Synry
Episode Two
The weaponsmaster looked at Hob carefully, then back at the weapon on the table. He seemed to be torn between being angry and impressed, which left him seeming somewhat exasperated and incredulous. The sight of a firrim in the hands of this simple farm boy was enough to tear at his heart, but the Captain had vouched for the boy's ownership of it.
"Do you know what this is, boy?"
Hob looked up from the ground, searching the man's face to see if this was the sort of question that people wanted answered. He knew it was a sword with two blades: anyone could see that. That meant that the man must want a different answer, or none at all. Hob didn't have a different answer, so he chose none at all.
"This is a firrim. It is a noble fighting instrument. How did you come to own it?".
"Gwillem give it me. M'lord."
"I am not your lord. The Duke is. You will address me as Master. Do you understand?"
"Aye, Master."
"Gwillem is your father?"
"Nay, Master. He were th' farmer what took me in when my people died."
"Ah, yes. Captain Torran mentioned him. Volunteered you in the place of his son, did he?"
Hob was at sea with that one. He had no idea why Gwillem had sent him to be a soldier, but the Master seemed to expect an answer, so he went with what was safe.
"If Cap'n say so, Master."
The Master looked at him sharply, searching for any sign of sarcasm. Hob's face was open and blank, his eyes focused on the wall above and to the left of the Master's shoulder. The look was very much like that cultivated by the private soldiers to avoid conflict with officers, but the glaze in Hob's eyes made him look addled. The Captain had mentioned that the farmer had said the boy wasn't right in the head.
"I will give you a short lesson in the history of this weapon, boy, and then I am going to thump the hell out of you to see if it's worth my time to teach you to use it properly. If I decide that it isn't worth it, then I will confiscate the weapon, sell it, and provide you with the proceeds."
Hob's eyes pulled in from the distance to stare into the Master's face, and for the first time, the Master saw some life in them. "Belongs t' me, Master. Gwillem give it me."
"You're in the army now, boy. You own what we say you own. If you want to keep the firrim, you will have to pay attention to the lesson, and then show me that you deserve it. If you can do that, I will let you keep it, and I will train you in its use. It's a good weapon, and can be devastating in the hands of an expert, but it is worse than useless in the hands of a novice.
"Now, the firrim dates to the early days of the Titanswar, when the Titans would use their minions to attack pilgrims traveling to the shrines of the Gods. The Gods sent their own champions to defend the pilgrims, and so the Titanspawn were beaten back, but only for a time. They started to get smart, and would attack only those groups that were poorly defended. This led to an order of knights forming who would disguise themselves as simple pilgrims to lure the Titanspawn into attacking, and then exterminate them. To aid their disguise, they didn't carry swords, but had staves with blades hidden on either end. When an attack came, they would pull the covers off the blades, and attack.
"Since the end of the Titanswar, the Order of Fierce Pilgrims has become largely ceremonial, and their weapons, the two-bladed sword, has been made without the disguise. The name of the weapon is a corruption of the name of the Order, the Fierce Pilgrim.
"Now, there aren't all that many who know how to use it properly. Many just flail about with it as if it were a staff, or poke with it as if it were a spear, but there is a true art to it. A master of the weapon keeps it moving in circles, slashing with the blades, thrusting with the points, and always keeping both of the blades in play."
Hob's gaze had drifted off into the distance again, as his mind saw the noble Order of Fierce Pilgrims battling gorgons and werebeasts with their spinning blades flashing. He was surprised when the Master tossed the firrim into his chest, but managed to catch it before it hit the floor.
"Now the test. Defend yourself."
The Master closed in on him, armed with a wooden practice sword. Hob backpedaled, trying to get the time he needed to think of what to do. He had no chance of beating this man, so that must not be the point. The point must be to defend himself in a manner that earned the Master's respect. The firrim was in his hands, but he knew that he would fight poorly with it, using it like a staff or spear, and the Master had spoken disdainfully of that. So, he did the only thing he could think of.
He threw the firrim, blades still in their sheaths, at the Master's head, then charged him when he ducked. He was not very quick, but he was strong from working for Gwillem. The beatings he had taken had inured him to pain, so the strike to his side only made him grunt. He got his arms around the Master's waist, trapping one of the Master's arms in the grip, and threw himself at the floor, hoping to land on the Master and wind him.
The Master managed to twist halfway around, and then both of them crashed into the table. The table was of good strong oak, and didn't break, and they slid to the floor, in a tangled heap. Before he could think what to do next, Hob's head was struck with the practice sword, still in the Master's free hand, and his grip released as the room slipped out of focus. Suddenly, he was lying on his back, with the Master standing above him, holding the practice sword at his throat.
"Get up, boy.".
Hob climbed to his feet, a little unsteadily as the room seemed to dip and turn around him.
"Never. Ever. Ever. Throw. Away. Your. Weapon." The Master bit each word off, low and dangerous. Hob didn't answer.
"Why would you do that?" Again, Hob made no answer.
"Answer me, boy."
Hob looked at him helplessly. "Couldn't beat ye wi' it, Master. Couldn't fight wi' it the way ye said. On'y bash wi' it like it were a big stick."
"And you thought you could beat me this way? Without it?"
Hob struggled to put his thoughts into words that would make sense to the older man. Gwillem never asked him why he did things, just told him to do them, or not to do them, with a cuff thrown in to bring the point home.
"Nay, Master, but I didn't want to use it wrong when ye just told me that I would. Thought it would count against me with ye. Didn't want to do it if I were on'y going t' do it wrong."
The Master looked at Hob a long time, and Hob looked down at his feet. Finally, the Master chuckled a little bit.
"I think I can teach you to do it right. Pick up your firrim and report to your sergeant that I will start your training with it tomorrow. This will be in addition to your normal weapons training, boy, and I will not be gentle. You'll have to work hard to keep up with the others and learn the firrim as well. Are you up to it, boy?"
"Don't rightly know, Master."
"Nor do I. We'll find out soon."
