[Mkguild] Felsah's Little School (5/7)

[C. Matthias]

Metamor Keep: Felsah's Little School
by Charles Matthias

Part 5

“Hold your sword like this,” Czestadt advised as 
he studied the dark-skinned boar-like man. Owain 
did as instructed, keeping the blade point 
straight up, gripping the pommel tightly with his 
right hand while his left grasped a shield that 
he kept before his chest. The rest of Wolfram's 
troop watched, some eager for their turn against 
the southern knight, while Kindle and Burkhart 
hoped they would not have to mend any broken bones or worse.

As Father Hough had asked, Wolfram had moved his 
soldiers down one of the wide hallways near to 
the Cathedral entrance. They could still see the 
array of heavy oaken doors with the brass scroll 
work along the banding, but they were not so 
close that their antics would frighten any of the 
Followers who chose that day to come and pray. 
Many who had come were curious to see the 
foreigners and most of those sought the 
Patriarch's bodyguard Kashin. The Yeshuel had 
greeted all who had come and extended a message 
of love and blessing given to him from the 
Patriarch, but that left him no time to aid in 
the lessons and spectacle that Wolfram's troop 
hoped for. It seemed he had finally found time 
when a summons arrived from the Duchess and he 
was whisked off to yet another audience.

Which left only Sir Czestadt to entertain 
Wolfram's troops. But with such an enthusiastic 
group of soldiers, and ones whose very bodies 
gave them unique advantages and disadvantages, it 
was nothing but pleasure for the Yesbearn knight.

“That's right,” Czestadt said with approval. The 
boar-like man grinned around his snout, his 
nostrils tightening in delight. “Do you feel the 
strength in your stance? From that position you 
can move to block almost any attack with ease. If 
you cannot defend yourself you will never be able to defeat your enemies.”

“I know how to defend myself,” Owain complained 
with narrowed eyes. “It's the first thing Jack taught me when I joined!”

Czestadt drew his broad-handled blade and rolled 
the hilt around in his meaty hand. “Is that so? 
Then you should have little difficulty blocking 
these attacks.” And without warning he swung the 
blade in a wide arc toward the boar's right. He 
shifted to hold his sword out to take the blow 
and the clash of steel on steel reverberated like 
the chiming of bells in their ears. The knight 
drew back and struck at the boar's left but was 
met with the shield this time. He struck again to 
the right and then at the left again but was 
stopped by the boar's sword and shield with 
competent reflexes. The knight could only 
conclude that he had indeed learned to defend 
himself. The only question that remained was how 
well he had learned his lessons.

Czestadt swung overhanded from the left, forcing 
the boar to duck to miss the sharp edge of the 
blade. Still in mid-swing, he pulled back and 
drove forward, the point of his sword slipping 
into the opening between the shield and sword. 
Already ducked, Owain could do nothing other than 
jump backward swinging his sword down to deflect 
the thrust. Czestadt let him knock his sword away 
as he flipped his grip on the pommel, pushing 
forward with his downward blade as if it were a 
shield, bashing the boar in the snout with his 
fist. Owain tried to raise his shield in time, but the blow landed.

Owain's nose was soft, smooth, and somewhat damp. 
It crumpled back under his fist but only an inch 
before the boar swung his head, clipping 
Czestadt's hand with one of his tusks. It was 
only a small cut and would bleed for but a 
moment. Owain took several steps back, avoiding 
the wall as he did so, while giving his head a 
quick shake to get his snout back into shape. 
Czestadt flipped his blade back to its normal 
grip, and laughed. “You have good reflexes, 
Owain. You block my attacks in the right way, 
pushing my blade away without offering any 
openings. Nor do you overextend yourself. By the 
time my next attack comes, you are back to your 
ready posture. Very good. How is your snout?”

Owain rubbed it with his sword hand, and then 
took a deep breath, nostrils flaring for a moment 
as the many bristles along his arms and back 
thrummed. “Stings but I've had worse. You pulled your punch.”

“Of course I did. We aren't using practice blades 
here. A good solid punch to the face can kill a 
man. And... I wasn't sure how much it would hurt 
you. I've never punched a boar in the face before.”

“Peccary,” Owain said. “That's what my species is 
called. I'm not really a boar.”

Czestadt took a closer look at the boar-like head 
with its short triangular ears, long snout with 
flat nose, short tusks, beady black eyes, and 
pepper gray bristles along his face, with a 
brighter collar at his neck and over his 
shoulders just visible above his tunic and banded 
leather armor. The peccary was a creature that 
lived in the desert hills north of the 
Darkündlicht mountains and the forests on either 
side. He had only ever seen them in traveling 
carnivals but this Metamorian certainly resembled them.

“Aye, I see that now. How did you know of them? I 
did not think any lived in Galendor.”

Owain laughed and swung his spun his sword in his 
thick two-fingered hand. “I'm the first! And you 
aren't the first southerner to come here.”

“Very true.” Czestadt glanced at his hand and saw 
that the scratch was not even bleeding. Even better.

Wolfram and his soldiers applauded Owain's 
performance with the youngest of the human men 
chuckling, “Go get him, Owain! You can take him!”

Czestadt glanced at the young man out of the 
corner of one eye and decided he would put a stop 
to too much bravado right then and there. He 
smiled to the peccary and asked, “Are you 
prepared to defend against my true sword?”

“Your true sword? Do you have another than that one?”

“Oh, this blade is one I forged myself,” Czestadt 
replied as he turned it over in his hands. The 
blade was solid metal about four feet in length 
with another foot in the handle with a crossbar 
hilt also a foot in length which meant it could 
serve as a cross if inverted. The tang did not 
appear remarkable in any way – Czestadt saw no 
need to adorn it with scrollwork or flashy 
decoration – but it was sharp at every edge, and 
the metal folded nearly a hundred times in the 
Kankoran forges, both heated and quenched by 
their magic that he might strike and shape it all 
the more. How well he recalled his masters 
amongst the Kankoran proclaiming it one of the 
greatest blades to have ever been forged by their 
clan and their irritation when he'd refused to 
give it a pretentious name. It was one of the few 
blades that he could touch with only his will 
without making it brittle. But none of that would 
be obvious to the Metamorians or even to many of his fellow Kankoran.

“But when I speak of my true blade, I do not mean 
the sword. I mean myself with sword. I have used 
against you and your fellow warriors the sorts of 
attacks you are most likely to see in battle. I 
promise you will not be harmed – your 
graciousness as a host would never let me bring 
you to harm – but would you like to try your blade against my own?”

Owain glanced at Wolfram but the ram just 
shrugged his shoulders. The peccary returned his 
gaze to Czestadt, eyes fixing on the pink scar on 
the side of the knight's face. He sucked in his 
breath, rubbed his snout one more time in hopes 
that it would stop stinging, and then nodded. “I 
know you are going to defeat me, Sir Czestadt. I 
am not ashamed at being beaten by you. But when 
will I ever have the chance to cross blades with 
a master swordsman like you again? That's why I'm 
agreeing. And that's why I'm going to give you everything I can.”

Czestadt smiled and bowed to the peccary. “You 
are young and yet you have great honor and 
wisdom. I am deeply honored and will provide you what you seek.”

He lifted his blade to his face and gently 
pressed his lips to the flat edge. Owain stood in 
his ready posture, beady eyes never leaving the 
knight's right shoulder. Czestadt gripped his 
blade in both hands and stepped forward slowly 
until they were just within reach of each others' 
swords. Owain bent his knees and dug his hooves 
into the carpeting. Wolfram's soldiers watched, 
eyes fixed on them and their breaths held tight in their throats.

The only sound was the shifting of his muscles 
and tunic as he swung the heavy sword hard at the 
peccary's left. He turned the shield to take the 
attack, but it was much harder this time, driving 
him back a pace, his hooves tearing into the 
carpeting as they were pushed back. A quick 
second strike at the bottom of his shield turned 
his arm down and opened his chest up. Owain 
realized his vulnerability and hopped back 
another pace, but Czestadt was already moving 
around to his right, bring his sword in from the 
other side. The peccary swung his sword back in 
time, but now his chest was completely exposed. 
Czestadt kicked forward, his boot planting firmly 
in the soldier's chest. One second later Owain 
was prone on his back a dozen feet down the hall 
staring at the ceiling. A second after that and 
he was staring down the full length of Czestadt's 
sword. And that's when he began gasping for breath.

“Damn!” Ross murmured in awe.

Czestadt casually knocked the peccary's sword 
away and then reached down and helped him back to 
his hooves. It took Owain a moment more to catch 
his breath, but when he did he started to laugh. 
“You hit hard. That... ah.... that was the 
fast... fastest I've eh... ever been put down.”

“Never forget that in battle you are the weapon. 
I do not want to know how much pain I would 
endure were you to strike me with one of your hooves.”

Owain lifted one of his legs and regarded the 
cloven hoof at its end with a new wonder in his 
small eyes. Wolfram applauded and stepped to 
Owain's other side to help him get back to the 
rest of their troop. “Care to learn what mine can do, Sir Czestadt?”

He regarded the ram with a delighted smile. “I 
have been hoping for the chance to see what you 
are capable of. You carry yourself like a man 
ready to spend your last breath protecting others. That is strength.”

They had no sooner propped Owain against the wall 
where Burkhart began prodding his chest checking 
for broken ribs than Wolfram drew his sword with 
his left hand and began swinging it from side to 
side to loosen his muscles. Czestadt noted the 
ram's use of the off-hand and was glad of it; 
Wolfram was probably used to his opponents being 
unsure how to attack a left-handed warrior. But 
what really caught his attention was the age of 
his sword; it was much older than Czestadt's own 
and that always excited his blood.

“May I see your blade?” Czestadt asked.

Wolfram nodded and offered it with both hands. 
“Here, it is very precious to me. My grandfather once used it in battle.”

“Impressive. You may hold mine. I would love to 
hear what you think of it.” Czestadt offered his 
blade in turn, and soon both of them were 
examining each others' swords. Wolfram grunted at 
the weight, but was soon tilting the Kankoran 
blade this way and that, swinging it in long, 
slow arcs as a smile quickly began to spread across his snout.

Czestadt put the ram's blade to his lips and 
closed his eyes for a moment as he felt through 
the metal ever so gently. He could feel the 
devotion with which it had been crafted, forged 
and folded two generations ago. The finest steel 
of the Midlands went into its shape, and he 
almost trembled with the impression of each 
hammer swing that had shaped it. He could feel 
the rush of air as it was swung in practice and 
then in battle. And he could hear the screams of 
those who had died from its edge. Words seemed to 
float from the blade, words rich and hearty as 
they gloried in victory after victory, words 
which could not be kept from his tongue: “Today 
we drink! Tonight we wench! Tomorrow... we win!”

Wolfram almost dropped the knight's sword as he 
spun on his hooves and stared slack-jawed. “What did you say?”

“Only what your blade knows. Those words... it 
heard them a great deal. They are... part of this 
blade. Something your grandfather said?”

Wolfram nodded, stepping over and holding out his 
hand. “Aye, those were my grandfather's words. 
How could you hear them? He's been dead many years now.”

Czestadt handed the ram back his sword and then 
reclaimed his own. He bowed his head low. 
“Forgive me if I have intruded on something 
sacred to you. But as I have said, a blade will 
speak to one who loves them and knows them well. 
Your blade, such as it can, loves your 
grandfather and now you. It will not easily disappoint you in battle.”

“It hasn't yet,” Wolfram replied, running one 
hand down the blade before he lifted it to his 
left ear, the tip clanking against his horn. He 
listened for a moment and then lowered the sword, 
chuckling at himself. “I don't know why I thought 
it would speak like that. Can you do that with any sword?”

“Most swords are crude and fashioned with little 
real care. It is a shame, but that is the way of 
things.” Czestadt rolled his sword back and forth 
between his hands. “What did you think of mine?”

“Well-balanced and smooth,” Wolfram replied with 
a nod toward the blade. “A little too heavy for 
me, but... it felt very good in my hands. Shall 
we then? My true blade against yours?”

“With honor!”

The other soldiers all kept clear as they watched 
their captain and the Yesbearn salute with their 
swords, and then fall into fighting stances. They 
circled each other for several long seconds, 
before Czestadt darted back the way he'd come and 
swung hard at the ram's right. Wolfram blocked 
with his shield and then pressed right back into 
the attack, bashing forward with his shield, 
driving it into the knight with his shoulder and 
with both hooves firmly planted for leverage. 
Czestadt stepped to the ram's left where he was met with a sword thrust.

He slapped the point of the blade down just as 
the peccary had done to his thrust a few minutes 
earlier. The shield came forward to smack him 
again. Czestadt grabbed the side of the shield 
with his left hand and he yanked it away, leaving 
both of their chests exposed for a split second. 
Wolfram lowered his head and jabbed forward with 
his horn, a move impossible for anyone not a 
Metamorian. Czestadt had wondered if he would 
have to contend against the horn and was 
delighted by the opportunity. But he hadn't any 
idea how to avoid it except by stepping back and slashing.

They traded a few more blows most of which were 
attacks from the ram. Wolfram was far more 
aggressive than the peccary or any of his other 
soldiers had been, and he also had the strength 
and training to back it up. Czestadt saw no 
openings in his defense for nearly half a minute 
when Wolfram lunged at the knight's unprotected 
right side. Czestadt took a half step to the left 
and in mid-swing switched his sword from right to 
left hand. His sword sailed over top of the 
ram's, while his now free right hand was able to 
wrap itself about his opponent's left wrist. A 
moment later they were locked together, 
Czestadt's blade pressed gently against Wolfram's 
neck, the shield pinned ineffectually between 
their bodies, and his sword arm held completely out where it did no good.

Under any other circumstance the practice would 
have been over, but Wolfram thrust his shield 
forward, even as he kicked out with his right 
hoof, catching Czestadt behind his left knee. The 
combination threw the knight off balance and he 
toppled to one side, his blade flinging out of 
his grasp. But he did not let go of the ram who 
came crashing down beside him, his sword dropping 
to the carpet beside them. Czestadt's blade did 
not fall when it left the knight's hand, but 
remained in the air, the hilt lifting up even as 
the point followed the ram's neck down to the ground.

Wolfram wheezed in surprise and then stared out 
the side of his head at the blade hanging there 
ready to skewer him. He blinked and then laughed, 
“I'd say that's not a fair fight, but I don't 
think there is such a thing. How was my hoof?”

“Well used,” Czestadt admitted as he climbed to 
his feet and plucked the sword from the air. He 
sheathed his blade and then bent down to offer 
the ram a hand. Wolfram clasped his arm at the 
wrist, and once again the knight experienced the 
strangeness of the beastly flesh touching his 
own. “But you should have been dead before you had a chance to use it.”

The ram snorted as he stood, stomping his hooves 
on the carpet with a laugh. “I wasn't going to 
let you win that easy! What was my mistake?”

“I can move faster than you,” Czestadt replied as 
he handed the ram his family sword. It still 
hummed from the battle, quietly singing its 
delight in the worthy challenge. “Your thrust was 
too far. You did better when you were keeping me 
at a distance with your shield and short jabs.”

“I'll remember that move too,” Wolfram replied 
with another laugh. “I still got you down.”

Czestadt nodded and laughed in turn. “I was right 
to fear your hooves. Perhaps some lighter 
practice for now. There is much we could learn from each other.”

“What could I teach you? You are a far better swordsman than I am.”

A new voice echoed down the hall with a sardonic 
lilt, “How to avoid hooves and horns for starters.”

All eyes turned toward the raccoon walking 
silently on the carpeting, arms crossed, with a 
blade sheathed on either hip. He wore a tunic and 
breeches, with the laces on his tunic tied 
loosely at his neck so the brown fur on his chest 
spilled through. His dark eyes regarded them all 
with faint amusement. Zachary, who had watched 
all in almost complete silence, stepped into the 
middle of the hallway and shook his head. “You 
will not threaten our guests again.”

“Let him by, Zachary,” Czestadt said with a shake 
of his head. The dragon-like lizard may be twice 
the raccoon's height and five times his girth, 
but he would still be reduced to ash if the 
raccoon so desired. “He is an old friend of mine. 
And he has come to rekindle that friendship. Have you not?”

The kharrakhaz glowered once at Rickkter before 
returning to his quiet repose by the wall. 
Rickkter stepped past him, arms crossed before 
his chest. “Of course I have. It is not every day 
that you meet somebody from your past half a 
world away.” He then added in the tongue of 
Sonngefilde, “And I know I can trust you not to 
reveal my new home to our old clan.”

“You may trust me in that,” Czestadt replied in 
his native tongue, grateful to speak once more in 
a language that made sense to him, though he had 
gained a great deal of proficiency in the 
backwards grammar of Galendor. “Shall we 
reminisce on our travels in this tongue or theirs?”

“Perhaps later,” Rickkter replied with a shake of 
his head. “Somewhere private where we won't be 
overheard.” He glanced at Wolfram and his troops, 
none of whom appeared inclined to trust him. He 
returned to the northern tongue with a laugh. “If 
it is sparring that you wish to do, I would love 
the chance to duel swords with you again. You 
taught me much, and I have learned much since then.”

“Good.” Czestadt beckoned him closer with a wave. 
“It has been far too long since I have dueled a 
fellow Kankoran.” He turned to Wolfram and 
nodded. “You had best keep back at the walls. Do 
not fret, we are old friends.” Even as the ram 
backed away, the Yesbearn turned toward Rickkter 
and added, “Just swords and none of your spells 
then? First blood from the torso?”

“Fair enough,” Rickkter replied with a nod, 
silently drawing both the katana and wakizashi 
from their scabbards. “As long as it will only be 
these swords against your sword.”

“Also fair,” Czestadt agreed with a grin. His 
chest swelled with a pair of deep breaths, and 
then he took position in the middle of the 
hallway a dozen paces from Rickkter. The raccoon 
stood with wrists crossed at his waist, both 
blades pointing at the floor, the bright 
afternoon light streaming through the narrow 
windows dancing in their silvery tang. Czestadt 
lifted his blade before his face and kissed the 
flat side. He gripped the pommel with both hands, 
knuckles tightening around the leather haft.

Each of them took a step forward. Czestadt 
crouched lower, holding the sword up and slightly 
to his right. Rickkter held the katana over his 
head and the wakizashi down at his waist, both of 
them with the tips pointing toward the Yesbearn's 
heart. And then very slowly they began to circle 
each other. Czestadt stepped in closer first, 
making a few feints which Rickkter easily batted 
away. The raccoon kept his posture as his green 
eyes noted every sinew in the man's body. His 
ring-tail flicked back and forth with each step, 
the only part of his body that seemed not to care that it was in a battle.

Czestadt did not look at the tail, keeping his 
focus ever on Rickkter's torso, from hips to 
shoulders and back again. Movement always began 
there and it would always be seen first there. 
And that torso, despite the coating of fur, was 
still human in shape and purpose. The shape of 
Rickkter's swords were not unusual for a Kankoran 
to use, nor was his stance unfamiliar. But the 
nature of those two swords, swords he could tell 
were not true swords, eluded him and that gave 
him some pause. He continued to circle and feint, 
trying to draw the raccoon into an attack. He 
needed to see what those blades could do.

Rickkter obliged him. After deflecting one of his 
feints, the raccoon lunged forward, driving both 
blades forward like a pair of scissors. Czestadt 
parried them with a sideways block and continued 
stepping around in an attempt to trip the coon. 
But Rickkter was faster than that, hopping 
forward an extra step to jab the wakizashi into 
his side as he passed. The blade missed by inches 
as Czestadt continued his turn, driving down with 
his sword to brush aside the stroke. But the 
raccoon was not yet done as he continued around 
with lithe step, ducking lower to sweep up along 
his backside with the katana. Czestadt had no 
choice but to tumble forward, flipping onto his 
feet four paces away, leveling his blade at his old student with a grim smile.

“Becoming a raccoon has made you faster than I recall.”

“Either that or age has slowed your mind.”

Ross sniggered and even Czestadt had to snort. “You win that one, Rick.”

And even as he tongue uttered those words his 
legs propelled him forward, smashing forward with 
two sideways chops, knocking both of Rickkter's 
blades to the side. The raccoon dived to one 
side, rolling head over heels with either blade 
at his side until he was also on his feet. He did 
not waste a moment before swinging from either 
side with his blades, forcing Czestadt to duck 
even as he thrust his sword upward. Both of the 
eastern blades struck either side of the knight's 
at which he twisted it to one side and then spun 
his arms in the other direction, knocking them back the way they'd come.

Rickkter pulled his arms in quick, crossing the 
blades in front of him as Czestadt's sword came 
down. The force of the knight's blow nearly 
pushed those blades apart, but with a growl that 
quivered his jowls and revealed a row of little 
fangs, Rickkter pushed and forced Czestadt back.

They continued to trade blows in quick 
succession. Czestadt's sword was stronger than 
either of Rickkter's and with it he could drive 
the raccoon around the small little circle of 
carpet they had unconsciously declared their own. 
But Rickkter could dance with his swords and 
forced the knight to parry blows from either side 
and sometimes both together which kept him from 
pressing any advantage he could find. Wolfram and 
his men winced at the shriek of steel and the 
pounding blows back and forth faster and 
oftentimes subtler than they had ever seen on the practice fields.

But neither were they drawing blood from the 
torso nor anywhere else at all. After a long 
exchange of blows they stepped apart as smoothly 
as two dancers and resumed their ready postures. 
Rickkter licked his jowls and flicked his tail 
from side to side as he resumed stepping one paw 
over the other to the right. Czestadt smiled 
lightly, a growing sense of confidence about the 
fight filling him. The raccoon was lithe and fast 
and very skilled with the use of the eastern 
blades. His moves were inventive and 
unpredictable, but the blades were shorter and 
did not have the reach he needed to touch the 
knight. All he needed to do was force the raccoon to thrust with both again.

And the opportunity came moments later when the 
raccoon made a feint with the katana. Czestadt 
batted it away and then struck an underhanded 
below at Rickkter's stomach. The raccoon smacked 
it away with the hilt of his wakizashi and then 
danced to the knight's right where he swung both 
blades at his chest from opposite directions.

Czestadt raised his sword as if to block the 
blow, but he raised it too quickly, throwing the 
sword into the air between both blades. 
Rickkter's momentum carried him forward another 
step, while Czestadt grabbed his wrists and dived 
into the raccoon's chest. He gasped in surprise 
as the knight bent his arms behind him and then 
buckled his knees. Rickkter fell backward with 
his swords pointing behind him. As soon as they 
hit the ground, they popped from his paws and 
clattered to the side. Czestadt snatched his 
blade from the air where it had hung and slashed at the coon's exposed chest.

But Rickkter was faster still. After dropping his 
swords he rolled backward and kicked the knight 
in the chest with his feet as he rolled head over 
heels. With one final push with his hands, the 
raccoon flipped backward in the air and landed on 
his feet, unarmed but unhurt. The sword passed so 
close to his breast that a bit of shorn fur 
floated down his chest. Czestadt rubbed one hand 
across his chest to check for wounds but the 
raccoon's claws hadn't pierced his armor.

The brief respite lasted less than a second. 
Rickkter immediately dived to retrieve his 
nearest blade while Czestadt stepped in the same 
direction, swinging with his sword to make the 
raccoon back off. Rickkter ducked the swing and 
dived in the other direction, leaping with a 
powerful thrust of his legs. He bounced onto the 
wakizashi, rolled across it, and came up with it 
held backward in his right hand. He kept the 
blade aligned along his lower arm and waved it 
before his face, staring with a beast's angry eyes at the knight.

Gweir and Ross gasped in awe, while Owain and 
Wolfram both snorted. Kindle rubbed his paws 
together and then grasped his tail, only to let 
go of it and rub his paws some more. Burkhart 
kept his hoof-like hands clasped in front of his 
snout as he watched. Zachary found it next to 
impossible to follow their moves and so contented 
himself with savoring the brief pauses that 
marked their fight. A few other Keepers had even 
stopped to watch from either end of the hall; 
some were even cheering on the knight or the raccoon.

Neither Rickkter nor Czestadt paid them any heed 
as the raccoon began circling the knight, jabbing 
and feinting with the wakizashi while the knight 
kept him from reaching his katana. The raccoon's 
green eyes flicked toward Czestadt's left leg 
three times in quick succession, and then he 
ducked low. Czestadt swung his blade down so that 
it blocked him on the left, but he swung from the right in case it was a feint.

And it was.

Rickkter spun the wakizashi in his paw, and then 
drove the flat of the blade against his swing, 
forcing Czestadt's sword down even further. And 
then, he jumped forward over both blades, his 
arms outstretched and, to the knight's shock, 
shrinking. He flipped his blade up with his right 
hand while with his left he lifted his arm to 
block the sudden feral attack. But Rickkter 
sailed overtop of him, or at least, most of him did.

As the raccoon shrank his breeches came loose and 
did not follow him all the way over the knight. 
Instead Czestadt received a face full of raccoon 
trousers and their earthy musk, while over his 
shoulder dangled the now animal-sized Rickkter 
bouncing back and forth in his tunic. Blinded, 
Czestadt yanked the trousers from his face, and 
then felt the animal pounce over his shoulder to 
burrow its head beneath his collar and bite him.

Czestadt yowled in surprise, grabbed Rickkter by 
the tail and yanked him out of his shirt before 
swinging him over his head in a circle and 
tossing him down the hall. The raccoon sprawled 
across the floor and tumbled end over end before 
coming to a stop. But his jowls were red with 
fresh blood. He swelled in size, but kept himself 
low to the floor. The now mostly human raccoon grinned red and said, “I win.”

“You...” he bellowed, and then he winced and 
checked the wound. He was bleeding inside his 
armor and he could feel it. “I said no spells!”

“None of my spells,” Rickkter replied. “That one 
was all Nasoj. Consider it a bit of inspiration 
from your friend's rat.” And then in a lower 
voice he muttered, “Mighty warrior indeed, hah!”

Wolfram and the others applauded them both, their 
expressions stunned and uncertain. Czestadt 
growled under his breath but he did grab the now 
empty pair of breeches and tunic, balled them up, 
and tossed them toward the naked man still 
sprawled on the floor for the sake of modesty. 
Some of the onlookers were whispering 
indiscreetly to one another. Rickkter glanced at 
them and growled, jowls still red with blood. The 
Keepers nearest him swallowed, and rather quickly 
returned to whatever tasks had brought them in sight of the little battle.

Once he had that modicum of privacy, Rickkter 
crawled back into his tunic and pulled his 
breeches back on. He laced them up with his back 
turned to Wolfram's company, and then stretched, 
wiping the blood off with his sleeve. “Ah, now 
that was refreshing! You almost had me there a few times, Sir Czestadt.”

“And that,” Czestadt added as he pressed one hand 
to his chest to staunch the blood, “was the most 
risky and ingenious thing I have seen a Keeper do 
yet! If you weren't as fast as you are, I could 
have skewered you before I knew what happened.”

“I know,” Rickkter replied with a nod. “And I 
know I could never get away with it again against 
you. Still, that was rather satisfying after all 
the times you utterly humiliated me all those years ago.”

“You are much more skilled then you were in those 
days,” Czestadt pointed out. He bent down and 
picked up both of the raccoon's swords and 
offered them. Rickkter took three quick steps 
forward to take them out of the knight's hands 
before they could linger more than a moment in his touch.

Rickkter spun each in his paws to sheathe them 
when another foreign voice behind them said, 
“Don't put those away just yet. I'd like a turn.”

----------

Kashin was escorted to a small balcony 
overlooking the practice fields north of the 
Keep. There was enough room between the northern 
curtain wall and the castle for a full joust, 
though there was too much grass for it to have 
ever seen that many hooves. His escorts, a pair 
of blue liveried men one of whom was a bull that 
towered over him, assured him that his host would 
be with him presently and then departed back the 
way they came. Arranged on the balcony was a 
small table and flanking wooden chairs. He sat in the left chair.

He heard the clopping of a pair of hooves first, 
and then the door opened and a woman dressed in 
riding gear stepped through. Kashin was quick to 
rise, surprised at the dress, but not at the 
smell of horses. For the woman was one herself, 
or at least, she was of equine stock having the 
girth and the appearance of one of the Assingh, 
the Steppelands donkeys that he had come to know 
so well while he traveled with the Magyars.

“Kashin!” the duchess exclaimed with delight at 
seeing him. She wrapped her arms about his neck 
and he with his one arm awkwardly returned the 
gesture. “I didst ne'er think to see thee again. 
Please, sit. I know thou dost not recognize me but I shalt explain. Sit!”

Kashin sat and so did the equine duchess. Her 
expression must have been a smile, but on a 
donkey it seemed very awkward with far too many 
flat teeth and curled lip. “Thou didst once know 
me when I wast human and a man, and at that time, 
I wast known as Sir Albert Bryonoth.”

The Yeshuel stared and felt his heart skip a 
beat. “Sir Bryonoth? But... how? I thought the 
Curse didn't do all this. And how... how did you become Duke Thomas's wife?”

She laughed, a braying sound that was very 
familiar. An image of the Magyar Kisaiya who had 
tended the Assingh flashed in his mind, but he 
pushed it aside. That, like so many things, was a 
memory that belonged to Nemgas and not to him and 
he preferred not to intrude on his twin's 
precious moments. “That be a long tale that we 
hath not the time to tell. And there art many 
things that happened to bring Thomas and I 
together that I dare not tell for they art too tender for his soul.”

“Fair enough,” Kashin admitted, though he was 
still trying to wrap his mind around the fact 
that the blustery Steppe knight that had 
accompanied the Patriarch on his journey to 
Metamor was the same creature as this Assingh 
lady and now Duchess of Metamor. “I didn't find 
your body when I scoured the camp. How did you survive that night?”

“I wast taken captive by that murderer. He and 
that witch woman who killed our Patriarch and our 
friends cast terrible spells upon me. I didst 
return to Metamor under their command and 
attempted something terrible. By Eli's grace I 
wast stopped and soon thereafter freed from their 
control. I became as thou dost see me a year ago 
and some months thereafter his grace asked for my hand in marriage.”

Kashin felt a twinge of anger at the mention of 
the Patriarch's killer, but that man was now dead 
so he put the anger from his mind. Confusion over 
the duchess remained. “So the Curse that made you 
a woman has made you desire men as a woman does?”

“Some,” Alberta admitted with the wave of a 
hoof-like hand. Her long ears lowered against her 
long neck and mane. “I didst cling to the man 
that I hadst been born as for a long time, and 
'twas that grip that allowed the murderer to use 
me. The things I tried to do for that man...” She 
shook her head, and then her ears lifted upright 
and the smile returned. “When his evil wast 
stopped, I lost all that didst make me a man 
excepting the memories of that time. And then I 
didst become as you see me now, an Assingh but very much a woman.”

“You lost what made you a man?” Kashin shook his 
head. “I do not understand all that you say, but 
I can see that it is true. I would never have 
guessed if given a thousand guesses for a 
thousand days that you were once Sir Albert 
Bryonoth, knight of Yesulam. But I can hear the 
Steppe in your voice, and see it in your guise. You still ride then?”

“I dost ride as often as I can, and I hath 
convinced my Thomas to ride as well. And I ride 
with Sir Egland when he canst join me. He hast 
become an elk and has now pledged his sword to 
Metamor as one of her knights. He wouldst hath 
come to thank thee for saving his life that 
night, but he hast gone on patrol and wilt not return for some days.”

“I am glad to hear that he is well. Let him know that.”

She nodded and then a braying laugh erupted from 
her throat. “Oh, thou shouldst hath seen my poor 
Thomas that first day in the saddle again. He 
felt awkward being a horse riding another horse, 
but I didst show him that he hath nothing to 
fear. And I dost continue to introduce him to the 
ways of the Steppe.” She sighed and then put her 
hands on the table before her, eyes turning to 
the southeast and gazing with a strange longing. 
“My old home art so far away. But my new home 
hath its own charm and its own delights. As long 
as I am with my Thomas, I shalt bear peace in my 
heart.” Her smile returned and with it her regard 
of the Yeshuel. “But I hath great joy to see thee 
again, Kashin! Thou must tell me of Yesulam, and of thy journeys.”

The awkwardness persisted for a full candlemark 
as Kashin and Alberta discussed their respective 
trials and challenges in the days that followed 
the massacre at the Patriarch's camp. Despite the 
Steppelander accent and some shared memories, 
there didn't seem to be anything about this 
donkey woman to indicate that she was the knight 
of Yesulam he'd once known. But as they talked 
and as they shared their stories, he began to 
notice small things, certain gestures, certain 
phrases, and certain ever so slight cues that 
little by little the awkwardness began to abate.

By the time the second candlemark was burnt he 
knew in his heart that this very, very changed 
woman had definitely once been that knight of 
Yesulam whose body he'd searched for in vain on 
that rainy and terrible night. His smile came 
easily to his face and he felt that sense of 
camaraderie that only a long voyage together can build return to them.

Alberta did not seem capable of much other than 
smiling, at least until he described how he fell 
in with the Magyars and was almost one of them 
for good. She was born into the horse clans of 
the Steppe, and that meant she had a rather poor 
opinion of the Magyars. Tricksters and thieves 
was her first word, and she also mentioned the 
rather disreputable band that had brought the 
plague with them to Metamor a little over a month 
ago. But that anger softened when she described 
playing diplomat with them and how the Magyars 
one and all declared they would not leave Metamor 
until they were all under the touch of the Curses.

Kashin tried to imagine Nemgas, Gamran, Hanaman, 
and the other Magyars he'd come to know and call 
friend and brother as beasts but couldn't quite 
pick any forms that seemed right for them. He 
wondered for a moment if the Magyars who had come 
to Metamor were those same ones he had known and 
traveled with, but he knew that had to be 
impossible given the vast distances involved and 
the rather measured pace the Assingh set across the Steppe.

“It is remarkable how much this place has changed 
each of us,” Kashin mused after Alberta had 
finally started smiling again. “And not just in 
the obvious way by making you a woman and giving 
you a hide and hooves. I mean in the way it has changed each of our hearts.”

Alberta nodded, her tail lashing the back of the 
chair behind her. “I dost see it in thy 
countenance, Kashin. Thou wert a man of easy 
smile and simple confidence in all things when I 
didst first meet thee. Now thou dost appear a man 
who hath suffered much and found a power even 
greater. Thou hast found virtue, Kashin, and thy face dost shine with it.”

“And you have gained a great deal of wisdom if 
you can see it for what it is,” Kashin replied. 
“I have spent most of the last year and a half 
clad in black or the bright colors of the 
Magyars. I've seen things I still do not 
understand. I've lost my left arm. And for seven 
months last year I didn't exist except as a tiny 
presence watching the world unfold from the mind 
of Nemgas. I would have none of that if not for 
what happened here that one night outside Metamor. That one night.”

“It dost pain thee still.”

She did not speak the words as a question. It 
could never be a question. “Aye, it does. But 
that time is past and the world is turning to a 
new age. Patriarch Geshter very much wants to 
mend the wounds that the Ecclesia has suffered, 
and that others have suffered at the hands of 
those who claimed to act in the name of the 
Ecclesia. There are so many wounds, so much 
injustice, so much suffering. All of it is vain 
and hopeless if not for Yahshua. And that's what 
I think on when I turn to prayer. Everything I 
suffered and endured since that night is 
worthwhile only because of Yahshua and His glory. 
I think I have been a better hand for Him now that I have just the one.”

Alberta smiled and lowered her long head as she 
leaned closer to him. “We knights didst admire 
thee and thy fellow Yeshuel. I admire thee e'en 
more now than I didst then, Kashin of the 
Yeshuel. Thou art a noble servant of the servant of Eli!”

“Through no fault of my own,” he murmured and 
then laughed, hugging Alberta around her thick 
neck. The equine scent was rich but pleasant as 
they embraced as old friends must. Together they 
remained for a time laughing and braying before 
Alberta finally was forced to apologize.

“I hath agreed to spend this afternoon with my 
husband; there art many affairs of state that 
weigh heavily on his shoulders and he dost need 
me to help strengthen those shoulders. How long 
wilt thee be staying in Metamor?”

“As long as Father Akaleth needs. I expect we 
will leave either tomorrow or the day after. This 
was always going to be a short visit.”

Alberta's ears turned to his voice, and then 
lowered along the back of her head. “'Tis 
unfortunate that thou canst not tarry here a few 
days more. My husband wouldst prefer to have 
honored thee and thy companions, but we hath no 
time for it. Shalt I escort thee back to the Cathedral?”

“Thank you, but nay, you should see to your 
husband. I will return quietly. I prefer a quiet 
entrance and a quiet exit if I can have them. 
Thank yous husband, his grace, for his 
hospitality, even if we did not see as much of it as he would have liked.”

She gestured with one arm as she stood, a warm 
afternoon breeze ruffling through her mane. “Thou 
must at least allow me the honor of accompanying thee back inside.”

Kashin laughed and nodded, rising to his feet and 
straightening his green tunic with his only hand. 
“That I will allow. Lead me on, Duchess.”

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
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