075 – Lessons

***

The power hammer banged away on a mass of spiritual steel. Red, white, and green sparks flew off the hot iron with every impact. The glowing sword blank had taken on the right dimensions, more or less, and was ready for the grinding wheel. It needed a beveled cutting edge.

I laid the cooling piece of metal in a ceramic case filled with alchemic materials. Magic added another dimension of complexity to smithing. Shaping a workpiece with rough hammer blows caused its lunar essences to leak out, which could lower the quality of the spiritual steel. To remedy this, it needed an ‘essence bath’ at various stages of production. The metal would sit in the sealed case for a day or two, rebinding the aetheric substances to the physical matter.

I ventured on new grounds with this project. No one could offer advice on this aspect of magical smithing. It thus required trial and error. These experiments and mistakes prolonged my work. But on the positive side, the experience would reduce the time needed for subsequent swords. I actually enjoyed this sort of work, so it almost served as form of meditation, a time of rest from my worrisome duties.

“Aren’t you done with that sword yet?” Hwilla asked.

“Not at all,” I answered. “It still needs grinding and polishing and quenching and carburizing. The very last step is to inscribe it with runes.”

“Now you don’t have a sword to fight with.” She pointed to my old sword hanging from the wall. All the furniture was removed from the blade. It would have been very uncomfortable to swing a sword by the metal tang without a proper grip. “We’re going to face off against the rebels soon.”

“I have my staff. And if necessary, I can use a non magical sword.”

I had knicked one of Malisent’s straight swords from her turret to use as a model. She went through blades so quickly she needed to keep a whole armory stocked with extras. She wouldn’t notice if one or two went missing.

Modern people commonly used body parts as standard measurements: hands, feet, cubits, paces, and so on. This was convenient, because a person always had a ruler with them. However the people themselves didn’t come in standard sizes. A short person’s cubit would not be the same for a tall person with long limbs. Bladesmiths traditionally used the client’s measurements for crafting blades. The blade of a straight sword was three fingerwidths wide. The length of a war sword, tip to pommel, was exactly the length between a person’s chin and toes while standing upright. A sword fit its user just as much as a suit of armor. Malisent’s swords felt small and light in my hands.

“This is the training day for Groskip. And it’s almost noon.”

“Alright. I’ll get ready.” I tossed aside my leather apron and wiped the soot off my face. People in the citadel already saw me as something of a slob, due to always being covered in paint and soot from the workshop. Now the hot sparks from the forge burnt holes in my already tattered uniform. It was very ignoble of me.

I grabbed my mask and staff.

We met with Nimblesto in the goblin market, where the noisy little merchants plied their wares. They sold all sorts of random things harvested from the valley: brightly colored bugs that could ground up into dyes, turtle shells, quills of river urchins, dried leaves that made a soothing incense to cover up the foul smells of the citadel. They also sold a few types of fruit with toxic rinds but wholesome flesh within, some of the valley’s only plants edible for humans.

“Human go up. Slave stay hall. Slave stay hall,” Nimblesto said.

“Skip went to the upper levels? What time?”

“Sun go up. Moon glow quarter.”

“Alright then. Now’s our chance.”

I flipped a coin to Nimblesto, and he snatched it from the air. The goblin merchants had adapted to the local economy, now trading in goods, beads, coins, or credit. The most successful of these tiny entrepreneurs had invested their wealth in outrageous hats dripping with decorations. The new fad was to stack up four or five hats of different colors and tie them in place with a string. Nimblesto’s red cap was no longer the height of goblin fashion. He was quite outmoded.

Groskip met with his grandfather in the highest level of the citadel. The general had taken up residence in apartments close to the dark lord’s throne room. The goblins didn’t dare trespass into the sections of the citadel where the officers lived, so our network of tiny spies lost sight of him. We had to move quickly.

Nimblesto stationed himself outside of the Hall of Discipline with a bone flute. He would keep an eye out for Groskip and Grotrok. Should they return early, he’d give us a warning signal. Hwilla and I and charged through the front door.

“What? You?” one of the henchman gasped.

The young noblemen had trashed the Hall of Discipline. It was in even worse condition than the last time I visited. Ashes spilled out of the fireplaces. Laundry piled up in the corners. Empty wine bottles and goblets littered the tables. Soiled furniture had been dumped on the balcony. It looked worse than a college dorm room.

Not only had they converted our training facility into a filthy bachelor pad, the rakes had the nerve to invite girls over. Four female sparks bolted from a velvet couch on our arrival. The girls hid their shamefully exposed faces and quickly donned their skull masks. The Hall of Discipline had become a den of corruption and sexual decadence.

“Greetings, juniors,” Hwilla said. “It’s time for today’s lesson.”

She wasted no time with a preamble and didn’t give the junior disciples a chance to prepare for our assault. The girls screeched as Hwilla shot past them like an arrow. Her new enhancement technique sped her movements to superhuman levels.

Hwilla chose her target, which left the other one for me. I charged forward to meet him as he scrambled to grab his sword. With an overhead swing, my staff came down in a powerful arc. The henchman rolled away before it struck the spot he had been sitting. The couch cracked it in half. He drew his sword and tossed aside the scabbard.

“Aren’t you going to salute your senior?” I asked.

“You bastard!”

“No, the name is Strythe. I don’t believe I’ve heard your names yet.” Wide sweeps from my staff drove him back across the hall. I wanted to give Hwilla room to fight and give the minion girls a chance to flee to safety before things got too serious.

“I am Lunpallistro of Vrenellia, Scion of House Zaegzidora,” he said as if trying to draw courage from all the extra syllables in his name.

“Yeah. There’s no way I’m going to remember all that, junior. Let’s shorten it to something easier, shall we?” I jabbed him lightly in the chest, knocking him back. “From now on, your name is ‘Lump.’ ”

He thrust the tip of his sword at me. “Peasant!”

“What about your fancy friend over there? Does he have a name or is he just henchman number two?”

“He’s Chungrello, Scion of House Morztik-Ashmont-Grethenya.”

“Too long. Way too long. As of today, he will be known as ‘Chunk.’ Yes, that sounds about right. Lump and Chunk and Skippy. A fine trio of students.”

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My words enraged Lump. A single-named commoner blithely dismissing his aristocratic heritage cut into his pride. The fact I fought him using a wooden staff, the most humble of weapons, deepened his shame. One thing I liked about nobles was how easy they were to taunt.

I wacked at Lump with my spinning staff. Its greater reach forced him on the defensive. He fell back, tripping now on then on bunched up patches of carpet or dirty dishes left on the floor. This place was a pigsty.

Our duel demonstrated to me how far I had advanced since first stepping foot in the Hall of Discipline. Sparks had the potential for magic but no exceptional abilities. Once they enkindled their souls, the inner fire transformed them into swordsmen in a period of explosive growth. Lump had just begun his journey. He was still close to the human base line. Zambulon and Yurk had come to the end of that initial stage. From here on, those two would have to acquire techniques and improve their skills to become stronger. My own growth put me somewhere in the middle and well ahead of Lump. He couldn’t beat me in a fair fight.

Lump took a dozen strikes from the butt end of my staff. Bruises covered his body and his face started to swell. Frustrated with being beaten like a rug, he made a reckless attack aimed at my staff. He hoped to chop the wooden pole in half with a fearsome swing. I blocked his saber.

“Weak. There’s no fire in your sword, Lump. You won’t cut through a twig with sheer muscle power. What have you three been learning in here? Kissing girls and drinking wine? Noble pursuits, but they won’t save you in a fight.”

I delivered a kick directly to his chest. Lump flew back into the practice dummies. They all fell over in a disordered heap.

“Switch!” Hwilla called out. We rolled past each other to face off against a new opponent.

Hwilla had mostly used a Yurkian style for fighting Chunk. She beat him senseless with kicks and punches. But she had also given him plenty of light cuts. His clothing was in bloody tatters.

“Chunk, this place is inexcusable. I expect you to clean it, top to bottom, before your next lesson.”

“How dare you? My name isn’t Chunk, you wretch.”

He slashed at me with his saber. Chunk had already exhausted his meager supply of mana fighting with Hwilla and now made slow, artless attacks. I flicked aside his blade and touched him on the forearms and wrist with my spinning staff. His sword dropped from his hands.

“Until you earn the rank of an officer, your name is whatever I tell you it is.”

Chunk dove for his sword, but it skittered away just before he grabbed it. The levitation device at the end of my staff sent it spinning across the room.

“You and your friends to chose to ignore the existing regime and replace it with one based on physical strength. That was a bad idea, Chunk. But we’re going to give you exactly what you desire… Befuddling Fist.”

I punched the disciple in the chin, sending a blast of fire into his skull. He stiffened up and then went totally limp like one of Hwilla’s rag dolls. Chunk collapsed on the floor unconscious.

“Time’s up,” Hwilla announced.

We darted out of the Hall of Discipline to the citadel’s promenade. Hwilla was practicing her new technique, which burned an intense amount of mana, so our raid had a time limit. We had planned to fall back after a minute of fighting no matter the outcome.

“Ha ha. That was easier than I thought,” she said. “I told you I could beat them one on one. But fending off three blades at once burns mana too rapidly.”

“That’s the eternal drawback of enhancement. You better get used to relying on ambushes.”

“So what did you ascertain?”

“They’re pathetic. Even for newly enkindled swordsmen. They’ve ignored basic training for power and sparring for skill. Skip might have shared some lessons about augmentation with them, but they haven’t done anything with projection or enhancement. They haven’t fed their fires.”

I waved my hand to project a luminous mist in front of me. The glowing cloud coalesced into the shape of a codex. The cover of the book opened and the pages flipped past.

“What in the hells is that?” Hwilla squeaked.

“It’s Putrizio’s Observations. I’ve transferred all my books into a more accessible format.”

Hwilla passed her hand through the book, causing it to dissipate into a swirling cloud. The book slowly reformed. “Why is it a ghost?”

“On my long camping trip, I found carrying a physical book to be troublesome. I lost half my notes when I fell in the river. So this daemonic notebook will replace it.” I held up my hand to display a silver ring with an onyx stone. The spirit of a tiny jewel-beetle resided within. “Projecting a little bit of fire can create a handy book that weighs nothing and never gets wet in the rain.”

Hwilla moved to my side and craned her neck to look at the flipping pages. I had to admit I was a little proud of my invention. Using daemonics to store text was nothing new, but I had created a new type of illusory interface. This eliminated the need for a display screen, but as with my modern version of the lev rod, it could only be used by magi.

The codex opened up to the sections on fighting styles, schools of swordsmanship, and sects.

“These three idiots come from a place called Vrinellia. Which I assume is an island somewhere.”

“It’s in the north east. Close to Olzban and the celestial isles of the elves.”

I shrugged. “Well, wherever it is, the book has an entry on its schools of swordsmanship. From what’s written here, it looks as though those two trained in the Night Quiet Saber School. It emphasizes complex footwork and rapid shifts in distance. That’s a bad match for swordsmen specializing in augmentation. From their poor performance, I’d guess they never trained against opponents with a staff, spear, or polearm.” The pages of the book showed illustrations of dueling figures.

“So they learned from an expensive academy and have no real experience,” Hwilla said.

“Yes. Their school probably taught with two outcomes in mind. The sparks that failed would go on to become lesser nobles halfway competent with a blade. The sparks that enkindled would advance to a local sect whose styles harmonized with that of the beginner school. But these three have taken a radically different course. They’ve traveled here to learn augmentation and turn into muscle freaks, which doesn’t fit their current style.”

“Curses. That makes them easier to beat in a fight but hard to train later. They’ll be as bad as you after you conked your head. As their seniors, we’ll have to give them remedial lessons.”

“Good luck with that.” I patted her on the back.

“You’re going to help me.”

“I’ll help subdue them. Teaching classes is too time consuming for me. I have too many swords in the oven already.”

“I think, Strythe, that you’re an excellent student after all. You’ve learned from Putrizio how to dodge your responsibilities and vanish when things get difficult.” A skull hid her face, but I knew she was giving me a sour look. “We are going to give the rebels daily instruction. Every day a beating. They’ll learn whether they want to or not.”

***

The initial ambush probed our oppontents’ fighting style and ability. In the following days, Hwilla and I launched further attacks, giving our three juniors no respite to heal from their wounds. Whenever possible we caught them alone or in pairs and then gave personalized lessons in brutality.

When Skip trained with his grandfather, we attacked the other two, but sticking with that would make us too predictable. So our assaults came at random intervals and at all hours. Once, in the middle of the night, we burst into the dorm room and beat them senseless before they could rise from their beds. Another time, Skip was alone in the bath, so we rushed in and beat him bloody. I held him down on the floor with a pair of shears and cut off his hair, for tradition demanded that the Faceless and disciples keep their heads shaved. We spotted Chunk alone on his way to the privy and then pushed him down the old elevator shaft that now served as a vertical sewage main. Hwilla was especially devious in arranging ambushes. She tracked down the four girls who had visited the Hall of Discipline and forced one to deliver a message to Lump, requesting a secret rendezvous at a lonely terrace off the promenade. He arrived expecting love but received his daily lesson in pain instead.

After suffering constant abuse, the trio decamped from the Hall of Discipline. They roamed the citadel hoping to find safety in public spaces. That was a mistake. We found them one day strolling through the goblin market. We attacked, sending the goblins screaming from their stalls. I kicked Chunk into a barrel of tar and Hwilla dumped a bundle feathers on his head, making him look like a giant chicken. When they ate at the dining hall, we ambushed them mid-meal. Hwilla dragged Lump down the long tables, smashing him headlong into the bowls and dishes of food. The three rebels loitered in level negative two with the Warcreeps, as the only person they could turn to for protection was Grotrok the Reaver. But the lower level’s winding passages made perfect spots for unexpected ambushes. We laid in wait outside the Ugloid’s shrine to the sea titan and sprang out on the juniors as they passed by. After bashing them senseless, we stripped them down to their undergarments. Skip had to borrow soiled brown robes from the workers to get back home.

The intensity of our warfare increased, but the pompous young nobles persisted in their rebellion. I worried that if things continued in this manner we might kill or maim one of them. Senior disciples had a great deal of latitude for maintaining order in the ranks, but didn’t have the right to actually murder anyone. A young swordsman was too great an asset to be wasted. And Grotrok the Reaver would be personally angered by the mistreatment of his descendant.