Echoes of the Forgotten Blade

Ironveil's gates groaned shut behind the surviving scouts, the heavy wooden beams sliding into place with a dull thud that echoed Kaelen's heartbeat. He slumped forward in his saddle, pain radiating from his shoulder in hot waves. The courtyard swam before his eyes—blurry faces, torchlight, and the crimson stains marking the path of their retreat.

Someone grasped his reins, steadying his horse. Another pair of hands helped him dismount, though his legs nearly buckled as they touched the ground. Through the haze of exhaustion, he recognized Ser Dain's weathered face, the knight's expression a mask of controlled concern.

"He needs a physician," Elara's voice came from somewhere nearby. "Arrow grazed his arm. Shoulder's worse—an old injury reopened."

Kaelen wanted to protest that he was fine, that others needed attention more than he did, but his mouth felt stuffed with wool. Around him, healers rushed to attend the wounded scouts. Only eight had returned from the twenty who had ridden out that morning. Captain Thorne was issuing rapid commands, his voice hoarse, blood still crusting his forehead.

"Get him inside," Ser Dain ordered, supporting Kaelen's weight. "Lord Vaelrick will want a report."

The great hall was ablaze with torches, the usual evening meal abandoned as the fortress prepared for war. Scouts, messengers, and knights moved with urgent purpose. Lords and captains bent over maps, arguing strategies in tense whispers. The air thrummed with controlled fear.

Lord Vaelrick looked up from the war table as they entered, his expression darkening at the sight of the bloodied survivors. He crossed the hall in long strides, Captain Thorne meeting him halfway.

"The reports were accurate," Thorne said without preamble. "Two thousand or more. Heavy cavalry, siege engines—and they're moving fast. Scouts were waiting for us. We were ambushed."

Vaelrick's gaze swept over the survivors, lingering on Kaelen. "And the Valtheris boy?"

"Still breathing," Thorne said, a note of surprise in his voice. "Did better than expected. Managed a parry that saved his skin."

Vaelrick approached Kaelen, studying him with calculating eyes. "Recklessness or courage, I wonder? Either way, you survived your first taste of battle."

"I didn't fight," Kaelen managed to say, his voice raspy. "I just... watched."

"And that parry Thorne mentioned?"

"A single move." Kaelen swallowed, his throat dry. "I saw Captain Thorne defend against a similar strike. I copied it. Not perfectly, but enough."

Something flickered in Vaelrick's eyes—interest, perhaps. Or desperation. "And what did you learn from your observation?"

Kaelen straightened despite the pain, meeting the lord's gaze. "That I have much to learn. And little time to learn it."

A ghost of a smile crossed Vaelrick's face. "Indeed." He turned to Ser Dain. "See that he's patched up. Then continue his training. I want to know if this Blood Oath is worth the trouble."

"And if it's not?" Dain asked quietly.

"Then he's just another sword arm," Vaelrick replied, turning back to his war table. "And we'll need every one of those before this is over."

The fortress physician was an elderly woman named Eris, whose gnarled hands belied their gentleness as she cleaned and bandaged Kaelen's arrow wound. It was a shallow gash across his upper arm, painful but not serious.

"Your shoulder's the real problem," she muttered, prodding at the swollen joint. "Dislocated recently, wasn't it? Still inflamed."

"Yesterday," Kaelen admitted.

"And you rode out with the scouts today?" She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Fool boy. You're lucky it didn't pop free again."

She wrapped the shoulder tightly in linen bandages, then mixed a bitter draught of herbs. "Drink. It will dull the pain and reduce the swelling."

Kaelen drank without complaint, grimacing at the taste. "How long until I can—"

"Train?" Eris snorted. "If you had sense, you'd rest that shoulder for a week. But given the drums we're hearing, I doubt you have that luxury." She pressed a small pouch of dried herbs into his hand. "Brew this into tea before you sleep. It will help."

Ser Dain was waiting outside the physician's quarters, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Without a word, he fell into step beside Kaelen as they walked through the torchlit corridors.

"Thorne says you parried a killing blow," he said after a long silence.

"Barely. And only because I'd just seen him do it."

"It's more than we expected."

They climbed a narrow staircase that led to the ramparts. The night air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of pine from the distant forests. From this height, they could see for leagues—and on the horizon, the faint glow of campfires.

"They'll be here in two days," Dain said, nodding toward the lights. "Three at most."

Kaelen gripped the stone parapet. "I won't be ready."

"No," Dain agreed bluntly. "You won't. But you might live through it if you learn enough."

They stood in silence for several heartbeats, watching the distant fires multiply as more of the enemy army made camp.

"Tomorrow," Dain said finally, "we begin real training. Be in the east courtyard at dawn."

"The east courtyard?" Kaelen frowned. "Not the training yard?"

"Too many eyes," Dain replied. "What I'm going to teach you... it's best kept between us for now." He turned to leave, then paused. "Sleep if you can. Tomorrow will be harder than today."

Dawn found Kaelen already in the east courtyard, a small space enclosed by high walls, used primarily for storage. Weapon racks lined one wall, while bales of hay and wooden training dummies occupied the opposite side. The stones beneath his feet were worn smooth from years of use, though the courtyard clearly hadn't served as a training space in some time.

His body ached with every movement, his shoulder throbbing despite Eris's medicine. Sleep had been elusive, his mind replaying the ambush each time he closed his eyes—the whistle of arrows, the gurgling death rattle of the Black Talon rider, the helpless sensation of his legs buckling beneath him.

Ser Dain arrived as the first rays of sunlight crested the eastern wall, carrying two practice swords. Without greeting, he tossed one to Kaelen, who caught it awkwardly with his good arm.

"You've learned to watch," Dain said, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. "Now you'll learn to move."

"My shoulder—"

"Will hurt," Dain cut him off. "Pain is your teacher now. It will tell you when you're pushing too far."

The knight moved to the center of the courtyard and assumed a ready stance. "Attack me."

Kaelen hesitated. "I don't know how."

"You've watched Captain Thorne. You've watched Garron Claymore. You've seen real combat. Your mind remembers. Now make your body follow."

Swallowing his doubt, Kaelen raised his sword and advanced. He tried to recall Thorne's movements during the ambush—the quick, economical strikes that had felled two attackers in as many heartbeats. His mind pictured the sequence perfectly, but as he moved to execute it, his body stuttered and lagged.

His strike was clumsy, telegraphed. Dain deflected it with contemptuous ease.

"Again," the knight ordered.

Kaelen tried once more, this time attempting to mimic Garron's aggressive style from the training yard. The result was marginally better, but still pathetic by any real standard.

For an hour, Dain let him attack, offering only minimal correction. By the end, Kaelen was drenched in sweat, his injured shoulder screaming in protest.

"Enough," Dain said finally. "Your problem is clear enough."

"I'm weak," Kaelen muttered, leaning on his sword.

"You're untrained," Dain corrected. "Your mind sees the techniques, but your body lacks the foundation to execute them." He moved to the center of the courtyard again. "Watch carefully now. I'm going to show you something that few outside the Knights of the Ash have ever seen."

Kaelen straightened, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. The Knights of the Ash were legendary swordsmen, an order that had guarded the High Kings of old. Ser Dain, he knew, had been one of their number before the order was disbanded after the last High King's death.

Dain assumed a stance Kaelen had never seen before—weight balanced evenly, sword held at an unusual angle across his body. Then, with fluid grace, he executed a series of movements that culminated in a devastating thrust—a strike so swift and precise that Kaelen could barely follow it with his eyes.

"The Master's Strike," Dain said, returning to his starting position. "The killing technique of the Knights of the Ash. It can pierce any defense if executed correctly."

He performed it again, slower this time, allowing Kaelen to observe each component: the subtle shift of weight, the deceptive feint, the lightning-quick change of direction, and finally, the lethal thrust.

"Your turn," Dain said, stepping back.

Kaelen swallowed hard. "I'm not ready."

"If you wish to survive this war, you must learn the limits of your own body," Dain replied. "The only way to know those limits is to test them."

Reluctantly, Kaelen assumed the stance, trying to position his body exactly as Dain had. The knight made small adjustments to his posture, then stepped back again.

"Now," he commanded. "Execute the Master's Strike."

Kaelen took a deep breath. In his mind, he could see the sequence perfectly—the rhythm, the timing, the subtle interplay of balance and force. He began to move.

Immediately, he knew something was wrong. His body felt wooden, unresponsive. The delicate feint that should have been a whisper of movement became an awkward twitch. The weight shift that should have been seamless felt like wading through mud.

And then came the final thrust—a movement that required explosive speed and perfect control. His injured shoulder seized, his muscles burning as if bathed in acid. The sword wobbled in his grip, and the thrust veered off target.

Pain lanced through his arm, his back, his very core. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping.

Dain stood over him, expression unreadable. "That," he said quietly, "is the gap between knowing and doing."

Kaelen struggled to catch his breath, sweat stinging his eyes. "I... I saw it. I understood it. Why can't I do it?"

"Because understanding is not enough." Dain pulled him to his feet. "A sword stroke is not just movement. It is the culmination of thousands of hours of training. The muscles must know what to do before the mind commands them."

"But my bloodline—"

"Gives you insight, not mastery," Dain interrupted sharply. "You see the path, but you lack the foundation to walk it."

The knight retrieved a heavy weighted practice sword from the rack and thrust it into Kaelen's hands. The weight made his arms tremble.

"Five hundred swings," Dain ordered. "Basic cuts. No techniques, no flourishes. Just the fundamental movement, over and over."

"Five hundred?" Kaelen stared at him. "My shoulder—"

"Will hurt," Dain finished for him. "But it won't break. Not from this." His gaze hardened. "You will earn every strike before you can steal them."

For the next three hours, Kaelen swung the weighted sword—first with his good arm, then with both, then with his injured arm alone. The pain was constant, a burning companion that ebbed and flowed but never truly left. Sweat soaked his tunic, and blisters formed on his palms despite the leather wrappings Dain had given him.

When the five hundred swings were complete, Dain moved him to footwork drills, then balance exercises, then punishing core strengthening movements.

By midday, Kaelen could barely stand. His limbs trembled uncontrollably, and his injuries throbbed with a pain so intense it made his vision blur. Yet Dain pushed him relentlessly, seemingly indifferent to his suffering.

"Again," he commanded as Kaelen collapsed after a particularly grueling set of exercises. "On your feet."

"I can't," Kaelen gasped, struggling to rise.

"Then you'll die when the Black Talon comes," Dain replied coldly. "On your feet."

Somehow, Kaelen forced himself upright. His legs wobbled like a newborn colt's, but he stood.

"Now," Dain said, tossing him a lighter practice sword, "try the Master's Strike again."

"It's impossible," Kaelen protested. "You've drained all my strength."

"Precisely." Dain's eyes gleamed. "Now you must work with what you have, not what you wish you had."

Kaelen stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then, slowly, understanding dawned. He glanced down at the sword in his trembling hand, then back at Dain.

"You want me to adapt it," he said. "To find a version I can execute with my current limitations."

A thin smile crossed Dain's face. "Now you begin to understand."

Kaelen closed his eyes, recalling the Master's Strike in perfect detail. But instead of trying to replicate it exactly, he mentally adjusted it—simplifying the footwork, reducing the extension of the thrust, compensating for his weak shoulder by shifting more weight to his core.

When he opened his eyes, he moved without hesitation. The strike that emerged was not the Master's Strike as Dain had performed it—it was slower, less elegant, its killing potential diminished. But it was clean. Natural. His body moved in harmony rather than fighting itself.

The point of his practice sword stopped an inch from Dain's chest.

For the first time, something like approval flashed in the knight's eyes. He nodded once, a gesture so slight that Kaelen might have missed it if he hadn't been watching so intently.

"That," Dain said quietly, "was yours. Not mine. Not Thorne's. Not some ghost of your ancestors. Yours."

Kaelen lowered his sword, a strange sensation washing over him—not quite pride, but something close to it. "It's still weak."

"Yes," Dain agreed. "But it's honest. And an honest stroke will serve you better than a stolen one that your body can't support." He nodded toward the weapon racks. "Enough for today. Clean your blade and rest."

As Kaelen moved to return the practice sword, Dain added, "Tomorrow we continue. Dawn. Don't be late."

Kaelen nodded, too exhausted to speak. He cleaned and stored his practice weapon with hands that still trembled from exertion, then limped toward the courtyard exit. Each step sent fresh waves of pain through his overtaxed body.

As he reached the doorway, a distant sound caught his attention—a rhythmic booming that rolled across the afternoon air. Kaelen paused, listening intently.

War drums. Closer than they had been the night before.

"They're coming," Dain said behind him, his voice grave. "Two days. Perhaps less."

Kaelen turned to look at his mentor. "Will I be ready?"

Dain's expression was somber. "No. But you might survive. And that's all any of us can hope for now."

As Kaelen made his way back to his quarters, he knew that tomorrow's training would be even harsher. His body would scream in protest, his injuries would flare with renewed pain, and Dain would show him no mercy.

But for the first time since taking the Blood Oath of Varathen, he felt something like hope. Not the grand hope of instantly mastering his ancestral gift, but the humble hope of a warrior beginning to understand his own strengths and limitations.

The Master's Strike—his version of it—was a beginning. A small victory in a battle that had only just begun.

And as the war drums continued their ominous rhythm from the east, Kaelen knew he would need many more such victories before the real battle arrived at Ironveil's gates.