I also wish to thank Ildera (and sibling) and Taffia for their reviews. They have helped a great deal, and I hope this chapter reflects their advice.
The vicious and distinctive sound of a whip crack echoed through the small confines of the cavern. A small boy cried out in pain as the lash cut through his skin, drawing a long shallow gash. The boy sobbed in agony as blood beaded and ran down his swollen, filthy back. A small Gnomish woman held the boy to her chest, and ran her fingers through his hair, uttering soothing words. The boy sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of his arm.
"Why does it hurt so much Lara?" He sniffed again, "Why do they hit us so hard! We're doing our best!" The Gnome made to reply, but was cut off by a harsh, guttural voice.
"You'd best not be speakin' down there! The master'll not hold with tongue wagging!" The man brandished the whip threateningly again, and snarled at the two in the tiny workspace. "Get on with it!"
"Come little one, let us not be hurt again…" The Gnome's soothing voice placated the boy, and he nodded his head, the drops of tears running down his filthy, grime covered face. Lara's heart swelled in pity as the boy bent down and carried back the debris she was clearing, the skin of his back clearly ravaged more than once.
She collected her pick again and hammered it into the wall, clearing away another portion of the wall. The work was backbreaking, the food was poor and irregular, and they worked incredibly long shifts, not stopping for water or a rest for longer than a minute.
Such was the harsh and horrid lifestyle of press-ganged labour. They had no choice in the matter, for any attempt to run from the slave camp was met with instant obliteration. "A warning," as the overseer said on their entrance to the slave camp, "Your life is now ours. Do not tempt fate. Just work." The man had left after that, and they rarely saw him. He made few appearances to the employed staff of the camp, and even fewer to the slaves that were held there. The guards and slave drivers were all he needed, for even they scared the slaves into the harsh work.
The slaves were not entirely sure of the work they were actually here to do. It was never explained to them, and they supposed that it never would be. Some considered themselves lucky to be alive even now. Many had died in the cave-ins, or had simply fallen down, never to get up again. The work was hard, and the slave drivers knew it, but no pity was given, never an inch of quarter. They started at dawn, and ended at dusk. The slaves were replaced regularly. Mostly orphans, but a few of the smaller races, Gnomes like Lara, or Halflings, never a Dwarf though, they're racial heritage was too important, they were used as engineers, and if they didn't know stone lore or mining, they were discarded out of hand, much to great a risk otherwise...
The small cavern was more like a grave than a mine. Dark and dingy, a weak lantern flittered dancing shadows across the wall. Their sinuous movements were surreal in the low light. Water dripped down from the roof of the mine, and the splash of the intermittent drops echoed loudly through the confined space of the cavern. The occasional sharp crack of a pick disturbed the otherwise silent cavern, and the crumbling of rock and creaking of the supporting joists went unnoticed by the unfortunate workers.
Lara sighed softly. Her features were grimy and sweat streaked, and a stooped back belied the backbreaking labour forced on them. She returned to her work with the resigned knowledge that it could get no better for her.
Marcus bowed to his fencing partner, and took up the standard beginning position for a duel. His partner nodded his head and stamped his foot forward loudly, advancing rapidly forward in an attack that attempted to drive him in a wild retreat. Marcus met the blade of the attacker and parried, striking the blade away from a possible point against him. He did continue to retreat, his feet danced along the mat, away from the rapier.
The towering spires of the Orders temple rose gloriously into the sky, the battlements rose high above both combatants, and the warm, but not oppressive heat of a Tantrassan summer provoked a sheen of sweat on the fencers. The sun continued to rain down, basking the courtyard in glorious light, only a small area of shade beneath the battlements gave any respite, and that is where the fencing-master watched his charges appraisingly.
Oblivious of anything other than the man in front of him, Marcus continued to defend the deft strokes from the rapier used by his counterpart. The familiar rhythm fell over Marcus, and his sole focus was the battle. He observed his opponent, watching any traces of thought or movement. Two parried lunges later, Marcus knew his opponents weakness.
Marcus observed the strike one last time. Yes! There it was, his left hand flicked before the series of offensives began. The other fencer slashed across, lunged and drove the point of his sword upward, a disembowelling move if it connected, but Marcus flashed his blade downward and counteracted the stroke. Marcus waited until the fingers flicked again, and then jumped backwards, with a lack of resistance, the other fencer jerked to his left and was left open. Marcus lithely pressed forward and pressed lethal attacks, scoring a flurry of points against him.
A gong sounded, and Marcus' opponent tore his fencing guard off and slammed it into the ground, knowing his loss. Marcus calmly removed his helmet and offered his hand. The other fencer gripped it, but only because etiquette called for such, and stomped off, angry at the defeat.
"Finely fought my boy! You did well, though it took you long enough!" Sir Farrel advanced towards Marcus and clapped a hand on his shoulder. In the two years that Marcus had acquiesced his wish to join the local academy, Farrel had gained a few more streaks of grey at his temples, but a full head of thick black hair gave him a more youthful appearance. Likewise his crystal blue eyes, they had verve and vitality and when a regular smiled creased his features, they twinkled in delight. He still carried himself with grace and dignity, but had retired his armour, becoming ever more the role of tutor and confidant in the students. Indeed, his role as adviser and counsellor of the academy, given to him as a resigning commission, was a prudent and wise move by the clergy. They had a trustworthy and reliable man in Farrel, one who had unswerving loyalty to his students.
"I thank you, Sir, indeed it did take a long time! But I am glad to say that our House once again has risen in ranks, returning to its former glory. I am saddened by my opponents grace though, did I offend him?" Marcus' innocent eyes questioned Farrel, and the older man sighed, rubbing his forehead.
"You know the group have not accepted you as yet Marcus, they were unwilling from the start! Give it time though, on your graduation, and your assignment as a group, they will respect you more. They just dislike you're talent!" Once again Farrel smiled warmly, as did Marcus. "Now, to more serious matters, what is the matter with your studies? You've fallen behind in Mathematics and Geometry, your only saving grace is your Military History and Tactics!" A grave look came across Farrel's face, as he knew that graduation was not allowed without passing the entire syllabus. "Do you need extra tuition again? You are popular within your own House, I have no doubt that there are those that will give it you…"
Marcus sighed and shook his head. "Why do I need to learn pointless Geometry?" A look of exasperation marred his features. "I'll never use the pointless numbers, as you will probably know!"
Farrel clucked his tongue, and put his head at an angle, giving the youth a look of questioning. "Never use it…" He said softly. "My boy, it does not matter that you may not use it," he put emphasis on the word not, "but the matter is that you may use it. Being prepared and knowing what to do in any situation is what separates us from barbarians or animals. We are Paladins, of a noble order! If we attack a redoubt, or a fortress, and you need to bring a wall down, will your engineers not need to know the precise angle and slope you need to attack? When you must protect a group of villagers, and you yourself have to create defensive positions, will you not need to know precise and best points of defence?" Farrel's eyes gleamed with passion as he burst forth in vibrant candour. "My dear boy, Mathematics is not just about counting sheep! You must learn it, because it is your duty…" Farrel again touched his shirt underneath which laid his holy symbol, and the mention of his Lords domain gave him an automatic response.
Marcus stood rapt in attention, watching his every move. Every syllable uttered gave him focus and drive. He would follow him to the very bottom of Hell and back…
"So you see Marcus, we are not here to become just sword-waving preachers. We are here to become educated defenders of the realm. We are here to show Torm's truth, duty and loyalty, not to become some fanatics, and do not forget that! Always remember your tenets of duty and loyalty, follow them, and you shall be a true servant of Torm…"
The young Paladin in training never failed to be amazed by Farrel's candour and passion when speaking of his God. It was like Torm himself possessed him. Marcus shook his head, and Farrel looked at him again, this time, calmly and measured, his voice in gentle tones.
"So you will study Marcus, you will study for your exams, and you will pass, because Torm himself wishes you too…" He laid a hand on the boys shoulder and squeezed tightly. "Go and change, and then continue with your lessons." He turned briskly, and the even and regular steps of his boots echoed away from the courtyard.
Marcus looked up at the sky, and felt the sun beam down on him. He now felt inspired, and knew that today he reached a turning point. He would do that which Torm required of him, to be the absolute best...