[Calaethis Dragonsbane]

The whirling blade came to a halt, just short of splitting his brow in twain. Sweat beaded, forming rivulets as it ran down his temples. Already on his knees, he stared up at her, his clear, blue eyes unwavering. His thighs trembled, and his hands clutched the dirt, but he met her gaze. She loomed over him, then just as suddenly relaxed, laughing as she set her boardsword aside and held out her hand.
His own lay several feet away, and begrudgingly, he accepted, letting her pull him to his feet, but away wary of her sword. It wouldn't be the first time she had swatted him with it.

Sighing, he tried not to study his feet - unsuccessfully. "I know, I know," he began, before she could speak, "I misstepped again. I should keep my footing, focus on what you're doing, and not let you disarm me."
"Well, if you know," she smiled and reached to pat his cheek with a leather-clad hand, "then you should do it."
"I try!"
"Try harder," her smile remained, but her eyes were serious, "we may not get time to practice again, and when the war reaches us... I want you as ready as you can be. We can't run forever, you know. We've retreated too far already."
"Yes..." Reaching for his blade, he muted her lecture as fast as he could. "You're right."
"Then let's go again."

This time, he blocked six times, and even caused her to block twice before she tripped him. Forgetting to slap the ground as he fell, the wind went out of him and he found her blade at his throat. She was not at all impressed. They had stopped using practice blades some time ago; now they used actual steel, sharpened for war. She had told him that the time for playing was over; that he had to grow up. His senior by seven years, she was in her second-and-a-half decade. He might as well be militia, 'citizen levy', given how she treated him - that, or a brat brother. He was no longer sure. It didn't matter. They had been thrust together and she had saved his life more then once. Blushing more to do with his thoughts than his failure, he watched her tuck her golden hair back in its tail. Mostly, the tie kept it out of her eyes, but not always.
Pulling him to his feet, she met his eyes and said firmly that he'd done better this time, and they'd practice more later. It was always the same; at least six drills a day, sometimes more if she could manage it. He was sick of it, but appreciated it anyway. Not many had one-to-one tuition. Maybe it was because of his father? He didn't think so; he wasn't sure if his father was alive or dead. Wealthy merchant more than landowner, his family had some small ancestral holdings, but not much. The family 'keep' was more a pile of loose stones held thinly together by mortar. Cold, damp, it was outdated. It didn't even have a motte-and-bailey, nor a gatehouse. At least, it had been. That was before he was sent away. His mother and sisters had left also, but they were sent on a different caravan towards his uncle. His father was supposed to meet him at the last town, but never did. Why he was separated from his mother and sisters... he suspected but couldn't confirm. He shrugged mentally. Since his father hadn't shown, they had moved on to the next designated meeting place; if that failed, they would go to the port town several days ride from here, unless it was hit.

He examined his guardian-cum-tutor. In a leather jerkin, the same riverbank-brown as her gloves and boots, she certainly looked the part of a militia sergeant, even if she was a woman. She had soon proved that she could hold her own, disavowing him of any comments about her sex. Blade, knife, staff or even a crossbow she could use with ease. There were six others who had travelled with them, but two of them had fallen to bandits, another in a tavern brawl, and somehow, he was left only with her. He suspected that one might have quit, deserting that 'bastard whelp [...] after Gojornk bit it' if his ears had heard correctly, but he knew better than to ask. She had given him a look that warned him not to, and since she was all he had left between him, his blade and the world, he wasn't about to cross her. He strongly suspected she wouldn't hesitate to cuff him if he stepped even a toe over the line, and he didn't intend to give her any reason to. As to the last one - he didn't know. Everyone seemed in a panic at the last town, and this town, while being a little better, a little more out of the way; barely more than a large village, hardly what he would class as a 'market town', but he wasn't complaining. Not really. The ale was good - the mead was even better, and the beer was awful, but at least they had beer. The wine wasn't bad either. There were less wagons around then he would have liked, but there was a war going on. It seemed distant here, but every day he heard news, whispers and gossip, that armies were converging on cities, strongholds, and sooner or later, even this quiet, out of the way, backwater 'town' would be ravaged. If not by armies, then by bandits. He wasn't sure that some of the townsfolk - those not merchants or militia - hadn't turned bandit.
He glanced at his tutor again. He wasn't even sure why she was still here. Gold? The promise of more? He would have to ask - before it was too late, even if she did cuff him for it. He certainly deserved it after today's performance. He was so clad they were away from the town's centre; to be seen this way would be something he'd find hard to live down. Of course, she also gave lessons to the militia youth, when the others were on patrol - it was how they earned their keep, in part - so he wasn't the only one. She insisted he join in with some of those lessons too. Sometimes he did. One day, she might even tell him her name.

Following her steady stare, he looked up and felt his heart sink; was that a column of smoke from the village they had passed through only days earlier? Silently, she placed a hand on his shoulder. Both knew it was time to move on.