to discuss what was to be done about it. El came back from that meeting in a huff, saying that the Council was so scared of escalating the situation that they were probably never going to do anything about it at all.

But the Council did approve of sending more Rangers to the capital to gain information, so Crow left for Avanis with a small crew of Rangers to join their scouts. His goal was to learn where Eilith was being held and find a way to infiltrate it, if necessary. But no action was to be taken beyond surveillance. Not without the Council approving a plan.

We waited for weeks without word from Crow. I grew increasingly restless each day Crow didn’t return, each day Eilith was trapped wherever she was, each day I was uncertain if she even still lived.

Despite my perpetual underlying concern for Eilith, I loved being in Rhyanaes. The city was rife with Source, and grew even more beautiful as spring progressed. I often spent afternoons walking along the rocky beach, wandering the city streets, or working in the garden with El. Some days I rode into the mountains with the wolves so I could watch them run freely along ridges through early spring snow.

My abilities in the training ring progressed exceptionally quickly, both physically and magically. El was thrilled with my capabilities, and I was soon practicing things that she said had taken her months of work to even attempt. Sometimes we were joined by other Ironguard and Sourcerers, but most days I got a private lesson from both El and Byrgir.

The last of winter blew out into a warm, wet, and productive early spring. Flowers bloomed in the garden much more quickly than they did at home, and soon the kitchen was full of bundles of herbs and blooms hanging from the ceiling to dry.

Late one afternoon, El and I were processing and storing medicinal and cooking herbs from the first spring harvest. The house was quiet, and steady rain tinkled against the windows. Byrgir was away leading a team of Keepers in response to reports of wraiths attacking a small village to the south. I was keen to stay busy while he was gone. It helped distract me from worrying about him.

I glanced over at El where she worked at the kitchen counter. She was mashing a big bundle of dried St. John’s wort with her hands. Brittle leaves and tiny twigs flew everywhere, scattering about the kitchen counters and floor. I stopped what I was doing and looked at her questioningly.

She shrugged. “The knife was just slowing me down.”

I nodded. “Usually, further north, this isn’t ready to harvest until Litha.”

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