Rasque, Tarasque Chapter 0

The warm late summer sun was cut by blasts of cold breezing, whipping past the white and gold Temple of Thorgarick and down into the patchwork of farms and pastures in the valley below. The breeze froze the sweat dotting Fleta's brow as she ran to circle her opponent. She was a blur of bright red hair, navy tunic, and brown wooden sword arcing towards her foe. She covered a yard for every inch he turned. Alber could never parry Fleta's sword as she charged him at full speed. He wasn't even in a balanced stance. He was on one foot.

Fleta dug her heels and squatted as she realized her mistake, but she continued sliding across the dusty earth of the sparring grounds, right into Alber's sidekick. Fleta shot backward even faster than her charge, rolling heels over her head backward. Her whole stomach ached as though she had been kicked by a mule. And Alber was probably pulling his kick. To drive the point home, Alber's practice sword flew through the air, burying itself to the hilt in the dirt next to Fleta.

"I don't even know why the high skald would consider nominating you," Alber said. He ran a hand through his straw-colored hair and sighed, turning his sky-blue eyes out over the valley and stretching broad shoulders and muscular arms built for hauling heavy sacks of grain. "Just quit. You'll have another chance in seven years. You could use the extra practice."

Abler was gifted, not merely muscular. He could lift more than five times as much as anyone his size. He wasn't the strongest Thorgarick, but he was the best fighter. Every girl in the high-valley village of Lyntre had a crush on Alber. That was one of many reasons Fleta spent little time with the other girls.

"Alber, insults are unbecoming of a champion," said Hereward, captain of the guard and sword master. He was no taller than Fleta, though his limbs were thick with string muscle even in his older age. He had dark hair, which turned gray in his curly, short beard, and veins that bulged from decades of barking orders. Although he corrected Alber, a subtle smile played across his broad, lowlander face, and pride gleamed in his brown eyes.

"The Proving of Champions is dangerous!" Alber turned to the sword master, uncowed. "You've said it. Terrell says it. Everyone says it! I'm just watching out for her."

"High Skald Terrell says it, and you can leave the saying of it to us," Hereward bellowed, not from anger but habit. "How about you do a little endurance training to blow off that steam? Run down to the lake, swim across, and run back."

Alber huffed off, and Hereward squatted next to Fleta. Fleta furiously dusted herself off and rebraided her fiery hair. "Alber is insolent but correct. You should practice more. You miss lessons, hardly listen, and fail to do any practicing in between. You're not ready for the Proving."

Fleta's pale, freckled cheeks flushed deep red, but she held her tongue.

"I've recommended Alber to the High Skald," Herereward. "Even Shaw tells the Skald you could be on the scouting or rescue teams."

"I'm the fastest Thorgarick!" Fleta shouted back. "You want to send the second strongest disciple as our champion."

"It's one thing to have a gift, Fleta," Hereward stood up. "It's another to have the discipline of a champion. The second strongest disciple is undefeated in combat, even against you. By the grace of Thorgarick, I haven't won a match against him since he came of age. Not when he's using his Valcot sword."

"The Proving of Champions is hunting, not dueling!" Fleta retorted, turning away from Hereward to hide her burning cheeks. Her eyes sought out the hills east of the valley, where her family pastured goats. She took a breath and calmed herself.

"And if scout master Shaw recommended you as an expert hunter or scout, you might have a valid point," Hereward stroked his neatly trimmed black and gray beard. "Now, what to do with a second insubordinate disciple?"

"Lake and back?" Fleta half-turned, asking with a wry smile.

"Ha! Too easy," Hereward. "You rush things and then hesitate when you should be prepared for action. Perhaps you need to slow down."

"Wall sits until Alber gets back," Hereward called over his shoulder as he gathered practice swords and stalked off. "And if, by some miracle, the High Skald does name you as champion, consider using a spear. If you can't dodge or feint, use your speed and the spear's reach to stay out of range."

Fleta swore to Paragons and prats and shuffled over to the vast marble pavilion containing the Gate to do her wall sits.