36th Day of Winter, 512AV
Oaken blades arced through air that was more ice than immaterial, and Razkar was enjoying himself.
The Akalak opposite him blocked his strike and knocked the training gladius to one side, following it up with a backhand from his wooden lakan. Razkar swayed and stepped back, blow missing him, the the bigger blue-skin kept coming forwards, foot lashing out-
-only for Razkar to twist away to his side, the boot missing him entirely-
-leaving him open to the slash Razkar put across his chest.
The Akalak grunted and stepped back, nodding slowly. They'd been at it for nearly an hour now, and in that hour, Razkar's right hand had barely moved from its place, gripping the top of his breeches at the small of his back. The Akalak had been insistent about that when they'd started sparring. Razkar had asked for his help with dual wielding, but after a few chimes, Vikuris had shaken his head sharply.
"Not good enough with your left yet," he'd said simply, his twin/friend/partner/lover/Razkar never found out which Erakmus watching quietly from outside their tent, "We work on that first, then we use both."
Razkar had swallowed his pride and taken the advice, denying himself his right arm and concentrating solely on his left. Bruises and welts were rising on his body now, the first half an hour really hammering home just how little he used his weaker hand. But now, he was sliding around easily with the practice blade, and won his first real victory.
"Better." Vikuris said simply, then drew his second wooden lakan, "Ready for both hands now?"
Razkar smiled grimly and flexed his stiff, ill-used right hand a few times, getting the blood and feeling flowing again. Once it was part of him again, he filled it with his wooden ax and readied himself.
A sharp nod, and the Akalak flew at him.
Rattling Chains marched on around them, as it had been doing for days, weeks and years before. Sellswords were milling around, maintaining their weapons, sparring, cooking, eating, doing a hundred menial tasks a camp their size required. A platoon of slaves was jogging around the edge of the clearing, getting their weekly dose of exercise on Provedan's orders. Never would he hear it said that his livestock wasn't fit enough.
But Razkar could sense, could feel the undercurrent of tension roiling beneath the sprawling encampment. There were more guards on the perimeter, more archers in the trees. Visitors (rare) and deliveries of supplies (less rare) were even more thoroughly screened, and Provedan was rarely seen above ground. Razkar knew why.
His feud with Balor Takarian was still raging. The Myrian had secretly enjoyed the unseen duality of the situation: beneath the civilized and gleaming facade of Riverfall, what basically amounted to a gang war was being waged, and already many had died. It was an unusual thing for Razkar, to be involved in the underworld. Taloba didn't really have one. There was a slight black market, but punishments were so severe and discovery so certain that many didn't even bother breaking the rules of Myri.
But it still amused him. Even the haughty Akalaks had to deal with scum that wouldn't be out of place in... what was that place called? Sunberth?
He had heard a lot about Sunberth. He'd liked most of it.
The air whistled and he blocked a blow from the Akalak with his gladius, sliding it away and striking with his hand ax, but that was stopped, too, so he thrust with his gladius, and that was blocked, and, and, and, followed by, followed by, followed by...
The Burned Man watched the Akalak and Myrian dance around each other, blows and parries being exchanged and avenged with every passing chime. The Myrian was learning, and fast, but Vikuris was by far the better fighter with two weapons. He was merely going easy on the shorter, more inexperienced Razkar. He'd wanted to train, after all; not just get the shit knocked out of him.
Razkar caught a stinging blow on his arm and nearly dropped his gladius. Vikuris darted forwards and gave him a moment to compose himself and block his follow up strike.
"Focus!" He snarled, wooden lakan twirling and lashing out at Razkar over and over. "Me and my weapons! That's your entire world!"
Razkar gritted his teeth and growled, twisting his body to one side and laying a flat horizontal strike against Vikuris' side. The Akalak grunted and before he could reply to his Razkar's foot jerked out and caught him under the kneecap, making him wobble-
-as the Myrian thrust forwards with his left hand, aiming for his sternum-
-only for Vikuris to knock it away, half-spin around to Razkar's right-
-ending up with his right hand lakan poised an inch from his neck, and his left the same distance from his ribcage.
"Never over-reach." He said simply as Razkar cursed himself lowly and savagely in his own tongue. "Over-reach, over-exposed, then over-dead."
"Yeah, I got it."
Razkar straightened up and without any pause the Akalak held out his hand. The Myrian dropped five gold mizas into it, the agreed amount for his training this morning. He'd needed a good sparring partner, and didn't want to leave Rattling Chains for even a day.
Something was coming. Some break to the tedium, so action, some retaliation.
Haev Provedan had been betrayed. Over two dozen men were dead, but they were merely the pawns of betrayal, not the hand that motivated and turned them. That individual was safely holed up in oh-so-civilized Riverfall, where Provedan was unable to reach him, at least not with his usual forces.
But a reply was coming, Razkar knew that much. It had to.
"Getting better." The Burned Man said as Razkar sat down outside his tent. Th two of them had been talking more and more recently. Not as friends, really, but fellow sellswords who were simply bored and had little else to do. "Still a little cocky, though."
"You want spar later?"
"You couldn't afford me."
Razkar's laugh was harsh and dry as a wolf's bark, but it was a laugh none the less. He sat and gulped down some water, stretching his sore back. The arrow wound the Burned Man had stitched up weeks before still ached sometimes, but he was mostly over it. After a few chimes catching his breath, he'd practice his brawling. His punch bag was hanging from a tree, swaying gently in the frigid wind. More than once he'd had to knock icicles off the bottom.
But that was not to be. In a blur of hooves and steam and flying cloth and mud, a horseman tore from the woods surrounding the camp, making a beeline for the mine entrance. The dozen or so guards clustered around it were on their feet and had their weapons leveled by the time the rider leapt off the horse, beast still sliding to a stop.
Razkar watched calmly. Not an assassin, far from it. No paid killer would be insane enough to ride up and slay Provedan like some knight from the stories. He'd be dead before he even got close. Now the rider was gesticulating wildly, trying to impress something apparently very urgent on men who were, by nature and assignment, very hard to convince.
One of them vanished into the mine. He returned a chime later, with Provedan and Tortuga in tow.
"Could be something here..."
Razkar nodded slowly at the Burned Man's words, but did not avert his eyes. Words were exchanged, quickly, rapidly, breathlessly. The rider gulped down a skin of water and almost vomited his words up, sweat on his face. Provedan listened intently, hands behind his back and clasped as usual, eyes still as stone. Finally he nodded a few times and turned to Tortuga. He spoke half a sentence, then vanished back to his lair.
Tortuga looked around, saw Razkar, the Burned Man and the Akalaks watching like curious dogs... and crooked his finger at them.
The Myrian grinned, sharpened teeth shining in the freezing sunlight.
"About petching time..."
RecieptTraining: 5gm.00sm.00cm
Oaken blades arced through air that was more ice than immaterial, and Razkar was enjoying himself.
The Akalak opposite him blocked his strike and knocked the training gladius to one side, following it up with a backhand from his wooden lakan. Razkar swayed and stepped back, blow missing him, the the bigger blue-skin kept coming forwards, foot lashing out-
-only for Razkar to twist away to his side, the boot missing him entirely-
-leaving him open to the slash Razkar put across his chest.
The Akalak grunted and stepped back, nodding slowly. They'd been at it for nearly an hour now, and in that hour, Razkar's right hand had barely moved from its place, gripping the top of his breeches at the small of his back. The Akalak had been insistent about that when they'd started sparring. Razkar had asked for his help with dual wielding, but after a few chimes, Vikuris had shaken his head sharply.
"Not good enough with your left yet," he'd said simply, his twin/friend/partner/lover/Razkar never found out which Erakmus watching quietly from outside their tent, "We work on that first, then we use both."
Razkar had swallowed his pride and taken the advice, denying himself his right arm and concentrating solely on his left. Bruises and welts were rising on his body now, the first half an hour really hammering home just how little he used his weaker hand. But now, he was sliding around easily with the practice blade, and won his first real victory.
"Better." Vikuris said simply, then drew his second wooden lakan, "Ready for both hands now?"
Razkar smiled grimly and flexed his stiff, ill-used right hand a few times, getting the blood and feeling flowing again. Once it was part of him again, he filled it with his wooden ax and readied himself.
A sharp nod, and the Akalak flew at him.
Rattling Chains marched on around them, as it had been doing for days, weeks and years before. Sellswords were milling around, maintaining their weapons, sparring, cooking, eating, doing a hundred menial tasks a camp their size required. A platoon of slaves was jogging around the edge of the clearing, getting their weekly dose of exercise on Provedan's orders. Never would he hear it said that his livestock wasn't fit enough.
But Razkar could sense, could feel the undercurrent of tension roiling beneath the sprawling encampment. There were more guards on the perimeter, more archers in the trees. Visitors (rare) and deliveries of supplies (less rare) were even more thoroughly screened, and Provedan was rarely seen above ground. Razkar knew why.
His feud with Balor Takarian was still raging. The Myrian had secretly enjoyed the unseen duality of the situation: beneath the civilized and gleaming facade of Riverfall, what basically amounted to a gang war was being waged, and already many had died. It was an unusual thing for Razkar, to be involved in the underworld. Taloba didn't really have one. There was a slight black market, but punishments were so severe and discovery so certain that many didn't even bother breaking the rules of Myri.
But it still amused him. Even the haughty Akalaks had to deal with scum that wouldn't be out of place in... what was that place called? Sunberth?
He had heard a lot about Sunberth. He'd liked most of it.
The air whistled and he blocked a blow from the Akalak with his gladius, sliding it away and striking with his hand ax, but that was stopped, too, so he thrust with his gladius, and that was blocked, and, and, and, followed by, followed by, followed by...
The Burned Man watched the Akalak and Myrian dance around each other, blows and parries being exchanged and avenged with every passing chime. The Myrian was learning, and fast, but Vikuris was by far the better fighter with two weapons. He was merely going easy on the shorter, more inexperienced Razkar. He'd wanted to train, after all; not just get the shit knocked out of him.
Razkar caught a stinging blow on his arm and nearly dropped his gladius. Vikuris darted forwards and gave him a moment to compose himself and block his follow up strike.
"Focus!" He snarled, wooden lakan twirling and lashing out at Razkar over and over. "Me and my weapons! That's your entire world!"
Razkar gritted his teeth and growled, twisting his body to one side and laying a flat horizontal strike against Vikuris' side. The Akalak grunted and before he could reply to his Razkar's foot jerked out and caught him under the kneecap, making him wobble-
-as the Myrian thrust forwards with his left hand, aiming for his sternum-
-only for Vikuris to knock it away, half-spin around to Razkar's right-
-ending up with his right hand lakan poised an inch from his neck, and his left the same distance from his ribcage.
"Never over-reach." He said simply as Razkar cursed himself lowly and savagely in his own tongue. "Over-reach, over-exposed, then over-dead."
"Yeah, I got it."
Razkar straightened up and without any pause the Akalak held out his hand. The Myrian dropped five gold mizas into it, the agreed amount for his training this morning. He'd needed a good sparring partner, and didn't want to leave Rattling Chains for even a day.
Something was coming. Some break to the tedium, so action, some retaliation.
Haev Provedan had been betrayed. Over two dozen men were dead, but they were merely the pawns of betrayal, not the hand that motivated and turned them. That individual was safely holed up in oh-so-civilized Riverfall, where Provedan was unable to reach him, at least not with his usual forces.
But a reply was coming, Razkar knew that much. It had to.
"Getting better." The Burned Man said as Razkar sat down outside his tent. Th two of them had been talking more and more recently. Not as friends, really, but fellow sellswords who were simply bored and had little else to do. "Still a little cocky, though."
"You want spar later?"
"You couldn't afford me."
Razkar's laugh was harsh and dry as a wolf's bark, but it was a laugh none the less. He sat and gulped down some water, stretching his sore back. The arrow wound the Burned Man had stitched up weeks before still ached sometimes, but he was mostly over it. After a few chimes catching his breath, he'd practice his brawling. His punch bag was hanging from a tree, swaying gently in the frigid wind. More than once he'd had to knock icicles off the bottom.
But that was not to be. In a blur of hooves and steam and flying cloth and mud, a horseman tore from the woods surrounding the camp, making a beeline for the mine entrance. The dozen or so guards clustered around it were on their feet and had their weapons leveled by the time the rider leapt off the horse, beast still sliding to a stop.
Razkar watched calmly. Not an assassin, far from it. No paid killer would be insane enough to ride up and slay Provedan like some knight from the stories. He'd be dead before he even got close. Now the rider was gesticulating wildly, trying to impress something apparently very urgent on men who were, by nature and assignment, very hard to convince.
One of them vanished into the mine. He returned a chime later, with Provedan and Tortuga in tow.
"Could be something here..."
Razkar nodded slowly at the Burned Man's words, but did not avert his eyes. Words were exchanged, quickly, rapidly, breathlessly. The rider gulped down a skin of water and almost vomited his words up, sweat on his face. Provedan listened intently, hands behind his back and clasped as usual, eyes still as stone. Finally he nodded a few times and turned to Tortuga. He spoke half a sentence, then vanished back to his lair.
Tortuga looked around, saw Razkar, the Burned Man and the Akalaks watching like curious dogs... and crooked his finger at them.
The Myrian grinned, sharpened teeth shining in the freezing sunlight.
"About petching time..."
RecieptTraining: 5gm.00sm.00cm
