“Thrust!” Sir Nodure had taken this group beneath his capable wings personally. With each command, the boys obeyed. “Parry! Thrust! Parry! Turn!” Each turned to his left—spaced out so the blades wouldn’t strike another in their party. “Slash!” The boys each performed a slightly unique angle and positioning when slicing from over the head down to the ground.

“Yah!” Christoph let a grunt slip as the blade sped downward. He was putting his all into it. He’s swung a sickle a thousand times. He’d built his upper body strength as much as he was able on the doleful diet he’s been subject to. Carrying supplies and tending the fields had filled out the requirements for basic sword handling.

Looking out over the rolling hills and waves of green, he felt that pride swell in him again. The lands of our empire. I’ll protect them all! The next command was called and he swung with all the force he could manage. Another command and he obeyed with a smile. He obeyed each one with a maturing sense of finer futures planted by his brother’s musings.

“You!” Christoph was stuck in fantasies of patrolling in those tall grasses over yonder—stalking his barbarian prey like an apex predator. He hadn’t noticed his Captain calling him. “Listen to me, dammit!”

The shifting of armor squeaked as the nobleman stomped past a few of the boys toward Christoph. A heavy gauntlet landed on Christoph’s shoulder, and the boy was dragged out of his thoughts.

Christoph flinched abruptly and lifted the blade partially toward the man that’d touched him. Instinctually, he’d already had a good sense of how to defend himself. The blade was aimed correctly, and his swing was rather impressive. However, noticing his target tensed his arms and slowed the weapon.

Even still, the swing was read as aggression. A man defending himself is one thing, but to carry it beyond defense in such a situation possessed an air of disgraceful expressions of position and power. A gauntleted hand snapped upward and caught the blade. A sound like a hiss halted the other boys.

Then came the sound of metal meeting material with give. A hollow clank and low vibration were heard; followed by a single gasp from the group. Christoph pushed against the cut grass to steady himself. He’d gone from standing to lying face down in a second. Warmth flowed over the side of his head and over his ear. He had to beg his eyes to focus and wait for the ringing in his ears to subside.

“Get up! Get on your feet!” A heavy boot of metal landed into Christoph’s ribs. He choked and huffed slightly—muting his agony against his cheeks and hands. Slowly, after the physical discipline, he regained his position and stance.

Captain Nodure held out the sword, still gripping the blade, and reprimanded further. “Pay attention! Cutting down your allies is unacceptable! I will have you hanged if that happens in combat!” The nobleman was shouting inches away from Christoph’s ears. Blood trickled through the hair of the boy. His ears still echoed with the ringing from the hit, but the soldier in command wasn’t done. “I should have left you behind!” Spit flew from the lips of the madman in armor. He didn’t even stand in front of the boy. Standing slightly behind him, the captain’s words were an unseen lance speared into the ear.

“Yes, sir!” Christoph tried to place himself in the stance he’d taken before. Everything rolled on an axis as the world tried to right itself.

“Worthless. You’ll never learn combat arts like this.” The infuriated soldier threw his arms into the air with clanks and shifted armor. “Will any of you?!” Silence fell over the group as they listened to the man question them. “Has Rothmire sent any talent?! Or, was I wrong to consider any of you useful?” He walked to the front of the group, now facing west, and drew his sword.

“Have any of you the talent to comprehend? Does one among you stand to attempt even learning the basics of one such ability? A rotten harvest of the peasants!” He pointed his sword toward Christoph; one boy between them carefully sidestepped out of the way. “Come and show me! Dash yourself upon my steel!”

Christoph couldn’t understand the sudden change in mood. He’d wanted to apologize for his mistake, but he’d been given no opportunity. Trying to speak, the captain shouted and waved for him to attack. Christoph held the sword with little intent and a weakened grip.

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“Or do you forsake your village? Do you damn them to rape and murder at the hands of the barbarians?!”

That was enough for him. My brother. The face of his younger sibling flashed before his eyes. He could have easily turned to look at him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the captain. My family. A horrid scene of his village set ablaze quickened the blood in his veins.

Without a fraction of the experience of the man before him, Christoph set off with his blade hung to his side. Both hands were tightly bound to the handle. A few steps in, and the boy let out a battle cry. It wasn’t particularly frightening, but it was his memorable first.

He was within striking distance. Moving along with speed that would have impressed the captain had the extenuating circumstances not boiled his blood. Christoph swung upward toward the nobleman that still had his sword lazily held to the side.

For a split second, as all the boys thought their eldest comrade would land a blow, the captain felt a tinge of anxiety. A commoner had the movements. It was still a weak attempt, but a starter with a poorly forged blade shouldn’t have moved that way—he shouldn’t have had such a raging fire in those blue eyes.

“Combat: Parry!” A faint, fiery light encased the body of Sir Nodure for a single second. His arm swung forward with unnatural speed; intercepting the blade that approached him. There was a clash of metal as Sir Nodure considered the deflection.

Was it enough?

Surely not. Not for this man. Not for the noble that considered this sudden expression of skill to mean further abatement was necessary.

As Christoph’s hands trembled with the impact of the two blades meeting, he saw another flicker of red light around the soldier. “Combat: Rebound!” The shout signaled the ability, and the sword that had shielded the nobleman flicked forward. It was as if the blade was repelled like a magnet before switching sides and flicking forward. It was minute to the eyes but enough to put all the kinetic energy from the sudden clash into a burst forward.

Christoph tried to hold on but felt a sudden explosion ripple through the blade and his arms. He recoiled from the combat abilities of his superior. “Combat: Parry” and “Combat: Rebound” were often used in unison to keep an opponent off their balance. Use their own force, should your abilities keep you alive, against them.

Christoph began to understand the differences between their skills. As he began to fall backwards, the sword of the captain now swung around to find purchase on the young man.

Instead of attempting to keep his footing, he let himself fall back. At least, that’s how he’d say it happened. Not being graceful on one’s feet rarely has the opportunity of saving skin or blood. Here, he fell to the grass and saw the blade swoosh through the air above where his chest would be—a chest without armor or shielding.

This being a rather interesting pivot in the tale, should become a marker of time. Were the lad able to keep his footing, all might have been avoided. Yet, fate, it would seem, deals a rotten hand to some. No matter one’s opinion of the tomorrow yet untold, the blade missed.

“Pathetic!” A word spoken to break, but weakened by truth.

It was a truth that Christoph couldn’t see. None of the boys could.

Sir Nodure had. His duty dictated he mold this boy into a useful tool for his king… his unreasonable pride demanded retribution through shame and, should he be so blessed, blood. The stains on the cloth between his armor were a reminding factor in this decision.

This was their training. Verbally assaulted for their adequacies and physically brutalized for doing their best. The entirety of the Rothmire troop of conscripts felt the wrath of Sir Nodure; though, Christoph collected bruise and gash, one after the next. Braun and the other soldiers did as they were ordered. They ran the scouting squads that were a bit more trained and would cycle through the shifts—leaving the newest recruits to be deconstructed and reborn as temporary soldiers.

Boys and young men from Dolpo Village, the town of Carmoss, and Valley’s Crest Village all kept watch over the woods, the hills, and the plains. Rothmire’s sons trained through blood, sweat, and a lack of expressed tears. This would continue for three days.

All the while, the captain would punish, the scouts would watch, and the distant shadow of Surton Spire kept a gloomy eye over the events which would unfurl.