‘Handle this with care,’ he said, passing her a blade. ‘It is very sharp.’ She took it gingerly. It was heavier than it appeared. ‘It is not just about direction and speed,’ he told her, ‘but about spin. The blade must reach its target point first.’ He pointed to a nearby straw man. ‘Hit that.’
‘Where?’
‘In the throat.’
Her hand came up, the arm snapping forward. The blade struck the throat area hilt first then bounced away. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said. ‘Can I have the second?’ He passed it to her. This time the blade sliced home through the straw man’s chin. ‘Damn!’ she swore.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘You have a good eye and excellent co-ordination. That is rare.’
‘In a woman, you mean?’
‘In anyone.’ Moving to the straw target he extracted the blade, picked up the second from the floor and returned to her side. ‘Turn your back to the target,’ he said. Keeva did so. The Grey Man handed her a blade. ‘At my command spin and throw – aiming for the chest.’
He stepped back from her. ‘Now,’ he said softly. Keeva whirled, the blade slashing through the air to cannon from the target’s shoulder and strike the far wall. Sparks flashed briefly from the stone.
‘Again,’ he said, offering her the second blade. This time it thumped home – once more in the shoulder, but closer to the chest.
‘Why are we doing this?’ she asked.
‘Because we can,’ he answered, with a smile. ‘You are very talented. With a little work you could be exceptional.’
‘If I wanted to spend my life throwing knives,’ she observed.
‘You told me you had no craft, but were willing to learn. Skilled marksmen can earn a good living at market fairs and celebration days. Not one man in a hundred could have brought down three pigeons in four shots with an unfamiliar weapon. Not one in a thousand could have achieved it without some rudimentary training. In short, like me, you are a freak of nature. Mind and body in harmony. The gauging of distance, the balancing of weight, the power of the throw – all these require precise judgement. For some it takes a lifetime to acquire. For others it can be learnt in a matter of moments.’
‘But I missed the chest. Twice.’
‘Try again,’ he said, gathering up the fallen blade.
She spun – and sent it hurtling into the target.
‘Straight through the heart,’ he said. ‘Trust me. With training you can be among the best.’
‘I do not know that I want to be skilled with weapons,’ she told him. ‘I loathe men of war, their posturing, their arrogance and their endless cruelties.’
Removing the knives from the target the Grey Man took them to the bench and began to clean them with a soft cloth. Placing them in sheaths of black leather he turned again to Keeva. ‘I was once a farmer. I lived with a woman I adored. We had three children, a boy of seven and two babes. One day, when I was out hunting, a group of men came to my farm. Nineteen men. Mercenaries seeking employment between wars.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘I rarely speak of this, Keeva, but today it is strong in my mind.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The men tied my Tanya to a bed then – after a little time – killed her. They also killed my children. Then they left.
‘When I rode out that morning I recall the sound of laughter in the air. My wife and my son were playing a chasing game in the meadow, my babes were asleep in their cots. When I returned all was silence, and there was blood upon the walls. So I, too, loathe the men of war and their cruelty.’
His face was terribly calm, and there was no sign of the emotional struggle Keeva guessed was raging below the surface. ‘And that is when you became a hunter of men,’ she said.
The Grey Man ignored the question. ‘My point is that there will always be vile men, just as there will always be men of kindness and compassion. It should have no bearing on whether you choose to develop your talents. This world is a troubled, savage place. It would, however, be even more ghastly if only evil men took the time to master weapons.’