by D K Drake
Javan nearly lost his balance as he used both hands to pick the sword up. Well, attempt to pick it up, anyway. He could barely bring the tip higher than his knees, much less raise it high enough to fight with it. “This thing is heavy!”
“You’re right. I should have known. You’re too frail and don’t have the strength for such a weapon.” Ravier traded the sword for a weapon that looked something like a cross-bow. “The jolt blast might be a good weapon for you. It’s something even your grandmother can shoot.”
“I remember.” Javan cringed. He did not want to be on the receiving end of this weapon ever again.
Javan inspected the black, warm rifle-type handle with his right hand and propped the flat, inch-wide shaft on top of his left hand. Two black triangular stalker scales were attached to one another above the handle; one pointed end faced Javan while the other pointed end faced away from Javan and had a hook carved into its tip.
A wide bow made of the same black material as the handle was fastened to the end of the shaft, and a golden string connected the tips of the bow. Javan pulled the string back, connected it to the hooked tip of the scale and looked at Ravier. “Don’t I need arrows or something to load and shoot?”
“No. That’s the great thing about this weapon. Because it’s made entirely of Midnight Stalker scales taken from a Stalker at the height of its feeding time, it generates its own ammunition: lightning bolts. All you have to do is hook the string to the scale and pull the trigger. The string scraping the shaft focuses the energy and sends a bolt of lightning in whatever direction you aim.”
“Nice.” Javan inspected the weapon with a new sense of admiration. “That is so much cooler than a sword or a bow and arrows.”
He lifted the jolt blast to shoulder height and aimed at a target directly in front of him.
“It does have a little kick to it,” Ravier warned.
“I can handle it.” He narrowed his eyes, focusing only on the center of the target. After three deep breaths, he pulled the trigger.
The blast lifted him off his feet and sent him sailing ten feet backwards. His body collided with the wall while his head knocked into a sleek steel box hanging high on the wall.
Both Javan and the box plummeted to the floor. The long, thin box opened on impact, but the unconscious Javan didn’t notice.
Chapter 19
Stun Balls and Stalker Swords
“J
avan! Javan!”
Javan slowly became aware of Ravier shouting his name, slapping his cheeks and shaking his shoulders. “What happened?” Javan asked, rubbing his now throbbing head. “Did I hit the target?”
“No. But you did burn a hole in the ceiling.”
Javan looked up and inspected his handiwork. A hole several inches deep and wide as well as a good fifteen feet long was seared into the dirt ceiling. “Oops.”
“You’re not allowed to shoot the jolt blast anymore.” Ravier stood and took a long, thick wooden pole with a sharp iron point off the wall. “Get up. Try the spear. Maybe you can throw better than you can shoot.”
“I can throw—wait a minute.” When Javan moved to get up, his leg knocked the box that had fallen with him. “What’s this?”
Javan pulled a leather belt out of the open box. What looked like tiny spiked footballs lined the back of the belt. Two black sheaths hung at an angle from either side of the belt, and each held a dagger roughly the length of Javan’s arm. A spiked football like those on the belt topped the white handle of one dagger and the grey handle of the other.
“This is cool.” Javan stood, strapped the belt on and drew the daggers. Based on the angle of the sheaths, he drew the dagger on his right hip with his left hand and the dagger on his left hip with his right hand. Much to his surprise, there was a half-inch gap between the end of the handle and beginning of the blade; only a thin piece of steel connected the two pieces.
Even more surprising, though, was the color of the sharp, simple, triangular blades. The blade on the dagger with the grey handle was black on one side and golden on the other. The blade with the white handle was streaked with red, orange, purple and pink on one side and blue, green, purple and pink on the other.
“Put those away,” Ravier said. “They are useless toys, not weapons meant for a Collector.”
Javan swished the daggers in the air, liking the balanced feel of the beautiful blades. “I can do some damage with these weapons. What are they called?”
Ravier sighed. “They’re stalker swords and have been in the family for thousands of years. Kara, the wife of the third Collector king, made them as a way of honoring the four types of Dragon Stalkers. They’re the only ones ever made and are for decoration, not for fighting.”
“I’m not so sure.” Javan studied the stalker swords in his hands. They felt strong and steady and ready for battle. “I could fight with these.”
“Nonsense. Put them back in their sheaths, and take that silly belt off.”
“Fine.” Javan sheathed the swords. Before he took the belt off, though, he plucked one of the mini footballs off of it. It was sheer black with two rows of tiny white spikes: one where the seams would normally be on a football and another directly opposite it. He turned it over a few times, then gripped the unspiked sides using his first three fingers and thumb; one row of spikes faced his palm and the other faced out. “What are these?”
“More toys. They’re called stun balls. They’re only effective if you throw them with a precise spiral spin and deadly accurate aim.”
“Hmmm. Interesting.” Maybe all that football throwing practice he did this past summer wasn’t going to be a complete waste after all. “What do they do?”
“If they’re thrown with the right spin, claws come out of the tips mid-air. The claws attach to the target, and the spikes emit shock waves that render your target motionless for several minutes.”
“Can I throw one?”
“Very few people have ever been able to make them work, which is why they are rare, useless, outdated weapons. Besides, you have to have a live target to make them work, and I don’t want you throwing one of those spiked things at me whether it stuns me or not.”
Javan was about to throw the ball at Ravier anyway when Hamilton’s large frame spilled down the ladder. “Hello, boys! Great morning, isn’t it?” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them back and forth. “I hope you’re ready to do some fighting, kid.”
Javan nodded toward Hamilton as he asked Ravier, “Can I throw it at him?”
Ravier shrugged. “Sure.”
Hamilton dropped his hands. “Throw what at me?”
“This.” Javan cocked his arm back and flung the stun ball. It sailed toward Hamilton in a perfect spiral motion, unlocking the claws in the tip. The claws locked into the center of Hamilton’s chest followed by a high-pitched shriek.
Javan wasn’t sure if the shriek came from Hamilton or the ball, but he was sure that Hamilton was suddenly as still as a statue.
◊◊◊
For several minutes, Javan and Ravier circled the stunned Hamilton while listening to the low whirr of the ball attached to his chest. Hamilton’s eyes remained wide open as though he was frozen in time.
“I’ve never seen him this still or this quiet before,” Ravier said.
“How long do you think he’s going to stay this way?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never actually seen one of these balls work.”
“Should I take it off of him?”
“Not yet. Let’s see if it comes off on its own. I think it’s supposed to.”
“You’re the boss.”
The longer Javan watched the frozen Hamilton, the more guilty he felt for attacking the man without warning. Just when he was ready to reach for the ball to revive the man, the whirring stopped, the claw retracted and the ball clunked to the floor.
“Was that a…” Hamilton shook his head and massaged his eyes. “Was that a stun ball?”
“Yes,” Ravier said.
“Sorry. I didn’t think he’d be able to make it work.”
“Yeah, sorry man,” Javan said. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Kid, you didn’t hurt me; you just stunned me.” He chuckled and slapped Javan on the back. “Nicely done. And are you wearing the stalker swords? Wow. No Collector has ever used stun balls or the stalker swords as his weapon. Most go with the standard backsword or bow and arrow. You’re just full of surprises.”
“Don’t be absurd, Hamilton. Not even the dragons will take him seriously as a Collector if he shows up to any fight with these toys. We’re still trying to find his ideal weapon. He just happened to knock these down when he lost control of the jolt blast.” Ravier held out his hand. “Give me the belt, Javan.”
Javan hung his head and reached for the buckle. But giving up the belt didn’t feel right. He knew he could learn to fight with these weapons. They were a much better fit for him than taut bows, mega swords and overpowering jolt blasts.
“No,” he said, crossing his arms. “I’ve made my choice. Stalker swords and stun balls.”
“No,” Ravier said. He crossed his arms to match Javan. “I won’t allow it.”
“I won’t fight with anything else.”
“No.”
“Come on, Ravier,” Hamilton said. “It’s brilliant. No one is going to be expecting him to use these antiquated weapons. The shock value alone could win him a dragon or two.”
Ravier huffed, then relented. “You’re sure these are the weapons you want to master?”
“I’m sure,” Javan said.
“I know I’m going to regret this.” Ravier hung his head. “Then stalker swords and stun balls it is.”
“Great!” Javan turned to Hamilton. “Thanks.”
“No problem, kid.” His entire demeanor changed to stone-cold seriousness. “Now take off that belt. It’s time to learn to fight with your fists.”
Chapter 20
Fighting with Fists
“H
it you?” Javan stared at the man twice his size standing in the middle of the training room coaxing him to attack. “That’s nuts, Hamilton. You’re way bigger than me. Can’t I fight Ravier?”
“If you can learn how to fight me, you can learn how to fight any midget your own size.”
“Don’t we need like protective gear or something?”
“Protective gear?”
“Yeah. Stuff to protect my hands and face, like boxing gloves and a helmet.”
“I don’t know what kind of sissy fighting you do on earth, but we don’t have that stuff here. Just hit me. It’s not hard.”
“It’s hard when you’ve never hit anybody before. Where I come from, hitting someone is not a good thing.”
“In your situation,” Ravier said from the sidelines, “it’s a necessary thing. Now walk up to the man and hit him.”
Javan swallowed, flexed his fingers and obeyed Ravier’s command. As he approached Hamilton, he balled his fingers into fists and looked up. His head barely reached above Hamilton’s wide waistline. This was going to be a disaster.
“Let’s get this over with,” Javan muttered. He swung his arm back and jabbed his right fist into Hamilton’s gut. His fist bounced back as though it had slammed into a trampoline.
“Don’t tap me,” Hamilton said. “I won’t break. Punch me.”
“I did!”
“That was a punch? You can do better. Try again.”
This time, Javan delivered a series of alternating punches with both his right and left fists. Hamilton just chewed on his fingernails like nothing was happening.
“You can start hitting any time,” Hamilton said. “I’m ready.”
Javan bit his bottom lip to keep his growing anger in check and looked back at Ravier. Seeing him laughing only made Javan more upset. “That’s it,” Javan said. “Forget the fists. It’s time to tackle.”
The only experience he had with violence was tackling in football practice. Granted, he didn’t do much tackling as a quarterback, but he was certainly going to try now.
He stepped back about five feet, then charged forward. He rammed his shoulder straight into Hamilton’s left leg. When the man didn’t budge, Javan latched on and tugged.
“What are you doing?” Hamilton asked.
“I’m tackling you,” Javan squeaked out as he strained to make Hamilton lose his balance.
“Oh.” Hamilton crossed his arms and sighed. “Carry on.”
“I will.” Javan pulled and squeezed a little longer. No progress. Out of breath, he let go and stepped back. “New strategy,” he said.
This time, he ran up behind Hamilton and leaped onto his back. He wrapped his arms around Hamilton’s neck and screamed while swaying from side to side, trying to pull him down.
The new strategy was just as ineffective as the first.
“Okay,” Hamilton said. “That’s enough.” He leaned forward, grabbed Javan’s waist and flipped him over his shoulder to the floor.
The collision knocked the breath out of Javan. So he just laid there, eyes closed, humiliated, trying to remember how to breathe. “Told you that was an unfair fight,” he finally managed to say.
“It was only unfair because you had no idea what you were doing.” Hamilton helped Javan to his feet and led him to the chair by the chalkboard. “Have a seat while I use Ravier to teach you a few things about fighting.”
◊◊◊
Sitting down was both good and bad.
It was good because it gave Javan a chance to rest his weary body. It was bad because now he had nothing to do to take his mind off his splitting headache and aching muscles. The only thing keeping him glued to his seat and attentive to Hamilton’s teaching was the hope that Javan would see Hamilton use Ravier as a live punching bag to illustrate his moves.
“When you’re fighting a Hunter like the king’s son Micah,” Hamilton was saying, “there’s only one rule: don’t die.”
“Good rule,” Javan said.
“If you try to fight him like you just fought me, though, you’re going to break that rule.”
“I’ll have stun balls and stalker swords to help me out.”
“You have to know how to defend yourself if you get caught without your weapons.”
Javan rubbed his temples. “I’m listening.”
“When you’re attacked, your best defense is to strike at one of your opponent’s vulnerable points.”
“What, like his groin?”
“Exactly.”
Javan crossed his legs. “That seems kind of cruel.”
“You’re trying to survive here, kid.” Hamilton leaned down. His frizzy hair grazed Javan’s forehead while his naturally hazel eyes bore into Javan’s contact-colored brown eyes. “You can’t play nice.”
“No playing nice,” Javan said. “Got it.”
“Good.” Hamilton raised himself back to his giant height and put his hands on Ravier’s shoulders. “A man’s eyes, ears, nose, jaw and throat are ideal targets. You can scratch or poke his eyes, break his nose, tear or bite his ears, knock him out with a punch to the jaw or produce a choking pain with a chop to the throat.”
Javan’s hands instinctively moved to protect his throat. “What if he’s much taller than me and I can’t reach his face?”
“You aim for lower vulnerable points like his feet, shins and joints. You can crush his toes, kick his shins or bust his kneecaps.” Hamilton turned Ravier around and fake punched his lower back. “If you have a shot at his lower back, you can punch his kidneys.
“From the front,” Hamilton continued, spinning Ravier back around and throwing a few more fake punches to the middle of his chest and stomach, “you can attack his solar plexus or abdomen to wind him.”
“Think I got it,” Javan said. He stood and pointed out all Ravier’s vulnerable points as he spoke. “Poke the eyes, break the nose, rip the ears, punch the jaw, chop the throat, punch the chest, stomach and kidneys, bust the kneecaps, kick the shins, stomp the toes and
crush the groin.”
Javan watched the aggravation in Ravier’s eyes grow to infuriation at the threat of being hit by Javan in any part of his body. He stood there silently fuming while Javan’s smile grew broader.
“Good!” Hamilton slapped Javan on the back, knocking him off balance. Now it was Ravier’s turn to smile at Javan’s discomfort. Hamilton seemed oblivious to the tension between the two men and carried on with his lesson. “Your objective is to strategically attack those points with your punches, elbows and kicks while keeping your own body protected. First, though, all we’re going to focus on is your punches.”
“Okay,” Javan said, turning his attention away from the glowering Ravier and toward Hamilton. “Teach me.”
“There are four basic punches: the jab, the cross, the hook and the uppercut. You’ll learn them all, but today I just want you to practice the jab and the cross.”
Hamilton led Javan across the room to the cluster of targets. He pulled one out from the cluster, a faceless man that stood a foot taller than Javan. It had a thick torso and lifeless arms that dangled by its sides.
“To throw the jab,” Hamilton said, “you start in the guard position.” As Hamilton spoke, he positioned Javan in front of the target. “Angle your body toward the target with your left foot in front of your right and your fists raised to the side of your chin with your left in front of your right.”
“Now what?” Javan asked. “I just hit the dude?”
“First you make sure you have a solid fist. Curl your fingers a little tighter and squeeze them between your thumb and tiny finger.” Hamilton pressed Javan’s fingertips into his palm and adjusted his thumb. “Make sure you keep your thumb pulled way back so you don’t hurt it when you punch.”
Javan inspected his fists and threw a few mini air punches while Hamilton continued his coaching session.