Damian FINUCANE's Arc

Chapter 2 of 57

The doors of the stone temple stood open at dawn. Damian stepped inside, his father's sword in hand. The old master waited under the high arches. For six days she had shown him only one thing: how to stand and how to step. Today he wanted more. He wanted to strike. "Give me a real lesson," Damian said. "Footwork won't kill the man who scarred my mother." The master set a wooden practice sword in his hands. She pointed at a straw dummy near the far wall. "Hit it," she said. "Only once. Clean." Damian pictured the masked swordsman. His grip tightened. He lunged. The blade slashed the dummy, but his feet skidded and he stumbled past it. He caught himself against a stone pillar, breathing hard. "There," she said. "Every time. You do not swing a sword. Your anger swings it. And your anger has no balance." She tapped her cane on the floor. "Until you steady that, I teach you nothing but how to walk." Heat rose in Damian's chest. "I don't have time to walk in circles." "Then you have time to die." Her voice stayed flat. "The masked man does not lunge. He waits. He lets fools like you fall on his blade." Damian raised the wooden sword again. His raven landed on a rail above and made its dry clicking sound, the way it did when he failed. He froze. He knew that sound. He heard it every time his rage took the sword from him. He lowered the blade. He looked at the dummy. This time he did not picture the killer. He pictured nothing. He breathed out slow. His shoulders dropped. He stepped forward the way she had drilled, weight even, feet planted. Then he cut. The wooden edge struck the dummy square. His feet held. He did not stumble. The blow landed and stopped, clean, right where he aimed. Silence filled the hall. The master walked to the dummy and touched the mark he had left. She nodded once. "So," she said. "You can empty yourself when it counts." She turned and crossed the hall to a long chest against the wall. She opened it and lifted out a sword unlike any he had seen. Runes ran down its bright blade. Colored stones set the crossguard, and one blue gem burned at the center. "This belonged to my teacher. The masked man killed him for it and failed to take it. You will not touch it until you can hold your anger through a full match. But now I know you can begin." Damian stared at the gemmed sword. His hand ached to reach for it. "Real training starts tomorrow," the master said. "Steady one strike, and I gave you a lesson. Hold it through ten, and I give you that blade." Damian gripped his father's sword. For the first time, the path to the killer had rungs he could climb.