DunEil - the sacred triple-hills of Eildon, Scotland.
Cadwy mopped the sweat from his
brow with a sleeve, bent at the waist and blowing hard under Bel’s first light.
His Cyfail were gathered around him this morning and in various stages of
physical collapse, most sprawled to the dust of DunEil’s high parade ground, around
which they had been running this last hour. Turen stood ten paces away unmoved
and breathing deeply but steadily, hands on his hips as he surveyed his royal
students. On ‘home-ground’ Turen’s authority and confidence was boundless and
whilst there were many Gŵyr and captains training groups of men on this blustery ground
today, his royal group was the most popular with the partisan civilian
inhabitants and a great number would attend to watch the warrior’s morning
practice each dawn without fail.
The hour of sword-training which
followed in the rising warmth of this morning, was light-hearted and there was
much laughter on the parade ground from the Galedonian visitors and locals
alike, as the Fayre happening in the maes
below drew everyone’s thoughts. There was no laughter in Turen’s class however,
as the thoughts of his students were not allowed to stray. With so many
old-enemy eyes watching, Albion’s practice this day would be exemplary, Turen
would make sure of that.
“How is the heavier sword?” Turen
arched an eyebrow at Cadwy in a lull, who shrugged his mouth, cutting the air
twice with the practice blade.
“A little easier than my previous
step-ups.” Cadwy nodded, re-assessing the new edgeless long-sword, with the
crude mark stamped into the blade giving its weight. “It feels a little heavier
but not excessively so.” He added.
“Good, it is only a one-ounce
increase and you are now officially over-weighting!” Turen told him and Cadwy
nodded thoughtfully, appreciating this turning point in his sword practice.
“Yes, it does feel a shade heavier
than Lladdwyr-Glaer but with none of his balance of course.” Cadwy named his
beloved sword and ‘bright-killer’ was in the possession of the well-known Lewyrchwr of Selgofa for the next day or
so, who was polishing-out any nicks and scratches to the blade and burnishing
the bright steel to a pristine condition for him.
“Good, as is correct. In a week or
so, your own sword will feel light and easy to swing in comparison.” Turen told
him and Cadwy had to agree with his wisdom, swishing the slightly heavier
practice blade absently.
“Isn’t it normally a two-ounce
step-up?” Cadwy queried, frowning and still hefting the sword and strangely,
Turen looked a little uneasy at this question.
“Mm yes usually, but it takes a
minimum of three weeks to adjust to the new weight and your arm will be weak in
that time, until it grows to accommodate the heavier blade. This way your arm
will only be slightly weakened and for two or three days at the most.”
Turen explained what was already
known to Cadwy but not the motivation and his frown deepened but he didn’t
press the point, as Turen’s methods were often profound and mostly unfathomable
anyway.
“I had thought we were doing
shield-work today Master Turen?” Bleddyn asked breathlessly in his usual direct
fashion, querying the switch in training this morning as he mopped the sweat
from his brow.
Turen gave Bleddyn a scathing look
then and Cadwy thought he detected another shadow of concern behind those uncompromising
eyes.
“I decided single-sword training
was more pertinent today and what I decide, you carry-out my lords!” He stated, emphasising the last
word just enough. “And we will practice with edged blades next.” Was all he
said further, before exchanging with Cadwy a razor-sharp equivalent for the
sword in his hand and then bowing with his head to them both.
Cadwy just shrugged as he took the
sharpened blade and returned the slight and informal bow, as it was all the
same to him and he trusted the man’s judgement implicitly. Sharp-edged blades did behave very
differently however to their blunted practice counterparts and Cadwy knew it
was always prudent to train with them regularly. Edged swords would sometimes
stick to each other as if bonded with gum or drawn together like iron and a
Druid’s loadstone, but this strange and inconsistent adherent property needed
to be judged finely, as did every single subtle facet of sword work.
“PAIRS!” Turen barked and Cadwy hefted the new
and slightly heavier, edged sword with a sigh of resignation.
Crown Prince Cadwy ap Cridas of Albion - Tywysog of the Boar.
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