Harren was on the waif a second later, straddling him, and pressing the whole of his weight down on the smaller man’s back. He grabbed a fistful of his opponent’s hair and drove the man’s head into the earth again and again. Grant’s screams rose and fell as the fat man pulverized his face to the tune of a series of dull thuds.
All other exercises halted. It was only when the entire group of new recruits had gathered around the scene that Crian stepped in. He used the tip of his saber to wedge his way through the perspiring masses.
“Cease at once!” he bellowed.
Harren acted like he couldn’t hear him, continuing to pound poor Grant into the stone-covered earth. Already a wide swath of blood had formed, growing steadily. Crian grabbed the back of Harren’s practice armor and yanked him away. The fat man fell off to the side but kept on his knees. In his rage, he twisted and tried to launch a closed fist into Crian’s stomach. Crian knocked aside the blow with the base of Integrity’s handle, while angling the blade so that its tip lightly pierced the folds beneath Harren’s chin. The obese man froze, a thin stream of red trickling down his folds of flesh, disappearing beneath his chipped and filthy practice armor. His lips quivered as he stared up at Crian.
“Are we done now?” Crian asked, keeping his expression serious despite the fat man’s preposterous appearance.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then help your sparring partner up.”
Crian withdrew Integrity and watched as Harren awkwardly got to his feet. The man’s fleshy hands groped Grant’s prone body. The injured man moaned and began coughing as his small frame was jerked upward from the pool of blood surrounding it. When Grant turned to face the gathered crowd, a series of gasps came from the onlookers. The man’s face was dripping with red from pate to chin, his nose flattened, his lips split. He looked wobbly and confused, but at least he was conscious. When he opened his mouth to reveal missing teeth, Crian felt his stomach clench. He pulled his shoulders taut and addressed the pair.
“What happened here?” he asked.
Harren stammered and said, “He been poking fun at me, sir, and I lost control. I’m sorry.”
Grant wheezed and tottered.
Crian bent over, picked up Harren’s waster, and began swiping at the empty air before him. “I find it strange, Harren Langfeller, that you move so quickly when mauling your opponent from behind, but when handling your sword, you are slower than a slug in salt. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know, sir. I think-”
Crian lashed out, thumping Harren on the side of the head with the broad edge of the waster. “That is your problem. You spend too much time thinking, rather than learning. To swing a sword is an art, but it is also a reaction. If you practice your jabs, your thrusts, your defensive positions, and practice them tirelessly, they will become as natural as breathing.” He poked the wooden tip into Harren’s breastplate. “You, however, look as uncomfortable today as the day you came here. You’re slothful and lazy, but at least you have plenty of experience lashing out against unsuspecting, lesser men. Am I wrong?”
Harren averted his eyes and muttered, “No.”
“I thought not. And you.” Crian stepped up to Grant, grabbing both his shoulders to steady the wobbling man. “Grant Tunshackle, what have you learned today?”
Grant’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his neck slumped backward, and he collapsed. Crian released the man’s shoulders, letting him fall.
He addressed the rest of the men. “Our friend here made light of an opponent. He mocked a strength greater than his because he thought he was faster and more skilled. Remember that. Any adversary can destroy you with a single swipe of a sword or launch of an arrow. Any foe we face is to be respected. It is irresponsible-and dangerous-to do otherwise. Fail to show an enemy respect, and all your advantages cease to exist. Your foe will do anything to regain the honor you stripped from him.” He whacked the prone Grant on the shin with the waster, eliciting a moan. “Does everyone understand?”
“Yes, sir!” the troupe shouted in near unison.
“Very well. Retake your positions and continue your sparring. You are not dismissed until you hear the dinner bell ringing.” He turned to Harren. “And speaking of dinner, you, fat man, bring Tunshackle to the medicinal tent; then find Moorman and assist him in preparing dinner. You will serve your fellow soldiers, but only serve. You can afford to miss a few meals, I believe. When every man has eaten his fill, tend the stables until the witching hour. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Harren muttered before bending over to lift Grant. As the fat man stumbled away, Grant’s body bouncing on his shoulders, Crian saw the defeat in his posture. He hoped the lazy, obese ruffian would learn his lesson. If not, it would be his face that was pounded into the dirt tomorrow.
The sparring continued until daylight began to wane and the bell began to chime. The exhausted recruits breathed heavy sighs of relief. Dragging their wooden swords behind them, the hundred sweaty, scorched-red men made their way out of the practice field, up the hill, and into the encampment.
Crian walked alongside them, offering slaps on the back and words of encouragement. Though he had been thoroughly disappointed by the ability displayed on this day-for the last eight days, really-he found it best to encourage his charges rather than break them down. From an adjacent field he heard Avila’s bone-chilling voice screeching at her own group of future warriors. The sound made Crian’s throat tighten. The proper method for training an army was one of the seemingly ten thousand things that he and his sister disagreed about, so they had divided the soldiers among them. Crian hoped his way, of encouragement and discipline through example, would turn out to be more effective.
He cut diagonally across the sloped hill, weaving between his charges, and came to rest on the earthen divider separating his practice space from his sister’s. With hands on his hips he watched as man after man collapsed, only to be whacked by Avila’s staff while she chastised them. More than half of her men were down for the count, but those who remained standing moved with a precision that could be matched by none of the men in Crian’s group. If that was Avila’s plan-to cull the herd until she created a handful of perfect soldiers-Crian wished her the best of luck. To accomplish what their father desired, they needed sheer numbers. It was easy for five men to sneak through a barricade and kill an enemy leader, but those five men would be severely overmatched when five hundred of that leader’s most dedicated came seeking vengeance.
At least that was the theory. But because the human race had never seen true conflict over their short existence in Dezrel, all they really had to go on was theory, plus the wisdom that Karak imparted from time to time. Thankfully, Crian knew none of it would matter. Everything they did-all the preparation and drilling-was unnecessary. Those in Haven would bow to reason. How could they not? He wished his brother were here, for Joseph was far better company than Avila, but he was still in Dezerea and wasn’t expected back for several weeks at least.
Crian turned his back on the scene just as Avila launched into another tirade against an exhausted and defeated recruit. He shook his head as he walked, progressing past the mess tent and through a group of his charges. He observed with interest the way his men scarfed down their dinner, but did not join them.
Eventually his feet found the beaten dirt path that led through Omnmount. To call the place a township was a bit misleading; Omnmount consisted of a single stone building, which served as both a temple of Karak and a central market, located at the hub of a sprawling stretch of land dotted with crude huts, tents, burrows, and low holdfasts. The area the town encompassed was monstrous-the practice fields they were using were actually located toward the center. By foot it would take three days to reach the unnamed outlying territories, where the rich soil was farmed for the grains, fruits, vegetables, and meats that fed virtually all of Neldar. Other than the thousand soldiers he and Avila had brought with them, the place was full of transient workers who spent much of their time working those fertile lands. To Crian, Omnmount was nothing more than an overwrought labor camp.