87th of Summer, 501 AV
“Get up.” Kell’s heavy boot lashed against Ulric’s sore, goose-prickled ribs, making him groan and clutch at the fur blanket of his cloak, desperately, but vainly trying to clasp at the ruddy drapes of his slumber. “Get up.” Then more pain blossomed in his side, at once dull and fiery, and he knew the curtain was rising, his prayers for sleep fled to that desultory graveyard of blind, uncomprehending dreams.
Petch.
“I’m up,” he snarled, furling the cloak so that he could peek out into the thick, impenetrable curtain of fog. It was very gray, but the fire was warm, tongues of orange flame dancing over crackling timbers, his head suffused with the aroma of frying bacon and the familiar, acrid stench of the wisping smoke. He sat up, took a groggy glance around, cuffing the sleep sands from his eyes.
“Lazy bastard,” Kell was growling, throwing him a hunk of dry, mealy bread. Ulric’s head perked up, splayed fingers groping through the gray mists, the promise of sustenance breaking through his stupor.
The bread struck him in the face.
“Pathetic.” Kell gave a shake of his head, craggy features curling in a sneer, and went back to sharpening the edge of his broadsword with long, even strokes. Ulric just shrugged, frowning slightly. He reached for the bread, brushing off the specks of dirt, and devoured it greedily, gazing off over the sloping, rocky strand. He heard the lap of murmuring waves against the shore, the cacophonous rustle of blotchy, desiccated leaves over the swaying trunks, the vague quork of a raven faintly discerned over the cawing of crows, the skirling winds that tore at his prickly flesh, howling around his neck like a cruel, barren scarf.
And far over those dark, cloudy water, shrouded by the fog, his city was waking from a deep slumber, boats sliding quietly through the inky canals, canvas bellows pumped by eager apprentices, shutters lowering in the shops, a cobbler sorting through scraps of leather, tailor picking at skeins of colored thread.
Kell was drinking ale.
Unshaven throat bulging grotesquely, the dark, dew-stained skin held high over his head, the graying warrior kept sucking the stuff down, pausing infrequently to tear at the fragment of bread he’d wrapped around rashers of greasy bacon. “Get your things.”
Ulric groaned.
How could such a brief string of words, growled so casually, reduce him to such an abyss of spirits? Get your things. He was going to get beaten today, and badly. He was always beaten badly. But waiting, and arguing, only made it worse. So he got up, his joints creaking in protest, and slung the rounded shield over his arm, fingers gripping the hardened leather straps, and reached for the spiked, bearded axe that he’d left wrapped in folds of greasy cloth. D’you see that, you prick? He lifted the gray, curving head before him, showing that there wasn’t a speckling of rust, though he didn’t expect any praise for taking proper care of his gear. There was never any praise. There were only beatings, beatings, and more beatings.
That was apparently how you made warriors.
Kell was up now, shield sweeping through the air, the sword’s edge like a mad, angry whirligig. He didn’t even bother to say anything, just came on like a trenchant, rumbling boar. Try to control the distance, Ulric thought, taking a step back, and dancing to the side. The sword sang, and he narrowly deflected the stinging chop, angling his shield so he wouldn’t have to absorb the full, crushing impact of the blow. There was a sordid art to that sort of thing. He was reluctant to fight back just yet, for the man’s shield was lashing around, trying to catch him in the head, so he kept moving laterally, trying to hook the shield’ rim with the curve of his axe, to yank it away from that cold, deadly grasp. Never mind, then, he scowled, on the retreat again. The sword licked up, questing for an ear, and eye socket.
Ulric barely managed to duck away, sweeping the axe behind his body, keeping the shield up for what he knew was coming. And surely enough, it did. Kell’s shield smashed into his own, the sheer brutality making him stagger back, and then the sword was hacking at his leg. He knows I can’t deal anything in return, so he’s just trying to shake me up, to force a counter that gives him the chance to put the shield in play. Ulric wasn’t going to let that happen. He rushed in, so close that the sword’s hilt just struck him painfully in the side. He could hear the man’s grunt as their shields clashed, and then, fearing a butt from that heavy slab of brow, he spun away, hacking desperately in the axe as he tried to retreat beyond the sword’s range.
Strangely, it worked. He saw the edge streak past his cheek, and then he was in the clear, a shocked snort emanating from his nose.
The problem was that his foot caught on the lip of a stone, and he felt himself go crashing down, cruel impact crushing the breath from his lungs.
Kell was on him soon after that, and Ulric could only shakily lift his shield, absorbing the cleaving swing, and hook vainly at the man’s ankles. Kell just stomped on the axe’s haft, trapping it upon the shifting pebbles, contemptuously tore away the shield, and kicked him in the gut. “Know where your petching feet are at,” he growled. “Don’t try to get away, just stand and fight.”
Ulric folded around the blow, clutching at his aching sides, and tried to suck in a dense, milky breath. He closed his eyes, wishing this was just a nightmare, a foul trick of his drowsy mind. Because you can’t win if you don’t even try. He knew the rest from memory.
When he opened his eyes, Kell was hulking above him, foot on his chest. “Get up.” Ulric blindly sought to grab the foot, to twist it away and destroy the man’s balance, but the flat of the sword just smacked down on the back of his hand, stinging the flesh, raising a thin line of crimson. “Get up.”
“Can’t,” he gasped.
“So?”
Yes, that was the typical, dreaded reply to his pleas for mercy, and deep down, he knew it was only going to be harder on him if he didn’t bother fighter. So he kicked and wriggled, flung fistfuls of stinging sand at the man’s face, though they mostly came down to painfully obscure his own vision, beat at the leg with all of his might, but his efforts did nothing. Ulric couldn’t budge the foot, and worse, he kept getting kicked in the face, slapped by the sword, and cursed roundly. At least until that got boring.
“Pathetic,” growled Kell, taking a scornful step back, giving Ulric a chance to regain his footing, to reach for his sand-encrusted shield. Then it just began again, the beating continuing.
Ulric rushed in this time, not because he thought it would be particularly devastating, but because he was weary of just standing there. And of course, the outcome was the same. Hacking with the axe, mostly as a diversion, he went into a crouch, sword singing narrowly over his head, and moved laterally. He let his shield drop, turning to reduce the shock of the mercenary’s shield as it crashed into his shoulder, and swept his own around, trying to land anything. He didn’t. He was already off balance, and the backswing of his axe just struck lightly against the shield, leaving his arms askew, his legs trying to dig into the ground, to keep him from tumbling onto his rear.
Kell just hammered the hilt of his sword into Ulric’s face.
It hurt.
“Gurrp,” he groaned, baring his teeth, hands vainly smearing at the warm threads of crimson that streamed from his aching nose. The mercenary relented for a moment, just let him reel back a few paces, face dark and sneering.
“Don’t rush in, you daft cunt.”
“Heard that one before,” Ulric grumbled, bending to hawk up bloody phlegm, and instinctively brought up his shield. Kell’s sword thundered down on the splintering wood, numbing his arm. That was a mistake, he frowned, looking at the mercenary’s outflung shield, the placement of his arms, yet before his axe had scythed even halfway through the curtain of fog, the heavy boot rose up, stamped down on his bruised thigh. The result was that he lost his balance, tumbled snarling to one leg, where he swiftly flipped his shield to deflect the arcing sword, sparks flying. How can any man be this fast? He wondered, though he’d been fighting this wraith for nearly half of his life.
Ulric brought his axe up so that Kell had to turn the blow rather than bludgeoning with the painted shield, affording him enough of an interval to scramble back, regain a paltry semblance of footing. Kell just grunted.
“Not bad.”
“Go petch yourself,” growled Ulric, with didn’t seem to bother Kell very much. Rather, it just made him chuckle, a deep rumbling emanating from his belly, under the layers of leather, fur, and mail. Ulric darted forward, swinging the axe in a vicious, crossways hack. He had to lower his shield to check the sword that lashed at his legs, knowing that he was leaving himself open for a devastating bash in the face, but understanding that he had to absorb the punishment if he wanted to land anything.
For some reason, that didn’t happen.
As he ducked away, axe hacking vainly away from its target, there was a blur of painted wood banded with iron past his face, the rivets grazing his cold, aching flesh, and then he was free, staring at the mercenary’s exposed side. Bugger, he thought stupidly, almost shyking himself, because this had never happened before. Bugger, bugger, bugger, he thought, because he knew the closer he got to landing, the worse he’d get beaten in retribution.
Bugger.
Ulric swept his axe around, keeping one foot planted, the other pivoting so he could beat a quick escape, only for a plated elbow to descend, beating away his backswing. That hadn’t happened before. That was hardly even likely.
Gaping, he danced away, swiping away the singing sword, making sure he was out of bashing range. He was having trouble breathing now, for the dark blood was congealing in his nose, crusting over his callow, patchy beard. Kell kept on coming, sword feinting, swinging, thrusting, shield bashing, swiping, lowering to cast up a spray of wet dirt. Ulric sought to evade the strikes as best he could, ducking, retreating, and moving laterally, using his shield to catch any stray blows, hooking with his axe, trying to wrest away the sword, to jerk out an ankle, poking with the spike. He kept trying to control the distance, but he never seemed to be far enough away, and he was never close enough, or swift enough, to do any damage. He held his own for a few, agonizing moments, but as he overbalanced, hacking wildly to avoid the inevitable, he felt the shield bash into his face, a flash of agony, dark specks erupting in front of his eyes, and then he was tumbling again, sprawling heavily on the firm, damp ground. Oh, petch, he thought, raising the shield, but there wasn’t any finishing blow, just the murmur of the lapping waves, a desultory quork from the raven.
“Not bad,” Kell gave a shrug. “Not good, though.”
“I’m not enjoying this, you know.” Ulric rolled slowly onto his side, tongue probing a loose tooth. His nose was bleeding again, the tang of it in his mouth, trickling down the back of his throat.
“You’re not meant to enjoy this, you’re meant to suffer.” Kell took a step back, clashing sword against shield boss. “Come on, fight me.”
“Why can’t you fight other people?” Ulric sulked, but he found his legs moving, hand splaying on the rocky shore as he rose, hefting his shield so only dark eyes showed above the metal rim, trying to hide the axe behind his back.
“Because you need to get better,” Kell barked a laugh. “And because everybody else is dead.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.” Ulric began to circle, warily regarding the mercenary, but Kell didn’t even twitch, just watched him with a stony, quiescent calm. That always made him nervous. Don’t rush in, he kept repeating in the back of his mind, but there wasn’t anything else for him to do. Can’t break him, can’t fight him, but I can shock him,” he frowned, swiftly veering low and towards the man’s dominant side, barely evading the singing sword. Then he disengaged, took a quick step back, waited for the axe to swipe past his face, and poked for the eyes.
Kell just flowed past the spike, sword lashing behind the axe’s curved head to hold it firmly in place. Shyke. Ulric already knew what was coming, had the foresight to lower his shield so it could absorb the devastating brunt of the kick at his fruits, leaning forward to evade another bash in the face. Yeah, we both know what’s next, he glared into Kell’s wolfishly leering face, felt that slab of brow smash into his face, opening a nasty cut on his cheek.
Yeah, he was hurt, he could barely see but for sparking embers that kept bursting before his eyes, but that didn’t mean he was done for. There would be no budging his pinioned axe, so he let go to the haft, rearing back to land a short, quick haymaker to the jaw. Kell’s head snapped back.
That was, perhaps, the most satisfying thing he’d ever felt that didn’t lurk between the legs of a whore. Then he felt something that was much, much worse. There was a crunch of metal against his ribs, the sharp, nauseating agony of his squashing fruits, face blinding with fiery pain. Then he found himself lying on the ground, gazing up at the milky, skirling tendrils of fog.
“Keep your shield up,” growled Kell.
Ulric wrenched at his neck, spat a mouthful of dirt, groaning feebly. “Dropped it, did I?”
“You fool, either you learn to duck, or we’re buying you a larger shield.”
“Can’t we buy a farm or something?” Ulric clawed at the dirt, fingers splaying around tiny gray pebbles, seeking to rise. Not shyking likely, he grimaced, getting the right knee under him, and then the left.
“Come at me,” Kell growled, which was starting to get really, really annoying. Ulric took his sweet time in rising, finding first his axe, and then shield, not caring if he took another kick in the ribs, even if it cracked them. Kell usually halted before he did any lasting harm. Even so, he’d broken enough of Ulric’s bones so that he was wary of the dangers of combat, or at least to show him to fight through the coruscating, white-hot agony that they inflicted. And yet, he always wins,” Ulric thought as he stood, grimacing, before the warrior. Hasn’t even given me a chance, the bastard.
“Come at me.”
Kell’s growled words were cruel, biting, unwavering, so that was exactly with Ulric did. Except, of course, he wasn’t about to make the same errors of judgment. He darted in cautiously, but resolutely, deflecting the sword’s lashed edge, hacking at the round, painted shield, bashing with his own, dancing away, trying to kick, to poke, to do some sort of damage, while he kept moving his shield, turning one blow, absorbing a crushing impact the next. His chest heaved, his lungs screaming for air, nerves for a respite to the scorching assault. He clove with his axe, went off balance, went in close to tangle both shield and sword, evade the biting edge. Kell’s harsh elbow struck against his leather-clad shoulder, knee against the outside of his turned thigh, hilt against his aching ribs, but Ulric didn’t budge. He threw a quick shoulder, heels gouging furrows into the dirt, and then spun away, hooking on his way out, but vainly. He just struck chips from the painted shield as he jerked back, ducking the sword that sang over his head, and quickly retreated, lungs laboring like a forge.
Kell didn’t come after him. “Good,” he growled after a long, tense, moment. “You weren’t stupid.”
“Thanks,” Ulric panted, “Can we stop now?” Kell gave a shake of his head, slowly walked forward.
“Come on,” he spat.
Ulric did.
There was a bone-jarring clang as shield met shield, sword haft swinging over the tangled rims, narrowly missing his face. The axe scythed around, swiftly rising in a deadly arc, but Kell’s front leg was already swinging away. Ulric felt a short, sharp burst of agony as a heavy boot stamped down. The consequence was that he jerked to the side, his focus sundered by the abrupt, biting shock, footwork left by the wayside. But he kept his shield up, felt the sword thunder against the curving surface, swept it down to absorb another, crushing blow as he poked with the axe, making the man halt in his tracks. Did I just stop him? He scowled, but he didn’t have time to think, his mind conquered by swift, brutal instincts. Block. The shield swept around, dashing the sword away, his body bending back to evade a bash, front leg skidding back, rear leg pumping like a piston as it brought him aside, out of the sword’s reach. Move. He danced closer, wove out again, shaking beads of sweat from his short, spiky hair. Strike. He grunted, struck a spray of chips from the shield as his foe drove at him, whirling away so he wouldn’t have to give up any ground, lose control of the distance. Wait. He took a step back, chest heaving, a fiery ache in his leaden arms, as the sword’s downswing sang past his knees, and then countered with a hack with the axe, the curved head lashing through the heavy, empty fog.
Kell hadn’t pursued.
“Come on,” he gasped, but the man just forced a grunt, turned away. What just happened? Ulric gaped, fearing some sort of ploy. He kept his shield up, axe hanging tensely at his side for a long moment. Kell kept walking, making his way across the stony sands, until he reached the ring of stones that enveloped the remnants of their meager fire, all but consumed to ashes. There were a few glowing embers, the truncated branches reduced to flat sticks of salt and pepper char, the skirling wind kicking up a desultory spray of cinders. Kell sat down on a boulder, encrusted by whorls of black and purple lichen, and reached for another hunk of bread. He stuffed a piece in his mouth, chewing idly, without enjoyment.
Ulric felt a low, shudder sigh wrack his weary frame, shoulders slumping, head drooping, knees shaking, but he kept hold of his gear, fearing the beating would just resume. He limped nearer after a few moments. Kell didn’t even bother looking into his face, just kept chewing, scratching at the prickly hedge of his beard. “We’re leaving the city,” he rasped finally, that harsh voice slashing through the turgid fog, eliciting another cacophony from the crows.
“Fine,” Ulric frowned, drawing back tensely, unsurely. Ravok was his home, but he’d left so often, and stayed away for such starkly piercing periods, that he’d nearly stopped caring.
“So far, I’ve taught you to fight,” growled Kell, “But you’ve got to decide if you want to be a killer.”
“I’d do it.” Ulric didn’t hesitate, speaking loudly almost before the words formed in his murky head.
“Good.” Kell gave a terse nod, went back to eating. “Now wash your shyking face.” And then, in a voice so hushed, so shaky that his young charge couldn’t hope to hear, Kelus Taredan breathed a prayer to Rhysol.
My lord, let him be ready.
