First Mission 1 – The Art of War

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Verna ducked behind the shield as a spear lunged towards her. Her left arm was numbed by the blow, but she kept her footing and swung the halberd in response. Its blade fell with deadly speed, but her opponent sidestepped at the last second, causing it to jar painfully off the stone tiles. The red-haired herald struggled to keep hold of the quivering shaft, but in that moment, she was left wide open. The spear-tip stabbed deep into her thigh, drawing a cry of pain. She raised her shield again as she fought to control the unwieldy weapon.

A steel boot kicked her guard aside. Verna stumbled backwards, arms flailing to stay balanced, then the spear shaft came down hard on her left collarbone. She gasped in pain as the shield clattered to the floor. The warrior checked her with a broad shoulder, and she was thrown onto her back with a resounding clank.

The enemy loomed above, spear raised, and she barred the halberd over herself in a pitiful defense.

"Halt!"

The warrior obediently lowered his weapon, and Verna let out an exasperated sigh. She sat up wincing as a cleric knelt beside her, chime in hand to heal her wounds. Across the stone plaza, a crowd of heralds stood smirking, reveling in her defeat, while Captain Brommand looked her over in disappointment.

"How many weapons have we tried, Verna?" he chastised. "Sword, spear, mace, halberd... Is there anything you might wield with even a grain of proficiency?"

The young woman grit her teeth, biting back a retort. "Apologies, Captain. I swear I'll try harder."

Brommand shook his head. "You try plenty hard enough. You need to fight smarter. That overhead swing left you wide open, whereas a horizontal sweep would have bought you some more time. Maybe you could've lasted another minute before failing again."

The other trainees snickered at his jab. They were gathered in the courtyard on a beautiful morning, with birds singing, the breeze blowing gently, and the sun shining down in all its glory. Verna hated it. All it did was serve to illuminate her continuous defeats. She glared at her opponent from behind a steel visor, while his was raised to reveal the arrogant smirk plastered on his handsome face. She despised the man named Calvert. He was youthful, strong, and gorgeous, with delicate features that were objectively prettier than her own. They had sparred dozens of times before, and each one ended in humiliation for the sole female herald of the cathedral.

As the cleric finished her prayer, Calvert called out, "Blocking a spear with a halberd, Verna? How do you see that working out for you?" This drew a few chuckles from his fellow men, which their captain made no attempt to silence.

Without a word, the red-head rose to her feet. She retrieved her heavy steel shield, then raised the halberd once more. The young man hefted his spear, still not lowering his helmet's visor.

Their captain bellowed across the courtyard. "Again!"

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Her muscles were on fire as she made her way to the barracks. The cleric's miracles healed her wounds, but they could not remove every ache and pain, especially the damage dealt to her pride. She was not cut out to be a maiden, like the other women of their faith, and now she was proving worthless as a herald. It was once her childhood fantasy, fighting alongside the brave warriors of White, but now it had become a waking nightmare.

An echoing groan interrupted her self-loathing. She peered up into the lofty foyer of the cathedral and spotted one of the giants struggling to stand. At its feet was a Drang mercenary, dwarfed beside the massive creature, who battered the giant's heels without restraint. He drove his twin hammers into its stony skin repeatedly, until the brute returned to its duties with heavy hands, carefully spreading thick caulking along the base of the walls. The mercenary spit on the giant as he stepped aside.

Verna caught his gaze, and the balding warrior glared at her, a scar running over his right eye. "Is there a problem, lass?" he growled with a voice like gravel.

She met his stare evenly. "No, no problem. I just find your choice of weapons odd."

He snorted. "Is that so?"

"I'm sure it works fine on the giants, but sacrificing a shield for another weapon would leave you defenseless against a seasoned knight."

"Bah," the man spat again. "Only cowards hide behind their shields. The art of dual wielding has been a tradition of my land for ages, and we never had problems holding our own against any foe, big or small."

"And your distaste for the giants? Is that also tradition, or just personal?"

He arched his scarred eyebrow. "I thought that didn't bother you?"

"Hardly, but the giants were once servants of the Gods themselves. Surely they deserve a little of our gratitude."

"They deserve exactly what I give 'em. They're slaves, always have been, and should be treated as such. Here's a lesson for you. In this world, you're either a slave or the conqueror. That's it. Which one are you?"

Her back went stiff with indignation. "Well I'm certainly no slave. Remind me of your role again, sellsword?"

Surprisingly, a wry grin broke over his weathered face. "Look at the stones on you. Be glad you're the Archdeacon's girl, or I'd be inclined to teach you another lesson or two."

Now, Verna was practically bristling. "You think I get special treatment because of my father? I'm just as good or worse as anyone else. Besides, I doubt someone like you would have much to teach me."

His grin faded. "You got a big mouth, lass. I wager you wouldn't be so bold without the protection of your precious cathedral."

"Is that so?" Verna knew she should stop, but something urged her on. "Name a place. I'll gladly show you how bold I can be."

The mercenary silently appraised her, as if weighing the risk, then nodded. "The crossroads, then. The one before the old bridge. You know the place?"

"I've been there plenty of times. I haven't spent my whole life sheltered in here, you know."

"Good. Bring whatever weapons you prefer."

As he turned back to the lethargic giant, Verna called out, "What's the wager?"

The mercenary shot her another grin over his shoulder. "We'll figure that out when we get there."

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The evening air was cool as she made her way to the meeting place. Burning braziers lit the shaded path from the cathedral, though Verna could have walked it by memory. As she stepped through the stone archway, she spotted the Drang warrior. He was resting beside a bonfire at the base of the great staircase, poking the charred remains of some forgotten undead with a broken stick.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show," he admitted as she approached.

Verna ignored him. She slid her kite shield onto her left arm, then raised the spear in her right. "Are we doing this or not?"

The mercenary chuckled as he stood. "Aren't you an eager one? Before we start, I'd suggest losing the spear and shield. That sword on your hip would suit you better."

The herald frowned at his arrogance. "I'll choose my own weapons, thank you."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself, lass."

As he unsheathed his twin hammers, Verna quickly stabbed with her spear, trying to catch the man off guard. The steel point tore into his cape as he leaned around the thrust, then caught the shaft beneath his arm. A hammer came down and snapped the wooden hilt in two, and he tossed the broken top to the ground.

Verna stared in outrage at the splintered weapon. "Well, go on," the warrior goaded her. "Pick it up, if it means that much to you."

She hesitated for a moment, then dove for the spear. As expected, the twin hammers flew towards her, and she raised her shield against them. She spun to deflect their weight, simultaneously drawing her Astora blade, which swept low at the man's feet. He jumped over the sword and slammed against her shield again, nearly bawling the herald over. Before she could recover, the hammers were inside her guard. With a single motion the shield was torn from her grasp, and fell to the ground in a cloud of dust.

Verna had no time to retrieve it before the maces were swinging again. She rolled back from the twin blows, then gripped her sword in both hands as she lunged forward, swiping upward with all her strength. The tip of the blade whistled past the mercenary's face, and for an instant, he looked concerned. Then, a boot caught her hard in the stomach, and the herald doubled over in agony.

"You got heart, that's for sure," the man lectured as she gasped for breath. "But your tactics are sorely lacking. You're not going to overpower me no matter how hard you try. You're a girl. It's just your nature. It's about time you accepted that."

"Damn you," Verna managed to get out.

"Don't blame the enemy for your weaknesses. You must know your limits, otherwise you will forever underestimate your opponent."

"You underestimate me!" She was on her feet in a flash, lashing out with vigor. The mercenary leaned back as steel nearly severed his nose, but immediately responded by clubbing her over the helmet. She toppled onto her back while the sky reeled above.

"Know your limits!" the man repeated harshly. "What good is a shield if you lack the strength to wield it? What good is a helm if you can't evade? I could've crushed your skull had I the notion. Your armor is not a defense, it's a vice."

It took Verna a few moments to regain her senses. She sat up holding her throbbing head, though the truth of his words stung more. "You expect me to fight without armor?" she balked.

"Why not?" He held out his arms boldly. "Look at what I wear. Not a piece of steel on me, yet you haven't landed a single blow." She looked him over in reluctance. He wore only black cloth and studded leather, with white fur lining the neck of his cloak. "Armor means nothing if you can't hit the enemy. Now, get up."

Verna stumbled to her feet, sword wavering. "Take off your helmet. It only hinders your vision, and grants a false sense of security. Your armor as well." Hesitantly, the herald obeyed. She removed her helm and breastplate, then faced the mercenary again.

The man circled her like a wolf to its prey. "Stay on the defensive. Don't try to hit me, focus on not getting hit yourself." Before she could reply, the twin hammers were spinning towards her like a cyclone. She jumped out of range, but the warrior pressed his assault. She hated retreating, but was given no chance to retaliate.

Gradually, she began dodging without losing ground. The mallets swung relentlessly, inches from breaking her bones, but the girl nimbly evaded each strike. At last, the man halted his attack and grinned. "See?" he panted. "You aren't strong, but you are quick. You hardly broke a sweat."

Verna leered. "Can't say the same for you."

The mercenary laughed aloud in a thick baritone. "Exactly, lass. Know your strengths and weaknesses, but more importantly, know your enemy's. You must be aware of both to win. You may never be stronger than the men you fight, but you can be faster, and smarter."

She nodded in acceptance. "I'll keep that in mind. I'm going to fight back now."

"If you say so. Don't overdo it, though. This is a battle, not a race. You have all the time in the world to win."

The pair circled each other, both searching for the first opening. Suddenly, the man rushed her, flailing his hammers like a madman. Verna tried to strike back, but none of her attacks landed. She pushed aside the frustration and kept moving, using her sword to deflect the blows that got too close.

Finally, the man paused to catch his breath, and she saw her chance. She swung her blade overhead, but it screeched to a halt against his crossed hammers. Again, his boot thudded into her abdomen, and Verna cried out as she collapsed.

The mercenary remained silent as she bit back tears. Once she regained her composure, he spoke. "Still too eager. You have something to prove, I can tell. Give it up, lass. Stop trying to overpower me."

"It's not fair," the herald hissed between clenched teeth. "You have two weapons. There's never a moment when you're not attacking. I can't... I never have the chance to strike back."

"Just earlier today you were insulting my style, now you claim it's too much. You're right, though. It isn't fair, and it shouldn't be. Nobody is going to fight on your terms." As Verna continued to writhe on the ground, the mercenary's creased expression softened. "Here," he called out, "try this."

Something clattered beside her, and the girl opened her eyes to find a three-pronged dagger lying in the dirt. It was an odd weapon without edges, only sharp points. She picked it up with a frown. "What good will this do?"

"It can give you that opportunity you're looking for. It's a parrying dagger, meant to deflect an enemy's weapon rather than hurt him. Try catching the hilt between the points, but don't fight it. Turn into the weight to knock it aside, otherwise you'll lose the dagger and your advantage."

Verna stood, gripping the unfamiliar weapon in her left hand. "Okay," she breathed heavily. "Again."

The man was upon her in an instant. She jumped back as the hammers swiped past her face, then returned for a second strike. She rolled far to the side, staying out of range, determined to remain untouched. The mercenary leapt towards her, and both mallets slammed into the dirt. One of the hammers swung upward, and she tried to catch the hilt with her dagger, but the steel head glanced off it and nearly knocked the weapon from her grasp.

"Stop anticipating!" he roared. "Patience wins the war! Tire the enemy before you reveal yourself!" The hammer nearly crushed her ribs, and the herald stumbled backwards. The man pushed forward, giving her no chance to recoup, his hammers crashing down again and again. Verna could do nothing but backpedal to avoid his deadly blows.

His onslaught was unyielding. Though the mercenary sweat profusely, he never seemed to tire, and the girl's legs burned with constant motion. She bobbed left and right, narrowly escaping the heavy maces, always on her toes. Then, one of the swings got too close, and the following strike flew down at her unarmored head. On instinct, she lashed out with her dagger.

To her surprise, the hammer went wide, and the man wobbled for a brief moment. Her heart soared at her success, but it was over before she could react. He kicked out, forcing her to roll back in escape, then charged her once again.

Verna cursed herself for hesitating, but had no time for pity. She kept moving, weaving around the sweeping clubs, until one of them went wide. She immediately stabbed with her sword, and managed to pierce his left shoulder. His grizzled jaw clenched through the pain, then a hammer slammed into her forearm. The sword flew from her grip and landed point-down in the dirt, far from reach. The mercenary struck again, forcing himself between the herald and her weapon, denying her the chance to retrieve it.

"You attack when the enemy is ready, then hesitate when he's not!" A hammer clipped her hipbone, causing her to stumble. Verna dove to avoid being crushed by the second blow. "You tire yourself out instead of your foe! Be patient, be alert! This is life or death!" The man rushed forward, hammers arcing towards her skull. The herald nearly tripped over herself in constant retreat. Her enemy pursued her, swinging repeatedly, until an attack landed across her shoulder blades in mid-roll. She sprawled forward, landing flat on her stomach, and the warrior closed in for victory.

Verna spun around and threw the broken spear tip. The mercenary barely avoided the surprise attack, but did not halt his advance. Before he could reach her, however, he was pulled back; the spear had pinned his flowing cape to the ground.

The man glanced back for just a moment, but it was all she needed. The red-head was back on her feet, charging headfirst, and the mercenary lashed out to keep her at bay. The dagger flashed out, flinging the hammer aside, and this time she did not hesitate. She tackled the man bodily, sending them both sailing into the dirt.

The warrior grunted as the wind was knocked out of him. He tried to draw breath, but the dagger's pointed tip was pressed into the bulge of his windpipe. Verna glared down murderously, her eyes burning with defiance.

They lay there, silent, until the man dared to speak again. "Alright, lass," he rasped, a single drop of blood trickling from his throat. "You got me."

The herald did not move. She kept the dagger still, feeling his throat struggling beneath it. The warrior's chest rose shallow, unable to inhale without risking a worse injury, but his eyes remained dark and calm. Verna studied the man's hard-lined face, mere inches from her own, then finally said, "We never agreed on a wager."

That wry smirk returned, sharpening the creases of his skin. "Aye, that's true." Now the man was studying her, his shadowed gaze wandering over her features. Verna was well aware that she was not an attractive woman; her face was too long and sharp, her eyes squinted, her lips too flat and wide. Still, the warrior took her in without shame. "Name your price."

It was Verna's turn to smirk.

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The heralds gathered in the stone plaza for their daily training. Verna felt an unusual sense of eagerness as she joined their ranks, one hand gripping the hilt of her new weapon. The training with the mercenary had continued late into the night, but oddly, she was not tired in the least. She recalled the lessons he had shown her, both in combat and beyond, and it was all she could do to suppress a smile.

Captain Brommand paced before his trainees, appraising them without expression. "Oberthen, step to and arm yourself," he commanded, and the herald hastily obeyed. "Verna, you too."

The red-head felt a slight reluctance. She had hoped to face the obnoxious Calvert again, but it was not her place to choose, so she stepped forward and addressed her superior. "Captain, sir. May I request a change of armaments?"

"Again, Verna?" The annoyance in his voice was readily apparent. "Will it really make a difference?"

"I believe so, Captain."

"Fine," Brommand sighed. "Take your pick."

Verna unclasped her helmet, then her breastplate. She lay them carefully aside before unsheathing her Astora sword and pronged dagger. "Ready, sir." She could hear the snickers of disbelief from behind, and a few of her peers whispered to each other.

"She can't be serious."

"Not even a shield? She's dead!"

"Two weapons, she looks like one of those Carim heathens."

The captain shot the men a withering glance, and the courtyard went silent. Then, he turned to the woman before him. "You sure about this, Verna? You've already lost plenty with a straight sword." She nodded silently, and Brommand stifled a groan. "Very well, then. Begin."

The words were no sooner spoken than Oberthen was upon her. She leapt aside, barely avoiding the piked halberd, and struck with her blade. It connected with his shield, but bounced gently off. Verna refrained from using her full strength, just as she had been taught. The polearm swung in a wide arc, and she rolled nimbly beneath it, then poked her opponent in his exposed side. It left a shallow wound, which only enraged the young herald.

He leapt high into the air as he lashed out. Verna ducked low, feeling steel tickle her short-cropped hair, then the halberd came down like a guillotine. She jumped back from the attack and thrust forward, her blade glancing off the heavy kite shield. Oberthen swung at her again, catching her arm and drawing blood, but she ignored the pain and kept focused. She backpedaled from the brash warrior, staying out of range of his assault. He struck mercilessly, but without her cumbersome armor, the woman proved to be too quick a target. His anger got the better of him, and Oberthen tossed the shield onto his back as he gripped the halberd with both hands. Verna tensed; she saw her opening.

With a warcry, the man charged, polearm braced beneath his arm. This time, his target did not move, and he tasted victory as he neared. He stabbed forward, but in an instant, the parrying dagger whipped out to catch the hilt of his halberd. His thrust was thrown wide, and he gasped in surprise as he teetered off-balance.

Suddenly, Verna was before him. She plunged her straight sword beneath his breastplate until it tore out his backside. Blood arced through the air as she kept pushing, slamming the man against the stone floor, his guts glistening in the morning sun. Oberthen's eyes went wide with shock, then finally, he screamed.

Verna raised her eyes to the crowd around her. They were not looking at her, though. Everyone was staring aghast at the shrieking man as he rolled about in a pool of his own blood.

Brommand finally broke the spell. "Cleric!" he barked, and the shocked woman rushed forward to heal the poor herald. As her chime rang out, the others found their voice, and all at once they chastised the victor.

"What was that!?" one shouted. "You could have killed him!" cried another. "It's just practice, for Gwyn's sake!" "We never harmed you in such—"

"Silence!" the captain commanded, and the heralds were hushed. "Did I give the order to halt? Verna defeated her opponent, for once, and you dare reprimand her? She did exactly as she was told. A gut wound will not kill a man for a long while, at any rate." He turned his steely gaze to the red-head and gave a curt nod. "Well done, Verna. You may return."

Her hands were shaking as she rejoined her fellow heralds, who stepped away from her. She didn't mind; in fact, she rather enjoyed it. Something slid down her cheek, and she realized that a splash of blood had struck her. She wiped it off with a gloved hand, then noticed Calvert, staring at her with a mix of horror and awe. It was better than she could have imagined.

For the first time in her training, Verna allowed herself a smile.