Ashurai's sword cut high, and Marek swung to block. At the last second, the incoming attack changed course, and Marek grunted as the length of wood pounded into his exposed ribs. "Eyes on me, not my weapon!" the warrior shouted. “See the man and not his parts, Marek. Control your damn eyes, or you'll never master the basics!"

  Marek rubbed the bruise under his arm, wincing. "Pretty sure I have the basics down. Mags and I have been training for years."

  The Basari snorted in derision. "She has some mastery, I'll admit, but you fight like an overgrown infant. Your footing is horrendous! How can you claim to have any mastery of the sword when you practically trip yourself every time you fight?”

  Allon's rasping chuckle in the back of Marek's mind did nothing to cool his anger. He walked back to his starting point and shook out his right arm until the tingling abated a little. Then he chastised the daemon as well as his own aberrant emotions. He's right. I don't have time to waste on pride. Learn what I can while I can.

  Marek opened his eyes and confronted his opponent. Like himself, Ashurai wore neither boots nor armor. Both wielded wooden practice swords Ashurai had supplied. Unlike Marek, the Basari was composed. Not a drop of sweat beaded his forehead, and the knot of coiled black hair at the back of his head was as tidy and undisturbed as when they'd begun their sparring.

  "Once more," Ashurai said, and Marek bowed at the waist.

  They came together amid the ring of stones. Marek did as Ashurai had instructed. He softened his gaze, taking in all of his opponent rather than focusing on any single aspect. Mags had taught him to watch the shoulder and lead foot, and his own habit was to track his opponent's weapon. Neither approach pleased the Basari, and after seeing the man fight, Marek decided it was best to take Ashurai's advice on every point.

  Their swords clacked time and again. Marek felt clumsy fighting with bare feet. He was also deprived of several enchantments, those on his black sword as well as his boots and mail shirt. They'd been propping him up, he realized now, by adding to his Dexterity score, movement speed, and footing. Despite the difficulty he'd encountered in the first few days of sparring, Marek could already see improvements in his swordsmanship.

  Marek pressed the attack. He worked to push Ashurai back with a series of sharp blows, and just when he thought he was succeeding, Ashurai slipped away and took position in the very center of the ring. Then, with a flurry of motion, the warrior swatted aside Marek's thrust, pounded the top of his wrist to disarm him, and tapped the side of his throat with the practice sword.

  "Well done," Ashurai said with a shallow bow. "Much improved since yesterday."

  Marek took the compliment at face value. His chest rose and fell, and a streak of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. Regardless of his fatigue and his obvious defeat, he couldn't resist a smile. "Thank you, Ashurai. Once again, I'm humbled."

  The Basari laughed before stooping to retrieve Marek's practice sword. "I pray to the Bound Father you remain so. You and I both know your true capabilities. If you continue to train until your skill matches your power, I wouldn't last a minute against you."

  Hearing the truth spoken aloud made Marek squirm with discomfort. Never had he imagined a life where a man like Ashurai could consider him powerful. It was all so very new still. He was grateful to have Allon with him, for the daemon alone understood his innermost feelings. "It'll take years to come near your skill," Marek said. "Where did you learn to fight like you do? Your style is so different from what I've seen in Ardea."

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "I've been fortunate enough to train under three swordmasters. The first was in childhood. The village I grew up in was home to an old veteran. He was blind, which worked in my favor, for he allowed me to train with his other students despite my relative weakness." Ashurai's eyes looked through Marek, as if he were glimpsing a scene from his distant past. "Eventually, I bested the others and then my master himself. On my sixteenth birthday, he sent me to the city where I found another master."

  Shrugging, the Basari said, "Fifteen years of tutelage gave me the foundation I needed. Afterward, I left on a quest to find myself. I had to create the man you see before you. Believe me, it was not easy. The real world tested me at every turn, but I learned more on that journey than some do in a lifetime. Life is the great teacher, they say. Our limitations, the bodies we’re born in, and the beliefs we accept, adapt, or supersede define us. That's a lesson I believe you've already learned."

  Marek eyed Ashurai, curious how the man had guessed about his past. He decided to share some of his own story when time permitted. A pervasive hunger surged within him then, a pertinent reminder that there wasn't any time to spare. He and Allon shared that hunger. It was urgent and insatiable. They needed to hunt, to fight, to kill. Marek had tasted the forbidden fruit, the thrill that accompanies battle, and now that he had… he couldn’t go without.

  Forcing the urge aside, he admitted, “I learned more than most in some areas. I know pain and suffering well. I know defeat and loss. Still, I'm unexperienced and naive as well."

  Ashurai smiled, a rare occurrence. "Aren't we all. Ah, but my stomach is angry. Even a warrior must succumb to hunger. Will you eat with me?"

  "Sorry, I think I'll be taking my lunch on the go. Yesterday I found more tracks. I need to hunt again."

  Brow creasing, Ashurai walked to the edge of the ring and retrieved his belt. He fastened it about his waist, all the while studying Marek. "Graysouls?" Marek nodded as he pulled on a boot. "And you will refuse company as you did last time?" When Marek confirmed, Ashurai sighed. "Do as you must, but take care not to die. Your friend worries for you... as do the rest of us."

  This surprised Marek. He hadn't thought any of their traveling companions cared enough to worry. Mags, he'd known about, of course. She wore her emotions like cloak tied about her neck. Anyone could see she was suffering. Marek stood and brushed off his clothes. They walked the short distance to camp in silence. A quick look around told Marek that Mags had yet to return. He didn't quite understand what Yuze had done to her, yet he trusted Mags to take care of herself. And if there was any chance she could gain some kind of power in these unforgiving mountains, he was for it.

  Ashurai greeted Rushi, who was splayed out in the sun. Scratching the panganid’s belly, he muttered a few words in Basari.

  Marek took out the folded paper he'd been keeping in his pocket. He would have preferred to give it to Mags directly, but Yuze had been clear: His friend was on some kind of journey, and she couldn't be disturbed. "Here," he said, handing the paper to Ashurai. "Will you give this to Mags? I'll be gone a few days.” Swallowing a lump of guilt, he continued, “As you said, she’s been worried. Wanted to talk to her in person, but maybe this is better. I communicate better in writing than I do out loud, so maybe this is a blessing. Anyway, will you give it to her?”

  The warrior took the note and nodded. "I'll deliver it as soon as she’s back from the oak tree.”

  “Speaking of the oak tree… what is she doing? Yuze yammered on about a test, a task, some nonsense about a fruit sustaining her. Do you know what he means?”

  Ashurai shrugged. “I rarely do. Gorb told me to trust Yuze, and so I will. The golemite has never spoken a lie in my presence.”

  Marek bit his lip, a touch of anxiety managing to worm its way through his shroud of indifference. “She’s… she’s okay, though? Do you think she needs my help?”

  “She needs you to care for yourself,” Ashurai said firmly. “Forgetting the ones you love and relying on your power only to ignore the limitations of your skill is a quick way to die."

  Marek forced himself to digest the words. In the end, he decided he needed to trust his friend as he hoped she could trust him. He thanked Ashurai and then made his way to his and Mags' tent. There was no point in wearing the leather armor Shutterkeep had given him, but the bracers and the mail shirt still provided some protection. He dressed and packed a small bag with food, water, and a healing potion.

  All else he left behind for Mags to care for.

  After a hurried farewell to Niamh and Gorb, Marek waved to Ashurai and left camp on foot. He walked a ways and then ran, using Spirit Body to increase his pace. He became the hunter again, streaking across the countryside toward his prey, a creature of darkness swirling impatiently above his head.