Page 53 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The next morning, Ingrid and Tyla practiced close-range combat techniques.

The daggers they used were slightly longer than the throwing blades Dean always had strapped to his armored vest, with a slight curve at the handle to improve the grip.

Tyla demonstrated the importance of altering the distance from her opponent, staying further away at first, finding her footing, then letting them make the first move before closing in to jam the enemy’s strike, using elbows and fists to disarm and execute.

Ingrid was a quick study.

“Did you take any kind of martial arts back home?” Tyla asked, catching her breath.

Ingrid placed her hands on her hips, unsure if Tyla was goading her. “I was a black-belt in eighty-sixing assholes from my bar. Does that count?”

Tyla laughed, then fixed herself in a serious pose. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand that.”

“What do you mean you?—”

“Accent!”

Part of Ingrid’s training included speaking more like a true Viator, flair and pomp and all.

Tyla insisted they only use the accent and vernacular when training, so that it would be learned almost subconsciously.

While the flurry of attacks and physical exhaustion took precedence in Ingrid’s mind, the foreign pronunciation would become second nature.

Or, at least that was the hope.

Ingrid cleared her throat. “Right. Apologies. What I meant to say was, I was well-versed in tavern security.”

“Much better.” Tyla placed her hands on her hips, furrowing her brow. “But I wouldn’t do that face.”

“What face?” Ingrid was genuinely horrified. “Am I doing a face!?”

Puffing her chest, then contorting her eyebrows in her best rendition of what her student looked like to her, she said, “Yes. You are doing a face.”

“Mother, help me,” Ingrid said mockingly. It was nearly impossible to hide her embarrassment any other way. “Do I really look like that?”

Tyla nodded.

“Bullshit!”

An exhausted sigh escaped Tyla. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. I think you meant to say… what in Mother’s name .”

Ingrid started to correct herself, but shook her head once something occurred to her. “Wait, they know balls but not bullshit !? They have bulls here, don’t they?”

“They do.” Tyla hooked a thumb on the collar of her training vest. “Pretty sure the word bullshit has nothing to do with cattle, though.”

“Whatever. Can we just focus on actual fighting for now? You know, that thing that you were just complimenting me on? Remember?”

“Ahh,” Tyla tossed her weapon from one hand to the other, switching to her dominant hand. The sun beamed in from the enormous window, glinting off her sweaty forehead as she stalked forward. “So you want to fight? To really fight, then?”

Ingrid stiffened up. She’d only sparred once with Tyla using her true sword hand.

It had been a spurt of cockiness on Ingrid’s part, a mistake that ended with a dislocated finger.

The student had quickly learned her lesson and, looking at a possible repeat of that spectacle, all the confidence drained from her in seconds.

“Right, that’s what I thought. What I was saying was, you’re anticipating my moves no matter how often I alter my approach. That reeks of some experience in defensive martial arts. Or maybe just indicative of—and don’t get a big head about this—a sign of your power manifesting.”

“I’m in no danger of getting a big head,” Ingrid said, gesturing to Tyla’s dominant hand. “I know you’ve been holding back.”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m holding back. Levelling the playing field, yes. But holding back?” She grinned mischievously. “It’s not in my nature.”

It tracked. Ingrid had the bruises to prove Tyla was anything but a forgiving instructor. Welts the size of sword hilts littered her forearms and thighs. More than once, she’d ended a session tasting blood from a busted lip she’d incurred.

Though, she was getting better. She’d gotten comfortable enough in the basics to let her mind go blank and her body take the reins.

As a result, she’d tapped into some primal instinct that alerted her to where her opponent would strike next.

It wasn’t a perfect premonition. Tyla still won most of the sparring bouts.

But that fighting intuition was sharpening.

The sweat-drenched pair took their stances on the training floor. Tyla struck first, just like she’d taught Ingrid to elicit. Ingrid quickly parried, spinning to her right and pushing off the blocked attack so hard that Tyla nearly lost her balance.

Still, the apprentice waited as her master realigned, circling her like a tigress. Tyla slid to a knee for a low strike, missed, parried a quick thrust from Ingrid, then immediately came back at her student with an upward riposte.

Ingrid evaded, shuffling backwards on her heels.

“Almost had you,” Tyla snarled.

“Did you?” Ingrid was already back to center, balanced and ready.

Tyla rose to her feet and took a more relaxed, flowing position. Ingrid countered by drawing a second knife, knowing the more defensive technique her mentor was telegraphing had holes when the opponent could combo strikes in quick succession.

They inched closer, seeing all the possible moves play out before either actually swung. Circling. Waiting.

Ingrid saw an opening, took two quick steps toward Tyla, but hesitated and eased back into her trot.

“You missed it,” Tyla grunted. “You could’ve had me.”

“It wasn’t—you told me not to strike first.”

“Yes. But what happens if your opponent refuses to attack first?” Tyla moved forward, opened that same shoulder up, almost announcing a strike, but pulled it back just before she was into her swing.

“I’m waiting,” Ingrid said. “What happens?”

“That’s for you to answer,” Tyla snorted. “This is the next level of your training.” She continued to circle Ingrid, pulling her own second knife and twirling them in both hands.

Impatient, Ingrid lunged forward at the first opening she saw. Tyla had crossed her feet over as she picked up the pace of her defensive trot, which caused her hips to close off and her sword hand to drop back. Ingrid tried to take advantage.

But she was too slow. Once Ingrid had exposed her chest in the process of her strike, Tyla had spun to the floor again and rose up with an elbow, knocking the wind out of Ingrid, then pouncing on her.

“Bullshit,” Ingrid muttered. “You just taught me that first lesson so you could show off with this one.”

Ingrid slapped Tyla’s knife away, rolling out from under her.

“And so what if I did?” Tyla said. “Do you object to my teaching methods now?’

“No,” Ingrid blurted. “I mean, yes. I object. You got my confidence up and then you—” Her temper died down as soon as the lesson became clear.

The greatest mistake would be to assume she knew anything. The best lesson was to realize you could always learn more.

“Combat,” Tyla said. “Is about adaptability. Master all you can. But never rely on any of it. Each fighter is different. Even the most skilled swordsman can be figured out and exploited. With each new opponent, you learn to fight all over again.”

With unlabored grace, Tyla moved to the chair sitting just outside the fighting square. A carafe of fresh water was awaiting her there, with a set of large bronze cups set next to it. She poured one cup for herself, then one for Ingrid, beckoning her student with a lift of the drink.

Ingrid sat on the floor in front of her, catching her breath before taking a long, well-earned gulp. Staring at her teacher, she couldn’t help but note the lack of sweat on her brow and the ease of her breathing.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask.” The heavy thump of Ingrid’s heart caused her to pause. She took another long sip of water. “Who taught you to fight?” she asked after a moment.

She’d never posed this question before. All she knew about the twins’ background was that their parents were scholars.

“Karis taught me.” Tyla looked baffled that Ingrid hadn’t figured this out yet. “Who else?”

Ingrid shrugged. “I never really thought about it.”

It seemed a silly question now. Karis had started all this, recruited them for his army, and therefore, he must’ve been the first introduction to training of any kind.

Ingrid simply didn’t have enough information on Karis to make the connection.

With how important her predecessor was to her new friends, it was odd she knew so little about him. Odd, and inconvenient.

Maybe, she thought, if she knew more about Karis, she’d know more about her new friends. Dean, specifically. Ingrid had hardly seen him those last few days, a forgotten shadow in the light of day and tardy to every late-night meeting in the princess’s quarters.

“Can you tell me about it?” Ingrid asked. “Or, I guess, more about Karis?” She was inexplicably nervous as the question left her mouth.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

“Well,” Tyla said, setting her cup down. “To start, he was born in Hydor about a billion years ago.”

“I knew that part,” Ingrid interjected mindlessly.

“Well, excuse me, but you did say anything .”

“Right. Sorry.” Ingrid’s voice was stilted now, shy. “Go on.”

“Karis was born in Hydor about a billion years ago,” Tyla repeated, sticking her tongue out.

“It was a small village just outside the city, with this great view of the kingdom. Those spooky spires jutting into the clouds, those thrashing waterfalls pouring from the stone walls. Karis told me he’d grown up looking up at the castle every night, asking his grandfather if he could see the inside one day. ”

Tyla paused, deepening her voice. “ That’s entirely up to you , his grandpa always said. But don’t ask me about his grandpa because that’s all I know. He raised Karis. And then Karis left home when he was sixteen.”