Day 55, 10:15 AM
“The society that separates its scholars from its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting by fools.”
— Thucydides
I finish my morning stretches and breakfast before I head out to train with the troops. The morning drills take two hours. A retired army captain and former drill master enlisted to help us train our army. The man is loud, his sudden shouts make me jumpy, and I do my best to follow his instructions to the letter.
Unfortunately, his training regimen is not that useful for me. Militia train by repeating the same motions over and over again. Meanwhile, I memorize the move immediately, and after three to five repetitions, my form is good enough. The basic ‘move your shield to bash away the enemy, then slash down with your sword’ is crystal clear after doing it twice, yet the troops kept repeating it for half an hour straight, each move following the drillmaster’s ‘Bash! Slash! Step back!’.
“Sir Jeorge,” I call the man, “do you have time for some personal training with me? And is there anyone in the city who would make a good sparring partner for me? I would like to start with the staff and with unarmed combat, but I think I can build up and learn the spear and eventually a guisarme and a war hammer.”
“Just call me Jeorge, General Aang,” Jeorge says, licking his lips. I need one look to know he wants to refuse my request, but doesn’t know how.
“I’m aware I may sound overconfident. However, I am willing to train sixteen hours a day, and I am open to all suggestions and criticism. You just have to explain what I’m doing wrong, and I’ll work hard to fix it.”
Jeorge looks to the side, left then right. An instinctive reaction of startled prey searching for an escape path.
Am I that menacing?
“I have a friend who was a fine spearman.,” he says finally, looking at my lips, smiling nervously. “He can probably give you some advice about how to wield the staff. However, I’m just a swordsman, General Aang. I can’t teach you much about what you wish to know.”
He didn’t look me straight in the eye once while speaking, but it doesn’t matter whether he trusts me or not. As long as he’s willing to try.
“I would also appreciate it if you could spar with me this afternoon. You use a training sword while I use my staff, padded for safety. I’ll give it my best shot, and you can give me advice and propose future exercises, depending on my performance. What do you say?”
Jeorge breathes in, but holds back a sigh and nods. “I’ll seek you out after I’m done with the recruits.”
“Thank you,” I say with a smile, firmly shake his limp hand, and head for the grand hall. Manny told me this morning she would commandeer the chamber for my sake. I don’t really get it, but I go there anyway.
Manny is already there, sitting at the giant banquet table, penning a letter while an elderly woman sits next to her, scribbling away on another scroll. I take in the assortment of vellum scrolls, inks, and quills, fascinated by the medieval stationery.
They have a small bowl of sand to dry the ink faster, fine brushes, and there’s a stamp-like wooden implement I’ve never seen before. There are also five sealed envelopes.
They’ve been at it for at least three hours, and they only have five finished letters.
I guess it just goes to show how much care they are putting into their work.
Manny finishes writing her word or letter and replaces the quill into the inkwell before checking who has entered the room.
“You are here.” A breathtaking smile blooms on her face, and I wonder whether she thought I would bail on her today.
I feast my eyes on her. She’s wearing an emerald-green dress with white frills and fluffy bows. The bodice has tight-fitting, long sleeves, reaching her wrists and a turtleneck covering her elegant neck all the way to the chin. She’s not wearing any makeup. She doesn’t need it to look divine.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and all the various facets of my personality stand behind the statement.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
My words, while true, seem to be shocking. A quill screeches on parchment, and I tear my eyes away from my goddess to glance at the scribe.
“Shaky old hands,” she mumbles, reaching for the sand and the wooden implement.
The crone would have died if she heard me say, “I want to feel your screaming orgasm.” God, why would anyone ever say that? I’m embarrassed about it even now. I can’t believe I was unlucky enough for that to stick instead of getting overridden by Redo.
Manny’s lips and chest are shaking as she’s struggling not to laugh. My face turns red, and Manny’s chest shakes with greater vigor. An awkward silence descends the room, the only sound is the old lady rubbing the sand against the vellum with the stamp.
I see. It scrapes off the ink.
Focus. Speak.
I gulp.
“I’m here. What can I help you with?”
Manny clears her throat. “Oola, could you please find Gomer? I want him to read a book for Sir Aang.”
Oola stops scraping and gets up. She curtsies and leaves.
“I take it you like the dress?” Manny says when the large double door clicks closed.
“It’s nice,” I say. “You look better without it. Could you tell me what your plan is?”
“I will wear pretty dresses.” Her smile turns mischievous. “Then I will let you undress me every evening until you grow bored of it.”
I cock a brow. “I was married for fifteen years. You never grow tired of seeing the woman you love naked. Not when her stomach grows riddled with scars, not when her breasts grow saggy, never. Now, you know that’s not what I was asking. Why do we need such a large chamber for writing letters?”
“You are exempt from letter writing. From today onwards, I expect you to listen to Gomer reading books for you while training for at least six hours a day.”
I blink. With my levels and Anarchist’s skills my intellect is four point five times nimbler than an average human’s and three point forty-five times more powerful, but I still don’t think I can do advanced accounting and tome cross referencing without a quill and a sheet of paper. My mind is busy enough keeping careful track of everything that has happened within the last two weeks, along with live commentary on what I should do better, if I get a chance.
“You expect me to crack secrets and find carefully obfuscated irregularities, which someone reads for me while I’m sparring? Manny, you’re overestimating me.”
She lifts the thick book from the table, showing me an intricate piece of bejeweled, golden calligraphy on maroon leather depicting one word, ‘Warfare.’
“This is the fundamental manual on how to wage war. Every commander worth anything in the entire continent knows its contents by heart. It will teach you how a leader and a strategist thinks. How they win.”
She glares at me, her eyes blazing.
My heart pounds. I gulp. She’s becoming more and more like that goddess from our first escape, her gravity threatening to incinerate me.
I want to tear her dress and ravage her right there. I thirst for sex, violence, for that moment when I fear for my life, for her life.
It’s strange. I believed I wanted to lead a boring life for two months in the safety of these walls. To eat and drink, to sleep and make love, and yet, not a full day has passed, and I’m craving for the open field, for adventure, for struggle, for savagery.
Is this the core of human nature? Of our misery?
We stare at each other, and seconds pass. The only thing on my mind is when will that damned Oola come back.
“When is Oola coming back?” I ask, my breathing rough.
“She will take five minutes. At least.”
I pounce on her after she says, ‘five minutes.’ I’m tempted to rip the dress, but settle for a deep kiss. She returns it, and I can feel her heart pound against my chest, beating as hard as mine. I squeeze her buttocks and try to spread her legs, but she pushes me away, gasping for air.
“Later,” she pants, “tonight. Until then, we have to work hard to survive. This is not a game. We have started down the road which ends in one of three ways. We die, the king dies, or the country fractures and outside forces devour us, meaning both sides die. I’m writing diplomatic letters now, calculating which of these lords will gather into a coalition army and attack us to curry favor with the king. I believe we have some five to six weeks before they strike.”
I nod. I’m already aware of all her calculations. I’m not sure which Manny I already discussed the matter with, but I know it happened more than two weeks ago, and I know the gist of it. The king will march on us next spring, he may send a probing army before the winter or assassins at any point.
I’m acutely aware nothing can stop a determined assassin. At most, you can make things hard for them. And I plan to do everything in my power to make their mission a living hell.
“If you know that,” she says, “you know we cannot mess around.”
I nod again. “I will take these matters seriously. I remember some things about warfare. For example, there was a famous quote, ‘Know yourself, know your enemy, and you will be forever victorious.’”
She gives me an odd look.
“It means,” I explain one of the few Sun Tzu quotes I know, and then we dabble in amateurish debates on tactics and strategy. I’m explaining the concept of a cannon and how Napoleon won a battle on a frozen lake by showing the importance of understanding the terrain and using it, when Oola and Gomer knock on the door.
“Enter,” Manny says and the pair of elderly servants enters the hall.
I spend the next four hours doing calisthenics and learning about what Vazzen the Wise had to say on troops, equipment, weapon types, morale, and terrain when Jeorge enters the hall and my real training starts.