Otto nodded, oblivious to the sarcasm.
“Go to Wendy in the admin office; she’s in charge of stationary, she’ll sort you out with a ring binder. I’m already writing another pamphlet for your next mission, so it’ll be good to keep them all together.”
“I’ve not even survived this one yet.”
“With my training, you will,” Gertie told him, grabbing his arm and dragging him back towards the Bestiary’s entrance. “Now come on, we’ve got some sword training to be getting on with. Don’t worry, they’re wooden ones.”
“Why does that not make me feel better?”
Chapter Five:
The Face Is Mightier Than The Sword
Brian hefted the wooden sword in one hand, feeling the weight and balance. He was no expert in such matters, but it didn’t feel bad, a passable imitation of the real thing. Then his musings were broken by the sound of Gertie pacing her way around him in a circle in the middle of the straw matted ring. The doors were closed, the room lit weakly by the orange glow from candles. No interruptions.
For this was serious business.
“The sword is an extension of your own body,” she told him as she narrowed her eyes in the soft light of the Dojo. “Don’t think of it as holding something, for that instantly disconnects you from it. Instead, you are the thing. Your sword begins at your feet, through your legs, your core, your shoulder, only ending in the tip of the blade. When you wield the sword, you wield it with your whole body.”
“You talk like some ancient kung fu master. You need a long white beard like Otto’s, so you can stroke it with a flourish.”
“And you need to shut up and listen. Each mission you will face a foe different to the last. And each time they will come at you in ways you don’t expect. To survive, you’ll need to drill your combat techniques until you no longer need to think, you simply react. If you have to think, then you’re already dead.”
“Don’t worry, thinking’s not my forte.”
“I’ve noticed. Now, en guard.”
He did as he was told, raising the sword into what he thought was a defensive pose. As it was, the stance possessed all the shielding properties of a soggy envelope; Gertie came wheeling towards him in a spinning blur, her blade sending his own twirling through the air out of his grasp, before coming back round to clap him a mighty blow in the back of his knee, crumpling him to the floor with a gasp of pain.
“That bloody hurts,” he grumbled.
“It’s a wooden sword, not a feather duster. It’s going to hurt. If it didn’t, what incentive to block it? And anyway, what kind of defensive stance was that?”
“It was Aragorn’s, from Return of the King. It worked for him.”
“Anything would work against a CGI Orc. This is real-life. And you’re no Dunedain.” Brian blinked, once more taken aback by her depth of geeky knowledge, so at odds with her serious role as Master of Combat. She continued, striding round him in a circle. “Now you see why you need training; if that had been a Nymph attacking you, she wouldn’t have stopped when your sword was on the ground; she’d have pressed on and ripped your head off. Now up, and I’ll teach you some real techniques.”
Wincing as he rose, Brian opened his hand, summoning with the telekinesis Heimlich had taught him. His discarded wooden sword leapt from the straw like a salmon, the handle finding his open palm and Gertie’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, as though trying to hide how impressed she was.
“You’re getting good at that, at least.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice pretending I’m a Jedi.”
“We all have. But day-dreams and parlour tricks won’t win you a fight; your flaming sword will. Now listen, I’m going to teach you the same swordsmanship drill all Helsings learn. The very same that XII used to use to great effect.”
“What’s it called?”
“Hmm?”
“The drill? Most of these katas and martial-arts techniques have names don’t they? Dim sum. Five Finger Death Punch. What’s this one called?”
She nodded, grinning.
“It doesn’t have an official name. But I like to call it the Fairy Liquid Defence; because it makes you slippery… and a little goes a long way.”
“Fair enough. Show me.”
Gertie settled back into a strange fighter’s crouch, sword held somewhat loosely in front of her.
“Come at me. Try to hit me.”
Brian shrugged and did as he was told, launching forwards with a strike that, though clumsy, was at least aimed in her general direction. With no more effort than one might ward off an errant toddler, Gertie moved one foot and angled herself slightly, Brian’s own sword sliding down hers, his momentum carrying him just past her. As he continued, pulled forwards by the inertia of his own lanky frame, Gertie spun, sword whipping round to smack him hard on the arse.
“Again. And keep them coming.”
Brian turned back towards her, wincing at the red hot sting on his butt-cheek, before hefting his sword once more and lunging back into the fray. Again and again he came at her, and again and again she parried his attacks with precisely zero effort, sending him careening past, her sword always flying back round to strike him on the arm, the bum, the leg. No matter how hard or fast he came at her, all it took was a subtly adjusted stance and a slight movement of that wooden sword to send him careening past. In fact, the faster he lunged, the easier it seemed for her to deflect his attacks. Finally, as her wooden sword whistled through the air and clocked him in the face, causing stars to blossom in his vision, he lowered his sword and backed away, rubbing a thin rivulet of blood from his nose and nodding.
“Fine, fine; I get it. It’s a bloody good defence. Now can I have a turn? I’m more bruise than man at this point and it’s starting to get me angry. And you know what happens when I get angry.”
“I beat you up even more?”
“Correct.”
Gertie laughed.
“Fine. I was getting bored anyway. Now relax.”
“No. Every time you tell me that, I end up punched, kicked or worse.”
“If you listen to me, that’ll get rarer and rarer. Now relax, I won’t hurt you. I can see your tension from here and that tension is what slows you; a muscle can’t move if it’s tight. Release your knees slightly, drop your shoulders and hold your sword out in front of you. Yes, like that. Now close your eyes.”
“No,” Brian replied, staring at her warily. “Last time I did that, you hit me.”
“Good,” she nodded. “You’re learning. Now picture in your mind’s eye your waist, your shoulder, your wrist all being ball-bearings. Smooth, able to move in all directions with no effort. Yet all connected by the meat and bones of the rest of your body. Can you feel the looseness?”
“I… I think so.”
“Good. Now imagine your sword is a magnet, attracted only to other swords. As a sword draws near, yours follows, the rest of your body moving in smooth fluid motion. I’m going to bring my sword near you. Slowly,” she added, seeing his wince of anticipation.
She did as she’d promised, slowly moving towards him, sword raised. Brian focused on the sensations she’d told him to; his body loose yet connected, his sword held in front of him, a magnet that pulled only towards hers. As she drew near, he felt the tug, almost imperceptible, but there all the same. His arm moved, as if by its own accord, the two weapons coming together with a quiet knock of wood on wood.
“Good. Perfect. Did you notice how your how body moved in sync because you kept it loose? Your sword moved towards mine and even as it did, the rest of your body angled away from my attack. Even your feet shifted slightly. That’s how it should be. The skills are all there inside you, locked away in the ring. If you keep your body loose and limber, then it will pick up on what the ring is telling it.”
Awesome. So as long as the Nymphs came at him no faster than continental drift, he’d be fine. How was he supposed to keep his body all relaxed and loose when he was tense with th
e nerves of impending disembowelment? He’d been lucky to survive the previous encounters with the vampires, Beth and Kevin. Then again, he thought, maybe he hadn’t been lucky. What he had been, thinking about it, was hammered. The first time, in the ‘Spoons, he’d managed to beat Beth whilst stoned out of his mind on weed. The second vampire, Kevin, he’d fought whilst completely trollied. Perhaps that was the key? Perhaps all he needed to do was carry a hipflask of something potent along with him whenever he went into battle?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Gertie told him. “And no. You can’t be perpetually drunk. That’s a crutch. There will come a time when you’ll need your wits about you, what little you have. The ring can’t do everything for you. And there’ll also come a time when you pass it on to the next Helsing and if all you’ve imparted into it is the ability to down ten pints, well, it’s hardly much of a legacy is it?”
Brian shrugged.
“They’ll also be a dab hand at Call of Duty.”
“A useful trait in any demon-hunter,” she replied dryly. “But no; you’ll discover your own talents, soon enough. Every Helsing learns something that the previous ones didn’t know. And that inherited knowledge makes each successor more fearsome than the last. By all rights you should end up becoming the most feared and respected Helsing of them all, hard though it may be to believe right now. The most powerful too, especially given your age.”
Brian nodded.
“Otto told me something similar. Something about my chi being more powerful because of my youth.”
Gertie replied with a sage nod.
“Correct. Your youth lends you strength. Your chi, your life-force, is strong, fresh, and the ring can pick up on that, can multiply it. But only if you can learn to harness it.”
“How?”
“Put down your sword, I’m going to teach you.” He did as she told him, placing his sword by his feet on the straw, before she continued. “Stand with your feet slightly apart, knees slightly bent. Hold your arms out in front of you, palms in, as though you’re holding onto a giant invisible beach ball.”
He did so.
“I feel like an idiot.”
“If it’s any consolation, you look like one too, but trust me, it works. This is called chi-kung. It’s a way to harness your chi, to get it flowing, to learn how to feel it moving inside your body. Just hold your arms and breathe. Clear your mind, focus on your breathing, slowly in, slowly out. Feel the air moving in and out of your lungs. Smell the straw and the stone. Hear the sound of your heartbeat. Just soak it all in.”
He still felt like an idiot but he did as she instructed nonetheless, breathing in and out, in and out. Slower and slower. His eyes naturally began to close. His arms tingled, though whether that was just from holding them in position, he didn’t know. The ring felt strangely warm on his finger. Prickling static, almost but not quite like pins and needles, tickled his skin all over. His joints that should be aching from standing in this strange stance felt oddly loose and at ease and the invisible beach ball felt almost… real, as though he was truly holding something, feeling it exerting an outward pressure on his arms. He legs no longer seemed to end at his feet, in fact, he could no longer tell his feet from the unyielding stone below. Gertie spoke again, and this time her voice was low, hushed. Almost awed.
“How are you feeling?”
He opened his eyes to see her regarding him with a strange, unreadable expression on her face.
“Good,” he admitted. “But strange. I can almost feel a static charge building up. Not around me, but through me. Like… like a…”
He struggled to frame the experience in words. Instead, she did it for him, as no-one else seemed able to do.
“Like a tesla coil about to vaporise an enemy tank?”
He nodded, grinning, still in position. She pondered his response for a moment, then, with no warning, she swung her wooden sword straight for his head.
Chapter Six:
The Windows To The Foal
Heimlich was waiting for him in the Scrying Chamber, wearing a look of amused anticipation that strangely faded upon seeing Brian’s wholly unblemished face.
“I was expecting you to be a touch more… Gertiefied.”
“It’s not for want of trying, believe you me,” Brian replied. “She swung a wooden sword into my face, and she wasn’t even holding back would you believe?”
“I would believe. But at full force?” Heimlich asked, incredulously, inspecting Brian’s face for any sign of broken nose, livid bruising or exposed brain matter, all of which were remarkably absent. “How did you get off so lightly?”
“Chi-kung, or something, she said, though I was too busy shitting myself to pay much attention to what she was saying. One minute I was quite enjoying a rare moment of peace. The next; sword to the fucking face. For some reason, it shattered into a thousand pieces and I was thankful it was that, not my skull. Gertie looked somewhat taken aback. Not half as much as I was, I’ll tell you that.”
Heimlich fixed him with mysterious eyes. Was that a slight hint of a smile on his face?
“Interesting.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say? My Master of Combat just tried to murder me! I mean, there’s got to be some kind of disciplinary process or something? That’s just not normal workplace behaviour.”
“Are you not getting the recurring theme, Helsing? That’s what combat Masters do. And besides, luckily for you you’re turning out pretty hard to murder.”
“Yes, I know,” Brian retorted. “Chi, youth, potential. I get it. But she wasn’t to know it was going to work! I could have been lying in a pool of brains! My brains! And they’re the worst kind!”
“She knows what she’s doing.”
“Trying to kill me is what she’s doing. Christ. She’s a psycho in midget’s clothing.”
“And that’s precisely why she’s good at her job. It’s why we’re all good at our jobs. If we were ordinary, sane individuals, we wouldn’t push you to your limits.”
“Beyond. Beyond my limits.”
“Nonsense. Who are you of all people to know your own limits? Now come, more training awaits. And trust me, there’ll be no wooden swords involved.”
“There’d best not. I find one wooden sword and you know precisely where I’m sticking it.”
Heimlich grinned and turned, making his way through the eldritch chaos that was the Scrying Chamber; all puffs of colourful smoke and crystal balls, the occult accoutrements looking out of place amidst the sea of computer desks and the giant holographic map of the UK that filled a good chunk of one side of the room. Brian followed him, stepping over a man on all fours who was scrambling to catch an escaped frog that seemed very intent on not being caught and boiled, fried, dissected or whatever other grim fate destiny seemed fit to bestow upon it.
“Where are we off to today? And so help me, if there’s a pit of fire…”
“No fire, not today.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll see.”
Brian gasped, exasperated.
“Trying to get anything useful out of you is like trying to get blood out of a stone.”
Heimlich smiled as he opened the door to the small room off the Scrying Chamber.
“Indeed. Frustrating, isn’t it? Knowing the truth is being withheld and not being able to do anything about it.” He held the door open and beckoned for Brian to make his way inside.
“Yes,” Brian told him as he walked into the room. “It bloody well is.”
“Then all the more reason for you to stop asking silly questions and sit your ass down in that chair. For that is precisely what we’re aiming to combat in today’s lesson.” Heimlich closed the door behind them, before striding into the room. At a click from his fingers, the fireplace lit with a roar of flames, then he sat himself down in the opposite armchair to Brian and fixed him with that steely gaze. “In your line of work, you will find yourself as much a detective as a warrior; our enemies of the night lik
e to hide in plain sight, thinking that to mingle with unsuspecting humans will keep them safe. Your job is to root such monsters out, despite their best efforts to blend in. And believe you me, they won’t be willing to give up their secrets.”
“Kevin did.”
“Kevinius was an idiot.”
“So people keep telling me. Either way, the ring lets me know, doesn’t it? It did with Beth. It did with Kevin too.”
“The ring isn’t infallible. It contains the memories of the past Helsings, men with great experience when it came to rooting out evil. It picks up on signs they would have recognised and warns you.”
“The Sight,” Brian murmured, recalling XII’s dying words.
“Quite. But some beings are better at hiding their true nature than others. If the previous Helsings wouldn’t have recognised them for what they are, then neither will the ring. It will take your own intuition, and the skills I’m about to teach you, to unmask the monster.”
“And what are you going to teach me?”
“I’m going to teach you to read minds.”
A long, pregnant pause. Then Brian laughed.
“You what? Read minds?”
“Correct.”
“That’s… impossible.”
“So is translocation. So is phasing through solid matter. You’ve been performing a lot of the impossible of late. What is one more impossible string to add to your bow?”
“It’s the impossible straw that breaks the impossible camel’s back, is what it is. Blinking I can understand; it’s just moving from place to place only without the tedious moving part. Even Shadow Form makes a certain kind of sense; I mean, we’re mostly comprised of empty space between atoms anyway. But reading minds? In the real sense, not just Derren Brown watching your face and making good guesses? That’s too far-fetched.”
“Think of a number.”
“No. That’s stupid. I’ve had ordinary people use that trick on me. There’s certain numbers that people always guess.”
“It can be any number you like, not just between one and ten. Pick a ridiculous number. Think of the most outlandish and impossible number you can.”
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Mission #2: Surf's Up Page 4
