The Training

"Hey, Rat! You better come quick!" A mop of reddish-brown hair appeared in the doorway, followed by a pair of eager amber eyes. "Trust me – you don't want to miss this."

"I can't. I need to get all this armour polished before breakfast. And don't you have chores to do as well?"

"They can wait," replied the first with supreme confidence. "So, are you coming or not?" he added impatiently, literally bouncing on the spot.

"Where?"

Apparently this was answer enough for his friend. In the next instant, Marken was being dragged by the wrist down the cold stone corridors of the keep. As he followed Taren – or Fox, as he was also known, on account of his reddish hair – Marken realised that they were heading to the practice yard. The four years at Kaer Morhen had taught him many skills, probably most important of which was a keen sense of memory and direction. Without these, he would not have been able to carry out even the most elementary of tasks, for he would have gotten hopelessly lost in the meandering hallways of the keep.

Finding one's way around the famous witcher stronghold was not something that could just be done – it was a special ability acquired through years of practice. The ancient fortress had been designed to be a weapon in and of itself – a wide corridor would suddenly become dead-ends and a subsequent death trap for invaders; certain doors opened into nothing but air and a hundred foot drop onto the jagged stones below; and particular paving stones had to be avoided unless one wanted a quick death by concealed wards. And, if all else failed, the maze of subterranean dungeons gave way to secret passages that would lead the defenders to safety; and become the death of those who did not know their way.

Skipping over a loose paving-stone that would trigger the release of a dozen deadly bolts if stepped on, Marken asked, "So, what is this fight that you are dragging me to?"

He had started combat practice two years ago, along with the handful of other trainees who inhabited the castle alongside the witchers and the meagre staff. Before that, his life at Kaer Morhen had consisted of various boring and labour-intensive chores, such as mucking out the stables, peeling potatoes and polishing armour. Such duties were still required of him, in addition to presenting himself at the mandatory combat training sessions, potion brewing classes and lessons on monster-lore. His new life was tough and demanding, but exciting nonetheless. His eyes had been opened to vast realm of knowledge that he did not even know existed until now. He had been taught to read and write, and this allowed him to ravenously devour any book that he managed to get his hands on. And while he also enjoyed watching the older trainees test their wills against one another, he had seen his fair share of such duels during his lessons and did not think that they were worth the risk of punishment for skimping on his chores.

"You'll see," whispered Fox with barely contained self-satisfaction as they reached one of the balconies that overlooked the training yard. Marken could see that all the witchers of Kaer Morhen had gathered to watch the spectacle, probably also drawn out by the first sunshine of spring. Additionally, he spied a couple of other trainees who had left their assigned morning tasks, peeping out from various shadowy corners. And, as he turned his gaze towards the middle of the roughly formed circle of spectators, he could understand why.

Below them, Geralt and Raven – arguably the two greatest witchers of the land – were pitting themselves against each other. And it appeared to be a real fight, too! The naked steel of their blades glimmered in the early morning sun, free of the protective cloth padding that the novices fought with. They were both stripped to the waist, their skins already coated with a thin layer of dust that had settled onto their perspiring bodies. The clash of their swords rent the otherwise still yard and the sound echoed off the stone walls, disturbing the crows that had settled there.

Marken's heart leapt to his throat as he watched Raven rush forward to deliver a killing blow. But, at the last second, Geralt whirled to the side, narrowly avoiding his opponent's blade and made a brutal down-wards swipe onto Raven's exposed back. Or would have, had Raven still been there – while Geralt had been turning, the tattooed witcher had executed a diving roll and was now bringing his foot around to trip his counterpart. But the White Wolf stayed true to his name, and with lupine grace side-stepped Raven's riposte. And on it went; neither giving any ground, and both taking full advantage of any opening. The fight was more than evenly matched and utterly mesmerising to watch. Marken found that he could not tear his eyes away, and shuddered to recall that he had wanted to stay in the armoury instead of watch this heart-stopping dance of blades.

Suddenly, it was over. Marken's heart sank with disappointment as he watched the two men rise from their battle-poses and clap each other good-naturedly on the shoulder.

"Been practicing in secret, have you Wolf?" Raven's gruff voice carried with it a note of almost indiscernible admiration.

"Always," replied Geralt, a rare smile twitching on his lips as he sheathed his sword.

"All right, you lazy louts!" cried the tattooed witcher as he turned to the crowd. "Back to work! Don't think I didn't see you sneak out here!" His golden orbs scanned the courtyard and somehow managed to locate all the hiding places of the novices. Marken cringed as those otherworldly eyes fixed themselves onto him, and he felt his friend react in a similar fashion.

"Time to go…" muttered Fox as he scampered down the shadowy corridors. Marken followed suit, knowing the disciplinary actions that awaited him should be found with his chores incomplete. But he couldn't prevent the wide grin forming on his lips. If someday he would be able to fight like Geralt or Raven, then a few lashes on the back were definitely worth it…

o~0~o

"Bloody hell! Watch it, will you, Baz?" cried Marken as the flat of his opponent's blade impacted on his sore back. He was seriously going to hurt Taren the next time that little fox suggested they skimp on their chores. Some of his schemes were simply not worth the beatings that were dished out to truants. Last week, for example his mischievous little friend had suggested that they sneak into the apple orchard and 'sample' the first of the fruit. Marken had been reminded of his adventures with his brother Arden, all those years ago, and so he had reluctantly tagged along. But no sooner had they stepped out into the courtyard, that they had been caught. Disciplinary measures were strictly enforced at Kaer Morhen and had a two-fold purpose – they taught would-be witchers that actions always have consequences, and built up their resistance to pain. Both were key to a witcher's survival.

"Should've moved faster, Rat," came the nonchalant reply.

"Oh yeah? I'll show you fast!" shouted Marken as he rushed his opponent. The use of the hated epithet fuelled him and made him momentarily forget the dull pain the blow had left. Raven had dished out new names for all the novices during their first training session, and Marken's prior relegation to the realm of vermin had stuck, much to his distaste. The label was a continuous reminder of what he had been, and what he must avoid becoming at all cost – a useless vagrant who relied on the good graces of others to survive. He only allowed Taren, his best and only friend, to call him 'Rat'…and Raven, of course, because he could do nothing about his superior's apparent dislike of him. But he could teach the bull-headed and apt-named Ox that he was not to be trifled with…

During the four years since he began combat practice, he had morphed from the small, ill-fed scrap of a boy that he used to be, into a wiry muscled adolescent. He was still a bit scrawny, but what he lacked in build, he made up for in speed and dexterity. He had quickly learnt that this was highly advantageous against many of the older novices, who relied on brute strength to finish off an opponent, and could not keep up with the nimble little rat dancing just out of reach of their swords. He was fast… but sometimes not fast enough, as Baz had so eloquently pointed out to him.

Marken's sparring partner, despite his lumbering appearance, lithely side-stepped the oncoming charge and was preparing a counter-attack even as he spun. Thinking fast, Marken halted his attack in mid-stride and quickly ducked the vicious downward swipe that came his way. Today, for the first time, they were fighting without cloth-padding on their swords, so he had to be extra careful. Accidents happened, and he knew he would receive no sympathy if he got an appendage loped off because he wasn't paying enough attention. Least of all from Raven – who supervised the sparing sessions – lounging seemingly idly in the shade. But Marken knew that his fearsome eyes registered everything that went on in the training yard, and his foul mouth was never slow to deal out rebukes and criticism.

Looking up, he saw that under the harsh midday sun, Baz's face was already ruddy from his exertions. Even though he was stoutly-built, hefting his preferred longsword was no easy task, and he was tiring. Marken, armed with a lighter shortsword, was faring a bit better, but even his muscles were starting to complaining. Today's lesson was all about endurance and stamina rather than martial skill, and their task was to concentrate on tiring their opponent out rather than deliver potential killing blows. If he could keep his strength up for a few more minutes, dancing around Baz, but staying just out of reach, he could get his work done for him.

Rolling away from another brutal, he called, "Getting a bit slow are we, Baz? Too tired to catch a rat, are you?"

"Shut yer gob!" puffed Ox as he hefted his weapon again, his northern brogue thickening in anger. Marken parried a blow that left his arms shacking with the effort. If he wanted to win this, he had to avoid direct contact, he realised, as he jumped clear of yet another onslaught. Then, when Baz was tired enough, he would press the advantage. And so, for the next couple of minutes he ducked, rolled, jumped and danced around his partner. Baz took all the openings he was given, in the hope of knocking Marken off his feet, and maybe even knocking him out. The Ox was known to fight dirty on occasion, and a blow from one of those beefy fists was something that Marken wanted to avoid at all costs.

The longsword hit the ground next to Marken's feet and as its wielder took a second to catch his breath, the Rat took his chance. Kicking the blade aside, he executed a series of quick ripostes that Baz was too slow to deflect, leaving little nicks on his arms and shoulders. The Ox bellowed in pain and lifted his sword above his head. Knowing that he did not have the strength to parry the blow, Marken dived to the side. As he came to his feet, Baz's cross-guard smashed into his face. Bright stars came reeling across his vision, but they were quickly obscured by a dark red mist. When he lifted his hand to the epicentre of the pain, his fingers came away wet and sticky. Blinking the blood out of his eyes, he looked up just in time to see Baz rushing him, sword raised, rage in his eyes. Marken stepped aside at the last minute, his thought processes hampered by the thudding ache that was threatening to split his head open. But as his opponent's form rushed past, he managed to summon the last vestiges of his will-power and deliver a vicious kick to Baz's lower back, sending him toppling into the dust.

A small wave of cheering erupted behind him. Reeling around, he saw that the other trainees had already finished their sparring and had gathered around to watch the conclusion of the battle. Swirling his head to the prone form of Baz, a wide smile erupted over his lips and he took a few staggering steps towards Taren, who stood at the front of the line. But before he could reach his friend, a wave of nausea crashed over him and his knees buckled. Hitting the ground face first, his world went black.

o~0~o

The first thing he realised, when he came to, was that his head was being crushed by an enormous vice. Groaning, he lifted his hands up to try and free himself, but instead of oily black metal, his fingers found soft cloth.

"I would not do that, if I were you, lad," came a gentle but authorative voice. Opening his eyes with some difficulty, Marken found himself looking into Vesemir's golden orbs. "Those bandages are keeping your head together."

"W-what…?" Marken croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper and he almost did not recognise his own voice.

"Baz's blow cracked your skull. You're lucky you didn't suffer anything worse than a splitting headache."

"H-how long was I out for?" he asked, glancing around the infirmary that was empty apart from him and Vesemir.

"About an hour. But Rubin has kept you asleep for the past three days."

"Three days!"

"Be glad, lad. You could be dead or in a coma right now." Vesemir's matter-of-fact words made him sink back into his pillow in shock. "I'll leave you to rest now. But that little red-head has been buggering Rubin to let him see you since they brought you in here. In fact he's sulking out in the corridor right now." Vesemir's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Should I let him in?"

Marken nodded. Seemingly in the next second, Taren was by his bedside, a virtual torrent of words erupting from his mouth. "Thank the gods, Rat! We thought you had died! There was an impossible amount of blood and when you didn't come to, we thought…" Marken felt his friend's grip on his hand tighten. "But look's like you're on the mend now, right? Though I do have to say you look terrible – like death warmed over."

Marken couldn't help emitting a small chuckle. But he immediately regretted it when a new wave of pain washed over him.

"All right, all right. That's enough fraternising," came the sound of a new voice. A head of curly black hair appeared, from which a pair of spectacled blue eyes could be discerned. "The patient needs rest, rest I say! Now out! Out with you!"

"Hang in there, Rat!" winked Taren as he was pushed out of the infirmary by Rubin, Kaer Morhen's physician.

"All right, young sir, drink this, drink this" ordered Rubin, reappearing with a vial of green liquid. "I don't care how horrible it tastes; you will drink it all," he declared imperiously as Marken chocked on the vile tasting medicine. Snatching the vial away, he commanded, "Now off to sleep with you. I don't want to hear nothing from you for the next six hours apart contented snoring."

Even as the slightly eccentric doctor began walking away, Marken felt his eyelids dropping. In the next instant, he was floating through a bizarre landscape full of heightened colours, magical beings and ethereal music where pain no longer existed.