by CC Rose
Chapter 4
The fierce flames leaped in the air, casting the night shadows in a glow of orange. Thick smoke clouded my vision by several feet as the blaze intensified everything around me. There before me, covered in soil, blood and woodchips was the one person I loved the most. His wrinkled face held so many laugh lines, but he did not smile up at me, nor did he move. In the glow of the flame, I stared into his pale blue eyes. No life lingered. Dullness stared back, tugging my fears, my shock, my horror, and my pain.
Empty. Vacant. Dead.
“No … Nooo … No. No!” Hot tears streaked my cheeks as I screamed.
The screech echoed far off, as the flames flickered and outlined the form before me. My hands pressed to his body, my knees buckled in knowledge. No, No, Not you Walt, not you. This man. The greatest man I had ever known, lay still. My loving father was no longer alive. The hiss had me lean over him. My vision blurred with tears as the dull voices screamed.
“You have to move now Baby Girl.” The gentle voice of Grandpa Ned had me heave with deeper screams. The viper’s calls, doubled, as the shadow of darkness passed over us in a massive swoop.
“Noo—” Jolting awake in an instant. My heart was racing as I tried to cover myself from the shadow. Fighting the realm of nightmares, my hands were shaking, and the tears threatened my lids. It wasn’t here. It couldn’t get me. There was no flame, no attack, and no reason to be panicked.
I glanced around the room, my room—stone walls of grey. Number twelve on the ninth floor—Draeos, my home for the past six months now. I swallowed hard, detesting the memory that the nightmare stirred. It had been real. It had happened. The moment I lost him and everything around me was twice as numb. I was scared, alone and constantly reminded of his death. It was three days after the attack when I was taken to EzRah. I closed my eyes tight, trying to rid the memory of his eyes. Vacant. Empty. Gone. A single hot tear rolled down my cheek. Lingering to the soothing rumbles from La’Kera, I breathed deeper as she eased my worries. The constant ticking beside me, had me glance at the wooden clock, and the spinning wheels that moved up and down in a pattern of creation and skill. It was the hour in which I had awoken. Five thirty. A half hour before I had to be at the Combat Yards. I climbed from my bed, dressing in my workout clothes.
A fitted tunic, black leggings, and a soft leather skirt. All girls had to wear the skirt. Buckling my thick belt on my hips, it sat a little to the left. The wears made my form flattering and standard to all Ryders. I ran my hands along the leather skirt that reached the middle of my thighs. These clothes were still so foreign to me. I’d not worn skirts this short, though thankful of the leggings. I tugged on my boots. Dark brown leather, fitting snugly to my calves, latched not laced. I twisted my long curls into a single side braid. Ready for training, I breathed deep and left my room.
Exiting the Main Building, and into the east of the academy. I breathed in the morning freshness. Taking in the view before me, I lingered on the paths that twisted around the combat areas. To my left were the weights, archery, and the north track. Ahead of me were the indoor gymnasium and the small equipment room. Behind them were combat areas, spreading around to the south; from beginners combat, to the much harder mêlée sections with a larger south track. I scanned the empty area. All was quiet, but for the morning birds, insects and to my surprise, the sun rising steadily over the cliffs in the east. Several statues were visible from the combat area, one was a fierce gargoyle from a time many had deemed unremembered. Though the gargoyle was always a menacing creature to look upon, this was nothing but a statue. His head tilted down, showing patience. He held a sword in his right hand and since this gargoyle was a good eight foot tall. It held a touch of dominance, as its stone eyes were able to see all, know all, and be all. I stepped past the statue, taking in the gentler designs, carvings of centaurs and elves in battle mode. Unlike the gargoyle, these beings were still around the lands, and I’d yet to have the privilege of seeing them in their true forms.
Perhaps I should visit you while you wait, suggested La’Kera.
Hmmm … Maybe.
“La’Kera!” boomed another dragon to the far side of her den. “Do not leave until Da’Vora has seen to you.”
I wasn’t leaving, just a fly around the grounds.
“That is leaving …”
Only to some, she mused.
I don’t want to get you into trouble La’Kera.
That was not trouble; she said, and laid her head on her paws, wrapping her tail around her body with an irritated twitch.
I gathered the leather guards for my shins and arms, along with one for my chest and back. Strapping them in place, helped take away some of my nerves with my new trainer, while Dextor and Devon were helpful, they had pretty much left the other students take me down. I lingered on La’Kera’s thoughts. She was at present still too young to venture off on her own. A hatchling as she was, she was growing faster, and since she hatched in the middle of the year, she was alone from other dragons her own age. While this year’s potentials were six months older than her; she wasn’t able to keep to their level of flight, fight or climb. Most of the elder dragons doted over La’Kera, caring more for her safety, and insisting she wasn’t ready to do what the other yearlings were doing. The idea of risking her on her own was too much for them. While many dragons admired her, La’Kera had yet to make any true friends. She would watch the others, listening to their songs, words, and at times their arguments, but she was always on the edge of being completely welcomed. Like myself, we suffered that small connection with someone. Though she didn’t have bad jokes played on her, she just had older, bossier, and larger dragons following her every move.
“If I knew you were going to be this eager to start, I would’ve said five,” said a charming voice approaching from the side.
I finished tightening the last strap on my shins when I glanced up to see him. My breath caught in my throat as I took in Karson’s simple workout clothes. He was able to where loose breeches, a longer tunic of dark brown, styled for his form, making his muscles that much more visible. He didn’t have guards to protect him though, doubt he’d need them. He smiled at my position … still staring at his form. His black hair tied back, his jaw line visible in the rising sun.
The grace of a grin tugged my lips as I opened my mouth. Blinking away from his good looks, I started to talk. “If you go easy on me, I might be able to enjoy my holidays … at some point.”
He nodded to my words, scanning my form; his eyes lingered on my guards. “You won’t need your guards anymore.”
“What do you mean … anymore?” I questioned.
“I assume you have used them all along.”
I nodded.
“And that is why you won’t need them. It’s time you got a feel of things the right way. And the guards slow you down, weaken your attacks and your potential to fight and move with speed.”
“But what about … injuries …?” It was weak sounding. I’m a Ryder, I shouldn’t fear this.
Karson pressed his lips together; amused as he glanced the Combat Yards briefly before turning his green gaze on me. “It’s called training for a reason, Rehema.”
Was he irritated I’d want to wear guards? I started to unravel them, annoyed with the hard work it took. Tossing them to the bench, he led the way towards the weights area, giving me rules on my routine. Lifting bells of weight in a rhythm of counts; calling out with jagged breaths. I didn’t like this part.
“You need not count out loud.”
“Oh,” I puffed. That I liked. Seems he was considerate. Might like training with him after all.
He moved me through the process; ten lifts for each section, then on to stretches. How far to stretch, how to steady my heart rate, how to keep my arms low, relaxed, and less weighed as to my legs. It was a fun experience after those first few pointers, and the odd moment where I was distracted by his masculine form standing in front of me.
“Bend this way, and then this way …”
His back flexed, his breeches going taut on his legs and backside as he went left and right. Both times with a bob of his body, to give a little more—oh, right. Stretching. I bit my lip to focus, not on his good looks, just … on his actions.
La’Kera’s snort didn’t help.
He was well toned, possibly the most toned I’d seen on Ryders. Muscled, defined in the areas with large upper body and narrow hips. I was small compared to him, tiny even. He was a good foot taller than me, and another arm length of width. He was definitely the perfect creation.
He’s your trainer … you’re distracted. Her words seeped into me for the tenth time as Karson analysed another position.
His tunic lifted higher than the last time, which had me gasp. She was right. He was my trainer. My very own personal trainer. Secondly, he was a very big distraction. Least my workouts will be interesting if I don’t completely make a fool of myself.
“If you let your air out slower, you will not need to gasp so hard.” His words had me fault and stumble.
Hu. What was he on about? My cheeks flushed.
He held a curt smile before tilting his head to the north. “Let’s take your training to the running track.”
“Um … sure …” I managed. I wasn’t breathless, well not from working out.
“Three times should be enough to assess your stamina.”
“Three times!” I wasn’t sure if I was questioning him.
He nodded. I wanted to scream and argue at the figure. One and a half was all I managed before. Why three?
Least it’s not the South Track, mused La’Kera with a keen eye on the den entrance. She was determined to sneak out still, and was forced to stay inside.
I sighed, with her, and with my own discomfort. “What does running have to do with being a Dragon Ryder?” It wasn’t the first time I had protested the argument. And by the half smile on Karson’s lips, it wasn’t the first time he had heard it.
“Stamina.” He stated and with a tap on my shoulder, he took off at a light run with me following. I wanted to pout at his short answer. Least it wasn’t a race. He would win. Running beside him, I lingered on the dirt under my boots, the air, and Karson; his breathing was rhythmic. His movements were fluid, and his fragrance was oddly fresh with some kind of scented oil the men of the cities bought. It was him. Rustic, manly, and so welcoming. By the second lap, I was too puffed to muster words, and the silence lengthened. Taking in his breathing, I realised he was nowhere near puffed, exhausted or even fighting to stay on the path laid out before us. He seemed bored with this run. Seeing the end in sight, I tried to pick up the pace, and he didn’t stop the opportunity either. It was nothing but a half run that had me wanting to collapse on the spot at the end.
“Oh, no you don’t. Come on. On your feet.” He tapped my shoulder, instructing me on stretchers to relax my exploding lungs. “You’re doing really well. Far better than I expected.”
“Uh-Hu,” I heaved. Sure I was.
“Let’s try some mêlée. See how your fighting skills pan out.”
Hmmm … Was this where the real punishment starts. Or was this when I should just close my eyes and wish I had not woken up so early.
I breathed deep, wanting another few minutes to still my nerves. The combat ring, with him? This will be interesting.
He pulled from the barrel, two wooden makeshift swords.
“Stand like this …”
He touched my arms, legs and chin with the end of the wooden sword. Handing me the spare one, hilt first.
“Hold it like this. Not too tight, relax. Loosen your elbow and wrist. Keep it firm not tight. Now, move like this. Mimic me.” He twisted his hands around the sword, poised it up, and slashed through the air. “Twist, Strike. Turn. Lunge. Strike. Got it?”
His movements were flawless, and as I copied his actions; I was clumsy, a little stiff and on edge.
“Hold your position. Move your weight to your right foot, slide your left foot … and, strike. Turn. Lunge. Strike. Twist.” He stood back, watching me accomplish these simple movements.
For me, they were annoying. Why do I have to use a fake sword? Why not just one of the small clubs for now. When I doubled my footing on a move, he held up his palm.
“Here.”
He stepped closer, reached out, placing his hand on my hip. His left hand on mine, holding the weapon and made a motion that meant, I was to follow his action, but I was so caught up in his touch, I was frozen.
“Strike. Turn. Lunge.” He directed as he moved the wooden sword through the air, following some magical line that I wasn’t seeing.
My breath was stuck in my throat until he stood with a nod.
“Again,” he ordered.
I was red, flushing darker as he watched.
Damn it. Why was he so … handsome, and why did he have to touch me. That was …
Distractions.
I know. I know. I wanted to grumble to her, but Karson cut off my thoughts.
“Make yourself a part of the weapon. Not just your arm to your fingers. The sword is your extended hand. Feel and move as though you are one, as though you are inseparable.” His voice was husky, a desire stirred inside of me as he made his wooden sword move, twist and glide through the air as if it were a feather. If this were a metal sword in my hands, I would be hard press lifting it.
“Right then. I think you’re ready for the ring.”
The combat ring? With him! Gulp.
Stepping into the combat ring, I was nervous, maybe a little too frightened. He kept to the same rhythm, only this time he hit my sword as I did the strikes. The ‘clank’ was on cue with each pose.
Strike—clank. Lunge—clank. Strike—clank. Twist—clank.
The pressure was minimal, slow at first, until the rhythm intensified. Lunge, twist, turn, strike. Lunge, twist, turn and so on.
He paused after a good minute of fast paced moves, and I heaved deep. His smile was rewarding. I’d kept pace. A raised brow showed his green eyes were bright with encouragement. Another wave of attacks was started, faster, and faster. Until the three-count hit became a blur of movements I couldn’t keep up to. He added a thrust, block, and parring in before I could make the ends of my sword hit his. All the while, trying to remember the rhythm he was showing me, hard hitting, spinning, ducking, and wincing through painful hits.
“Zahh—” I hissed as the wooden sword collided with my knuckles for the fifth time in a row.
“Know where your limbs are. You must know what each part of your body is doing.” He flicked his sword out, a breath from my chin. “And you will know your hits and your limits of each extension.”
I leaned back, eyes wide, lungs heavy; and still he wanted to keep going. Tripping me up, rolling me over, ducking, diving, and leaping. It was hard and brutal, somewhere in the back of my thoughts it was fun—sort of. Time moved painfully slow through this ordeal.
“You need to know the strength of your power, your hits, and the weapon you carry. Each has its own weakness and heighten ability. And once you have mastered that, you will know how and when to deliver a blow.” His lecture tone was smooth, confident, and distracting.
Proving himself timelessly. He managed to give me three good hits on my thigh and one on my back; I hissed and pulled away from the pain.
“I don’t think beating me is the answer,” I said, rising to my feet, I dusted myself off, flicking my braid over my shoulder and assessing the damage to my body. The bruises would be there and with a twirl of his sword, he lined me up.
“It’s basic combat.”
I was sore, tired, and aching, and it wasn’t even eight.
I miss my leather guards.
