“Brant!” Kulvar yelled, “stop!”
Brant dropped to a knee, overwhelmed by exhaustion, his body suddenly feeling the need to collapse to the ground. His jaw hurt like hell and his nose was bleeding, maybe broken. He looked up at Kulvar, suddenly feeling like an admonished child. He had lost control, allowing his anger to manipulate him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Ari was at his side, trying to help him stand. Kulvar was furious, his dark eyes boring into him, increasing his feeling of shame. “What happened?” He stormed.
“I got angry…and…it took over.”
“I could have killed you,” he said, his voice dropped in volume but did not lose its intensity. “I did not know you could Fuse. Has this happened before?”
“Fuse?”
“It means you have the ability to manipulate your aura in conjunction with Kul-brite steel. Mergers who can Fuse can bring forth energy in their weapons. Few, however, have that ability. Now, have you done this before?”
“Yes,” he whispered. He was so tired. If it weren’t for Ari helping him stand, he would probably lie down on the ground and fall asleep. “While I was staying at Kaan’s home we were attacked by a young kulg. I used it then. I destroyed two of his swords but killed the kulg. I did not know what it was. I’m sorry I said nothing. I know now I should have.”
“Brant, if I am to train you properly I must know what you are capable of. And,” he emphasized, “you have to learn to control your anger. That will most definitely get you killed. You need to rest now. You used so much of your energy that you nearly passed out. I thought you were going to destroy the blade. I’m sorry about the kick, but it was necessary.”
“I deserved it. It won’t happen again.”
“See to it. Now, Ari, take Brant to his room to rest. We will speak of this again.” Kulvar Rand took the sword from Brant’s hand as the young boy led him to his room.
As tired as Brant was, sleep eluded him. He felt horrible about the previous evening’s events, and spent most of the night worrying about it. And his nose and jaw really hurt. Luckily, neither were broken, but his jaw ached and his nose was swollen and turning a light shade of purple. When morning finally came, he dressed and washed his face with cold water, then made his way to the kitchen. There were two servants about prepping for the day’s meals. The sun had barely risen so breakfast was not yet ready, but Brant grabbed a sweet muffin made the previous day, along with an apple, and headed out to the training yard.
Like everyone else at Master Rand’s estate he had daily tasks to perform. When he wasn’t traveling with Kulvar Rand it was expected that he pull his own weight, which for Brant was a forgone conclusion. The idea of doing nothing while eating and sleeping under someone else’s roof was something he would never entertain. So he spent the next three hours cleaning the stables and feeding and grooming the horses. Next he oiled and polished all the practice weapons and armor. By that time he was really hungry so he made his way back to the kitchen, grabbed some bread, cured ham, and another apple, and quickly returned to the stables. Now it was time to train.
Master Rand had what he called a Kilting Dummy. It was a heavy log about the height of a man with stout pieces of wood about the length of a man’s arm sticking out from it at different angles and heights. The entire structure was too heavy to lift but could be moved using the two wheels positioned on the edge of its base. When it was tilted on edge, the wheels caught, and it could be moved about with relative ease. The days were becoming shorter and the leaves had begun to turn shades of red and gold. But the days were still relatively comfortable. The sun was out and the air was cool and crisp. It was a great day to train. So Brant wheeled the dummy out into the middle of the courtyard and stood it up, the wooden posts sticking out in all directions and elevations. Before practicing with the sword, Brant wanted to perform the Ga’ton, eager to put his body through the strenuous movements. He had been working on the forms for over a year now and was performing admirably. His strong body and focused mind carried him through the movements with smooth precision. Remembering back he thought how much he had improved. When he first started he couldn’t even remember all the positions, let alone perform them. It took him many months before his body was able to hold the positions and carry him through the movements. But over time his muscles attuned to the forms and slowly, with great effort, he was able to perform the entire Ga’ton with graceful and powerful movements. He finished the forms and relished in the warmth flooding his muscles and the sheen of sweat covering his body. Now he was ready to practice the sword forms. He grabbed a Kilting Way practice sword, which was a basic blade with added weight at the tip.
Staring at the structure, he visualized the moves he had been working on. Then he started slowly, using the tip of the heavy blade and his powerful wrist to strike each of the wood arms, moving up and down and across the dummy. He pivoted left and right and moved around the dummy, all the while his blade flicking into the wood appendages with a thud. Then he switched hands, working his left just as hard as his right. It wasn’t long before he was sweating, and that was when he picked up the pace. Gradually the rhythm became faster, the thud of steel on wood the only sound in the courtyard. He switched to a two hand grip, adding to the power of his strikes. Faster and faster he went as his sword continued to dance all across the structure, the heavy blade smacking into the wooden arms. Although the blade was dull, the constant sparring with the dummy had created worn grooves across the arms and it wouldn’t be long before they would have to be replaced.
His body could move no faster without using his aura. So he narrowed his eyes and concentrated on his aura, electrifying his body with its power. Now he looked like a hummingbird, its wings a blur as it flitted from flower to flower. The strikes of the heavy sword on wood became so rapid that the sounds blended together into what sounded like one long thud, the intervals between each strike unrecognizable to the human ear.
Eventually one of the arms succumbed to the constant barrage of strikes and split almost in two, hanging an awkward angle. Within several heartbeats Brant had reduced his speed to normal, until finally he stopped, his body drenched in sweat.
“I will have to take that from your pay.”
Brant turned around and saw Master Rand approach from the main house. He was smiling, which was good. Maybe the conversation they were about to have wouldn’t be so bad. Brant smiled back. “Fair enough.”
“You’ve improved a lot. To be honest you are as good as most of my Dygon Guards, perhaps better than some.”
“Thank you,” Brant said awkwardly, both because he was not accustomed to praise and he still felt ashamed about his behavior the night before. “I want to tell you again that I am sorry for losing control last night.”
“I know you are,” Kulvar Rand said. “I’m not angry with you. I’m concerned. If my striking you several times was all it took to bring forth that anger, then I’m worried that you will not have the control necessary for battle. If you were fighting a duel against a skilled swordsman, he would surely exploit that anger, which could potentially get you killed. And, if you were fighting next to a fellow warrior, your lack of discipline would not only get you killed but it could potentially be fatal for the men on your flanks.” There was a bench nestled among some flowers and shrubs near the edge of the courtyard and Kulvar sat down on it, directing Brant to do the same. “You must learn to control this anger.”
“I know...it…um…rises up so quickly…it’s hard to control it as I don’t recognize it until it’s too late.”
“Where does this anger come from?”
Brant thought about it for a moment, delving into his memories and trying to figure out why it was always just below the surface, ready to break free from the muck of his psyche. He looked down at the ground for a moment, but then the answer came to him quickly. “My Father,” Brant finally said, looking up at Kulvar Rand. “He was not a nice man. He treated me poorly and never showed me any act of kindness. I do
not think it mattered to him what would become of me.”
“And that angers you?”
Brant paused for a moment. “Yes, it does. Each time you hit me with your sword I pictured my father doing it, and…well, I lost control.”
This time it was Kulvar who paused thoughtfully. “I too had a similar issue, but my anger was not directed at my father, but at Argon.”
“You were angry at your god?”
“Yes. You may have heard that my wife and son died years ago of the fever that passed through Dy’ain. I was away at the time. I never even got to say goodbye. Why would Argon allow my wife and child to die such a senseless death? I have served him my entire life, and that is the payment that I receive. It made me very angry.”
“Your anger seems justified.”
“As does yours. But it did me no good. It ate me up and I became less of a man.”
“How did you deal with your anger?” Brant asked, hoping for some insight on how he could control his own.
“I had a very wise man help me,” Kulvar answered with a smile.
“Who was that?”
“My father.” Kulvar laughed at the irony.
“Well, what did he tell you?”
“Many wise things. But the one thing I remember most was when he told me that if you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow. It is true, you know. When you act out of anger you are not likely rational, and it only brings you grief and more anger. If you embrace only anger you will fall into a hole of bad choices from which you cannot climb out. I was up to my neck in grief and anger. But I dug my way out. I learned to forgive, and my anger left me.” Brant thought back to his incident with Tage and couldn’t agree more with Kulvar’s words. If he had been able to control his anger, he never would have killed him, thus he would never have set the ball in motion that ended with him fighting in the Schulg pit. So many bad things happened because of that one action sparked by anger. Kulvar looked at Brant, his eyes serious. “Can you learn to forgive your father?”
Brant looked away, pondering Kulvar’s words. “I do not know,” he finally said, looking back at Master Rand. “But I will try.”
“That is good,” Kulvar Rand said, smacking Brant on the leg and standing up quickly. “Now, let us test this new resolve of yours. Go to the house and get the Kul-brite blade.”
Brant smiled and ran to the house, leaving Kulvar to his own thoughts, drifting from images of his father to his wife and son. He is a lot like my son, he thought, trying to imagine his own son at Brant’s age.
***
Cat had to admit that she felt out of place. She had finally been allowed to join the Legion, but it wasn’t her recent admittance to the military that had her stomach churning with nervous energy, it was the fact that she was no longer stationed among the troops from Lyone, soldiers that she had known for years, who knew her, and more importantly her father, as well. Now she stood in a line, wearing Legionnaire armor, holding a long spear and listening to Sergeant Lynel yell instructions at them as he paced up and down the lines. She was surrounded by men, most who seemed indifferent to her. There were several, however, who glanced boldly at her with undisguised desire. There were only two other women in her three hundred man battalion and one would have to look twice to recognize that they were female. They were both big and stocky, their female attributes well hidden by their armor. But Cat, despite the armor, was lithe and sinewy, her narrow waist and hips clearly a sign of her gender. Most knew who her father was and figured that was why she was there. Most of the men, and even the other women, did little to hide their sneers, and their whispers were often just loud enough for her to hear. Many comments seemed to suggest that she was allowed into the infantry because of her father’s standing, or even more scandalous, and ridiculous, that she had somehow earned her entry by bedding down with the powers that be. There were some, however, who were not unpleasant toward her. They didn’t go out of their way to befriend her, but they at least spoke with her on occasion and didn’t take part in the insults. But few could deny her skill with a sword, and it didn’t take long before her talent added fuel to some of the recruits’ anger. Most didn’t think a female belonged in the military, and when they realized that she could best them with a blade their humiliation just made things worse. She was hoping things would eventually get better. After all, they couldn’t get much worse.
As a new recruit she had been training for the last three weeks, ever since they had arrived from the garrison. She already knew how to fight in hand to hand combat, better than many of her instructors. But she had almost no idea about how to fight in formation using shields and spears. The work had been grueling. Her day began with early morning formation training combined with long marches. There was a short rest for lunch, followed by more drills and practice. Then, after a quick dinner, the training would again resume, halted only by the setting sun. Although she was exhausted, both physically and mentally, she had actually enjoyed the martial training, enthusiastically soaking up a vast amount of new skills, techniques, and information. Today they were performing their first live formation drills with wooden practice swords and blunt tipped spears. Despite the lack of real weapons, it was very dangerous. No one pulled their strikes and it wasn’t uncommon for recruits to get injured or to even break bones.
Following the screaming sergeant’s orders the recruits broke up into their platoons. They were outside the city walls on the training grounds adjacent to the northern wall. There was plenty of room there for their mock combat, and after several minutes the officers had each platoon facing another. The lead platoons were backed by reserve platoons making their formation two lines deep. Normally, in battle, their infantry might be four lines deep, but for training purposes they were keeping it simple. Cat’s platoon was the front line of her team, which equaled two platoons, and as she gazed at the recruits facing her she prayed to Argon that her nerves would calm.
She glanced to her left and right and noticed most of the fifteen men in her platoon looked like she felt, nervous. The only soldier who appeared calm, almost eager, was a man named Boris who stood on her right. She didn’t know him well but he seemed to treat her fairly. He saw her look at him and he winked back. “You ready for this?”
“I think so.”
“Be careful of Torrin, he has it out for you.”
Cat looked across the fifteen paces to the soldiers facing her and saw Torrin standing among them. The tall warrior caught her eyes, his lips curling up in a wicked smile that looked more like a sneer. And sure enough he was positioned in the line directly opposite her. She had defeated him once in sword practice and ever since then he had gone out of his way to ridicule her. Now she was facing him in formation and that worried her. Formation fighting was nothing like a sword duel. You fought side by side, protecting one another’s flanks, jabbing forward with your spear until you lost the weapon or it broke, at which point you used your infantry sword, all the while holding the line while using your shield to protect those beside you. Your movement was limited and you had more than just yourself to worry about. Your job, besides keeping yourself alive, was to protect the men, or women, that flanked you.
There were twenty platoons positioned throughout the training ground and not one man or woman said a word. The tension and nervous energy was thick. Handfuls of officers were positioned all around the platoons and their job was to monitor the fighting. Anyone struck in the chest with a spear was required to withdraw from the fighting, and if they failed to do so the officers would pull the offender clear under a barrage of insults followed by extra work details for their dishonesty. Sword strikes to the torso were also considered kills. But those were the only restrictions of combat. It was ‘anything goes’ after that. Everyone knew it wasn’t a perfect replica of an actual battle. That wasn’t the point. The point of the drill was to have the recruits experience the actual chaos of battle, how it felt to have spears and swords coming at them, trying to stay alive
, and protect their comrades, while attempting to stay in formation.
“Ready!” the sergeant yelled.
Cat lifted her shield and readied her spear. Hundreds of others did the same thing in unison. She took several deep breaths, staring at Torrin over the edge of her shield.
“Charge!”
All fifteen warriors of her platoon shot forward, followed by the reserve line behind her. Their role was to fill in the positions vacated by fallen comrades. If their formation broke, they would lose. The officers would sound a horn which would signal the end of the exercise. The side that had the most soldiers remaining would win the bout, earning the rest of the evening off. Needless to say, everyone wanted to win.
The two platoons came together in a tremendous clash of wooden shields and blunted spears. Spears flew forward over enemy shields searching for targets. Torrin’s spear just missed her head and she was jarred backwards a few steps by the strength of his shield charge which nearly knocked her into the man behind her. Cat was not as strong as most of the men and she was forced to rely on her speed and cunning. She jabbed her spear at Torrin, but it missed, hitting the man behind him directly in the forehead. He fell to the ground, stunned, and an officer quickly jumped in and dragged him out of the fray. Instead of withdrawing her spear she snapped the weapon sideways hitting Torrin in the side of the head. It wasn’t a killing stroke but she was confident that it had hurt him. Suddenly the man to Torrin’s left brought the edge of his shield down on the shaft of her spear, snapping the weapon in half. He then brought his spear back before ramming the blunt tip forward, attempting to strike her chest while her own shield was occupied with Torrin’s. Clearly the two had worked out a plan. They were ganging up on her.
The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall Page 35