Chapter 2 – Beginnings

Just days prior, the spear was given to Abel by a Sergeant of the provincial guard, Hannibal. Abel was beyond excited to hold his first real weapon. Sure, during his apprenticeship to Master Finley, he had helped forge a few steel knives. Once, Abel even helped with a sword for the local lordling. But this spear, it was a real weapon. An instrument, Hannibal had called it, though he had never explained why. Abel took the spear from Hannibal and hoisted it with pride, quickly driving the butt down to the ground and stamping his feet to attention. He attempted to mimic the soldiers he watched growing up, drilling for hours in the practice yard outside Lake Top. He felt the weight of it, lighter than he would have imagined, but sturdy. Oak was the obvious choice for spears here in the Alacius Region. He twisted his palms to feel the wood grain and used his foot to leverage the base as he tried to torque the length of the spear. Nothing.

Abel was inquisitive and had a natural talent for understanding how things worked or were supposed to work. His father, an engineer, taught him an abundance of mathematics, physics, and even philosophy. While Abel retained much and even excelled at scholarly pursuits, he always yearned to do something a bit more exciting. Growing up, the other boys of Lake Top spent their time hunting, wrestling, and imitating soldiers and knights. They would all learn their father’s craft and continue to their respective professions someday. If they were lucky, they would have an opportunity to enlist in the Provincial Guard. Every boy in Lake Top dreamed of being a soldier.

Able, on the other hand, led a very different childhood. His father Caleb was an engineer by trade, so he made sure to inject Abel with every ounce of knowledge he could manage. Books, lessons, and long nights reading via candle-light filled Abel’s childhood. Now, finally, he held a spear for the first time. He was inspecting it from tip to butt, envisioning a man driving it into the ground and prying it back in an attempt to break it. No, not likely. He imagined it would take considerable force to break or even splinter this spear lengthwise. He hefted the spear again, balancing it lengthwise on his palm, he guessed its weight at eight marks?

“Boy!” Hannibal shouted. Abel snapped upright again, oblivious to the other recruits hastily following a large man with a yellow sergeant’s rank. They were headed towards the practice grounds, where they would be expected to drill, spar, and learn formations. Normally, they would have weeks to learn the most basic fighting forms, working callouses into their fresh hands. The Sergeant would run them for hours, yelling and berating them, telling the recruits they were unworthy of service. They would have had long days and short nights, waking suddenly to the sound of banging pots or horns while the Sergeant roused them out of their slumber to run or drill. Recruits were normally volunteers, young men ready to proudly protect their village and serve their kingdom.

Instead, the recruits followed nervously. A man with grey wisps escaping his knit cap trotted behind the Sergeant, followed by a tall, burly fellow who was nearly hobbling instead of walking. Ahead of them, a pair of broad-shouldered boys marched closely behind the leader. Abel called them boys, but they were probably older than him. Francis and Matt worked the Randley farm by the river. The boys looked like they might be brothers, but nobody knew for sure. They had just wandered to the river’s edge one day near the farm. They both stood a head taller than Abel, with tanned arms and golden blonde hair from long hours in the sun. The two were raised by Master Randley and his wife. “Parents probably killed in the war," Master Randley had told him once, "Poor lads couldn't remember a thing." The two were farmers, not soldiers. They didn't even help Master Randley when the goats or cows were ready for slaughter. The brothers would spend long hours plowing fields. They would opt for backbreaking days harvesting winter squash. The boys would muck stables before helping Master Randley with the slaughter.

The recruits here were not eager young boys. Instead, these recruits were fathers, brothers, smiths, bakers, and farmers. There was no one else. Every willing, military aged male had been hastily drafted to the King’s army. Within days, the men were promptly marched South towards the frontlines. The Filians were making bold moves again, forcing Malarthan to respond.

As the odd group of men approached the edge of the training yard, the Corporal directed them to ground their spears. Abel complied and leaned his spear against the hobbled wooden fence surrounding the training yard. The Corporal ushered the gaggle towards a weathered barrel overflowing with practice spears. Oak shafts were lashed with blunted iron spearheads. The men filed forward, fetching them one by one. Most of the men wielded their spears awkwardly, unsure of where to grasp them or how to hold them, Abel included.

“Alright boys," Hannibal thundered, "basic forms today." The next few hours flew by, as Hannibal and his Corporal, Darrid, strolled back and forth down the line of recruits. Each trainee received either a curse or a stern correction. Though Hannibal lacked a certain eloquence to his speech, his condensed explanations of spear combat made sense. Wind form was meant to be agile and flexible. It allowed quick and distinct strikes from a distance, catching opponents off guard. River form was meant to overwhelm with a flurry of strikes, best used on opponents with slow and cumbersome weapons. Tree form was patient and conservative, opting to feel out a superior opponent while maintaining a cautious defense. Abel was quick to recognize the benefits of each form and when to apply them.

Taking a balanced stance, Abel eagerly awaited as the Corporal, Darrid, probed each man on the practice line. The lithe Corporal changed his thrusts and lunges to make each man react or defend. Corporal Darrid would send a few volleys, making the recruits look like children. Hardy laughs followed each onslaught.

Abel's mind raced as the lanky Corporal approached. He knew that tree form would fair him best for this melee. As the lean attacker shuffled towards Abel, he quickly shot his spear in low as a feint. Withdrawing it like a viper, Darrid struck out for Abel's chest. Abel reached to parry the first low strike and struck air as he felt the Corporal's spear thump hard into his torso. Abel gasped from the blow and teetered, barely maintaining his balance. Darrid shifted his weight onto his back foot, rearing for another attack. Abel regained his stance as the next flurry of blows began pounding down on him.

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Darrid hefted the spear high and right, slashing downward. In a flash, he recoiled and did the same high and left. Abel barely had time to deflect the blows. Darrid lunged in low again, this time committing his weight to the strike. Abel, with his weight still well-balanced, slid back a half step as his opponent's spearhead grounded in front of him. Abel smashed his foot down where the shaft was lashed to the iron head. The spear split in two as Abel stepped forward into a lunging strike. His spearhead impacted the Corporal's gut, forcing a gravelly "Oomph" from the surprised attacker. Abel paused for a split-second, awestruck. The chuckling stopped, and a small whoop came from one of the recruits.

As Abel reveled in the moment, the Corporal took the remaining shaft and cracked him with a deafening blow to the right temple. Abel's vision flashed, and he heard a vague ringing as he stumbled backward, dropping his spear and cupping the side of his head. He felt the whip of another blow striking his ankle. His legs buckled, forcing him to double over in pain. Something larger and sturdier, a knee probably, crashed into his chest, sending him tumbling and gasping for breath.

“Don’t let your guard down recruit…” Darrid scoffed as he tossed aside the broken spear, beckoning for a replacement from one of the recruits. He sauntered to the next man in line and unloaded a relentless salvo of blows.

"Here," a mild voice said from beside him. Abel turned, still wincing as Francis fetched the dropped practice spear and handed it to him. "Good work. You're the only one to land a blow yet on that toothless crank." Francis patted him on the shoulder and ran back to the line-up.

That night, the recruits gathered around a campfire lamenting over the day’s beatings, nursing knots, bruises, and sore egos. Abel spotted Hannibal out of the corner of his eye on the fringes of the camp. The bearded Sergeant was hauling a hand cart with a barrel atop it. It almost looked like a keg. Abel walked, well limped mostly, over to Hannibal and offered what help he could.

“Sergeant, do you need a hand?”.

Hannibal let out a low, throaty chuckle, “Lad, you don’t look as if you could offer much help right now. I think maybe you ought rest a bit instead. Let the recruits know there’s a keg of ale here to enjoy.” Hannibal set the cart down and gestured at the group near the fire.

Abel looked towards them as the grizzled man retreated into the darkness. The group of men near the fire were chuckling loudly. "I don't think I've ever seen a man's eyes so wide before," a bulky man spat with an uncharacteristically smooth voice. "Like a man's first time seeing a maid undress maybe." The others let out a roar of laughter. They must have been talking about the blow that Abel landed on Corporal Darrid. The large man in the center slurped at a bowl of soup with one hand. Well... it looked like a teacup in his massive hands more than a bowl. His fingers dwarfed the implement, like giant summer sausages. Firelight glowed bright against the black sky, masking the large man somewhat. His features were undoubtedly foreign. Was the man from Lake Top? No, Abel had lived here his whole life. The others seemed comfortable enough around the large foreigner.

Abel hobbled over to Francis and Matt, who were sitting quietly on a bench nearby. Damn, his head still ached. His ear felt like a hot baker's stone, even hours after he was struck. He had managed to avoid being pummeled again, but never landed a blow on Darrid after that first one. Abel sidled up on the bench and nodded towards the hulking foreigner.

"Who is that?" Abel whispered to the brothers.

"He’s from the Middern Isles," said Francis.

Matt chimed in, "Hoi, they call him. He was traveling with a Middern merchant caravan when they were set upon by goblins. He escaped and has been bedding at the inn for a fortnight now. He had no coin, but Master Hatcher's wife insisted that they take him in, being that he had nowhere else to go and all." Matt sipped on his beef stew.

"Surprised you haven't seen him around town," Francis said.

"Or heard him!" Matt teased. "He plays the oddest instrument you've ever seen Abe. Some kind of strings on a wooden pot".

"Yeah, Master Hatcher is always yelling, comparing it to the dying cries of a rabid cat, but I think he actually likes it." Francis chuckled.

"He’s been playing for patrons at the inn, draws quite the crowd. That man can sing a fine tune too. I think it’s the paying customers Hoi brings in that Master Hatcher really likes," Matt remarked. The three of them let out a good laugh.

Abel had been so busy working the last few weeks he hadn’t even seen or heard of Hoi. Between the hours spent at Master Finley’s forge and his father schooling him nightly on mathematics, he hardly had time for drinks at the tavern. Abel was spending more and more of his time at the forge though. Master Finley had been insistent on the help and was far more… encouraging than his father. It's not that his father was cruel. Caleb just wanted the best for his son. The man bought every text from every merchant just so Abel could have the latest schooling. He nearly bribed every tradesman in town to offer his son the chance to apprentice, knowing full well they were almost always too busy to take on another student. Regardless, he would hound and badger them into submission, claiming Abel would bring them more income for their jobs.

Caleb hadn't yet failed to secure his son an apprenticeship. No father in town worked so hard as him. And for that, Abel was grateful. However, no other father in town also gave their son reading assignments and tests. No other fathers made their boys do all the house-chores when he failed to apply the correct force to a leverage equation in physics. It's likely that no other son in Marlathon spent hours writing the same three lines of script one hundred times. It was also unlikely that anyone in Marlathon knew the correct gender pronouns in Jylian, a near-dead language.

Abel did enjoy learning. He even carried a book with him most places. Reading was almost as fun as smithing. Only, he didn’t feel nearly as alive as when he was over the forge. When he learned something new, a solution to a geometry equation, for example, he felt a mild sense of accomplishment. When he finished forging a tool, or even a horseshoe, he felt elation, joy, and power. Creating something real and tangible was an incredible feeling. The sensation coursed through his body when he was over the forge. Perhaps someday he would find the same joy in the scholarly pursuits his father so fervently pushed upon him.

Abel surveyed the gathered recruits around him and took a moment to reflect. This was the first time in months he had taken a second to really relax. Mainar’s grace, this felt good. Sure he had taken a beating and been drilled all day, but he couldn’t recall the last time he got to sip on ale and unwind. It was interesting how all the recruits had been so grim as the day began. Now, they snorted and whooped, smiles covering their dirty faces. Some of them were best friends, and some hardly knew one another, but it didn’t matter right now. Amazing what a fire after a long day of work could do. Abel stood with some effort and crossed the yard to fetch another mug of ale when Hannibal approached the fire.

“Early morning tomorrow recruits, meet at the training yard at sunrise. Best not drink too much, it's going to be a long day”. Abel thought he caught a smirk on Hannibal’s greying face. He wasn’t sure if he was going to love or loathe being in the provincial guard.