1st of Summer, 510 AV Dawn broke over the hills east of Syliras, bathing the walls and rooftops in a pale half-light. In truth, it was a beautiful city – though not so striking as Ravok’s canalworks. Ulric observed the dawn for several moments before reentering the Bronze Wood, where he’d cleared a small training area in the dense underbrush. He preferred to practice his weapons in private. It wasn’t that Ulric disliked sparring; nay, he had always relished the clack of practice swords and the bruises on his arms and torso. During his long, arduous journey from Ravok, he had realized that his skills were far eroded from the summer of his youth. No longer did his axe slice through the air with the same precision. His footwork, once quick, was leaden and deliberate. While years of rowing and hauling nets had strengthened his muscles, they had done little to preserve his fighting instincts. Still, what was forgotten could always be relearned. Ulric began with a series of calisthenics. First push-ups, performed in five sets of fifty with a half minute’s rest in between. By the third set he was feeling the burn in his chest and arms, but it was a minor discomfort. He finished strong, although he felt a series of deep-fiber twitches creep through his elbow and triceps during the last set. It felt unnatural – not to mention unpleasant, but he emerged with neither pain nor injury. Flushed, he transitioned to sit-ups, again performing five sets of fifty. Fortunately the pine needles of the forest floor cushioned his tailbone, but Ulric still had to labor to keep his feet upon the ground. Finally, breathing heavily, he transitioned to squats – his least favorite exercise – performed with an unwieldy log of about sixty pounds, and then chin-ups. By the end of this warm-up, the sun had risen several fingers above the horizon. Ulric pawed the sheen of sweat from his brow, feeling the comforting tightness in his muscles, and strode to where he had laid out his weapons. In battle, he remembered Kell sneering at him, only the corpses are allowed to rest. Caressing the haft of his bearded axe, Ulric slid his fingers up to the sharp, sloping head and its shallow etchings. It was a formidable weapon in the proper hands, capable of splitting skulls and shattering bone, though not quite so imposing as a battleaxe or halberd. His axe wasn’t an elegant weapon, but it was effective – and more importantly, useful. Ulric raised his axe overhead, keeping his shield tucked, and sliced it through the air. It felt awkward, the haft seeming to writhe like an eel in his hand, blade turning slightly to one side. Scowling, Ulric tried the stroke again, and then a third time with scant improvement. Every degree the blade tilted, or inch it strayed from its target, was a glancing blow – not a kill strike. Oh, you could hack a man to death easily enough, but a precise butchering required skill. Ulric was under no illusions; he knew his reactions were sluggish and his fundamentals lacking, the axe seeming more a thing than an extension of his arm. It wouldn’t change over a single day, nor a half-dozen for that matter, but at the very least he could burnish his skills. Sweeping the axe down, Ulric raised his shield to protect his exposed head and quickly stepped back. It was the riskiest of maneuvers, the overhead cleave, exposing both his leading leg and entire right side. A well-placed hook to the leg would easily throw him balance and perhaps to the ground. In addition, his opponent could either deflect the axe with a shield bind or slip to Ulric’s side and deliver a fatal blow. Long ago, Ulric had come to the conclusion that combat was as much mental as physical, with success determined not only by strength and speed, but how well you read an opponent’s mind. Intelligent warriors knew to measure and predict attacks, set traps, and end fights quickly – providing, of course, they didn’t encounter an attack so unexpected that it proved their undoing. Ulric weighed his options. He could attempt to pivot to one side, retreat quickly, or continue to press forward like an enraged bull. Let’s try the last one, Ulric shrugged his shoulders to release the tension. He led with overhead strike again, this time following up with a shield bash and a strike to the head, and then repeated the sequence – this time directing the final blow to the legs. No, scratch that, he scowled. It wasn’t a fluid combination. He was overextending himself at the end, the blow sweeping forward too slowly and awkward. Instead, Ulric mixed in a thrust in a fresh series and a hook to the legs in the next, keeping his axe in the fore rather than bringing it back for another swing. Yes, the thrust and hook were better alternatives to finish the sequence, providing he wasn’t killed first – a distinct possibility if his opponent slipped the overhand. But there was shyke-all Ulric could do about that save wait for an opportune moment to unleash the combination. Combat was as much about what you didn’t throw as what you did, avoiding any fatal mistakes. Lowering his arm, Ulric transitioned to a different stance, this time keeping his shield at chest level and the axe hidden behind his leg. He led with a shield bash and brought the axe scything about in the direction of his opponent’s neck. Nah, too close. Ulric adjusted, sweeping the weapon for the legs. Having closed the distance, it was always probable that he’d merely strike with the haft instead of the blade, at best sending his opponent off-balance. It was important to control distance – especially with axes – because the weapon wasn’t effective upon the inside. Close with a swordsman and he was liable to spill your guts into the mud. Ulric repeated the combination, this time taking a half-step forward and feinting with his shield, then stepping back as the axe swept around. Now, what happened if the bastard ducked or stepped back, and attacked before he pulled the axe back across his body? Ulric ran the combination twice more, first adding a backswing, and then a swipe with his shield’s metal-bound rim. Neither was optimal, of course; his aim was to kill with the primary strike. Inevitably, every attack that was blocked or went astray left an opening for a counter. Shifting his stance, Ulric led with a thrust, feeling himself overextend. More work was needed if he was to forge himself into a weapon. More work, indeed. |