Reclaiming Honor

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  The cook’s assistant handed Tovak his bowl of stew and began ladling the next bowl.

  “My apologies for doubting you. Oh, I had a tent set up for you and Gorabor.” Bahr nodded towards the back of the camp. “Last tent on the left-hand side. It’s small, but it should do. After we get a few more fresh recruits, I’ll break out a communal tent and take that one back.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Tovak made to turn away and came to an abrupt halt. He couldn’t spend the night in a tent with Gorabor. It would be awkward . . . too hard. “Am I required to sleep in the tent, Sergeant?” Tovak asked, looking back.

  “No,” Bahr said slowly, a look of confusion on his face, “I—”

  “Then if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just sleep by the campfire,” Tovak said. “Gorabor can have the tent to himself.”

  Bahr stared at Tovak for a prolonged moment, and then his eyes slid to Staggen and back again. Tovak’s squad mate said nothing. A flickering look of concern crossed the sergeant’s face, and then he simply gave a shrug, as if he had more important things to worry about.

  “Suit yourself, boy,” Bahr said. “Sleep under the stars or even in the rain if you like. Just don’t come bitching to me if you want another blanket. You’ve been issued all you’re gonna get. Now get moving. Staggen there looks hungry enough to eat a teska by himself.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Tovak said. Without another word, he walked back to where his backpack lay. As he walked, he felt eyes upon him. He ignored it. No one had come to sit by his fire. That did not surprise Tovak. He sat down and started eating with mechanical efficiency, for he did not know how long he had before the lieutenant called them out for drill. He barely tasted the thick, savory stew. He didn’t feel the cool night air. And despite the sounds of the warband all around him, he heard nothing. The silence that pressed in on him, however, was as palpable and familiar as an old friend. Before he knew it, he was picking at the remains of the stew. He tried not to feel sorry for himself, but it was incredibly difficult not to.

  Second Section returned from the field. They marched up to the captain’s tent and were dismissed, whereupon they dispersed into the company area. Tovak chuckled grimly. By morning, he had no doubt the entire company would know the name Tovak Stonehammer . . . and his shame. A day after that, perhaps even the entirety of the warband would know.

  Benthok appeared, emerging from the captain’s tent.

  “First Section,” the lieutenant called, “time for some combat training. Fall in.”

  Setting his nearly empty bowl on the ground beside him, Tovak rose to his feet and put on his helm. He made his way over to the assembly area and took his place with his section. Gorabor came up behind him, stepped past without a word, and then took his place in line next to Tovak.

  The corporals began doing a head count. Thegdol stepped up, looked them over, and then, as the senior corporal present, took reports from the other corporals. He marched up to the lieutenant.

  Thegdol exchanged a salute. “All present and accounted for, sir.”

  “Take your place, Corporal.” Benthok looked over the section. “SECTION . . . right face. Forward, march.”

  The section stepped off, marching in close order. There was less foot traffic moving between the rows of tents, but not by much. The lieutenant marched the section through the encampment, turning right along the main avenue formed by company tents. They came to and entered a large, open area about thirty yards across, with rows of medium-sized wagons parked in a square. Torches around the perimeter and throughout the open area shed plenty of light about and smoke too. A supply tent sat just outside the square, with wooden training weapons and shields neatly stacked out front.

  Two squads of heavily armored strikers faced off inside, occupying one side of the area. They battered at each other, slamming wooden shields and fighting to get the upper hand. Their battle shouts and war cries seemed real enough. Tovak was impressed by their ferocity as they went at it. It was almost as if a real battle were being waged.

  “Section, halt. Right face.”

  Tovak turned with the rest of the section. The lieutenant stood looking upon them.

  “When I say, grab a training sword and then form up by squads. First and Second will face Fourth and Third over there.” Benthok pointed just behind him.

  A sergeant with only one arm emerged from the supply tent to watch.

  “To warm up, we will begin with individual sparring, using the zjain,” Benthok called. “After the day’s hard work, it should be good fun. This will be followed by formation drill. While you are sparring, attempt to score points only. That is a touch of the sword against your opponent. Keep everything somewhat civil and try not to get overenthusiastic. I expect to see bruises, the occasional laceration, but no broken bones. If there are, you will find yourself on punishment detail.”

  “Shields too, sir?” Thegdol asked.

  “No shields,” Benthok said. “This will be a one-on-one exercise and is more suited to the type of action we will see in the field, where you might have to fight alone against the enemy’s skirmishers and without the protection of a shield. Now”—Benthok paused—“grab a weapon.”

  The entire section broke formation and moved towards the supply tent. Each took a wooden training sword as the supply sergeant handed them out. The lieutenant moved over to watch as he waited.

  Tovak stepped up when it was his turn. He spotted a stack of larger wooden swords, volzjain, piled in a corner of the supply tent. He looked over at the lieutenant. “I’m better with a longer, two-handed weapon, sir.”

  “I know you’ve been trained by the Academy weapons masters. I want to see what you can do with a zjain,” Benthok said. “Master it, and then we can talk about how good you think you are with a longer blade. Now take your weapon and get in line with the rest your squad.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tovak grabbed a battered training sword. It was heavier than the real thing. Training swords usually were. The cord grip was also rougher, coarse. He walked back to where his squad had formed up.

  “Tovak,” Thegdol said. “Take your place next to Gorabor and Jodin.”

  He stepped into place and found himself facing Bane from Third Squad.

  “Bane,” Logath said, coming up from behind. “I will take your position. You can have mine.”

  “Yes, Corporal,” Bane said, moving over.

  Logath stepped into Bane’s spot. The corporal had a distinctly malicious look on his face as he gazed at Tovak across from him. Jodin now faced Bane and Gorabor faced Dolan.

  “I’m gonna teach you some manners and show you your place, Pariah.” Logath slapped the wooden blade in his hand a few times. “You should never have come to the warband.”

  “Ready positions,” Benthok called.

  Tovak knew without a doubt he was in store for a beating. Logath was a veteran with years of experience and arms training behind him. If only Benthok had been willing to let him take a volzjain, he might stand a chance here. It was at times like this where he’d come to understand that Thulla was giving him a lesson. He looked over at Thegdol, but his corporal simply returned his gaze and said nothing.

  “I’m listening,” Tovak said to Thulla.

  “What was that, boy?” Logath asked.

  “Nothing,” Tovak said. He had not realized he had spoken aloud.

  He set his stance, as he’d been taught, raised the wooden training sword into the ready position, elbow bent, blade tip held at eye level, and body turned. He raised his back arm up and slightly behind him for balance and in position for blocking, grabbing, and punching. The only thing Tovak figured he had going for him was his reach over Logath, who was shorter by several inches, and he planned on using that to his advantage as much as possible.

  The rest of the section assumed the same stance, and then they waited for Benthok’s signal.

  Logath’s eyes were intense as he stared down Tovak.

  “Too bad about that shot you missed, eh, Corporal?” T
ovak said, deciding he had nothing to lose. Perhaps he could anger Logath into a rash mistake.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tovak saw Gorabor glance at him with a look of shock.

  Logath’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “I’m gonna enjoy giving you a beating, Pariah,” Logath growled. “Bastards like you always need to be taught a lesson.”

  “Begin,” Benthok shouted from down the line.

  Logath’s weapon dipped, circled, and slapped Tovak’s blade down and to the side in the blink of an eye. The corporal moved lightning fast. Tovak tried to recover, raising his arm to block the blow he knew was coming, but he was late and slow. Logath’s weapon smashed into his helmet.

  If it hadn’t been for the helm, the blow probably would have knocked him out cold. Still, Tovak staggered back a step, stunned. Another lightning fast blow knocked his weapon from his hand, and then a fist came out of the haze and crashed into his jaw, hard.

  Blinking, Tovak shook his head and realized he was sitting on his butt. He wasn’t entirely certain how he’d gotten there, but there was no doubt he was on his ass. He shook his head again, struggling to clear his mind.

  “Haa,” Logath shouted and stepped back. “How’d you like that?”

  Tovak groaned to himself. Looking up, he saw that Jodin, Dolan, Gorabor, and Bane were all barely going at each other. They were making a good show of it, but Jodin and Dolan’s eyes kept flicking his way to watch. Tovak looked down the line to where Benthok stood, staring at him, while the rest of the section continued to trade blows.

  “Hold and reset!” Benthok shouted. “I said hold.”

  The clacking of wooden practice swords petered off. Although the lines had shifted, as opponents had pressed each other forward and back, Tovak had been the only one knocked down. He pulled himself to his feet as the section quickly stepped back to their starting points.

  He dusted himself off and then bent down to pick up his weapon from where it had been knocked into the dirt. He faced Logath once again, and as he did, a sense of anger surged through him. Logath had set out to humiliate him, hurt him, and it was clear he intended to do it again. He was a bully and Tovak had over the years developed a pure hatred for bullies.

  “I can take whatever you can dish out,” Tovak said to the corporal. He moved forward, stepping back up to his starting position, and raised his weapon into the ready position.

  “We’ll see about that,” Logath said.

  Tovak took a deep breath and searched the corporal’s face, trying to discern where the attack would come from. He’d been taught that you had to be mindful of the whole of your opponent. Logath was wound up, a single, tense muscle, seeming ready to spring.

  “Begin,” Benthok called out.

  Logath’s blade snapped out, moving under Tovak’s, but Tovak was already stepping back, allowing his opponent to come forward. Logath’s blade found only empty air. Without missing a beat, Logath thrust forward, the blade tip aimed at Tovak’s sternum. Tovak blocked the weapon with a clatter of wood on wood, pushing it out and away from his body, towards the corporal’s off hand. Logath reacted instantly and lifted his elbow, danced to the side, and raised the weapon up over Tovak’s blade, bringing it around and down in a flash.

  Tovak stepped back again, raised his weapon across his body, turned his shoulder towards Logath, and managed to just barely catch the attack with his blade. CLACK. Then Logath stepped in and landed a heavy punch into Tovak’s ribs. If he hadn’t been wearing his leather breastplate, it probably would have cracked bone, but all it did was push him off balance. Logath didn’t wait for him to recover. His blade whipped around, coming down towards Tovak’s head from the other side.

  Tovak raised his blade to block again and then saw Logath adjust the direction of the strike at the last moment. Instead of coming at Tovak’s head, Logath swung straight down between their bodies. There was a meaty THWACK and sharp pain flared across Tovak’s thigh, like it was on fire.

  He cried out, staggering in his tracks, and then out of nowhere, Logath’s blade smacked into the side of his helmet, filling his vision with blinding light. A moment later, he found himself once again on his ass, blinking.

  “Hold and reset,” Benthok called and then began moving through the two lines, giving pointers and speaking words of encouragement or passing along his critical insights. When he got to Tovak, he looked briefly down with a frown and then passed without a word. Tovak painfully pulled himself to his feet.

  The lines started to reform again as Tovak tried to clear his head from the fog. He looked to his right and saw Thegdol standing there, with what he took to be a disappointed look. Tovak’s corporal shook his head once and then turned to face his own opponent.

  Logath, Bane, and Dolan were sharing amused looks. The sight of it fueled his anger. He glanced at Jodin to see that his squad mate wasn’t laughing, but he too appeared amused. Gorabor, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable, perhaps even ashamed. That hurt more than the blows Logath had given him.

  Tovak glanced to his left and spotted Benthok. The lieutenant had stopped at the end of the line and then faced back to watch the next round. His face was impassive, as cold as stone. He locked eyes with Tovak, and his lips moved in one silent word.

  Fight.

  Tovak blinked again, wondering if the blow to his head had him seeing things. He climbed painfully to his feet, wincing. His thigh burned with pain, and he knew a nasty bruise was forming. His head hurt too. He dusted himself off and then stepped over to where his training sword had fallen. It was ten inches shorter than the longer volzjain, which he was more comfortable using. The grip was also too short, with the wooden guard placed precisely where he wanted to put his forward hand in a two-handed grip.

  He made a decision . . . and curse the consequences. If Benthok wanted him to fight, well, then he would fight—only his way.

  He picked up the training weapon, turned it over, and stuck the point down in the ground. With both hands, he slammed down on the cross guard, dislodging it from where it had been wedged, leaving him with what was now a short but two-handed weapon. He would meet Logath’s quickness with strength. He glanced at Benthok, who merely looked on as if he’d not seen what Tovak had done.

  “Positions,” the lieutenant called.

  Tovak stepped up to the line and found Logath grinning broadly at him, clearly eager.

  “Ready for some more, boy?” he sneered.

  “I was ready long before I ever met the likes of you,” Tovak said, shifting his body to face Logath. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, pushing away all thought save that of the fight ahead.

  Logath guffawed and looked over to Bane, who grinned back at the corporal. With a roll of his eyes, Logath then returned his gaze to Tovak. “As long as you’re back for more, I couldn’t be happier.”

  Tovak said nothing. His jaw ached from where Logath had struck him. He felt a hot wetness running down his neck. He reached up and touched his cheek, coming away with blood. Tovak took up the two-handed grip on the makeshift volzjain he’d just created. He settled into the familiar stance he had been taught, the one that was so much more natural to him, and faced Logath fully. Immediately, Tovak felt more confident, more comfortable. His right foot was ahead of the other half a pace, and he held the weapon firmly in both hands, slightly away from his body and angled forward from the waist.

  Tovak knew he was taking a risk by deviating from the instructed form, but he didn’t really care at this point. If Benthok wanted to punish him for not playing by the rules, he’d take it like a warrior, but he wasn’t going to just stand there and let Logath continue to beat on him.

  He’d had enough and he intended to tell Logath that in a way that the corporal could not misunderstand.

  Tovak stiffened his arms and gripped his weapon tightly. Logath was skilled with the zjain. That much was clear. Tovak stared at the corporal. He drew in his breath slowly, letting his gaze run down Logath’s body and up again. He ex
haled, allowing his pain and embarrassment and even his anger to flow out with it. As he locked eyes with his opponent, he saw the same arrogance and malice there, coupled with a profound confidence that Tovak was about to put to the test.

  “Begin,” Benthok called.

  Logath’s weapon tip dipped and came around, once again lightning fast. It smacked into Tovak’s blade, but this time, the weapon wasn’t merely slapped out of the way. Tovak’s double-handed grip and rigid stance held firm. He pushed back, leveraging the blade with both hands and shoving Logath’s weapon aside and down with a good deal of force. Logath was surprised but not caught unaware. He immediately recovered and stepped back to avoid Tovak’s counter-thrust. Then Logath moved back in, swinging his weapon around in a downward slash.

  Tovak’s weapon rose and caught the attack easily. There was a loud CLACK.

  Logath drew back and swung again, this time from the other direction, driving Tovak back a step. Tovak blocked again, and again, each time their weapons meeting with a CRACK that seemed louder than the last. Tovak’s hands were going numb from the repeated and painful blows to the blade, but he stuck at it, pulling Logath forward into a rhythm: attack-parry, attack-parry, attack-parry.

  Then Logath saw an opening and brought his blade around, a victorious look on his face, but Tovak had been waiting for it and there was no opening. It had been a ruse. He stepped forward in a flash, drawing his weapon back a few inches, and then slashed forward and down with blinding speed and force. He hammered his blade straight down the middle of Logath’s face. Splinters flying, the blade caught the corporal on the crown of his helmet with a loud CRACK. Logath’s head snapped back from the blow and stopped him dead in his tracks. Tovak stepped forward to strike again. Logath recovered quickly and just barely managed to block Tovak’s strike. For a moment, they strained against each other, grunting.

  Logath forced Tovak’s blade back. Then, releasing the weapon with his right hand, Tovak heaved with an uppercut, putting everything he had into the blow. He caught Logath on the chin, connecting squarely. The squad leader’s head snapped to the side, and he tumbled backward onto his ass.