The Cursed Blood, стр. 62
He pulled the heavy door open with a groaning creak by the rusted rung, loosing a torrent of martial sounds, shouting and clunks of wood on wood along with a gust of stale air and gestured for us to head though. “Welcome to the Wolves Den, lad,” he said with a curt nod. Manx sniffed and padded in, tongue lolling from his jaws as per usual, me just behind him.
The room was round and lit by torches. The walls were lined with racks of training weapons, shields, and armor and in the center a giant brass ring filled with sand was surrounded by long rectangular training mats where about half a dozen squires most stripped to the waist, sweated and sparred with round shields and wooden weapons.
A stern instructor dressed identical to the sergeant wandered among them watchfully with a cane rod in his fist he used to correct stance, form, and belligerence with violent ferocity and diligence.
“ATEN-shun, you lot of slack jawed, useless bastards,” the instructor yelled out with a thwack of his cane on the nearest youth’s shield that sent the lad tumbling. In moments the trainees of four boys and two girls in tight, short black training tops as well as their fatigue pants and boots dropped their gear and offered dutiful salutes by pounding their chests with their fists at their Sergeant at Arms then standing stiffly with hands at their sides like tiny toy soldiers.
“At ease,” Sgt. Blake barked. “This here, is Benjamin Bright. Welcome him.” Again, the group pounded their fists onto their chests in perfect unison at which the instructor and sergeant both nodded in approval at. “He is your family. What do we do here with family?” he growled.
“Break them and make them, Sir!” the squires thundered in unison.
“Indeed, we do,” Sgt. Blake agreed coldly. “Get the pup suited and circled.”
Twenty minutes later I was fitted in matching gear as the squires that itched horribly and into a pair of boots that hurt my feet and led back out to the “Den” to be “circled” which I had an uncomfortable suspicion had something to do with the sand pit at the room’s center. I wasn’t wrong.
Manx had taken up a comfortable position atop a bundle of rolled mats and was watching everything from between his paws as he munched on a huge beef bone someone had brought him as I was handed a leather wrapped stave and gently shoved into the pit.
An Asian boy, roughly two years my senior stepped into the ring, introduced himself, and bowed, his stave whistling as he spun it in his hand in complex patterns used to confuse an opponent who hadn’t spent weeks drilling with Gramps who simply found the practice annoying and silly.
I just stood there watching him as everyone else watched me, loose and attentive as he started to circle about me making odd noises that sounded stereotypical of ninja movies I’d seen once or twice with my parents at the local cinema.
He lunged and found himself hitting nothing but air and eating a mouthful of sand as I stepped aside at the last moment and stuck out my foot, as I whipped my stave across his shoulder blades for good measure in a well-practiced, smooth motion.
“Next,” Sgt. Blake called, as he offered me a raised eyebrow as his instructor took a new interest with eyes narrowed as his fists tightened on his cane with a creak of protest from the wood. He flashed an angry, almost hateful look at me as he spat out a clump of sand, wiped his face with his sweaty arm and stalked sulkily out of the ring.
A pretty girl with short blond hair named Natalie offered me a bow and smirk as she stepped in. She didn’t circle—her strategy was simple, come in swinging. Ok then, I rapped her knuckles like Gramps had done to me many a painful time after ducking the first wild air whistling haymaker and stepped in to follow through with a thrust to the midsection that sent her to her knees, doubling over. She, too, glared at me but the glare turned into an impish half smile as she got up, nursing her injured hand and Sgt. Blake again called for another contender.
The next one to step into the sand was a tall dusky skinned fellow with a shaved head who stood stalk still and studied me calculatingly for a moment before bowing and introducing himself as Arjan. His weapon of choice was a leather wrapped staff.
I knew without a doubt I was in trouble when he gave me a wicked smile and dropped into a wide footed stance, wielding the long stick like a spear. His lunge was perfect and nearly took my head clean off.
Impossibly fast, he recovered and swept the staff at me in a blur of wood and leather—again almost taking off my head, I felt the hiss of protesting air as it buzzed viciously past my ear and ruffled my hair as I dove to the side. As Gramps taught me, I rolled to the side, just in time to have the stave tip driven lance like, deep into the sand where I’d been mere heartbeats before.
I eyed the dark young apprentice from a crouch and offered him a nod, which he returned as he spun about in a blur and brought the staff whistling down like an axe into the sand. Once more it only barely missed me as I rolled forward this time slashing out with my much shorter stave, only barely missing his ankles as he twisted away and brought his staff to the ready and again dropped into a wide footed stance.
The exchange hadn’t even lasted a minute, but I was breathing hard and my heart was thundering as I struggled to catch my breath