He knew he was in hot water right from the get-go. Across from him, Tayen hefted her own glaive with practiced ease. Her stance was relaxed, confident. Hunter could see that this was almost second nature to her.
“Ready?” she called out, eyeing him with a measuring glance.
“As I’ll ever be.”
They began to circle each other, trying to get a read of each other’s motions. Hunter tried to recall the basics Fawkes had taught him: maintain distance, use the reach of the glaive, don't overcommit.
Tayen moved first, a quick thrust aimed at his midsection. Hunter parried awkwardly, the force of the blow reverberating up his arms. She didn't give him time to recover, spinning her glaive around and sweeping at his legs. Hunter jumped back, but not fast enough. He felt the sting of the dull training blade grazing his shin.
This time, she gave him time to get his footing. She wasn’t looking for an easy win, or to humiliate him. She was just measuring her skill against his own. Not that it made much difference. This one single exchange was enough for Hunter to know he was dead in the water.
Tayen assumed her fighting stance and nodded at him, prompting him into action. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward, feinting high before bringing his glaive down in a diagonal slash. Tayen blocked it effortlessly, the clang of metal on metal echoing around them. She swept Hunter's glaive to the side, then thrusted towards his chest.
This time, Hunter was somewhat better-prepared. He stumbled back, twisted his torso, leaned outside the thrust’s trajectory, and almost lost his footing - but he somehow managed to evade.
Tayen pressed her advantage, her attacks a blur of motion. A high thrust, a low sweep, a spinning strike. Hunter could barely keep up, his arms aching from the effort. He saw an opening, a brief moment where he could strike. Hunter lunged forward, aiming for her shoulder. But Tayen was faster, stepping aside and bringing her glaive up in a smooth arc that caught him across the ribs.
The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, his glaive clattering away. Before he could scramble to his feet, the blade of Tayen's glaive was at his throat. She looked down at him, her expression impassionate.
“Alright, that’s enough!” Elder Wroth called, scowling.
Tayen set her weapon on the side and offered Hunter a hand. He took it and climbed back to his feet. He kept his eyes on the ground, getting red on the face as he felt the gazes of Wroth, Fawkes, and the other Aspirants on him.
Wroth picked up Hunter’s glaive from the ground and put it back in his hands.
“Show me your fighting stance.”
Hunter assumed his best imitation of the fighting stance Tayen had used.
"No, no, boy," Wroth grumbled, shaking his head. He stood behind Hunter, his gnarled hands gently adjusting Hunter's posture. "Your feet need to be shoulder-width apart, like this." He nudged Hunter's legs into position. "Bend your knees slightly, stay loose but grounded. Imagine you're a tree with deep roots but flexible branches."
Wroth tapped Hunter's arms, correcting the angle of his glaive. "Keep your weapon low and ready, but not tense. You're not fighting yet, just waiting. Always be ready to strike or defend, but don't show it. Let your enemy guess."
He stepped back, observing with a critical eye.
"There, much better. Now you look a bit more like a fighter, and a bit less like a flailing child."
That drew a chuckle from Yuma. Wroth threw a warning glare at his general direction, but said nothing. Hunter's cheeks flushed, but he nodded, gripping his glaive tighter. A single drop of blood trickled from his right nostril. He wiped it with the back of his hand, turning his back to Fawkes for a second. He didn’t want her to see.
“You have a long way to go," Wroth told him in a gruff, lower voice - but still loud enough to be heard. "You can't hope to face the trials of the White Cloud if you can't even face a girl in pretend-combat."
At that, Tayen remained impassionate. But Fawkes raised an eyebrow.
“You two, now,” Wroth turned to Yuma and Inago. “It’s your turn. Show us what you got.”
The two Brennai men faced each other and assumed fighting positions. They sparred for a few minutes, enough for Elder Wroth to get a good grip on how proficient each of them was with a glaive. Yuma was the more skilled by far, but Inago was no slouch either. Hunter would have lost to either of them.
Wroth was satisfied.
“Enough,” he said. Yuma and Inago stopped and lowered their weapons at once. “I might yet make proper Aspirants out of you. Now fall in line. Yes, that means you too, Transient. Make haste, the day’s awasting. Pay attention now, because I’m only going to demonstrate these once.”
They stood in line side by side and watched as Elder Wroth began his lesson. He moved with surprising agility for a man of his size, his glaive a blur of steel as he demonstrated a series of fluid strikes and parries. The air whistled with each swing, the heavy weapon seeming to dance in his grasp. Fawkes watched too, her expression unreadable.
"First form: The Serpent's Coil!" Wroth roared, his glaive tracing a serpentine path, deflecting imaginary attacks with lightning speed. "Second form: The Wolf's Maw!" His weapon blurred in a series of wide, slashing arcs, each strike aimed to disembowel or dismember. "Third form: The Hawk's Talon!" The glaive became a piercing spear, thrusting forward with deadly precision.
Hunter watched with rapt attention, his eyes tracing every movement, every subtle shift in Wroth's stance. The sheer power and grace of the seasoned elder’s display was incomparable to anything he himself - or even the much more skilled Yuma, for that matter - could hope to match.
"Now you," Wroth barked, his gaze sweeping over the Aspirants. "Show me what you've learned!"
He spent the next few drilling them mercilessly. The afternoon sun beat down on the training grounds, making the sweat drip from Hunter’s brow. He pushed on anyway, fueled by a mixture of determination and the thrill of the prospect of newfound strength. A few notifications flashed at the edge of his vision, but he didn’t let them distract him. He’d go through them later. For now, his focus was solely on Wroth’s lesson.
What he’d learned about handling his glaive so far, Hunter had learned intuitively and under pressure. The stances and forms Elder Wroth taught them, campy names aside, offered Hunter the structure he needed in order to put his combat experience and intuition into better use. It was as if things he was already on the cusp of realizing finally clicked in place.
Still, a few glimpses at his left and right were enough for him to see that he was still lagging behind the other Aspirants. Their stance was surer, their form was better, the way they handled their weapons was more natural. Hunter tried not to think of that. He tried to focus on his own growth. Seeing Yuma execute every drill like he was a goddamn precision automaton and barely breaking a sweat, however, made that challenging.
The sun was on its way to setting when the rumble of an approaching Behemoth interrupted them. It was the smallest, sleekest of the vehicles, painted the color of charcoal. Elder Rook’s Blacktalon. It pulled in near the northern side of the Sacred Training Grounds, and Behemoth riders immediately jumped off and started unloading sacks and bundles.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Elder Wroth told the Aspirants as he turned away to join them. “Go wash up, rest. We’re done for the day. Don’t go wandering off just yet, though!”
Hunter set his training glaive down and plopped on the ground to take a well-deserved breather. Fawkes came and sat next to him.
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“Feeling any better?”
“Sure,” he said, eyeing Yuma. He was still working on his stance and form, fighting off imaginary enemies. “Tons.”
“He’s a prick. Pay him no heed.”
“I’m not.”
Fawkes passed him a water canteen, and he drank greedily.
“Sip,” she scolded him. “Don’t guzzle.”
“Yeah, sure, add that to the list of things I can’t seem to do right.”
Fawkes frowned and pursed her lips.
“Why are you snapping at me, lad?”
“I’m not.”
Was he?
He took another drink from the canteen, trying to figure out whether he was mad at her and for what reason. This time remembering to sip. The water tasted vaguely metallic in his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “Fatigue’s making me grumpy. Feeling like a fat kid in a gym doesn’t help much, either. Anyway, what about you? Are you planning to let Wroth do all the mentoring himself?”
“That remains to be seen,” she said, turning her gaze to the old warrior and the rest of the Behemoth riders near the massive vehicle. “So far, it appears that my role here is merely nominal.”
“Which means?”
“Which means the reason I’m here is because the girl…” Fawkes paused, searching for the right words. “Well, let’s say she’s a spirited one. The headstrong, disagreeable lot. They elders wanted her to pursue Ascension along with the alderman’s son. For political reasons or somesuch. She’d only agree if they found a woman warrior to assist with the Ascendants’ guidance.” A wry smile touched her lips. "It seems I was the only one who fit the bill."
“And Wroth doesn’t think it a good idea?”
Fawkes shook her head and sighed.
“Wroth doesn’t think, period. For all his skill and exploits, the man is a buffoon. He means no disrespect, but it does not seem to occur to him I might have some sort of insight to offer.”
“Is it because you’re a woman?”
Fawkes shrugged.
“A woman, a foreigner, not the great hero Wroth… Take your pick.”
“And you’re alright with that?”
“For now. I’ll let him spend a couple of weeks with you lot, hammer you into shape before I jump in. In fact, I think I’ll go ranging in the Weald for a few days, see if I can find anything worth turning into a lesson.”
“Like what?” Hunter raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve seen how well you handle getting surrounded by three hungry low-dwellers,” she said, and her lips splitted into another humorless smile as she turned her gaze over Yuma. “But I still haven’t seen how your little hoity-toity rival over there would.”
That gave Hunter pause.
“Didn’t know you gave a shit.”
“I don’t. It’s just that he reminds me of someone else. Back when I was training Reiner to take on the climb to the Iron Rung himself, there was this other Aspirant, a young áeld-blooded princeling who thought his shit didn’t stink. Watching Reiner cut him down a notch was a real treat.”
Hunter frowned a bit at that, but tried to hide it.
“So you want me to cut down Yuma a notch?”
“Me? No, no, never said that. But if you did, I'd be sure to buy you a flagon of ale at the next tavern we stumbled upon.”
“And I’d be sure to take you up on that,” Hunter said. “Think you can cover for me if I pop to my side of things for a half-hour or so?”
“Go on,” she nodded. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere anytime soon, is it?”
***
As it turned out, no, it wasn’t as if Hunter, Elder Wroth, or any of the other Aspirants was going anywhere anytime soon. Fawkes, however, had slightly different plans.
When Hunter popped back in after his brief little intermission, he found that the Behemoth riders had set up a few tents by the training ground for the Aspirants to sleep in, had left some supplies, and were packing up and getting ready to leave.”
“You can at least stay the night,” argued Elder Wroth.
Elder Rook was adamant. The Blacktalon’s crew was to set up a forward camp in the Weald an hour or so away. Night was falling swiftly, but the Behemoth’s headlights were enough for them to find their way even if it did. He didn’t want to waste a single hour.
Fawkes was with Elder Rook too. The other Aspirants were nowhere to be seen.
“There you are,” she told Hunter as he approached her. “All’s well, I hope?”
“Yeah, I got it all under control.”
She was still worried about him almost frying his brain fighting It That Whispers, he supposed, though she had weird ways to show it. Like signing him up to be an Aspirant.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Something was on her mind, it was obvious.
“So, as I said,” she started, “I was thinking of going away for a few days to scout the Weald. Elder Rook has offered to take me with. Asked for my help, actually. Him and his crew will be combing the area for any signs of whatever it is that’s killing the Brennai dead.”
She paused as if she was expecting Hunter to say something, though he wasn’t sure what.
“Anyway,” she went on. “It won’t take me more than a few days. A week, tops. Will you be alright?”
Hunter shrugged.
“You know me. It’s not like I will be doing anything more dangerous than jogging around these grounds and swinging a glaive till my hand blisters get blisters of their own.”
Fawkes nodded and said nothing more on the subject. Fifteen minutes later, she climbed atop Blacktalon, waved him goodbye, and rode the Behemoth away into the proverbial setting sun.
She was running away again, that much was obvious. She needed time, granted. She needed space. As long as it was just for a few days, Hunter could respect that. Still, there was a part of him that couldn’t help but feel hurt and abandoned. She’d done what he’d asked her not to do. She’d dumped him with the Brennai and had run away, hadn’t she?
He felt his stomach clench, his head throb. He brought a hand to his right nostril. It came back red.
Shit, why did everything have to get so complicated?
He was dead tired. Exhausted, really.
He tried to put all that out of his mind, to focus on the fact that, above all else, Fawkes was his friend. He respected her. He’d trust her with his life. She’d be back. She just needed a bit of quiet to get her head on straight.
Maybe he needed to do that himself, too.
With Fawkes gone, there was not much keeping him from logging out and turning in for an early night in his own, physical, real world bed.
As if on cue, he felt his raven familiars tug at the back of his mind, trying to draw his attention. Then something big, heavy and furry tackled him and started licking his face.
“Okay, you have to stop doing this,” Hunter told Fyodor, pushing the direwolf’s snout away with his hand in a vain attempt to save himself from getting slobbered on. “Down, you big oaf!”
Despite not having given him nearly enough attention the past few days, Fyodor looked happier, better. The woods and the open sky agreed with him more than any ancient hall or stuffy tent.
Biggs and Wedge joined them, too. One landed on Hunter’s shoulder, the other on the direwolf’s russet-furred back. They made quite the fuss, the chattering windbags, complaining for the lack of anything meaningful to do, other than keeping an eye on the mutt. Hunter couldn’t blame them, really. That’s all they’d done these last few days. And if Hunter was to spend most of his time training along with the other Aspirants, the ravens would have to get used to it.
Somewhere on the other side of the training grounds, someone was eyeing their little get-together. Yuma. Hunter did his best to pay him no attention. Instead, he waved at Inago. The young Brennai looked every bit as exhausted as Hunter. When he saw Fyodor, though, he lit up like a Christmas tree. The direwolf liked him too. He threw a glance at Hunter, as if asking for permission, then went to lick Fyodor’s hand.
“Hunter! What a day, don’t you think? I can’t remember the last time I had to run for so long!”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had to run for so long before,” Hunter grumbled. “What a day indeed.” Still, he felt some of his grumpiness evaporate even before he’d finished his sentence. Inago’s earnest smile was infectious.
“You did well,” Inago said. “And you’re good with the glaive, too.”
“Tayen crushed me.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about, that. Tayen has been training since she was old enough to hold a stick. I should know - I often was on the receiving end. Don’t think like that. You did well.”
Hunter started to disagree, then decided to shut up. Inago was trying to lift his spirits. He might as well let him.
“Thank you, Inago,” he said instead, forcing himself to smile. “I really appreciate it.”
“Nothing to thank me for,” the man beamed. “You really did well!”
He petted Fyodor, scratching him on the side of his neck and behind his ears like he liked. The direwolf looked ecstatic. He wagged his tail furiously, creating a soft thumping sound against the ground, his eyes closed in bliss. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, and he let out a contented whimper, nudging Inago's hand for more attention. Hunter took notes. He should show Fyodor more affection too, if he wanted to form any kind of strong bond with him. These past few days he’d totally neglected him.
Inago couldn’t seem to fear the direwolf anymore. Hunter was glad. He liked Inago, and so did Fyodor. It was a good way to show the rest of the Brennai they had nothing to fear from the big pupper. One less reason for Hunter to worry.
“I guess we should be getting back on the road,” Hunter changed the subject. The trek to Sacred Training Grounds wasn’t a long one, but the sooner they got back there, the sooner he’d be able to log out. Or he could do so right now, he supposed, save himself the trips back and forth, and meet Wroth and the other Aspirants at the Training Grounds the next morning.
“We won’t go back to the village,” Inago said. “Elder Rook’s men brought us tents and supplies. Elder Wroth said we should set up camp here, by the Sacred Training Grounds. It’s a tradition for Aspirants to take time away from the rest of their people.”
Hunter nodded. That suited him just fine.
“Say, Inago, can I ask for a favor?”
The man raised his eyes from Fyodor, curious.
“Yes?”
“See, me being a Transient and all means I often have to get back to my, uh, side of things. To eat, rest, stretch my legs a bit, that kind of thing. Evenings, mostly.”
Inago's brow furrowed slightly, his curiosity mixed with caution as he listened.
“I was wondering if you could keep an eye on Fyodor for me during those times,” Hunter went on. “Make sure he’s alright, gets enough food and attention, stays out of trouble. He likes you, you know.”
Inago’s face lit up with a broad smile.
“Of course! I’d be happy to. We’ve become good friends already, haven’t we, boy?”
Fyodor responded with a happy bark, nudging Inago’s hand with his nose. Hunter felt a wave of relief and gratitude.
“Thank you, Inago. That means a lot. The ravens will be around, too, of course,” Hunter said, cocking a thumb at the two masses of black feathers that had been perching on his shoulders like pauldrons. “But I’d rest easier if I knew I could count on you, too. They’re called Biggs and Wedge, by the way. They can understand you if you talk to them, though I can’t guarantee they’ll be much help. They’re not exactly the brightest.”
That drew a cacophony of indignant caws, startling Inago and Fyodor both.
“Oh, shut it, you windbags. You know it’s true. Anyway, yes, thank you, Inago. I’ll rest easier knowing I can trust you with Fyodor.”
“Don’t worry, Hunter,” Inago said, stroking the direwolf’s big head and eyeing Biggs and Wedge with a mix of caution and amusement. “You can rest easy.”
“Alright then, I’ll be off,” Hunter said, patting Fyodor one last time. “Take care, and I’ll be back by sunup.”