Chapter 9

Day Three – Noon

Father Sun had reached his peak, where he reigned supreme. At least, he would have, if not for the clouds that painted the city bleak. It would rain soon and Torm returned to the ruins he called home. Stepping through the door from the vestibule, the boy followed the familiar grunts.

The temple was ill-equipped to handle the upcoming spring rains. Under normal circumstances, they would either retreat into one of the intact moon towers, or the sacristy that used to lead into the sun tower. The one that used to house the bells with the big dial. But next to the stone altar, front and center to the pile of wooden banks, lay the harbingers of Zaber’s plan. A skull cap so scratched that the metal had become dull, a scuffed chinstrap attached to it. A crossbow with a wide selection of bolts, spaced on old leather paddings for arms and legs. And under the melodic tingling of chains, shapeless maille was added to the pile. Zaber heaved it out of the hatch to the basement and looked at his apprentice.

“I see,” said Torm and smiled at his mentor. He reached to help Zaber get out. “This looks serious. Is your head doing fine?”

“It’s ’aight.” Zaber spread the maille with light kicks and stirred up some rust. “This needs a good cleanse and oil.”

“Have fun?” The boy stepped back to glimpse at the old hauberk.

“A sold–” Zaber interrupted himself and scratched the scar on his jaw. “Everyone is responsible for their own gear. What sidearm do you want?” The greasy and unkempt veteran flicked against the hilt of Torm’s bauernwehr. “No need to stick to a short one anymore.”

“What?” Torm looked perplexed. His gaze got out of control, inspecting the displayed gear again, peeking down the hatch and looking at his own blade. “Let’s jump down! I wanna pick.”

The mentor was nearly pushed out of the way by his apprentice. Torm forwent the ladder into the cellar of these sacred halls entirely. He just grabbed a hold and swung down. The light wasn’t the best and dust had settled on most of Zaber’s many holdings. The rust that befell the arms wasn’t too severe, nothing a good whetstone couldn’t fix. Youthful Torm was overwhelmed by the idea of picking anything from here. After Zaber had climbed down too, the boy watched him pick up every piece one by one. Inspecting them in silence and scratching his prominent facial scar even more.

“What’s the plan? Which one are you taking?” Torm asked and squeezed himself next to Zaber in that claustrophobic room. It was filled to the brim, stacked with steel. And there was the chest. “Got a less ugly helmet than the thing up there?”

“That was my first proper helmet I got with thirteen. Wore a cap and paddings to fill it up,” reminisced Zaber about the past. “You’re getting my old set, it’s reliable.” He held a crude blade with one edge, curved ever so slightly. Its pommel was spiked and the hilt had an extra handguard. “How about this?”

Torm took the weapon and weighted it’s blade by balancing it by the crossguard. “Hmhmm. I don’t know,” he said and took it into his hand, swinging it as much as the cellar allowed for. “This is too clunky. I am quick-wristed, you know that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Zaber and watched the boy. “This belonged to the same Galázian fella I got my darling from.” He pulled out the stiletto from his hip and rotated it into an ice-pick grip. “I ain’t ‘slow-wristed’, ain’t I?”

Stared down by his mentor, Torm swallowed and looked at Zaber’s scarred hand. “No,” he gasped. “I wouldn’t.”

“He was a grown man and I was sixteen.” Zaber’s grip around the hilt tightened as he remembered. “A career soldier, just like me. Good tin around his body, slow and clunky. Met him on a maraud, probably billeted in the village. No nimbleness in the world can get you around armor.” The greasy and unkempt veteran moved the tip of his weapon to his neck, under his chin. To the groin and the pits of his arms, elbows and knees. Slow, but threatening. He remembered the voice of that day. “This crude thing will chop, not cut. If it ain’t getting through, it will crush your bones.”

“I–” Torm swallowed again, harder. “I think I should–” The words were in his head, but getting them out was hard. “I think I should fight the way I am best at. Like you always say: Good fighting is forcing your way on your foe.”

“’aight,” said Zaber with a curt nod. “’aight. You are right.” He stashed away his most precious possession and pulled out his langes messer. Presented it to Torm, forcing himself to brighten up with a smile. “How about mine? If everything goes as planned, you ain’t using it anyways.”

“Yes.” There was no gap between Torm’s answer and Zaber’s question. “Yes, yes, yes,” said the boy over and over again, his voice pitching up with every repetition. “Wait–” Torm had his hands raised and opened already, to embrace his mentor’s blade. “What do you mean, am I not going to fight? Again?”

“You will, but first you give me the intel,” said Zaber and pulled his lange messer away, sheathing it. “We ain’t done yet, I have to visit Asher and you have to get me my horses and write me a letter.”

“Hm?” Torm thought how to summarize the information he got. “Prisoners suspected to get capital punishment will be picked up in three days. One after another, and brought to the courthouse. Central will be last,” he said and pulled off his felt cap, running his hands through his hair. It helped him focus, to not forget.

“When’s Westwatch? I wanna keep collaterals low.” Zaber rummaged through his collection. He set aside the various polearm heads that lacked poles and smaller pieces of armor and the tools to maintain them. He finally reached what he was looking for. A kriegsmesser, a two handed version of what he already carried. “I’ll take this. Fully tinned, as the left vanguard. Asher will lead the right.”

“Why did you hide this beauty?” Torm was enchanted by the kriegsmesser. “Wouldn’t it be better if you take me with you to see Asher? You have to explain it twice–” said Torm and stopped.

“When’s Westwatch?” repeated Zaber and searched the weapon for rust and dents.

“Oh,” Torm halted. “Sagir’s not at Westwatch, he was put into Central. They expect us to do something stupid and don’t want to take any risks. They believe you have Airich’s–” Once again, Torm was not able to finish.

This time, Zaber did not interrupt him with words, but with a hand in front of his chest. The veteran put aside the kriegsmesser and pushed the boy to the side. To step in front of the chest. But instead of opening it, he pulled it a hand width towards himself and reached behind it. Never had Torm even thought about snooping around like that. There was a slender wooden casket hidden away. Intricate ornaments were engraved on it, the length of a tall child. Zaber wiped off the dust and froze for a moment, trapped in his own gaze, before opening it.

“Wha–” said Torm in awe.

The man he had lived together with for about five years brought forward a longsword in a plain but costly scabbard. No signs of deterioration, with a perfectly weighted hilt. Just three metal crests were on it, signs of noble origin. On top, a white shield with three green hills and a spear, set ablaze. Beneath that, a slain dragon in red, on an artless ground and the coat of arms of the King of Albion. The imperial gryphon, black and double-headed, on a golden ground and divided by a red cross that spread into all cardinal directions.

“I–, I’ve never seen that… either,” stuttered Torm. “Is that for Asher? Is–” The lights behind Torm’s eyes lit up. “Is this…?”

“That’s the backup plan,” said Zaber through his teeth, grinding in pain. “This alone will secure us victory.”

“Is it true…?”

“Let’s move up,” said Zaber. “I’ll give you the rundown before I roll out to Asher’s.”

“Can I come with?” Torm waited for Zaber to go up first. A yearning gaze remained on his face as he looked at all the weapons left behind. “We have three days, Breg and Buron aren’t running away and neither are the stables.”

“No slacking off, we are using those three days.” The veteran gave Torm a hand back into the chaotic altar room. “Your choice of blade is secondary to this,” said Zaber. “This one’s important.” He picked up the crossbow and a loading hook he clasped onto his belt.

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“What? Why, I am a good swordsman.” Torm looked at the crossbow and felt its string. “You shouldn’t ignore my strengths like this.”

“Shut up,” said Zaber and gave Torm a slap on the back of his head. “Hanifa has promised me experienced soldiers. If you want to be part of this, you follow my orders. We ain’t dueling anyone.”

“Fine, fine,” said Torm, straightening his hair and putting the cap on again. Slightly tilted. “I get it. This is serious.”

“Dead serious. I want no casualties.” Zaber’s stare was as intense as ever and Torm knew what this meant. Never did the mentor take the training of his apprentice lightly and he wouldn’t start today. “You will be in my line. I will take the lead, fully tinned. A pair to protect my flanks and clean up behind me and then comes you. Same for Asher’s line, but with a bow.”

“Why can’t I have a bow? Aren’t they faster?”

“The Sultan’s armies are filled with horses and archers, unlike ours. Many of them have shot their first arrow as children. Your back and arms ain’t fit for this,” said Zaber and picked up one of the bolts that were neatly sorted on the ground. “An archer is raised and a crossbowman is trained. And this is what we’re doing these next three days.”

Torm looked at the bolt held in front of his nose. He had neither used nor felt a bow nor crossbow before. Having a brawl in the streets, with some other youths, or sparring with Zaber was different. He knew he could control himself, even if his mentor was still scolding him for going overboard. But this, once fired, would kill. The boy swallowed at the thought and fixed his hair and adjusted his cap once more.

“You want me to write a letter to Breg and Buron?” Torm’s eyes shifted through the room.

“Affirmative.” Zaber nodded. “I need their help in a matter of life or death. We have to leave this place behind. Asher will also come, I am sure.” He put the crossbow on the altar and thought about the message. “Make it easy to read for Buron. No fancy or long words,” he said. “I understand if they can’t enter, but I would welcome it. I need them to take position and guard the horses and baggage, though. For a smooth scram.”

“Wouldn’t Buron be a better choice for the crossbow? And Breg could take another flank. Or you rip them apart together.” Torm laughed and started to inspect the crossbow.

“Asher is more than enough and we would still need more backup. Taking more Yesilians with us will–” Zaber halted to scratch the scar along his jaw, as he had many times today. “It will do us well. We’ll travel south. They need to prepare a boat or two that’s big enough for the animals to cross the waters.”

“We’re leaving Albion whole, not only Teblen?” Torm’s eyes widened. “Isn’t it enough to lay low outside the march for a while?”

“Your dream will come true,” said Zaber and forced a smile. “You will see the world… on the run.” He picked up the crossbow again.

“A–, Amazing,” uttered Torm, fists clenched. “Wait, no.” He looked outside the ruined temple. “Can we take Kell with us? I can’t leave him behind.”

Zaber was about to shift his attention back to the crossbow, but… he hesitated. His gaze wandered around the temple, over the old and damaged and overgrown depictions of the Constellations, the Sun and the Moons. He thought about what lay ahead and that he knew his friends would come with him, no matter what. And that Torm deserved the same.

“’aight,” said Zaber. “Tell him to take the bridge to Elandis, into Galázion. I’ll pay for the border fee and he can’t be armed.” He waited and thought even more. How to adjust the plan for Kell. “Hrm. Buy him a horse. He can guard our landing site.”

The boy’s eyes brightened up. His lips were pinched together, suppressing a squeal. “I swear, he will not be a burden. I’ll teach him how to fight, like you did. I–, I promised him,” said Torm, barely containing his gratitude. His hands changed from stressed to excited. “He knows his basics and is a hard worker. He’ll be my responsibility, entirely.”

“I know,” smiled Zaber, delighted by his apprentice. “But he can’t be close before we leave Albion. He’ll mess up.”

“How will he know if we made it? Breg and Buron aren’t waiting on the other side either,” noticed Torm, becoming ever so slightly confused. “Is there a sign?”

“Listen, he can’t fight and they can,” said Zaber and held up the crossbow bolt again. Right in front of Torm’s eyes, forcing him to focus on it. “If anything goes wrong and we’re pursued – even through my escape route – Breg can snap a guard in half on his own. And Buron can treat a wound and lead the way.” The veteran grabbed the crossbow. “Kell will only be in our way. Now, listen.”

“Fine, I’ll tell him. Any–” Torm went on and did not listen. So he was flicked against the forehead with the crossbow bolt.

“Next time, I’ll push it into your nose,” Zaber’s brows narrowed. “I need you on this one. I’ll do the heavy lifting; you need to be drilled to reload and hit at under thirty feet. Just hit, no sharpshooting.” The greasy and unkempt man stepped back, to present himself in full sordid glory. “See this?” He pointed at the hook. “You hang the string on it and put your foot on the iron stirrup in front. Push down to cock. This is about 480 pound,” explained and showed the veteran.

“Is that a lot?” Torm had jumped up a bit to sit on the altar and watch.

“I got a stronger one down there, but you would need a goat’s foot for it.”

“A what?”

Zaber sighed at all the questions. Back in his time… he thought. But he didn’t want to drill the boy like that. As long as Torm asked questions, he was engaged and that was good. “A clunky lever. I don’t want you to carry that around, we need to be fast.”

“Got it,” nodded Torm. “Quick-wristed, useless. Quick-ankled, smart.”

“I got about a dozen of these.” Zaber went on and pointed at the other bolts on the ground with the one in his hand. “Use the needle bodkins first, they can penetrate armor. If you run out of them, take the barbed ones. Last, these hunting ones, but they are unlikely to penetrate, except for a clean shot at a gap.” He made sure to point at all of them in order. “I doubt you’ll let loose more than three or four times.”

After showing the simple act of loading, Zaber pushed the crossbow into the boy’s arms. Torm felt the weight and sampled the bolts and their different tips. He pulls it up and down, again and again. Presses it into his shoulder to get a good feel on it.

“You ain’t wasting them yet,” said Zaber and held his hand in front of Torm and the crossbow. “Can’t afford them to splinter. You’ll use the useless ones, like the moon shaped.” The mentor gave Torm said bolt. “They’re for rope cutting–”

“Like in The Hanging Forest Hoodlums?” Torm snapped his fingers, as if it was a brilliant remark. “Or–”

“By the Dragon and the Kraken, I will get that book and smack you so hard with it…” Zaber pulled off his arming cap and whipped Torm’s arm. “They are used for trebuchets and–”

“As if you would recognize the book from the pile,” smirked Torm and got whipped again, at the back of his head, sweeping the felt cap off.

“Reloading is more important than precision. If needed you’ll put in some sticks for practice,” said Zaber and fiddled off the hook from his belt. “Once we’re back, the drill begins. In just a couple of days, you ain’t gonna be like a Flectian, but you’ll do good.” Zaber puts on his arming cap and scratches the scar at his jaw again. “Write the letter and get us horses.”

Torm took out the bolt and pulled the trigger of the crossbow. A loud ‘snap’ sounded through the sacred halls, once constructed for acoustics. “Are you sure you don’t need me at your flank? At your side?”

“No, this is the position I need you at,” said Zaber and began to walk out. “I know you can do the job, but the Yesilians are used to fighting in formation. I will get them paddings and spears, from Asher, and they will finish off the fellas I fell.”

Gloom beset Torm’s face and he sighed. “And you never taught me any polearms.”

“’aight, I’m heading out,” said Zaber. “When we’re back, you’ll put on the armor too. We drilling under battle conditions. Can’t do that with the Yesilians, they gotta lay low.” He turns around and looks at Torm, intensely. Zaber gave his apprentice a curt nod and forced a smile. “You got this. Discipline is key and you are a quick learner. Way quicker than I was.”

Torm looked at his mentor and grinned like a fool. He knew this was the carrot before the stick, but it was always nice to get a compliment. They were rare enough. Correcting the tilt of his felt cap, the boy saluted Zaber. With the incorrect hand and the fingers standing out all wrong.

“Fuck you, I gotta go,” said Zaber and chuckled at the provocation. “Write the damned letter first and bring it to the inn in Rygen.”