Wrought of Iron and Silk, Book One [2014 Watty Award Winner]

Chapter 12 - The Outer Lands

Chapter 12 – The Outer Lands

Snow covered every inch of The Outer Lands, shining silver beneath the light of the full moon that hung in the night sky high above her head. In truth, each time they ventured out, the fresh air felt sweet in Cecilia's lungs, and her eyes were soothed by the pale landscape and muted sky.

Past the trellwarren, the going was always harder, since they had to make their own trail. The clean sharp smell of evergreens hung in the air. As she brushed against their branches, the fine snow sifted down, falling without a sound. On impulse, she scooped a handful from a spruce bough and touched it to her tongue. It tasted like the air, fresh and cold and faintly resinous. Soon, she was panting for breath in the rarefied atmosphere, but she no longer felt cold. As they penetrated deeper into the woods, a soft quiet descended.

"It has been far too long since our last session," Tin had remarked earlier that day, deciding that a bit of impromptu sparring would allow him to judge her progress. All this time, Cecilia knew that Tin was trying to prove his point by pitting an inexperienced girl against an older and experienced fighter, and he was eager to reveal what she was capable of. Cecilia hoped she was living up to that expectation.

Before taking her leave, Cecilia drew another line in her chalk-stone tally: four hundred and fifty-four days of apprenticeship in the House of Sindri. Her hand shook, and she could feel a small pulse emanating from the chalk-stone in her palm. Gradually, the weight of the stone lifted from her hand, and was soon floating in the air before her very eyes. Her mind held it for a few moments; allowing the object to hover unsteadily. Satisfied with the distance travelled, Cecilia finally released the chalk-stone when it floated beyond the edge of her stone table.

"Parlor tricks," she'd said, letting out a long-suffering sigh when she realized she was late for her lesson with Tin.

After a few hours with the dwarf, she always forgot that he was anything but a brother warrior, no matter how strange his small hunched shape or what his clothes concealed. He drank ale and ate bread and cheese with as much gusto as any German or Asgardian. And she also appreciated his raw humor – or, at the very least, could feign it.

Both combatants stood ready with weapons in their hands and sheaths about their waists. Around them lay the thick mantle of snow, disturbed only by their footsteps. Nothing moved. There was no wind, no animal, no bird, nothing to mar the perfect stillness. Cecilia closed her eyes, tightening and loosening her grip on her weapons. She had chosen twin wooden scimitars that she'd crafted from leftover materials in the Sindri forges. If she couldn't wield her new great sword, she would practice with her next favorite – the twin swords of the Dark Elves. Despite being far thinner and smaller than the weapons Tin held, Cecilia had been immediately taken by the feeling of weight in wood. The balance in them felt perfect as she gave each of them an errant swing.

The young girl took a deep breath, letting it out in slow pleasure, steadying her nerves. All of her senses were distorted: the hushed crunch of icy snow beneath her boots was almost deafening, and the leather of her livery felt like sandpaper against her skin. She never showed it openly, but doing new things always frightened and excited her simultaneously.

"In your own time," Tin said calmly.

Cecilia gave a weak smile and moved forward, making the first move to attack. Tin reacted to her actions instantly as he rushed forward. Cecilia gave a small cry, moving her wooden swords to intercept Tin's strike. The sheer force behind the scimitar sent Cecilia's own weapon flying from her grasp. She heard the sound of the sword slicing through the air and the thump of its wood as it embedded itself in the ground.

"Do not fret," Tin calmed her, "take your time, it will come to you." He seemed like a different man. His shoulders were rounded with the weight of his practice sword; his face was like a mask.