by Scott Baron
His task was simple. Reduce a set number of the logs to pieces, utilizing only the blades at her disposal. It seemed an easy enough thing for one as fit as she was, so she swung the heaviest of the swords hard, breaking the wood within a few strokes.
Easy at first, it turned out. The woman’s arms quickly wearied from the impacts, and she soon found herself forced to switch to the lighter, more slender blades, sufficing with removing smaller pieces of the logs with lighter blows.
After her first day of it, Orkut had asked her how it went as he surveyed the small pile of chopped wood.
“Well enough, Master Orkut,” she said. “Though, I think they will need a good sharpening after all of that.”
Orkut surveyed her work and nodded. “Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”
“Not good? But I reduced a great many of them to pieces, as you instructed.”
“Yes,” he said, examining the dulled blades. “But you were inefficient. That is why I wanted you to first attempt this task without further direction.”
“I do not understand, Master Orkut,” she replied.
The old man bent and placed a large log upright. Demelza almost moved to help him, but stopped herself. This was Master Orkut, and he was much, much stronger than he appeared.
He picked up two of the swords from the selection. Not the heavy ones she had used to force the wood to do her bidding, but a pair of slender blades. One was so slim she had worried she would break it if she used it for his task. The metal was razor sharp, but it did not seem appropriate for chopping wood.
The other sword wasn’t much larger, but its design was different. A wedge-shaped blade rather than a razor’s edge taper, and a thicker back edge of the blade, giving it more stability.
“I think those might take a while,” Demelza noted.
The old man merely smiled at his foolish pupil. He then moved in a flash, the thinner blade whipping to life, quickly notching the wood in a flurry of minor cuts that shaved away a surprisingly deep groove in but a few dozen strokes. The other blade then sprang to life, driving down with a sharp, quick blow, its wedge-shaped edge striking true, landing in the deepest part of the notch made by the other sword.
With a crack, the log split. It didn’t fall apart to pieces, as it would have after many blows with the largest of the swords, but it had split. And with a tenth of the effort.
Demelza stared, amazed. He had done what she had, but in a fraction of the time, and with the least assuming of the weapons. And all without breaking a sweat. Orkut watched the expressions on her face with amusement.
“I have a different task for you now. Come.”
It was not what she expected.
One hundred needles were laid out on a cloth. And next to them, a spool of thread.
“I am not a seamstress, Master Orkut, but I will do my best.”
“You are not to sew, Demelza. You are to thread each needle. Come find me when you are done with your task.”
He walked away, leaving her to her work. With aching arms and tired hands, she picked up the first needle.
“This should be fast,” she mused with a grin.
After two dozen, her hands began to cramp. All the chopping of wood had left them overtaxed from the exertion. By the fiftieth, the pain was like the needles were embedded in her hands, not held between her fingers.
By the hundredth, the effort to get the little piece of thread through the tiny eye was tantamount to crushing rocks with her bare hands––a task he had her attempt every day, though all she ever managed to do was squeeze them.
She forced herself to ignore the pain and shakes and complete the task. Then it was on to whatever fresh hell he had in mind.
Ingots.
Ingots of all manner of metal. Some ordinary, others rare, and others still, enchanted with some form of power or another. Heavy, solid ingots. And it was Demelza’s job to move and sort them for him.
She did so, making neat piles, then carried the raw ore to the forge at the man’s request, standing near the intense heat of the crucible as he carefully created his proprietary alloys, imbued with varying degrees of his magic.
It went on like this for weeks, and though she had already been incredibly fit on her arrival, Demelza’s muscles gained a new degree of resiliency. One that would keep her arms from wearying in lengthy swordplay.
She still had her womanly shape––a small waif, she most certainly was not––but the hard labor had toned the muscle beneath her curves to whip-steel strength.
Finally, Master Orkut stopped her in her work one day.
“I have received an interesting bit of information,” he said. “And you are to deliver it.”
“A courier run? I will prepare my ship. Where am I to deliver it, and to whom?”
“Oh, you know whom, and you know where,” the man replied. “Tell Master Hozark an old friend of mine needs help. He is to hurry, and you are to accompany him once more.”
Demelza maintained a stoic expression, but she smiled on the inside. Though Ghalian worked alone, her time partnered with Master Hozark had been an amazing learning experience, and it had put her well in the good graces of Master Orkut as well.
And, to be honest, she simply liked Hozark and his unusual spacefaring accomplices.
“I shall depart at once,” she said.
“Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Take these,” he said, handing her the long box he was carrying. “I expect you to return them when your task is complete.”
She knew the weight of the package as soon as she hefted it, well familiar with the blades within from her weeks of training.
“I will bring them back, Master Orkut,” she replied. “And thank you.”
Chapter Nine
Master Hozark had been in the training house on Sooval’s third moon for nearly a week when Demelza came for him. The slim envelope she carried with Master Orkut’s seal upon it was safely tucked in her inner pocket, awaiting the master assassin’s eyes only.
The facility was as all Ghalian training houses and meeting places were. Safe, anonymous, and robustly fortified. It was also smack dab in the middle of a tranquil farming community, which was something of an anomaly for Ghalian locations.
But here the students were put to work in a manner a bit different from most other houses. Namely, in addition to learning the deadly ways of the Wampeh Ghalian, they also worked the land, growing their own food as well as being provided a convenient way to practice the use of a cover story from their earliest days there.
These were Wampeh, obviously, but all put on the guise of farmers, after sufficient preparation by the instructors. And as of yet, none had ever suspected the mild-mannered youths and their elder guardians to be anything more than a tranquil bunch who merely worked the land.
The cover story also provided a convenient excuse when mishaps occurred, as they were wont to in training. Bruises and cuts were simply laughed off as just another little incident while working the land or herding the beasts.
Hozark had chosen this place for no particular reason after he’d met with Master Corann. The head of the Five, the overseers of the Ghalian order, had agreed he should enjoy a little downtime once he relayed the intel he had uncovered during his recent job.
At the end of the day, he just liked the way this particular facility smelled. Fresh. Clean. Natural. None of the false scents and lingering perfumes one was bombarded with on more “civilized” planets.
Demelza’s surprise arrival was treated as simply another Wampeh cousin come to visit the farm and lend a hand with the coming harvest. And while her ship did possess shimmer-cloaking abilities, as did most Ghalian craft, to all who observed the vessel as it landed, it simply seemed as if it were any other craft. Exactly as the Ghalian intended.
She breathed deeply as she walked the short distance to the farmhouse and attached bunkrooms and workspaces that hid the true facilities beneath the ground. On the surface, literally, it was just another f
arm. But deep below, intense and deadly endeavors were underway.
Master Hozark was taking a more passive role in the training in this particular facility for a change. Observing rather than teaching, at least for the moment. And on this day, a group of the newest recruits were getting their feet wet, so to speak, learning the first of many difficult lessons that would fill their days and nights for years to come.
All of them were young, between the ages of eight to twelve, and fairly diverse in size, shape, and gender. Their one common trait was that they possessed the Ghalian gift. That rarest of abilities that only a fraction of a percent of all Wampeh were born with.
The gift that an even smaller fraction of those ever learned to utilize and control. And if they could, and if they happened to be made of the stern stuff needed of them for the lifestyle, they might even eventually become an elite assassin of the order. A Wampeh Ghalian.
It was the power that gave them an edge. Rare even among their kind, the ability to steal the power from another. Not with spells or clever runes, but in a much more primal way.
They stole power by drinking a power user’s blood.
And once it was taken, they could then use it as if it were their own. It was what made the pale assassins some of the most feared creatures in the galaxy, and the mere sight of their fangs slipping into place could send the most fearsome of men running.
This batch of youths, however, were green. Not in coloring, but in abilities and life experience. It was how they all arrived at the training houses, eventually.
Across the systems, a network of Wampeh Ghalian spies and scouts kept an eye out for the first telltale manifestations of the power in young Wampeh. They were spotted young, most often just before puberty, when the gift began to truly show itself. And if it seemed they truly had the gift, and if they showed promise, then they would be acquired, though that occurred in many different ways.
Sometimes, it required a visit with the child’s parents, which typically entailed an envoy telling the family their child had been accepted into an exclusive academy, with full tuition paid for.
Most of the time, the parents would be thrilled beyond belief and the child was soon acquired. Not always, though. Some families were reticent, proving quite difficult at times.
Of course, for orphans, it was far, far easier.
Hozark watched the youths stumble through the rigors of early body awareness and fight training. He’d been one of these aspirants once, himself. Young, green, without a skill or a clue to rub together. It had been a particularly difficult time in his life, and he might not have survived it if not for a young girl named Samara, who had arrived just a few days before he had.
The two became fast friends, and with each other’s support, they had quickly risen through the ranks. They trained together, studied together, and had, for a time, even been lovers, which they remained, off and on, well into adulthood, and well after they had become full-fledged Ghalian assassins.
She pushed him, and he pushed her back, and together they had risen high within the order. But despite what others might whisper, they were only friends. Friends with a special understanding, but not a bonded pair. That was something Wampeh Ghalian simply did not do, though the rule was not written in stone. But they were as close as anyone could come without crossing that unspoken line.
But then Samara had died. Killed on a contract gone wrong.
Or so they had all believed.
Ten years she had been dead, until, one day, she showed up again in the middle of a contract, a new thorn in Hozark’s side, fighting him nearly to the death as she protected members of the Council of Twenty.
And she had been popping up more and more, it seemed, especially after someone on the Council targeted a Ghalian master.
It made no sense.
For one, the Wampeh Ghalian held no alliance to the Council, and more often than not, they took contracts specifically to stymie their power grabs. For another, the Council, while cocky and bold, was not so foolish as to do something to bring the wrath of the order upon themselves.
The Five had deemed it most likely that it was only a few members of the Council of Twenty jockeying for power within their own ranks. How targeting one of the Ghalian masters played into that plan, they had not yet uncovered, but the Council’s members stabbed one another in the back so often they could make a career out of that alone.
But the Wampeh Ghalian were patient, if nothing else. And they would find out what was truly going on, eventually. The only question was how long it would take. In the meantime, they would carry on.
“Plant your feet beneath your hips,” Hozark called out to a young boy who had just abruptly found himself on the dirt. “Your center of balance, your very foundation, is in your hips.”
He strolled closer and placed his hands on the youth’s shoulders, squaring them above his legs. He then pushed him slightly, forcing his body to react and regain its balance without conscious thought.
“There, do you feel that? That is one of the most basic lessons you will be learning. How to center yourself. An unbalanced opponent is a dead opponent. Do you understand?”
The youngster nodded.
“Good. Now, back to your training.”
It was about as good as the younger aspirants could expect from him. Hozark was an amazing teacher for the older groups, showing them the fine points and nuances of their deadly skills. But when it came to the younger kids, he was simply never very good, despite having been one himself, once.
An older boy jogged into the training space. “Master Hozark? Someone is here to see you,” he informed him.
“Here? No one knows I am here,” he said, wondering if he might need his weapons.
“She says a Master Orkut sent her. Again.”
“Demelza,” Hozark realized with a grin. “I will be with her momentarily.”
The boy trotted off to tell their guest to please wait for the master, leaving Hozark with his thoughts a moment.
Hozark didn’t expect it, but he found himself smiling. Strangely, he’d been looking forward to this inevitable reunion.
Chapter Ten
“It is a fine blade,” Hozark said as he admired the perfectly balanced length of metal in his hand. “And this one? Masterful,” he said, effortlessly throwing the accompanying dagger into a nearby target’s bullseye. “Master Orkut has prepared you well, I see. And a good thing. You have more than earned his respect after all you have done.”
Demelza suppressed her blush. “They are only on loan. One day, I hope to possess Orkut-crafted blades of my own, but for the time being, these will more than suffice.”
Hozark walked to the target and pulled the dagger free, then threw it to Demelza with no small amount of force. A Wampeh Ghalian, she snatched it from the air, resheathing it with a little grin.
“Looking sharp. Your reflexes are improved, I see. And they were already quite impressive when last we traveled together,” Hozark noted, handing her the sword, rather than throwing it as well.
“Master Orkut has had me performing some rather unusual training exercises of late.”
“Whatever they are, the effects are noticeable. And I also see your wrists appear to have strengthened,” he added, glancing at her hands.
Hozark’s perception was far greater than a normal person’s. Even more than your average Ghalian assassin. As one of the Five, a master of the order, it had to be.
“A result of some of his more unusual routines,” she said.
“Unusual? Such as?”
“Well, for one, he had me holding cups of water.”
“For hours, I assume?”
“Indeed.”
“Oh, I remember that lesson far too well,” Hozark said with a little chuckle as he thought back to his own days under a different master’s tutelage. One who also favored some of the older training methods of a long-dead sect of warrior monks.
He had continued his training in unusual fighting styles even after comple
ting his time in the training house of the Wampeh Ghalian. When he and Samara were finally out in the worlds completing contracts and liaising when time permitted, they would often seek out masters of the more obscure arts to add even more to their considerable repertoire.
“What else did he have you do, pray tell? Perhaps some pole standing?”
“Of course. Much as we did here as trainees, but armed with a long blade, and with Master Orkut flinging things at me.”
“Which you reduced to much smaller things, I assume?”
“Of course. It would disgrace the order if I had done any less.”
“Well said, and quite true. But let me see your hands,” he said, taking her hands in his, studying her palms with great curiosity.
The muscles were more developed, he noted, but not just the larger ones used for brute strength. The finer musculature had also seemed to have become more defined since he’d seen her last.
“Rocks,” she said.
“Rocks?”
“Yes. Rocks. He had me squeezing rocks. Sometimes for hours a day.”
“A favored training technique of the Rugen Marauders, if I am not mistaken. You know, their six-fingered elite guard have few equals in the known systems.”
“So I have heard.”
Hozark assessed his friend with a keen eye. She’d developed as a fighter during the time they spent together hunting down those responsible for targeting Master Prombatz and his young student. But now, it seemed, she had leveled up, thanks to the efforts of Master Orkut.
Hozark drew his sword, a gleaming blue vespus blade, made by the same man’s hands. With calmness of mind and a fair bit of effort, he forced the blade’s magical glow to diminish until it was nearly invisible to the naked eye. He then flashed an impish look at Demelza.
“What do you say? Are you up for it?”
She grinned and spun her sword in a flurry of motion, coming to a halt in the ready position. “I am always up for it.”
