by Nelson, J P
He had me do endless exercises with various lengths of sticks, ranging from two to eight feet long. I threw bola and learned to effectively use a teamster’s whip up to twenty-two feet long. And of course I did drills with blades, both long and short.
Swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat were only a part of my education, however. Hoscoe was going to bring me up as if I were being privately tutored in the Dahruban Military Academy. He wanted to train me as he would train an officer cadet. For Hoscoe, this was the highest honor he could bestow upon me as his student.
We had no books, so after breakfast he would lecture me as we prepared for his classes. Why need a book, after all, when you were being trained by the master who wrote most of the training manuals in Dahruban’s Military Academy?
He would grade me according to discussions we had, the answers I gave to his questions and the quality of questions I asked. During lunch and the evening meal we did more of the same.
In the swordsmanship classes I would act as Hoscoe’s demonstration partner, all through which I got thrown around a lot, at the same time probably learning more than the other students. He called my function in these demonstrations being his uke, which he said meant training partner. Sometimes I wondered where he got some of his words.
From the beginning, Hoscoe made it clear to me my function as an uke was a disguised means of securing me lots of training time. He would have me attack him in a multitude of ways, and then he instructed the classes in the best methods of countering. Much time was vested in explaining what was good, what was better and what was best.
After my first six months, he had me mingle with the others in training exercises. Always, it appeared he was ignoring me and focusing on the others. But at the end of the day he would grill me over the day’s classes, and I had better have been paying attention.
One of the hardest working of all the students was Ander. He wasn’t a natural, but he stayed at it and wouldn’t be swayed. He would try to seek me out as a sparring partner and as time went on he started to get the knack of technical swordsmanship. His strength, however, was his ingenuity and a natural gift of anticipation.
“That one,” Hoscoe told me one afternoon as they were leaving class, “that Ander has the making of a leader of men. What he lacks in talent, he makes up for in diligence and unflappable attitude. Notice, he does not let himself become agitated and maintains his calm. I wager he will take the prize while the double dashers are foundering from lack of courage.
“Take note, Wolf, he will become a force to be reckoned with one of these days.”
By the end of the first year, Hoscoe said I had more quality swordsmanship education than an officer cadet with four years training at the academy. Hoscoe was always quoting one anecdote or another, one of his favorites being, “Skill at arms is comprised of 10% talent and 100% hard work.”
Years of harsh labor had made me uncommonly strong, and with my training regimen I had become stronger. But Hoscoe said my speed and hand to eye coordination was unnatural, even for an elf. The speed and dexterity drills he put me through, jumping, flipping, rolling and sprinting across this line and that … whew … it would make a rabbit step back and wonder.
Sometimes he would make me stand against the wall and start throwing things at me. No joke. He told me if I didn’t want to get hit, then don’t be where the object was going. Nor did he stop for me to breathe when I got hit. “Just because an arrow hits you, the adversary will not quit shooting,” he would say.
The sticks, stones and wooden balls were bad enough, but when he broke out the throwing daggers I started to fret. He calmly remarked, “You can practice one of two things … your healing, or dodging …” I looked up just as the first blade came hurtling my way and he started throwing the second, “… or both.”
Eee-yow-w-w!
Hoscoe reminded me many times, “I push you hard, Wolf, because I do not know how much time we are going to have together. But there is more … you have a great purpose in life, I think, and I would be cheating you if I did not push you to the brink of your ability, and beyond.”
Me, I didn’t care about my purpose in life, if there was such a thing. I could hear others complain at having to work so hard, but I was so thankful … all I wanted was to make Hoscoe proud. He gave me something to live up to. When I did well, he commended me, and he accepted nothing less than my absolute best.
Everything wasn’t just military style training, though. He also taught me the way of gentlemanly recreation; it was called, chess. Almost every evening we would play a game in his sitting room, and then I would turn in to my quarters for the night. Once I got the hang of it, he also insisted on enhancing my memory skills in an interesting fashion.
“I do not know how Tell Singer’s are trained, but I know it is memory related. We are going to continue to build upon that foundation,” he said. There were times I wished he didn’t know so much about elvin lifestyle.
Eventually we began playing chess by memory, or I thought that was what we were doing. One day he would verbally inform me of a move, and the next day I would inform him of a move in return. I wasn’t allowed to write any of these moves down, or trace pieces on a board in my quarters. I asked him how he could remember such a game so well.
He replied, “Who says I do?”
Stunned, I looked at him incredulously and answered, “You mean you aren’t playing from memory?”
He laughed, raised and tilted his head in that manner of his and replied, “I am not the one with such a gift,” then he pointed at me, “but you are.”
“But …”
“I record each move in my quarters.” As he saw my exasperated expression he added, “It is my job to push you to your potential. Do you not remember?” With a wicked smile he added, “Queen’s knight takes King’s Bishop, check.” Then he winked at me and walked off.
That had been at the end of our first summer, and signaled the beginning of many things to come.
Here and there he began asking me all manner of questions about the little extra things I could do. How and what did I feel, did it weaken or strengthen me, was any of it a strain on my mind, how long did it take me to recuperate so I could do more?
Late one evening in between sparring sets he suddenly said, “From now on,” he raised a hand in the air as if to embellish his words, “anytime, you feel the urge to try something new with your gifts, you should proceed.”
“Huh?” I responded.
“You have no idea the scope of ability you may have, Wolf. The ancient druids began with a semblance of power,” he was making motions with his hands and exaggerating his facial expressions, “and they would diligently train and practice to develop sometimes tremendous capabilities.”
I thought about that, and imagined myself as a druid. Never in a millennia could I see myself in such a way.
He looked at me with understanding and added, “You have spent a lifetime being subjugated and pressed into a mold someone else has chosen for you. Everything your momma endeavored to teach you was certainly done in private, and you had to contain it.”
Not for the first time I wondered how much he knew about me. How much had he learned from Stagus, what had I said when he had kept me in his quarters? I had yet to ask him about any of it, and wasn’t yet sure I was ready to know.
“Wolf?”
I looked at him, clearly having just been lost in thought. Gently, but firmly he made a solid point, “This is the time, here and now, to learn what you might be capable of. Now … while I am here and can help you.”
I nodded my understanding. But to be honest, I was scared. I was afraid of what I might learn about myself. I was also afraid to fail.
“Mehio?”
Looking up from my feet, I saw he was pondering something which had long been on his mind.
“Let us go have a seat.”
My stomach suddenly felt like I had been punched, hard. What was wrong with me? I followed him to a bench inside the training
hall. I sat down and he grabbed a stool, so he could sit in front of me.
“I … have delayed this for as long as I could. But I believe we need to discuss a few things, to get them out in the open. Some things you keep repressed, for what I believe are the wrong reasons.”
Hoscoe made sure we had strong eye contact, and I felt hot and sweaty, afraid.
Slowly he said, “You can say no, and we will wait for another time. But I am going to ask you some questions. The answers to these questions I do not expect to come easily. Do you understand?”
Just as slowly, I nodded my head, and then said, “Yes.” The room seemed to be spinning and I felt like my head had grown to the size of the room.
“Your mother was a Tell Singer. You mentioned it in your delirium. And Stagus mentioned it as well. Would you care to tell me her name?”
Stunned, I looked at him, “You don’t know?”
The honesty shown through his eyes as he gently shook his head and replied, “No, I do not.”
“My m-momma, she was …” I felt like I was choking, and tears started to well up inside as I saw a vision of her dancing under the apple trees, mixed with her dying eyes looking up at me on the refuse heap. “Her name was …” I couldn’t breathe. Hoscoe didn’t push, nor did he say stop and leave it alone. He sat right there and let me reach in and fight it out.
On his face I saw only concern and support. I felt so weak. Her name hadn’t crossed my lips since before that day, so long ago. I felt as if I were suffocating. How long I sat there like that I couldn’t tell.
I felt myself lowering her into the hole I had dug beneath that apple tree. I could remember each shovel of dirt I put back into that hole. And then suddenly, as if from across time I heard her voice singing, it was as if she were singing to me. It was her favorite song, one of many she had written when she lived in another place.
Without realizing it, I found myself humming the tune, and then the words came. It was all in the original Elvish and was beautiful.
Closing my eyes I felt myself go back; it was if I was right there with her, holding each other’s hands. Together we sang the song in harmony, the squirrels and birds singing with us in chorus. The song was long and told the story of a wanderer who had been lost, then found their way home. Home …
After letting the final notes fade into the air, I opened my eyes and looked up to see tears on Hoscoe’s face, he had been mouthing the words with me. How did he … “Kelshinua,” I said, “my momma’s name is Kelshinua.”
You could have knocked him over with a feather. Hoscoe sat on his stool and shock registered on his face, “Your mother is Kelshinua, the daughter of Ml’Shain?” At a momentary loss for words, he paused a long moment and then added, “I understood she was slain, a hundred years ago. Her name is reverenced by all of the Western Elves.”
“She was captured and brought back as a slave. We belonged to the House of Fel’Caden, where we tended the gardens and she played music,” I said as I wiped my face. Somehow, I felt a kind of release that I didn’t understand. And what Hoscoe just said, the elves all thought she had died. Is that why they never came to get her?
“I am sorry, Wolf, I had no idea. I was under the impression your mother was one of the remnants of those who migrated to the Shudoquar Plains.”
We both sat there in silence, and he kept chewing his lip in thoughts.
“I didn’t even know any had migrated down,” I said, “but why are you sorry? There’s nothing you could have done. It isn’t your fault.”
Hoscoe clenched his teeth and winced his eye in personal remorse, “Wolf,” he paused and deliberated his words, “to the elves, where I come from, you would be considered something akin to a prince. I could have journeyed there and brought a contingent of warriors to reclaim you, and they would have come. There would not have been many, but more than enough to get you away from Stagus.”
A prince? Me? It was the farthest thing from my imagination.
“But I’m a half-breed.”
At that, Hoscoe paused, “That you are.” He thought and rubbed his hand across his forehead, down his face, and paused around his goatee, “This will sound harsh, but do you know who your father is, or might have been.”
It was a fair question, “Honestly, no. But Herrol said Fel’Caden blood ran through my veins. He had hoped to use me for stud, he told me.”
“So, Lord Herrol Fel’Caden is your kinsman,” I could detect an irritation in Hoscoe’s voice, “he who it is said is trying to develop a master race?”
And with that we talked. It seemed Hoscoe knew Herrol had a youngster he was raising up as a warrior, his name was L’Sol. We agreed L’Sol would have to be my younger brother.
Then he asked, “Have you talked to anyone about your bloodlines, your heritage?”
“Never,” I said, and then added, “I never even talked about it with Jared.”
So it was that Hoscoe suggested, “I would not make it common knowledge to anyone that you are descended from the family Fel’Caden.” Seeing my expression he hastily added, “I am privy to knowledge most do not have, and the Fel’Cadens are direct descendants of a long lived group of humans, humans who themselves possessed strong powers of the mind. Some could manipulate thoughts, others could move things by thought, and others still could manipulate fire.
“Do you recall stories your mother may have told you about the Children of the Stars? The Kl’Duryq were a people from far beyond,” he waved his hand toward the sky, “who ultimately tried to overthrow the peoples of this world. Most perished, but a few survived. A man named Falcohn was one of the first settlers of Gevard. He was one of the Kl’Duryq remnants and his family became known as Fel’Caden.”
His face took a bit of humor, then, and added, “You know, combining the blood of Oshang’s lineage with Fel’Caden, you might have some unique gifts for sure.”
We just sat there a few moments. Finally I smiled a little, “Maybe.”
He ran his hand through his white hair and said, “What say we call it a day? Go get you some rest.”
“Hoscoe?”
“Yes?”
I fought for the words, afraid to ask because of what I might learn, but afraid not to ask, as well. “I have an older sister, one who got away, was taken away, actually. A slave escaped with her.”
He was all attention.
“She was a cleric or druid type, up in Kohnarahs Bay. Her name was U’Lahna.”
I saw a slow smile cross his face, “U’Lahna? She is your sister?” He studied my face, then slowly he shook his head, “Yes. Now I see it.” He seemed suddenly irritated with himself at missing something he felt should have been obvious. “Your jaw lines and eyebrows do favor. But her complexion is so different, and her eyes are green.”
I felt a shred of hope, “Then she is alive?”
“The last I knew, yes. Alive and well! U’Lahna is very prominent in the North Country. She is neither druid nor cleric, but something different. She has founded what she calls the Order of Nahlohra and leads a small, yet strong following. Her interest lies within nature and the weather. She rid her homeland of an oppressing vampire cult; single handedly slew the patron vampire who had once been a druid.”
“So you know her?”
“I would not say I know her, but I have eaten at her table.”
Hoscoe then outlined in detail how he had been part of an envoy traveling into the Kohnarahs Bay country. She had been an advisor for the regent there. The evenings had been pleasant, food and wine excellent, and the meetings most productive. Hoscoe had found U’Lahna to be very intelligent and attentive.
My sister, I thought with a smile, she’s alive. I have a living sister and she’s out there somewhere.
I nodded and said, “Thanks Mehio.”
Hoscoe smiled and nodded, then leaned forward and slapped me on the knee and asked, “What say we turn in for the night?”
“I thought I’d just hang around and think a little.”
H
e understood, then he got up and walked to the door. Turning he said, “You have a beautiful voice. You should keep singing.” Then he walked outside.
For a long time I just sat there. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t brought up my twin.
___________________________
After that evening talk about my momma and sister, I began to let go and try all kinds of things.
My imagination runs to the wild and extreme. I tried making seeds sprout in my hand, making my sheets rise up in the air, turning water into ice, reading other people’s thoughts and converting the everyday scrambled eggs into an omelet. A couple of things worked, but most didn’t.
Hoscoe entered the training hall one day when it would just be us in there working out. I was up against the roof hanging on to the top beams. Have I mentioned the roof is about two levels high? Scared as I was regarding heights, there was something I felt I needed to try. ‘Besides,’ I thought, I hoped, ‘two stories isn’t enough to actually kill me, is it?’ He was just opening the door when I jumped outward with my hands outstretched.
I broke several ribs, my jaw and I don’t know what all else when I landed flat on my chest. The wind was knocked out of me and it was all I could do to focus on *Self Heal*, quickly, for I could feel myself beginning to drown as my lungs filled with blood.
He rushed over to me quickly and asked, “By the Hounds of Hades, what are you doing?!”
As I coughed and spit, struggling to roll onto my side, I looked up at him and replied, “I don’t think I can fly,” which I punctuated with more coughing and then rubbing my ribs. It is the only time I ever saw Hoscoe put his face in his hand and shake his head.
I tried all kinds of things.
At the beginning of our second summer, he started tying a rag around my head and making me try to feel my way around by sensory awareness. I’ve stepped into things I would rather not mention, ran my face against the wall, and tripped more times than I can count. Four times I broke bones, but Hoscoe reminded me that healing was one ability I had pretty well gotten down pat.