ZENGHI – AGE 16 – FAYLENIAN MONASTERY, ATHENA, LESTOK

5TH CARLISHAE, EARLY SPRING, 843 PBM

“Why do we have to train outside when it is so early, and so cold?” asked Zenghi. He was standing outside the monastery walls, in a beautifully manicured garden normally meant for prayer or contemplation. And Zenghi hated every second of it. He hated weapons training. He hated being outside. And he didn’t think very much of the crazy looking woman who was to train him.

“Cold? It is Spring! The guy who usually does this would have you out in the middle of winter,” Samtha laughed with her thick drawl of an accent. “Maragon is going easy on you letting you get your weapons training from me, believe me.”

‘Because he knows I am too good at magick to bother with this silly sword and axe business. These are the weapons for the poor fools who cannot cast, or even more stupidly, can but choose not to.’

Samtha stood before Zenghi, a smile on her face suggesting she was very much enjoying his sour look and dissatisfaction with this exercise. Her dark hair was kept in a ridiculous style, with most of it long, sections of it in dreadlocks but the parts around her ears shaved clean. Zenghi had never seen anything like it other than on her.

She was lean, toned and muscular, and for the exercise today she had tight fitting clothing which hugged her body and allowed for ease of movement. And he knew from past experience she had a scathing wit, and a foul mouth. She was skilled in both weapons and arcane magick, but in a way a journeyman learns a great many skills - she was not a master of either. So to Zenghi’s mind that made her unsuited to teach him anything.

“Have you decided which weapon you will pretend to use?,” she asked.

“Do you intend to teach me or mock me?” asked Zenghi scornfully.

“Oh, that is easy, sugar. Do you intend to try and learn what I teach you, or are you going to do everything in your power to learn none of it?” Samtha replied, without missing a beat.

Zenghi said nothing. He did seethe though. He was good at that.

“You are going to be here for the same amount of time, regardless. My advice is you may as well try to learn,” she continued. “Its not like learning any of this forces you to forget what you already know about magick, is it?”

Zenghi begrudgingly conceded the point. He slogged towards a bench which had a vast collection of weapons, or at least their training equivalents. His eyes scanned across swords, axes, knives and bludgeoning weapons of many different styles, although his mind already knew he didn’t want any of them.

“Which one takes your fancy?” Samtha asked enthusiastically.

“Based on past experience, I hate them all. But the heavier weapons I loathe more than others,” Zenghi replied.

“Makes sense. With your…,” Samtha paused as she searched for a polite word, “lean frame, you should avoid any weapon which is based on strength to be effective. That basically rules out the heavy blades, most of the axes, and the bludgeoning weapons. I would suggest a staff.”

“A mage with a staff?” Zenghi asked sarcastically, “How very original.”

“You are welcome to use a rapier, dagger or spear instead, but consider this,” she replied, “there are reasons most other puny, weakling wizards who cannot fight use a quarterstaff.”

Zenghi imagined just for a moment using a blast of Air magick and sending Samtha flying across the courtyard.

‘Maybe that would knock that stupid smirk off her face.’

Samtha came over and picked up one of the long wooden quarterstaffs off the bench. She twirled it around in her hands easily and casually. In her hands it looked like quite an effective weapon.

“You can use the staff to ease your burdens while you do other incredibly tiring things, such as walking,” she added as she mockingly leant heavily on the staff while walking a couple of steps.

“And you can wave it feebly to keep people away from you in a real fight,” she continued, now holding the staff out at almost it’s full length to ward off an imaginary opponent.”

“Funny!” replied Zenghi scornfully. “I find weakling casters have to use Charm magicks in the same way. ‘Please help me. I am too weak to do anything on my own’,” replied Zenghi, mockingly casting a charm spell on an imaginary target. “Which spheres did you say you were strongest with again?”

Zenghi had hoped his comment would annoy Samtha. But he was disappointed to just see her laughing at him.

“Not a bad effort, young one. But luckily for you I am here to teach you to fight, not argue.”

Zenghi smiled in a way he knew annoyed most people, as though he had won.

“Otherwise I would point out that angry men who hate on everything are usually just crushingly insecure. Usually about the size of their brains, bodies or penis. Sometimes all of them. Shall we discuss which ones trigger all your insecurities?”

Zenghi’s smile vanished.

“Probably best if we just focus on the training then. Do you agree?” she asked.

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Zenghi picked up the other quarterstaff and nodded.

****

Zenghi lay on the hard ground clutching at his left shin, his leg sending waves of torturous agony all the way up his body. He tried to grit his teeth and hold in the pain, but found himself totally ill-equipped to do that, so instead he screamed. He howled in pain and rolled back and forwards on the ground holding a leg that he was sure was now broken, possibly ruined.

“Are you quite finished?” asked Samtha. Her body language indicated no sympathy for him. In fact she indicated no concern at all.

“We have been fighting thirty seconds and the first time you have been hit,” she said scornfully.

“You broke my leg,” snapped back Zenghi in-between yowls of pain.

“Broken?” she replied, mockingly. “Even your puny little bones are tougher than that. Stand up and you will see your leg is sore. Nothing more.”

“I can’t” he bit back.

“Ok then, sugar! I will let Maragon know you failed and are unable to proceed to the next part of your training,” Samtha replied. She turned and began to move away.

“Wait!” Zenghi called after her. She stopped and turned back towards him with a knowing smile.

“I will try to stand,” Zenghi continued.

He gingerly tried to stand. It was painful. His face contorted in immense pain several times, and he waved his arms around trying to keep his balance with only one good leg.

“Do you think you fight on past your incredible injuries?” Samtha asked tauntingly.

Zenghi was too sore to even say anything spiteful back. He just nodded.

****

Zenghi slumped to his knees. He was exhausted, his frail lean body pushed to its limit. Sweat poured from him, running down his face, into his eyes, and making it increasingly harder to hold onto his staff. It didn’t help he was also sore, having seemingly been whacked with Samtha’s staff to every part of his body. He couldn’t see them yet, but he knew by morning his pale skin would be covered with dark bruises.

Unless he could convince one of the priests to heal him. And that seemed unlikely. They seemed reluctant to use magick just to make life easier and better. If that truly was offensive to their God, to use their gifts for such trivial or menial uses, then Zenghi was glad he was a Mage instead.

He tried desperately to suck air into his tortured body, his lungs heaving, but seeming to be useless to restore strength to him. He doubted he could go on. Samtha had promised to push him to his limits, and she had found it. Zenghi wasn’t sure he had learned anything overly useful in relation to the staff, but he was more aware of exactly how far he could push his physical form.

“Is that it?” Samtha asked incredulously.

Zenghi couldn’t even find the breath to argue with her.

“Ten Minutes of playfighting and you are totally spent?” she continued. “Whenever you do get a girlfriend, I feel sorry for her.”

“What does that mean?” Zenghi panted.

“Well… if you want a woman to enjoy laying with you, in the throes of passion, then you will need more staying power than that,” Samtha explained to the teenager. “Our bodies have a complex set of needs to maximise our pleasure. It is not as simple as your male body. And it likely needs more than ten minutes.”

“Then you are doing it wrong. I can use magick to amplify her senses, and make her feel everything like she has never felt anything before. I am not worried about that. Magick is my tool. I can easily outperform an ordinary man at just about any task,” reasoned Zenghi.

“And that includes this idiotic stick twirling,” he added.

“Sure. But when I tell Maragon you failed this part of your training, he won’t let you progress to the next stage. But I am ok with that outcome if you are.”

Zenghi groaned. Of course he was not OK with that. Magick was his life. His one passion and true joy. He sacrificed everything else for it, and nothing could stop his training from progressing to the next stage. His body would be no exception.

“Can you please fetch me some water. I think I need some replenishment,” he asked.

Samtha nodded and walked away to get him the waterskin from the nearby bench.

While she was distracted Zenghi cast a spell which would infuse his frail body with more stamina and strength. He drew strands of magick from the stones around him and infused his sore and aching frame. It would not be enough to do miracles. But it would allow him to fight on.

‘With luck it might even allow be put a bruise or two onto my smug little trainer.’

It didn’t.

****

“How goes my promising pupil,” called the kind voice of Brother Turin.

“He learns little of what I teach him,” called back Samtha in a friendly tone, “so we have compromised to me teaching his body how to bruise. I would say on that front, he is becoming an expert.”

Brother Turin looked with concern towards his ward. Zenghi was laying on his back on the hard earth, groaning slightly with each breathe, his staff lying just out of reach on the ground. His skin was indeed already red in several places, and Brother Turin was sure nasty bruises would follow.

“But, he kept getting back up. His body is almost worthless, but his mind and his will are impressive, commented Samtha. “Has a nasty little tongue on him though. Usually if you have a tongue like that you can fight well or run fast. I am guessing he gets into fights with the other kids quite a bit?”

“He does indeed,” conceded Brother Turin.

“And I am guessing he loses,” she laughed. “A lot.”

Brother Turin nodded, his manner revealing frustration and perhaps exhaustion. “I have had to smooth things out with the Bishop on several occasions just to stop him being expelled from here. I think with this one, there are some here who would be happy to concede defeat and just move him on. Although they would never say that too loudly.”

“But you know he might be worth it, in the long run, right?” she asked.

“I do,” smiled the old priest. “And so I will help Maragon, and I will continue to work with him.”

Zenghi lay in the dirt, listening to them talk about him as though he wasn’t even there.

“I assume his training session is over?” asked Brother Turin.

Samtha considered her response. “Tell Maragon he tried much harder than he thought he would.”

“Did he pass?” asked Brother Turin.

“Depends what the pass mark is. Could he defend himself and win a real fight with his staff? Unlikely,” Samtha conceded.

Zenghi groaned at the thought that all of this might have been nothing, and he forced himself to rise up and stand. His entire body ached and burned from pain and fatigue. He got to his knees. He saw his staff on the ground, and he reached for it. But the effort was all too much, and he began to wretch all over the ground.

“But he showed determination and persistence. Could he stay alive a few seconds longer than he could before today. Yes I think he could,” Samtha said. “And hopefully that is long enough for him to cast something or for someone else to arrive and help him.”

“The Seven has had Mages who were worse fighters than him.” Samtha added.

“Have they really?” queried Brother Turin, with one greying eyebrow raised.

“Zarthas the Great was pretty useless with a weapon. But then, he wasn’t with the Seven for his weapon skills. I think our recent memory is colouring things, because for the last few decades the “Mage” has been Maragon. But his level of martial expertise is well outside the norm for those who have… ,” she hesitated as she looked at Zenghi, “…held his role within the Seven.”

“That is a very apt comparison indeed,” Brother Turin laughed. “Let us get him back inside, get you both cleaned up, and then we can go and eat our evening meal with the rest of the monastery.”