Harald woke just before Sixth Bell, ready and alert and unable to stay in bed. Refreshed, he got up, cracked open his door, and peered out into the dark hallway.
Silence. Darkness.
Time for a quick run, then.
He quickly donned his exercise gear, smirking as he was forced to use a higher notch for his belt. Looked like he’d lost a little more weight.
That caused him to turn to his full length mirror before donning his tunic. In the dim scale-lantern light that he’d set by his bed, he examined his physique.
Once he’d been a shambling, doughy mass of a man, sloop shouldered and hunched, his belly pushing over his belt, pale and soft.
The man in the mirror stared back, gaze steady, shoulders squared, hands on his hips. It wasn’t that he’d become a mass of muscle, the fat hadn’t melted off his frame, but there was no mistaking the difference.
There was actual muscle layered over his chest. His shoulders were broader. His gut had receded, though there was still an inch of softness over his abdominal wall. At a distance he’d appear the same, but up close?
He could see what Vic had been going on about. What Sam had hinted at. In just under a month he’d effected a striking change. If the old him and had met the new him in a dark alleyway, he’d have backed out with nervous apologies.
But enough of that.
Harald pulled on his tunic and leather running shoes, and slipped out into the hallway. Sam was walking toward him, yawning and rubbing at her eyes, already geared up.
“Oh, you’re awake.” She blinked owlishly at him. “Why does it feel like weeks since our last run?”
“Dungeon time,” was all he said, and clapped her on the shoulder as he passed her to head for the stairs.
Down and out the front door, into the now familiar pre-dawn gloom. Flutic seemed stunned beyond his garden walls, slumbering and awaiting the mad activity of the day. Harald bounced a few times on the balls of his feet, swung his arms in some huggers, then caught Sam’s eye, nodded, and set off at a jog.
Constitution 12 was his highest stat. It was more than double what he’d spent most his young adult life with, and the recent boost from his class had made an immense difference, lifting from the standard 9 to a raider-level 12.
He felt light on his feet, the warm-up jog easy, his gait springy. Down Baldric Avenue, nodding to a guard patrol that recognized them from their routine run, and then the turn to Season Park.
Mist blanketed the greenery. They got onto the circuit path, and Harald had to restrain the urge to put on speed right away.
Sam was as lithe as ever by his side, but this time Harald didn’t have to strain during their first lap to keep up. He ran steadily, easily, his body loose and limber, his mass no longer hampering him, dragging him down, straining his ankles and knees.
It felt good.
It felt more than good.
They rounded the final curve and their entrance arch came into sight. Sam glanced curiously at him.
This was normally where she left him in her dust. As always, she picked up the pace, lengthening her stride.
Harald restrained a grin and did the same.
He felt warmed up, his muscles liquid and loose. His breath was coming easily, and he’d barely broken a sweat.
Sam arched an eyebrow at him, gave a grudging smile, and slowly increased the tempo of their run.
Silence but for the steady beat of their footsteps. Harald inhaled deeply, feel his ribs expand powerfully, and kept up.
On they ran, and sooner than he thought possible they’d finished their second lap. They were running fast now, a mile-eating stride, Sam fleet as a deer, and he a lion by her side, loping along powerfully.
A fire was burning within him. A predatory urge to compete.
So now it was his turn to push.
Harald went faster, and Sam laughed as she fell behind then surged up to run abreast and then leave him behind in turn.
Harald grinned with savage exultation.
How was he doing this? He felt swept along by the breeze. Memories of gasping, sweating, puking came back, but he raced clear through them and caught up with Sam.
Constitution 12. Nothing mind-blowingly spectacular, but close to the upper echelons of peak human condition. The very best runners might reach a 14, and beyond that lay the realm of supernatural augmentation due to raiding.
For awhile they simply ran around the track, lapping all the runners who used to gaze pityingly at Harald as they passed him by.
Sam’s expression turned serious as she focused on her breathing. She still ran with graceful form, but her arms were pumping, her brow glistening with sweat, her braided ponytail jerking back and forth.
The fourth lap.
Harald started to feel the strain.
But he couldn’t back down. Couldn’t relinquish the rush. They weren’t sprinting, just pushing themselves hard, but now he could feel a stitch coming on. Sweat ran between his shoulder blades, into his eyes.
His breathing was becoming tight.
On they ran, the entrance coming back into sight. The fifth lap. That would put them at just under five miles at this punishing pace.
Harald laughed, slowed, raised his hands. “Enough! I can’t keep up with you!”
At which point Sam also slowed, hands on her hips, head hanging as she strode ahead of him, breathing deeply. For a while they simply paced, and then she glanced up at him, grinning. “Damn, Harald. Where did that come from?”
“Constitution 12.”
“You’ve matched me.” She took a deep breath and wiped her brow. “I’m at 12 as well. Looks like my days of lapping you are over.”
“Come on, Netherwarden Knight,” he said, accelerating into a jog and lightly tapping her shoulder as he passed her. “Keep up.”
They took the next four laps at a slow jog, just eating the miles, and finally called it a day when the dawn had truly broke and the path started to become crowded with walkers and nannies pushing prams.
Soaked with sweat, but deeply satisfied, Harald walked back to the manor with Sam, neither feeling the need to talk. The fibers in his thighs were shivering, and he felt loose and jangly.
“If you keep growing at this rate,” began Sam, but he held up a hand, cutting her off.
“It won’t happen. It can’t. It’s one thing to rise from Constitution 6, but to continue burning up the ranks at 12? You’ll see. I’m sure it’ll slow.”
“Hmm.” She sounded unconvinced. “Guess we’ll find out.”
When they returned to the manor it was to discover Vic rushing to and fro from the kitchen to the back patio, where he was laying out a sumptuous breakfast for one. Scrambled eggs, bacon, a carafe of juice, lumpen pancakes, it was a veritable feast.
“Oh Vic,” said Sam dryly. “You shouldn’t have. I’m flattered.”
“Hmm?” Vic glanced at her brightly in confusion. “Oh! Darling. You little joker. This is for me. I want a front row seat to the morning’s training session. Harald, I can’t find any of the bubbly anywhere. Have you got any stashed away?”
“No,” said Harald, wiping at his face with a kitchen towel.
“How disappointing. I hate drinking unadulterated juice. Well, eat something light. Nessa’s been warming up down below.”
“She has?” Harald glanced at Sam. “That’s… new.”
“Oh, she’s taking this morning’s training session very seriously. It’s a pity you used up all that energy running. You’re going to need it. Oh! The toast!”
Vic dashed away.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Sam frowned after him. “She’d best not use this as an opportunity to punish you for disappointing her.”
“I think that’s precisely what she’s going to do.” He considered, then smiled. “Or try. C’mon. Let’s grab a bite and catch our breath before she comes up.”
Nessa emerged onto the patio just as Eighth Bell rang. She wore a black dueling shirt, tight around the waist, with puffy shoulders and leather straps binding the sleeves from the elbows down to her gloves. Her leggings were incredibly distracting, made of skin-tight gray wool as they were, and disappeared into knee-high black leather boots. Her mass of blue-black curls were tightly braided and coiled up on the crown of her head, where she’d affixed them in place with two artfully inserted pins, and a slight flush had risen to her cheeks from her exertions below.
She looked vibrant, focused, gorgeous, and absolutely deadly.
“Good morning Sam. Harald.” Her tone was carefully neutral. “Ready to begin?”
“Ready,” said Harald, rising from his chair. He’d limited himself to a small plate of toast and eggs, washed down with cold well water. Not enough to sicken him if he pushed hard. “Live steel? Wooden blades?”
Nessa dropped her long bag at the top of the patio steps. “Let’s start with practice blades. Choose one to your liking.”
And then she flashed a dangerous smile and descended to the wild grass below.
“Oh my goodness,” said Vic, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Oh my goodness, this is going to be absolutely awful in the very best possible way. My dear friends. My poor, dear friends.”
“Shush,” said Sam, crouching by the bag and drawing forth a wooden longsword. She tested its heft then tossed it up to Harald. “Keep your crowing to a minimum.”
“I absolutely shant,” said Vic, putting his slippered feet up on the next seat. “I shall call forth the most uniquely unhelpful advice I can think of, and chortle as loudly as is humanly possible. What an absolute treat.”
Harald gripped the practice blade with both hands, frowned up its dark wooden length, and then gave a couple of experimental slashes. It was weighted with a thin core of lead that gave it the same balance and heft as a live blade, but the edges and tip were dull.
Still.
A solid hit could snap an arm.
Sam chose her own sword and stood. Her golden braid hung down over her shoulder, and a natural flush remained on her cheeks from their run before. “Ready?”
Harald nodded and descended to the garden. Nessa awaited them, wooden blade propped over her shoulder, weight on one foot, the other hip jutting out.
“Good morning, students.” Her tone was bright and cheerful. “We’ll begin today’s class by exploring what your new classes allows you to do. We’ll begin with some friendly one-on-one sparring. You don’t know enough yet to dampen your passives, but see if you can avoid leaning on them too much. Then, at my signal, we’ll bring our Actives to the table and see where that takes us. Sound good?”
“Sure,” said Harald warily. He’d almost have preferred her cold and furious. This cheerful, almost perky Nessa was far more unnerving.
“Don’t kill them, darling!” shouted Vic. “But if you must, can you remember my line of sight? Try not to block it.”
Nessa ignored him. “Sam?”
Sam cracked her neck on either side and moved to stand across from Nessa. She settled into the combat stance, and opted for the Plow Guard, hilt at her back hip, blade pointed at Nessa’s face.
“We’ll start slow,” said Nessa, “and pick up the tempo as we go.” She raised her blade to the Ox Guard, hilt by her temple, sword level and pointing straight at Sam’s face. “Come at me.”
Sam moved forward cautiously, and when she entered striking range she thrust her sword forth and stepped out to the side.
Harald half-expected Nessa to demolish her right there and then, but instead the Bladeweaver simply parried and struck back slowly.
For awhile the two women moved around each other, exchanging blows, the taps almost friendly, Nessa testing Sam’s guard high and low, side to side.
Sam did well at this reduced speed. She kept her stance, never over-extended, always returned to a guard, flowing to whatever felt most appropriate. It wasn’t flawless by any means; there were obvious moments when Sam changed her mind, switching guards at the last second or quickly hopping her feet into a different stance, but for the most part she did well.
“Shall we pick it up?” Nessa’s smile grew cold as she advanced.
Her blows began to come faster, with greater surety and precision.
Sam quickly gave up on ripostes and striking back, and began to give ground. Her parries grew more desperate, her footwork falling apart, her attempt to flow back into different stances abandoned as she just held the blade before her, ready to parry or leap away from the next attack.
But there was no getting away from Nessa. She advanced inexorably, and the variety of her attacks seemed endless. Overhand or swinging from below, slices and thrusts, testing every aspect of Sam’s defenses.
And still it was obvious Nessa wasn’t pushing herself.
The first blow to get through rapped Sam on the shoulder, hard, drawing a grunt from the Netherwarden Knight. Who leaped back, grimacing, but Nessa came after. A second later her thrust got through and poked into Sam’s gut, followed immediately by a second rap to the thigh.
Sam hissed and brought her sword up again, brows lowering.
“Keep up, Sam,” said Nessa tightly, pressing the attack once more.
Again and again she pierced Sam’s guard. There were moments of sophisticated manipulation each time their swords entered the bind, Nessa’s own blade rolling over Sam’s to thrust or giving way and guiding Sam’s to the side to come back in a slash.
Sam grunted and hissed as blow after blow landed, until with a bark of frustration she struck at Nessa’s sword, smacking it aside, and darted in with an overhead chop of her own.
Only for Nessa to sway aside and step past her, tripping her neatly in the process and sending Sam sprawling.
“Well, that wasn’t very impressive,” said Nessa. “How about you try your Active?”
Sam remained on all fours for a second, then pushed herself up and trapped her blade between her thighs as she pulled off her loose training blouse. Beneath it she wore a slate blue chest wrap, tightly wound, and only then did Harald get to take in the sculpted nature of her physique.
Her abdominal wall was chiseled, her arms lean and muscled, her deltoids pronounced. Her golden skin was bright with sweat, though red patches showed where she’d taken her blows.
“All right, Nessa.” Sam raised her blade and entered the Tower Stance, her blue eyes almost sparking with the intensity of her anger. “Let’s try that again.”
Nessa arched one dark brow, amused, and raised her own blade.
Harald bit his lower lip, willing Sam to land a blow.
They engaged once more, but now Sam deployed her Active, Shield of Valor. It appeared by her side, a gorgeous silver kite shield, its face inlaid with complex patterning.
Sam pressed the attack. She glided forward, unleashing an overhead chop, then flowing into what Harald recognized as the Dungeon Square, her shield dancing around her blows, moving in rhythm to her attacks.
Nessa gave ground, parrying adroitly, and for a moment Harald dared hope the shield was making a difference.
But no.
Nessa was merely taking Sam’s measure. She gave ground for a dozen steps, then, with an imperceptible nod, went on the attack.
Sam’s next strike was deflected, and then Nessa grasped the top of the shield, yanked it aside, and chopped her blade down on Sam’s shoulder.
Sam let out a cry and leaped back, rolling the shoulder angrily as she brought her sword back up.
But Nessa didn’t let her be. She came after her, flowing faster than ever, her blade leaping forth like a snake’s tongue. The shield definitely helped; it curtailed what Nessa could do, but each time Sam grew even slightly distracted, Nessa would simply yank the shield aside, once even using her crossguard to do so.
Blow after blow slid past Sam’s guard, till at last she let out a coughing gasp and dropped to one knee, completely winded.
“Enough.” Nessa put up her sword. “It’s as I feared. Put your shirt on, Sam. Your physique isn’t the distraction you’d hoped.”
“That’s not…” Sam’s face darkened with frustration and anger, but then she mastered herself and stood, bowed her head, and retreated on stiff legs to the steps.
Nessa hadn’t even broken a sweat. “Harald?”
He didn’t bother offering Sam words of comfort. Angry as she was, they’d only piss her off more. So instead he hefted his wooden blade and moved to take Sam’s place.
Nessa eyed him dispassionately, her gray stare cold and hard. “Ready for the warm-up?”
There was real anger there, he saw.
This wasn’t going to go well.
Still, he raised his blade and entered the combat stance. Shoulders back, chest out, grip tight but not throttling. He made a conscious effort to keep the Aura of the Aching Depths down, to not let its power seep out into the air.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Nessa.
What should his approach be? Was there any point in trying for different tactics? Realistically there was nothing he could do to surprise her.
Unless he pretended to be worse than he really was?
But she’d trained him for over a whole week, hours at a time. She’d immediately recognize if he was holding back, or play acting.
Harald took a deep breath, blew it out, and advanced.
He’d simply do his best.
She parried his first blow, his second. For awhile they simply moved as she and Sam had done at first, circling, exchanging blows, all of Nessa’s strikes coming slowly, working his quarters, giving him time to adapt, to build up a rhythm, a sense of confidence.
“The thing about beginning sword fighters,” said Nessa calmly, almost as if they were discussing the matter over tea, “is that their minds leap for the guards, the strikes, the patterns that they have been taught. As if each were a stepping stone in a raging river. They hop from one to the next, seeking safety in what they’ve practiced, what they’ve trained. The Tower Guard. The Roof. The Plow. The Ox. Each a refuge you run to and then hide behind.”
Their swords clacked one last time and then she stepped back with a smile. “Shall we pick up the tempo?”
Still Harald didn’t speak, but simply nodded as he entered the Tower once more.
“Very good.” She advanced, and at first her blows were as measured and slow as the others. “But what you don’t realize is that these stepping stones you hop between are illusions. They’re not harbors in which you can hide from the storm.”
Her strikes began to come just a little faster, each as fluid as the last. Harald kept his gaze on her shoulders, her forearms, her hilt. The pattern became erratic now, no longer flowing neatly from one quadrant to the next. Twice from above, then an scything upswing from below. He leaped back, and then again.
Nessa’s glare was hard, unyielding, cold as iron buried in ice. “There are no stepping stones. There are no safe harbors.”
He parried her blow, but before he could even think to read their bind her sword swirled around his, supple and sure, and stabbed into his shoulder, driving him back.
“There is only the raging river.”
She came after him, and he parried two strikes before she rapped him hard against the ribs. He stumbled back, caught himself, entered the Plow, tried to circle.
Nessa came after him, furious, eyes flashing, blade darting out. She feinted and then cut back into the hole in his guard to chop his upper arm, hard. Before he could react she swung her blade around wide and slammed it into his opposite thigh, causing the large muscle to snarl up in pain.
“There is only the storm, Harald. It’s from there that you must fight. Its that fury you must channel. But you have no idea what I’m taking about, do you?”
“Watch out!” hollered Vic. “She’s getting nasty!”
Nessa advanced and demolished him. His blade was a reed in the storm, battered about, useless. In a matter of seconds she dropped him expertly to the ground, his sword flying from his hand, blows landing on his wrist, his forearm, his ribs, his shin, then finally cracking against his temple.
Harald crashed to the ground and lay there blinking.
Nessa put up her sword, her expression dispassionate. “My apologies. Did I go too hard?”
“No.” Harald wiped his hand over his face and then sat up, wincing. For a moment he just stared at her, catching his breath, letting the sharpest of the pains grow dull. “I was just warming up. I think I’m ready now for a real lesson.”
He took up his sword and rose. Inhaled deeply, and sought the power of his Ascended Throne, poured is glittering energy into the Aura of the Aching Depths, and allowed the cold majesty of his Passive to push out around him. Sounds grew muffled, the sky inky, and he felt himself the heart of the very abyss.
Nessa clearly was feeling his power. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tightened, and her grip grew white-knuckled on her blade.
“Ready, instructor?” He slowly lowered into the Plow, the tip of his blade aimed at her face. “Then let’s go.”