Wings on my Back

by Alex Sapegin

  “That’s your opinion!” Andy thought. It was a shame to part with the extract of dragon’s blood, his own blood. When would his next molting be? But he couldn’t let the little girl die like that. He couldn’t help everyone in the world, but this was his chance to help an innocent child. He would use one of the three vials.

  “Everybody move on, please,” he addressed the crowd in a loud voice. “Dad, bring him into the house, carefully! Move on, I say! Nothing to see here!”

  Andy pushed the onlookers out of the way and cleared a path to the house’s front door. To the father’s credit, he didn’t ask any questions but just carefully lifted the child into his hands and carried him into the house with sliding steps, almost not breathing. The robust fellow approached Andy:

  “Are you a Life mage?”

  “No, but I can help.” Andy stepped quickly behind the half-blood.

  Andy saw the inside of his house. The sobbing nanny opened the entryway door wide. It was a mansion! And people say half-orcs live poorly in Orten. Berg placed the boy on a large table and turned to Andy.

  “What now?”

  “Don’t get in my way!” Andy bent over the table and retrieved the vial from his inside breast pocket. He had taken it with him as if he knew it would come in handy. He pulled the cork out and got ready to pour the contents into the girl’s mouth. “Pull the spring out quickly as soon as I pour this in. Don’t be afraid.”

  Holding the chattering jaws apart, he poured half the contents of the vial into Tyigu’s mouth. The girl arched her back.

  “Now!”

  Berg, the half-orc, pulled the piece of debris out. Andy immediately dumped the other half of the potion onto the girl’s chest and rubbed it into her wound, then turned Tyigu around and did the same thing to her back. That was it. All he had to do now was wait a couple of minutes. The dragon’s blood elixir would work its magic. The robust fellow sniffed; a couple of herbs from the elixir had a very distinct smell. He detected Night Tyrlist and inflorescence of Dragon’s Yawn. The other ten herbs didn’t smell like that. Next, his gaze shifted to the child, and his eyes switched to “hold them in or they’ll pop out” mode. The wounds on the girl’s chest were starting to close up from the edges. A pink film covered them. The same thing was happening to the hole in her back. The bloody foam at her mouth disappeared and her breathing stabilized.

  “Dragon’s blood!” the robust fellow whispered in amazement. Educated guy. That’s a familiar face; I’ve seen it somewhere before. “That’s the only thing that can heal like this! One God, it’s worth is incalculable. I never thought I’d see anything like it in my life. I’m afraid to ask where you got it!”

  I know what it can do, but don’t even think I’m going to become a donor. A donor millionaire. No, a chicken who lays golden eggs. That’s why they caught Karegar—they wanted to break him down into his parts like the Chinese do with tigers! The girl’s father snapped out of it and started paying attention to the conversation. He had the direct look of a strong person.

  “What can I do for you? I’ll do anything in my power.”

  Andy waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I’ll be going now. Fry or steam some meat or liver for the girl. She’ll have a beastly appetite for the next little while. Beef with some vegetables will be best.”

  “Sir, weren’t you and your company searching for a swordplay master or fencing tutor to give you lessons?” the robust fellow suddenly asked and looked at the half-blood with a meaningful glance. Andy then remembered where he had seen the broad-shouldered guy. It was at master Trego’s school. He’d been herding some boys around in a circle. “Have you found someone?”

  “No, master swordsmen don’t work with non-humans.”

  “Yes, they do! I’ll be expecting you and your friends in my gym any time, day or night,” the half-orc handed Andy a thick piece of cardboard with the address of the fencing school. “I don’t think it would bother a mix to teach a fellow mix.”

  Andy bowed and accepted the piece of cardboard, then took his leave. Master Berg. That’s how he found a teacher. Pure dumb luck.

  Rigaud, Timur, and Andy appeared at the indicated address the next day.

  Berg met the group of bookworms at the entrance to the fencing hall and sent them to the changing rooms. There wasn’t a trace of yesterday’s upsetting events on the mix’s dispassionate face, only business-like composure. The warrior’s movements were smooth like those of a big wild cat in trail, and in the next instant his prey was in his claws.

  The hall that wasn’t not huge surprised everyone. There was a main platform for sparring, several circles on the floor, and many nooks on the walls with weapons hanging down or empty from the weapons currently in use. The friends walled up to one nook to see for themselves that the sword wasn’t a replica. It was a real katzbalger, ready this minute to be used in battle. There were Orcish scimitars, hybrids, Estocs, Espadons, Zweihänders, Claymore, Scandinavian swords, and short weapons similar to Roman gladii, Ritterschwerts, rapiers, sabers of various lengths, and a five-foot-long Flamberge on a separate stand. All the weapons were in excellent condition, true works by masters of their craft. The similarity of the blades to weapons museum exhibits on Earth didn’t bother Andy. Military thinking and the development of armor dictated the same standards of weaponry, the only difference being that in this world, there was magic.

  They didn’t have a long time to admire the blades. Berg made each of them do laps, jumping jacks, and a whole lot of other exercises, judging each new pupil’s abilities as they did so. Flexibility, endurance, coordination, balance. Andy stood out in a positive way; compared to Rigaud and Timur, he was much more trained already, with more precise and efficient movements. Berg could tell the blood of an ancient predator flowed in his veins, and that he had studied hand-to-hand combat before (on Earth, although he didn’t know that part). At one point, Berg stopped the gymnastic activity and poked Andy with his vine staff.

  “Have you been using a sword for a long time?” he asked.

  “A year ago was the first time I’ve ever touched one!”

  Rigaud and Timur glanced at one another. The friends’ faces got long from surprise. That can’t be! How? What about his rant on the square? What was he saying then about nobles, that they had forgotten how to use the sword? In their eyes, their friend’s standing significantly dropped.

  “You have excellent coordination, stretch very far, and your movements are very exact. How is it possible? Are you going to tell me you’ve never studied swordplay or self-defense before?” the tutor persisted, yet unsatisfied.

  “I’m not a human, no matter what the others say. My sixteen years of life are, well, I’m like a baby compared to someone who lives hundreds of years.” Ugh. It seems I never lied; students of the School of Mages can detect lies, and Berg’s not made of unleavened dough. Let’s add a drop of fog. “My teachers put physical development above all else,” (which was true—Karegar certainly kicked his butt when he made him develop his wings) “…we only start lessons with weapons after the teacher declares us physically ready. Mine declared me ready only a year ago.”

  Berg looked at Andy sceptically:

  “Well, give your teacher a hat’s off from my part. You’ve obviously been through a top-notch training, but you could have started training with a sword sooner. You haven’t been raw iron in a long time. You’re already a bloom, cleared of slag. But you need to be forged and hammered! Anyway, it’s actually more interesting that way. You won’t have to re-learn anything,” Berg commented. Andy decided he was half orc, half elf. Elves begin swordsmanship training at the age of fourteen or fifteen. Hundreds of years of practice make them the most dangerous single opponents in swordplay. With these comments, Andy’s standing gained back a few points in his friends’ eyes, by the way. Berg poked Rigaud in the chest with his vine staff. “You?”

  “Since I was eight years old!” Rigaud stated proudly.

  Rigaud had it good. The old baro
n had found his young offspring a tutor when he was only eight years old, and even then said it was high time already. He should have started at six. The old retired foreman used to chase the skinny boy from here to kingdom come with his fencing exercises, until one day the pupil shot a fireball at him, singeing his mustache and hair. The little beanpole turned out to be a mage. Rigaud was shocked and clueless as to how it happened, but that didn’t save him from a good beating by the old baron, who then changed his teaching strategy. When he had recovered, the old foreman started working him only halfway to kingdom come; the other half of the time, the boy worked with a specially hired cheap tutor from the Free Mages’ Guild. The dry, wicked old man didn’t entertain any objections and liked dried peas. That is, he enjoyed making the restless Rigaud kneel on a pile of hard dried peas while he read a half-hour lesson on the importance of diligence in studying science. After thirty minutes, the pupil was prepared to study for a hundred years if necessary, if only he could get out of his corner and off his aching knee caps. The next day, he would always somehow seem to forget about the importance of diligence. What boy would want to light a candle a hundred times, the teacher moving it farther and farther away each time? Or what boy would want to maintain a hot flame in one spot on a log with his mind, or move coins with his gaze alone, or do some stupid meditation exercise, especially when other guys are flying kites across the street and planning to go dig a hole? … And a new portion of peas awaited the fidgety boy.

  The old foreman didn’t forget about the fireball either. A large barrel of cold water was now always waiting in the corner of the courtyard with a white flag hanging over it. There were runes on the flag inscribed by the old tutor. As soon as the boy might start to use magic, the flag would change color and the boy would be standing in the barrel.

  By the time he was fourteen, Rigaud knew very well how to pick up a sword so as not to inadvertently cut himself and considered himself a fully trained warrior. He also knew all there was to know about dried peas and could go on about the legume for a good hour with no problem….

  Berg just nodded at Rigaud’s response, examined Timur skeptically, and didn’t ask him a single question. He had no doubt there had been absolutely no training here.

  “Shall we dance?” the tutor headed towards the platform. “You with a sword, and me… well, my vine staff is enough.”

  Rigaud the warrior’s opinion of himself dropped lower than the floorboards in three seconds, which is how long he lasted against Master Berg the half-orc and his awful wooden staff. Andy lasted one second, then his eyes crossed, and his bottom hit the floor. Neither his dragon’s strength nor his stamina helped…. With a result of three seconds, Rigaud seemed like a veteran compared to Andy, but the master expressed something along the lines of Rigaud having been trained as a mercenary, not a swordsman/warrior, and that he must definitely be re-educated. Timur fortunately avoided getting to know the awful staff for now. It would all happen in time.

  Their tight felt arming doublets, their thick woolen pants and the heavy lead bracelets on their arms and legs (Timur also had a lead belt) became their best friends for the next month. They would do laps in doublets around the platform in the courtyard behind the school. They would do jumping jacks in doublets and lead plates. They would maintain the “horse stance” with sand bags attached to their outstretched hands, knees, and the tops of their heads. They would hold sticks with weights on the ends in their outstretched arms for an hour at a time. As soon as one of them let their arms down a tiny bit, he would get a whack with the vine staff. Berg didn’t snooze on the job. Every day the weight on the ends of the sticks got heavier. A week and a half later, Andy started rehearsing parries—maneuvers with swords and sabers, and fine-tuning his strikes with a sparring sword according to a pattern drawn on a circular wooden board which was divided by slanting lines into uneven sections. He had to work with both hands; Berg noticed his pupil made no distinction between his left and right hands. He worked with both of them equally well, making the exercise harder. Rigaud and Timur continued running, jumping and holding the poses with sandbags and weights. A week later Rigaud joined Andy while Timur kept running laps. Soon fat dots and numbers appeared on the board. They had to strike the dots exactly, and in the order indicated by the numbers. A wooden mannequin’s arms and legs of were installed near the board, in such a way that they could move (magic at its finest). They had to fine tune their piercing and chopping blows on the mannequin. The shadow of the vine staff loomed above their heads at all times….

  A few days later, the lessons got more complex and longer. If you haven’t perfected a certain skill before the hourglass runs out, you’ll get acquainted with the vine staff once more. The parries got harder, the bracelets on their arms and legs each got an extra weight, the stretching exercises were still on, and the time they had to perfect each skill decreased. If you made a mistake during a parry, the vine staff was waiting. Timur kept on running, jumping and holding weights. Learning various poses began at the end of the following week. There were high, medium, and low ones, and their workout time increased from three hours a day to four. The fine-tuning of their strike techniques still went on, but their time with the sandbags got shorter. They studied defensive techniques, offense techniques, and diversionary feints. If they stalled or lingered too long between exercises—vine staff. Rigaud began fine-tuning his parries. Timur kept on running…. They showed up to their classes at the School of Magic with bags under their eyes. However, it’s strange, Rigaud somehow found time and energy to chase after girls and encourage Timur to do the same. Andy was already working full time by then in the archives, but every morning he got up at 5:30, put on his lead weight bracelets and anklets, and did a quick half hour workout. Then he had a shower and ate breakfast. He held fast to tenacity and his dragon’s stubbornness alone. When he could no longer stand, he went to the archives. Classes began at the Mages’ School at 8:30. When they finished, he would head to his evening fencing lessons with Berg.

  Berg was amazed at his pupil’s swift, steady progress. Rigaud began to make great strides as well with Andy as an example and competition, a motivator. Andy overcame barriers. The abundance of training turned into excellent skills. Quantity became quality. Andy even surprised himself. Apparently, he had tapped into some secret reserve, a bonus from his Incarnation.

  Another week went by. Andy began training in another hall. Rigaud began learning various poses, and Timur stopped running laps and began to strike at the board with patterns on it. In the new hall, the floor was covered with intricate patterns, which started and ended in the same place. The dance his tutor showed him with a sword resembled kato in karate or a martial arts complex. Their teacher began and ended on the same spot. Berg flowed from stance to stance, dealt and countered possible strikes, switched to defense and then back to offense. The blade cut through the air with a subtle whistling sound. It sounded like the angry buzz of a bumblebee when he worked with two blades at a time. Andy stood on the neighboring pattern and started to repeat his tutor’s dance. The eldest pupil in the school remained to instruct Rigaud and Timur. He, too, was a whiz with a vine staff. After five days, Berg added another pattern, a total of three so far. The requirements for completing parries and different defensive and offensive techniques got stricter. Andy could see new exercises with hour glasses looming on the horizon. If he made a mistake in execution of the techniques, he knew he had the vine staff coming. More and more often, a long-forgotten feeling would come back to Andy in these moments; it seemed it had once again gone into hibernation after the tussle with the vikings at the city gates. It was a feeling of an endless ocean of energy and being alone with it, as if an invisible umbilical cord connected him to this ocean. He decided to deal with the cord and the ocean later on because he was so constantly busy. For now all that mattered was, it wasn’t getting in his way. On the contrary—his strength was increasing. Andy asked Berg for a couple of sparring swords and now made a habit of training independ
ently in the far end of the park every morning and after his evening work at the archives was finished. Slim soon joined him. Timur showed up to the morning workout in a couple of days, too.

  The three of them began to change significantly in just a short time. Timur lost a lot of weight and grew muscles where there had previously been just blubber. Rigaud and Andy lost whatever extra weight they had on them and became covered in thin, toned muscles. Even Andy’s colorful dragon tattoo on his left shoulder, an object his friends greatly envied, took on a certain swift and predatory appearance. The young men started to resemble dangerous wild beasts. One thing didn’t change—Rigaud’s biting, ribald sense of humor. The class’ main magpie kept his role as the leading source of gossip and the “newspaper boy” of the group. What’s more, the heartthrob in him came of age. His independent life brought out his talent as a ladies’ man. What women saw in this (still) skinny guy was beyond Andy. Meanwhile, Andy’s relationship with the rest of the students in his group, except for the Rauu, of course, normalized.

  Andy had been partnered with one of the senior pupils at Berg’s gym for two weeks. Up to half his time at Berg’s gym was spent on sparring. The other half was spent working with blades of all types. Berg showed him the advantages and disadvantages of each sword and chose the best fitting ones for Andy. His tutor was chagrined that he lacked a sword with a Name. It was a great honor to receive or obtain such a blade! Often it happened that the swords themselves chose their owners, not the other way around. Swords that had Soul got names. They never left their owners’ sides and served them faithfully and loyally. Why hadn’t anyone in the valley ever mentioned that there was such a thing? Every true master dreamed of finding HIS SWORD. The masters’ stories included axes, hatchets, and spear work.

  While Rigaud danced on the patterns in the second hall, Timur did exercises with poses. Andy tried his hand with a spear; so far he liked this new discipline less than swordplay.