Convincing a Mountain to Move

Surprisingly, he didn't have to wait long. Provost Thomson's tenacity had to be her downfall. Lunging forward, Jacob leaped backwards and to the side, avoiding the attack entirely. Expecting him to make an attack following the opening, her sword moved to defend the predicted attack. Unfortunately for her, Jacob didn't attack with just his blade.

Clearing the way with a much-magnified sweep of his blade, he used his body as a battering ram to knock the woman off her feet. While he was much less agile than she was, his weight was a handy thing when it came to shoving people around. That being said, he didn't expect it to work too often against anyone other than maybe the women in Delreya; his height was shorter than average.

The Provost rolled to her feet, but the impact of the attack had left its mark. She was shaky on her feet, wobbling to catch her balance. Jacob capitalized on the weakness, going in for the finishing blow. Confident in his victory, Jacob effortlessly place his blade at his opponent's neck.

At least, he would have, if she hadn't ducked underneath the blade by nearly doing a split. Her sword's tip drew blood from his stomach, but it was just a pinprick. Had this been a real fight, Jacob would have been dead.

The infamous Sara Thomson, one of Steelshade's best warriors, rose to her feet. "You've got talent, Jacob of Leafburrow. It's unrefined, though. Your bladework is sloppy, but your actions are instinctual. It's an interesting dichotomy."

Jacob didn't know whether to feel complimented or insulted? Were her words an insult or praise? "Thank you, Provost. I haven't had more than a year, if even that, at training with the sword. Perfecting what I have begun is my goal."

Provost Thomson's gaze pierced Jacob's soul, as if she were searching for the truth of his words. She would find nothing but honesty, at least this time. ��If that's true, then you're exceptionally skilled for one with your level of training. I'd wager you're better than almost all the soldiers in the Fourth Infantry, even without your magic. Am I correct?"

"You are."

"Your teacher must have been tremendously gifted. I hope you appreciate the gift you have gotten. If you truly have progressed this far with an unsuitable weapon, I'm eager to see how well you'll adapt to that spatha of yours," the Provost began stretching with those words, relaxing after the tense combat. That begged a question.

"Why were you trying to kill me, Provost?" he asked. Provost Thomson paused her stretches, her hands on her thighs. Surprisingly loud, roaring laughter emanated from the small woman.

"You learn best through the threat of pain or worse. The wooden practice swords teach you to fear pain, but there is nothing more potent than fearing death." Her words caused Jacob to quiver in his boots. So then she had really only pulled that final blow? "I wasn't trying to kill you by the way," she added, seeing the horrified expression on Jacob's face.

"There are some corrections you will need to make. I'll expect you never to fall for feigned weakness like that again. It gets people killed, and it'll cost you the Tournament." Now, Provost Thomson was in full lecture mode, doing her best to mimic Jacob's old English teacher. That man could spot the tiniest mistake in his writing. It had driven Jacob nuts. "Your swings are telegraphed; I know exactly where they'll land before you even come close to me. Feinting isn't your strong suit; you have tells that show when you are bluffing. Fix that."

Jacob took note of all these flaws. Her brutal method of tearing down his fighting did no great favor to his pride, but Jacob knew that this was necessary. He'd be as brutal as needed if it meant earning that sword. That was only the first step of many that would see him a free man once more. Provost Thomson walked to the heavy oak door, spinning around to address Jacob one final time as she placed her hand on the handle.

"I heard about your encounter with Cynthia today."

Jacob's heart dropped. He really hadn't treated the girl well, and if half of her confidence was warranted, then this might have been his last sparring session with the acclaimed warrior.

"I apologize." Never in a million years had he expected the simultaneously stern yet mischievous Provost to say those two words in a sentence. "She's young with a head the size of a mountain. Her heart's in the right place, but you mustn't accede to her demands. It would do her well to have someone challenge her authority for once, other than yours truly."

"If, however, you do decide to teach her something, let it be swordsmanship. Her learning magic as I know she asked you – no, she didn't tell me – is illegal. She's wanted this since she was but a young girl, but a child of the main Thomson family is to learn the art of the sword. It's how it always has been and how it always will be. Please don't try to change that," the Provost requested, her tone so close to pleading that Jacob might have imagined it as a figment of his imagination.

"Convincing her to train with you in mundane fighting would be next to impossible, as I'm sure you probably know by now. If you can manage to do so, however, I will provide you information on all the locals competing in the Tournament. It's very valuable information, so don't consider my offer lightly."

The Provost left, leaving Jacob to his own thoughts. Tidying up the room while on autopilot, Jacob eagerly waited for the next day to come. Fighting the Provost was exhilarating. She moved at the peak speed a normal person could, while he moved even faster. That break in what Jacob had ever thought possible on Earth gave him a sense of wonder. Would he ever lose that feeling?

He hoped not.