“You short. And alone. But fight like tall. Fight like many. Mistake. Will attract death. Focus on speed. Flexible. Maneuvre. In out, fast,” Darkclaw lectured.
Talia had found the diminutive beastkin peering gimlet-eyed at the comatose crew scattered about first haven as he helped the cooks start up the morning meal. Her request for training had earned her a feral grin from the battlemaster, as well as a slim portion of already unappetizing gruel flavoured with musklop fat and a pinch of salt.
Darkclaw had sat her down on one the clear benches, telling her to eat quickly—in his odd broken speech— while he went off to fetch training weapons. Which he apparently brought with him even on year-long expeditions into the Deep.
The short beastkin—his chin just barely topping the crown of Talia’s head—had then dragged her off into one of the many open spaces of the cave and handed her a sword that was just a little longer than her own, as well as a drearwood shield. Then he’d stepped back and told her to run through the forms she remembered.
The result had disappointed the battlemaster, who hadn’t been shy in voicing his disapproval. The blunt derision in his voice had stoked a kernel of anger in Talia’s throat, and she had to hold back from protesting.
I asked for training, not coddling.
Talia’s early training had seemingly been spoiled by Orvall’s patient instruction, more akin to a guiding hand on her back, gently pushing her into the right positions. Which wasn’t to say that her father hadn’t done his best—he had. But Talia, in her youth, while quiet and generally reserved, had possessed a rebellious streak a kilometre wide, hidden beneath the surface, and had been unimaginably stubborn when faced with something she hadn’t wanted to do. Combat training had most certainly fit in that category.
The young woman felt an upswell of gratitude for her ever-patient father in that moment. For knowing how to cajole her younger self into doing the needful, without pushing her so hard she would quit.
Unlike Darkclaw, who seemed to believe whacking offending limbs with a thin stone rod represented the pinnacle of combat education. And seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the act. When Talia had asked about books on tactics, the wiry beastkin had scowled like she’d insulted his mothers.
Whack
“Focus. Too weak, too sloppy. Legion training good bones. Good bones break with bad muscle. Good form most important. Not remember form. Feel form. Know form like hand, leg, face.”
Talia gritted her teeth, adjusting her stance with deliberate slowness. She had quickly learned that speed earned her smacks.
“Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast,” the battlemaster had repeated cryptically, like a mantra.
Whatever in Wyrr’s name that’s supposed to mean. How slow can also be fast is beyond me.
Talia pushed down rising irritation, reminding herself that while it wasn’t what she’d expected, she had asked for help, and the battlemaster was helping—supposedly.
She’d always been told that the unplanned and unexpected brought out the worst in her, and given the events of the past few weeks and her generally frazzled mental state, Talia wasn’t sure she could disagree anymore.
She bit back a sigh as she slowly shifted stances, bringing her training sword close to her body and raising her shield up above her head.
Just another thing to work on.
Wack
Eventually, after spending nearly three times what it usually took her to get through Orvall’s legion forms, Talia stopped. Her arms and legs were peppered with bruises, nerves jolting angrily with remnants of manaburn making themselves known. Stiff, tense patches of flesh and muscle around the scar on her chest screeched from abuse. Sweat coated her like a second skin.
“Acceptable,” the battlemaster harrumphed, “Take break. Quench thirst. Rest body. Then, sparring.”
Talia nodded blearily, without even registering the beastkin’s words.
In the back of her mind, her telepathy felt as if it was unspooling itself. Waking from a deep slumber to probe gently at the minds around her.
I’ll have to find Zaric next.
In the meantime, the sweaty mage focused maintaining a tight hold on her Core, hopefully preventing the paltry amount of mana that had begun to coalesce within it from escaping.
Talia dug her palms into her thighs, kneading the sore muscle vigorously as she caught her breath. Sweat cooled frostily on her skin, sending a chill through her suddenly still body. Never before had the basic forms Orvall had taught her as a child demanded so much focus and energy from her.
If that’s what it’s supposed to be like, then Orvall was going easy on me. Gods, why did I ask for this? I should just tell Darkclaw I changed my mind. Focus on mastering magic and my duties to the caravan.
Shame filtered its way through exhaustion like the steady drip of water from leaky plumbing. Apparently, all it took for her to give up was a tough teacher and a little discomfort. The young woman had always prided herself on being the best at whatever she strived to achieve, and yet, she realized that combat training had never been one of those things.
It had been a chore, she realized. A skill neglected because of its apparent uselessness to her. Like social skills. In her hubris, Talia had convinced herself that such things were unnecessary. Why bother trying, in any case, when who she was prevented her from being the best?
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Fighting had been just another thing she had no natural talent for. Talia was short, weak, and had to work hard just to hold a weapon properly. So, she had told herself that it was fine to simply appease her father. Eventually he had caught on, and their sessions had petered out until they had ended almost entirely.
Her social skills were the same. Talia’s appearance ensured that she always stood out, was always the oddity in the room. From her ghost-pale complexion, to her gem coloured hair and eyes, and her extra set of canines. Her fellow children had gone from being entranced by her vermillion locks, to being afraid of her smile.
And so, in the face of adversity, Talia had given up. What was the point of friendship, when the odds were so set against her? Instead of digging through the cave in, Talia had taken the path of least resistance, focusing on academics, where she excelled already. Loneliness had been quickly buried by pride, wit, and sarcasm.
Talia’s life thus far exemplified the easy way. Flow around obstacles towards areas where the currents of her mind could run free. To things where she didn’t have to try.
And all it took was getting magic powers, fleeing my home and almost dying multiple times to realize it.
Straightening her back, Talia decided then and there to push herself until she was the best delver she could be. If she had only applied herself in combat training even half as much as she had to her studies, then maybe she wouldn’t have had to rely on luck to survive her previous fights. And to be frank, in the end, resolve aside, she had little choice. If her focus remained as obsessively single-minded as it had back in Karzgorad, death in the Deep Ways wouldn’t be a question of if, but when.
Making a few friends for once in my life wouldn’t hurt, either.
“Alright, I’m ready,” she called to Darkclaw.
The beastkin moved to stand across from her, feral grin full of crooked, yellowed teeth plastered on his scarred face. He wielded a mock arming sword in his left hand and a thin wooden dagger in his right.
“Come. Fight sapients not prepare for beast. But hone instinct. Sharpen dull blade. Test bones,” he called.
Talia bobbed her head as if she understood, lifting her sore arms into a ready position and setting her feet. Her lengthening hair, black at the tips and red at the roots, fell into her face with a sweaty flop and prompted an annoyed huff.
“What are the rules of—” Talia started, but Darkclaw was already on her, long blade slashing at her in a downward crescent.
Snapping her mouth shut with a click, Talia responded, frantically bringing her shield up at an angle to deflect the strikes. Only to stumble forward when the blow she was expecting never hit.
Pain jabbed up from her kidneys and upper back. The wood of the beastkin’s weapons propelled her forward and then down to the ground.
Talia ate dust. In less than five seconds, she’d been beaten.
“Dead,” he declared.
The young woman flipped herself over angrily, glaring hotly at her smug opponent.
“I wasn’t—” Talia stopped and reminded herself of the promise she’d made scant minutes ago. Her protest trailed off into an angry snarl.
“Ughh. Go again!” she growled.
Darkclaw’s grin only stretched wider.
----------------------------------------
At some point, the pair’s sparring had garnered an audience. Delvers crowded around them in a circle, goading and egging them on. Darkclaw had seized on the enthusiasm, calling a break to gather more training weapons before handing them out to eager participants.
How did he justify bringing so much training gear on a delve?!
Unfortunately, Talia didn’t have time to ponder the mystery. The sadistic battlemaster sent opponent after opponent at her, only allowing her to rest when she collapsed or when she won.
Which meant she had to fight until she dropped, since she was outclassed by nearly every single one of her opponents. Her miserable performance only served to highlight how lucky she’d been thus far. Talia’s mother’s artefacts had clearly done much of the heavy lifting in her fights. Without them…
Talia got her rest—eventually— when her body gave out.
Oddly enough, though her body was exhausted, the longer she fought—and lost—the more energized she felt. All around her, delvers jeered, shouted and chanted. They called out advice and encouragement, growing fervent in rare moments that the young woman got the upper hand, and wincing sympathetically when she inevitably failed to capitalize on the opportunity.
To generally violent results.
It was only when she began to feel a semblance of bloodlust that Talia realized something was wrong. Jolting pain sprung from her chest down her tenderized limbs and into her arms. Her head felt full of pebbles. In a spurt of panic, the young woman clamped down tight on her Core, chocking off the thin trickle of mana that was feeding into her sense. The red haze that had clouded her vision faded quickly, and she found herself lucid again in the middle of the fight.
Just in time to catch a wooden axe blade to the face.
THWACK
Talia crumpled to the ground with a strangled yelp.
Oohhh—gods that hurt.
“Break!” the beastmaster cried with his incongruously high pitched voice.
Talia mumbled out something that may have resembled “Thank the gods.”
A furry claw with a missing pinky appeared in her vision, thick black keratin neatly groomed and shining like oil.
Huh. Never noticed that he was missing finger.
Careful to place her hand in Darkclaw’s padded palm, far from the sharp implements of death that topped his digits, Talia allowed herself to be pulled up from the ground. The cavern spun around her as the beastkin’s deceptively powerful frame tugged her upwards.
“Good. Strong bones. We mold into better. Rest now. Stretch. Tomorrow, strength and endurance,” he said, looking Talia over with a single discerning eye, his iris-less prosthetic inscrutable.
“You mean that wasn’t—” Talia gasped, spat out bloody spittle and shook her head before just settling on a nod.
The beastkin had already wandered off, using the opportunity presented by the crowd to run the crew through their paces. As she settled in to stretch her sore body, Talia heard the spectators turn on one of their own, singled out by Darkclaw and told to fight.
“Well, that was…interesting,” Zaric’s voice rose from behind her.
Talia groaned, coming out of a frankly pathetic pair of splits, and turning to look at the man with exhaustion in her eyes.
“If by interesting, you mean brutally painful and humbling, then you’re right,” she moaned.
The tall mage chuckled, freshly shaved and smelling like he’d just showered.
“Yes, I can’t imagine anyone informed you that Darkclaw doesn’t condone half-measures.”
“Now he tells me! If only I had known…” Talia joked.
Zaric raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“What possessed you to ask him to train you in the first place?”
Talia swallowed thickly, casting her eyes back towards the raucous group of delvers.
“I—I, uh, almost died. I had to do something you know? I was going to ask you as well, but I saw him first.”
“Ah. The realization of your mortality. As good a reason as any other, I guess. My methods for getting you combat ready will likely be less gruelling, but don’t think they’ll be any less painful. Magic is not for the weak of will.”
Talia tore her gaze from the fighters, fixing the mage with a sober stare.
“If I don’t regain some measure of control, Zaric. I don’t know if I’ll make it to the end of this,” she whispered.
The mage paused, scrutinizing her for a moment. Whatever he saw in her eyes twisted his lips into a grimace that tried to be a smile.
“I can understand that. If you’d like, we can start today.”
“Yes! I mean, of course,” Talia said.
“Perfect. Your first task is to clean yourself up. You’re dripping blood everywhere, and you stink.”
A jester’s smirk contorted his mouth, and a sparkle of mirth had returned to the jovial mage-commandrum’s eyes.
“Riiightt—” Talia replied, a slight blush colouring her face.
Zaric winked at her and walked off, calling out as he did.
“Meet me in wagon seven when you’re done!”
Talia shook off her exhaustion.
The day is just beginning.