Then the mood was shattered.
A blood curdling scream rang through the window, and Merek was moving in an instant. He picked up his staff and darted to the window, looking down at the street only ten or fifteen feet below. He saw a woman on the ground, her hand raised above her in a wordless defense as a man bore down on her, knife in hand. Merek subconsciously reached for his own hunting knife before realizing it wasn’t there. He must have lost it.
“Guards!” Thorald yelled, turning to the ones present.
“No time,” Merek said, and before he could think about what he was going he flung himself from the window.
He didn’t know what made him do it. He never even stopped to think about it. All that he could think about was the four feet between life and death, and he had to do something.
Merek and the knife-wielder collided with a lackluster crash, the only sound coming from their exclamations of pain. Merek rolled to his feet, staff at the ready, as the other man did the same with his knife.
“The wench owes me money,” the man snarled. A white shirt and brown pants were the only distinguishing features he had. His head was shaved and he had a black mustache that barely reached the sides of his mouth.
“I don’t care.”
“Move, or I’ll gut ya’.”
Merek shifted his staff to a two-handed grip, refusing to move. “You can try.”
The man shouted and sprinted forward, jumping into the air as he thrust his knife forward.
He met nothing but open air, because Merek was moving much faster. His staff smashed into the man’s gut, and he doubled over. The man wisely rolled away before Merek could bash him in the head, and he straightened with a cough.
Merek twirled the staff several times, a trick he had fondly taught himself.
“You aren’t gonna take me alive.”
“We’ll see.”
They circled each other, though Merek never allowed the circling to go far enough to put the woman behind him in danger.
Finally, they both moved.
The man slashed, but Merek deflected the blow with one side of his staff. He spun to the other side, but the man ducked it.
He didn’t duck the return swing.
He yelled in pain, leaving himself open to taking a forceful shove from the staff to the small of his back. He straightened with a howl, and Merek wasted no time swinging the staff like a sickle into his gut. He doubled over, and the last thing he saw was Merek’s staff smash into his face with a resounding crack, knocking him out cold.
Merek twirled the staff again, letting it rest against his back.
“That’s no way to treat a lady,” Merek said, though he forgot where he had learned that from. Maybe the traveling merchant.
He walked over to her, extending his hand.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
She nodded as she took it, smiling in a strange kind of way. He couldn’t quite figure out what it was. She was smiling as if she had never seen something like him before.
Then he heard a noise he was quite unfamiliar with. People were clapping for him, and he raised an eyebrow. People certainly impressed easily in the castle…
“You know,” Thorald yelled, “most people use a ‘door’ when they want to go in and out.”
“Well, you know,” Merek shouted back, “I’m a barbarian from the forest, remember?”
“Oh yes, you uncultured swine,” Thorald laughed. “Get back in here and we’ll get you cleaned up.”
Merek looked down. He didn’t think he had been all that dirty. Then again, he probably did smell less than pleasant. Not much less than pleasant, but a bit.
And something told him if he wanted that woman’s attention, bathing was a smart move.
The next day, at high noon, a freshly bathed and newly clothed Merek knelt before High King Tyrigg. He was adorned in a suit of black with a matching black cloak on his back, the standard for rising knights.
“Do you, Merek Quinn, vow to uphold justice and peace throughout the kingdom?”
“I do.”
“Do you vow to protect those who cannot protect themselves against those who wish them harm?”
“I do.”
“And do you vow to defend the innocent under your care even at the cost of your own life?”
There was no hesitation.
“I do.”
“Then I dub you Sir Merek, Knight-errant of Wentana.”
Merek stood up and turned to face the gathered assembly of people he didn’t know. They all started applauding, and Merek simply smiled. Knighthood… it was something he had never even dreamed about. Sure, he had watched the knight train, but to actually be one… to even think, someone like him could be a knight…
He was still very sure it was impossible. He’d be waking up any minute now.
Chapter Seven: Sticks and Swords
Merek went to sleep and woke up again, and still he was a knight. He slept in the Knight’s Quarters with the other knights, six in all. He hadn’t met them yet, but he was sure to do so today.
According to Thorald, today was the day his training regimen began. Merek was careful not to let his excitement shine through entirely, but it was impossible for even him to keep the smile off of his face.
Maybe he’d learn to use a sword! Shoot an arrow from a bow! Get to wear armor of some kind!
Oh yes, Merek was very excited.
“Well, come on pup!”
The call came from the largest man Merek had ever seen. He was at least seven feet tall and he was a mountain of muscle. Merek wondered briefly how he even fit into his sky blue armor.
“That’s you, new guy,” someone said from the bed next to him. Merek turned and came face to face with a woman who had a wild mess of brown hair that spread in every direction. She was slender and dressed in only a simple gown, though her red plated armor was sloppily placed at the foot of her bed. She had a small nose and wide blue eyes, and her smile was infectious.
“Out of bed! There’s no time for laziness!”
Merek jumped out of bed immediately, dressing quickly. As he wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, he looked up just in time to catch a flying wooden object that would have impacted with his skull had he not.
“Well, your reflexes aren’t terrible. That’s a good sign.”
Merek didn’t know who the blue-armored man was, but he got the feeling the two of them were either going to get along well, or they wouldn’t get along at all. There would be no in-between.
Merek looked down at the object in his hand, noticing it was a wooden sword. Suddenly remembering something else, he looked around for his actual sword, but it was nowhere to be found.
“You’ll get your weapons back when I’m certain you can handle yourself in a fight, when I’m sure you won’t be a threat to your squadmates. Am I clear?”
Merek nodded once. “Yes sir,” he said, holding the wooden sword in an underhanded grip.
“Good. Now follow me.”
Merek did just that without looking away from the man’s broad back, deciding to give the man the benefit of the doubt for now. He was probably hard on everyone, to make sure that they were all in top shape.
Or he was a prat, and Merek would then respond accordingly.
“Now,” the man said when they emerged outside. Merek smiled, recognizing the training grounds of the knights. There were stuffed sacks with buckets on their heads, indicating enemy troops. There were red and white circles, targets, painted on their chests. Those same targets were painted on eight wooden boards, and they all had multiple arrows shot into them. Off to the side, there was also an elevated platform leading to a mess of ropes and handles and a wall of wood with different outcroppings nailed into it. Merek was pretty sure it was used to challenge the knights physically as they ran the course.
“I am the Trainer,” the man continued, “and until you prove yourself to me, that’s all you will call me. Am I understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Now, stand over by that white mark, and stand ready. This training is going to hurt. I am going to hurt you multiple times over the course of your training, and I will not apologize for it. This is the best way I’ve found of getting you little ruffians to actually be proficient. Am I understood?”
“Yes sir.”
Merek hurried to his mark, though he had no clue how he was supposed to be ready. He had never held a sword a day in his life.
Not that that small fact was going to dampen his excitement.
“Sword up,” the Trainer said, holding his own wooden sword straight up to the sky. Merek mimicked the movement, also taking note of how the Trainer stood.
“Good. Now, we’ll start slowly, so you get a handle on the weapon in your hand. But we won’t be going slow for long. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
Without preamble, the Trainer gripped his sword with both hands and brought it down with an overhand swing. Merek, uncertain but ready, crossed his own blade in front of him blocked the blow, feeling the tremor of the connection run down his arms.
“Good. That move would save your life, but there is a better one. Can you think of it?”
The Trainer separated, and then did the same attack again. This time, Merek slipped away from it and gently swung his own sword towards the Trainer’s abdomen. Merek stopped it before it made contact, but his point was still made.
“Good. Now, any decent swordsman would never come at you with that kind of attack, so now we’ll practice actual decent swordplay.”
Merek only nodded, gripping his blade tightly. He was never afraid of a challenge.
At least, so he thought.
But the Trainer wasn’t joking in the least when he said they would practice decent swordplay. He jammed his sword forward, and only a desperate whirl coupled with a slash of his own turned what would have been a strong blow to his chest into a harmless slash at his cloak.
“Good. Again.”
This time, there was nothing slow about the attack. Merek was barely ahead of it, and this time the Trainer followed it up with a whirl that brought his sword swinging at Merek’s midriff. He dropped to the ground, whirling his sword up at the Trainer’s chest.
But the Trainer smacked it down with his own sword and sunk a fist into Merek’s face. Merek’s head whipped back, and he had to take a second to clear his mind.
“You’ve left yourself exposed.”
Merek nodded before standing up, shaking out the rest of the pain and again starting in a ready stance.
The two battled for nearly an hour before the Trainer called an end. Merek was bruised from head to toe, as the Trainer pointed out his every flaw with a sharp blow from fist, hand, or sword, but never once did Merek complain.
“Well, it looks like you aren’t completely hopeless. Get some breakfast, and then you’ll begin marksmanship practice.”
Merek had no clue with that meant, but that didn’t change his answer. “Yes sir.”
Without another word, the Trainer turned away from him to yell at a different knight, one who was wildly swinging an ax at a log made to look like an opponent. Merek headed back inside, trying his best not to show how much pain he was in.
“Well, that didn’t seem to go terribly,” the woman said as he entered. She had dressed now, and her hair had been pulled into a tight bun that almost made it look like her hair wasn’t a giant bush.
“Really?” Merek replied, “As many times as he punched me, I thought I wasn’t doing anything right.”
“Oh don’t worry about that. He always hits people. He split my lip once. He didn’t apologize…”
“He never does,” Merek chuckled.
“Ha. But he did look a little sorry for hitting me so hard. Not that I minded. I didn’t make that mistake again.”
“Well, at least he doesn’t seem to be wrong saying it’s the best way to become… what was it…?”
“Proficient.”
“Right. What does that mean, sorry?”
“Not a big reader, huh?”
Merek only shrugged, even as his face burned. Well, he would if he knew how.
“Never had the chance,” Merek replied, “but I’d like to.”
“Well, while we’ve got a few minutes off, I think I can help you with that.”
“That would be great,” Merek said.
“My name’s Milly,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Merek,” he replied, taking it and shaking it.
“Follow me.”
Merek did so, following as she led him through the bowels of the castle, up twisting stone staircases and halls lined with portraits and beautiful windows with different colored glass that made the most interesting shapes.
Finally, Milly opened a door and stepped inside, Merek following. But he stopped dead when he saw what the room held.
Books, he was pretty sure they were called. He’d seen people holding them when he eavesdropped on the villages. They were filled with words and stories and lessons, he remembered someone saying.
“It’s open to anyone,” Milly said as she waved her arms, as if showing off the impressive collection. “Just make sure if you borrow one – you can’t keep any of them – you ask the librarian.”
“Librarian?” Merek replied before he could stop him.
“Yep. Ms. Knox. I don’t know if that’s her real name, but that’s what we call her, given she’s prone to knock you over the head if you misbehave in her library.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Merek chuckled.
“Well, we’d better get back. Trainer’ll be looking for us if we’re gone for long.”
Merek nodded, and the two headed back to the Knight’s Quarters. They were just in time to catch the end of breakfast, which consisted, apparently, of sausage and biscuits. Merek had never eaten either before, but he was sure it would become his favorite thing to eat very quickly.
“Now, grab your bows and head to the archery range. New guy, here’s one for you.”
Merek turned with his hands at the ready, and sure enough, the bow was flying towards his face. He caught it with a smile, turning over the new weapon in his hands. It was a strange thing, a bow. A curved piece of wood with a string attached to both ends, and somehow it made an effective weapon.
“Let’s go, new guy!”
Merek jumped to attention, hurrying after the others. They all took their spots, leaving two targets free for Merek. Merek picked the one between Milly and a different knight, one with a shock of blond hair that stuck up in strange places. He was lightly armored, with only a metal guard on his shoulder for protection.
“Hey, new guy!” the knight said as he took his place, “I’m John.”
“Nice to meet you,” Merek replied, “I’m Merek.”
“You ever shot a bow before?”
“No,” Merek admitted, “so I’m not really sure what to do.”
“Just watch,” John said, lifting his bow. Merek watched as he pulled an arrow from a leather bag at his feet and put it against the bow with the sharp edge facing out. John lined it up with the string and pulled the arrow back until Merek heard the bow creak. Then John let it fly.
It flew so fast Merek couldn’t see it again until it stopped. It had plowed into the wood, but it hadn’t been near the target.
“Darn,” John said. “To be honest, archery isn’t really my thing. I’m more of an ax man, myself. But that’s how you do it! Mostly.”
Merek smiled and nodded. “Well thanks. I’d be really lost right now.”
Merek copied the motion, resting the arrow on the hand holding the bow as he tried to line up the arrow and the string. He noticed there was a cut in each arrow that he assumed was designed for the string.
Then came the hard part.
It was difficult to hold both the arrow steady and keep it on the string. The more he pulled back, the more he worried he would snap the string or the arrow would fly off target and hit someone.
Finally, k
nowing the Trainer was watching him, he let the arrow fly.
It crossed the space in barely a second, but it didn’t have enough speed and hit the ground a few feet before hitting the target.
Merek lowered his shoulders, a little saddened.
“Not a bad first shot,” John said, keep trying. “No one gets it right on the first shot.”
Merek nodded, slightly reassured, and took aim. This time he pulled the string further back before letting the arrow loose again.
It still didn’t hit the target, but that was because it sailed over it and smashed into the wall behind it.
“Ha ha!” John laughed, and Milly joined him. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been the one to teach you! You shoot like me!”
“Yeah, maybe you should have let the actual archer teach him,” Milly said.
“Yeah, like that sullen bum would have taught him anything. He just would have shrugged and ignored him, like he does all of us.”
John’s voice had dropped when he said this, and even Merek only just heard him.
“Sorry?” Merek said when neither one spoke further, “who?”
“Guy at the end,” Milly said, gesturing her head to someone who was hitting the target dead on every time. He was dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, and his long black hair matched Merek’s in terms of length. But the upkeep of the other man’s was more apparent. Nothing was more obvious, however, than the look of absolute sadness on the man’s face.
“He looks… very sad,” Merek observed. Milly nodded.
“He won’t talk to anyone. He’s been like that for a few months now, keeping to himself and saying nothing. We can’t even get him to explain why he’s so sad. He just is.”
“Can still peg a target from fifty yards, though.”
“Yeah, there is that.”
“Too much talk over there, not enough arrows!” the Trainer shouted, and Merek felt what he strongly suspected was a small rock bounce off of his butt.
“Does he always throw rocks at people?” Merek asked as he lodged another arrow and fired it. This one actually hit the wood, if only just.
“He tends to clean up the courtyard while we practice,” Milly said, “that way he can be doing something too. Or so he says.”
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