His lungs ached from breathing cold air. Every breath he drew flowed down his throat like an icy river. As he exhaled, a white-gray cloud of frost emerged from his lips and dissolved, giving space for the next lungful of air.

Another gust of wind flew over the hills, throwing another rain of powder snow against Aryn’s face. His nose was already red and numb. Would the rest of his head face the same fate before this lesson would be over? Gods, it was cold out here! Chilliness raked his thick coat with ferocious power, its icy claws bit through every seam and gap of the warm armor Aryn’s mother had prepared for him. Clenching his teeth he adjusted his backpack into a better position and hurried after his master while sorting through all the synonyms for the term ‘slave driver’.

Pooka O’Silver made his way over snow quietly, absorbed in his own thoughts while absently watching white-covered trees in the distance. His long, black coat flowed in the chilly wind. Unlike his apprentice the swordsmaster looked completely unaffected by the freezing weather. It was as if he had made a pact with the winter itself.

Pooka was a tall and lean man with somehow… disturbing looks. His features were smooth and cool as if they had been carved out from marble. His hair was a long, flowing mane of unusual silver-gray color. His eyes were strange, too. They were golden, giving him a wolfish look. In the back of his coat there was a round design, a stylized silver dragon, its head raised into a triumphant roar as it rose into the heavens. This sign marked Pooka as a master of the Path of the Silver Dragon, an ancient and legendary school of swordsmen.

"When will our lesson start?" Aryn asked. His words were unclear as he had to clench his teeth in order to stop them from rattling.

Pooka muttered something before he turned around. The young apprentice wasn’t sure what he had said, but it had sounded suspiciously much like "Idiot."

"Ears", the swordsmaster began, switching the shoulder where he carried his incredibly long, slightly curved sword. Besides his weapon and a single shoulder bag under his coat, Pooka had let his apprentice carry all of their things. To increase endurance, he had said. Yeah, right.

"Lad, our lesson has been going on for several hours now. And I’ve got to admit that I’m surprised how much you have improved. It has been, say, at least ten minutes since the last time you grumbled and complained." Before his apprentice could utter a word, Pooka rolled his eyes. "Yes, I’m well aware that you want to learn more about fighting, but do I really have to dig out a hammer and use it to get the idea into your thick skull? If you just pick up a sword and go out swinging it, you’ll only get yourself killed. I don’t think that even your head is hard enough to deflect a good blow."

"You are thinking that you are so good", Aryn grumbled when he finally got a chance to speak. One of the first things Pooka had taught him was that whenever the Master was speaking, the apprentice listened and paid attention. And never, NEVER interrupted. "All you do is speak, speak and speak! Every time we have actually sparred we have exchanged only a couple of blows and then you have thrown me off my feet. You’ve never shown me anything great. Geez, what a challenge for a master swordsman!"

Pooka raised one eyebrow. He did that – as usual – in a superior and very ominous manner. It was a clear sign that Aryn was – as usual – treading dangerous grounds. Those golden eyes stared at him until the apprentice couldn’t help but to fear that the snow around him would start to melt because of pure discomfort.

"So", Pooka said slowly, "You want to see something great, eh? Fine, what if I make you a deal: if you promise to at least try to behave like a decent pupil, I will show you something great."

The wind hurled more snow past them as Aryn considered this. "Something really great?" he asked warily.

The swordsmaster nodded.

Impulsively Aryn made up his mind. Nodding vigorously he smiled. "Deal! Now show me."

"Hm? Eager, are you, Ears?" Pooka smiled mildly. He scratched his chin and turned his eyes to scan the snow-covered hills and trees around them. "I wonder what would be impressive enough to make you satisfied. No ogres around, it seems. How typical." Then his eyes brightened.

The wind had started to carry a new sound to them. Chop. Chop. Chop. Evenly the sounds of an axe at work echoed over the hills. Soon it was accompanied by another worker, and then yet another. With every strike the iron bit deeper into a tree, forcing frost-hardened wood make way. With every strike the axe sang its satisfyingly firm working song. Chop. Chop.

"Woodcutters?" Aryn asked.

"Aye", Pooka replied. He beckoned with his hand and set a brisk pace in the direction of the sound. "And I believe I know something that will hammer a little of respect even into your stony skull."

Aryn frowned. "You aren’t going to kill woodcutters, are you?" he asked with disbelief as he hurried after his master. This was rewarded with a disapproving glare from Pooka.

"Idiot. Such a deed is not great."

They climbed the hillside. The swordsmaster strode forward with easy, confident steps, his black boots hardly sinking into snow and leaving only faint tracks of his passing. The apprentice waded after him in a less graceful manner, struggling to keep up with his teacher. How can he walk like that, Aryn wondered bitterly while biting his lip.

As they reached the top and started to descend into a miniature dale between two hills, they saw a group of three peasants. Woodcutters they were, indeed. Swinging large axes with experienced grasps, they hacked the base of a tall and old fir at the edge of a little patch of trees. Each hit made a little rain of powder snow to fall off its branches. As Pooka and Aryn got closer, the peasants stopped their work and one of them stepped forward, raising his hand into a wave of greeting.

"Ho, woodcutters!" Pooka shouted, "I wonder if you could do us a little favor."

Almost instantly the foremost of the trio shook his head. "We have no money", he replied so quietly that it hardly got over the wind.

"We are no robbers, if you are afraid of that", Pooka said, running his hand through his long hair. "I am a teacher of the art of fencing and this little blockhead here is my apprentice." The swordsmaster lifted his hand into a rejecting gesture as the woodcutter drew breath for another reply. "Worry not. We are in no need of targets for practice. All I am asking is that if I could fell that tree for you?"

The three peasants exchanged puzzled looks. Aryn didn’t want to believe his ears. So, the great feat of the mighty master was to pick up an axe and cut down a tree?

The woodcutter who clearly was the eldest of their small group cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly: "Great master, why do you wish to do such a favor to us? We are but humble workers, we don’t want to get such attention."

"Because I promised to show this little imp here something big in exchange of acting like a proper apprentice. Cracking his skull won’t work. I’d just ruin my fist."

Again the trio exchanged glances. Without words they seemed to make their decision together. Then the oldest of them stepped forward and offered his sturdy axe to Pooka. "I don’t understand what this could teach to that lad, but if that’s what you want, go ahead."

The swordsmaster shook his head. "I won’t be needing that axe. After all, I have this." Slowly, almost enjoying the woodcutters’ wondering expressions, he drew his long sword from its scabbard. The blade was made of purest silver, it shone and glimmered whenever light touched its surface. Putting the sword against his shoulder he determinedly approached his opponent with long steps. The peasants withdrew hastily from his way, giving the magnificent silver blade both careful and admiring looks.

Standing before the doomed fir, Pooka slowly assumed his battle stance, standing straight and holding his sword leveled towards the tree. His dark coat billowed behind him like a pair of black wings. The sign of the dragon in his back seemed to shine, reflecting the snow all around him.

Moments passed in utter silence. Nobody dared to whisper so much as a single word. The wind tossed more powder snow over their heads, but it was completely ignored. The three woodcutters and a defiant apprentice, they all held their breaths, waiting for the master to move, to cut the fir down with a single slash. Heck, perhaps he would even cut a whole patch of trees down with that sword!

Pooka stood still.

Lack of oxygen started making Aryn feel a bit dizzy. Slowly he exhaled and drew another lungful of air to hold back. Quiet wheezes revealed that the others, too, seemed to be suffering from the same problem. The youngest woodcutter started to nervously shift his weight from one foot to another.

Finally, Pooka O’Silver, the legendary master of blade, moved. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out with his sword and swung it, cutting away a single, thin branch. Then he turned around and took a step back towards his audience. "The way of the blade is to know how to use it and when to use it. The greatest victories are always achieved with no need of a sword."

General disappointment hung heavily in air. All anticipation disappeared, the woodcutters sighed and exchanged sulky looks. Their expressions made it quite clear that they knew that they had been wasting their time.

"You’re thinking too much of yourself", Aryn groaned. "What a bag of wind."

His blade flying so fast that it was nothing but a silver blur, Pooka whirled around. The slash was over within an eyeblink. The swordsmaster had swung his sword in a wide, horizontal cut, so quick that it left Aryn and the woodcutters wondering if it really had happened.

For a moment everything was quiet. Pooka stood still, his glimmering sword left in the position where it had stopped, pointing straight to his right.

Then the tree shuddered.

With an utter finality it fell, its branches snapping and crashing. Tossing snow everywhere the fir slammed against the ground with a deafening bang. The place where the sword had bit into the tree was neat and smooth. The slash had been so quick that no wood chips had come loose.

Returning his sword to his shoulder Pooka O'Silver turned to his audience and tilted his head, his expression being that of a mild irritation. Then he lifted one eyebrow expectantly. Again several moments passed and nobody uttered a word. Finally, the swordsmaster spoke out:

"Finally satisfied? Good. We had a deal, Ears. You owe me a behavior of a good little pupil, starting from this moment."

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