Maltren reddened, unable to respond. He turned, preparing to storm off, but not without taking one last jab at her.
“It’s spears today,” he said. “You’d best stay out of the way of real men throwing real weapons.”
He turned and rode off with the others and as she watched him go, her joy at being here was tempered by his presence.
Anvin gave her a consoling look and lay a hand on her shoulder.
“The first lesson of a warrior,” he said, “is to learn to live with those who hate you. Like it or not, you will find yourself fighting side-by-side with them, dependent on them for your lives. Oftentimes, your worst enemies will not come from without, but from within.”
“And those who can’t fight, run their mouths,” came a voice.
Kyra turned to see Arthfael approaching, grinning, quick to take her side, as he always was. Like Anvin and Vidar, Arthfael, a tall, fierce warrior with a stark bald head and a long, stiff black beard, had a soft spot for her. He was one of the best swordsmen, rarely bested, and he always stood up for her. She took comfort in his presence.
“It’s just talk,” Arthfael added. “If Maltren were a better warrior, he’d be more concerned with himself than others.”
Anvin, Vidar and Arthfael mounted their horses and took off with the others, and Kyra stood there watching them, thinking. Why did some people hate? she wondered. She did not know if she would ever understand it.
As they charged across the grounds, racing in wide loops, Kyra studied the great warhorses in awe, eager for the day when she might have one of her own. She watched the men circle the grounds, riding alongside the stone walls, their horses sometimes slipping in the snow. The men grabbed spears handed to them by eager squires, and as they rounded the loop, they threw them at distant targets: shields hanging from branches. When they hit, the distinct clang of metal rang out.
It was harder than it looked, she could see, to throw while on horseback, and more than one of the men missed, especially as they aimed for the smaller shields. Of those who hit, few hit in the center – except for Anvin, Vidar, Arthfael and a few others. Maltren, she noticed, missed several times, cursing under his breath and glaring over at her, as if she were to blame.
Kyra, wanting to keep warm, pulled out her staff and began spinning and twirling it in her hands, over her head, around and around, twisting and turning it like a living thing. She thrust at imaginary enemies, blocked imaginary blows, switching hands, over her neck, around her waist, the staff like a third arm for her, its wood well-worn from years of molding it.
While the men circled the fields, Kyra ran off to her own little field, a small section of the training grounds neglected by the men but which she loved for herself. Small pieces of armor dangled from ropes in a grove of trees, spread out at all different heights, and Kyra ran through and, pretending each target was an opponent, struck each one with her staff. The air filled with her clanging as she ran through the grove, slashing, weaving and ducking as they swung back at her. In her mind she attacked and defended gloriously, conquering an army of imaginary foes.
“Kill anyone yet?” came a mocking voice.
Kyra turned to see Maltren ride up on his horse, laughing derisively at her, before he rode off. She fumed, wishing that someone would put him in his place.
Kyra took a break as she saw the men, done with their spears, dismount and form a circle in the center of the clearing. Their squires rushed forward and handed them wooden training swords, made of a thick oak, weighing nearly as much as steel. Kyra kept to the periphery, her heart quickening as she watched these men square off with each other, wanting more than anything to join them.
Before they began, Anvin stepped into the middle and faced them all.
“On this holiday, we spar for a special bounty,” he announced. “To the victor shall go the choice portion of the feast!”
A cry of excitement followed, as the men charged each other, the click-clack of their wooden swords filling the air, driving each other back and forth.
The sparring was punctuated by the blasts of a horn, sounding every time a fighter was struck by a blow, and sending him to the sidelines. The horn sounded frequently, and soon the ranks began to thin, most of the men now standing to the side and watching.
Kyra stood on the sidelines with them, burning to spar, though she was not allowed. Yet today was her birthday, she was fifteen now, and she felt ready. She felt it was time to press her case.
“Let me join them!” she pleaded to Anvin, who was standing nearby, watching.
Anvin shook his head, never taking his eyes off the action.
“Today marks my fifteenth year!” she insisted. “Allow me to fight!”
He glanced over at her skeptically.
“This is a training ground for men,” chimed in Maltren, standing on the sidelines after losing a point. “Not young girls. You can sit and watch with the other squires, and bring us water if we demand it.”
Kyra flushed.
“Are you so afraid that a girl might defeat you?” she countered, standing her ground, feeling a rush of anger within her. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and no one could speak to her like that.
Some of the men snickered, and this time, Maltren blushed.
“She has a point,” Vidar chimed in. “Maybe we should let her spar. What’s to lose?”
“Spar with what?” Maltren countered.
“My staff!” Kyra called out. “Against your wooden swords.”
Maltren laughed.
“That would be a sight,” he said.
All eyes turned to Anvin, as he stood there, debating.
“You get hurt, your father will kill me,” he said.
“I won’t get hurt,” she pleaded.
He stood there for what felt like forever, until finally he sighed.
“I see no harm in it then,” he said. “If nothing else, it will keep you silent. As long as these men have no objection,” he added, turning to the soldiers.
“AYE!” called out a dozen of her father’s men in unison, all enthusiastically rooting for her. Kyra loved them for it, more than she could say. She saw the admiration they held for her, the same love they reserved for her father. She did not have many friends, and these men meant the world to her.
Maltren scoffed.
“Let the girl make a fool of herself then,” he said. “Might teach her a lesson once and for all.”
A horn sounded, and as another man left the circle, Kyra rushed in.
Kyra felt all eyes on her as the men stared, clearly not expecting this. She found herself facing her opponent, a tall man of stocky build in his thirties, a powerful warrior she had known since her father’s days at court. From having observed him, she knew him to be a good fighter – but also overconfident, charging in the beginning of each fight, a bit reckless.
He turned to Anvin, frowning.
“What insult is this?” he asked. “I shall not fight a girl.”
“You insult yourself by fearing to fight me,” Kyra replied, indignant. “I have two hands, and two legs, just as you. If you will not fight me, then concede defeat!”
He blinked, shocked, then scowled back.
“Very well then,” he said. “Don’t go running to your father after you lose.”
He charged at full speed, as she knew he would, raised his wooden sword hard and high, and came straight down, aiming for her shoulder. It was a move she had anticipated, one she had seen him perform many times, one he clumsily foreshadowed by the motion of his arms. His wooden sword was powerful, but it was