Page 78 of Fires of the Forsaken
“It’s not a sword.”
“Well,duh. But it’s a dummy sword, right? Er, a practice sword?” I corrected when he gave me a blank stare.
“No.”
“Okay, but…” I trailed off, my mouth suddenly Sahara dry again. “Oh no. Uh-uh.”
Cheriour had heaved himself to his feet and was brushing grass off the seat of his pants with his left hand. His right hand, however, held another wooden pole.
My muscles ached, reminding me I was already covered in bruises. I couldn’t take any more hits. Uh-uh.
I grasped my pole in both hands. It was awkward. Too long. Too unbalanced. When I held it in front of me, it wobbled. Although maybe that was because my hands were shaking…
Cheriour sighed and opened his fingers, letting his stick clatter to the ground. “There. It’s gone. Now, will you stop backing away from me?”
“What? Shit.” I hadn’t even realized I was moving. I forced my feet to be still, but I kept a white-knuckled grip around my pole.
Goddamn.Two weeks was apparently all it took to develop PTSD.
Cheriour crossed one arm over his chest, and rested his other elbow against it, leaning his chin into his palm. His eyes were narrowed. Deliberating. Analyzing.
“These are not swords,” he said. “Ordummyswords. I’m training you to use a polearm.”
“A…what?”
“Pole. Arm,” he repeated slowly.
“Like a spear?”
“A spear is a type of polearm, yes. They’re easier than swords.”
I stared at my stick. It seemed way too long. Too cumbersome. I’d end up tripping over it. “Can’t I use a knife?”
Cheriour’s left eyebrow rose. “You had a knife. And didn’t want to use it.”
“Well, that was different. I was…I dunno. Still thinking I’d find some way to go back home.” I dug my nails into the pole. “But if I’m stuck here, and Ihaveto fight, wouldn’t I be better off using a small weapon? Something I can jab and stab with?”
He stepped closer to me, ignoring the way my hands panic-spasmed around my stick. Closer. Closer. Until his nose was only an inch from mine.
He had someseriouslygorgeous eyes.
And surprisingly pleasant-smelling breath. Not minty fresh. More tea-scented...
“A Wraith willnotsmell pleasant,” Cheriour said.
“Aw crap. Did I say that out loud?”
“And you’ll need to be this close to one to kill it with a knife,” he continued. His warm, green tea breath tickled my cheeks. “Are you willing to do that?”
My stomach churned. I knew what the Wraiths stunk like. Knew how freaky their milky-white eyes looked up close. “Nope,” I said.
“Then we’ll continue with the polearm.” Cheriour stepped away.
“Is thereanyother alternative? I really don’t think I’m coordinated enough to use this. What about a bow?”
“A bow requires strength and precision,” Cheriour said. “You have neither. Nor do you have the time to learn. Polearms are easier.”
“Or I could…notfight? Seriously, I don’t mind being the castle cleaning lady…”
