Chapter 5: Boy in the City

Things are different out here.

I was lying on my back. Looking up at the stars. It was daytime. I am pretty sure there were not supposed to be stars in the sky in daytime, or that they should be moving that quickly.

There was low grumbling laughter, like an earthquake. An earthquake could explain why I am lying here. There was an earthquake and a mountain fell on me. This is a very good explanation.

“Are you planning on lying there and hoping your chin will take a lesson from the grass and grow you a beard?” A dwarvish voice mocked me. Ah. Daryl. It could be an earthquake and a mountain, but more likely it was Daryl and his shield. That means I have to get up. I got up. The stars moved with me, which indicated that they were not in the sky, they were just orbiting my head. A head which rang like a bell upon clashing with one grey beareded dwarf with a shield in one hand, and a mead horn in the other.

I planted my shield in the grass, and my spear. Using those I levered myself to my feet and banged my spear upon my shield once again. “Again!”

The visit to the Holy City had been interesting. One of the dwarves had later laughed to me that there was a wanted poster of me at the gate, but described me as about a foot taller and hundred pounds heavier. There was no chance they would have noticed me, even if the dwarves hadn’t lied straight faced and claimed I had been their guard since they left undermountain. They felt a little bad about shooting at someone who turned out to be underage. Frankly I thought equipping me in shining chainmail and a iron rimmed shield, a full steel spangenhelm, easily the equal of what the common Holy Knights wore, was enough. Instead when they hired a dwarven mercenary troop for the trip to the border, they included a provision for seeing me “trained up enough that I don’t die before their wagons are out of sight.”

Hence, Daryl. Daryl had been impressed by my spear work, against target posts. Likewise he agreed that my shield work was probably best suited for hunting boars. He suggested that a toddler with even the basics of actual weapon training would carve me like one of my butchered boars, and when I grew a bit touchy, proceeded to prove it.

He faced me with his tower shield in his left arm, and a full mug of mead in my left. The challenge was for me to knock him down, or even spill his drink. It seemed simple enough. I had hunted wild boar, creatures even lions and bears feared to face. I had faced a Holy Knight and a troop of his men at arms. I had the memories of a titan who had faced thousands of enemies in his life, what did a dwarf who stood no taller than the boy I was, and held no weapon, think he could do against my charge and spear?

A lot.

I would charge, and one of two things would happen. First, sometimes I would thrust with my spear and Daryl would bat it across my own shield and use it to start the turn which he would finish by tucking his shield behind the rim of my own and as I stumbled past, give a helping kick to my ass. That was bad. The second would be his shield struck edgewise at the point of my spear, pushing it outside of his body violently enough that my own shield would have to move outward from my body to keep my balance. Not that it mattered because at that point Daryl’s shield would slam into my body and I would find out that given the choice between being hit by a charging boar, or a standing dwarf, choose the boar.

I was stuck with the same drill for the week the caravan was doing their sales in the Holy City. I would stand between two of the dwarven mercenaries with wooden mattocks, facing a third with a small buckler with a bell on it. The one in front of me would move the buckler high and low, left and right, randomly calling upon me to strike. I had to hit the small shield and ring the bell with my spear, oh and while I did, the two gentledwarves with the wooden mallets would try to knock me unconscious.

I had to be taught how to guard while I struck, how to spot the target while being attacked, and the ever popular lesson “don’t block your own face with your shield”. You could use a shield to defend your head, but you moved your head beside it. Allowing your enemy to blind you with your own shield resulted in getting a two handed mallet blow to your belly, or parts south. I had spent too much time hunting animals, and had never learned to feign with my shield, nor with my spear. I didn’t know how to spot a feign with any weapon at all.

I was, in the words of Daryl, like the worlds most magnificent goblin. A wild animal given matchless speed and power, with the body of a god, and the brain of a very small and somewhat confused chipmunk. It was his very great pleasure to begin the lifelong process of beating the stupid out of me. In my defense, Daryl was the only one of the dwarves I couldn’t even score a hit against. In his defense, I never made him spill a drop, nor did he ever require an actual weapon to knock me down with. I am told he is death itself with a battle axe, and only moderately talented with the shield.

That would make me somewhat depressed if it were not for the fact that the constant beatings were forcing me to develop a whole different reaction speed. I always assumed dwarves were strong and slow. I don’t know why, they talk slow, they march slow, and their fighting style is very minimal swaying movements or circling movements with their axe or spear so you can never spot the moment where the movement switches from slow circle to strike, but when that strike comes it is over almost before you notice. Minimal distance, maximum speed, and their shield exposes nothing when it happens. I was faster than them by any objective standard, but their reactions were drilled to the point that they never had to think. They reacted the moment an opportunity revealed itself and were finished before the thought that they saw something registered in either their brain or mine, but by that point my brain was seeing twinkly stars and pretty birdies as my helm rang with some new spear or axe blow, or my fine chain mail absorbed another punishing shot to the gut.

Daryl was keeping my training idiot simple, me being the idiot, and his instructions therefore being simple. I was not being taught the sword at all, but how to strike without thought with my spear, while not extending an open invitation for any passing goblin or half blind old person to carve me like a sacrifice on feast day. He laughed himself sick at the thought of the poor army sergeants who would have to turn me into an actual soldier. They did feed me well. The whole caravan seemed concerned that it was famine that was keeping my beard from growing in, and they kept trying to force sweet meats, fruits, and small meat pies on me. No matter what Daryl thinks, I am not an idiot, so I have gleefully consumed all of them.

On the last day of our stay in the Holy City, Ryklos the Caravan master brought snuck me away from the Inn our caravan was using, as he and Daryl brought me to an establishment called The Gentleman’s Repose. His explanation was more than a little confusing, but he didn’t strike me as being in any way malicious.

“Well lad, you see, me and the boys have been talking about your running off to join the Dread Empire. You know their soldiers are a right deadly bunch. There aren’t a lot of them, but the Dread Empire troops are the most famous on the whole continent. Mostly because they are always battling someone, and when they are not, they are having those civil wars. Civil wars among dark wizards, summoned demons, howling sorceries, lightning bolts and fireballs being tossed around while whole armies slaughter each other over which wizard shorted who on the last bar bill. We was thinking, you being just a lad, and never having been out in the world that it just wouldn’t be right to send you off to the wars without a little bit of, er, polish. Culture as it were.”

Ryklos seemed to have his salesman’s voice on. I don’t see what he is trying to sell me. Daryl was grinning and nodding, which didn’t reassure me. Daryl was the toughest dwarf I have ever even heard of, but not what anyone would consider normal. He seemed to try to clarify what Ryklos was saying.

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“A fighting man has certain needs lad. Now you have been training hard, and when you get to the Dread Empire you will be training even harder. Now if those needs don’t get addressed properly, it can make a young soldier quite a handful in barracks. So it just wouldn’t be right to send you to your new life in the army all stressed and pent up.” He gave me a knowing wink.

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I smiled and nodded. One thing I learned quickly when getting lectured about economics, politics, or religion by the worldly dwarves, if I wanted to stop an explanation filled with a thousand words I didn’t understand about subjects I never heard of, it was best to smile and nod. This lead me to leave the perfectly good Inn we were staying at, to go another Inn in a different quarter of town. The Gentleman’s repose.

There were lots of men in the Gentleman’s Repose, and unlike the name implies, they were not reposing but seemed quite spirited. I notice that we paid just to get into the Inn, but they offered no food. The drinks were ridiculously expensive, and honestly the wine was no where near as good as the wine Mom makes. There was a stage, and before the stage a pit where musicians prepared their instruments. I was frankly quite excited. I had only heard actual instruments played at the high feast days in the village. These were clearly better players, as even tuning up I could hear their instruments were clear, and without thinking or trying, they wove harmonies among themselves.

The curtains rose, and the lanterns were dimmed. The musicians started to play, and on stage were a number of women. They wore gauze little better than nothing. I suppose here in the city dancing skyclad completely was frowned on? They were almost naked, so I guess it wasn’t that different. One in the center held with the stillness that reminded me of Mom reaching out to the storm. Around and behind her were other women posed variously, still as so many does frozen in the moonlight. The music rose, and the women began to dance. My breath caught. I had seen my mother dance in the storm since I was a small child. These women were not her equal, but they flowed in the dance as if they felt it, and in me I felt my blood stir. My power, the bright fire of Ajax gift rose in me. The dark hunger of my tentacle friends stirred as well and they leaked out in the shadows of the hall, swaying with the dancers, moving with the music. The one dancer, she reminded me of Mom. Not her face, she was dark as Mom was blond, not even her body, she was not nearly as curvy as Mom, but she moved with the same wildness, that same abandon. She danced like the world was her accompaniment, yet like she danced alone. The others were shadows to the light she cast, the music itself was there because she danced, for all the music was in her dance, yet there was so much more than the music in her dance.

I felt the tears welling in my eyes. I could not breathe, could not blink. I was mute before the grace of her dance. I ached so much I wish it would never have started, yet I would give my blood if it never end, but end it did.

The men began to roar and clap as the dancers stopped with the music, slowly sinking into poses fixed as the one they started in. I rose and clapped just as hard. Never had I seen anyone who was not my mother dance with such passion! Beside me at the table Ryklos and Daryl grinned and nodded.

When the room quieted, Ryklos summoned a waitress over, gave her a heavy bag of coin, and pointed to me. A few minutes later one of the waitresses pulled me aside. I had a room booked, paid for by Ryklos. I protested that I had a room back at the Inn, but she just giggled and brought me to quite the lavish bedroom. The bed was like nothing I had ever seen. It had a canopy, draped in light gauze like the dancers wore, lit by lamps that heated oil that smelled faintly of roses. That would have been amazing enough, but what stopped me is that the amazing dancer, the main dancer, was sitting on that bed smiling at me.

“Um, I think there has been a mistake. This is clearly your room. I am very sorry for intruding, but I must thank you again for your dance. I haven’t seen anyone dance with such passion since I left home.” I said.

The woman rose, she moved so gracefully you almost wouldn’t notice. Her movements were so fluid, so perfect, only one whose body had been shaped and reshaped under the blood tempering of the Titans would notice. She compensated so well for the injuries almost healed right that even another dancer would probably have missed it.

“I am Angelique, and you are indeed in the right room. You must have impressed Caravan Master Ryklos very much, as to purchase a night of my time is something only a handful of nobles have either the wealth or the daring to purchase, and yet he has done so for you. I hear you are off to join the Dark Empire, well, a woman in my position will not be throwing stones at your choices. Few enough in the Holy Kingdom fail to look down on me and my profession, although more than a few high churchmen are frequent clients.”

She pulled me to the bed, and brought my hands onto her lap. She laughed low and wicked as my hands started to trace down her thighs, down to her knees. I slipped from the bed and parted her knees softly. She made a purring sound.

“So strong, you almost miss the pain. Never healed, never balanced. It was beautiful to watch you, knowing how much pain it must cost you to move so perfectly with these injuries. Would you be strong enough to let me heal them? Heal them the old way, the right way? You could dance like you did before, you could dance without care again!” I said, my voice surprising me with my own need. Her dance had lit a fire in me, had made me feel whole and alive again, and I had to pay her back. A gift for a gift. My gift stirred in me, it burned. Like lighting in a storm cloud, it felt my fingers touch her flesh, felt her wounds and burned to strike, to let the power free to reshape what was broken.

Angelique laughed softly. “I have been to healers. They have done what they could. What is done is done. I made my peace.”

I leaned down and kissed inside her knee. I could feel it, the tear, thick and inflexible, weak and vulnerable. It was an ugliness where there should only be grace.

“It is my gift to grow strong in the broken places. It is my gift to walk the path of pain, the path of sacrifice. I do not mend what was broken. I remake that which was broken stronger so that it will not fail again. If you let me, we can walk that path together this night. You gave me a dance of such beauty I cannot repay it, save by giving you back the dance your injuries cost you.” I felt my power blaze in my hands, and she did too.

I looked up at her, and warned her. “It will hurt. I will unmake and remake. You will be stronger for it, but it is strength forged in pain. You will earn what you gain.” I knew the cost, it would be ugly.

Angelique stared down at me, her eyes hard and angry like the birds that had plucked my eyes as I hung impaled upon Ajax rib.

“Everything I have was earned in pain. Do your worst.” She hissed.

There were knowing smiles from the staff as the cries and screams came from Angelique’s bedroom. The staff of the Gentleman’s Repose thought someone’s gold was indeed well spent, for they thought they knew what was going on. They thought thus until Angelique strode out, clutching a silk robe closed at her waist, wearing naught else to loudly shout to the common room.

“Paula, Krista, Nancy, Cleo! Join me in the bedroom now!” Angelique snapped, her head thrown back and her gaze and voice ringing as any queen. Ryklos and Daryl nearly choked on their wine as not only the lovely Angelique but the four other beautiful dancers whispered together then raced to the bedroom where the young lad was climbing the mountain to manhood.

For hours, the cries and sobs of maidens rang from the bedroom, until at last low soft laughter replaced the earlier cries.

I was exhausted when I was done. Using my power on others was harder than using it on myself, but I had seen them dance, and I had felt the injuries they had picked up over the years of their training. I had felt all the places they forced themselves to push beyond the broken bits, to move just a little off of true they could no longer reach. I could fix it. They say that soldiers are good with pain. I was going to be a soldier one day soon, so I worried if I would measure up. These dancers bore the pain of my reshaping their flesh with more courage than I could remember when I first healed myself. I had no choice, and they did. They chose to let me unmake tendons and ligaments, muscle, cartilage and bone so I could reshape it into something stronger, something more flexible, something more suited to the stress it failed under. They danced beyond the limits of their flesh, so I reshaped it. I could not give them the dance, I could not make the beauty happen, but I could remove the failings of their flesh in the offerings of their passion. There were traceries of old injuries, so much pain, and they had to relive it all as I reshaped them. I burned so much of my power I was nearly blind and panting like a long distance runner before I finished. I could not give less than them, so I gave everything.

It took Angelique’s strong hand on my elbow to steer me back to the table with Ryklos. She looked down at the dwarf and warned him sternly.

“Take care of this one. He is a gift for the ages.” Angelique warned the dwarf, before kissing my cheek and swaying off to her bedroom. The whole room of men were struck dumb until Daryl raised his wine glass to me and shouted “Mighty spearman!”

The whole room roared for some reason. I didn’t quite understand why everyone was excited. According to Daryl I was only slightly feeble as a spearman, but it was better than my sword work. I turned to Ryklos and whispered.

“Can we go back to the Inn now? I am very tired.”