As I honed my blade with patience and whistled a merry tune, I remembered my lessons and my teacher. He was a learned man in the ways of battle and wise besides. Grim and grey, his eyes matched his age. Advanced in years as he was in all things, slow to answer yet quick to strike. This was my master and the embers in his temper pinned me to the ground many a time. How I loved him.
“Guard en point! Remember the hilt! Parry, good, now counter!” spoke my master. Bide your time, he cautioned, use your head more than your sword. Concentrate on defense. Day in and day out the use of the sword and shield were made known to me. Hold fast, despite all advances, in the face of all aggression, and even under berserk fury, do not move back. Stand secure.
The soothing sound of my whet stone drew me more into reflection. “Forging a warrior is like forging a hundred swords,” He murmured, “One sword shall shatter, another snap, and still another be shorn in two. But one hundred swords as one do not become nicked, nor bent, nor do they fail to cut.” Strike like a hundred swords, those were his only words on offense. Wait till the moment of a sure shot.
The horn was sounded, a call for battle. So we surveyed those before us. “Moles,” spat a swordsman, “I hate moles.” A strange name because the enemy was unpredictable. They were infiltrators, causing betrayal, and I hoped I would not fall into their traps. They were few, we were many, and we feared their presence.
“Archers!” called the captain, “and two soldiers to guard every archer, and each other.” We could only watch as the moles darted towards us. The archers’ bows were as a blur before my eyes, and most of the moles fell. When five were closing in the captain named five to meet them one on one. I was named.
“Fear kills sooner than swords lay aside fear.” A mantra skipped through my head and time became distant. The first fight, the battle before the match, I knew it was the harder of the two. “Do not put stock in your own stubbornness,” cautioned my master, “but rather believe.” With eyes full of faith I looked at the mole and we had our first meeting.
I saw his gruesome figure, and was not moved, I heard his subtle whispers, and was not moved, he muttered and he hissed, I was not moved, and he finally gathered all his force at once and spoke a single word. “Sin,” he breathed, and before my eyes the battlefield changed. The landscape was peeled away and my life’s worst mistakes were recounted before me. How I betrayed and spat on the gift given to me, how I spurned the forgiveness offered me, how I attacked the arms that held me, and all of it true. I had not power to draw into a word, no magic to form a defense, I was no wizard. But I knew of one better. I also spoke, “Atonement,” and the mole drew his sword. As the metal of our swords sang I understood that the mole was no swordsman. Quickly I dispatched him and saw if my brethren required aid.
“Guard en point! Remember the hilt! Parry, good, now counter!” spoke my master. Bide your time, he cautioned, use your head more than your sword. Concentrate on defense. Day in and day out the use of the sword and shield were made known to me. Hold fast, despite all advances, in the face of all aggression, and even under berserk fury, do not move back. Stand secure.
The soothing sound of my whet stone drew me more into reflection. “Forging a warrior is like forging a hundred swords,” He murmured, “One sword shall shatter, another snap, and still another be shorn in two. But one hundred swords as one do not become nicked, nor bent, nor do they fail to cut.” Strike like a hundred swords, those were his only words on offense. Wait till the moment of a sure shot.
The horn was sounded, a call for battle. So we surveyed those before us. “Moles,” spat a swordsman, “I hate moles.” A strange name because the enemy was unpredictable. They were infiltrators, causing betrayal, and I hoped I would not fall into their traps. They were few, we were many, and we feared their presence.
“Archers!” called the captain, “and two soldiers to guard every archer, and each other.” We could only watch as the moles darted towards us. The archers’ bows were as a blur before my eyes, and most of the moles fell. When five were closing in the captain named five to meet them one on one. I was named.
“Fear kills sooner than swords lay aside fear.” A mantra skipped through my head and time became distant. The first fight, the battle before the match, I knew it was the harder of the two. “Do not put stock in your own stubbornness,” cautioned my master, “but rather believe.” With eyes full of faith I looked at the mole and we had our first meeting.
I saw his gruesome figure, and was not moved, I heard his subtle whispers, and was not moved, he muttered and he hissed, I was not moved, and he finally gathered all his force at once and spoke a single word. “Sin,” he breathed, and before my eyes the battlefield changed. The landscape was peeled away and my life’s worst mistakes were recounted before me. How I betrayed and spat on the gift given to me, how I spurned the forgiveness offered me, how I attacked the arms that held me, and all of it true. I had not power to draw into a word, no magic to form a defense, I was no wizard. But I knew of one better. I also spoke, “Atonement,” and the mole drew his sword. As the metal of our swords sang I understood that the mole was no swordsman. Quickly I dispatched him and saw if my brethren required aid.
Dt
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