30th of Saun, 722
Westguard
Westguard
They were young and lean and quick and they feared nothing. And if they did, they bloody well kept it to themselves.
Oh, to be young again. With as much balls as brains.
The sound of wood cracking into wood a dozen, a score, a hundred times over boomed off the walls of the garrison courtyard. Twenty young men and women were arrayed, paired off and facing each other. Two seasons ago, they'd all faced the same way and gone over the drills, the movements, the "katas", their teacher had told them. They'd sweated for breaks under the sun, in the rain, no matter when. Using those weighted wooden swords that were twice the bulk of the standard issue blades the Army used. Their teacher had set them straight on that.
"S'called 'conditioning'. At first, extra weight'll be harder. But then you'll get stronger. Get quicker. It'll get easier... an' then when yeh start usin' a real sword, it'll be double."
Of course, he hadn't let them use real swords yet, but they knew that trial was coming.
Their teacher watched them from the shade. Always moving but rarely in the sun. He sipped from a jug of water as he went, never looking at it, always with his eyes fixed on his students. The smallest among them, a girl named Edreine, was roughly his size. She'd had to work thrice as hard to prove herself, simply because she was in a woman, and this was soldiering. The boys and men all told her such... until the teacher spoke up, on their first parade, first trial. Barely an inch taller than her, a whole foot smaller than some of the other recruits... and even the beefiest bastard in the class turned white and remembered their place.
No. None of them put much stock in pure size anymore. Not after three seasons of him.
"SWITCH!"
At once the moving, circling pairs paused. Just for a fraction of a trill, long enough for their minds to reorient to the new task. If seen from above, it would look like ten miniature circling storms of movement had stalled, the commenced their merciless movement... but now the opposite side than before was on the defensive. Look down even closer, and one could see the dark trail of sweat and the black spatters of blood on the sand of the training yard. Long patterns and waves of crimson and black, painting it, splattering across it, on booted feet and exposed arms.
There was a yelp from down the yard and his eyes saw the boy falling before he'd hit the sand. Hopping, first. A crack to the leg, he'd wager. Guard too high, not minding his feet... ah, and that would be that ginger twat. Foley? Aye, that was it. But lo! The boy was learning, because he didn't pause or surrender. He rolled as he fell, coming up in a crouch and never letting hold of his sword. Now with his footing switch and his bad leg behind, he got up and squared off with Granner a second time.
Good.
Good. Yes. That word applied to all of them now. Not exceptional, not gifted, not amazing... but good. Fit for soldiering, as Old Peyt would say. Much was made of heroes and superlative warriors or yore, but Kasoria knew that battles and wars were not won by single souls. It was the masses of disciplined soldiery that won the day. Disciplined in the face of screaming enemies and fell mages and bellowing monsters. With training to match their courage, and leadership to use that massed, mailed, many-bodied weapon, they could do anything.
We did. At Rhakros.
"TIME!"
All movement stopped as if Ralaith had snapped his fingers. Then it started again. Slow. Cautious. Every half of every pair watching the other half, guard up. All twenty of them slowly sliding back into two straight lines facing each other... and only when they were there, did they slowly lower their weapons. Their teacher strode from the shade and into the blazing light of two merciless suns. Like the eyes of a cosmic giant studying him, judging him, much as he did them.
The little man took his time. Let them sweat some more. And sweat they did, and pant... but not tremble, nor shake, nor fall. They were hardened, now. After two seasons of his... education.
"Mark Warren? Front an' center!"
The recruit darted forward without hesitation. Knew what was coming, too. All of them had taken it at some point. Including him. His sword was held close to his side, and the moment his teacher's came up-
WHOOSH
-his own was on guard, held tight in one hand, his other balled into a fist. His teacher lunged, striking high-
CRACK
-his sword stopped it, blocked the blow and he gave his riposte-
-slashing down at his teacher, sword going through thin air as the smaller, older man twisted away-
-he backhanded instead, forcing his teacher to leap back away from the strike, and as he landed-
Warren charged in again, feinting low, left and right, before thrusting up diagonally, like he wanted to impale the older man through the breastbone-
But teacher was fast. There was a blur and his free hand smacked into his wrist as it rocketed up, knocking the blow off course and under teachers arm-
-he snapped his elbow to his side, trapping Warren's blade and then twisting to his side-
-spin of his body ripping it out of his hand and as he faced him again-
-the sword came spinning around for Warren's head and he ground his teeth and-
CRACK
Kasoria smiled thinly as he saw the boy's arm thrown up to the side, protecting his head... even if he nearly broke his forearm doing it. Panting and red-faced, Warren glared at him with somewhere between respect and fury. Then Kasoria's black eyes locked with his own, and the latter saw fit to flee elsewhere. All that was left was that... strange awe, they all seemed to hold for him. A deference built from fear and sick fascination. Never quite respect, but... useful. Almost gratifying.
"Good. Yeh've got a spare arm. Only got one head. An' in battle, yeh'll have mail on yer arm. Back in line."
Warren hustled back to his place without so much as a wince. Kasoria swept his eyes across the group and flicked a glance up to the sky.
"Fight ain't over 'til the other cunt is dead or can't fight back. That's it. Nothing else. An' that goes fer you, too. You lose yer sword? Use yer dagger. Lose yer dagger? Batter 'm with yer shield. That breaks? Use yer fists, yer teeth, yer forehead, anything! You hold the line an' you fight fer yer fuckin' life..."
He paused. Looked at the faces of those young souls who'd been a daily sight for him, going on three seasons. They'd all seen horror and death. The plague and siege was not so long ago for many of them... but they'd not seen battle. No matter what they'd seen before, that would be a test. His lip curled up at one side. Aye, but they'd come a long way. Their eyes held that hunger now, that challenge put out to the world. They didn't shrink from pain now; they embraced it, charged towards it. He looked across every face and saw faced once ruddy and chubby now lean and hard and... ready?
Only one way to know.
"Cuz mark me now, the other wanker won't do anythin' less. Time's up, on about yer duties. Tomorrow? We're breakin' out the metal..."
