I left the castellan's pavilion feeling as though my head had been stuffed with straw.
Banks.
Accounts.
Thousands of gold.
Kings.
Epic classes.
Every answer I received seemed to come with three more questions.
The only thing that still made sense was the weight of a spear in my hands.
I spotted Brenn waiting where I'd left him.
He looked up as I approached.
"Everything settled?"
I stopped in front of him.
"Brenn..."
The words came out rougher than I intended.
"Can we go train?"
He frowned.
"Lad?"
"I need..."
I clenched my fists.
"I need to hit something."
He studied me for a long moment.
Then his eyes softened.
Without a word he nodded.
We walked in silence.
Finally he spoke.
"You aren't angry about the training."
"No."
"The Duke?"
"No."
"The mage?"
"No."
I stopped walking.
"I'm angry because..."
The words caught in my throat.
"I got everything I ever wanted."
Brenn frowned.
"I don't follow."
"My family..."
I stared at the dirt beneath my boots.
"They'll have enough."
"They'll have food."
"Proper boots."
"Maybe even enough land one day."
I laughed.
It sounded hollow.
"I've spent three years trying to give them a future."
I swallowed.
"And now..."
"I finally have."
Silence.
"But it means..."
I couldn't look at him.
"...I don't think I'm ever going home."
The words hung between us.
I hadn't admitted them until that moment.
Not to the Duke.
Not to Hodger.
Not even to myself.
Brenn slowly reached out and rested a hand on my shoulder.
"Lad..."
"I don't want to be a legend."
I looked at him.
"I wanted to be a stable master."
"I wanted to come home."
"I wanted my brothers to complain about mucking stalls."
"I wanted Tera to tell me I was feeding the horses wrong."
I laughed again.
This time my eyes burned.
"I got what I wished for..."
"...and it cost me the only thing I wanted."
For a long while Brenn said nothing.
Then he nodded toward the training field.
"Come on."
I frowned.
"Where?"
"You said you wanted to hit something."
I nodded.
"I did."
He smiled sadly.
"Then today..."
He picked up two practice spears.
"...I'm going to let you."
***
I don't know how long we'd been training.
Time had ceased to matter.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
One practice spear after another found its way into my hands, only to be thrust, parried, swept aside, and eventually discarded as another man stepped forward.
I wasn't counting.
I wasn't trying to win.
I was simply...
...trying not to think.
By the time Brenn finally called a halt, several of the men who had sparred with me were sitting or lying around the edge of the practice ground, groaning as they rubbed bruised arms, sore ribs, or aching shoulders.
One of them pointed at me accusingly.
"What'd we ever do to you, Rowan?"
A few of the others laughed.
I managed a weak smile.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize," another grunted as he climbed painfully to his feet. "Just don't come looking for me tomorrow."
I heard laughter behind me.
I turned to see half a dozen men standing beyond the edge of the practice field. Unlike us, they wore well-kept mail and polished breastplates. Their weapons were clean, their shields bore fresh paint, and every one of them carried himself with the quiet confidence of a veteran.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair, surveyed the field before calling out to Brenn.
"No wonder we were summoned over."
He gestured toward the groaning men scattered around the practice ground.
"The whelp's thrashed the lot of them."
Several of the veterans laughed.
Another stepped forward, his eyes searching the assembled soldiers.
"I heard there was a squad that effected the breach yesterday."
He looked from face to face.
"I should like to see the men who managed such a feat. They must be a valiant lot."
Brenn smiled.
"They're all here."
The veteran looked around again.
"I see plenty of men."
"I asked about the squad."
Brenn nodded toward the bruised and panting soldiers.
"You just did."
The laughter died.
One of the veterans frowned.
"These?"
"Aye."
"They were the ones who held the line."
"They followed the boy through the breach."
The grey-haired veteran's expression changed.
He studied each of the battered levies in turn.
None of them looked like heroes.
They looked tired.
Bruised.
Young.
Ordinary.
Finally his gaze settled on me.
"And him?"
Brenn's smile widened just a fraction.
"Him most of all."
"You jest..."
The veteran looked over the battered collection of levy soldiers with open disbelief.
"These pathetic..."
He searched for the word.
"...boys."
"Men, sir," one of the others corrected quietly.
The first veteran snorted.
"Men they are not if they're being thrashed by a whelp like this."
Several of the battered levies bristled.
One started to his feet.
Brenn held up a hand.
"No."
The older soldier's voice was calm.
"You've misunderstood what you're looking at."
The veteran folded his arms.
"Have I?"
"Aye."
Brenn nodded toward me.
"You're looking at a dozen men who have spent the better part of an hour taking turns fighting the same opponent."
He pointed toward the groaning soldiers around the field.
"None of them quit." Brenn stated.
"None of them walked away." He gestured.
"They kept getting back up."
The second veteran slowly nodded.
"And yesterday..."
He looked across the bruised faces.
"...they followed that same boy through an orc breach."
Silence.
The first veteran looked around once more.
This time he wasn't seeing bruises.
He was seeing determination.
"They held?"
"They held," Brenn answered.
"And they advanced."
"And they came back?"
Brenn smiled.
"Every one of them."
The veteran's expression softened.
"I stand corrected."
He stepped onto the practice field.
"My apologies, gentlemen."
He looked at the nearest bruised levy.
"I mistook weakness for fatigue."
He looked each of the battered levies in the eye.
"If a beardless whelp can lay the lot of you low..."
The veteran spread his hands.
"...perhaps the orcs should have left you alive out of pity."
His eyes slowly swept across the bruised levy soldiers.
"I'd be ashamed to call myself a soldier."
I felt my jaw tighten.
These men had stood beside me yesterday.
Some of their friends hadn't come back.
I stepped forward before I really thought about it.
"Sir..."
The veteran looked at me.
"These are my mates."
I gestured toward the weary soldiers.
"They fought."
"They bled."
"Some of 'em didn't come back."
I met his eyes.
"I'd ask you not to speak of them that way."
The veteran's lips curled into the faintest smile.
"You'd ask, would you, boy?"
He cocked his head.
"You'd like that, would you?" Rodger asked with a faint smile. "Would you say 'please,' like your ma taught you?"
"Sir Rodger..." one of the other veterans began.
"Betis."
Rodger never took his eyes off me.
"Do not interfere."
He reached down, selected one of the practice spears, and tested its balance with a practiced hand.
"Now..."
He planted the butt in the dirt.
"Tell me, boy."
"What kind of fool do you think I am?"
I blinked.
"I... don't know, sir."
"No?"
He smiled.
"They tell me an unawakened boy led a breach through an orc line."
He shook his head.
"They tell me seasoned soldiers followed him."
He looked around at the battered levies.
"They tell me this lot held the breach against a counterattack."
His smile disappeared.
"I've been a soldier for twenty-seven years."
"I've watched awakened men twice your age die trying to do less."
His gaze locked on mine.
"So either..."
"...someone has lied to me..."
He took one slow step forward.
"...or you're not the boy they say you are."
Silence settled over the practice field.
Finally he asked,
"How old are you?"
"I was twelve..."
I swallowed.
"...yesterday."
Rodger stared.
Then he barked a short laugh.
"Yesterday."
He nodded once.
"So now I know someone is lying."
He lifted the practice spear.
"The question is..."
He pointed it toward me.
"...is it them..."
"...or you?"
The man's spear lashed out without warning.
Instinct took over.
I caught the shaft with my own and turned the point harmlessly aside.
He came again.
Faster.
The butt of my spear slid through my hands as I shifted into guard, the familiar stance Brenn had drilled into me until my shoulders ached. I was tired—more tired than I'd been after the fight with the orcs. My arms felt heavy, my legs sluggish, and every muscle begged me to stop.
Even so...
His spearhead never reached me.
I turned it aside again.
The man's spear lashed out again.
"A lucky farm boy," Sir Rodger growled.
He kept attacking, the spearhead driving toward me from one angle after another.
I gave ground, turning each thrust aside as Brenn had taught me.
I was tired.
More tired than I had been after the fight with the orcs.
My shoulders burned, my hands ached, and every block seemed just a little slower than the last.
Even so...
I watched.
Sergeant Harlan had always said a man would tell you what he intended to do if you stopped staring at the spear and started watching the man.
So I watched Sir Rodger.
His feet.
His shoulders.
His hips.
On the fifth attack...
I saw it.
Every time he thrust in earnest, his right shoulder dipped the smallest fraction of an instant beforehand.
It was almost nothing.
But once I'd seen it...
I couldn't stop seeing it.
That was enough.
I didn't need to be faster than Sir Rodger.
I just needed to know where his spear was going before he did.
I waited.
Sir Rodger smiled as his shoulder dipped.
There.
His spear shot toward my chest.
This time I wasn't reacting.
I was already moving.
Instead of meeting the thrust head-on, I slid half a step to my left. My spear caught his just behind the head and swept it sharply across his body.
For the first time...
His point wasn't aimed at me.
His eyes widened.
I stepped inside his reach.
The butt of my spear slammed into the middle of his shaft just below his hands.
The wood twisted violently.
His grip broke.
The practice spear flew from his fingers, tumbling through the air before landing several paces away.
A collective gasp rose from the watching soldiers.
Rodger reacted instantly.
Even unarmed, he lunged toward me.
Fast.
Much faster than I expected.
Bertram had once cuffed me for admiring a disarm.
"Never stop after the weapon leaves his hand, boy. You've only won when he can't keep fighting."
My foot hooked behind his leading leg.
At the same moment I drove my shoulder into his chest.
Rodger's balance, already committed forward, vanished beneath him.
His feet left the ground.
He crashed onto his back with a heavy thud that shook the packed earth.
Before he could even draw breath, I stepped after him.
The butt of my practice spear stopped beneath his jaw.
Not touching.
Barely a finger's width away.
Silence.
Complete silence.
I looked down at the veteran.
"I'm sorry, sir."
"I believe..."
I swallowed.
"...you're dead."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then I realized what I'd done.
My stomach lurched.
I immediately lifted the spear and stepped back.
Sir Rodger looked up at me from where he lay, breathing hard.
I gave him a hard look.
Then...
Someone began clapping.
Slow.
Measured.
Every head on the practice field turned.
A man I hadn't noticed stood just beyond the ring of soldiers. He wore no armor, only a well-cut dark blue coat over a mail shirt. A longsword hung comfortably at his hip, and there was something about the way he carried himself that caused even the veterans to straighten.
"Excellent."
He took a few unhurried steps onto the practice field.
His eyes settled first on Sir Rodger.
"You..."
He pointed toward the fallen veteran.
"...may go."
Rodger frowned.
"But—"
"You have served your purpose."
The older soldier held the newcomer's gaze for a moment before nodding once.
"Yes, sir."
He retrieved his practice spear and walked from the field without another word.
Only then did the stranger turn his attention to me.
His expression softened into the faintest hint of a smile.
"The Duke asked me to have a look at you."
He looked around at the battered levy soldiers.
"I believe..."
"...I have seen what I needed."
I shifted my grip on the spear.
"Sir?"
He ignored the question.
"What is your name?"
"Elias Rowan, sir."
"And your age?"
"I turned thirteen this morning."
One eyebrow rose.
"So I have been told."
He studied me for another long moment.
"I confess..."
"I did not believe it."