Chapter 6

A few weeks passed while Ashur toiled in the shop and Adrian arranged compensation for his new master. It was at breakfast one morning that Adrian broke the good news, “It’s been settle boy, Brakoli will teach ya how to fight. Only with fists though. It won’t do ya no good to be playin’ with wooden swords and end up thinkin’ yourself a warrior. You’re gonna have’ta muck the stable stalls and work around tavern for a few months in exchange for Thaddious asking Brakoli to take ya on. The man said he would need to meet with ya first before officially taking you on. He’ll be by tomorrow after lunch to meet ya.”

“Now clean them dishes and get to the inn, hurry up now. Be careful with Brakoli boy, for some reason he only agreed to this when he found out you hadn’t imprinted yet. It be an odd thing to care about for a fighting master.”

Ashur grinned and got up, hearing nothing but that he was going to learn how to fight. After cleaning up, he ran the entire five blocks to the inn breathlessly. He was recognized by most of the neighborhood as sprinted past, and some laughed at his antics. There were a few grumbles as well, but the majority looked on with smiles, like they recognized that Ashur was at the beginning of yet another new adventure.

Ashur spent the morning shoveling horse manure with Grant, one of innkeep’s bastards. It was filthy, grueling work, but he was used to manual labor by now. Even after a long morning, Ashur was still overloaded with nervous energy when it finally came time to meet his instructor.

Ashur was to meet Brakoli for the first time in his own back yard. It was not so much a yard, as it was a small dirt lot directly behind the shop. The area was enclosed in by wooden privacy fencing, with half of the space taken up by a rickety, three sided shed. The remaining open ground was about five paces squared. It had been a large enough area for him to play in when he was younger, but it seemed like too small a space to be fighting in, thought Ashur.

Ashur had initially intended to wait patiently upon his new master but was too nervous to spend the time completely idle. So when Brakoli arrived, it was to an unusual sight. The boy Ashur sat behind a thoroughly impressive castle, built entirely out of mud. It was surrounded by a respectable sized moat, which was spanned by a drawbridge attached to a nearby gatehouse. Crenulations lined the battlements, and archers manned the round, corner towers. Outside the walls a platoon of soldiers stood at the ready, and a line of cavalry stood ready to charge. Behind their lines, robed wizards held there staves aloft, as if they were preparing a massive spell meant to breach the formidable walls.

It did not look like a child’s plaything, it looked like a work of art.

Intent on the final preparations for the upcoming mud war, Ashur missed Brakoli’s arrival, and jumped to his feet in surprise when he heard the man grunt loudly. He looked up at his new master with a sense of apprehension that he had never felt before. Even at a glance the boy could tell that this was no peaceful man and would be completely unlike his previous masters. Everything about Brakoli spoke of barely restrained violence, and even a child as innocent as Ashur could recognize the threat his mere presence represented.

Brakoli was a large man, standing a hand taller than Adrian’s father and three times his width. His black, sleeveless shirt exposed massive, tattooed biceps to the crisp springtime air. The man’s forearms were nearly just as wide and upon closer inspection, Ashur observed that every piece of exposed skin was covered in old scars. Some were old, thin and faded, like the cobwebs in an attic corner. Others were large, angry and red. Wounds like that were not caused in by anything other than violence. They told those who could notice that Brakoli was a man who would not quit.

The most gruesome scar ran down the side of Brakoli’s neck, traveling from his left ear, over a collarbone, and continuing out of sign underneath the dark shirt. There was nothing subtle about that old wound. It said that Brakoli was a survivor, and the look in his eyes said that he was a killer.

“What are you doing kid?” The man asked after pausing to consider the scene before him. His words were gritty, rollingout of his mouth and over a short beard, like his mouth was full of gravel.

“Umm, playing in the mud?” Ashur answered.

“A little more than,” Brakoli responded. “How did you do the detail work on the castle, or the tiny little men? How are you sculpting these little men without tools?

Ashur froze up. He had never really considered how his mud-time would look to an outsider, and he was left without a ready explanation. Unable to tell Brakoli abuot his mana, he lied, “I put them away after I finished with the castle. I am just playing around now.”

“If you don’t want to explain, just say so,” The man said. “You should never lie to people you respect, and if you cannot respect me, then how can I teach you?”

After considering his words, Ashur decided they made sense and answered, “Yes sir, it won’t happen again.”

“Thaddious said that you were twelve, but from your size, I would have pegged you as nine or ten. Obviously there is something more to you then meets the eye,” Brakoli waived a hand to acknowledge the mud army. “The question is, are you worth my time?”

Ashur brushed off his clothes and stood up straight. Having interviewed with several masters, he put on what he thought of as his business face. He had learned it from measuring a working men for boots, and perfected it while learning more than a dozen trades. Even still, it seemed as if Brakoli’s found his look of confidence wanting.

“I have studied other crafts under various masters, and all have been satisfied with my efforts. They have even said that I am a quick study, a natural talent if you would. Please allow me to learn from you as well, I will not disappoint you.”

“Not bad kid. Did you practice that speech a bit?” Brakoli grinned, “Well, I’ll take hard work over talent any day of the week. Today is a test. You have until the end of this session to impress me. If you’ve got what it takes, then maybe I will allow you to be my student.

“Some ground rules first, while I am teaching, you will do as I tell you, when I tell you. I may allow questions about things later, or I may not. Unlike other crafts you have studied, what I am teaching you will hurt. If you compline, whine, or shirk from the pain, I will leave. Do you understand?

Ashur nodded.

“Answer me when I ask you a question boy,” Brakoli snapped.

“Yes, sir.” Ashur replied quickly.

“What level are you, and do you have any skills?”

“I have not imprinted yet.”

“Why not? Although it’s not recommended to go past level 1 until puberty’s finished, which in your case might be a while, those first five stat points help a lot with training. Is your dad too cheap to pay the trainers?”

“Something like that sir,” Ashur answered.

“Hmm. Not a lie, but intentionally vague. Better. Well, luckily for you, I only work with blank slates. The fact that you haven’t imprinted is the reason I’m willing to train you. Well, that and I owe Thaddius a favor and this will clear that debt. Well, let’s get to it then.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Let’s start with the basics. Maintaining your balance is essential to any type of fighting, whether with bare knuckles or swords. Come here, stand up straight, and face me.”

Ashur did as he was told. As soon as he stopped moving, Brakoli thumped him hard on the chest with the back of one huge hand. The surprised boy flew backwards a whole pace from the force of the blow. The wind was forced from his lungs when his flailing body landed hard upon his mud castle, demolishing it and laying waste to the surrounding army. Shocked and confused, Ashur could only lay in the ruins gasping for breath

“First lesson, standing up straight is for idiots. It’s tough to maintain your balance if you get hit, and it makes you a larger target. Instead you want to be in what I like to call a ready stance. Stand like this. Feet wide, knees bent, body off center to your opponent. Keep your hands up! Guard your face. Every time they drop I’m going to slap you. Good, now put your weak hand forward a little bit.”

As soon as Ashur had set himself as instructed, Brakoli thumped him again. He could see the blow coming, and his hands were up, but the hand was moving too fast for him to do anything about it. The blow landed with just as much force as before, but instead of flying backwards, the way he was positioned allowed his legs to absorb most of the impact. He gained a new bruise on his chest, and had to hop backwards a step, but he stayed on his feet.

“Good. Now a moving target it tougher to hit, so always be moving. Keep on the balls of your feet and maintain your center of balance as you step. It doesn’t have to be much, slowly circling or moving forward or backwards is plenty. Careful now, don’t let your feet cross! A still target is an easy target, so don’t just stand there and let me hit you.”

Ashur spent the next 45 minutes learning how to take a blow. He gained a basic understanding of how to reduce the damage of a punch by moving with it, blocking it, or stepping in close to avoid the power of the swing. After the initial shock was over, it seemed like fighting was a craft like any other. You react in certain ways when you see certain things. So far, the rules were simple, and stated that he needed to dodge this punch, counter that swing, or avoid this jab.

Brakoli taught in a way that Ashur had never experienced. It was like teaching a child how to swim by throwing him into the river. Every mistake he made in posture was punished by a blow designed to knock him off his feet. He was slapped every time his hands dropped. By the time the session seemed to be winding down, Ashur was covered in bruises. Even though they had only been at it less than an hour, the boy had learned a lot.

“Kid we’re about out of time today. You’re slow, weak and pathetically small, half the size of most girls your age. Size matters in a fight kid. Don’t let anyone tell you any different, otherwise prizefighters wouldn’t have weight classes. You’re still young, and have some growing left to do, but it looks like you’re going to be a tiny bastard your whole life. For you to have any chance fighting a grown man we’ll have to toughen you up tremendously. I’m not just talking about your physical body. I’m talking about your mind and spirit as well,” Brakoli paused.

“That being said, you weren’t lying earlier when you said that you’re a quick learner. You have a bit of potential.”

“Now, all that stuff we just practiced is important, but winning a fight is more than just knowing how maintain your balance or take a punch. You can pretty much teach that to anyone. To raise yourself above the rabble you need to have an edge. You need something that makes you special.

“Compared to other experts in the field, I am just mediocre when it comes to pure technique, and as I’m sure you’ve already noticed, they are better teachers out there as well. Still, when I am walking down the street, there is a reason why everyone steps out of my way. It is because I have learned a universal constant, and incorporated it into my fighting style. I embraced something that most people fear. I have learned the truth about pain.”

Brakoli stared into Ashur’s eyes.

“Pain is the original teacher, and by enduring pain you will learn its truth. If you can understand it, you will become feared no matter your size or ability. But the truth of pain is not something that can be taught with words, it is learned by doing, by practicing, and by enduring. You need an edge kid, and this is the only one I am qualified to teach.

“It’s the simplest of instructions, but there is no way other way to show you the truth. The question is. Will you be able to bear it?

“This is the most important thing I will teach you. You cannot let pain control you. You must always get back up and fight against the pain. You heart and mind must be stronger than your body!” Caught up in the moment Brakoli’s voice had slowly raised during his speech and he was now yelling.

“This is the test I am giving you boy. If you get up you pass, if you stay down you fail. My way of teaching is not for everyone, so if you don’t want to do this, just tell me to stop. Or don’t get back up. Feel free to try and dodge or block my blows if you can, after all, it’s part of the training.

“Are you ready?”

The idea that a fighter needed to have an edge resonated with Ashur, and the first thing that sprung into his mind was that magic was his edge. The concept of having an edge beaten into him didn’t make any sense at all, but the boy couldn’t quit now. If he did, he would be stuck working for his father. It would be over year until Ashur turned fourteen, and being stuck in his father’s shop for that long was completely unacceptable.

Besides, Ashur thought, surely the man was just trying to frighten him off with the tough words. So what if he had been slapped a few times during the training earlier, that didn’t mean that Brakoli would actually hurt him. There was no way Thaddious or his father would ever allow that to happen, he was just a kid. This was probably just a test of his will. This Brakoli was obviously bluffing.

Thinking that he had it all figured out, Ashur hid his knowing grin and nodded back at the man, completely sure that he has just passed the final exam. Then Ashur’s world shattered.

Even a rented mule would not have been beaten like Braoli did the boy. The swings were never at full speed or strength, but the simple difference in muscle, mass and skill combined to make each one irresistible. He wasn’t sure how long it took, but the next minutes turned out to be the longest of his young life.

Dodging or blocking did nothing to stop the beating. Sometimes he would stand up and immediately be leveled by another punch, other times he would stand there, cringing and cowering as Brakoli threw punches that intentionally missed him by a hair’s breadth. It seemed to go on forever, and Ashur didn’t even know why he kept getting back up.

A simple looking backhand knocked the Ashur to the ground, and the boy struggled to his feet once more. He was hurting to bad now to even have the ability to flinch, let alone to bring his hands up in defense. Wobbling on his feet, his punch drunk mind decided that it was all too much, he couldn’t take it any longer. He was done. He had tried, and he had failed. He was done. Next time he went down he was going to stay down.

He stood for what seemed like forever, waiting for that final blow which never came. As suddenly as it had started, It was over.

“Not bad. We will do this again tomorrow. I’ll see you here right after lunch again.” the scarred man said, like nothing important had just happened. Wiping the blood off his hands onto his shirt, the man walking away without looking back.

Like the trickle of water running down an icicle as it melted in the spring sun, blood dripped off of Ashur’s chin. It spattered steadily into the dirt below, and there was enough of it that it started to form a puddle. Ashur’s last coherent thoughts were of the contaminated mud it would create. Bloody mud wasn’t a good building material. Not only was it gross, but it stank and would not hold together like regular mud. He would have to wait for a rain to wash it away before he could use that patch of dirt for anything meaningful. The errant thought drifted off when the child collapsed into the puddle, and blackness consumed him.

*****

Ashur’s mind climbed slowly back out of the darkness at the sound of an intense, yet whispered argument. Initially, his mind wouldn’t register it as anything more than noise, but eventually the sounds slowly formed up into words, and later assembled themselves into coherent speech. The first voice he immediately recognized as his father’s, but the second he was unsure of. The voice was loud and yet raspy, like it was used to yelling and was good at it. It was deep, and clearly belonged to a man. The mystery was solved when his dad called the other voice by name, and it was one that he knew.

“Gods’ damn it Thaddius, you never said the bloody bastard was insane.”

“I told you that he could not be trusted. I only allow him at the inn because the Ragged Cloaks demanded it. Those bastards said they would burn down my inn if I didn’t let him work out of it,” Ashur could hear the floorboards creak under the innkeeper’s worried steps.

“This kingdom is a crock of shit Adrian. Everyone demands a piece of my tavern. I am paying taxes to the Earl, sending dues to an Innkeeper’s Guild I’ve never seen, and yet I still have to pay off the local thugs. Even after paying for all that protection, I still have to hope some wandering overpowered asshole like Brakoli doesn’t get pissed off and casually destroy my life’s work. I am half tempted to move into Fraeland to get away from it all.”

Thadious screamed in rage before continuing, “Anyways, we agreed to let Brakoli train the boy as he saw fit, until either he or the boy said they were done. We risk upsetting him by going back on our word, and that won’t help anything. Can the boy handle it? Does he have many points in vitality or maybe endurance?”

“Not enough for somethin’ like this. Thrashin’ a kid witless don’t learn him nothing. But if ya think it’ll get worse if we say somethin’…”

Ashur tried to listen to rest of their conversation, but their words scrambled themselves back up again, and slowly got quieter. Soon even the low sounds completely faded away and the boy returned to the darkness.