Fillan was awoken with a kick. He grumbled and rolled over. For once, he hadn’t had any nightmares. Another, harder kick made him open his eyes. In the semi-darkness he saw Kyle above him with her hands on her hips.
“Up, slacker!” she said.
“Wh—what?”
Something heavy hit his throat, cutting his breath short. It was a sword stowed in its sheath.
“Pick it up and follow me,” ordered the young woman.
He turned his head and watched the forest. The others were all fast asleep, wrapped in their tartans. Dawn had not yet risen.
“But why?” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“Shhhh,” she whispered, beckoning him to follow her.
He got up with a wobble and almost fell on top of Sören, who was snoring loudly. The day earlier, they’d left the banks of the broch when he returned around midday. They had ridden the whole day, and the Norwegian didn’t say a word about what he’d been up to during his absence.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Fillan as he jogged to keep up.
“Training.”
“What kind of training?”
“To cook mushrooms.”
Surprised, he watched the mercenary, not realizing that she was teasing him.
“No, dummy. Training you to fight.”
“But I know how to fight!”
“Oh, yeah? News to me.”
“That’s because you didn’t see me…”
“Exactly. I didn’t see you,” she retorted, turning to poke him in the chest. “Even a stableboy would have ducked Cornavii. Worse! Even a wash maid could have dodged Sören if he tried to cut her throat.”
“But I…”
“Shut up,” she said with finality. “You don’t know how to fight, and that’s the end of it.”
She watched him with her big blue eyes, eyebrows raised and daring him to argue. Fillan’s mouth hung open, unable to find anything to say. He, so used to winning any argument with his words, couldn’t find any.
They slid between tree trunks and branches and emerged in a clearing. The sky was beginning to turn red beyond the horizon of the trees.
“Here will do nicely,” stated Kyle.
She picked up an old chopping block and threw it into the woods. The masculine clothes she wore were belted around her thin waist and accentuated her straight shoulders. Fillan could see thick biceps under the fabric on her arms. She was about his height but twice as muscled as him.
“To begin with,” she said, “stand facing me and hold your sword.”
He pulled out the sword from its sheath. The metal pinged against one of the trees.
“You do realize a sword is not a fishing rod?”
“Huh?”
“You’re holding it all wrong!”
“No, I…”
Kyle swung onto one leg, pulled out her own sword and hit from above. Fillan tried to block, but his sword went flying into the air.
“Yes, you are,” she said dryly.
As he went to pick up his sword, she smacked him on the hand with hers.
“Ow! What’s the matter with you?”
“You are here to learn, because you know absolutely nothing, so stop pretending like you know it all and listen to what I’m telling you.”
Fillan clenched his jaw. The young mercenary kept hitting the mark. He didn’t know how to hold a weapon. Alastair had tried to teach him the basics of swordsmanship, but Fillan had proven to be a danger to the public. Ailéas was the fighter, not him.
Once he got back in position, Kyle explained how to hold the sword.
“You won’t always be able to use both hands. This hand here, loosen up! Not so close to the hilt. Your fist, make it looser, palm up! Are you even listening to me?”
“That’s all I’m doing!”
“Don’t argue!”
Finally, he got it. When Kyle made their blades collide once more, he held onto his.
“That’s already something,” continued Kyle. “Which is your lead foot?”
“My what?”
She went around his back and shoved him with her shoulder.
“Whaaargh!”
“I said, stop arguing, or I’ll kick your ass. OK, left foot,” she said. “That’s the one you put forwards.”
During the half hour that followed, she taught him the most common defensive position, the sixth. It wasn’t an easy task. Fillan almost lost an eye with his own sword and discovered that you could get cramps even while standing still. Although his body was muscled thanks to his climbs in Berwick, he wasn’t used to moving in this way. You had to be quick, precise, and balanced—while he was slow, imprecise, and clumsy.
“Relax your legs!” repeated Kyle. “You’re stiffer than a new bagpipe!”
Fillan had finally stopped arguing and listened to her. When he blocked one of her attacks for the first time, he nearly jumped for joy.
“Did you see that?!” he said, beaming.
“Yeah, but don’t get too cocky. I hit three times lighter than I would normally,” she explained.
Fillan thought back to the way the group had fought at Cranshaws. He remembered their speed, their movement and coordination. He would never reach such a level.
He kept working on his defensive stance under a shower of blows and comments from the warrior.
“That’s all wrong! Be more supple! You’re too bent over! Your left foot! No, that’s the right! Are you stupid or are you doing this on purpose? Please, tell me you’re doing it on purpose!”
She only let him breathe once he was bruised and sweaty.
“I get the feeling Sören hates me,” he began, breaking the silence.
Strangely, Kyle’s presence made him feel like talking. The young woman watched him curiously, as though she couldn’t understand the meaning of his words.
“Do you have a habit of thinking everyone hates you?” she asked. “First Fergus and now Sören? When you wake up stiff tomorrow, will I be next on the list?”
Fillan avoided her eyes. He’d already wondered the same thing a dozen times while they were training.
“He did cut up my face and almost break my nose,” he argued. “I’ve seen better tokens of affection.”
The forest was waking up with the tweeting of birds. The sky turned blue under the sun’s rays, and Kyle passed him a goatskin flask. Fillan took a small sip and was relieved to find it was only water. The young woman saw him do it and smiled.
“I can tell you were raised in the south,” she said. “A coward who loves to paint himself the victim and cares about feelings!”
“You mean he doesn’t hate me?”
“I mean, it’s got nothing to do with feelings. For Sören, you’re a job. Have you ever had feelings for a job?”
“Well, I…”
“Don’t hurt yourself looking for an answer, dummy, it wasn’t really a question.”
She drove the conversation back to fighting techniques and showed him the different parts of a sword and their uses. The young man was surprised to find that he could position the blade to wield it better. She reeled off all the names of the techniques, but he was struggling to listen anymore.
“What do you know about the Lann Fala?” he asked.
“My word, you really can’t concentrate, can you? Do I have to kick you up the butt to keep you focused? That’s it, I’m going!”
“No! Don’t! I’m just exhausted. Put yourself in my position, it’s understandable!”
“Yeah… sure,” she murmured. “Lann Fala means ‘Bloodied Blade.’”
“Well, that already sends a message!” he interrupted.
Kyle shot him a dark look.
“They’re a group of elite warriors. Their members are specialists in tracking and murder. They are extremely dangerous and very well trained. Sören didn’t retreat from just anyone.”
“Do they follow King Edward’s orders?”
“No. Some aren’t even English. They’re the foot soldiers of a more important group, for whom borders are just imaginary lines they cross to extend their influence.”
“A ‘group?’”
Kyle pinched her lips together. She’d said too much.
“Enough chat!” she said to close the subject. “En garde!”
He barely had time to get into position before she attacked and he was forced to block.
“You could have dodged that one by taking a step to the side. The swords don’t always have to touch.”
She made the same attack, and he moved out of the way in time. The blade whooshed past as she missed him.
“Why are they after me?” he asked.
Kyle frowned in annoyance.
“Not a clue, but it’s definitely not a good sign.”
“How so?”
“Did you not hear what I just said? They’re the best trackers in England and Scotland. If you’re their prey, you’re in deep trouble.”
“And we are, too,” she said with a pointed look. “Luckily, I doubt Cornavii recognized you in Cranshaws.”
Fillan wasn’t sure what worried him more—that he was the target of a mysterious and well-trained group of warriors, or that he didn’t know why. What had Alastair been able to keep from him?
A tapping on his back brought him out of his reverie, and he found himself face to face with Sören as he turned around.
“Time to break camp,” he told them.
The two mercenaries waited until Fillan was further away to talk in peace.
“Do you think the English or Cornavii will catch up with us?” questioned Kyle.
“No idea. I don’t know what information they’ve been able to gather. So, you’ve got a soft spot for our package?” chuckled the Norwegian, taking the sword she held out to him.
“He should at least be able to hold a sword.”
He agreed with a silent nod.
“Is he any good?”
“About as good as a turkey might be.”
They chuckled quietly, before Kyle became serious once more and decided to ask the question that haunted her the most.
“Sören, who is he?”
The Norwegian looked at her without replying, but a wrinkle of worry appeared on his forehead.
“Don’t do that. I saw your face, after Cranshaws…”
“I think he might be a Child of Fal,” he said, taking his time and scratching his beard. “That’s why the Brotherhood didn’t give us any information. And surely why Cornavii is after him.”
Kyle’s eyes widened. The danger was even worse than she’d imagined.