“Now, off with it.”
Reecah gaped.
“Ye plan on wrestlin’ in yer cloak an’ yer bow an’ quiver strapped to yer back?”
She held his gaze for a moment. It wouldn’t be wise to sass him so she propped her quarterstaff against the wall and slipped her bow and quiver free.
She met Anvil’s gaze.
His intense stare indicated her sword belt. “Ya plan on wrestlin’ with that cumbersome thing strapped to your waist?”
He had mentioned wrestling twice now. She thought he meant sparring, but it sounded as if he wanted to engage her in hand-to-hand combat. Even if she knew how to fight with her hands, she was no match for his sheer size and strength. Breaking the village boys’ noses as a child was a poor substitute to trading blows with a brute whose arms were thicker than her thighs.
“Well?” Anvil snarled, rubbing his hands together and stepping back and forth before her. “Prepare yerself, or I’ll chuck yer sorry arse over the wall.”
Reecah felt her eyes growing heavy with tears. The sensation fueled a deep anger about Anvil’s demeanour toward her. The same, unfair way almost everyone else had treated her.
Taking a deep breath to steady her fear, she turned away from his baleful glare and undid the dual buckles securing her sword belt and attached cummerbund—propping them against the wall with the rest of her gear.
She caught a sudden movement in the corner of her eye and jumped away from the tree stump just in time to avoid Anvil’s whirling battle-axe. The curved blade sliced into the hardwood stump with such ferocity, it buried itself four fingers deep.
She stumbled against her gear and tripped, falling to her backside.
Anvil stood over her, breathing heavily. “Lesson number one, rat. Never leave your back exposed. To anyone.” He spat on the ground. Grabbing the cord-wrapped handle of his axe, he wriggled the blade free. “I lose half me new recruits that way.”
Reecah lay on the ground with her weapons sprawled on top of her—her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to calm her ragged breathing. Her gaze took in the rust-coloured stains on the dirt around the stump. The drawbridge guard’s warning came back to her: “…never turn your back.”
She admonished herself. A little late to remember that now. Even so, it was a dirty trick the royal weapon master employed. Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “That’s a cruel way to teach someone to fight.”
The battle-axe slid free of the stump. Anvil held it across his stomach with a wide grip and hovered over her. “It’d be crueler by far to let an ill-prepared whelp go off to fight without realizing what a real fight’s all about. Especially if yer responsible for someone else. Lesson two. Never drop yer weapons. I’ll bet yer pretty arse, ain’t no one gonna wait ‘til yer good an’ ready afore they let you have a go at them. Take ya in the back sooner ‘n spit in yer eye, or suffer the kraken’s curse.”
His words confused her. “I thought you were going to teach me hand-to-hand combat?”
“Pfft. Please. I use bigger things than you to wipe me arse.”
Reecah glared at the hulk, biting back the angry retort threatening to fling itself past her lips.
“Now get up afore I kick ya in the teeth.” He stepped away, propped his axe against the wall, and lifted the bucket to his lips.
Something inside Reecah snapped. If she had taken a moment to think about it, she never would have thrown her gear aside and launched herself at Anvil in a blind rage. Unfortunately, she didn’t enjoy the leisure of a long temper.
Leaping onto Anvil’s back, she wrapped her arms around his throat and squeezed tight, snarling into his ear, “Lesson number one, Anvil. Never leave your back exposed. To anyone.”
Anvil’s strong hands pried at her arms but she squeezed tighter, causing him to stagger backward, gasping.
“Let’s see you wipe your arse now.” Her arms and shoulders pained her, hanging in the air from his broad back, but she knew if she let go, she was done for.
Anvil tried to say something, but couldn’t get air past her grip. Stumbling, he drove his back against the castle wall, crushing her between himself and the rough stone.
Reecah’s grip loosened. Before she could adjust her hold, he leaned forward and flexed backward, slamming her into the wall. A bright light flashed in her head as her skull smacked off the unforgiving surface. She lost her grip and slid down Anvil’s back to sit dazed in the dirt.
Anvil staggered forward, bent over and grasping his throat.
The fury behind his eyes frightened her. Her weapons lay on the far side of the stump. She considered trying for his axe, but there was no way she could hope to wield such a weapon.
A shadow fell over her. Certain she was about to die, she tried to summon enough wherewithal to mount a defense.
He picked her up by the armpits as if she were a small sack of grain and thumped her against the wall—her feet not touching the ground. Spittle strung between his lips. “Never has anyone caught me unaware like that. Ye live for that reason alone. We’ll see if the same holds true by the end of the day. Ye best be ready when I return.”
Releasing his hold, she hit the ground and her legs crumpled beneath her. She dropped to her hands and knees, drool hanging off her lips as he walked away.
She attempted to go after him, but stumbled and fell to her knees. Breathing heavily, she wiped her mouth on a dusty vambrace—the grit crunching between her teeth. There would come another time the man left himself vulnerable. When that time came, she promised to be ready.
The sun had crested the exterior wall at Reecah’s back by the time Anvil returned with a score of young men and women entering ahead of him—the newcomers outfitted in dun-coloured, cheap leather armour and carrying round, battered, wooden shields.
Though she wore no real armour of her own, her vambraces and thick sword belt protected her better than the thin chest pieces hanging a-kilter from the people eyeing her with curiosity.
Ensuring her gear hung properly and was easily accessible, she held her chin high and returned their inquisitive looks.
“Grunts,” Anvil’s grating voice filled the yard. “Meet the bilge rat. Just sailed in last night and thinks she’s ready to whoop yer arses.”
Reecah gaped, her gaze jumping from one annoyed sneer to another; shaking her head vigorously. She hadn’t said anything of the sort.
The weapon master walked around the end of the semi-circle forming in front of Reecah, a few bows and a quiver full of arrows in his fists. Approaching the stump, he never once turned his back on anyone.
Stopping out of sword’s reach from Reecah, he faced the newcomers. “It’s come to my attention that GG,”—he indicated Reecah with a side nod—“stowed away aboard a merchant ship out of Thunderhead and made her way to the king’s city to be with ye today. Aren’t ye all blessed?”
Reecah’s eyes locked on Anvil. So that was why Anvil referred to her as rat. How he knew so much, concerned her. She hadn’t told anyone of her recent adventure. Not even Aramyss Chizel.
“While ye slobs broke fast this morning, GG and I got on quite famously.” A smugness creased his angular features. “Didn’t we, rat?”
Reecah tried to keep the emotion from her face but she wasn’t certain she was successful. Not trusting herself, she said nothing.
“As you can see by GG’s fancy weaponry, she’s likely too high above yer level of training to benefit from rubbin’ elbows with you lowly scum. Ain’t that right, rat?”
Reecah’s eyes narrowed. She bit back the angry denial she wanted to spit out, realizing it would sound like a whine. Her chest heaved, but she kept her temper in check.
The weapon master broke eye contact and searched the crowd, his gaze coming to rest on a taller, broad-shouldered youth who reminded her of Junior. “Flavian Silvertongue, get yer arse over here.”
The young man sporting brown hair past his shoulders, straightened up. “Aye, Anvil!” He pushed past those in front of him and stepp
ed on the far side of Anvil, taking great pains to keep his back away from the weapon master.
“Yer by far the best ranged-weapon recruit of this pitiful group. Let’s see if the bilge rat is equal to the test. Perhaps we be wasting our time with her, eh?” Anvil tossed him an unstrung bow. “Pick yer targets.”
Flavian puffed out his chest. “Aye, Anvil!” He leaned his shield against the wall and stepped across the bow Anvil had thrown him, bending the length of wood around his lower thigh and slipping the string’s loop knot over its notched end. He tested its pull and accepted the old quiver.
The gathering backed away several steps, following Flavian’s eye.
“There.” Flavian pointed to a crack in the interior castle wall about a quarter of the way up.
Reecah squinted. “That spot above the black cow by the moat?”
Flavian gave her an impatient look. “Ya, why? Don’t think you can hit it?”
Reecah frowned. “I’m not shooting at a wall. The stone will ruin my arrow.”
Anvil growled, “Give the rat one of yers.”
Reecah accepted the arrow without comment and examined its worn, chipped shaft, noting its fletches needed replacing.
Flavian bladed his stance, nocked his arrow, took aim and let fly. His arrow arced across the training yard, soaring over the moat and hitting the top edge of the crack. Lowering his bow, he beamed.
Anvil nodded his approval. “Nice shot.” He raised a single eyebrow. “Yer turn, rat.”
Reecah took a deep breath, trying hard not to rise to the bait. Like it or not, Anvil’s intimidation tactics were working. Making matters worse, everyone in the clearing stared at her.
Nocking her arrow, she adjusted her stance, raised her bow and took aim. As soon as the arrow left her fingers, she knew she had misjudged the flight. The arrow ricocheted off the wall and splashed into the moat near the cow.
Several titters were heard, but no one spoke.
Anvil roared, “Hah! Yer first time shooting a bow?”
Reecah seethed but kept the acid from her tone, “The arrow weight is different than mine.”
Anvil crossed his arms beneath his substantial chest. “Arrow weight, is it?” He snatched another arrow from the quiver and threw it at her. “Now ye have the weight. Try again.”
Reecah inspected the arrow—its shaft anything but true.
“We’re aging,” Anvil muttered.
Knowing better than to react, Reecah set the arrow, adjusted her draw and angle and let fly. The errant missile struck the wall midway between the ground and the crack—its aim fairly true but its flight well short.
“At least ya didn’t impale the heifer,” Anvil muttered, shaking his head. He threw her another arrow. “Your turn to choose a target, rat. I’m thinking ye better make it a good one.”
Reecah missed catching the arrow. Bending down to retrieve it, she subconsciously checked on everyone’s location. Swallowing her building anxiety, she searched the clearing for something to aim at. Other than nondescript stone walls and the stable, there was nothing to shoot at.
“I-I’m not sure what to pick.”
“Afraid ye might miss, ya mean?”
She took a deep breath, warning herself to keep her thoughts to herself. “No, Anvil. I mean, there’s nothing to shoot at.”
Anvil’s eyes darkened. Grabbing Flavian’s shield, he searched the outer wall until he found a rusted iron hook embedded between two large blocks of stone halfway up. It took several tries, but the weapon master managed to snag the shield’s loose handhold.
“Try that,” Anvil said. Shooing the trainees back toward the inner moat, he used the toe of his boot to draw a line in the dirt. “Stand there.”
Reecah hesitated, worrying there was another test here somewhere. “If I stand there, I put my back between the others.
“If ye make it through the day, these’ll be yer mates. The hands ye’ll be placing yer life into. If ya have reason to fear yer mates, ye’re already dead.”
Anvil spoke like that was something she should have known. He made her feel so dumb, changing his rules on the fly and contravening what he had said earlier. She wanted to point out that she had no idea when to know who was who, but bit her tongue.
Stepping behind the line, her eyes darted everywhere, but no one made a move on her. The distance to the hanging shield was shorter than that of the crack they had shot at. No breeze stirred between the walls. Sizing up her shot, she had a sinking feeling that if she missed again, it would spell the end of her training.
The arrow felt no different than the others. Compensating for her other attempts, she took a steadying breath, drew and let fly.
She winced. Confident she had aimed true, the training arrow veered right, shattering against the wall, well off target.
Snorts of derision sounded from the people gathered behind her.
Her shoulders slumped.
Anvil studied the spot where her arrow had disintegrated for some time, his huge head nodding slightly. He turned his intense stare her way. “Ain’t often I goes against the wishes of me brother, but ye ain’t worth me time. Grab yer gear and leave.”
Reecah fought the tears blurring her vision. She was so close to taking that first big step on the road to saving the dragons, only to be undone by inferior training arrows. Despite her better judgement she glowered at Anvil. “It’s not fair.”
“Hah! Not fair is it now?” Anvil leaned forward, jabbing his finger a whisper from the bridge of her nose. “Life ain’t fair, bilge rat. Go, before I decide to use you as a live target for me real trainees!”
Anvil held his finger before her for a moment longer. Stepping aside, he pointed to the stone structure housing the barbican in the distance.
Reecah felt every eye on her back as she collected her quarterstaff near the stump. The tears dripping off her reddened cheeks humiliated her further. Humbled in front of total strangers, she started for the stables.
Not caring anymore, she stopped; her shoulders and chest heaved with built-up frustration. “Perhaps you should learn how to care for your equipment.”
The astonished faces of the trainees gave her a little satisfaction, but the sight of Anvil’s face turning purple should have been her cue to hurry away. Instead, she pulled an arrow from her quiver. “Little good your training will be if you outfit them with inferior equipment. You need to train like you would fight. I’m surprised you, of all people, don’t appreciate that. I doubt you could hit that target.”
Anvil glared death at her insubordination. Without a word, he stormed over to the stump and retrieved his battle-axe.
Reecah notched her arrow but the weapon master ignored the threat. He returned to a place near the line he had drawn on the ground. Releasing a nerve-rattling shriek, he took three quick steps and launched his battle-axe through the air.
Reecah’s jaw dropped.
The mighty weapon twirled through the air with hardly an arc—the vicious blade splitting the suspended shield nearly in half, lodging itself high above the ground.
The only sounds in the training yard were the royal pennants snapping in the breeze high above the ramparts and the occasional whinny from the stables.
Reecah pulled her stunned gaze from the impaled shield.
His face twisted with rage, Anvil turned his attention her way. “Look what ye’ve done! I’m of a mind to haul yer carcass to the top of the wall and drop ya on me axe to get it down.” He started toward her.
Reecah’s mind whirled. She needed to run. By the crazed look in Anvil’s eye, she didn’t doubt he would follow through with his threat.
Raising her bow, she considered her options. If she was quick enough, she might pump two arrows into the weapon master before he reached her, but she feared that may not be enough to bring the giant man down.
Drawing the bowstring taut, she sighted, and released.
Anvil stopped walking and gaped.
The arrow flew true, flying between the crack in th
e shield and severing the visible leather thong suspending the shield from the rusted hook. The shield tumbled down the uneven wall’s surface, breaking in two and releasing Anvil’s axe before they crashed to the ground with a clatter.
“That’s what proper equipment does,” Reecah said through gritted teeth. Not caring whether Anvil chased her down, she defied his number one rule and turned her back—making her way to the tunnel leading out of South Fort.
Draakval Dilemma
Soaring high above the world on the back of a dragon was an experience Junior thought would never grow old. After stopping by the Draakvriend hut on the hill north of Fishmonger Bay, they had taken to the air at sunrise and followed the coast north. He remained respectfully quiet as they flew by the entrance to Dragonfang Pass—all eyes searching the valley beyond but nothing bigger than Raver greeted their hopeful stares.
They rested several times throughout the morning upon lofty tors Junior was certain no man had ever stood on. Swoop had offered to take a turn carrying Junior, but Lurker thankfully denied her, wisely stating that her maiden flight with a passenger should be done on a flat field or over water.
Leaping off a jag of granite, the sudden weightlessness robbed Junior of his breath as Lurker’s body dropped in the sky until the wind beneath his beating wings lifted them again. The coastline’s northerly tack dropped away; the vista of endless mountain peaks veered eastward as far as he could see.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Junior asked, astounded by the sheer scope of the Great Kingdom. They hadn’t seen a sign of civilization since leaving Fishmonger Bay.
“We have no idea.”
“How do you know we’re going in the right direction?”
“Raver.”
“Raver?” Junior looked around, confident enough to lift his head from Lurker’s neck once they were airborne. He couldn’t locate Reecah’s raven.
Swoop flew close to their left, his chainmail dangling from her claws.
Legends of the Lurker Box Set Page 40
