“Sir Markus?” Rankins’ voice pulled Markus from his thoughts. “Sir Nargen asks that you come to the training yard. He says that the Royal Instructors are here.”
“Thank you Rankins,” Markus said, standing from his seat and pulling his shield onto his back. “Let’s go.”
As Markus followed Rankins through the Church’s corridors, he couldn’t help but feel as though he were being escorted to an executioner’s stage. The tight feeling of nerves in his back that knotted together and made him feel as though he couldn’t breathe, coupled with Rankins’ own obvious nerves, made him move stiffly, each step an echoing promise of pain.
“You know,” Markus said, finally breaking the silence, “this feels like it’s going to be really bad, but something tells me that no matter what happens, we’ll both be fine.”
As Markus felt his tenseness fade with his quiet chuckles, he didn’t see Rankins’ own small relieved smile, though he did see that he began to walk less stiffly and his shoulders relaxed from their forced posture. From there, they continued their walk in silence until they came to the door that led out into the training yard that Nargen had gathered the two instructors to.
“Everything alright, Rankins?” Markus asked one final time as they paused before the door.
“Yes, Sir Markus,” Rankins said with a smile that Markus saw this time. “I’m just feeling very nervous. It’s an entirely different feeling than when I have to speak to Sir Nargen.”
“I hear that,” Markus agreed, returning his smile with one of his own. “Nargen’s not so bad once you get to know him a bit, but who knows how these other two will be.”
“Indeed,” Rankins agreed, waiting for another moment before speaking again. “No sense in waiting out here for the gods to open the door for us. Shall we?”
“If you insist,” Markus agreed.
With a slight creak that resounded through the nearly empty hall, Rankins opened the door and followed after Markus as they entered the training yard. Markus looked around the yard and examined the sandy sparring ring lined with wooden racks of blunted training weapons and a single row of crude dummies that stood at attention on the nearer side of the yard. Unlike the first training yard that he had sparred with Nargen in, this one didn’t have targets made of cloth and hay hanging from the far wall, fenced off from the yard.
“Sir Markus,” Nargen’s stiff voice greeted him. “Squire Rankins. Good of you to join us.”
“Sir Nargen,” both young men greeted the Grand Paladin with slight dips of their heads.
“Here, on my left is Instructor Janks of the Royal Guard Instructors,” Nargen said, motioning toward the large man with dark hair that was sprinkled with gray. “He is in charge of teaching their new recruits how to use shields of all sorts effectively.”
“Thank you for your time,” Markus said with a slight bow toward the heavy muscular Human man.
“I’ll see how good you are with that tower shield,” Janks said in a surprisingly soft voice. “Once I know that, I’ll run you ragged with it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Markus said.
“Over here,” Nargen said, pulling Markus’ attention from Janks to the slimmer, older man with a shock of white hair and scarred arms that spoke of a lifetime of hard work on a dozen battlefields, “is Instructor Rook. He is charged with teaching the Royal Guard to use swords. He is also one of the few known masters of Swordplay.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, sir,” Markus said with another bow toward the man.
“Godfrey said we’ll start with your swordsmanship,” the man said, eyes serious and voice stern. “Draw your blade, drop your shield. I’ll see how you are without it before we move on.”
“I’m really bad,” Markus said as he set his shield down and drew his bastard sword with a rasp of leather on metal as Janks sighed and shook his head while he, Nargen, and Rankins moved off the sand.
“I’m sure you are,” Rook said, pulling his own longsword from his waist and settling himself to wait for Markus’ attack. “That’s why we’re training you.”
“Bad didn’t cover your ineptitude,” Rook’s voice rang in Markus’ ears as he gasped for breath on the ground, body sore and bruised. “I know exactly where to start you in your training now, though. Janks, he’s all yours.”
“Thank you, sir,” Markus gasped out as he tried to roll over and push himself to his feet with leaden arms.
“Want some help, son?” Janks’ softer voice sounded odd to Markus after nearly an hour of being beaten black and blue by the sterner, harsher Rook.
“Thank you, sir,” Markus said, forcing himself to stand without the man’s help. “What’s first?”
“Water,” the large man grinned, offering a full skin to him. “And then we’ll do some stretching for a few minutes and I’ll start working with you on your shield. Unlike Master Rook, I can’t just beat you halfway to your grave and know exactly how to train you.”
Gratefully, Markus smiled and nodded at the man as he accepted the waterskin and drank deeply from it. After swallowing, he couldn’t help but ask a question.
“How long have you been an instructor for the Royal Guard?”
“Around fifteen years,” Janks said with a nod, after thinking for a moment. “They let me stay closer to home so I can raise my daughter and keep my wife happy. That alone makes the work worth it.”
“That’s great,” Markus grinned. “How old’s your daughter? How long have you and your wife been married?”
“My little Alexandra’s turning fourteen at the Summer Solstice,” Janks said happily. “As for Helena and I, we’ve been together for nearly twenty years.”
“I can’t imagine that,” Markus said. “My longest relationship only lasted about two years before she dumped me. Said I was too childish.”
“Loving someone is about more than just being mature with them,” Janks said. “If you can’t laugh and play games with them as easily as you can discuss the harder topics then you’re not going to make each other truly happy.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“That’s pretty wise,” Markus observed. “Mind if I steal that from you?”
“Go ahead,” Janks said with a laugh. “I stole it from my grandfather, gods rest his soul.”
“Now,” Janks said, voice turning serious. “Let’s get back to why we’re here.”
“I’ve never been so sore,” Markus gasped as Janks looked down at him without pity. “Is it too late to go back and make different life choices?”
“Always,” Janks said. “You’ve done pretty good though, most new recruits don’t have your range of motion or your musculature. They’re all pampered noble brats that are fourth in line for the family seat, so I have to whip them into shape. Takes them at least a year before they’re ready to hold a shield, much less a sword.”
“Are you done with him, Janks?” Rook asked impatiently.
“I am,” Janks nodded at the older man respectfully. “Are we ready to begin?”
“If you’re done with him then yes,” Rook said, motioning Janks to follow him as he kept speaking. “I have some ideas for the integration of Fury into the Style and I wanted your thoughts on the matter. Additionally, I think it would be best if we work to make…”
As the two instructors left Markus’ hearing, he groaned and pulled himself to his feet before looking around and seeing Rankins, covered in dust and sweating, taking a long pull from a waterskin as he sat on a low bench with Nargen beside him.
“How’d you do?” Markus asked as he sat heavily beside Rankins and Nargen produced another waterskin for him.
“Not as well as I thought I would,” Rankins admitted. “Instructor Rook was very harsh.”
“I’d rather that than have him not teach us anything,” Markus said. “At least Janks wasn’t that bad.”
“Instructor Janks was even worse for me than Instructor Rook,” Rankins said. “I’ve trained to use a sword in the style of a Paladin, I’ve neglected my shield training before today.”
“Well, now you know not to keep doing that,” Markus said brightly. “How long do you think they’ll be?”
“Given that they’re discussing a Style that will suit you, rather than just a simple training regimen, it could take them a few minutes or a few years,” Nargen said, excitement bleeding from his voice.
“What does that mean?” Markus asked. “‘A Style?’”
“Having a Style of Combat will allow you to tailor your training in a certain direction,” Nargen explained. “A Style will allow you to use Arts in tandem with one another and bring about victory in your battles. To become a true master of any weapon, you must have a Style of Combat that you make use of and you must use it to create a Style of your own. Each Style of Combat is absolutely critical to forming a powerful Noble House to the point that many nobles seek to either form their own by forcing their children to master a weapon, or they approach Weapon Masters with offers of wealth, fame, and even marriage to pull them into their House.”
“If you need to have a Style to be considered a master, and Styles are made by masters, then why isn’t Janks a master shield-user?” Markus asked.
“Perhaps he merely doesn’t wish to deal with the headaches that will come from being known as one,” Nargen said. “The man is devoted to his family, and more than one Noble House wouldn’t hesitate to rip them apart if they thought it would pull him to their side.”
“That’s horrible,” Markus said quietly, watching as the two Instructors discussed his training.
“Indeed,” Nargen nodded. “That is why no matter what, if I hear rumors that August is a Master of the Shield, I will seek both of you out and punish you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sir Nargen,” Rankins said seriously.
“Yes, Sir,” Markus said with a nod as the two Instructors began to walk back toward them.
“Sir Markus,” Rook said. “Instructor Janks and I have been discussing your training and we would like to know your answer to a question.”
“What’s up?” Markus asked.
“Do you think that you will always fight with a sword and shield?” Janks asked.
“Probably,” Markus shrugged. “I like the idea of being the shield that keeps my friends safe, and swords seem like they’re easier to use with a shield than a spear or a hammer.”
“Perhaps some clarity to the question,” Rook sighed. “If you are attacked in the night, will you grab your shield and your sword, or just one of them?”
“If I have time,” Markus nodded. “If not, I’ll probably just grab one of them.”
“Do you have a mount that you can ride into combat?” Janks asked.
“I have a Drake of some sort,” Markus nodded. “She’s still growing and I left her with a friend for today so I didn’t have to worry about her.”
“Will you ride into combat on your Drake?” Janks asked.
“If I have to,” Markus said. “Don’t know what the future brings and I have big plans for myself, so I won’t discount doing that.”
“Then we know how your Style of Combat will work,” Rook nodded, leading Janks away and returning to their discussion.
“You have a Drake as a mount?” Nargen asked when the two were out of earshot. “Where did you get it? What sort of Drake is it?”
“I do, from a lottery egg, I don’t know,” Markus answered the man’s questions in order. “Kalexia had black scales when she popped out of the egg and now she’s getting scales with an icy blue color. My friend said she knew someone that could figure out what kind of Drake she is, and that’s what they’re doing today.”
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice called to them from the door, prompting each of the five men to look toward the priestess that had entered the training yard. “Sir Markus has a visitor that insists it is urgent that she see him right now. Her name is Willow.”
“Where is she?” Markus asked, standing from the bench and walking toward the priestess.
“I’m right here,” Willow said, poking her head into the yard. “So’s Kalexia.”
“What’s up?” he asked, standing in the doorway and seeing his much larger, now solid-colored Drake standing behind Willow.
“My friend examined her and she said that Kalexia is some sort of Ice Drake,” Willow explained. “The problem came after that, when she breathed fire.”
“Is that bad?” Markus asked with a wince.
“It’s unheard of,” Willow said seriously. “Ice Dragons breathe freezing frost, Ice Drakes do too if their bloodline is pure enough. Kalexia breathed fire. She’s mutated somehow. You need to be careful.”
“How badly was everything burned?” Markus asked, deciding to worry about his future problems with Kalexia in the future.
“Nothing burned,” Willow said. “That’s why everything’s so strange. Everything her flames touched turned into ice or frosted over.”
“Well,” Markus said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not so bad is it?”
“The ice crumbled everything to dust when we touched it,” Willow told him. “I told my friend that you’d pay for everything no matter what and she said that it was okay as long as you promised to never have Kalexia in her workshop ever again.”
“I’m so sorry,” Markus said. “I’ll take her off your hands now if you want.”
“Ten Silver,” Willow told him firmly. “That’s how much you owe her. And don’t even think of using the money from the Church for this.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Markus assured her, making a mental note that he needed to earn some money soon.
“Good,” Willow said, breathing easier. “I can keep an eye on her for a bit longer, but soon you’ll have to find a stable for her to rest in when you’re in the city.”
“I’ll look into it,” Markus promised. “Thank you again, and I’m sorry about your friend’s shop.”
“Nothing to it,” Willow assured him. “Just make sure you pay her back, her grandchildren rely on her.”
“I will,” Markus assured her, deciding to ignore the comment about grandchildren. As Willow walked away with Kalexia in tow, Markus sighed to himself and turned to reenter the training yard, nearly yelping when he saw the others all standing just inside the door, obviously having listened in on his conversation.
“Mutated Ice Drake?” Rook muttered. “Flames that turned everything to ice? I’ve got some new ideas, Janks.”
“Same here,” Janks nodded. “But first let’s start him with the basics.”