The drill field sprawled across a broad stretch of packed earth near the center of the encampment.
Everywhere I looked, men were training.
One formation marched in perfect step behind a roaring sergeant.
Nearby, shields crashed together as another company practiced holding a battle line.
Further off, pairs of swordsmen circled one another with blunted practice blades while a grizzled veteran barked corrections.
The steady rhythm of wood striking wood filled the evening air.
The corporal led me to one corner of the field before motioning for me to wait.
"Stay here."
"Yes, Corporal."
I stood where I was placed, shield strapped to my left arm, spear held upright in my right, my sword hanging at my hip.
I had no idea who I was supposed to report to.
That question answered itself a moment later.
"This him?"
The voice was rough as old leather.
I turned.
An older man was walking toward us, broad across the shoulders despite his years. His once-black hair had surrendered to gray, and a magnificent mustache framed a face lined by decades beneath sun and helmet alike. His nose had plainly been broken more than once, and his hands looked more like knots of old oak than flesh.
Sergeant Harlan nodded.
"That's him."
The old man stopped a few paces away and looked me up and down without saying another word.
His eyes lingered on the shield.
Then the spear.
Then me.
"Hmm."
"The captain wants to see what you can do with him," Harlan said.
The old veteran grunted.
"Does he now?"
He stepped closer.
I instinctively straightened my back.
The old man snorted.
"At least the lad knows when to keep his mouth shut."
One weathered hand reached out and took hold of the spear.
Not to take it away.
Just enough to feel my grip.
He gave it a small tug.
I held on.
Another grunt.
"Good."
The veteran released the shaft.
"Leave him here."
He glanced sideways at Sergeant Harlan.
"We'll see if we can't teach him not to break another spear."
A deep laugh rumbled out of him.
Sergeant Harlan couldn't quite suppress a smile.
"Aye."
I felt my ears burn.
"It wasn't entirely my fault," I muttered before I could stop myself.
The old man raised one bushy eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"There was... a goblin."
The veteran folded his arms.
"Only one?"
I hesitated.
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"...No."
"Thought not."
For a heartbeat the old man simply studied me.
Then, to my complete surprise, he smiled.
A hard smile.
The sort earned on battlefields.
"Good."
He turned toward the practice ring and jerked his thumb for me to follow.
"Let's see if we can teach you how to kill the next one before your spear gives out."
"Again!"
Bertram's voice cracked across the drill yard like a whip.
"But—"
"No buts."
The old spear master jabbed a finger toward the practice circle.
"Again."
Suppressing a groan, I climbed to my feet for what had to be the tenth time that evening. Every muscle in my body protested. My arms felt like lead, and I was beginning to think I'd spend more time picking dirt out of my hair than sleeping.
Across from me, my sparring partner rolled his shoulders and twirled his practice spear with casual ease.
He looked like a giant.
He stood nearly a foot and a half taller than I did, broad through the chest, with arms thicker than my thighs. If I had to guess, he outweighed me by at least fifty pounds.
He wasn’t cruel or mocking.
He was simply much better.
Bertram walked between us, his hands clasped behind his back.
"You keep trying to fight him."
I frowned.
"Isn't that the point?"
The old veteran snorted.
"No."
He pointed the butt of his own spear at the larger man.
"He's nineteen."
Then he pointed it at me.
"You're twelve."
The spear shifted back toward the older soldier.
"He's been drilling since before you learned to shave a stick into a whistle."
A few nearby soldiers chuckled.
Bertram ignored them.
"If you meet a man like him in battle and think you're going to overpower him..." He shrugged. "...they'll be burying you before sunset."
The words settled over the practice yard.
Bertram stepped aside.
"So stop trying."
I blinked.
"...What?"
The spear master tapped the side of his temple.
"Use what's up here."
He lowered the spear until its point hovered inches above the packed earth.
"You're smaller."
Tap.
"Lighter."
Tap.
"Quicker."
Tap.
"So fight like it."
He looked at the larger soldier.
"Joren."
The man nodded.
"Don't slow down."
A grin spread across Joren's face.
"Wasn't planning to."
Bertram's mustache twitched.
"Good."
He looked back at me.
"If he knocks you down..."
A pause.
"...get back up."
He took three steps backward and raised one hand.
"Ready?"
Joren lowered his spear.
I swallowed and settled into the guard Bertram had spent the last week drilling into me.
Bertram's hand dropped.
"Begin."
I moved.
Bertram had been right.
I wasn't going to beat Joren with strength.
I was smaller.
Faster.
Lighter on my feet.
Joren was used to fighting men his own size—men who met him head-on and tried to shove him backward.
I wasn't about to make that mistake.
As he lunged, driving the blunted spear point toward my chest, I slipped to my left instead of retreating.
His spear hissed past my shoulder.
I dropped the butt of my own spear toward the ground and swept the shaft low across his legs.
The polished ash caught behind his forward ankle.
I twisted my hips and pulled.
Joren's front foot skipped awkwardly across the packed dirt.
His stance opened.
His balance shifted.
For the first time since we'd begun sparring...
He wasn't in control.
His eyes widened.
Now!
I snapped the spear upward, the shaft sliding beneath his guard as the blunted head shot toward his chest.
Thunk!
The padded tip struck square against the leather jerkin over his ribs.
The practice yard fell silent.
Joren stared at the mark on his chest.
Then at me.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"Well..."
He stepped back and lowered his spear.
"I didn't expect that."
Before I could celebrate, Bertram's spear cracked sharply against the ground.
"Dead."
I blinked.
"What?"
Bertram strode over, his mustache twitching.
"You landed your hit."
I couldn't keep the smile from my face.
"Then I—"
"You died."
The smile disappeared.
Bertram jabbed the end of his spear toward Joren.
"You were so pleased with yourself you stopped moving."
He looked at Joren.
"What would've happened?"
Without hesitation, Joren reversed his grip and tapped the butt of his practice spear against the side of my helmet.
"You'd have split his skull."
Bertram nodded once.
"Aye."
He looked back at me.
"Good trick."
A pause.
"Poor ending."
He took my spear and demonstrated the movement, flowing through it with an ease that made it look effortless.
"Off-balance him."
The hook.
The twist.
"The thrust."
The strike.
Then, instead of stopping, Bertram stepped past an imaginary opponent, bringing the spear back into guard as though expecting another attack.
"You don't admire your work."
He met my eyes.
"You survive it."
He handed the spear back.
"Again."
That night I trudged back toward our company's tents with my shield hanging limp from one arm and my practice spear dragging furrows through the dirt behind me.
Everything hurt.
My shoulders burned.
My hands throbbed.
Even my legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
I had spent the better part of two hours getting knocked into the dirt by men older, stronger, and far more experienced than I was.
Every time I thought I'd done something right...
Bertram had found three things I'd done wrong.
Every.
Single.
Time.
By the time he'd finally dismissed me, I wasn't even sure I remembered how to hold a spear anymore.
I let out a weary sigh.
As I dragged the practice spear toward the tents, I became increasingly certain all of this was still about the spear I’d broken.
I tightened my grip on the shaft.
I won’t break the next one.
If I had to train every evening until my arms fell off, then that was what I would do