35: What the Eyes Can't See (Part V)
"Courage is not having the strength to go on; it is going on when you don't have the strength."
― Theodore Roosevelt
Krem raked his fingers through his sweat drenched hair, reaching for the almost-emptied canteen discarded at the side of the practice grounds for a draught of tepid water. His shoulders now hurt in earnest as he exerted himself and he knew he would have to sit out on the drills later in the day and pester the mages in the dispensary to conjure him up some fresh ice to ease the pain.
But he would be damned if he was going to give away anything short of himself at his best that morning after almost the entire fortress had shown up to watch the Chargers in action.
Not all eyes would be adoring, he knew; a display of weakness would be a great setback, especially for him, after the previous night. Besides, he not-so-secretly relished the gaping looks of admiration and awe on the spectators' faces. He had a reputation to uphold, he reasoned.
A robust green-eyed, honey-blonde in the crowd had not unpeeled her gaze from him. He'd seen her several times before always seeking him out during practices, he realized, suddenly flattered.
He licked the perspiration beads off his upper lip before tipping the canteen back, holding her eyes in his. She coyly lowered them as she grinned.
A reputation, indeed! he chuckled.
Almira placed herself strategically among the small band of stable boys that was held in thrall by the armored bodies crashing, lunging, and grappling with each other. The Chargers were easily identifiable thanks to their lack of uniform, unlike the Inquisition's new recruits, quavering in their standard-issue boots.
"Forget any formal fighting rules you learned back home. In combat there is no patrician right-of-way: you go for any advantage you can get your hands on," the officer handling the training explained loudly. "You will now free spar…Break your opponent's hold, or you will understand the expression 'having the wind knocked out' of you." He wandered along the observant row of recruits as they heaved heavy breaths during the grueling practice. "Fair warning: the Chargers will not go easy on you, Inquisition!"
He ran down the line one final time dispensing hasty last-minute advice to his nervous soldiers, pointing at a drooping shield arm, uneven stance, favored leg, or loosened armor strap. Almira noticed the Chargers observed everything with cool indifference, standing aside with studied casualness. She watched Krem swoop down gracefully to deposit his canteen on the ground before returning to take his position in front of his company.
"Inquisition forces, are you ready?" the Inquisition's officer shouted out hoarsely, rallying his terror-stricken soldiers.
The crowd fell silent, mesmerized as the small group of recruits all cried out affirmatively in unison.
The Chargers glanced about, obvious amusement in their faces as they gripped their wooden wasters and worn, cracked shields. The band waited until their Lieutenant had sauntered to the front and with a quick crick of his neck to the right, sized up their opponents with an entertained expression.
"Chargers!" he called out firmly in his low voice, slipping into a combative stance. "Horns up!"
She doubted she was the only one to feel the goosebumps prickle her skin at the warlike whooping cries they let out as they descended upon the hapless Inquisition recruits.
"Good fight," Almira heard, again and again, uttered with either begrudging respect or fatigue. She had enjoyed watching the Chargers engage the soldiers.
"What makes them so tricky is that it's not like going up against an army," her knowledgeable stable boys discussed nearby, as the crowd slowly dispersed.
"Every army has a certain style of combat," one of the lads explained authoritatively. "But the Chargers are pretty much all unique fighters. So, if you train to disarm a man off his mount, as you might if you expected to go up against a chevalier, you might be able to to pick off one of the Chargers…But you'll find yourself facing someone with completely unexpected abilities next."
He pointed out a dark haired elven woman making her way off the training grounds.
"See her? Duelist. Hand-to-hand combat. She held her waster like a rondel. She goes for speed and precision, not endurance. Go after her with a broadsword and she will close in on any openings you foolishly make," he said excitedly.
Almira stared straight ahead, feigning distraction, but eavesdropped attentively.
"And that other elf," he indicated a blond elf with bright green vallaslin on her pale skin standing close to where they all stood, her back turned to them, "you approach her thinking—Oh, close my distance between the archer and myself to create a dead zone— but guess what? Look again— she was wielding her waster like a mage's staff and striking with it as deftly."
The others stared and nodded until the elf turned her head, peeved, and pointed warningly at the group.
"It was supposed to be a BOW," she complained. "I'd look like a cretin pretending to shoot fake arrows now, wouldn't I?"
"And if she ever tells you I am a giant, just agree with her. Because a strike from her real…bow…hurts," a dark-haired dwarf quipped jovially as he handed his equipment to one of the quartermaster's assistants.
The young men laughed nervously, giddy from being singled out and spoken to by one of the mighty Chargers.
"What did you think?" Bull asked the Inquisition officer as they surveyed the quickly emptying training grounds.
"It was a good first rude awakening," the officer admitted. "Should curb all the bragging for a little while, at least."
"Think they'll be ready for me next time?" Bull winked.
"I wish to break them in a bit, not frighten them witless."
"Maybe in two practices or so?…" Bull asked hopefully.
"Maybe never," the officer huffed, shaking his head.
"It's really not fair," Bull sulked to the remaining Chargers. "You get to have all the fun."
Almira's eyes sought out Krem, who was standing aside, speaking in hushed tones to Stitches. She saw he had grimaced as he removed part of his armor. She had also perceived that he appeared to be having some difficulty with his left arm. He kept rolling the shoulder, as if to loosen it up, and shaking his arm. Now that she saw it, she recalled that during practice he had held his shield rather low. She'd thought perhaps that he'd meant it to lure his opponents, but she could read the discomfort in his gait.
He was in pain.
She had seen enough of the wounded— from wars, accidents, and age—hobble to her father seeking his help with poultices and ointments and analgesic concoctions to realize as much.
He began to wander away, in the opposite direction she stood in, oblivious to his admirers, focusing on moving slowly through the crowd.
She resisted the urge to dash to him—she had planned originally on greeting him and thanking him for the previous night— and instead turned back to the stairwell expeditiously.
She had hatched a new plan. And this one was going to be good and make it all better. She just knew it.
There was nothing to do except let it heal.
The bruise bloomed angrily beneath Krem's skin in garish red and plum tones across his upper back. He'd stared at the bloody swirl earlier that morning as he examined himself before the mirror in his small room. He exhaled frustratedly and sat on the edge of his bed, too tired and uncomfortable to attempt peeling off the sweat soaked undershirt he had worn beneath his armor. He needed to wash up, dress up again, and head over to the dispensary. Stitches had looked at it the previous night.
"It's a strain, my friend," Stitches concluded, palpating his shoulder blades, "The ligaments—"
"How long?" Krem interrupted.
"Put pressure and ice for the next two days…and then get moving again. If you don't, it'll get worse."
He hadn't waited even a day.
Somehow, he had the sense he wasn't making it better.
"I need you to check the ledger and tell me how much I've earned so far," she ordered her father eagerly.
"I'm on my lunch break," he retorted crossly, peering at her from behind his spectacles as he chewed slowly and flipped through his notebook.
"Hurry up! Eat!" she urged him impatiently.
"What do you need money for?" he asked suspiciously, never averting his eyes from the page before him.
"I need to buy something."
"You didn't earn that much," he revealed.
"What do you mean?"
"I had to compensate for all the transactions you ruined and shifts you did not complete…as usual," he said emphatically.
She curbed the impulse to erupt in a fury of fist shaking and expletive-filled rant and instead sat herself down quietly for a few moments.
"Just how much?" she started up again after he took a few mouthfuls of his meal.
"Hmmm…?" he asked.
"Money! You need to pay me!" she cried out.
"Let me see…" he said, with infuriatingly deliberate turpitude. "Three silver…one…two copper," he decided, considering the small haul in his hand after fishing through his pocket.
No, she knew.
He owed her much more. He was merely appeasing her with whatever he had in his pocket. She took the coins and jingled them in her palm pensively as the old man stared at her.
"Will it be enough?" she wondered aloud.
"How should I know? What on the good earth for?" he said with exasperation.
"I want to buy the herbs that you use to make the ointment you make whenever someone asks for something to cure muscle pain," she revealed, extending the coins back to him.
"Well, I…" his voice trailed off as he contemplated her. "Did you hurt yourself?" he asked incredulously.
"No, Baba! It's for someone else!" She shook the coins beneath his nose. "Is it enough?"
"Is it for the Shem?…" he tried to seem disinterested.
"Can you do it?" she persisted, ignoring his nosey question. "The one that feels nice and cool and tingly against the skin?"
He sighed deeply.
"I can," he admitted, dabbing at his mouth with a dishtowel.
She kept shaking the coins at him victoriously until he whisked them off her palm.
A/N: When I was a kid, I loved reading Asterix and Obelix. When I was re-reading Bull's eagerness over getting a chance to smack down some new recruits and getting all sulky when denied, I thought: Who else wears ridiculously striped pantaloons, looks forward to slapping some Romans around and gets cranky when denied super-strength magic potion?
Ready?
Bull= Obelix.
You heard it first here.
Yup.
Oh, and we are officially over the halfway mark to 69 chapters!
Thank you for being such fine, distinguishing, and discerning readers! You keep me going!