Author's Note:
"Bring Us Back Light" is taking more time and planning than I initially expected, but that's okay since I wanna do it right. Since I don't want too long a gap between TUC entries, I've decided to post another story (or maybe even 2) slightly out of order.
Mareth's chapter in "Son of the Son" made Xartimus really hope for a specific scene that I hadn't included in my plans. So I hope you enjoy this while my larger project continues. Chronologically, this is the 4th story of Underland Illuminated, set early in Book 2.
Vikus forced his voice to remain steady, and he would not clench his fists. It would not do for the foremost proponent of peace to display his anger in a way that implied a readiness for violence. Not even in the private chambers he shared with Solovet. But it was hard to control his frustration, when someone he loved so deeply opposed him in something so dear to his heart. "Do you delight in Gregor's foretold future?" he asked softly. "Are you eager for the other prophecies to come true?"
Solovet straightened. "Do not ascribe ill motives to my actions. As always, I seek only what is best for the greatest number."
"The greatest number." Vikus looked his wife dead in the eye. "And of course… Gregor himself is only one. But forget not his family and friends in the Overland."
"I cannot forget them. They were considered at length by myself, my captains, and their lieutenants. As you well know, all Overlanders that return home represent an ongoing security risk. If the Overlander government ever suspects we exist, it could be the end of us all. And yet, after careful consideration, we allowed the warrior, his sister, and their father to leave. We could have kept them here indefinitely, and the rest of their family would never have learned the truth. Instead, we have placed great trust in them all. This is a sacrifice, Vikus."
"Why should it be considered so, when we have no choice?" Vikus demanded. "The Prophecy of Blood will one day require that we 'bring the warrior from above' and also 'bring the Princess.' This indicates that they both must dwell in the Overland until that time. If they are to visit our world multiple times despite not calling Regalia their home, is it not expected that they can keep our secrets? And one day, hopefully not for many decades, the Prophecy of Time will require absolute trust in Gregor and his sister. Allowing him to return home after saving our whole world, each time they save our world, is the absolute least we can do."
"It is still a risk," Solovet insisted, "but one my officers and I have grudgingly accepted. Whereas you seem willing to risk the very life of the one we must depend on for our survival. None of us expected the next prophecy to come into play so soon, and it will demand far more of Gregor than did his previous journey. To drain the light of the mythical giant… I would not trust even Perdita to defeat such a foe alone, were she recovered and at the peak of her strength." Her voice rose, not quite shouting but with great fervor. "Yet you would have the warrior face it without skill or weapons?"
"Ah, so at last we come to it." Vikus took a deep breath and rallied himself for an unwinnable battle, for Mareth and many others fully supported Solovet's decision. "You should have told me about the training. I should have had a say in it!"
"Yes, yes, we could have gone round and round while you tried to think of some way to protect him, but it is not possible." Solovet sank back into her chair and stared into the candle. "No matter what you want." As her husband, Vikus could identify the faintest hint of sympathy in her tone, all but buried in the hardness of a commander who would not suffer foolishness.
But to Vikus, it was never foolish to care about individuals, even in the context of the greater good. "And what of what Gregor wants? Does he have no say in this? He pushed away the sword, Solovet. He does not wish to fight."
Solovet's eyes turned from the candle to again lock her steely gaze upon his. "None of us wish to fight, Vikus."
It took great strength of will for Vikus to suppress a bitter laugh. What came out instead sounded less scornful, but still doubtful.
" None of us wish to fight," Solovet repeated, more slowly, "but we all do."
Vikus sank back in his chair, but his wife wasn't done. "And the prophecy calls Gregor 'the warrior,' after all. Not 'the peacemaker.'"
This again. "Oh, the prophecies are often misleading." This time, it was Solovet's turn to show scorn, though she did so with a silent glare. From the moment Vikus first suspected the prophecies might refer to Gregor, he had bent his mind to all possible interpretations that might spare the boy from being forced into Solovet's mold. He had oft spoken with Nerissa, seeking ways the prophecies might be fulfilled with minimal bloodshed, but he had not the energy to relate these theories in detail. Not with Solovet already hostile. "He is called the warrior, but perhaps his weapons are not the ones we are familiar with. He did very well last time with no common weapon. I am telling you: He pushed away Sandwich's sword!"
Solovet leaned forward, placing one hand on the table. "Yes, when he was safe and he thought everything was over . But I remember he asked for a sword on the quest."
"But he had no need of it! He was better off without it, I think." If Gregor had carried a sword on the quest, it was very unlikely that he would have chosen to "leap." If he had instead chosen to fight, Gorger and Henry might well have survived, and the war could have ended in disaster.
"And I think that if you send him out unarmed this time, you guarantee his death."
Husband and wife fell silent for a time, each of them staring into the flickering candle. Vikus couldn't imagine Gregor defeating the Bane in a direct battle, let alone surviving to return home. Not even were he given a full decade to grow and to train. But that just meant the warrior's victory must come by some other way. Gregor slew Gorger without fighting him directly, bringing back light despite carrying no blade, and Vikus hoped something similar was foretold by the prophecy. No human could kill the Bane alone, but Sandwich insisted they send an eleven-year-old boy. He could not strike it down with a sword, but perhaps he could defeat it with some turn of fortune unforeseen.
But he knew how weak such beliefs would appear in the eyes of his wife. Solovet, victor of a hundred battles, whose sword had slain dozens and whose soldiers had slain thousands. In the short but devastating war waged during Gregor's first visit to the Underland, Solovet's brutal side had come to the fore. To her, if Gregor were to drain the Bane's light, it would require a sword in his hand and Mareth's training to back it up.
Lost in contemplation, Vikus didn't immediately look up when his wife broke the silence. "Thousands of creatures perished when Gorger launched his attack. Crawler, spinner, flier, flutterer, sipper, nibbler… and human." She waited for Vikus to meet her pained eyes before continuing. "I know the name of every soldier under my command. Nearly all are less than half my age. I remember when they first took up the sword, often as young as five years old. Innocent children, offering themselves in the defense of Regalia. They all experienced a decade of harsh training, if not more, preparing them for the horrors of war. Pushing their bodies and minds, hardening them, that they might stand as shields for us all." Her voice grew softer, forcing Vikus to focus on the words. "Two hundred seven of them perished fighting back Gorger's armies. Of the survivors, eleven were maimed, three blinded, and ten lost bonds. I commanded, they obeyed." Her voice hardened. "None of that harm would have come if King Gorger had maintained the peace. If he had been satisfied with the lives he took years ago, and with the crown he stole. If he had accepted that Shed and Fangor died for their own actions, attempting to murder Gregor and his sister." She rose to her feet, though Vikus remained seated. "Many sons and daughters of Regalia and the Fount gave their light at my order. If you do not wish for Gregor to perish two prophecies ahead of schedule, leaving us without an Overland warrior… you will not interfere with his training."
"The warrior has returned."
Councilman Neria looked up from her late supper with the Governor. Glend, her bodyguard of nineteen years, held up a small parchment. "Gregor and his sister are in Regalia even now. The boy is to begin training on the morrow."
"That is well," York said, pushing back his third plate, which he'd scraped completely clean. "I had hoped the Overlander would be full grown by the time the Bane appeared, but if he is to fight at age eleven, he needs to be ready. And Mareth is by far the best at inspiring and encouraging young trainees."
Neria's husband, Acting Captain Lenwen, nodded. "And he is most eager. After the Overlanders returned home, Mareth twice lamented that he never had an opportunity to train the boy."
"I fully expect great things from the warrior," Neria said, returning to her meal. "When the council interviewed him, the lad seemed unaware of his own excellence, both in athletic capacity and mental maturity. I wish none so young had to face danger, but if any child is to fight the Bane… I am glad it is he."
The final guests at the table, Telgeth and Telgar, both looked somber. At age twenty-two, Telgeth had recently been appointed as the youngest Councilman in Regalia's history, replacing the retired Hela. Though in his prime, Neria could not imagine this young man battling a twelve-foot-long gnawer. His younger brother, Telgar, would be even more hopeless facing such a foe. But Gregor? Three years younger than even Telgar, an Overlander who was proud of never having even thrown a punch in anger… and yet Neria still believed in him. Her own children were all trained soldiers, and the two oldest had fought in Gorger's war, but something about Gregor… She suspected he could quickly be a match for any of them, if Mareth only taught him the most basic principles of armed combat.
"I wish that the Overlander didn't need to kill the Bane." Young Telgar was a word weaver, and he quickly adopted an Overland accent after meeting Gregor's father only once. "He's kind, and cares for his sister. I think he'd prefer pretty much any other solution. Much like the flier Eirene, he doesn't want to hurt anyone or anything."
"Yet he must," Neria said softly. "The gnawers will seek to kill his sister. No matter what the warrior wants, I believe he will do whatever it takes to ensure the baby lives."
The group fell silent. Neria pondered the unique situation regarding Gregor's family. Back before she was born, an Overlander had told tales of a terrible war that swept the surface world. Vast armies of many nations, wielding weapons that could attack from great distances. Deadly gas that killed so brutally that most nations agreed not to use it. Metal warships that could launch flying machines, which in turn dropped explosives from on high. Devices that harnessed unspeakable power to destroy entire cities. And, even more disturbing in some ways, the systematic mass execution of millions of innocent people.
The Underland must never become known to the Overland.
If any conflict arose between the two worlds, the outcome would be certain. Just the nation directly above them had more soldiers than the entire sapient population of the Underland, even including crawlers and cutters. And due to this extreme risk, it was rare to allow Overlanders to return home.
Neria had met Fred Clark when he fell to them a decade before. As always, the council initially forbade him from returning home, explaining the danger he would face, and the need to lie low. This was true, but ultimately still an excuse to buy time, to get to know him better. For to return home with knowledge of the Overland, someone must be one of two things: So trustworthy that even Solovet believed they would keep the secret, or so untrustworthy that no one in the Overland would believe their story.
Fred Clark hadn't survived long enough for the council to come to a decision.
Gregor's family was a special case. Two children could be allowed to return home, because Overland authorities would never believe the fanciful stories of children who had likely run away from home and now made excuses. And as for their father, his physical and mental health were both so poor when he returned home that he too might be dismissed as delusional. But there was more than that. Gregor and his father could be trusted. Must be trusted. A man of science and learning would fully comprehend the consequences of spreading the secret of the Underland. And the warrior? He was included in four different prophecies. They already had to trust him, over and over again. Compared to what they needed to do, and suffer, on their behalf, it seemed a small thing for him to show discretion whenever he returned home.
Such thoughts added to Neria's distress, making her imagine all the pain and loss in Gregor's future. She rose and walked to the balcony, hoping to clear her mind. Her husband Lenwen soon joined her. Between council meetings, it was customary for at least two councilmen to visit the Fount, so the decision makers might never forget the needs of the citizens. The majority of Underlanders lived in or near Regalia, and that city was more vulnerable to attack. But the people of the Fount still deserved attention and representation. It would help that Telgeth lived here, as did the older councilman Tomias. And York governed well. From her high vantage point near the summit of York's castle, she looked out toward the narrow tunnels that accessed the nibbler colony. Even after the terrible losses suffered battling Gorger's forces, the mice were severely overcrowded. They had access to the river and its fish, and Regalia often sent them grain to supplement their diet. But the fish population barely kept up with demand. If either the Fount or the nibbler colony grew, the food supply might not hold out.
Neria rounded the castle balcony, which wrapped all the way around on this level. The fortified structure barred the only land route to the rest of the town, which was far smaller than Regalia, with the structures more densely clustered. The river spilled from the cavern wall and formed a superlatively effective moat. Aside from Ripred's highly unconventional invasion attempt twenty years before, the Fount rarely faced danger. If invaders struggled through the steep and narrow tunnels to reach the nibbler colony, further progress would be halted by the castle. And access from the far side would require braving the rapids. But perhaps the Fount's greatest defense was more fundamental: It wasn't the capitol. The royal family resided at the Regalian palace, most of the council dwelt there at any given time, and the majority of the human population lived behind Regalia's walls. If an enemy ever destroyed Regalia, the Fount would eventually fall without a fight. Even if they survived without regular crop shipments, the population was too small to be sustainable. Within a few generations, lack of genetic diversity would doom them.
Lenwen put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. He could always tell when her ponderings turned dark. Neria took a deep breath, forcing such grim thoughts from her mind. They had survived the perils and challenges of the Underland for centuries. And with the warrior clearly identified, there was hope of overcoming the next several foretold crises.
Well, the warrior's identity seemed clear to Neria, and most others. Councilman Gerin and an influential minority still believed the boy a false savior. They offered no clear alternative to the current understanding of how the Prophecy of Gray had been fulfilled, but they sought any means to discredit Gregor. Neria hoped they didn't try anything too extreme.
"Thank you for joining me tonight," York said, striding up on those long legs of his. "With the warrior back, we can expect planning to commence on how best to hunt the Bane. I suggest your party, and Telgeth, set out for Regalia. It is a twelve hour flight, so I fear you will need to leave soon, without sleep."
"A wise suggestion," Neria said, turning to face the man who towered so far above her. "I am eager to see the Overlander again, especially if he is to be trained."
"I'm coming too," young Telgar insisted, trotting up with Telgeth right behind. "Mareth won't say no if I ask to join the training tomorrow."
"You will not have a chance of keeping up with the warrior," Telgeth warned.
"My Howard might be able to," York said. "I think I will send all of my children with you. Pandora and Chthonius can carry them. If even half of what they say about Gregor is true, I shall want a detailed report from multiple observers."
"Wait, you're sending Stellovet?" Telgar asked, eyes wide. "And she won't get any sleep cuz we have to leave right away?"
"Are you concerned for my daughter's comfort?" York asked.
"No offense, Governor, but the last time Stellovet stayed up all night, she was a nightmare the following morning…"
Mareth sprang out of bed, exhilarated, eager to face the day. The sting of recent losses, followed by months of tension and tedium, suddenly felt distant. For today… he was to train the Overlander! Needing only a moment to finish dressing, he sprinted to the High Hall.
When Gregor first came to the Underland, Mareth and Perdita had both been deeply impressed by his maturity, his confidence, and his physical aptitude. His interview by the council had further added to Mareth's conviction that this boy was of singular excellence. But he had not witnessed Gregor's most impressive triumphs on the quest, nor been given any time to directly train the boy. Today… he would treasure it.
Reaching the High Hall, Mareth saw Andromeda already circling. His flier had fully recovered from her injuries, and Mareth fearlessly threw himself from the balcony. The bat caught him smoothly, and they shot toward the arena. "Do not push the Overlander too hard," Andromeda warned. "No matter how certain you are of his excellence, every child has limits. And because you inspire the best to push those limits, I fear your enthusiasm may leave him sick and battered."
"I will remember it," Mareth said, "but do not rob the joy from this moment. I have longed for this chance ever since I met him. He saved the queen's life without needing a weapon, he can keep pace with crawlers, can briefly stay ahead of gnawers, and he has accepted the responsibility of killing the Bane. It is good and right for us to expect great things from him."
They reached the arena, and Mareth dropped to the mossy floor. Many young ones had already gathered, ranging in age from sixteen all the way down to five. Under all but the most extreme circumstances, such as complying with a prophecy or facing a breach of the city, those fifteen and younger were kept away from actual combat. But by starting their training so young, they maximized their chances of surviving when their time to fight finally came.
Looking at all the young faces renewed Mareth's regret at Perdita's condition. The concussion she suffered fighting Shed and Fangor had been serious, and the doctors feared she would need several months more before returning to active duty. Her Lieutenant, Lenwen, led her division for now. Perdita was always a welcome inclusion in training sessions, as she could demonstrate perfect form in attack and defense. Mareth couldn't match her skill, but at least he loved children, and most seemed to enjoy his tutelage.
"Divide up by class!" Mareth called, loudly enough to be heard across the field. The youths hurried to do so, and soldiers split up among them to help supervise. Solovet's Lieutenant, Ursen, took charge of the oldest trainees. This included Councilman Neria's youngest son, Cleft, and Councilman Varger's twin sons, Wex and Layne. None looked especially enthusiastic, for Ursen had a reputation for pushing trainees mercilessly, long past the point of pain. But such conditioning might save their lives someday.
Gregor hadn't arrived yet, so Mareth initially spread his attention between all the trainees. The youngest children were spread out enough to safely practice basic sword moves, under careful supervision from Lieutenant Marian. Mareth's own Lieutenant, Zechareth, led a class of those aged seven through ten. Ursen set the oldest youths to full-contact sparring, and though they were unarmed it wasn't long before noses were bleeding and faces were bruised. When gentle Cleft hesitated, missing an opportunity for a hit to Layne's face, Ursen commanded the boy to stand still and endure multiple hits. Obedient to a fault, Cleft stood stiff and stoic, but Mareth intervened while Layne hesitated. Ursen's intensity could easily go too far, and despite Ursen reporting directly to Solovet, Mareth still outranked him. "It is good to toughen them, but I fear you are overzealous today. Perhaps shift to something less harsh." Mareth kept his tone calm, almost friendly, but Ursen seemed to understand just how angry he actually was. With a nod, the Lieutenant had his class switch to wrestling.
Shaking his head and turning away, Mareth lost all concern and worry: Gregor had arrived! Mareth broke into a full run. "Overlander! You are back!" Gregor turned just in time to get yanked into the air by Mareth's hug. Though almost as skinny as Nerissa, the boy was well knit and endured the crushing embrace long enough for Mareth to realize Gregor couldn't breathe. He let go, and Gregor dropped back to the ground and filled his lungs.
"Hey, Mareth. How's it going?"
"Very well, now that you are here. Come, you are to do general training with me." Mareth pointed toward the group of children between the ages of eleven and thirteen, then he jogged across the field in high spirits. His enthusiasm had him feeling like a child again. Finally a trainee of exceptional ability who wasn't also a queen. Mareth rarely went easy on Luxa, but propriety still set limits on what could be demanded of royalty. They jogged past the group of youngest children, reached Mareth's group, and Gregor took a spot near Luxa.
"We shall resume," Mareth said, beaming. "Combat on fliers requires agility, balance, and flexibility, which are also vital qualities in a swordsman. So we will continue with stretches." He leaned far to the right touching the moss, then did the same on his left. "Do not injure yourselves, but push beyond what is comfortable
As they progressed through a wide range of motions, Mareth noticed with some disappointment that Gregor did not excel in this area. Not at all. He could move quickly, and wasn't afraid of discomfort, but his flexibility failed to impress. Luxa could manage contortions beyond anyone else Mareth had ever trained, but Gregor could barely equal the least talented trainees of his age group. His arms had slightly better range of motion than the rest of him, which was the most important for swordplay, and Mareth forced himself to stay positive.
This became easy with what came next. When Mareth called, "Push-ups!" and dropped to the ground, two of the trainees groaned… but not Gregor. The boy kept his eyes on Mareth, matching his pace, and the Captain secretly took that as a challenge. He kept going after most of the boys, and every girl except Luxa, had given up. Mareth's arms started to burn, and Luxa's face contorted with determination, but Gregor wasn't even sweating yet. Mareth wanted to keep going, but he mustn't discourage the other students. All of these children might face battle someday, and it wouldn't do to focus on Gregor at the expense of the others. Reluctantly, he rolled onto his back and commanded, "Leg lifts!" The class complied, and Mareth noticed that Gregor didn't match his pace this time. He exceeded it. He seemed to find the exercise boring, and upped the intensity just to stay engaged. As a test, Mareth chose sit-ups next, forcing everyone to keep using similar muscles, but Gregor didn't slow down. He kept pushing to beat Mareth's pace by at least half. As a dedicated gymnast, Luxa's strength to weight ratio exceeded most of the trainees, but she still struggled to keep up with Gregor.
The boy ran alongside crawlers when he first came to the Underland, he outran rats long enough to lure them into falling off a cliff, and he evaded rat pursuit yet again just yesterday. It is time to test the warrior's greatest physical talent… "Laps!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "Two miles! Go go go!" He broke into a run. In the whole army, only Solovet's elites, Horatio and Marcus, could outrun Mareth, and he didn't hold back. He set a punishing pace, the fastest that he could realistically maintain for the full two miles, leaving most of his students far behind. Luxa drove herself hard, trying to keep up, but only one trainee actually succeeded. With those long skinny legs pumping, his expression calm, and his breathing steady, Gregor stayed right at Mareth's side. Some years before, a boy named Renneth had briefly kept up with Mareth at this speed, but only by pushing himself past his limits. He'd slowed and given up after only one lap, and eventually washed out all together. Gregor did not slow, not even slightly. After completing the first mile, the boy finally began to sweat, and his expression grew more distant, but he never fell behind. They started lapping other students, and even caught up with Luxa by the time the two miles were completed. She scowled, knowing she still had another lap, and Mareth tried to cheer her up. "You cannot be blamed for lacking Gregor's stride!" And she will have the last laugh, with what comes next. Mareth shook Gregor's hand. "Well done, Overlander! I have never had a trainee keep up with me for the full distance, and I rarely set so swift a pace."
Gregor smiled, noticing for the first time just how far behind the second fastest student was. His breathing leveled out and returned to normal by the time Luxa came back around and completed her run. Mareth marveled. His own heart still pounded from the exertion, and he breathed heavily. Though one of the best soldiers in the Underland, his stamina couldn't match this child, at least when running. Luxa dropped to one knee, gasping having pushed herself to the limit to come in fourth place, but she didn't look bitter. Rather, she seemed impressed with this Overlander. As well she should. Now it is time for that respect to go the other way.
"Tumbling!" Mareth announced.
Gregor's smile vanished, and Luxa beamed. It was now the queen's turn to display her talents to the full.
With focus, and relying on raw power, Mareth performed a cartwheel, then reoriented and managed a smooth forward flip. Then he paused to better observe the efforts of the class. Luxa cartwheeled continuously at least six times before Mareth ordered her not to show off… yet. "Let the others do their best first! Then you can give them something to aspire to."
Despite possessing strength that seemed difficult to believe from one of his build, Gregor had no talent whatsoever for gymnastics. Councilman Syndel had warned Mareth to expect that, but he'd hoped that was just Gregor being too modest when describing his abilities. Alas… no. Gregor fell more often than every other trainee combined. But Mareth was still impressed. The moss covering the stone floor wasn't thick enough to make such falls comfortable, but the boy endured every crash and just kept getting back up. At last, Luxa turned her attention to the hopeless Overlander, giving advice that, from his expression, was far beyond his ability to implement.
Time to test his humility… "Luxa! Show us your triaxial twister!"
Even the other classes stopped what they were doing to watch. The young queen broke into a sprint and hurled herself into the air. Her right leg launched with even greater power than her left, and combined with a snap-twist of her upper body, the girl spun like a top even as she flipped forward. Her hands came down and shoved off the ground again, maintaining her corkscrew as she flew up for another double flip, and she repeated the cycle twice more before a smooth landing.
Mareth joined the rest of the crowd in wild applause. In all Mareth's life, he had only ever seen four others execute that trick so flawlessly. Perdita, Judith, Hamnet, and Riven. The thought of his old friend brought on a pang of loss, but Mareth would not allow this day to be spoiled.
The test had proven not just Gregor's humility, but also Luxa's. Gregor didn't hide his admiration, and Luxa patiently tried to help him with his technique. Since he had no technique, her advice produced no results, but it was still wholesome to watch the process.
So… the Overland warrior is not especially flexible, and he lacks the coordination for acrobatics. But he is exceptionally tough and strong, especially considering his featherweight build, faster than any of his peers, and fit enough to recover from exertion more efficiently than most soldiers. A diamond in the rough, and Solovet entrusted me with his training. He wished yet again that Perdita were healthy enough to join in.
The young word weaver Telgar came trotting into the arena and headed straight for Mareth. "A bunch of us flew through the night, and I hope I'm not too late. Telgeth says I won't be able to keep up with the warrior, but can I at least give it a try?"
Mareth hid his surprise at Telgar's Overland accent, but he didn't let it distract him too much. "Gregor kept pace with me for two full miles, but I suspect you will outperform him when we bring out the swords. He has never trained with one." He waved for Telgar to join his students, despite being a bit older than the rest. It wouldn't be kind to subject the gentle boy to Ursen's training style.
Mareth saw five more children enter the arena, and recognized them as York's. Of the five, the oldest most resembled his father. Though nowhere near so tall, Howard's thick musculature surpassed any of his peers. But while Telgar had come to train, the other visitors initially chatted with Luxa and Gregor. Mareth left them to it, focusing on the other trainees. Ursen had the older students sparring with blunted swords, and many dark bruises could already be seen. Cleft and Wex in particular were having a rough time, but Mareth wouldn't cut in just yet. He'd have to keep Howard and Stellovet in his own group. If York learned that they'd been exposed to Ursen's harsh teaching style, Mareth would have a very hard time explaining himself. And since York was the only human that made Mareth look weak…
He did a double take when Luxa blasted past him, performing a series of flips that somehow impressed him more than her earlier display. Apparently, her conversation with her cousins was over.
So far, Mareth had observed Gregor's abilities. It was finally time to teach him something. "Gather! Warm ups are finished! It is time for the real training!" Howard and Stellovet started heading toward the group of older trainees, but Mareth called them over. "Howard, you saw combat mere months ago, despite your father trying to keep you from the front. It will do the Overlander good to observe your technique after I have shown him the basics." Howard nodded, but Stellovet seemed annoyed to be stuck with children as young as eleven.
Tairen the blacksmith had donated an entire cart of swords for training purposes. It felt fitting, considering these weapons had been made by Tairen's youngest children as practice in forging. The blunted swords weren't excellent, but still competently made. And their balance would be good enough for safe use. Most of the trainees chose their own weapons. Telgar selected a slender, single-edged saber, while Howard took a heavier falchion. Luxa claimed a style of weapon unique to the Underland, well-suited to the grace and finesse of her fighting style. The modified smallsword had a triangular cross-section with concave sides, tapering to allow three cutting edges. If it weren't a training sword, all three edges could deliver deadly slashes to throats or arteries. Its design couldn't cut especially deep, but that mattered little in the hands of a child whose style already favored precision over power.
Mareth almost rolled his eyes when Stellovet sought out a weapon of the same style… but longer.
Gregor though, hung back, clearly not eager to take up any weapon. On one level, Mareth approved. Though among the best fighters in the Underland, Mareth never celebrated killing, and it was good that Gregor wasn't eager to fight. But, sadly… he must . Mareth would choose a weapon for him. None of these swords could possibly compare to the one Gregor would someday inherit, but Mareth selected one of a similar style. Straight for accurate thrusts, double-edged for versatility, longer than most one-handed weapons, and with a slightly longer hilt that a child could use two-handed in a pinch. Mareth would ensure Gregor trained exclusively with this style of sword, to better prepare him for the distant, dreaded day when he would be given the weapon he would carry at the end of his life.
"Here, Overlander. Try this one." Mareth held out the sword to Gregor, hilt first. He realized he was holding his breath, and forced himself to stay calm.
The warrior took up the sword. He hefted it, gauging its weight and balance, then tried a few practice swings. Though untrained, he had an instinctive grasp of edge alignment, twisting his wrist as he swung to always lead with a cutting edge.
Mareth tried to sound casual. "How does it feel?"
"All right, I guess."
A weight Mareth hadn't been aware of slid off him. Gregor might be mature, tough, and extraordinarily fit, but he was still just a boy. Mareth would enjoy training him, but he wasn't a supernatural prodigy. Mareth wouldn't have to move mountains, treating Gregor differently from all the other trainees, or pioneering extreme teaching methods.
"Pair up for sword drill!"
Howard paired off with Telgar, while Stellovet initially chose to face off with the youngest girl in the group. But her confidence vanished when Luxa took the girl's place. Gregor though, would initially face Mareth, who chose a sword very similar to Gregor's own, rather than his preferred falchion style.
"As you have never wielded a sword, we will start with the basics." Mareth turned sideways, presenting a smaller target and maximizing his reach. "Most of our battles are fought from the air, on fliers, so our soldiers almost always use one-handed swords. But such training can be dangerous for the bat, so we always start our lessons with battle on the ground. Only after a trainee demonstrates blade control and situational awareness can he be trusted to swing a sword near a bat's moving wings."
Gregor nodded. His sweat had long since dried, he was light on his feet, and somehow blended casual calm with bold confidence. Mareth felt the rush of joy in having this chance to be the first one to teach swordplay to a lad of such potential. "You already have a grasp of edge alignment, in always angling your sword so any hit will land perfectly on a cutting edge. So we can focus on the basics of aiming such strikes, and blocking those that come at you."
Again, the boy just nodded. He had automatically mirrored Mareth's stance and the position of his sword. Mareth struck out, far slower than he could have, to allow Gregor to better see the movement. "Thrusting can be especially deadly, but when riding a flier this can easily leave your sword trapped in your target. You saw that happen twice in the battle with Fangor and Shed. So, especially at first, most of your attacks will be cuts." He struck out again, this time making contact with Gregor's sword. He was pleased that the boy's sword moved only slightly when struck. That spindly arm and narrow wrist were far stronger than they looked. "That's why so many of us use single-edged weapons. Most of our attacks are heavy slashes as our bat dives past an enemy. But a double-edged weapon allows quicker follow-up attacks if the first strike misses." Mareth swung again, deliberately missing Gregor's sword, but reversed direction and struck the blade on a backhand. Again, Gregor's grip held firm, and his sword deflected Mareth's without being knocked aside.
Mareth noticed that Telgar and Howard kept pausing in their light sparring session to observe Gregor. There was a good chance York wanted to hear their account of the warrior's performance. If the governor of the Fount had more free time, he would have been here to assist with the training. Lucky me, to have a trainee of such potential all to myself. I must make the best possible use of the time we have before the quest. "Actual combat moves very quickly, as you saw in the fight with Shed and Fangor. Reaction time can be the single most important factor in staying alive. You impress me with your resilience, but if even one attack gets past your defenses, someone your size might be done for. It takes thick, dense muscle to stop rat claws, and only our larger soldiers have been known to keep fighting after a heavy hit." Privately, Mareth suspected Gregor's muscles might be at least as dense as his own, based on how much power the skinny thing managed to produce. But it wouldn't do for Gregor to imagine that he could afford to take hits. No matter how tough he might be pound for pound, there simply wasn't enough of him to withstand the killing power of a gnawer. "So, attack me, observe my defense, and prepare your mind to face my retaliation."
Gregor's eyes widened, but then he smiled, tensed, and attacked. His form was far from perfect, but he did a decent imitation of the strikes Mareth demonstrated. Each time, Mareth blocked with simple, basic, dependable forms, keeping his guard tight and his stance stable. "Faster!" Mareth commanded. The boy sped up, varying the angles of his attacks, though his edge alignment suffered. Mareth realized this was because of how well Gregor obeyed instructions. He wasn't really paying attention to his own sword, but was carefully watching Mareth, focusing on the veteran's defensive form.
"Good! Now, I will attack you. For safety, I will keep slightly out of reach, so that I will not hit you even if you fail to block. But each strike will come more quickly than the last."
Gregor nodded, and Mareth attacked. The first several strikes deliberately matched the most basic moves he'd already demonstrated, and Gregor blocked them well. But as Mareth sped up, and started varying the angle of his strikes, Gregor quickly got overwhelmed. Most beginners had trouble blocking, as it required more precision and timing than just swinging away with wild aggression. About half of Mareth's attacks circumvented Gregor's guard, though the blade never got close to the boy himself. Behind Gregor, he noticed Howard and Telgar had stopped training entirely, and just watched Mareth. As they weren't officially part of his class, Mareth would allow it. He was please to note that, while Gregor lacked the skill and experience to react to every attack, Mareth was never able to smash Gregor's guard aside with brute force. Though outweighed more than two to one, the Overlander could not easily be overpowered.
"You have good instincts," Mareth said, stepping back. "And your reactions are swift. But as you see, this is an art that requires great sophistication. We prefer for our soldiers to train for a full decade before they first face combat. You, sadly, will not have that luxury."
The Overlander reflected on that, and he grew more serious. "Other than Luxa, how many kids my age actually end up fighting?"
"Only those who are taken unawares by an enemy ambush," Mareth said gravely. "They almost never survive. It is my job to ensure you are ready, despite starting your training six years later than my other students."
Gregor grew reflective again, and the tip of his sword dropped. As a test, Mareth lunged forward and struck the heaviest blow yet. Although caught off guard, Gregor tightened his grip in time to avoid being disarmed. His sword was knocked badly out of position, but he didn't actually drop it. "Well done," Mareth said. "Gnawers are wily and ruthless. They will seize on any moment of inattention. Further, their echolocation and sense of smell make them far better than a human at guessing when one's mind and focus are wandering. On occasion, they even try to get their prey talking in order to–"
Gregor slashed out so suddenly and quickly Mareth reacted on pure instinct, deflecting the attack with a single tempo riposte that might have connected with the boy's shoulder had they been standing any closer. His heart pounded, realizing that his surprise could have led him to hurt the warrior. "That was… startling. But… I will admit you are learning quickly."
Unaware of how dangerous that exchange had actually been, Gregor smirked and slipped back into a guard stance.
They moved on to thrusting attacks, which required more timing to block and could more easily deal deadly damage to a gnawer. Gregor's reach gave him an easier time compensating than most children his age, but it clearly unnerved him whenever Mareth's sword stabbed directly toward his face. The Captain made sure he never actually came close to connecting, and Gregor gradually regained his confidence.
Nearby, Luxa outfought Stellovet so many times in a row that the older girl grew frustrated and ordered a boy to trade places with her. It did Stellovet little good though. Her new opponent, though far less skilled than the queen, was still too quick. Since the visitors from the Fount had just arrived this morning, they must have flown through the night, and Stellovet clearly wasn't handling the lack of sleep very well.
At last, Mareth reluctantly called a break. Gregor wasn't tired, but trying to teach too many skills at once could overload a trainee, stopping them from absorbing the lessons. Most of the other trainees appreciated the rest, and Mareth took a moment to check in on the other classes. The youngest trainees had finished with sword drill and were now jogging around the arena. For ones so young, even blunted swords were very dangerous, so they started with swords when they were fresh and focused, and only switched to running or calisthenics after. Ursen was behaving himself, with the oldest students discussing tactics and combat scenarios. Zechareth, Mareth's Lieutenant, had his students paired off and wrestling. Such skills would never have validity against a gnawer, but it was a fun way to get children strengthening their entire body while learning resilience.
Returning to his own group, Mareth noted that all but Stellovet had recovered from their exertions. "On your feet, everyone. It is time for cannon practice!" He hefted a barrel of blood balls, getting wide-eyed admiration from a few of the boys by how easily he carried it under one arm. He casually set it near where the cannons would be deployed. The young soldiers Trent, Kleave, and Sephanie wheeled out the blood ball cannons, arranging them in a semicircle forty feet across. When Gregor's father had first seen these all-metal contraptions, he'd been fascinated, and spent hours tinkering with them. Crank-powered gears and springs allowed each metal barrel to throw a blood ball every two seconds. They didn't have the power to launch anything dangerous, but their training value was considerable. All four classes gathered to observe, though on most days only a few would participate.
The blood balls were made using low value byproducts from Regalia's agricultural and mining processes, but they still couldn't be produced in the tens of thousands. Most of the time, only the older and more skilled trainees actually took a turn. But today was special. Ursen, Zechareth, and Marien carried additional barrels onto the field. "Today, you will all take a turn! For many, this will be their first time. So, who is brave enough to go first?" Mareth asked, looking over the crowd. "Why not you, Howard? I remember you did quite well the last time you visited."
Nodding gravely, Howard got into place. Mareth realized for the first time that York's oldest son had quite a lot in common with Gregor. Dutiful, responsible, kind, and strong. Yet the prophecies foretold that Gregor would be the one to repeatedly save the Underland. Mareth chose to interpret this in the best possible way: If Howard was worthy of great deeds, then Gregor must be destined for singular excellence if he were to surpass him.
"Cannons: Fire!"
The soldiers cranked, and the blood balls flew toward Howard. Mareth noted with approval that the young man adopted a simple but clever technique to maximize his effectiveness. Rather than aim for every blood ball, which would require three targeted slashes every two seconds, he completely ignored the shots coming from his left. He focused his attention and efforts on the shots from ahead and to the right. Eight of his ten swings hit their targets, though his edge alignment was off on the last hit, failing to break the ball.
"Well done, Howard! Well done." The average veteran only managed eight or nine hits, and even Mareth rarely broke more than ten. Mareth again regretted that Perdita's concussion disallowed strenuous activity. She was the only soldier in Regalia who had hit the total more than once, and she always made an impressive show of it. Even Horatio and Marcus rarely exceeded twelve hits, and he'd never seen Perdita score less than that.
As added incentive for the trainees to try their best, they were expected to collect every blood ball they missed, but others cleaned up those they broke. Howard quickly gathered the eight scattered balls and returned them to the supply barrel, while the next student got into position. Some of the youngest trainees failed to hit even one ball, but overall the group averaged four to six. Stellovet managed to break five balls by copying Howard's strategy, and Telgar broke six. When Luxa took her turn, she was the only trainee to equal Howard's score. Wex, Layne, and Cleft managed six hits each, despite being visibly battered from Ursen's harsh training methods.
At last, the longest session of cannon practice Mareth had ever arranged was complete. Veteran soldiers of Solovet's division arrived, and Mareth gave orders to prepare the cannons for them. They would set up in the center of the field, away from the mess left behind by the trainees.
But Stellovet spoke up. "Does not the Overlander take a turn?"
Mareth paused. "This is his first day of sword practice."
With false sweetness, Stellovet said "I suppose it is too daunting, even for one so accomplished."
Mareth almost laughed out loud. On his last visit to the Underland, Gregor had thrown himself off a cliff, fully expecting to die. And even now, Gregor prepared his heart to fight the Bane. It took great effort for Mareth to keep his tone respectful. "I greatly doubt Gregor is daunted, but our weapons are unfamiliar to him." He turned to the Overlander. "Would you like to try it, Gregor? Only as an exercise. Almost no one gets many on their first try?"
"Sure, why not?" Gregor jogged forward, splashing through the soggy moss. If he suspected Stellovet hoped to humiliate him, he didn't let on. He took his position, adopting the stance used by most of the more skilled trainees.
"Cannons: Fire!"
The soldiers cranked… and Mareth's concept of reality shifted.
Gregor's lanky frame was always firm and taut, but not in a way that drew special notice. But in an instant, every little muscle in his neck and forearms stood out more fiercely than on the most elite soldier. The boy's eyes didn't move to actively track the blood balls, yet he seemed to see all of them with perfect clarity, even those in his peripheral vision. His arm moved exactly fifteen times, with speed Mareth had only ever seen from Perdita, and with machine-like precision.
Every single blood ball hit the ground, sliced perfectly in half. The cuts were so smooth and clean they might have been made by a surgeon's scalpel.
He… hit the total… And every strike was flawless, with no wasted motion at all…
All was dead silent. Every soldier and trainee stared in slack-jawed amazement. Gregor seemed to come aware of his surroundings as if waking from a dream. His sword fell to the ground. His face and right hand dripped red. Without a word, he turned and strode swiftly toward the exit.
The crowd began to murmur, then chatter in growing excitement. Stellovet looked like she'd turned to stone. Telgar's smile looked downright goofy, and Howard looked grave. Soldiers began to jog over, wanting confirmation. Many trainees ran after Gregor, and started to crowd him, until Ares landed. Gregor silently mounted up, and his bond carried him away from the growing tumult.
And still Mareth stood, rooted to the spot, stunned. He had deeply enjoyed the morning, rejoicing in Gregor's speed, vitality, strength, and grit. But this…
There was simply no way that Mareth's lessons were the reason for what just occurred.
So… the warrior is a supernatural prodigy after all…
Author's Note:
Thanks again to Xartimus, without whom this story wouldn't ever have been written.