LeRoy Clary
Retribution
The Mage’s Daughter Series - 3
CHAPTER ONE
Prin ducked another blow from the fighting staff and decided to verbally harass the one-footed combat master long enough to catch her breath. “You don’t visit Maude’s house nearly as often as you did when I was twelve.”
He leaned on his staff, using it as a cane to support himself. “We’ve been doing this five years and you still have much to learn. However, I don’t come as often not because I’m getting old, which is untrue, but because for the last year or so, both you and Sara regularly send me home in pain. I need time to heal from your unprovoked punishments. Twice Maude has used her magic skills to mend my broken ankle, my only good one, and once a broken arm, and so many scrapes, cuts, and sprains I’ve lost count.”
Prin answered heatedly, “Hey, you don’t give us any leeway either. We fight to survive your sessions, or you’ll hurt us just as badly—or worse.”
“My job. Come on, be honest. Maude tends to my injuries as often as yours these days, and sometimes she treats all three of us at the same time. Complaining?”
Prin shot back, “Sure, she treats us while detailing our shortcomings and telling us what we should have done to protect ourselves. I noticed you even replaced your wooden foot with one more flexible because you needed more speed to keep up with us.”
Prin crouched and waited for his next attack, holding the staff horizontal, ready to defend or attack. She hoped to anticipate his move. He feinted left, but she watched his belt buckle, not his shoulder or staff. Where the buckle went, so did he. But this time the feint was not a feint. He followed through with the action, somehow knowing she would think he was going to reverse his attack. Only the shift of his good foot warned her too late of the blow that struck behind her neck.
She went to her knees. She’d lost to him again.
He scoffed, “The old follow the belt buckle advice, huh? It usually works. Those who use it, usually survive—if usually is good enough for you. Put that sorry book in the fireplace where it belongs.”
“You wrote it,” she protested.
“Well, I don’t know where you found a copy of that old thing, but if you’re going to use my own instruction book against me without thinking I’ll figure it out, you’re wrong. Getting back up or quitting?”
“I know you want me to stop our practice for the day because an old man like you probably needs to take a nap or something.”
“Ah, trying to provoke me? Remember girl, when you used to call me a cripple?”
She managed to reach her feet, the staff still in her hands as if they were glued to it. “I remember calling you that name one time and then taking two days to recover from the beating handed me.”
“Four days, if I remember right.”
“Your ancient mind is slipping.” She swung the staff from the relaxed/defensive position, knowing he would effortlessly knock the end aside with a casual swipe. But as she allowed him to, the other end swept across both of his shins. Somehow, he’d moved back one small step, and her staff missed his legs.
He let his weapon drop to the ground with a disgusted sigh, as he headed for the door. “Was that the best you could do? Knives tomorrow? Real ones, none of your enchanted cheaters.”
Prin stood in the back garden alone, bruised, battered, tired, and happy. Not many men, knights, soldiers, warriors, or assassins could have survived the punishment she’d absorbed today. Not one in a hundred. She glanced at the window and saw Sara, probably wondering if Prin needed urgent medical care.
Sara had also grown more than competent with most weapons—and with her bare hands. She was not as dedicated to daily practicing as Prin, but as a bodyguard, few others were as accomplished. A combination of three major fighting skills coupled with magic made the attractive young woman deadlier than most. She neared twenty-three-years-old and attracted the attention of any male within sight, but between her sorcery and combat training, she had little time left over for men, or the patience to deal with most.
Prin also attracted more and more attention from eager young men, now that her actual age neared nineteen. The warrior lessons kept her lean, robust, and able to defeat a king’s knight, the combat master told her. Besides, instead of mastering just two or three weapons as they did, she had been forced to defend herself against table knives unexpectedly thrown in her direction at dinner. Twice she had been jabbed with fork tines while eating, she’d ducked chunks of firewood hurled at her head, branches swung like clubs and more. The combat master knew few bounds. Prin had practiced with swords, knives, spears, arrows, staffs, and more. She learned to attack and defend. She gave no quarter.
But neither would the assassins that still pursued her.
The choice of weapons aside, the combat master believed a warrior seldom had the opportunity to choose what to fight with. If attacked, Prin had to fight with what was nearby, which was most likely her bare hands. He’d taught her to slip past a larger opponent’s offensive moves and attack instead of defend, fast and furiously. She wouldn’t box toe to toe—because she would lose due to her smaller size. Warriors often weighed twice what she did. She would hit and run. Or, just run.
Take a swing at her, and she might step inside the blow and let a flurry of punches fly, none hard enough to take down an enemy by itself, but six or ten solid jabs might. Shove her shoulder, and you’d find her foot between your legs. Instead of resisting, she went with the balance. That’s what the combat master called it. Balance. Push her to the left, and she’d go left, but she’d swing a balled fist or aim her booted heel at your head. She’d done it so many times it came naturally.
Maude called from the door, “I have the medical kit ready.”
Prin limped inside, not bothering to hide her injuries. Pride was okay, but it had its place. So did self-defense. Prin had sworn she would never again be helpless in a confrontation. She sat in the usual straight-backed wooden chair as the old-appearing sorceress asked her where it hurt this time.
“Everywhere,” she groaned with the old joke. “Do we have to study magic today?”
Maude made a growl deep within her chest. “Do we get to study magic today, is the proper way to phrase that question, my dear. And the answer is, no. Want some better news?”
“I could use some.”
“A little bird told me a particular ship was spotted at the harbor entrance.”
“Brice’s ship?”
Sara let out a whoop of joy and raced to their side, any injuries were forgotten for the present. “We need to get dressed and call for a carriage and go meet him. It’s been months!”
Maude said, “Prin, you need some light healing, first. I already have a carriage on the way, and we’re only waiting for you to get dressed.”
Prin watched Maude try to withhold the smile, knowing she would fail because Brice’s returns always turned into parties, with the three of them competing to draw the most information from him. He told wonderful stories, wild tales, and provided news of people they hadn’t met, but hopefully, would. He relayed the politics of Prin’s homeland of Wren, and of the city of Indore, and the people there. He had grown from the waif of a mage they encountered at sixteen to a handsome, intelligent young man who was learning mage skills between voyages to gather information.