Harald awoke before Sixth Bell, before Sam had even entered his room. He rose in the dark and dressed.
Today felt different.
It wasn’t that he felt numb, but rather hardened. He didn’t linger in bed, didn’t wrestle with the temptation of enjoying the warmth.
He simply opened his eyes, realized that he was awake, and got the hell out of bed.
When Sam opened his door, he was dressed and lacing up his running leather shoes.
“You’re awake.”
“That I am. Let’s go.”
He passed her, taking the cup of water and fruit, and had drained and eaten them by the time he reached the front door.
Out into the dark. This pre-dawn gloom was becoming familiar. Something he welcomed, the way to start the day right.
“You all right?” asked Sam, hugging first one knee and then the other to her chest.
“Not yet. But I’m working on it.” He windmilled his arms twice and then fell into a jog. Down the driveway. Out the gate. Turned down Baldric to the park.
His body felt good. That was remarkable. He’d grown so used to pain and soreness that it felt almost weird to be able to jog along free of stiffness and aches.
The goal was to run a little faster for a little longer each day. The temptation to go hard right out the gate was strong, but he reined himself in, fought for a steady pace, emulated Sam’s light gait.
They hit Season Park. When he’d first started this routine a couple of weeks ago even one lap had felt impossible. Now he considered it a warm-up. He ran around the familiar curves, not light on his feet, but purposeful, driven. Sam kept pace as always, and when they finished the first lap, she pulled ahead.
But not as quickly.
Harald maintained a good, steady pace, faster than any he’d yet managed. Each footfall, each breath, each moment felt more vivid, more real, more pressing than any moment in his previous life.
This was living.
This was being alive within your body.
On he ran, through the mist that stole across the path. Sam left him behind as always, but he didn’t let that dismay him. Instead he focused on his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Finger tips lightly pressed together, hands low.
Images came to his mind: Nessa leaning against the wall by his bedroom door, watching him, gaze speculative. Vic lounging in his kitchen chair. Ustim’s sneer. Yeoric leaning over him, pinning him to the ground.
His father backhanding him that one night after he’d dared press him on mother’s death.
Harald went faster.
He finished a second lap, felt good, felt elevated. The eastern horizon was starting to lighten. The mist was burning away. More people were on the path.
Nothing mattered but keeping his pace.
People watched him go by, curious, stepping aside abruptly as he came barreling along.
Once he’d have worried what they thought. How they perceived him. What they made of his sweating, his gasping, his shorn hair.
Now he didn’t care.
Nothing mattered.
On he ran, into the third lap. Sam had yet to catch up with him.
No stitch yet.
He lengthened his stride. Soon he’d hit the wall. But not yet.
Not yet.
On he ran, chest tightening, breath coming faster, sweat stinging his eyes.
Faster.
Nothing mattered.
Faster.
Sam finally caught up, came abreast.
Harald opened his pace even farther, kept up with her, allowed her presence to push him to greater speed.
She glanced askance at him sidelong, made no comment.
How she made running look easy. Her frame compact, athletic, feline, her braid bouncing, her brow lightly sweated.
Harald forged ahead, refusing to fall behind.
Pain began to mount.
There was the stitch.
His breath was now a series of sharp gasps.
His thighs and calves were burning.
But he wouldn’t relent.
All his life he’d given up when the going got tough. Had knowingly allowed others to manipulate him. Had accepted and bowed his head.
Fury arose within him.
His flesh was weak, but it could be made to obey.
On he ran.
Sam couldn’t pull away.
A fourth lap.
He was a mess, a shambling, gasping, sweat-soaked mess.
But he didn’t fall back.
Nothing but his mind kept him going.
His body begged for mercy. He gave it none. On he ran, fighting to keep Sam’s pace. She did him the dignity of not slowing down.
Others gave him sharp, worried glances as he raced past them.
Just to the beginning of the sixth lap. His vision narrowed to a tunnel. He rocked from side to side as he ran, falling apart. Sam pulled ahead, but he forced himself to catch up.
There, just ahead: the ornamental gate that was their entrance.
His marker.
He pounded past it, careened off the path, and crashed down onto the bank of grass, hitting it hard and floundering.
“Harald?” Sam by his side, hand on his shoulder.
“Go on,” he gasped. “I’m… I’m fine.”
For a moment she hesitated, and then she was gone.
Time ceased to have meaning. All that existed was his need to suck in endless lungful’s of air, to fight to not vomit, to stop shaking, to get his shit together.
The sound of metallic stars ringing out against the void filled his mind:
The Demon Seed Has Stirred
Your Constitution has risen from 7 to 8
One step closer.
Grim satisfaction replaced his anger.
Three points of Constitution gain in just over two weeks. What normally took others a year, two, he’d done in less than a month.
Harald rolled onto his back and stared up at the gray dawn sky. What if this rate didn’t let up? What if he kept gaining three points every month? Within a year he’d be a monster.
But no. Normally people, even peak athletes, didn’t get a Constitution above 15, or 16 at the very highest. The only way to climb beyond that, to reach the mythical 20’s, was by Ascending your Thrones. The human body, unaided, had natural limitations.
He would soon need scales if he was to keep this rate of advancement. First he’d have to Ascend to his first Throne by acquiring 10,000 Copper Moons. That’s where most adventurers and raiders stopped, for while it took a single Zenith Tide to activate your first, it took 100,000 Copper Moons, or an entire Horizon’s Whisper to activate your second.
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Well.
One step at a time.
Harald sat up with effort and summoned his window to consider his stats.
Strength: 7
Dexterity: 7
Constitution: 8
Ego: 18
Presence: 9
The numbers that hovered before him were proof that he wasn’t delusional, but somehow he couldn’t quite believe them. Ego 18? Presence 9? Constitution 8?
He examined his Demon Seed Endowment once more.
Demon Seed: in the depths of your being an unholy black seed has been planted. Water this seed, nurture its growth, and you shall become a conflagration of power and despair.
What had Vorakhar done to him?
No matter.
Thus far the changes lay in accord with his own desires. He’d not second-guess the demon.
Not yet.
Groaning, he rose to his feet and forced himself into a light jog. One more lap. His body protested, but he ignored it.
One more lap and he’d call it quits.
Maybe two.
* * *
Learning the longsword under Nessa was far more interesting than executing Vic’s uninspired drills.
“Their are several ways to learn,” she said that morning, freshly showered and looking far better than the evening before. She’d simply chosen to not address the insults or the scene she’d made, and ignored Sam’s flinty stare. “You can work through line drills, you can shadow-spar, you can spend time executing sequences with a passive partner, but the single best way to improve your skills is to spar.”
Harald’s excitement jumped up a notch.
Nessa extended her blade. “We’re following an accelerated course, seeing as you only have six weeks in which to master as much as possible, so I will be treating you as adults with common sense and self-control. I’ll give a quick review of what you must keep in mind, and then this morning will be spent sparring with live steel.” Her smile was humorless. “It’s dangerous, but nothing focuses the mind and cause you to appreciate the weapon you’re holding like sparring without protective gear.”
Harald glanced nervously at Sam.
This seemed like an exceptionally bad idea.
“So, things to keep in mind.” She entered the Plow Stance, hilt at her hip, point aimed at her opponent’s face. “Always keep your vertical center-line in mind. Your blocks and strikes should be conservative if possible, and not reach out far to the sides, because that will just leave you open. Move, when possible, obliquely; at times you might want to execute a direct lunge, but usually you’ll be stepping forward and to a side, protecting your center-line and striking at your opponent from an angle.”
She executed a few examples, gliding forward, blade lashing out lazily.
“We’ll work on footwork soon, but for now, maintain posture, and try not to cross your feet. Watch.”
She demonstrated.
“Now, let’s get to the heart of what I want to focus on for this lesson. The bind. Harald, Tower Stance, then strike at me and hold.”
Harald shook out his shoulders, perfected his stance, and then stepped in and slightly to the side, slashing down at her torso.
Nessa parried nonchalantly so that their blades sang out, and then held her blade in place, so that they were crossed.
“This, here, is called the bind. Our swords touch. Often a fight will be a series of quick thrusts and parries, but the bind is crucial to turning a situation to your advantage and killing your foe. Harald, press against my blade.”
She’d parried the upper quarter of his sword close to her hilt; he strained, but her sword didn’t give way.
“The bind is all about leverage. The higher up your blade you go, the less you have. Now, say that we reverse the situation.” And she slid her blade back and down, so that her upper edge was close to Harald’s hilt. “Try again.”
This time her blade gave way, though the muscle that snaked own her forearm to snarl over the bone just below her wrist came into sharp relief.
“Strong versus weak. That doesn’t mean that strong is better; it’s all about the dance. If my bind is weak, then I can give way, twist, and come in over his sword as he’s deflected to the side. If it’s strong, then I can force his aside and stab him.”
And she worked her sword up and down the length of Harald’s own, demonstrating how one might react to different positions.
“The key is to develop a sense for the bind that doesn’t require endless seconds and straining when your swords clash. You need to refine your intuition so that you immediately flow into the correct counter or attack. The moment your blades touch, if they don’t immediately spring apart, you need to sense how to react, whether to force or relax, which way to twist, how best to guide your opponents sword so that you can slide yours past them and end the fight.”
Nessa smiled at Harald, the expression challenging, provocative. “Now try and flow with me. Sense through your hands what leverage you have, and how you should react.”
And the pressure on his blade, constant till this moment, shifted as she moved out wide, drawing the length of her sword down so that the parry was close to her tip yet remained in the center of his own sword.
Harald pushed, but she deflected his thrust to the side, coming back around and over. But she didn’t go for the stab; instead, she allowed him to turn with her, sword again thrusting, but now his weak was against her strong; he lacked leverage, so he backed away and sought to deflect her sword as she pushed.
Back and forth, low then high, side to side they turned, their swords slithering metallically over each other, and slowly he started to glimpse what Nessa was referring to. A sense of when to push, when to give way. How to force her blade out wide from her center line, and how she might trick him into thinking he had control when she was setting him up for a feint.
“Good!” Nessa smiled, and Harald felt a thrill pass through him. “Sam? Your turn.”
Harald stepped back.
Sam was eager, fierce, focused.
The women crossed their longswords, entering the bind, and again set to pushing and deflecting, side stepping and advancing, retreating and guiding each other’s swords.
Except Nessa made it look effortless; no matter what Sam tried to do, she seemed to know where to step, how to react, such that she always looked in control; Sam scowled, intent on trying to force the issue, and continuously lost her center line as Nessa used her own strength against her.
“Good. You both are going to spend time doing this each day. Once you’ve got the basics down, I’m going to have you train blindfolded with wooden blades. Its all about your center line, leverage, and reading your opponent. Sam here abhors my guts, and wants nothing more than to dominate the bind; that makes her easy to control and eviscerate.”
Sam flushed and clenched her jaw.
“Harald, on the other hand, is too tentative; he’s seeking to understand with his mind as much if not more than he is with his instinct, his arms, his center of gravity. Binding is an intuitive art; in a real fight you won’t have time to calculate. Your blades will touch and in that moment you’ll need to decide how to move. No time for thought. Which is why you’ll be training until your reaction is instinctive, not calculated. Good?”
“Yes,” said Harald, doing his best to control his excitement. For this felt like real sword fighting, the hidden heart of what more skilled warriors made look easy.
“Yes,” said Sam, tone grim.
“Good. Now, at half-speed, I want you both to bind against each other, and just go back and forth. I’ll add caustic commentary where needed. Then we’ll move onto footwork, and finish with some line drills. Face up. Ready? Begin.”
* * *
Dinner was a tense affair; Harald kept a wary eye on Nessa in fear of another outburst, but she was calm, collected, almost demure.
Which was in and of itself worrying.
Vic, however, was positively glowing. He managed to wait till Sam had served their plates, then leaned forward to beam at Harald.
“You recollect how you’ve accused me time and again of being nothing but a mercenary leech intent on milking you for every scale and caring nothing for your true well being?”
Harald paused. “Um. No?”
“Well, I’m glad to say we’ll soon be able to put those doubts to rest. Countess Sonora has requested that my team and I descend into the dungeon for some basic scale hunting, and I have hit upon the capital idea of bringing you and Sam along.”
Nessa frowned. “They can barely tell the pointy end of the sword from the hilt.”
“Hey,” protested Sam.
“Oh, they won’t be doing much. We’ll only be entering the 4th Level. It’s practically a playground suitable for children. You and I will do the actual work, and when the moment is right, we’ll usher them forward to try their hand at dispatching badly wounded monsters.”
“That doesn’t sound very…” Harald tried to find the right word.
“Dangerous?” provided Vic. “It’s not meant to be. But we need to expedite your acquisition of a class. You absolutely need to be working on one by the end of your first month, so that you can begin manifesting your passives and actives in time to train with them. The only way to acquire your class is by putting yourself in danger; by having Nessa and I by your side, you’ll be able to pick and choose your battles. And it’s but our first venture. I’ve decided that we’re going to head down at least once every fortnight to put your skills to the test and expose you to real combat. Nessa?”
Who frowned as she moved her vegetables about her plate. She had no appetite, Harald noticed. “It’s smart, I suppose. And Level 4 should be of no challenge to us. I’d still like them to have another couple of weeks’ training before we attempt it.”
“Oh, just like a mother hen,” grinned Vic, raising his goblet of wine. “A couple of lessons and she’s already clucking over you both. We’re both heading down, Nessa, by Countess Sonora’s request, so we might as well take advantage of her writ.”
“When?” asked Harald, trying not to sound eager.
“Four days’ time, just before the monthly accounting period draws to a close. Countess Sonora’s been, well.” Vic considered his words. “She has something of a rivalry with Lord Gorkin. They’re both Counts, but Gorkin’s star is rising, while hers has begun to wane.”
Harald considered. “That’s why she’s willing to engage in risky gambles like backing me?”
“That might have something to do with it.” Vic shrugged. “She and Gorkin have had some public spats, and he declared before several Dukes that she was a naked Countess. You can imagine how well that went over, especially as that’s essentially true.”
“Naked?” asked Sam.
“It’s not nearly as scandalous as it sounds,” said Nessa dryly. “It simply means that she’s little wealth beyond the publicly displayed Horizon’s Whisper that maintains her status as a Countess.”
“Oh,” said Sam. “But she’s secured Harald’s wager?”
“She’s not destitute,” drawled Vic. “She has several Horizon’s Whispers to her name, not mentioning her family assets. But she inherited an impoverished household, and is determined to improve her means. Especially as weakness in her circles draws vultures and hyenas galore. She must grow her wealth if she’s to maintain her lifestyle, or cash in her public Horizon, turning herself into a very comfortable Baroness. Of course, that would be tantamount to admitting defeat, and inviting her foes to go for her throat.”
“Why does she have so many enemies?” asked Harald, curious despite himself.
Vic waved a hand dismissively. “Her father was a contrarian, and she herself has a stubborn streak a mile wide. She’s inherited his feuds, but refuses to bend knee or apologize for the wrongs done to her family, especially since her parents were murdered but last year. It’s a complex situation, tragic, yes, but the Countess is as fiery as she is beautiful. I do so enjoy consoling her.”
Nessa picked up her wine glass. “So she’s asking us to step up the dungeon delves?”
“So it would seem. We’re meant to hit the 16th Level, but I’m planning to detour to the 4th first, then drop Sam and Harald off while bringing in the rest of the team. A warm-up.”
“Of which the countess is aware?” asked Nessa skeptically.
“What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, and what matters is that we bring back enough Silver Starbursts to make the outing worth the cost of the writ.” Vic shrugged. “It’s a neat plan, and coincides with our needs. Surely you feel comfortable protecting our little chicks on the 4th Level?”
Nessa shook her head in mock despair and sipped from her wine.
“I’m ready,” said Harald. “Which I know sounds foolish, but I want my class.”
“Same here,” said Sam. “The sooner I’m rid of Majordomo 3 the better.”
“We shall all miss it,” said Vic. “The cooking, the clean clothing, the attentive and respectful presence as you shadow our every step. Alas, all luxuries are finite by nature.”
Sam simply narrowed her eyes.
“Four days?” confirmed Harald. “Good. In that case I’m going downstairs for a little more line work.”
Nessa raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already done two hours of drilling today. Are you familiar with the concept of diminishing returns?”
Harald grinned wolfishly as he stood. “I’ll let you know when that starts happening.”
Sam sighed. “I’ll be right down as well.”
“You couldn’t ask for better pupils, hey Nessa?” Vic gestured at them with his wine cup. “At this rate, they’ll be protecting us in the dungeon soon.”
To which Nessa could only smile in that dark and dangerous manner of hers. “Unlikely.”
“Just wait,” said Harald, striding toward the stairway down to the gym. “Give it a few more weeks. I may surprise you yet.”
“You already have,” said Nessa softly, he thought she said, but he couldn’t be sure.