You will not find it easy, Angel, she promised. No, you will have to work for your money, you ugly whoreson!
*
Angel was well satisfied with the day’s training. Miriel had performed above his expectations, fuelled no doubt by anger at the slap. But Angel cared nothing for the motivation. It was enough that the girl had proved to be a fighter. At least he would have something to work with. Given the time, of course.
Waylander had left just after dawn. ‘I will be back in four days. Perhaps five. Make good use of the time.’
‘You can trust me,’ Angel told him.
Waylander smiled thinly. Try to stop her attacking anyone else. She should be safe then. The Guild has a rule about innocent victims.’
Morak follows no rules, thought Angel, but he said nothing as the tall warrior loped away towards the north.
An hour before dusk Angel called a halt to the work, but was surprised when Miriel announced she was going for a short run. Was it bravado, he wondered? ‘Carry a sword,’ he told her.
‘I have my knives,’ she answered.
‘That’s not what I meant. I want you to carry a sword. To hold it in your hand.’
‘I need this run to loosen my muscles, stretch them out. The sword will hamper me.’
‘I know. Do it anyway.’
She accepted without further argument. Angel returned to the cabin and pulled off his boots. He too was tired, but would be damned before letting the girl know. Two years out of the arena had seen his stamina drain away. He poured himself a drink of water and slumped down in front of the dead fire.
Given a month, possibly two, he could make something of the girl. Increase her speed, lower her reaction time. The side sprints would help with balance, and the work to build her arms and shoulders add power to her lunges and cuts. But the real problem lay within her heart. When angry she was fast but wild, easy meat for the skilled swordsman. When cool her movements were stilted, her attacks easy to read and counter. The end result of any combat, therefore, would be the same.
She had been gone perhaps an hour when he heard her light footfalls on the hard-packed clay of the clearing. He looked up as she entered, her tunic drenched in perspiration, her face red, her long hair damp. The sword was still in her hand.
‘Did you carry it all the way?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes. That’s what you told me.’
‘You did not drop it on the trail and pick it up on your return?’
‘No!’ she answered, offended.
He believed her, and swore inwardly. ‘Do you always do as you are told?’ he snapped.
‘Yes,’ she told him, simply.
‘Why?’
Throwing the sword to the table top she stood before him, hands on hips. ‘Are you now criticising me for obeying you? What do you want from me?’
He sighed. ‘Merely your best – and you gave that today. Rest now. I will prepare supper.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said sweetly. ‘You are an old man, and you look weary. You sit there and I’ll bring you some food.’
‘I thought we had a truce,’ he said, following her to the kitchen, where she took down a large ham and began to slice it.
“That was yesterday. That was before you set out to cheat my father.’
His face darkened. ‘I have never cheated anyone in my life.’
She swung on him. ‘No? What would you call ten thousand in gold for a few days’ work?’
‘I did not ask for the sum – he offered it. And if you were eavesdropping – a womanly skill, I’ve found – then you will have heard me tell him I’d do it for fifty.’
‘You want cheese with this ham?’ she asked.
‘Yes, and bread. Did you hear what I said?’
‘I heard you, but I don’t believe you. You were trying to force me to fail. Admit it!’
‘Yes, I admit it.’
‘Then that’s all there is to say. There’s your food. When you have finished it, clean your plate. And then do me the kindness of spending the evening in your room. I’ve had enough of your company today.’