Fireside Fluff #1: A Trick of the Light

What is Fireside Fluff?

Fireside Fluff is a recurring segment in which your humble author presents an original work of fiction set in the Kings of War universe. Each segment contains one chapter in the ongoing story. So pull up a chair, fill your mug with some heady Dwarven ale, and settle in for a tale quite unlike any you’ve heard before…

A Trick of the Light

This is it, Freya thought, her hands tightening and untightening nervously around the pole of her glaive. She forced herself to take a steadying breath, settled her grip, and lifted her head to meet the gaze of her sisters.

Thirty girls were arranged in a wide circle upon a field of sparse yellow grass. Like Freya, they wore the loose-fitting blue and white garb of the Sisterhood. The soft cotton fabric was folded so as to allow freedom of movement and held secure with a heavy belt of dark leather, cinched by a plain metal buckle. Their knee-length boots were more supple, the leather visibly creased by the agile footwork of combat.

They ranged from adolescence to early adulthood, yet their eyes sparkled with a grim determination uncommon for their age. Months of diligent training had lent the girls lithe bodies of tightly corded muscle. Their build and lack of armour enabled the Sisterhood to strike with alarming speed and precision. Only a fool would underestimate them on the battlefield. Those that did rarely lived to make the same mistake twice.

Freya stood in the center of the circle, her bright orange hair pulled back in a functional braid. She was taller than most of her peers, with sharp, angular features. Across from her, the circle parted and a woman brandishing a hefty flail stepped through. Abbess Marion was approaching her middle years and had the grey hairs around her temples to prove it. The grey transitioned to a sheer black before being swallowed by her cowl. She cut an imposing figure that commanded the utmost respect of the assembled sisters. All was silent, barring a crisp breeze that whistled through the early spring morning.

“Sisters,” the Abbess began, voice firm as stone, “the rules of the ordeal are simple. Freya must withstand one minute in the ring. Break from the circle, and the ordeal is forfeit. Fall in combat, and the ordeal is forfeit. Concede, and the ordeal is forfeit.” She let her words hang in the air, the girls held in rapt attention.

One minute, Freya told herself. One minute. You can do this. Her heartbeat fluttered. She took another deep breath.

“And Freya,” Abbess Marion addressed her directly, “Do not hold back. May the Shining Ones light your path.”

“May the Shining Ones light your path,” the sisters repeated in unison. And with that, the ordeal began.

One minute may not seem like a particularly long period of time. But any warrior worth his or her salt will tell you that in the heat of battle, one minute can feel like an eternity. Abbess Marion was a dangerous woman. Freya had heard the stories of initiates being permanently crippled, or worse, during the ordeal. A single false step was all it took. If she was going to survive, Freya would have to proceed with caution and buy herself as much time as possible. She had a good six inches on the Abbess, and her tall glaive afforded her considerable reach. The pole was well over five feet of solid wood, banded with evenly spaced metal rings, while the blade protruded another eighteen inches and sported a straight edge, a razor-sharp tip, and a curved hook. If she could prevent the Abbess from getting close, she’d be unable to land a blow with her flail.

The combatants began to slowly circle one another, eyes locked, Freya thrusting out with the point of her glaive each time the Abbess tried to press in. As expected, the attacks did not pose a serious threat, but they did discourage her teacher from closing the gap. After her third attempt was stymied, the Abbess offered Freya a wry smile.

Keep it up, Freya told herself. It’s working.

In the space of an instant, Abbess Marion casually deflected the fourth thrust with her forearm, knocking the blade to the side and creating an opening. With a dancer’s liquid grace, she took several long, nimble strides toward her opponent. Freya, meanwhile, was left off balance with her arms extended. The Abbess, now a mere two feet away, raised her flail above her head, poised to strike.

The chain of the flail ended in a spiked steel ball, which glinted cruelly in the morning sun as it reached the crest of its arc. Caught off guard, Freya had no chance of parrying the blow. She leapt awkwardly to her left and felt a rush of air as the flail whipped by and crashed into the ground with a menacing thunk. In her desperation, Freya had launched herself into a pair of sisters, who stood their ground and shoved her back into the circle with a grunt. Freya stumbled, but planted her polearm in the earth and steadied herself.

Abbess Marion did not hesitate. With a powerful horizontal swing, the flail came racing towards Freya’s chest. She adopted a wide hold on her polearm, dropped her hips back in a squat, and held the weapon out in front of her body, perpendicular to the oncoming attack. The block was successful, if jarring. Freya’s low center of gravity and bend in the knees enabled her to absorb the force of the impact. She shoved the flail back off the pole, then brought the glaive down in a diagonal slash aimed at Abbess Marion’s shoulder.

Freya’s counter-strike was fast, but not fast enough. The Abbess swiftly retreated a few paces, handily avoiding the attack. However, she was once again out of range. Freya’s nerves were jangled, her breathing labored, and her arms numb from the elbow down. But she was still standing. Let’s keep it that way, she chided herself.

This time, it was Freya who went on the offensive. She crouched low and took deliberate steps toward the Abbess, all while keeping the tip of the glaive honed in on Marion’s abdomen, preventing her from making any quick movements. The Abbess steadily backed away, her face an impassive mask.

As they neared the edge of the circle, Freya’s attention was suddenly drawn to the treeline some thirty yards away. The convent was nestled between the serene waters of Lake Mescator and the impressive peak of Mount Kolosu, with a small but vibrant forest abutting the base of the mountain. The area was isolated and peaceful, perfectly suited to the physical and religious training conducted by the Sisterhood. Freya had spent countless hours admiring the beauty of the ancient oaks, and now they were… moving?

“What?” Freya breathed aloud. The forest was painted in deep browns and vivid greens, and sunlight danced merrily through the branches. Three trees were unmistakably moving, walking with ponderous strides deeper into the heart of the woods. It must be a trick of the light, she reasoned, before the reality of her situation came flooding back.

The Abbess had noticed Freya’s distraction, and fully intended to punish her for it. With an almost imperceptible sigh of disappointment, the Abbess lowered her shoulders and charged. Her arms held the flail parallel to the ground and she expertly worked the ball into a spin that threatened to put an abrupt end to the ordeal. Freya reacted on pure instinct. She waited until the last possible second, then dropped her weapon and sprang forward in a roll. She aimed to skirt past the Abbess on her left, opposite the whirling flail.

Abbess Marion deftly brought the flail across her body and down at Freya. A lance of white hot pain brought a cry to her lips. One of the metal spikes had torn a shallow gash through the muscle of her left shoulder. She completed the tumble and regained her feet, a wave of nausea crashing over her. As she spun around, time seemed to grind to a near halt, and her vision zeroed in on several peculiar details.

The wound had left a streak of blood upon the grass, pulsing brightly with a strange luminescence. Intuitively, Freya knew that the glow was responding to the rhythm of her heartbeat. The sound of it filled her ears. It was a strange and reassuring sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her gaze continued to Abbess Marion, who was moving as if encased in a thick gel. She lifted her flail off the ground in impossibly slow motion, her back still turned.

Freya watched, dumbstruck, as the Abbess began to lose her balance. Tiny roots, emanating the same warm light as Freya’s spilt blood, wove their way up through the grass and wrapped themselves around the older woman’s feet. The excruciating speed at which the scene unfolded might have been comical in another situation, the Abbess tipping helplessly forward at a snail’s pace.

Without warning, time snapped back into motion. Freya might not have understood what had just transpired, but she most certainly understood what to do next. Her glaive lay discarded several feet away, useless. Instead, she delivered a high kick that landed squarely between her opponent’s shoulder blades and sent the Abbess toppling to her knees. The girls around the circle let out a collective gasp as Freya darted forward, unsheathed a dagger from her belt, and pressed it lightly to their teacher’s neck.

Though Freya couldn’t see it, Abbess Marion’s smile was more genuine this time. “Domivar has truly blessed us this day,” she declared in a joyful tone. “Sister Freya has displayed pious strength and righteous bravery. She has withstood the ordeal!”

But how? Freya wondered as cheers erupted all around. She scanned the edge of the forest for signs of movement, but all she saw were the branches swaying gently in the wind.