Page 53 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron
“The longer your run up, the longer you enemy has to block it, especially if you’re taking the time to summon your magic,” explains Halima. “But if you make them think you’re trying one move,” she pats the arm of the dummy, “you can create an opening to attempt another.” Halima walks over to the severed dummy head and gives it a kick.
I nod, trying to absorb it all. If I were still just Eleanor, the fisherman’s daughter from Styrland, there’s no way I’d be able to move like Halima just did. But now that I have my magic, I might be able to copy her, at least to some degree. After all, recreating something in your mind is much easier than doing so with your body, and visualizing moving my sword with my magic will happen more in my mind than in my body anyway.
“Now you try,” Halima says, striding over to a box by a dugout and hauling a fresh dummy from it. She sets it up a few feet from me, then looks at me, waiting.
“All right,” I say, thinking I’ll feel more confident if I act like it.
I lift my sword and Halima immediately corrects me.
“Remember, thumb not too tight,” she says, and I loosen the offending finger.
I don’t bother with the fancy spin. We’ve agreed I’m not here to master those kinds of moves—I’d be more likely to drop the sword or cut off my own foot if I tried. Instead, I sprint towards the dummy, focusing on the pool of magic in my mind.
Still the magic. Set your intention. Release.
I know these steps now, but coupling them with physical movement is like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach while singing the alphabet backward at the same time. I visualize where I want the sword to go, drawing the blade through the air in my mind until it finds its striking point. The metal responds to my call, and I feel it come alive under my grip.
I extend the blade, and it soars upwards like a whip, feinting past the dummy’s arm with inches to spare just as Halima had done. I let the blade keep flowing, driving towards the sky where I visualize it twisting round and?—
The sword “flows” with so much force that it pulls free of my hand, sailing through the air. Halima side steps as it arcs and plummets like a stone, impaling the ground with a clang, until it’s embedded—handle upwards and swaying with impact—not far from where she was just stood.
“Sorry,” I say weakly.
“What happened?”
“I lost control,” I say, although that much is obvious. “I think I just wasn’t cautious enough with my magic. I was working so hard on putting momentum into my movement, that I end up being too forceful with my magic.”
She nods, thinking this through.
“It’s good you can identify the problem. That’s more than a lot of beginners can do.”
I blink at her praise. Coming from Halima, these words are equivalent to throwing a parade in my honor.
“Pull back a bit,” she suggests. “You don’t need the physical momentum as much as others do. Let your magic do the work for you, more than your body. It might help you control it better. And tighten your thumb grip?—”
“But you just said?—”
“I know I told you to loosen it, but that’s for normal combat. It seems you need to keep as tight a hold on that blade as possible.” She stares at the weapon sticking out of the ground not far from her.
I swallow, accepting her point, and walk over to dislodge the sword from the earth. As far as it has buried itself in the ground, even pulling it free would be hard if it was left to my own weak muscles, but I use it as chance to practice my magic, pulling the metal towards me with my mind so it gives more easily.
“Okay, let’s try this again,” I say, attempting to stay upbeat.
I run towards the dummy, but I don’t put so much effort into my swing this time, letting the magic carry it. Already the movement feels more stable, and when the blade clears the edge of the dummy’s arm, it’s like the metal is ready and waiting for the next instruction even as it glances through the air. I hit it with the next wave of my magic, visualizing the smooth twist and swipe Halima executed. The blade is responsive to my will, pivoting and coming swooping down—right through the straw-stuffed arm of my victim.
The limb tumbles to the ground and I stand back with a feeling of triumph.
“Were you even aiming for the head?” Halima asks, puncturing my success.
“Er, yes, actually. I guess my aim was a little off. Still, at least I got him, right?”
“It’s close enough for your purposes,” Halima says simply. “That’s one maneuver down. Now we try the rest.”
Halima is relentless. I only survive the next few hours because swinging the sword around is a lot easier when I’m using my magic. Easier. Not easy. The swordswoman seems pleased with my progress, however, and we graduate from practice dummies to actually sparring much quicker than I expect. She’s a good teacher, and she’s realized I respond better to trying different things and piecing together when various moves are effective rather than drilling the same sequence over and over again. The magic isn’t so much about repetition as understanding what I’m trying to do. It’s the strength of the intention, not the familiarity of the execution, that it needs.
But even with this learning curve and my powers to help me, it’s exhausting. As my mind gets tired my movements get sloppier.
“You’re not focusing,” Halima says as the flat of her blade strikes me across the chest. Even with the protective leather and her pulling her punches, I’m knocked several steps back, a dull ache blooming from the point of impact.
