by J. T. Wright
Trent nodded and munched happily at the first pastry he’d ever eaten. Nell got Michael’s attention and suggested they head to the drill grounds. She was just as surprised at Trent’s capabilities, but it was her job to keep the Captain on schedule as much as possible.
It was still early when the trio arrived at the Guard's training area. The sun was lazily making its way into the sky but most nobles, and city folk, would still find it an indecent hour to be up and about.
Standing at the edge of the hard-packed dirt where the Guard did their drills, stood a stout middle-aged man. He was easily the biggest man Trent had ever seen, and he wore the uniform of the Guard as if he’d been born in it. His armor was brightly polished, and his short sword hung at just the right angle. His helm was tucked under one arm, and an impatient frown decorated his rugged face. Recruits, Guardsmen, and Officers waited on Sergeant Cullen; he did not wait on them.
Not that he said anything about that to the Captain or the Lieutenant, he didn’t have to. His displeasure was palpable.
“Good morning, Sir, Ma’am,” Sergeant Cullen saluted crisply as he greeted the officers. “You must have slept well.”
Michael returned the salute and did not let the Sergeant’s manner bother him. The Sergeant was in no way under Michael’s command. If anything, the reverse was true. The Sergeant’s salute was a courtesy and an example to the men training nearby. In his own way, Cullen WAS the Guard.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Michael said. He drew Trent forward with one hand. “This is Trent, my sister’s new runner.” He didn’t tell the Sergeant that the boy was a Summons. He half-suspected the man already knew. In the event he didn’t, Michael delighted in knowing something the Sergeant didn’t.
Kirstin didn’t keep many personal servants, but she had the right to, and it gave Trent a convenient identity.
“He’s a good lad, but woefully undertrained, and out of shape. Promising, but in need of polish, you understand.”
“I understand, Sir. Leave it to me.” This was a clear dismissal.
Michael risked the Sergeant’s ire by adding, “Kid gloves, of course, Sergeant, breaking my sister’s...”
Cullen’s dark eyes flashed. He always followed proper procedures anywhere the men might see, but perhaps it was time to remind the Captain who the Sergeant really was, “I’ve never broken a Recruit, Sir, though there was one young lad who broke his arm on the obstacle course a few years back. Purely due to his own clumsiness. Gods, how he cried! Shameful, though. I managed to beat that out of him.”
“Of course, Sergeant, you know your job,” Michael said hurriedly as Nell smirked next to him. He gestured for the Lieutenant to hand the Sergeant the books she was carrying. “If you can work it in, the lad should study these books. If there’s time.”
Cullen hung his helm on the hilt of his sword and took the books. Looking over their titles, he nodded approvingly. “Herb craft is an excellent Skill. You can leave it to me. Sir.”
Again, the dismissal. The Sergeant turned his attention to Trent, who was watching the various training activities going on about the field with interest.
“Boy!” The Sergeant’s voice was rough and striking but not cruel.
Trent’s head snapped to face the older man. “Ah, yes?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Cullen supplied, only to be met with a blank look. “You will address me as Sergeant. You will do so swiftly and clearly, unless you enjoy...
“…Are you still here, Sir?” The Sergeant addressed Michael.
“No, Sergeant, I’ve already left.” Michael sighed. “Trent, I will see you in my chambers at noon. With me, Lieutenant.”
There were some things you had to live with. The day before, he’d thrown a scribe against the wall for failing to recognize his authority as Captain. Even if he had been capable of repeating that act with Cullen, he wouldn’t.
Sergeant Cullen was one of the Duke’s companions from his adventuring days. More an Uncle to the Duke’s children, some, like Kirstin, actually addressed him as such. While Michael might have become Captain of the Guard, to Cullen, the Captain would always be the clumsy Recruit who fell off a log on the agility course. To the Captain, Cullen would always be the man who mocked his pain, then saw him healed, and forced him to practice falling so he would do it properly in the future. Michael left Trent in the Sergeant ’s capable hands and walked away with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Boy, display your Status,” Cullen commanded, once the Captain had left.
“Yes, Sergeant!” Trent responded crisply as he complied.
The Sergeant looked at the boy’s Status with a discerning eye. He could honestly say he’d never seen a less promising trainee. Out of shape didn’t really cover it. And yet, Sergeant Cullen found something in the boy that he approved of. The runt stood sharply at attention, eyes focused and clear, displaying an eagerness to learn. Clay ready to be molded was the impression the boy presented. Cullen would reserve judgment for now.
“Your Attributes are pathetic, and your Skills, what you have, are so low they may as well not exist.” He paused. “You don’t have a lazy look so you’ve either been coddled or... or I don’t know what.” The Sergeant grumped.
Trent kept his gaze forward and showed no sign of discontent at the man’s words. He stood still as the Sergeant felt the cloth on Trent’s shirt. He was about to criticize the fancy cut, but he held the words. The clothing was obviously the work of a master tailor and, while they looked unsuitable for hard training, the opposite was true.
Holding his tongue, he led Trent to the center of the training field. He had Trent stand in place and drew a line in the dirt.
“Activate Dash and run for five seconds,” the Sergeant barked. “And you’d best run as fast as you can, but no more than five seconds.”
Trent was good at obeying orders, even ones he didn’t understand. He activated Dash for the first time and felt his body lighten up slightly as his movement speed increased. He counted internally as he sprinted forward until he’d accomplished the task.
He turned around and found the Sergeant directly behind him. Cullen scratched another line in the dirt with the heel of his boot, “You move like a pregnant turtle even with Dash. Do Better! You will run back to the first line, pause, turn, and repeat until I tell you to stop. Move!”
Trent moved. To the first line, turn, and back. Repeat. Once, twice, and again. Now his breath was coming fast and hard. Four times, five. His face was red, and his heart pounded. Six, seven, eight, by the ninth, his pace had slowed even with his Skill activated.
“Stop and catch your breath!” Cullen commanded. “Hopefully, you can do that, as slow as you move, you’re sure as shit not going to catch anything else!”
Trent desperately drew in air. Dash cost 1 Stamina per second of use. Nine sets of sprints had nearly used everything he had. His body felt heavy and tired.
“That’s enough rest,” Cullen spit. “Push-up time!”
Trent didn’t know what that meant, and he earned a blistering, scornful explanation when he asked. Soon his hands had found the dirt and he was pushing for all he was worth, which was not much really.
When he couldn’t push anymore, he was ordered to his feet for squats then, when his legs felt like they were going to give out, it was back to the dirt for push-ups.
He learned about jumping jacks and flutter kicks, crunches and crab crawls. He sprinted again and again until his lungs felt like they would burst. Once he reached for a Stamina potion, sure he needed it, and the Sergeant almost took his head off for doing unnecessary things.
The Sergeant seemed to understand Trent’s limits better than the boy did himself. Cullen allowed him just enough rest and always pushed him for more. Unlike the brutal run he Experienced during his first day, this training seemed to be accomplishing something, something good. Trent could practically feel himself getting stronger. Not a great deal; he still felt like he could die at any moment, but he obeyed the Sergeant’s
barked commands instantly without hesitation.
This continued for over an hour. When the command to rest came and lasted for more than a few seconds, Trent dared to cast a curious eye at his trainer.
The Sergeant had not an approving look exactly, but a friendly sneer was plastered on his lips. The boy’s performance had been pathetic, but he’d given everything he had, and that was all the Sergeant asked of anyone.
“That’s enough standing.” Cullen snorted. “Now, walk the edge of the field until I call you.”
Walking sounded easy compared to what he’d been doing, and Trent was glad to obey. He began leisurely strolling to the outside of the field. He knew he was making a mistake before the Sergeant’s voice even reached him.
“Perhaps you’d like to pick some daisies after you’re done prancing around my training yard, young miss.” The Sergeant’s face was nearly touching Trent’s ear as he whispered in a sickeningly sweet tone. His mouth remained at the same distance as he started to shout.
“I said WALK, not saunter! Head up! Shoulders back, step it out! Walk with a purpose! You will always walk with a purpose in my training... No! You will always walk with a purpose, period! Do you understand!?”
“Yes, Sergeant!” Trent shouted in reply. His back straightened, his legs stretched out. His pace increased dramatically, not a run, not quite a jog.
He didn’t look back, just focused on taking one step after another. Did he think walking would be easy? This “walking with a purpose” was its own kind of hell. It took a full lap of the field before he found the trick of it. He watched the Guardsmen moving about their business and picked up on the tempo of how they moved. It was a matter of stretching out your legs, not slamming your feet. Striding. His legs still felt it, but by the third lap, he could ignore their complaining for the most part.
By the fifth lap, the complaining was getting louder again but, fortunately, this was when Cullen appeared again with a servant in tow. The servant was carrying a large bowl with a spoon sticking out of it.
“Breakfast boy, sit!” Cullen ordered. Trent’s legs crossed under him, and he immediately collapsed in a sitting position. Cullen took the bowl from the servant and handed it to Trent. Porridge with honey, and a lot of it. Trent didn’t need an invitation to dig in.
“You can also take this opportunity to study,” Cullen said, passing Trent a book entitled Common Herbs and Where to Find Them.
“This is the best of the lot the Captain left,” Cullen said with a sniff. “Good information in that one. The others just cover the same ground in fancy language. You have 30, no, 45 minutes to eat, rest, and study. Use them well! And show me your Status.”
Trent displayed his Status; he was curious to see also and was shocked at the results.
Name: Trent
Age: 12
Race: Human
Level: 0
Class: None
Profession: None
Health: 50
Stamina: 50
Mana: 50
Strength: 5
Agility: 6
Dexterity: 5
Constitution: 5
Intelligence: 5
Wisdom: 4
Free Skill Points: 0
Skills
Dash Level 1
Mining Level 1
Appraisal Level 1
Abilities
Map
Storage Level 1
He gained a Point in Strength and Agility! He looked at Sergeant Cullen with something approaching hero worship. Two Points! He didn’t feel like he was going to die, he wasn’t bleeding, and they weren’t carrying him to the medics!
“Don’t be too proud of yourself, boy. It’s not hard to raise a feather off the floor. I honestly don’t know how you’ve managed to keep your Attributes so ridiculously low,” Cullen chose to misinterpret Trent’s look as pride. ”45 minutes!”
He turned away, then snapped his fingers and whirled back. One hand dug into a small pouch at his side, and he pulled out a water skin. A water skin larger than the pouch itself. The pouch was a storage device. Trent liked his new belt pouch, but he was envious of the Sergeant’s. He hoped the day that he could use his Storage Skill freely came soon.
Cullen tossed the water skin onto the ground next to Trent. “That’s yours. Keep it with you at all times and use it frequently. It has a low-level enchantment on it. It’s powered by ambient Mana and will fill slowly with water automatically. Do not lose it!”
And then Cullen was off again. He had been instructed that his main morning task for the foreseeable future was to whip this runt into shape, but he still had other matters to attend to.
Trent placed the bowl of porridge in his lap and laid the book on the ground in front of him. With one hand he dug into his breakfast while the other flipped pages. He inhaled both food and knowledge, both of which he was starved for.
The porridge soon disappeared, and the bowl was set aside. He sipped water from his new skin, and the book was consumed in much the same fashion at only a slightly slower rate. His eyes scanned pictures of common herbs and the descriptions of their uses, as his fingers turned page after page. The book was straightforward and plain, but Trent didn’t mind. He took no real pleasure in the act of reading, but memorization came to him easily enough and gaining information felt like another way of strengthening himself.
The notification that he’d learned Herbalism Level 1 and gained one Point to both Intelligence and Wisdom came after thirty minutes. Trent felt an excited tremble run through him. Reading may not be much fun, but it was an easy way to raise his Attributes. He would have to wake up earlier tomorrow and investigate the bookshelf in Michael ’s chambers.
“On your feet, boy!” Cullen’s voice came from behind him and Trent rocketed upwards, less from obedience and more from shock. How did the Sergeant move so quietly?
“Collect your junk and follow me!” Without another word, Cullen started stalking to one corner of the field. Trent scrambled to grab bowl, spoon, water skin, and book, then ran after the Sergeant.
Cullen led the boy quickly to an area with several man-shaped wooden training dummies. He directed Trent to set his things aside and then had him stand in front of a dummy that was covered in leather padding.
“Do you know how to throw a punch, Runt?” Cullen didn’t wait for a reply. “No, of course not. You could barely walk properly this morning. When would you have learned to fight? Make a fist! No! Thumb on the outside of your fingers; do you want to break it? Hit the dummy!”
Thwap, Trent’s small fist connected with leather padding. Not so much a punch as a flailing, clenched hand.
“Do you enjoy hearing the word pathetic, Runt? Are you trying to fail?” Cullen scolded. “Keep your hands up! Protect your face! Wrist straight, and strike with the first two knuckles! Again!”
Cullen watched the boy strike again and again, and occasionally shouted withering corrections. He knew he was being unfair; he meant to be. Boys who learned under pressure were tempered and hardened, less likely to break when that learning was put to the test.
When Trent adjusted his stance, widening it ever so slightly, the Sergeant’s voice stopped. Cullen watched as Trent lowered his center slightly and relaxed his shoulders, which had nearly been touching his ears. A jab, another, and then a strike.
Trent was completely focused on his target. His fists stung when he struck, but he ignored the pain. He ignored a sudden notification, that attempted to distract him, as he let loose another string of punches. He stepped back and lashed out with his leg, the ball of his foot hitting where the knees of a man would be on a living opponent. He stepped forward, striking with his elbow and was about to strike with his knee, when Cullen shouted at him to stop and turn around.
Doing so, Trent was confronted by Cullen’s narrow-eyed inspection. Had he done something wrong? He remembered the kick and elbow strike. He hadn’t been told to do that. Was this an “unnecessary thing”? The Sergeant hated “unnecessary things.
”
“Status, boy!” Cullen said shortly.
Trent displayed his Status while studying Cullen’s expression. Was the Sergeant disappointed? Trent discovered he was almost afraid of disappointing this gruff soldier.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Cullen muttered. He sounded amazed and pleased, causing Trent to look at his own Status.
He’d learned Unarmed Combat Level 1 and gained a Point in Agility. Hadn’t this been the point of the training?
Cullen cleared his throat. “You might not be the most hopeless waste of the gods’ air that I’ve ever seen after all. Keep at it, rest when you need to, and don’t forget to drink water. I’ll be back presently. And when I get back, if I think you’ve been slacking, then you’ll be learning to run with a purpose today, instead of tomorrow.”
“Yes, Sergeant!” Trent shouted and whirled back to resume his training, fists striking out at a frantic pace.
Cullen watched for a moment. The boy would never be able to maintain that speed, but he kept that to himself. Each punch was crisp and accurate, impossibly so, considering Trent’s lack of experience.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Cullen said under his breath again. He’d trained recruits for nearly twenty years and in all that time he’d never seen one, no matter how promising they were, pick up a Skill just from striking a training post.
He turned on his heel and rapidly crossed the field to where a group of recruits was working at spear drills with a Corporal. He scanned the group until he found the person he was looking for.
“Recruit Tersa!” he called. “To me, now!”