Page 60 of Laird of Steel
This was why he had to leave Darragh, he told himself as he plodded toward the armory. Merraid brought out the worst in him. His affection for her had turned him into a monster. A brute who wished the most depraved sort of misfortune upon his rival.
Thankfully, it was the last he saw of the guard that day, saving the man from any pastry-related mishap.
But even brief glances at Merraid as she went about her day left Gellir feeling empty. He missed her meddling. He craved her conversation. By the end of the day, he was tempted to pick a fight with her—to draw blades or cross besoms—just to have some interaction.
The next morn he got his wish.
He arrived on the foggy practice field, sword in hand. Merraid was already there, sparring in the mist with his cousin Feiyan. They were using strange swords with slightly curved blades and no shields.
He should have turned around and walked away. They hadn’t seen him. And no good could come of interacting with either of them.
But curiosity got the best of him. He watched them slice and hack at each other. Gracefully arcing and spinning. Almost like a dance.
He was used to seeing such maneuvers from Feiyan. But he’d never witnessed two masters of the intriguing art fighting together.
He was awestruck. Merraid twirled and lunged. Her swirling blade made whirlpools in the mist. Feiyan ducked under the sword and swept hers low. Merraid leaped over the slashing blade and rolled out of range. Then she sprang to her feet to attack again.
The blades struck rapidly and repeatedly. They whistled through the air, sliding together and snicking like scissors. In Scottish fights, men stood their ground, hacking at one another until someone tired. Feiyan and Merraid dove and flipped and skidded in the dirt. They used clever strategy instead of brute strength. It was fascinating. So fascinating, he didn’t notice he’d been seen.
“Och, good!” Feiyan suddenly shouted. “You can take over, Gellir! Dougal needs me in the hall.” She approached. Without permission, she pried the sword from his grip, replacing it with hers. “There. Merraid can teach you what you need to know about thedao.” She waved and vanished into the mist. “See you at dinner.”
Chapter 10
This was unwise. Gellir knew it. And Merraid knew it. He could tell by the furrow between her brows.
“You don’t have to…” he began.
“Nay. ’Tis fine, Sir Gellir. I am at your service.” She bowed her head.
He scowled. Sir Gellir? Since when did she call himSirGellir? “Never mind. I’m sure you have better things—”
“Lady Feiyan wishes me to teach ye. Sir. That’s what I shall do.”
Her stiff decorum and that “sir” was making him testy. “I need no instruction,” he said, adding a pointed, “my lady.” How hard could it be? He waved the blade toward her. “Go on then. Attack me.”
She lifted a skeptical brow. “As ye wish. Sir.”
Did her lip quirk up then? He had no time to notice. In the next instant, her blade whipped around from the right side to kiss his neck.
He blinked. If the blade had been sharp, she could have beheaded him right then and there. He’d had no time to raise his own weapon.
She lowered the blade. “Again, sir?”
He stepped away and nodded.
This time, he blocked the slash aimed at his left knee. But the impact made the strange blade quiver in his grip. It distracted him long enough to allow her a second attack. She reversed, spun, and sliced through the air. Before he could defend himself, the edge of her weapon found his throat again.
She clucked her tongue. “Twice now I could have killed ye, sir.”
“Fine,” he grumbled, moving her blade aside with a cautious thumb. Then he made an X in the air with his own sword. “Show me how to use this thing.”
She agreed, though she remained aloof. And he was determined enough to master this new weapon to ignore her new primness.
“Scottish swordplay,” she began, demonstrating, “is a series o’ hacks. One after the other. Each has a beginnin’ and an end. ’Tis like a sculptor chiselin’ words into stone.” She changed her movements into slow loops and lazy circles in the air. “But the fightin’ from the Orient is a continuous flow. There’s no beginnin’. No end. ’Tis more like a quill scrawlin’ letters on parchment.”
For the better part of an hour, Merraid taught him the basics of the Eastern style of warfare. He learned how to wield the lightweight, single-edgeddao,which was capable of more speed and flexibility than a heavy Scottish sword.
He mimicked her motions, which matched the nature of the blade better as it flexed through the air.
