"What have we covered already in our pursuit of combat? The basic knowledge of the human body, its weaknesses and strengths. The reactions expected from and assailant. What does that leave us to learn?" As usual, Flehrad began his lesson with a rhetorical. Pacing around the students, whose bodies were beaten and battered every day from the rigors of their excess trainings, only to be unmarred and scarred with the help from the kind Sisters who lingered around the yards.
"Our own reactions. What limits us is what we know we are capable of. How fast can you strike? How fast can you block? How fast can you dodge? It doesn't matter how fast your opponent is, but how fast you are. Even if they are faster, if you know yourself, you will work out what best to do, be it attacking, defending, or even retreating. There is no dishonour in retreat because if you die, then your mission to protect is over."
Waving his hand behind the students, Flehrad brought in a group of men. Each one was holding a bow, and a quiver of arrows. "Today, is about learning your reflexes. And to do so we will use arrows as our opponent. Each one of these men are expert marksmen, they can take a turnip clean through at 200 paces with a yardcloth shaft. Do no fear, you will not die if you get shot. Their arrows are specially blunted and protected with weaved air so not to injure much. However, each one carries a bow of a different strength, and represents a different speed. A demonstration please."
A nearby cadre ran to the yard area that they had cleared. Bringing a whistle to his lips, Flehrad blew the starting signal. From about fifty paces away, the first archery fired four arrows in succession at the cadre. The cadre easily sidestepped, struck and even caught the last arrow. "Next!" called Flehrad, and the next archer stepped up to the line, progressively, they all fired their shots at the cadre until the fifth archer managed to strike the cadre with two of his shafts. "Stop!" Turning to the trainees, "That is what we will be doing in turn, split into three groups as we have enough archers. Just remember, you can always improve your reflexes, even just slightly, with practice and patience. Begin!"
xxxx
Lain watched the demonstration carefully, thankful he wouldn't be speared by a missed arrow. However, like the other lessons, he doubted this would be painless. As the Master of Arms told them to start, Lain was swept up with the other Trainees into one of the three groups. Standing in line, he watched carefully again, noticing how the archers seemed to fire all four arrows at once. This would be difficult.
As he stood, pondering how best to stop the arrows, he watched Trainee after Trainee become speckled with bruises from striking arrows. Before he realized it, he was at the front of the line, watching the man before him cower and cringe under the onslaught of missiles.
As the man stumbled away, ashamed, he trotted over to the mark, standing in front of the archers. Nodding slightly, the shooter loosed. Lain vainly reached out, trying to catch or even knock aside one of the arrows.
His efforts failed. All four arrows struck him, hitting his chest, shoulders and stomach. Gritting his teeth against these new bruises, he stood straight again, determined. He would stop them. He nodded, and another flight of arrows streamed towards him. This time, he stepped aside, letting the first two fly past him. However, as he stepped back, he tripped again, sending him into the paths of the last two. Gasping from a bolt that hit his neck, he stood tall for the last round he would do.
The archer drew his bow in an eyeblink, and Lain was ready. As the four arrows shot towards him, he sidestepped smoothly, missing the first arrow. The second he quickly knocked aside with a side blow. The third bolt struck him in the chest, but he ignored it, clapping his hands together, catching the fourth between his fingers. Barely, as it was hanging on the tips, but he had caught it. Grinning broadly, he dropped it, then kicked it aside, allowing the next person to go. He had done something.
As he reached the edge of the courtyard, he stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell to the pavement, his new bruises and weary muscles catching up to him. Wearing an abashed grin, his face red, he looked around the yard, wondering if anyone had seen. Oh well, he thought. I still have a lot to learn.
xxxx
"STOP!"
All of the archers in their lines let down their bows, the arrows hanging loosely in their hands. Each one of them looked at the commanding Master of Arms for the next set of instructions. Looking around the trainees, Flehrad's face was stoic. "I am very disappointed in what I am seeing right now. Barely any of you are getting past the first archer. Why?! It is not the lack of ability, because I know that many of you are fast enough. It is the lack of imagination." Walking over to the centre line, Flehrad indicated to the archers milling "I want you to start from the beginning." Turning to the trainees, he delivered his explanations.
"Imagination is vital in hand to hand. The same routine will be predicable, and useless. There are no rules for this exercise, except to defend yourself. It is the job of the archer to hit you, not your job to let him hit you. Go!"
The first archer let loose his volley of four arrows. As the first arrow came, Flehrad sidestepped. The entire volley passed. "Simple. Who said anything about having to stop each one separately? Next!" As the next volley came, the Master of Arms knelt and allowed the volley to pass over his head. "Next!" The third volley was also dodged, this time by moving forwards. "Stop!" Turning back, he continued. "Now it begins to get more difficult, but let the imagination begin. Go!"
The archer fired the first arrow, but instead of following suit immediately, he paused to judge Flehrad's movement before letting loose his next shot. Flehrad allowed the first arrow to skim his shoulder before he knocked the second and third arrows away. By the time the fourth arrow was loose and on the way, Flehrad had already sidestepped the path and it sailed clear. "Stop".
Leaving the center of the yard, Flehrad made one final comment. "Don't think before you move. Just move."
xxxx
Lain walked determinedly to the line. He had been practicing privately for a week, and he hoped he had improved. Having nothing to test his theory on however, he just hoped. He was ready, or at least thought he was, for another go. Realizing once again that his tumbling could be useful, he had practiced that, the various twists and dodges required.
His turn once more, he strode determinedly to the target area. With a small signal, the hard-faced archer facing him fired. He somersaulted forwards, effectively avoiding all four arrows. Returning to his mark, he prepared for the next volley.
Quickly, the shooter loosed two of the arrows in rapid succession. Backflipping, he felt the second brush his stomach, a hair's width away. Landing on his feet facing the archer, he stood steady on his feet, hitting away the last pair with two arm motions. Some came uncomfortably close, but his instinct pulled him through, his muscles remembering hours of practice.
Standing in the center again, the commoner shot his air-tipped bolts again. This time, realizing within half an eyeblink they were staggered in the air, instinct took over and he cart wheeled to the side. The shafts missed him, and Lain stood once again in the center. Shaking aside the sweat falling into his eyes from his bangs, he readied himself. It was doubtful he could repeat the feat again, but he could hope. Hope always helped.
An equally determined look had appeared in the archers eyes, except this one spoke of a desire to win, as opposed to 'escape'. Well, that was life. Knowing that the shooter would have learned from the recent trials, he prepared to move. As the bolts came towards him, he jumped backwards and to his right, going up into the air. Unfortunately, the archer had been ready for this trick.
While the first three shots had missed, ranged to the left of him, the second struck him mid-chest, knocking the wind out of him. Falling lightly to the ground, Lain clutched the spot. Breathing heavily, he looked up at his opponent.
"Good show," he said with a smile. "You're alright with that," he said, pointing at the bow. Standing up and bowing to the archer, then the Master of Arms, he walked off the training grounds, content. He had done well, and he had improved. Maybe one day he would even be as good as Gaidin Flehrad.