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Two pairs of feet come into Lucían’s field of view, which is vaguely interesting, but he’s currently trying to get the Knife’s calves off of his neck, his arm clamped in a lock between her thighs, so whoever has decided to come watch him get his ass kicked this morning is going to have to wait. He could tap out, admittedly, but he has some pride and if he can just get a knee under himself he thinks he can turn this whole fight around.
“Did you need him to do more magic shit?” the Knife asks, casually, like she’s not choking him into oblivion. Lucían shifts his weight, braces his toes against the floor and shoves off his feet, successfully propelling the two of them over so he flips and ends up on his back. She’s still got her legs tight around him, but here he actually has some options, and he whips his legs around in what is a pretty impressive fan kick, considering he hasn’t been training as much recently. The Knife has to dodge to avoid a boot to the face, and when she does she drops the arm she had trapped in a lock, which lets him awkwardly punch her in whatever piece of flesh is nearby. She squawks, startled, and he manages to shove his other arm up between her calves and lever his head free. He scrambles a few feet away and collapses on the mats, panting but triumphant.
“Got—you—” Lucían gasps out, grinning smugly as he shoves himself up onto his elbows. The Knife glares at him, affronted and legs akimbo from her seat on the floor.
“You punched me in the boob!” she accuses, and Lucían flushes a little bit. Had he? It’s quite possible, he wasn’t really looking when he threw that punch.
“The She-Wolf says there’s no such thing as fighting fair, there’s only fighting to win,” he says primly, pushing himself to his feet and brushing off his clothes.
The Knife frowns at him, her dark eyebrows drawn low over her eyes. “She got that from me, you know,” she grouses, accepting his hand up from the floor. “It sounds a lot better when I say it than when I have to hear it, I tell you what.” Her hand claps down onto his shoulder firmly and she adds, “Anyway, good job. I guess you haven’t forgotten everything I taught you.” Lucían ducks his head in acknowledgment and crosses to the perimeter of the room, where there’s a water pitcher and some earthenware mugs.
“So is this what you’ve been up to since you left the monastery?” Lucían chokes on his water a little, because he’d mostly forgotten anyone else was in the room on account of the sparring. He swipes at the droplets of water on his tunic and turns to see Sisters Evelyn and Abigail watching him with interested eyes. They’re both in slightly different habits than he’s seen before, shorter tunics and linen trousers, their hair tied back with headbands rather than tucked under scarves. Sister Abigail’s hair floats behind her head like a great dark curly cloud, he notes with some interest, and Evelyn’s auburn hair has grown out in waves.
“Among other things,” he says, setting down his cup and rolling out his neck. “I also learned to dance, forged my way into a fancy party, and almost froze to death.”
“And got stabbed,” Sister Evelyn points out, “Which you still haven’t explained. Did you stab him?” This is directed at the Knife, who looks up from the dagger she’s tossing between her hands with an offended cast to her face, like it’s an unreasonable question. Since she’s currently playing with a dagger, was previously choking him, and also has a certain air of murder about her in general, Lucían thinks her defensiveness is misplaced.
“I try to teach him how to stab other people, and how not to get stabbed.” The Knife spreads her arms and shrugs. “Not entirely my fault if he didn’t absorb his lessons. I’m the Knife, by the way.”
“I did all right in that fight,” Lucían says, trying not to think too hard about the screams of men dying at his hands. “Anyway, this is Sister Abigail and Sister Evelyn. What are you two doing here?” There are no new undead specimens to examine and Mother Geraldine put the magic lessons on hold until after the mission to recover the grimoire, so he can’t imagine what they need. The Hammer has decided they leave in a week, and Lucían feels both that it’s too soon and not soon enough. He’s full of nervous energy and also doesn’t want to die at the claws of an unholy creature like keeps happening in this dreams, hence the training sessions.
“We’re coming on the mission to offer additional magical support,” Sister Abigail says, squaring her shoulders like she’s expecting an argument.
“Mother Geraldine assigned us specifically, and the Hammer approved.” Sister Evelyn’s hands clench into fists, and she raises her chin defiantly. The nuns stare Lucían and the Knife down with twin determined glints in their eyes, Evelyn’s steely gray in her freckled face, while Abigail’s gleam as darkly as her skin. They both look ready to defend their case, so when the Knife shrugs and says, “Yeah, okay,” they deflate almost audibly.
“That’s it?” Sister Abigail says, suspicious. Evelyn looks like this went much more smoothly than she’d expected and is now trying to figure out her next move.
“It makes sense,” Lucían says, trying not to sound worried, because shit, he hadn’t meant for other people to get caught up in this mess and now these two women who hadn’t chosen a warrior’s life are going to be part of it. “If I get injured or knocked unconscious it would be good to have backup.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” the Knife says easily, her blade disappearing back on her person and gesturing at Abigail to step forward. “If you’re coming with us then I’m going to try and make sure you don’t die.”
“Appreciated,” Sister Abigail says, approaching the Knife with an appropriate level of wariness. She’s a full head taller than the shorter warrior, the only similarity between the two their skin tone. “What am I actually doing?”
“I’m going to try and hit you, and I want you to try and keep me from doing it,” the Knife says evenly, and doesn’t wait for Abigail’s nod before her hand moves, a sharp quick jab up at Abigail’s face. Lucían winces in advance, but the nun’s arms move smoothly, like she doesn’t even have to think about it, and when they’re still again the Knife’s hand is locked under Sister Abigail’s armpit, Abigail’s hand clamped just above the Knife’s elbow, and the shorter woman looks impressed?
“I thought they didn’t teach martial arts in your cloister?” The Knife taps Abigail’s hand with her free one and steps away when she gets her arm back.
“They don’t,” Sister Abigail says, dodging out of the way of the next strike and capturing the third, locking the Knife’s arm up again. “I work in the emergency wards, and people aren’t always particularly rational when you’re setting their broken bone or stitching their guts back up.” She releases the Knife and shrugs. “You learn how to not get punched if you don’t want to get punched, and I don’t want to get punched.”
“That checks out,” the Knife says, echoing Lucían’s own thoughts. “Any of them come at you with a knife?”
“Once or twice,” Sister Abigail allows. “Haven’t gotten stabbed.”
“Unlike some people!” Sister Evelyn says with a significant look at Lucían, and then covers her mouth when the Knife points at her.
“Your turn, kid,” the Knife says, waving at Abigail to sit down, and Evelyn looks like she regrets a lot of her life decisions as she walks slowly onto the mats. Lucían feels a little bad for her, but he’s also been in the same position and there’s something pleasant about knowing someone else will soon understand his pain. That slightly smug feeling disappears quickly, because when the Knife throws her first punch at Evelyn, the nun avoids the strike by launching herself forward in a full-body tackle, taking a startled Knife to the floor in a flurry of limbs. The warrior recovers quickly, though, and Sister Evelyn ends up pinned in short order, her cheeks flushed pink under her freckles and her headband askew.
“I like your instincts,” the Knife says, sitting on Evelyn’s back comfortably. “We’ll have to work on your technique, though.”
“Did she learn that in the cloister?” Lucían asks Sister Abigail in a low voice, leaning in conspiratorially.
“She came to us willing to fight like a cornered cat,” Sister Abigail tells him with a shrug. “We assumed she learned it from you and yours.”
Lucían frowns as he watches the Knife help Evelyn back to her feet. Fighting was prohibited in the monastery, since as followers of the Lord they were supposed to find other, more holy ways to settle their differences. Obviously if you have a lot of boys (and the occasional girl who doesn’t know it yet, he supposes) in one place there are inevitable scuffles, but he certainly never saw anyone flat-out attack another monk. What had he missed?
“Lucían!” the Knife snaps, and he sits up straight like he wasn’t just lost in thought. “You spar with the tall one.”
He glances over at Abigail, her dark eyes meeting his, and she shrugs. “You heard the small, terrifying lady,” she says, and he grins and follows her out onto the mats, some distance away from where the Knife is saying, “You can’t just tackle the undead, I’m pretty sure, so let’s focus on some other options.”
“I feel very out of my depth trying to teach someone else how to fight, I’m just going to get that out in the open right now,” Lucían tells Abigail with complete honesty. “I guess show me how you throw a punch and we can start there?” She nods, setting her jaw, and strikes out at the air in front of her with a fist. Lucían spots a few things immediately that both Glory and the Knife have attempted to drill into him and corrects Abigail’s form. Her next punch is stronger, faster, more efficient, and he nods. Okay. Maybe he can do this.
Later, after Abigail grapples him into a pretty good pin three times in a row, the Knife calls a break and Lucían flops down on the mats next to Sister Evelyn with a cup of water. His ribs hurt, his left shoulder is sore, and he can feel a bruise blooming on his jaw from an unexpected and effective headbutt. Evelyn’s pale face is sweaty and flushed, her hair rumpled, and she looks to be favoring her right knee a bit. She also looks incredibly proud, and she grins at him over her water cup.
“The Knife says she’s going to start me on daggers tomorrow,” she tells him, taking a long sip of her water. “Then she said, and I quote, ‘May the gods save anyone who stands in your way.’” Evelyn’s nose wrinkles and she leans in conspiratorially. “She said that like it was sort of an insult but I think she likes me.”
“Probably,” Lucían says. “That’s how she talks to me and I’m pretty sure we’re actually friends. Either that or she’s playing a long game to lure me into a false sense of security.” He takes a drink of his water, considering, and finally just asks outright, “Who taught you to fight like that?”
Evelyn hunches her shoulders in, just a bit, barely enough to be noticeable, and shoots back, “How did you get stabbed?” Her gray eyes meet his, challenge and curiosity in her gaze, and Lucían considers for a moment and decides, yeah, that seems fair.
“Glory and I went to retrieve two of the books we’re tracking from a smuggler’s den. I tried to sneak in and get them without anyone noticing, but it went wrong and they attacked us. One of them stabbed me in the ensuing melee, and I passed out afterward.” Anguished screams, the smell of burnt flesh, and the feeling of a man’s throat under his hand all claw their way to the forefront of his brain and Lucían takes a deep breath, pinching his eyes shut for a second. “I killed two of them myself,” he adds quietly. “I don’t like thinking about it. I still have nightmares sometimes.”
Evelyn’s hand settles on his shoulder and squeezes, and Lucían takes another deep breath, pushing the memories away and re-focusing on the present. She watches him settle himself, nods, and says without preamble, “Some of the boys at the monastery could tell I was different, even if none of us knew why, and they’d catch me alone and try to beat me up. I figured out pretty quickly that the best way to stop it was to go after the ringleader as viciously as possible, and eventually word got around and they left me alone.”
Multiple emotions flare in Lucían, and it takes a second for him to identify and sort them into anything other than a clamor of noise. There’s anger at the way his friend was treated, that makes sense, and then guilt at not having known, and then a thirst for revenge that he tamps down on, and then a deep yawning horror because what else had he missed? Who else was being tormented at the monastery that he didn’t notice? Who is suffering right now who he could be helping if they weren’t having to track down this godsforsaken book? He takes a couple more deep breaths, and then a sip of water so he has an excuse not to speak for another second, and then he finally exhales in a huff and says, “Thank you for telling me. I wish I’d known so I could have helped.”
Evelyn shrugs a bit. “I don’t blame you,” she says, rolling her water cup between her hands and looking at the reflection inside. “You’re, what, ten years older than me? You were in a different dormitory, you had different responsibilities, it’s not like you could have known. They didn’t do it while anyone was around, because it turns out bullies are careful like that.” She downs her water and sets the cup aside, rolling her shoulders back, her mouth set in a firm line. “I took care of it and now I’m here and I’m happy and myself and they can rot for all I care.”
“I’m glad of that,” Lucían says, and he means it, because Evelyn’s comfort and contentment shines out of her like magelight. “Also, I’m only eight years older than you, don’t make me sound so decrepit.”
“Lucían makes himself sound decrepit without your help,” the Knife says, stepping closer on the mats so he has to tilt his head back to glare at her. “‘Oh, I’m so sore, please stop punching me, all I want is to eat pastries and go to bed early, I’m Lucían and I like books,’” she says, in what is a terrible impression of him, and he has to work to keep his mouth flat because it’s also hilarious.
“You stand there like you also aren’t obsessed with pastries and sleep,” he points out, and the Knife snorts.
“Everyone loves pastries and sleep,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. Come on, niño, break time’s over.”
Sister Evelyn groans as she climbs back to her feet, and Lucían glances over at her with half a grin. “Still happy?” he asks, setting aside his water cup as he stands, and yep, those ribs still hurt. Fun.
“Slightly less happy right now, not gonna lie,” she says, rolling out her neck with a series of cracks. “Ask me again tomorrow and I’ll probably punch you.”
“That’s the spirit!” Lucían says cheerfully, and when her hand whaps him upside the head he figures he probably deserved it.