251 AC.
Lys.
Irat Rexarion.
The sergeant’s unit was called nothing other than the Joker.
Understandably, not because of a good sense of humor.
Aastaar loved to joke, but he had no sense of moderation and no understanding of which joke would be good and please everyone, and which would be cruel and not even raise a weak smile.
One could lament not ending up in the unit of the same Silent One, but I didn’t complain.
The sergeant’s jokes didn’t bother me in the slightest.
I think that’s exactly what made him take a liking to me.
But I wouldn’t be surprised if his deliberate singling me out turned out to be another one of his cruel jokes.
When the captain accepted me into the company, Aastaar decided to personally introduce me to his unit.
To be honest, “unit” turned out to be just a conditional name, as there were far more people.
As I was later told, this was due to the high mortality rate, both during training and during contract execution.
As a result, the subunits always had an excess of people.
In the end, I became a member of a ten-man squad consisting of fifteen people, as strange as that might sound.
The sergeant ordered the decanus, who was responsible for our unit, to handle my supplies, and then he left back to the brothel, tossing my belongings to me at the last moment.
The issue of supplies was a separate topic for conversation.
The only thing a new fighter could count on was gilded scabbards for his sword to create a good impression, a uniform, and other small items necessary for camp life.
In reality, every member of the company used the equipment they had when they joined the Golden Company.
As for armor, the fighter had to worry about that himself as well.
There weren’t many options for acquiring everything needed.
Either pay a city smith for his services, or buy from the same supply officer, but all of this required having enough money.
Coddling new recruits wasn’t the practice here.
At least not until they proved themselves.
It was enough that the Golden Company, unlike most other companies, trained its fighters.
What was the point of giving expensive equipment to an inept fool who would die in the first skirmish, leaving his armor and weapon to the enemy?
So the more experienced a warrior you were, the better equipment you received.
Better armor, better weapons, better mounts.
The approach to training in the company was also specific.
No one would explain which end of the sword to hold.
Few would point out what mistake you made in a spar.
When it came to training with live steel, there was often no one left to explain anything at all.
This was probably because the company consisted of warriors who already knew how to handle a sword.
Decanus Mark immediately warned me: my development was entirely my own responsibility.
It depended on how hard I pushed myself in training and how carefully I listened to the rare instructions.
“Wonderful,” I muttered when I heard this information.
Joining the company, I hadn’t expected first-class instructors, but I also hadn’t expected this kind of approach.
That’s how my first day as a mercenary ended.
I fell asleep right on the deck of one of the ships belonging to the Golden Company.
My squad, like the entire unit, had gone into the city to spend their earned money in taverns and cheap brothels.
No one had invited me along, given we’d only known each other for a few hours.
I wasn’t eager to integrate into their group that way anyway.
There would be time to get acquainted properly later.
“Besides, I have things to keep myself busy and money to spend,” I thought, as images of the few smithies in the city flashed through my mind, before I sank into the relentless embrace of sleep.
The next day, I became the proud owner of a sturdy shield, onto which I still had to apply the Golden Company’s emblem.
As for armor, things were much worse.
The city smithies were ready to provide any type of armor, from plate to a simple loincloth, as long as they heard the clink of coins.
But my funds were severely limited.
Plate armor was ruled out immediately, followed by leather armor.
Despite its significant drawbacks and few advantages, leather armor wasn’t much cheaper than its iron counterparts.
My finances forced me to make do with less.
So my choice fell on a gambeson, padded, according to the seller, with horsehair.
Compared to other types of armor, the gambeson’s protective qualities left much to be desired, but even a simple jacket, if it consisted of several layers of fabric, was not easily cut by an ordinary sword.
I didn’t think every second opponent I faced would be wielding Valyrian steel.
For me, affordability and retained mobility were more important.
Later, when I earned enough money, I would need to commission armor that met my requirements.
For now, I would provide protection through my abilities.
Perhaps I would even learn to do without armor altogether.
I just needed more practice.
“And finally figure out those surges of energy after killing,” I reminded myself, adjusting my grip on the iron rod that vaguely resembled a sword and served as a training tool.
“Irat!” Mark’s shout snapped me out of my thoughts.
“Stop daydreaming, pup!” At the last moment, I noticed the strip of steel that my opponent’s similar rod had become.
I had to subtly slow it down to have time to step back.
The rod passed a centimeter from my nose.
My opponent, not expecting such agility from me, was already celebrating victory, so he put all his strength into the blow, which played a cruel trick on him.
The training weapon, having failed to reach its target, continued its trajectory by inertia, pulling the attacker’s hand with it, thereby creating a huge gap in his defense.
Such an opportunity could not be missed.
A quick step forward, at the limit of my physical capabilities, brought me closer to the opponent.
Ducking down, I made a quick thrust with the rod into his exposed collarbone area, which in a real fight would be equivalent to a mortal wound, but now only caused a pained cry.
Not stopping there, I swung, grabbing the rod with my other hand, and struck the opponent just below the knee, causing his leg to buckle, and he fell to the ground.
Finishing what I started, I gestured a strike to his exposed throat with the rod.
The opponent was “dead.” Standing up fully, I heard the blood pounding in my ears.
Heavy, wheezing breath escaped my chest.
It seemed I had accelerated too much, which, combined with the slightly increased gravity on me, caused heavy strain.
I needed to increase my endurance training.
“Seven hells,” came the shocked voice of Decanus Mark.
“Boy, you’re a beast.
It seems the Warrior himself blessed you.” Looking around, I noticed many surprised faces that had gathered to watch the new recruit’s training.
I followed their gazes and, looking down at my feet, found the burly Ross, a fighter from my squad, lying in the dust, clutching his armpit and whining in pain.
I hoped he hadn’t damaged anything, because I hadn’t held back the blow.
This wasn’t the first sparring session to end this way.
It had all started with the decanus’s simple desire to test the newbie.
One by one, the members of the squad had been pitted against me.
It always ended the same way, victory for me and defeat for the others.
I couldn’t call all my victories fair.
Only by this point was I beginning to understand how to properly use my weapon.
Until this moment, I had been forced to compensate for the difference between me and my opponent with excellent endurance and, of course, gravity.
I had to use the latter carefully, so as not to be caught red-handed.
Prior observation of others revealed a simple truth to me, they didn’t fence with swords in the conventional sense of the word.
No blocking a blade with your sword edge unless you wanted it to dull or break.
No dangerous feints that gave the enemy an easy opportunity to kill you, until you were confident in your skills.
As I was later told, feints could be used to deliberately provoke the enemy.
Very few warriors could afford such dangerous movements, and they all fell into two types: fools who would die in their first battle, and unparalleled masters who understood all the risks.
“Valyrian,” a familiar mocking voice called out to me.
Distracted from examining my defeated “enemy,” I turned to whoever had called me.
It was the Joker, who had appeared from nowhere and stubbornly kept calling me by that ridiculous nickname, as if there weren’t many people with Valyrian features.
Given that the sergeant had recently been seen only in brothels, drinking various wines and fucking various “grades” of whores, his appearance here could hardly be called coincidental.
“You told the captain you didn’t know how to use a sword,” Aastaar said, with his perpetual crooked smirk on his face.
It seemed the Joker was again looking to mock someone else at their expense.
“I said I hadn’t had to use one,” I explained with a smile and shrugged.
“Turns out, it’s not that hard.” My last comment caused a storm of displeasure among the onlookers.
“Sergeant,” Mark greeted his commander.
“The kid clearly has talent.” “Talent, you say?” Aastaar said thoughtfully, stepping into the circle.
“We’ll test that right now.” His words drew a wave of malicious approval from my comrades.
Someone had appeared who would put me in my place.
No one likes those who stand out from the crowd.
It was clear that my displayed skills hadn’t made me popular.
Had I been an experienced veteran, things would have been different.
He walked over to the “sword” Ross had dropped, picked it up, and twirled it in his hand a few times, gauging its weight.
It was done so quickly that one could hear the air being cut.
“You still have some strength left, don’t you?” the sergeant asked me, gesturing for my last opponent to be carried away.
In response, I silently took my stance and prepared to fend off attacks from a clearly formidable opponent.
I’d have to use my ability carefully so Aastaar wouldn’t notice anything unusual.
Removing the increased gravity from myself, I felt an unusual lightness in my body.
It felt like if I jumped, I would soar into the sky.
I wasn’t allowed to enjoy the feeling for long, as the sergeant instantly closed the distance and attempted a quick attack.
I barely managed to dodge, shifting my body to the side to avoid a thrusting “wound” to the throat.
The wind from the attack hit my face, but I was already thinking of my own counterattack, trying to strike the sergeant, but he simply intercepted it, grabbing my wrist with his free hand and twisting it, while simultaneously trying to slash at my neck.
“What is it with you and my neck?” I thought, closing the distance and shoving him with my shoulder.
Had I had a shield in my hands, I could have blocked the blow or struck the sergeant in the teeth with its rim.
My powerful body shove, into which I put all my weight, slightly accelerating myself and creating a gravitational pull between us, knocked the air out of the sergeant’s lungs and threw him back from me.
Pain shot through my wrist when Aastaar was forced to release his grip.
“Not bad,” he wheezed, steadying himself and catching his breath.
Now he looked at me with gloomy thoughtfulness, gripping his “sword” tightly.
I didn’t rush to continue, knowing that although my maneuver had been successful, I would need to use my abilities more openly to win.
The commander nodded to himself and, relaxing, straightened up, lowering his weapon.
“I don’t know about talent,” he said in a normal tone, returning his eternal grin to his face.
“But you definitely have a feel for battle.
Mark!” “Yes, sir,” the decanus replied.
“Double the boy’s load,” the sergeant ordered, looking at me and grinning maliciously.
My mouth stretched into a grin of anticipation.
Anything that would make me stronger and more dangerous in the shortest possible time was welcome.
“Understood,” Mark nodded.
“And get the fighters ready,” Aastaar said, his smile gone.
“We’re shipping out soon.” “A contract?” Mark asked with anticipation.
The assembled squad members began whispering among themselves.
Some smiled with joy, saying it was about time.
Others complained they hadn’t had a chance to rest properly.
“The captain received a raven,” the sergeant explained, handing the training “sword” to one of the regulars.
“From Maelis.
Looks like something big is brewing.” It seemed the lull in my life was over.
My first real battle awaited me.
A sea of blood, mountains of dead bodies, the stench of rotting flesh, and death breathing down my neck.
But I would survive.
I simply had to survive.
“Live despite everything,” words that would later become fateful surfaced in my mind on their own.