War Bird

31. Dawn With Sleepless Eyes.

"At last!" Finlay is leaning against the doorway as I walk in. "I was beginning to think you'd chickened out."

"No way." I lift my chin. I’m a bit late after a horrid, restless night left me slow and cranky. After lying awake worrying about Birdie, I’d read the whole book of Runes to try and bore myself to sleep. It worked after what seemed like hours but the morning bell came all too soon. I hide a yawn. 

“So, in combat, there are several different spells you can use to defeat your opponent.” Finlay stretches his arms over his head and flexes his long fingers. “There are the standard spells, and then, there are spells particular to the person casting them. Tailor-made, if you like.”

"Tailor-made by who?"

"The Sorcerer, if they're powerful enough to come up with their own. Or in the case of an army, the Commanders."

“And that’s their job? Deciding what spells to use and when?”

“Just a small part of their role but yes. Our three are top Casters.”

“I thought there were four Commanders?” I remember our first day in the boardroom, Ed noticing the four chairs. “Who’s the fourth?”

Finlay shrugs. “We’ve never been told,” he says. “I’d suppose as we have a Rookery it’s a Rook Commander, but he’s rarely in house, always in the field. I’ve never met him.”

“Makes sense. Do we know who this Traitor is yet?” I stretch my arms over my head, ignoring the muscles protesting. 

“No, but I believe the Kestrels are trying their best.” 

“Is the Traitor a Rook, you think?”

Finlay stops warming up and stares. “What makes you say that?”

“They’re not exactly popular, are they?” I shrug. “From what everyone’s been saying, if anyone would betray their people for money, it’d be a Rook.”

“Let’s just say it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Finlay replies, resuming his stretches. “Money’s more important to them than anything.” 

“Don’t remind me.” For some reason I have a flash of my Dad, from a barbecue the estate had one hot summer, years ago. I remember his bare skin in the warm sun, the black bird inked proudly across his dark back. I swallow hard. He chose running off with our money over being a proper Dad. I hate the way it’s all adding up. Finlay’s looking at me weirdly, so I force a smile on my face. “So, what are we doing today?”

“Well, yesterday, we looked at Shield spells and the stun spells, but today we’re going to concentrate on the most common spell used in hand to hand combat.” He flexes his fingers and a long thin light appears in the air. He grips it, like a cricket bat, and crouches slightly. It looks kind of a like a...

“Is that a light saber?”

“A what? No, we call this a Cleaver.”

“Right.”

“What’s a light saber?”

“Forget it.”

Apparently the trick to producing most combat spells is forethought. Like you would when in a regular fist fight, and you want to hurt someone in a specific way, you do it, whilst your opponent tries to block you. The only difference when fighting with magic is that you swing your energy instead of your fists. The difficult bit is aiming the power with your mind. We set to work.

An hour of meditation and preparation later, and Finlay is standing behind me, watching as I try to generate a Cleaver of my own. He’s inches away, one arm on my elbow as he tries to keep my arm steady. Never mind concentrating on the magic, I  have to try not to lose my cool at how close he is. I can’t stop myself from leaning towards him, and I have to keep steadying myself upright. It’s distracting, and also humiliating. This isn't one of Mum's fluffy romance novels, it's my life. My death if I don't work out how to fight.