—
Three days later and Sylah still hadn’t found Hassa. Instead, she threw herself into Anoor’s training. After all, if Anoor didn’t continue to the final, Sylah wouldn’t know enough bloodwerk to ensure Jond got there too. There’d be no “plan” without Jond as disciple.
Anoor’s skills improved. She mastered most of the Dambe boxing exercises and some Laambe open-hand techniques, though they were as pretty as an eru turd. The Nuba formations were still beyond her, but she managed to master a semblance of the meditative state of battle wrath.
“When are we going to start using real weapons?” She waved the broomstick in Sylah’s face.
“That doesn’t seem like focus to me.”
“I mean it, why can’t we fight with real metal?”
“We can start training with real weapons when you can knock me off my feet.” Sylah laid the challenge out while she leaned on her own weapon, a smelly mop.
“You promise? If I can lay you on the ground, you’ll let us move on to real weapons?”
Sylah nodded, rubbing her face.
“I promis—”
“Quick, I can hear Gorn coming.”
Sylah spun around, ready to use the mop as a prop in some exquisite acting. All of a sudden, she was on the floor, the ceiling of the dressing room the only thing in her vision. That was until the grinning face of Anoor appeared above her.
“When can we go to the training grounds?”
Sylah growled.
“That was a cheap trick.”
Anoor offered her a hand to pull her up.
“You promised.” Her cheeks dimpled with smugness.
“Indeed, I did,” Sylah conceded, rubbing the hip she had landed on.
“Can we go now? We’ve got a strike until the tidewind.”
“Fine. We can go collect some weapons now.”
They were getting better at creeping past Gorn at night. It was a routine they had practiced during their nights at the library with the other servants.
Once they made their way out of their chambers, Sylah made them jog to the training grounds. It was still Anoor’s designated training time, after all. The training grounds were lit by the red haze of runelamps in striped panels above them. The army barracks sat in shadow behind, lights out having been called two strikes ago.
A few officers were still using the odd apparatus. One captain stood legs apart, sweat dripping down his back into the folds of his pantaloons as he drew arrow after arrow.
“Sexually frustrated much?” Sylah said under her breath, and Anoor giggled into cupped hands.
Sylah moved through the room with the swagger of someone more comfortable among metal than people. She stopped in front of a display wall of practice weapons.
“They’re a bit worse for wear.” She inspected a sword. The blade had hundreds of tiny nicks and dents in the metal. Papa would have beaten them if they had let their equipment fall into such disrepair.
“But they’re better than a broom, though.” Anoor reached for a set of throwing knives.
“We won’t need them. Pick only melee weapons, close proximity.” Sylah picked up an axe. “You’ll get a choice during the final combat, so we’ll try a few things, see what you fight with best.”
After taking a selection of weapons, Sylah directed them to the padded terrain used for combat.
“Okay, let’s start with the sword. Dambe rotation one, but instead of your fist, lunge with the sword.”