TACO Run

Chapter 13

Block. Deflect. Feel the stone axe's edge skid along your blade before being shoved aside. Sand Lizardmen are strong, as they must be to survive the harshness of the Sunland's wastes. Strike out, cleaving a scaled arm just above the wrist, leaving the beast to screech and scramble to pick up its weapon with its remaining clawed hand. Raise your sword high, two-handed, and then bring it down on the back of the vulnerable Lizardman's neck, separating head from body in one merciful blow.

Olberic breathed deep, coming out of reverie momentarily to mop sweat from his face. The room the guardsmen used for training purposes was large and open, ideal for practicing armed combat. Having received permission to do so from the Truthseeker the day before, Olberic had gladly taken advantage of the opportunity after he'd risen and shaved this morning.

Flame Guardian. Olberic pushed the current world away, falling into the pattern of old fights to settle himself. The elemental-possessed armor was a rare threat, even in the Highlands, but made for an effective enemy when encountered.

Breathe out when its flames strike, so as not to sear your throat and lungs, and step into the blast, utilizing the moment it is blinded by its own fire to step in close, and strike at its legs. It can cast flames even when prone; it is a creature of fire, but to destroy it you must cleave its lantern head in twain, and it is taller than any mortal man.

Daggers might make reaching the vulnerable head simpler, might make it possible to sever the chains that served the elemental creature as tendons without needing to sunder the heavy armor itself, but Olberic was a warrior, and as always swords came more easily to him.

Strike swift and true, two blows to each poleyn, and then step back to avoid the armor's falling weight. The fires within would re-forge severed chain tendons in seconds; a final blow had to be swift and decisive. A cross-strike will sever even a lantern forged from iron, should it land correctly.

Stepping back from his fallen foe again, Olberic breathed and braced his hands on his hips, thinking. It would be much easier to practice with even a waster to hold, so that he might feel the heft and length of it as he swung. Still, better to practice with no weapon than with a makeshift, ill-balanced one, which might teach his body bad habits in compensation.

Olberic had spoken at length with Kikuchi the night before, even after they had gone through the paperwork the clerk had recommended, and which still left Olberic uneasy, though he saw the sense in it. The clerk had explained to him that he carried a device which, by hearing the two of them speak, could attempt to learn Olberic's language well enough to translate for him even when Kikuchi himself was not present. He had explained this while undertaking his own duties, and for the rest of the evening had repeated anything either of them had said in both languages, so as to speed the device's ability to learn by providing it with more samples.

Frankly, Olberic had been somewhat awed by Kikuchi's ability to do many things at once. Only a few times had he stopped their conversation, either to use one of the guardhouse's communication devices to call on another person for clarification of a report he was filing, or to answer such a call himself, and provide another with necessary information. Other than those times, he had carried on with his written work despite holding a conversation with Olberic in two separate languages.

Their conversation had ranged widely, from the minute and technical to the broad and overarching. They had discussed not only combat and records-keeping, but history, literature, and the arts. Kikuchi had expressed a fondness for the performing arts that convinced Olberic he would have found Primrose's dancing captivating, even if he could not handle the tavern environment that the dancer preferred as a venue. Olberic in turn was fascinated by the clerk's understanding of the politics and ideologies that had led to so many of this world's past wars, as he himself had rarely given thought to the why behind the battles he had fought in Hornburg's defense. His liege and land had needed his strength, and that had been enough.

And there are still dangers to defend against, whether war is waged or no. Settled, Olberic drank deeply from the clear bottle of clean water he'd been provided, when he broke his fast in the guardhouse's mess hall this morning. They had had other drinks available, including one that smelled not unlike the ground beans Alfyn had gifted to Cyrus, but Olberic had chosen to stick to water, which he knew. A pity they had no broth or barley tea. Though perhaps that had been due to his own inability to properly communicate without Kikuchi's presence. I am eager for the day his device has learned what it needs, so that I might speak with these men and women who have shown me such consideration.

Capping the bottle and setting it aside, Olberic dragged a hand through his hair and considered his next opponent. Mossy Meeps were so rarely dangerous that he almost felt bad for imagining one as his foe of choice, when there were other, far more perilous creatures to do battle with. An Armor Eater, then. Pernicious creatures, their thick hide was the result of the metal they consumed, making them tough and troublesome foes.

Olberic gripped an imaginary sword, and prepared to sink into memory again.

"Omae mou!" The odd words from just behind him, and the tone of annoyance with which they were spoken, jerked Olberic back to the present, and he turned, looking down slightly to meet the eyes of whoever had spoken to him. And then looking down further, when he realized that the speaker was not within his immediate view.

Egads, she's even shorter than Tressa. The young woman glaring up at him, fists propped on her hips, barely came up to the bottom of his sternum. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high tail, save for two cheek-length locks which framed her face precisely, and she wore a pale grey wrapped jacket tucked into loose, pleated blue trousers unlike anything Olberic had ever seen before.

She was also tapping one foot impatiently, blue eyes snapping as if waiting for him to say something impertinent.

I hope I don't offend… "I'm sorry, miss. Have I done aught wrong?"

Her brows bounced up, and then knitted again. She pointed over at the rest of the room, saying something sharply critical.

Olberic followed her finger, to see approximately fifteen members of the guard, their uniform jackets doffed to prevent them becoming stained by sweat, standing in three neat rows and staring in his direction despite the fact that their placement meant they should have been looking off to the right.

When they saw him looking, most of them averted their eyes guiltily, some even flushing with embarrassment at having been caught out.

Ah. I see; they are holding a training session now, and my presence is a distraction to the training-master's students.

The young woman in blue and grey stomped her foot to get Olberic's attention again, and said something else sharp.

Olberic bent his head in apology. "I am sorry, miss," he said solemnly. "I hadn't meant to disturb your training."

Her gaze and stance softened slightly, and she waved a hand at the bench where he'd set his water-bottle. You can sit there and watch, if you want, Olberic interpreted from her tone and gestures. Just don't interrupt my class!

"As you say." Olberic did as he was bid and sat down, using the time to remove his gloves and more thoroughly wipe the sweat from his head and neck. He wasn't tired, but between his brassards and the quilted cloth of his surcoat, even a little exertion was enough to make him feel the heat.

I think the guardsmen have the right of it, he mused, watching as the small woman took charge again, passing out practice weapons made from some kind of wood or large reed which had been split into thin strips and then bound together with cord. The woman herself wielded a carved wooden sword as she demonstrated the form she wished her students to imitate.

Olberic shoved down a twinge of jealousy, watching the lesson from the corner of one eye while he undid the laces that held his brassards in place. It had only been two days, but he itched to hold a sword again, even a practice weapon. It was an ache that started in his palms and sent little lances of discomfort racing up his forearms every now and then, when he thought too deeply on his lack of a blade.

Setting the heavy leather arm-guards down on the bench, Olberic started on the hidden fasteners for his surcoat. It only opened halfway down his chest, but that was enough to let him pull the quilted cloth off over his head, once he'd shifted so that he no longer sat on the long tail of the garment.

Thunderblade guide my arm, but that feels better! The rush of sudden coolness against his sweat-dampened shirt was an almost ridiculous relief, and Olberic sighed, dragging his hands through his hair to push it back out of his face. He would need to get it cut, soon enough. Philip's mother was an able barber, when she wished to be, and she said it was only fair repayment for the mentoring he gave her son.

Olberic allowed himself a moment's pity, wishing to be home again, before shaking himself and firmly setting the wistful thoughts aside. He was here now, and until something could be done to return him home, he had to make the best of it.

If I cannot wield a sword, then I will watch how this world trains their guardsmen to do so, until such time as their training is done and I may practice again without disturbing them.

It wasn't too different from the training he had received, when he first took up the sword. True, the details were different, because the sword they trained for had a different form, but the broad strokes were still the same. Practice the same basic motions, over and over again, until they become second nature and you needn't even think about how to do them. The training-master would demonstrate, or ask a more experienced trainee to do so, and then have her newer trainees imitate them while she watched and corrected their stance, or grip, or the angle of their swing.

Ah, but the differences are there. Where Olberic's training had focused on how to take down his opponents, how to block their blows and cut them down in return, this training seemed to focus on disabling their foes. The three blows the students practiced most were meant to strike the crown of the head, the collarbone, and the back of the wrist. The first to concuss or at least dizzy their opponent, the second and third to disarm or disable them. Even the slash to the knee that the more experienced students practiced was not meant to kill, but to prevent their opponent from moving. He could see how the motions would translate to the use of other weapons as well, such as the weighted batons the local guardsmen seemed to favor when on duty.

"Omae!"

Olberic blinked, uncrossing his arms when he realized the training-master addressed him. "Your pardon, miss?"

She jogged over to him, smiling this time, and held out another of those split-reed practice swords, saying something that sounded somewhere between a tease and an offer. If you're going to watch that intently, you might as well join the class, Olberic got from her tone and the mischief sparkling in her eyes.

Olberic hesitated, raised a hand to refuse—he had been told it was against the law for civilians to wield weapons here—but could not bring himself to say the words. It was just a practice weapon, after all, made from split reeds, and hardly a lethal blade… though anything could kill, in the right hands. And if the training-master herself was offering it to him, then surely it would not be a breach of the law to join her students, at least for a time.

She smiled at him, and wiggled the practice weapon as one would a feather before a cat's nose.

Olberic took a deep breath. And took the sword.

He's good, Kaname thought critically, as she walked the foreigner through the basics of how to grip a shinai. He's really, really good. He'd already been shadow-training when she'd arrived to set up for class, and she'd watched him out of the corner of her eye as her students slowly gathered. Every motion had been clean, controlled, efficient. No wasted movements or self-correction, like she'd expect from an inexperienced practitioner. Even without a weapon, she could tell exactly what he was doing and what kind of opponent he fought.

Frankly, she couldn't blame her students for staring, which was part of what had annoyed her. So she'd marched right over there and told him to stop, darn it, she had a class to teach!

She'd expected… she hadn't known what she'd expected from him. Confusion. Irritation. Maybe dismissal, since she was so small. She'd had to thwack sense into plenty of her students at first, to make them see sense, and realize that Quirkless or not, short stature or no, she could and would lay them out cold for any disrespect in her class. The point was to take down their opponents regardless of what they looked like, after all! Quirks might be tied into appearance and personality somewhat, but that didn't mean you could judge every book by its cover!

But the foreigner—one of her students said he was a retired hero from Europe who'd gotten hit by a teleportation Quirk and ended up in Japan by accident—had just looked down at her, blinked once in surprise, and then very politely asked her what he'd done wrong. Or at least, she thought that was what he'd said. She couldn't be sure, but it had felt like it. And when she'd told him he was being a distraction, he'd actually bowed a little and apologized! She hadn't known foreigners did that. The bowing part. She assumed that foreigners apologized just like anyone else.

Well, that had cooled her temper a lot, and she'd just flapped a hand for him to sit down and watch, if he wanted, as long as he didn't distract her class anymore. And he did, and it had been fine, class had started up again with her students paying attention properly—except for a brief sidelong look from a couple of them, when the foreigner took his armored sleeves and outer layer off, and okay, he was built really nice, if not Kaname's type, so she could forgive the momentary lapse.

But then she'd felt him watching them, as she bustled around the class and corrected a grip here, widened a stance there, told Officer Enomouto to stop dropping his elbow so much…

Well, it'd been distracting! It wasn't intrusive, or creepy or anything, so Kaname had done her best to ignore it as she walked her newest students through the three basic strikes. But as she'd set up her more experienced students to practice knee-strikes, she'd glanced surreptitiously his way, and seen a look of such quiet, painful longing on his face that it made her own heart hurt.

Kaname loved swords. Her family had been teaching swordsmanship for centuries; the family style had changed over the years, becoming more defense-oriented and gentle with each passing generation, but never abandoning its core values of honor, discipline, and self-reliance. Even the advent of the Quirk Era hadn't stopped them, though their student base had fluctuated wildly for the past few generations. If the foreigner was as good with a sword as she thought he was, but he didn't have one on him… well, Japan's restrictions were pretty tight. She got away with a bokken, because of her status as an accredited master of her school, but a foreigner wouldn't be so lucky.

So she'd left Officer Tamakawa to lead the senior students in practicing the knee-strike for a minute, while she grabbed a spare shinai—two point six shaku, based on her estimate of his height and hand size—and marched right back over to the foreigner and told him to either join her class, or at least stop moping!

He'd hesitated at first, in that I want to but I don't know if it's allowed kind of way Kaname was used to getting from the shakier students back at the dojo when they first started out. The ones who maybe had a bit of a juvie record, and weren't sure if holding a shinai would count as breaking their probation. Which was silly, because if it would they wouldn't've have been allowed to sign up for classes in the first place, and most people who came to the Kamiya Dojo came because they needed a non-lethal way to defend themselves.

But once she'd wiggled the shinai under his nose like a cat toy, he'd made up his mind, and taken it.

"…and the tsuru faces this way…" Kaname put her hands over his, turning the shinai so that the string holding the shinai's end-cap, binding-strip, and hilt-cover in place faced upwards. In addition to securing the leather pieces, the string showed which side of the shinai was considered the 'back' of the blade, rather than the cutting edge.

The foreigner had spent a second weighing the shinai in his hand before following her, as if unused to the feel of it. Which he probably was, being foreign. His hands were covered in scars and calluses, the results of a lifetime of wielding weapons.

Live weapons.

Kaname set that thought on the back burner of her mind as she stepped away, nodding in satisfaction and going back to the head of the class.

"Alright, people, sorry for the interruption!" she said brightly, clapping her hands for their attention. "Let's get back to work. Officer Tamakawa, thank you for keeping an eye on things for me; if you and the other advanced students will line back up, we're going to do a hundred swings."

Kaname didn't let herself concentrate too much on the foreigner once class started again. She was too good a teacher for that. But she did pay attention, and correct him just like she would any other student.

She didn't have to do that as much as she'd thought she would. He picked it up quickly, and it wasn't just that he had previous experience with swords. He was focused, and paid attention, and as soon as she made a correction he would spend a little time concentrating on that until the problem was eliminated. She never had to tell him the same things twice.

Not that most of it was communicated through telling, since he didn't speak Japanese at all. But he watched well, and learned thoroughly and quickly, and Kaname was pretty sure that if she took him on as a formal student, he'd get his mastery in record time. Well, his mastery in the Kamiya school. General advancement exams do have minimum time requirements. The Kamiya school did use the formal ranking system established in the late eighteen hundreds, but only for formal accreditation in tournaments. Within the school itself, mastery was granted by the 'rising challenge', wherein a student literally fought their way up the ranks until they faced one of the instructors and won.

Not that there were any instructors besides her, anymore.

His fundamentals are very good, just not attuned to kendo specifically, Kaname noted, pushing the thought aside. He had a tendency to follow through a lot harder than he needed to, for one. As if he wasn't used to stopping with just a smack to the head or wrist. And until she corrected him, the stopping point on his air-opponent strikes was a good fifteen centimeters lower than it should have been, as if he expected the split-bamboo sword to go through his opponent's defenses and probably a few of their bones.

Well, he is a big guy.

Lots of Heroes had imposing builds, but that wasn't the impression she got from him. He didn't move like he was used to relying on a Quirk. People with Quirks, even very simple ones like enhanced strength with no external components, tended to treat the world around them as if it were ever-so-slightly fragile. They had to think about not using their Quirks, which was a distraction.

The foreigner… he didn't have to think about that. He could put all of his focus into moving his body and the shinai exactly how he wanted them to.

I think he's Quirkless, Kaname realized, startled. Like me. But if he's a retired Hero… even in Europe, Heroes all have a Quirk of some kind. It's kind of in the job description!

Then again, Heroes weren't usually accustomed to using lethal force. Oh, sure, they were trained with the possibility in mind, but it was just a possibility, a worst-case scenario.

The foreigner was trained to use lethal force. Had undoubtedly used it in the past. Had used it often enough, in fact, that it colored his training with even a shinai.

Kaname's eyes narrowed, as she prepared to break the class up into pairs for sparring.

I want to see him fight. Really fight, not just shadow-train. But it wouldn't be right to throw one of the newer students at him, and I can't afford to interrupt class to spar with him myself. Darn it. Not to mention that if he was as good as she thought he was, he might very well beat her, which would cause her to lose face in front of her students.

A bright, slightly mischievous grin spread across her face. "Officer Tamakawa, how do you feel about a challenge?"

Olberic took a moment, as the training-master began splitting the trainees up into pairs for sparring matches, to step back a little and test the weight of his practice weapon again. It was light, far lighter than he was used to. Even the wasters he'd used when he'd first been training as a knight had been weighted with lead, the better to properly imitate the heft of a true sword, and to train the muscles of chest and arms to move such a weight with ease. This practice weapon was almost a feather in his grip in comparison, not even a quarter of the heft he was used to.

He appreciated the design, however. For students who would rarely use lethal force, who would fight defensively and aim to disable their enemies, it was ideal. While light, the reed strips would still cause a stinging blow, and make a sharp snap when they met resistance, which would startle those it struck, furthering the chance to disarm or disable them.

Olberic narrowed his eyes, gripped the practice sword's hilt with both hands, and swung once more, feeling the satisfying snap of wrists at the end reverberate back through his forearms to the elbow. It wasn't merely the motion of the arms which led to a proper blow; it involved movement of the whole body, a precise way of stepping into the blow, and then drawing back to the original position, which carved the proper form into the student's physical memory.

The training-master was very good at what she did. A firm, bright presence at the head of the class, she was gifted at making her instructions plain, even through the language barrier. None of her students were slack in their focus, and none disrespected her. She had an attention to detail that Olberic found admirable, and which he hoped he matched in his training of young Philip. I do not think I could manage as many students as she does, not so well and thoroughly. One prentice, yes. Young Philip is a fine student, and enthusiastic about his training. But I do not believe I could teach a group such as this. He trained the villagers to defend their home, yes, but it was slightly different. He might spar with them, and give advice, but he had only one prentice.

Perhaps Cyrus could teach many well, but his lessons were all of the theoretical type, rather than the eminently practical.

I think I would like them to meet, if possible, Olberic mused, turning his attention back to the class when the training-master called for him again. She is very—oh. He blinked, looking down at the cat-headed guardsman he had treated with hostility that first day. Tamakawa was looking up at Olberic with the calm curiosity of a Cait, tabby fur only slightly sweat-dampened, split-reed practice sword held easily in one hand.

Looking around, Olberic saw that the other students had been paired off as well, and it was clear that Tamakawa was meant to be his opponent.

Oh, this is a very bad idea.

But the training-master had already moved on to other students, and if he had joined her class, it was his duty to follow her instructions. And too, Tamakawa himself did not seem worried, even tilting his head a little to one side and twitching his whiskers cheerfully at Olberic. He seemed… almost eager for a match.

It is the nature of swordsmen, to test themselves against one another. That seemed to hold true despite the change in worlds.

Very well, then. Nodding respectfully to his opponent, Olberic moved to find them both a little more room. True duels rarely remained confined to a small area for long.

They ended up not far from the training-hall's doors, well out of the way of any other such practice matches, but easily within the training-master's view. When he glanced her way, she gave him a bright smile full of both mischief and calculation, and Olberic was so reminded of Tressa that he could not help but be briefly heartened.

If the point of such matches is to test one's mastery of the sword strokes one has learned, as well as one's overall abilities, then it would be only right to limit myself to what I have been taught this day. Such a restriction would be deadly, in a true battle. But in a practice match, with weapons one would have to try very hard to kill or maim with…

He found it more a comfort than a worry. The new moves might help prevent him from falling back on old reflexes.

Guardsman Tamakawa said something, right ear flicking as if to unseat a fly, and lifted his sword, taking a stance Olberic recognized as the one the training-master had taught them.

Caits are vexing creatures. Olberic gripped the practice sword as he had been taught, facing Guardsman Tamakawa cautiously. Clever. Agile. Their excellent dynamic vision makes them difficult to hit, and their flexibility allows them to bend with such strikes, rather than simply endure them.

Tamakawa was not a Cait. He was a good man, efficient in his duties and respectful of his peers and superiors. Yet when Olberic faced him, he saw not the polished wood of a training-hall, but the rough stones of a cavern floor. Saw not a guardsman's uniform, but the silken folds of stolen clothing, the glitter of stolen gems. Saw not a split-reed training-sword, but a silver rapier.

Caits are vexing creatures. Olberic raised a hand to delay their match, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing in deep. One does not duel a Cait, for they will surely flee, and leave you blinking at the flicker of a tail.

Tamakawa was not a Cait. He was a man, an opponent in an honorable duel, and Olberic would treat him as such.

"Come then," he said, opening his eyes once more and lifting his chin. "Let us fight with honor."

A/N: A 'waster' is a type of wooden practice sword used in European weapons-training. 'Omae' is a second-person pronoun used by men and women alike, and is flexible enough to be used in a familiar context with both one's superiors and inferiors. 'Mou' is a vague expression of annoyance or exasperation, ranging in meaning from 'really?' to 'enough' to 'come on!'. Two point six shaku is a hair under 79 centimeters. 'Air-opponent strikes' is the closest way to translate kuukan datotsu, or the practice swings meant to imitate fighting a real opponent, as opposed to simply practicing grip and coordination.

A/N: Olberic, as a warrior, follows Brand the Thunderblade, god of swordsmen, soldiers, and physical prowess.

A/N: The collarbone strike Olberic mentions is actually NOT approved of in formal kendo, and is unique to the school of swordsmanship taught by this particular instructor. Her style is not meant for tournaments, but as Olberic notes, is for disarming or disabling attackers non-lethally, and is easily translated to baton-work or even staff-use if necessary.