Strings Turned to Steel

1587-12-13
Southern Plains

The plains opened in a long breath of dry grass. My lute creaked with every step.

Riders edged the horizon and then the dust, intent plain in their posture. No branch lay to hand. I set my feet as Merryen had taught and felt for the neck of the instrument. Line first. Point before edge.

The lead man closed. I slid aside and extended the lute on a straight path. The tuning pegs struck his wrist. Surprise took his grip and the sword rang on the stones.

Laughter rippled from the others. It died when the second cut came. I turned my shoulder, beat his blade away with the lute’s head, and drove the instrument forward like a thrust. Distance held. Measure kept. Their speed bled into hesitation.

One more tried the slash. I took the parry on wood, let the shock travel through my frame, and answered with a firm shove that opened space. Not artful. Clean.

They chose to ride with their pride instead of their winnings and left me to the wind. I checked the pegs, tuned to a quiet third, and listened to the strings settle.

Song and steel are not two roads. They are the same path under different weather.