Chapter 4 - Home

Abel sidestepped a wild flurry of blows. The training spear was blunted, but he still dodged and parried with a purposeful vigor. Even a blunted tip still hurt, as the dozen swollen bruises across his body and the knot across his temple could attest to. Hoi, the robust bronze-skinned man, was built like a brick forge. His strikes were not as fast as the other trainees, but the force of them was astonishing. Abel continued to elude the larger man, cautiously stepping and weaving, leaving the large man frustrated. The fighting ring was well worn with the weight of dozens of mock battles. Beneath his feet, the ground felt worn but comfortable.

"Da little one, strike back!", Hoi rumbled and wheezed. Abel barely heard the comment, focused instead on the man's large brown eyes, watching the spear thrusts with his periphery. Abel had not yet found a good opportunity to strike. Most of his fights went this way. He preferred instead to gauge the opponent, sticking to Wind stance and gracefully—well sometimes gracefully—dodging attacks before committing. In the case of Hoi, it was paying double. The big man's chest heaved, sweat trickling from his brow. Abel could hear each inhale as if the man was trying to suck down an entire bellows of air with each breath. Patience was going to pay off again. Abel felt several stones as his feet dragged and glided backward, jagged and loose laying rock atop the soil. The soles of his boots were thin, and he could practically feel the grit, the rugged sandstone lines beneath him. Small pebbles and loose dirt carpeted the path. He had backed to the edge of the ring, typically unused by most of the trainees. The ground here felt looser, chaotic almost.

Abel continued his rearward glide and then stopped, assuming Tree form. Hoi’s eyes widened slightly as he recoiled and lunged forward at Abel. The large man's face smacked the earth as his feet betrayed him, sliding and then shooting unnaturally into the air behind him. An audible grunt was forced out of his belly. Abel stepped forward, wheeling the spear back to slam it like a hammer on Hoi’s head. Abel whipped it through the air and stopped—nearly tangling the tip in Hoi’s black locks. Hoi looked up at the young man standing over him. Abel tapped the stone-tipped spear on his head with a gentle 'thwap'. Hoi shouted, "Oy!" and erupted in laughter. Abel reached his hand to the prone giant and hoisted him up.

“Great job Hoi. You might want to stick to your ukele instead!" Matt cackled from the line of watching boys. "Yeah! You might spend less time on your face and more time on your ass that way!" Francis chimed in. The crowd of trainees all laughed together, slapping the twins on their shoulders. Hoi dusted off his worn tunic, patting Abel on the back heartily. The group had been training nearly two weeks now, exchanging blows and jibes. They all took the training seriously, and they respected a good fight. No one took the beatings personally, except Corporal Darrid, of course. That pinched, thorny man never joked with the recruits. He seemed especially sore towards Abel. Two nights ago, he made Abel clean out the waste basins all night and then picked him for nightguard duty. Abel did not enjoy a wink of sleep that night and reported at dawn for a day's long expedition of marching, scouting, and drills into the woods.

Darrid shouldered through the crowd of boys, sneering with his teeth bared. "Boy. Have you not learned yet to strike without hesitation? Do you think that a goblin or a Filian Marauder will offer you an opportunity like the fat man over here?” Darrid hissed and pointed at Hoi. “They will rip that spear from your hands and gut you with it!” the man spat. “Perhaps you will hesitate less when you scrub the cooking pots tonight… Again.”. Darrid’s lips twitched to one side in an unsightly smirk as he turned to two new recruits, pointing them to the center of the training ground.

Abel and Hoi moved to the outer edge of the circle, fetching water skins. Hoi was adamant that Abel got his water first, citing his recent victory. Hoi’s people, the Middle People as they are called, enjoy a slower pace than most of the mainlanders. The Middern Isles lay far out in tropical waters, where the days are longer, and the weather is warm. Hoi was wrapped in leather and furs, even though it was nearing summer in Lake Top. He shivered visibly as he cast the water skin into the trough after Abel.

“Don’t you have any warm water?” Hoi scoffed. “De waters here are colder than my last meute’s heart. In Me’edern, the waters are warm, heated by de Halla’s furnace.” Halla was the jolly giant god that lifted the Middern Islands from the sea. Or so Hoi had explained it. He provided everything for the Middern Isles, from beautiful, painted sunsets to the plentiful seeds and plants that covered the land.

“Hoi, is your god ever spiteful? Does he punish people?” Abel asked somewhat sheepishly.

“Halla? He is our protector; he is no god. We are very lucky that Me’edern does not have many rotten fruits. Like any bad fruit, they are not much liked. Dey have no offspring. Me thinkin' this is punishment maybe." Hoi cocked an eyebrow. "Tough' if I meet anotha meute who is all rocks and no honey upstairs, I be thinkin’ he punishes me unfairly." Abel grinned as he tipped the leather flask to his mouth.

Abel had studied a little bit about religion with his father. There were countless cultures across the world. And those are only the ones that made into the books. Most of the readings were derisive and obtuse. The most fervent religious scholars were Western, owing their faith to Mainar, the God of Glory. Predominantly a peaceful religion, Mainar’s followers were not overtly zealous. Still, they certainly placed themselves smugly above the others in the religious pecking order.

Abel's father, Caleb, had warned Abel to be open-minded about all matters. Caleb, like everybody in Lake Top, was a Mainarite, if only by tradition. He dragged Abel to the solstice revelries, avoided cursing or blaspheming as much as any normal man and had the Glory Crest displayed above their home's hearth. The sentiments were mostly empty, and Caleb had told his son that he should learn about the world before committing to one belief.

With that perspective now engrained, Abel never really understood the town’s fascination with Mainar and all the associated fuss. More than half the town hadn’t heard of but two gods, Mainar and the Filian idols. Given only two choices, it was an easy pick, assuming you didn't like sacrificing your firstborn to an excruciating ritual full of fire and death. Beyond the occasional traveler and trader, there wasn't much variety to be had in Lake Top or many exciting tales. Instead, everyone seemed quite content to gather during spiritual holidays and sing the praises of a god they scarcely knew.

Abel upended his flask, draining the last drops of icy water as Hoi pointed to the sparring circle. Matt and Francis, the brothers were up now. Both boys were lean and quick, like mountain cats emerging from winter hibernation, ready to hunt. Long hours on Master Randley’s farm left them tanned and rugged looking for teenagers. Matt’s long blonde locks blew lazily in the breeze as he circled his brother, grinning. Francis looked equally at ease as if the two of them were at a game of snatch the hen. Matt leaped forward like a pouncing cat, whipping his spear around at his brother. Francis deftly stepped and parried with his spear. The two continued like this several times. Exchanging rapid, but lackluster blows.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Abel could tell there was no real vigor in any of their swings. Matt and Francis were simply putting on a show for the spear masters. Both of them enjoyed a challenge but didn’t particularly care for fighting. "Undignified," Matt had once snorted.

"Easy really, not as much of a challenge as stealing a kiss from Master Hatcher's daughter!" Francis had chimed in.

As Abel looked past the fighting brothers, he saw Corporal Darrid’s face. It was twisted and screwed like a whirlpool of rage watching the twins fight. Darrid’s fists were clenched, his knuckles a pale white, bursting with leathery green veins that looked ready to pop.

Abel shouted, "Oye, Francis!". Francis's blonde locks swung against the breeze as his head turned to look. Matt landed a cracking blow right against his brother's unguarded cheek. Francis reeled from the shock and bent over, rubbing his cheek. The injured twin looked up at Matt, who was trying to hide a grin. Matt's teeth broke free into a smile, followed by laughter. Francis's eyes narrowed. Francis swept the spear under Matt's feet, sending him sprawling to the ground. Francis leapt onto his brother, casting the spear aside. Arms, legs, and Matt's spear became a tangled, twisted mess. The two wrestled and shouted unintelligible insults at each other between heaving breaths.

Darrid strode over like a bull, shoving one of the boys with his heel. The brothers were struggling to stand and grapple each other before they noticed Darrid fuming above them. They snapped to attention, rigid as oak trees, looking to their feet. The Corporal paced, muttering under his breath before turning to the group. “Drills are over for today. You are all on pass until sunset. Report back before sunset, packed for an overnight training expedition. The exercise will last two days. Dismissed.” Darrid left with barely a nod, trotting off towards the barracks. The group was left in silence for a moment. Abel felt uneasy about Darrid’s abrupt announcement but was quickly distracted by the laughter and cheers of the other men. Matt and Francis came jogging over, wearing two face splitting grins.

"I thought we were about to get a proper dressing down," Matt chuckled.

Hoi squinted and scrunched his face.

"Dresses? Men wear dresses in Alacius? This does not surprise me. Men have dainty figures here, good for dresses," Hoi snorted.

The brothers and Abel rolled their eyes in unison, "Yes Hoi, dainty indeed. We will make sure Abel wears a dress the next time he bests you in sparring too," Francis retorted. Hoi bellowed another laugh, patting the boy on the shoulder.

“We’re off to the inn so Francis can ogle Atrea before Master Hatcher gets back from Half Brook. What about you, Abel?" Matt asked.

“I'll meet you there later; I need to fetch some things from my Father first," Abel replied. The group parted ways, with Matt and Francis sauntering next to Hoi. Abel collected his bag and spear and trudged off to the house. After a leisurely walk to the edge of town, he came upon a modest-sized cabin with impeccably sharp lines. The front of the house belied its spacious interior. Unlike the other houses in Lake Top, which were primarily stone and timber, his father had painstakingly drafted a hybrid material. Using a ground solution of rocks, he had poured the substance between the timbers. This mixture had later hardened back like the original stone, only in arrow-straight lines instead of the rough and tumble carved rocks like many other dwellings.

Inside, the house was all right angles and purposeful spacing. Each room was carefully chosen based on need and occupancy. He had also lined the walls and roof with a soft, fibrous material that he had created from corn husks in the valleys. His father also embedded several sets of iron piping throughout the house, some to circulate the heat from the hearth and others to heat a water system that his father had designed. It stayed astonishingly warm in the winters and needed only half the wood that other houses in Lake Top had to stockpile.

The rooms were sparse but comfortable. Abel fetched the iron key and twisted the lock. He could hear a set of custom made bolts shimmying against springs and lock balls as the door eased open. His father had given him the specifications of the pieces he needed. Abel had diligently forged them with the help of Master Finley's guidance.

His father was seated comfortably with a leather-bound book between his hands. The man’s hair was a deep brown, with burgeoning grays peppered throughout. A neatly trimmed mustache rest atop pursed lips. His father’s eyes were squinted slightly, forming a web of wrinkles at the corners. Caleb looked up, greeting Abel with a warm smile and a nod. "You're looking good today, less bruised than usual."

Abel laughed. “Yes, I am a slow learner. But an oak spear tip to the ribs makes a good learning tool.”

“Ah yes, I think it was Emeritus Veingold who said ‘there is much to be learned from the lightning during a storm’,” Caleb remarked.

Abel rolled his eyes slightly and recited the rest, "But it's far easier to study the storm from the edge, under a cool rain." Abel slumped into a chair near his father, relieving the weight of the day and his tired back. He glanced over, eyeing the title on the spine of the book his father held; 'The Unusual Mechanism of Sound'. His father peeked over the pages at Abel.

"Well, if you're not going to do anything, perhaps you can fetch me my tea." The kettle began to whistle behind in the kitchen. Abel grunted and pried himself from the chair. "It's interesting. Scholars do not understand yet why or how sound travels. They have an inkling, though, that it is affected by distance and a few other variables. For example, they have deduced that sounds made in stone hallways are notably louder and travel farther than sounds in a soft grassy field. They suspect that it has something to do with the hardness of the surface. Also, grab that tin cylinder off the counter, please, Abel."

Abel trudged over to the counter, pouring two cups while eyeing the conspicuous tin rod. It was no larger than his thumb, with a small hole up top, and one smaller one on the side. He balanced the teacups in his hand, offering one to his father.

“Scholars also suspect that there are sounds that we simply cannot hear.” His father waved away the tea, grabbing the small object instead. Caleb pressed his lips to the top of the cylinder, and Abel watched as he puffed his cheeks slightly. Nothing. What was supposed to happen? Caleb puffed his cheeks slightly again. A cacophony of noise rumbled through the house, though it wasn't from his father.

A pair of bouncing brown ears and a wagging tail came bounding from the bedroom, followed swiftly by a graceful form, less enthused than the first. Abel’s dog, Herecles, barked excitedly at his father as he puffed up again. Nepherti, a striped tabby cat, let out an annoyed meow, rubbing against his father’s leg in an affectionate plea. Caleb smiled, reaching a hand out to both the animals and rubbing them vigorously.

“They both hated it at first. Herecles would howl and whine, running around frantically. Nepherti was less than enthused. Now, they come looking for attention instead”. He looked at Abel with his eyebrows raised expectantly.

This was his father’s cue to try and explain the phenomenon. Ever since he was a child, Caleb would give him the same look. He would never relent until Abel offered a cohesive explanation or hypothesis. Caleb handed his son the small rod. Abel inspected the cylinder again, noting the similarities to a flute.

"Okay, so much like an instrument, air passes through at different lengths or intervals, producing various tones, expect in the case of this little…”

Abel was cut short as the sound of bells filled the air. He shot to his feet, alert and ready—three quick, ominous strikes of the town bell. Someone was missing. Abel hoisted his bag and headed for the door. Surely, the guard would be summoned for this. He wasn't sure about the protocol for trainees, but his instincts told him to go. Caleb stood up slowly too.

“Son, I’m sure the guards have this well in hand.” He trailed off, looking at Abel. “See what you can do, and be careful." Abel nodded gratefully before running off into the night.