“It’s no wonder you’re nothing but a piece of trash!” Phillip shouted. “How is it even possible that you still only have one novice skill?!”
Francis shrugged as he came at his instructor again, ignoring the steady streams of taunts Phillip always sent his way.
His wooden sword moved with barely enough grace to show he had increased his skill beyond basic.
As always, Phillip’s sword easily deflected each attack, the older man never having to move his weapon more than a few inches. There was a reason -- a few actually -- why Phillip was the one tasked with training Francis and the others. Phillip was easily an advanced-rank fighter; his skill in swords and shields was far beyond all the recruits. No matter who came at their trainer, he deflected, blocked, or parried each strike with ease.
Thrusting and slashing, Francis drove forward, his worn leather boots shifting across the hard-packed dirt training area.
Once more, his sword was knocked away, yet this time Francis didn't give up. Phillip had pissed him off earlier when the man’s training sword slapped against his brother’s cheek, leaving a welt. Where he was standing, Francis could still see Michael, one hand on the wound, the other running fingers through sweat-matted blond hair. Beside Michael were over a dozen other trainees, each one sporting a different injury of some kind.
Francis was done with the constant heckling. Today, their trainer had crossed a line. He thrust his shield toward the older man's side, feeling the impact of his wooden buckler against Phillip's metal one a split-second later.
His next two attacks were parried and blocked by the salt-and-pepper-haired trainer tasked with attempting to prepare him and the other outcasts for battle. Phillip executed a move in which he knocked Francis's shield and weapon outward simultaneously, leaving the boy’s midsection unprotected. Staggering backward did nothing to help prevent a knee from coming upward and catching him in the gut.
Dropping to the ground, Francis found himself dry heaving, trying to suck in air as a wooden sword tapped the side of his head.
"Dead again... I swear, my ten-year-old niece could trounce you."
"Screw... you..." Francis muttered between breaths, wiping the drool that was hanging from his lips. "I'm doing everything I can!"
A hard whack against his temples sent him rolling to his side.
Pain radiated inside his head as Francis clutched both his stomach and temple.
" Are you!" shouted the man the King had hired to torture Francis these last few months. "I've seen how hard you train. You spend more time off in the woods and shirking the opportunity before you and the duties you have been given! You're a fool!"
Looking between squinted eyes, Francis could see the scar covering the length of Phillip's face. The white, jagged, poorly sewn line of flesh ran from ear to nose and then traveled the rest of the older man's skin to the opposite ear. A mark of a duel lost, a life forfeited. No healing had been permitted. His shame was wearing that scar so everyone would know what he had been given: mercy instead of the death he had deserved.
Yet on his face was a snarl, not from hate but anger, though Francis didn't know why it was directed at him. For two days, the bastard had been kicking his ass more than usual, no longer content to watch him spar with his brother Michael or any of the others who were sequestered here.
"You’re supposed to be ready to fight in a war, you idiot!" Phillip shouted.
No longer did the sound of other practice matches ring out.
Not that he could hear them above the ringing in his ears.
Sitting up, Francis saw that everyone--all eighteen of the other teens -- was staring at them, none saying a word as they watched the ass-kicking take place again.
"Do you all realize what is coming?! In two weeks! TWO WEEKS!" Phillip roared.
Groaning, Francis rose to his feet, willing himself the strength to stand. His instructor and bringer of pain pointed at Francis’ wooden sword and shield still on the ground. A second later, Phillip shifted his attention to each of the other teens as he spun.
"We leave in two weeks for a war that has united all the kingdoms! Not because we like each other, but because there is an enemy far worse than any other! You lot are supposed to join the army of our king! He needs warriors to defend both the casters and those who know how to fight! Yes, you most likely will die, but perhaps your sorry asses will provide our kingdom with a chance to survive this invasion and rebuild!"
Francis could barely flinch backward in time, the wooden sword whistling as Phillip spun to point the dull, dry, and bloody tip at him.
"You're the ninth son! You know what that means! The only way you'll bring honor is if you actually accomplish something on that battlefield -- right now, it would have been far better if your father had pulled out and stained the sheets with you!"
Francis felt his face turn red. He was angry at being told off before everyone else and called out when everyone else was like him.
All of them were seen as worthless in the eyes of the kingdom.
Even his brother Michael was often reminded that some servants had been treated better than they had. The reason was apparent to some, yet others didn’t understand why.
Michael stood there, shaking his head at him slowly. His brother’s blond hair matted like every other teen watching this beating.
Yet now, Francis was pissed. No. He was furious.
All Francis could focus on was the old asshole who had just beaten him.
He grabbed the wooden blade pointed at him and gripped it as tightly as possible.
The slightest grin appeared on Phillip's lips, the first smile that wasn’t a smirk Francis could ever recall.
Francis pulled himself toward the aging trainer, ignoring the fifty-plus pounds and twelve-inch difference in height and weight.
Right now, he didn't care about any of that. All he wanted to do was punch the man’s smug face.
No, he realized. He wanted to beat the life out of Phillip.
His left fist came forward as his right hand pulled the man’s sword out of position, aiming for that stupid grin.
His fist was so close he could almost feel the heat from the bastard's face, who beat them all on a daily basis.
He could do this. He would get his revenge.
The world shifted in the blink of an eye, and Francis found himself floating.
What the hell? I should have–
His thoughts were lost as his vision spun, and he found himself crashing into the ground. A snapping sound came as his arm bent in the wrong direction, his shoulder taking the full brunt of the impact.
A cry of agony escaped his lips -- pain lanced through his body, traveling the entirety of his left arm and into his neck.
Things began to go dark as a gloved fist slammed into his jaw.
A few words echoed inside his head before darkness took over.
"FINALLY! Someone with some balls!"
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
***
[ Status ]
Francis Lancaster
Age 17
Strength: 9
Endurance: 12
Agility: 8
Wisdom: 6
Perception: 5
Magic: 3
Skills
Swordsmanship (Common) - 13 Novice
Shield Use (Common) - 9 Basic
Tracking (Uncommon) - 8 Basic
Stealth (Uncommon) - 6 Basic
Traps (Uncommon) - 3 Basic
Rock Throwing (Common) - 5 Basic
Ailments
Injured Shoulder - Healing: -10% to Strength and Agility. 194 Minutes remaining
***
Francis hated what the system had shown him.
He knew Phillip was right: no matter how much he stared at his stats, the truth was in the numbers.
Man, I do suck…
"Done pretending you're asleep?" Michael asked.
"Wouldn't you after what that asshole did to me?" Francis replied.
His brother Michael chuckled for a moment.
Turning his head and opening his eyes, Francis saw his older sibling sitting on the bed next to him. They shared a room simply because they were related. Only those lucky enough to be here with a family member ended up with them. For some of those pairings, Phillip wasn’t the only bully in the group.
"Still, you stood up to him,” Michael continued. “After he kicked your ass, Phillip made the healers come and take you away. That got all of us a break. Kind of like your shoulder."
Wincing, Francis sat up and studied his older brother.
Michael chewed his lip, a sign he was worried. Even with only a year's age difference, his brother easily had another twenty pounds of muscle and three inches on him. Michael’s teeth were straighter, and his blond hair matched their mother's.
The only child with blond hair… It was so easy to see once I knew, and when I overheard our monster of a father talking with our brother Derrek about having Michael killed for being a bastard… I couldn’t--
"Stop that line of thinking. You're frowning, and I can tell what you are doing," Michael blurted out. "Don't listen to that jerk. Use the anger and work like you're supposed to. Stop jacking around in the woods and focus! Even the occasional animal you bring back from it isn’t worth it. We only have a few weeks before we're forced to march off."
Rubbing his shoulder, Francis nodded and saw the bread and a covered bowl on his nightstand.
"Do I want to ask what that is?" Francis asked.
"No... because it's the same old crap every day,” his brother replied. “Eat it, though. You're skinny because you're always saying you're full."
Ripping off a piece of the dry bread, he chewed, trying not to frown as Michael grinned at him.
Though it doesn’t really matter… we both know the odds of us surviving this battle are next to zero. Neither of us has any real rank in our skills or stats. Phillip is probably advanced with the sword. I do doubt that he’s hit any of the milestone ranks for his physical side.
"You know, at least we're lucky,” his brother stated, breaking Francis from his thoughts. “We don't have to go back home before shipping off. Besides, if what I've learned from the ones I've talked to is true, it won't matter. We'll be dead almost as soon as we run into battle."
After swallowing the dry piece of bread, Francis drank the tepid water in the wooden cup and sighed.
"Nothing like getting your ass kicked for a few months so that you can die on the first day of battle. Just tell me this is worth it, Michael. Tell me the gods had some reason for letting father be so fertile."
Michael laughed so loudly that it echoed off their tiny stone room at that statement.
“We both know… he’s not my father. He never pretended I was his, and you know it. Yet you never cared. Maybe that’s why I took pity on you and kept you around like a pet,” his brother teased. “Still, I have no idea what the gods are thinking. All I know is that if we survive and if this battle goes our way, we can finally find a place in the kingdom and get out from that bastard’s name."
"Oh, to be a Lancaster," Francis replied. "The illegitimate eighth son and the ninth son who defied the head of their noble house. Sometimes I think he was known for producing more boys than the ore the King desires."
Both laughed at that truth.
"At least if we die, we did it together. Just like everything else," Michael stated as he stood up and held out a hand. "Now, let's go see what that bastard has in store for us today."
***
"Again!" Phillip shouted.
Sweat ran down the faces and upper bodies of all nineteen of the outcasts, enduring another day of training in the hellhole they had been placed in.
None of them wore armor that day, just woolen pants, while Phillip ran them through sword drills again.
Three hours so far of non-stop attacks on dummies, combo patterns, and footwork.
None complained, not wanting to ask for water or a break, all knowing what that would earn.
"You won't get rest on the battlefield!” Phillip shouted. “When the fighting starts, it stops when one side is dead! So either you die and find eternal rest, or kill them all!
Then perhaps you can take a break and find someone who will love your worthless asses!"
The group moved as one repeatedly. Some were more skilled, their steps and blades flowing with ease, carrying out the movements they had been trained in.
And here I am still missing some of the “patterns”… No matter how hard I try, it just doesn’t come as easily for me. At least Mr. Stick Up His Ass isn't beating on me today...
The shrill of a loud whistle came, and everyone stopped immediately, facing their instructor and taking deep breaths as they tried to recover.
"Good news, you sorry excuses for a son! Ten minutes to rest, get a drink, and piss if you need to! After that, it's shield training!"
A few groans came, but Francis was glad he had held back from sharing his hatred for the next training exercise.
The hard brown eyes tracked those who had failed to keep their displeasure quiet, guaranteeing they would not be excited about the next part of the day.
***
[ Shield-Use Skill Increased - 10 Basic ]
Even though his chest and arms were covered in bruises, Francis couldn't help but grin.
He saw that Michael had noticed his smile and returned the thumbs-up gesture before Michael tossed another cloth-covered rock at him.
Francis’s shield moved slightly better, faster, and his mind could read the incoming rock’s path even better than just a moment before.
Just one more point and I'll hit Novice in Shield Use!
The skill felt like it increased slowly, taking far longer than Swordsmanship, but he knew he swung a sword a lot more than he used the shield.
Still, blocking more of the rocks coming at him was easier now, as he received fewer blows to his body.
Two, three, four, five rocks in a row were all deflected as the trio of boys tossed them at him in a random pattern.
Moving within the three-foot circle, he avoided and blocked every rock they sent.
Suddenly, a rock came from his right, his vision spotting it at the last moment. He could barely step sideways without leaving the circle, so he held the shield out and deflected the larger stone coming at his head.
Then another smaller rock struck his knee, sending him to the ground as his joint gave out from the shock.
Through it all, he kept his shield up, protecting his chest and head as two more rocks struck the wooden surface.
"Hold!" Phillip called out.
Keeping the shield in place for a few seconds longer, Francis peeked around the edge and saw Phillip's head bobbing slightly.
"You got an increase in your skill, didn't you, Blanket Stain Francis?” Phillip asked.
Trying to keep himself calm at the new nickname he had been receiving all day, Francis nodded as he forced himself upward, trying not to wince as his knee cried out in displeasure at being used.
" That is why we are doing this!" Phillip shouted. "Because, while you might not like it, some of you have improved! I can see it! If we can get you to the Novice rank, it may mean the difference between surviving the first attack and being around long enough to be worth the nine months your mother carried you! Now, switch sides!"
Glad to get a break from being used as a training dummy, Francis dropped his shield and ran toward a barrel of rocks a few yards behind him.
"You really got a point?" Luke asked.
Nodding, he smiled at Luke, who was struggling to drag the barrel toward the spot they would throw from.
"Yeah, I'm one point away from Novice now. You?" Francis asked.
The dark-haired, brown-eyed teen who was the only one smaller than him shook his head.
"I'm only at a seven in my Shield-Use skill,” Luke replied. “Being only sixteen has me way behind the rest of you. Besides, my dad had me farming before this, so I could at least earn something. He wasn't happy I was taken out of the fields to come here."
They tugged and rocked the barrels into position.
"At least you're the fifth son. Mine rarely talked to me when I saw him,” Francis replied.
"You two stop making plans to go off and kiss later and get those barrels in position faster, or I'll start tossing stones at you right now!"
Each of them fell silent, working harder and faster, knowing full well what a painful exercise it would be to receive rocks personally from Phillip’s hand.
"Asshole," Luke whispered.
“I couldn't agree more.”
***
“So you think you’ll reach Novice in your shield before we leave?” Michael asked.
Francis shrugged, leaning against the stone wall as he carefully rotated his shoulder. “Maybe. I hope so. I just wish we could get real ranks. Imagine if we could achieve a skill at the proficient or advanced level. Then we’d at least have a fighting chance or be given some real respect.”
His brother rolled his eyes, the candlelight illuminating the small room they shared. “Yeah, cuz we’re going to reach a twenty-six or a forty-one in a skill practicing the way we do. We’re not like Arciel, Derrek, or our sister. We’re not getting hand-fed at the Spires.”
“I’m not certain I would say Trina is getting hand-fed. The other two… probably,” Francis replied. “Could you imagine it, though? Having real trainers? Getting real food? Or healers for every practice session?”
“Yeah, and I can imagine having a woman who is okay with my bloodline and the fact I’m a bastard,” Michael said. “Just cuz I can imagine it, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. Besides, you’re talking years of training. They’ve been there what, five years?”
Francis nodded and grabbed his thin blanket. “You’re right. What I wouldn’t give to one day get to punch Derrek in the gut. You know, for all the times he did that to us?”
“Oh, that I’ll dream about tonight,” Michael said, smiling. “Sadly, that’s all it will ever be… a dream. We both know he’d beat us senseless given the chance.”
Lying down, Francis didn’t reply. He just pulled the blanket over him and closed his eyes.
Perhaps tomorrow we’ll work on shields again, and then I can have two novice combat skills. Either way, I just want to prove to Phillip I’m not going to break, no matter how hard he pushes.