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Balash looked over Thuntir's mock fighting stance with a critical eye for several moments. "Okay, I see you've figured out that your hand position isn't the same as on that mace you cart around. Good. You've got your thumb braced against the back of the hilt for more control, and you've got the blade angled forward for a thrust."
The human put his hand on Thuntir's right arm, prodding and probing its muscles. "What are ye doing?" the dwarf asked, perplexed and slightly affronted.
"Finding things out, greenhorn. See, I just found out you're too stiff. You need to relax a bit more, or you're not going to be able to react quick enough. Now, why don't we..." and with that, Balash's shortsword flickered out, red evening sunlight glinting from the steel, and battered aside Thuntir's weapon, then shifted back to prod him in the stomach.
"'ey!"
"I told you to relax, but you've still got to have strength when you need it. If I can push aside your blade with a shortsword, any fool with a longsword could do it easy. Now, this time you know I'm coming, so be ready for it. Use your sword to guide mine away from you. You don't need to knock it aside, just turn it away with the flat of the blade. Oh, and keep your legs farther apart." This time when the blade came, the dwarf attempted to intervene. He suspected that Balash slowed down his swing on purpose, but he still failed to position his sword properly, and his trainer's weapon whistled past, clipping the crossguard of his cinqueda but otherwise unimpeded. "That's okay," Balash said, apparently in response to Thuntir's look of frustration. "You'll get the hang of it. You just need to learn where to put the point. Try again."
That attempt turned into a third, then a fourth, as Balash took multiple swings at the dwarf, intentionally turning aside the ones that he failed to parry, which was most of them. Still, repitition made anything easier. On the fifth swing, Thuntir managed to force Balash's sword to strike his own and run along its back to the crossguard. On the eighth, he managed to catch the sword on the crossguard for a moment. On the ninth, he guided the sword inappropriately and felt the cold sword-edge bite into his knuckle.
"Oh, feth," he swore as blood trickled down his hand.
"Sorry. Still, it's a lesson. That crossguard is there for a reason. How's it look?"
"Isnae so bad. Just a scratch. Th' bleedin' makes it look worse'n it is." The dwarf was beginning to wonder if training with live steel was a good idea.
Balash grunted. "Yeah, hands always bleed. Well, you should get that fixed up, and it's about dark anyway. Might as well call it quits for the day. You don't want to start your patrol with a messed-up hand."
Thuntir noticed that he was right, the suns had disappeared over the horizon, and he was due to start on his beat any minute now, and was supposed to stay there until well into the morning, to cover for Balash. He was pretty sure he was going to be having jealous thoughtts about the veteran guard's ample sleep about the twelth hour into things. And he was going to meet here again to train when evening rolled around again? "Ah, let's make it th' day after tomorrow for th' next lesson, aye?"
"Suit yourself. See you then."
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