34th Day of Fall, 496 AV “Yaaargh!” Ulric slashed wildly with his axe. Kell evaded the blows easily, and then hammered his shield into Ulric’s face. It hurt. “Don’t rush in, you little twit,” spat the grizzled warrior. Ulric staggered back, pawing at the blood that trickled from his nose. He was a skinny, hollow-cheeked boy of twelve, and Kell a man grown – hardly a fair fight. “Well, what the petch am I supposed to do?” Ulric retorted. It was early morning and they were alone upon the strand, armed with padded shields and shafts capped with chunks of cloth-wrapped wood to simulate axes. Kell had traced a circle in the sand, no more than twenty paces in diameter, yet it was of little relevance since a thick fog had rolled in off the sea. It limited their visibility, reducing the section of beach into an ethereal arena. “Be patient,” the warrior responded. “I’ll only say this once, so shut your petching mouth and listen for a change. Got it? Good. Now then, you need to wait for opportunities and think before you strike. Axe fighting isn’t just about speed and brawn. Any fool can hack a man to death; put two fools together and the luck will be the deciding factor. Mark my words, you do not want that to happen. Ovek is a fickle bastard on the best of days. Instead, you need to control distance. If you can’t control distance, you’re never in position to strike. It means you’ll overextend with your attacks, making you easier to hit.” “Isn’t that why we have shields?” “Don’t interrupt,” Kell rapped Ulric’s skull with his handle of his axe. “Unlike swords, the axe is shyke as a defensive weapon – unless, occasionally, it’s on the end of a petching long pole. Halberds, those metal-clad pricks call them. Can’t parry, can’t riposte, can’t do petch-all in the way of defense. However, the axe can penetrate armor that swords are ineffective against, meaning you’ve only got to get in one, maybe two good strikes to send your opponent to the mud. So you need to control the distance, pick your spots, and absorb any stray blows on your shield. Feel its weight upon your arm and remember that it’s as much a weapon as the axe.” “You don’t need to tell me that,” Ulric scowled. His bloody nose was beginning to clot now, but it was still a mass of pain. Kell didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned. “Now, you can bash the buggers in the face or slash them with the rim. It’s blunt, but it’ll crack bone and maybe break a tooth or three – something to make your opponent think twice about fighting in close, which is the axeman’s fatal weakness. Once your opponent rushes past the head there’s not much you can do, so if you don’t have a shield, make sure you get the petch out of there.” Kell peered into the fog for a moment, the wind teasing the loose strands of his beard. “Do you remember the three basic strikes?” He asked finally. “Hook, poke, and hack,” Ulric recited. He wasn’t that much of an imbecile, despite his obvious lack of both skill and strategy. “Aye, that’s right,” Kell nodded. “As I said before, any fool can hack, but it takes a skilled fool to poke. All you need to do is thrust the axe in the bastard’s chest to break his momentum. If he’s unarmored and there’s a spike on the axe head, it’ll stick him too. But the poke isn’t for killing; only the hack can deal a fatal blow. If you mistime your poke, you stand the risk of having the axe struck from your hands, or being flanked before you can regain your balance. Now as for the hook,” Kell sneered, “the hook is special. Only warriors that have mastered both distance and timing can perform the hook and expect to see results. It’s the slowest and most complicated attack, so you’ll need to wait for an opening before trying it. If you lead with a hook, it’s highly probable that your opponent will see it coming, dodge, and counter before you’re back in position. So don’t lead with a petching hook.” “Got it,” Ulric hefted his axe and shield. “Now what?” “Now you lead with a hook,” Kell said with a crooked smile. Ulric scowled in anticipation of the valuable, yet painful, lesson the warrior was about to teach him, but raised his axe anyways. He stepped forward, holding his shield high, and swung his axe in a curved motion around Kell’s unprotected side. Kell dropped his own shield and wrenched the weapon from Ulric’s hands, then tossed upon the sand. “Too. Petching. Obvious,” The warrior gritted. “You’re relying on your arms when you should be using your entire body. Instead, aim the axe behind your opponent, wait for the haft to strike them, and then shift your body back by sliding on the rear foot. It’ll pull the bastard off-balance, and perhaps, if he stumbles forward, allow you to bash him in the face. You can hook for the knees, torso, and head – or even the hands or the hilt of his weapon to disarm him. But you’ve got to make it petching subtle, and petching quick. Now, try it again.” Ulric did, and this time Kell didn’t move, letting Ulric hook the weapon behind his knee. Ulric yanked with all his might, but the warrior stood firm. “Pathetic,” spat Kell. “What the petch?” Ulric threw down his axe. “How am I supposed to pull you off balance when you’re so much bigger and stronger than me?” Kell barked a laugh. “Pick up that rock,” he pointed toward a head-sized boulder. Cursing in frustration, Ulric strode to the rock, then raised it to his chest and allowed to fall back upon the sand. Kell snorted in amusement. “Feel stronger?” “No.” “That’s right. You’re a weak little shyke, and nothing save time is going to change that. So you might as well think of another way to beat me.” “Like what?” Ulric snarled. He wholly, absolutely, utterly hated this man with every fiber of this being. But there was no one else to teach him, and Kell had volunteered. It was probably how the warrior soothed his inner sadist. “You have to be very cunning, or very lucky,” was Kell’s response. “Now, come at me again.” Ulric did, with as much caution as he could muster, and again the warrior sent him sprawling to the sand. “Why the petch are you still rushing in?” Kell growled. “Because you told me to!” Ulric’s face was livid. “Because I told you to,” Kell’s voice seeped with scorn. “In case you hadn’t realized, I’m not going to be around when you get into a fight, so you’d best start thinking for yourself.” “Fine, I’ll think for myself. Now what?” “Again,” Kell sneered. Ulric glared at him, wishing nothing more than to beat that smug smile off Kell’s face, but he remained still. One minute passed, and then two, with neither of them making so much as a move. Finally, Kell inclined his head. “Not bad, not bad. It seems you’ve fought me to a draw.” “What?” Ulric screeched. “But we didn’t even do anything!” “Other than turning tail,” Kell replied, “that’s probably the wisest decision you could’ve made. Know why? I’ll tell you; it’s because you can’t petching beat me. “Tell me something I don’t know,” Ulric sulked. * * * * * “Now that you’ve learned your lesson,” Kell continued, “It’s about time we started getting serious, don’t you think?” “What are you going to do now?” Ulric scowled, “chop me into a cauldron of soup?” “Something like that. I want you to try a bit of misdirection – feints and the like. But first, you’re going to lift that rock over your head a hundred times.” “What?” “You heard me. I want you to be tired. In battle, only the corpses are allowed to rest.” Grumbling, Ulric strode to the rock and proceeded to hoist it above his head. By the tenth lift he felt the prickle of sweat through his shirt and by twentieth he was breathing hard, but he persevered, his muscles aching, until he was unable to raise his arms over his head any longer. “Sixty-three,” Kell snorted. “Petch me, I didn’t think you were going to reach fifty. Now, weapons.” Ulric slipped the shield onto his arm and raised his axe, feeling as if he’d been trampled by a horse – nay, a herd of horses. He felt some of the fatigue drain from his limbs, but he was still dead on his feet. This time it was Kell who went upon the offensive, surging forward with a series of hacks and a short thrust that penetrated Ulric’s defense and deposited him on his backside. “Petching hell,” the boy grunted as he began to rise, only to see Kell’s axe blurring toward his face. Squawking in astonishment, Ulric barely managed to roll out of its path. He rose and looked warily at Kell. “Good reflexes, poor judgment,” the warrior pronounced. “Always expect an attack, even when your opponent offers the illusion of honor. It’s the best way to stay alive. Plus,” he grinned, “you can always kick the unsuspecting shyke in the bollocks. In a fight, there’s no such thing as fighting dirty.” Ulric bit his lip. “You’re not going to kick me in the bollocks, are you? I might want to plant my seed someday.” Kell barked a laugh. “No, I’m not going to kick you in the bollocks – not unless you’re particularly irritating. How are you holding up, by the way?” “I hurt all over, and I think you might’ve broken my nose.” “Good,” Kell nodded. “I suppose you’ll be all right for another hour or two. You know,” he sneered, “the best way to learn is to have shit beaten out of you – helps you remember where you petched up. Now, the rock again – and if you can’t do at least half as much as before, I’ll flay you alive.” Ulric managed thirty-four, but just barely. Gasping for breath, his throat constricting with nausea, je returned to his weapons and waited for Kell’s charge. It was a stroke of brilliance, a simple bull rush that culminated with Kell halting at the last moment and swiping Ulric’s legs from beneath him. “Umph!” grunted Ulric. “Pathetic,” Kell sneered. “Up, and again.” Ulric regained his feet, realizing that no matter how he reacted, the warrior was going to surprise him with a different line of attack. Meaning, Ulric managed a wan smile, that I have to surprise him instead. This time he veered low and to the right, barely evading Kell’s looping axe, and then disengaged, hurling his shield at the warrior’s knee like a discus. Ulric gaped as the blow landed, and then stars burst in his head as the warrior battered him to the sand. “What the petch was that?” Kell demanded. “Did I say you could throw your petching shield?” “No.” “Well, petching don’t, you little shyke!” “It’s not like it helped any,” Ulric sulked. He rose, the blood beginning to trickle again from his nose, and reclaimed his shield. “Besides, I thought I wasn’t supposed to listen to you.” “Back to the rock,” Kell glared at him. “I want a hundred squats, quick-like. No more prancing about for you, m’boy.” Ulric cradled the rock against his chest, and began, the breath ragged in his throat. This time he did spew his breakfast upon the sand, but he picked up the rock and continued until he’d amassed a hundred squats and a stitch in his side. “Now,” Kell was sitting on a boulder. “Ever kicked a man in the chest or the bollocks?” “No, and yes.” “Good,” the warrior tossed Ulric his shield. “Let’s practice a bit.” For the next half-hour Ulric aimed kicks that Kell blocked deftly while raining blows down on the boy’s shield and exposed shoulders. It was not pleasant. By the end, Ulric was staggering about, scarcely able to raise his legs. “How you feeling?” asked Kell. “Petching awful.” “Good, now let’s put it all together,” Kell clashed axe against shield. Ulric was beginning to see why men in Kell's line of work seldom reached the age of forty, but still he armed himself and faced the warrior. This is not, he reflected, going to be pleasant. And, of course, it wasn’t. Hack, shield bash, hack, answered with a thrust in the gut that sent Ulric back with a strangled, “Gurrgh!” Kick to the shield, hook to the knee. “Yaargh!” Hack, kick, hook, thrust, bash – it went on for what seemed like hours, but was, in fact, only a matter of minutes. Unlike before, Kell seemed to pull his attacks, delaying the finishing blow until Ulric felt like he had participated in a pitched battle. “How do you feel?” Kell’s face swam into view. “Urgh,” Ulric spat blood. “I think you broke my ribs.” “Oh, don’t be dramatic. Can you stand?” “Maybe.” “Well, do it.” |