Taming the Elements: Elwin Escari Chronicles: Volume 1 (23 page)

“He is resting.” A touch of surprise sounded in her voice.

“Can I see him?” He felt a mountain of hope rising in his chest.

She shook her head. “That is not a good idea. He will need to return to training as soon as possible. And so will you.”

“What about the Inquisition?”

“Let me worry over that. In the meantime, we must return to your studies.”

Her words felt like a weight settling onto him, and he found it hard to breath.

He had been stolen from a life to which he could not return. And he was not sure that he would even want to now. Knowing his family was not real made his entire life feel like a great falsehood. Would he forget that if he could? Would he want to live a lie?

His actions had taken a life.

A family had lost an irreplaceable treasure. A life, a force for good, was no more. Because of him. He could see the woman’s grief. He could feel the family’s pain. It was a part of him now.

The tears began to fall. He had no strength left to fight the agony within. He covered his shame with both hands. He couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Elwin wept.

Chapter 10

A Soldier’s Life

Feffer elbowed the thin mattress beneath him, trying to smooth out the lumps. Perhaps he should have played the cripple for one more day. The mattress at the Temple of Life had been softer than anything he had ever slept on. Putting up with the surly healer for one more day would have been worth sleeping another night in the bed.

He had acted the perfect gentleman his entire stay, but the woman had behaved as if his very presence was an insult to her existence. Feffer couldn’t remember much about the first day or so, but he couldn’t have said anything too terrible.

Though, the healer had been blessed with a beautiful bosom. Perhaps he had commented on it? Of course. Curse him to the abyss, that must have been it. Maybe he should try to make it up to her. He could find some way to apologize without ogling her breasts. Otherwise, she might think his apology a mockery. And that would make matters worse.

He rolled onto his back and sighed. At least he had a top bunk. Each bed was stacked three high. Not that he had much of a view. The support beams above him stretched the full extent of the barracks and made layers up to the ceiling. At the top, the wooden supports came together to provide the perfect cubby to hide his belongings.

He had not been up there since before getting his skull cracked. That had been half a tenday. As much as he itched to climb up and check his coin purse, it would have to wait. The best times to get up and down without being seen were just before meals. It was rare that anyone skipped a meal, regardless of how tasteless and measly the food. He could wait until then. If someone had found his cache, there would be little he could do about it.

He looked to his left. The bunks were an arm’s length apart, but his eyes had adjusted to the dark well enough to see the other figures sleeping on the bunks around him. Before his accident, Feffer had grown accustomed to looking for motion in the night. His squad slept in the four bunks closest to the east wall, and Gurndol had yet to make good on this threats.

Before getting his head cracked like an egg, Feffer had started making it a point to incur extra drills by making mistakes. At first, it had been to take the pressure off Fandar. The larger boy had the grace of a pregnant cow. In truth, he didn’t like seeing pranks acted out on Fandar, but Feffer mostly wanted to agitate Gurndol. There would be no reason to think Gurndol would have forgotten such slights to his pride in Feffer’s absence.

Tomorrow would be Feffer’s first day back in action, so it seemed tonight would be a good night to catch him off guard. It’s what Feffer would do if he was a pompous prat looking for undue vengeance.

Feffer crossed his arms behind his head and sighed. One more tenday until Sir Gibbins assigned a squad leader. It would likely be Gurndol. They tended to choose members of noble families as squad leaders. And while Feffer had been resting up, Gurndol had likely moved ahead in the ranks.

Three round slender strands landed across his upper chest, waist, and legs at the same time. He felt a heartbeat of confusion until his mind realized what held him. Rope. It pulled tight against his chest as if someone played tug-of-war from the other ends. A dark wad hit his midsection, knocking the breath from him. He had just enough time to tense as a second blow struck down. The throb was instant and he struggled to catch his breath.

It took him a moment to realize his arms had not been caught by the rope. Only a single rope held them at the pits of his arms. He wiggled his head and arms free of the top rope as another blow came down on his stomach. He grunted against the pain and grabbed the headboard. Pulling from the headboard and kicking with his legs, he was able to free his lower half.

He sat up and rolled the last rope down his legs. The pillow case filled with soapstone struck his foot, and Feffer muffled a curse.

A loud whisper came from below. “I think he got this rope loose, pull tighter on your ropes.”

Feffer leapt off the top bunk in the direction of the whisper. His feet struck the top of someone’s head, and he heard Gurndol cry out and crumple beneath him. Feffer caught the top bunks on either side to keep from falling with his target, then pulled back up to his bunk.

“What happened?” he heard one of the others whisper.

“Gurndol’s not moving.” That was Marlin’s voice speaking well above a whisper. He had become Gurndol’s number two. “Get back to your bunks.”

Feet scrambled up wood as the boys got back into their beds. The creaking of wooden bunks echoed through the silence of the sleeping room.

The shadowy figures on the other beds began to move as well. Feffer laid back down and got under his thin blanket, despite the heat. He made his best attempt to appear to be in a sleeping state. One hundred beds, filled three high, shifted in the silence. It sounded as if a giant lumberjack was making his way through a forest of dried timber.

A voice from the other end called, “What was that?”

“Shut it.”

“You worms get us drills and your dead.”

“Shh. You idiots.”

The moments were few before the outer door slammed open. As one, all the other boys returned to a sleeping position. Feffer squeezed his eyes shut and froze every muscle.

“What in the abyss is going on in here?” It was Gibbins’ voice.

He heard several large men walking through the rows of bunks. The torch light became more intense as the sounds of the heavy feet grew closer.

“Someone tell me what the commotion—What in the abyss?”

Feffer remained motionless, but the sun might as well have been out for the intensity of light around his bunk.

“What are you doing out of bed soldier?”

Feffer’s heart was pounding, but he did not move.

“He’s been knocked out cold,” said Gibbins.

Sweat began to cover him. He wanted to peak over the side of the bunk to see if the torches had set his bunk afire.

Gibbins shouted, “What happened here?”

His bunk shook, as if struck, “By the grace of the Lifebringer, if someone doesn’t speak up by the time I count—Feffer is that you at the top of this tier?”

He felt his bunk shake again under a blow. “Feffer
Hanck
Madrowl. I see that ginger-stain poking out the top of your bunk. Down. Now.”

Curse it all
, Feffer thought.

“Get down here, worm!”

Feffer swung down from the bunk, careful not to land on Gurndol. Feffer could see the other boy’s unconscious face. He tried to feel some sympathy for him, but it was not an easy task.

Gibbins stood in his small clothes. He had several scars of various shapes and angles scratched into his torso and arms. His muscles were not overly large, but they were honed from use. He stood only a hand taller than Feffer, but that did nothing for Feffer’s confidence. He felt a slight itch where Gibbins had cracked his skull open.

Feffer could taste Gibbins’ breath. “Back less than an hour and already causing troubles? What happened here, Feffer?”

If Feffer gave up Gurndol and his other squad members, then he would never survive when Gurndol became squad leader. If he didn’t give up Gurndol and the others, then he might not survive the night. He scratched the itch at his skull and met Gibbins’ gaze ready to toss the other boy to the wolves, but he stopped as Gurndol began to rouse.

The other boy brought a hand to his head and groaned. His eyes squinted against the light for a moment. Gurndol’s head came up first, then the rest of him. He opened his eyes the rest of the way, then froze when they settled on Gibbins and Feffer.

Gibbins spoke through his teeth. “I am going to ask this one last time … what happened here?”

“Uh …,” Gurndol said. “Um …”

“He was walking in his sleep,” Feffer blurted, “and he tripped and bumped his head.”

Gibbins leaned within an inch of Feffer, staring into his soul for several moments. He did not flinch at the heat and stink of Gibbins’ breath. Feffer had been scolded by many adults in his day and had learned the most important aspect to selling a ruse. Do not blink, do not look away, and do NOT swallow.

“Is that the right of it, Gurndol?”

With obvious confusion in his voice, Gurndol said, “Uh … I don’t quite remember. I was in bed one moment and then waking up here the next. It must be as Feffer said. I have been known to walk about in my sleep.”

Feffer didn’t want to admit it, but once the confusion worked clear of his voice, Gurndol sounded sincere.

Gibbins stood straight and raised his voice for the room to hear. “Alright worms, it appears that we are giving you too much sleep. We need to work you hard enough that you don’t have the energy to walk about in the night. Squad leaders, start your scheduled routines. The rest of you worms are with me.”

“But,” Gurndol said, “it is only an hour past sundown.”

“Everyone do ten press-ups,” Gibbins shouted. “You can thank Gurndol for speaking out of turn.”

Gibbins walked between the rows of bunks as everyone dropped in position for press-ups. “Anyone else want to complain?” He paused. After no one offered complaint, Gibbons counted out the press-ups.

Though he had rested for near a tenday, Feffer’s arms felt shaky with each press-up. He wanted to glare at Gurndol, but couldn’t find the strength to look up from his press-ups.

“Alright then,” Gibbons said after reaching ten, “meet in the yard in ten minutes. I expect everyone to run their routines until sundown on the morrow.”

When the torchlight moved away from Feffer, he sat up. Gurndol sat next to him.

Feffer whispered, “How’s your head?” It sounded more sympathetic than he had intended.

“I will be alright.” He still sounded groggy. “I will not forget what you did for me tonight. You are a better man than I.”

Feffer flinched as if slapped. Then he felt himself grin. He almost laughed. He had kicked Gurndol senseless, and he had actually thanked him. Feffer vowed to remember that tactic for future disagreements with the noble prat.

His smile faded when he stood on wobbly legs. Drills for a full day with no sleep would be rough. He might find himself back in the Temple long before the sky turned pink. His smile returned even deeper as he thought of the healer’s bosom looming over him again.

The sunlight faded in the west as shouts of men echoed through the field as a single cacophonous voice. Rising above their cries came the sounds of wood cracking against wood in rapid succession. Stripped down to their leggings, a circle of men surrounded two combatants. The smaller of the two danced around wide swings and countered with quick strikes toward limbs, but the other man was nimble for his size and struck back with powerful swings.

After several minutes of quick exchanges, Wilton Madrowl struggled to keep a hold of his weapon. He moved through forms and evaded his opponent’s skull-splitting swings, but he could feel his muscles wearing down.

To buy himself a reprieve, he feinted a lunge and jumped wide of the counter. He would only have seconds to gather himself, but in a duel, seconds were like minutes. Wilton studied his opponent.

The man’s name was Horac of some minor house, but everyone called him Bender. Before the war and against his family’s wishes, Bender had joined the city’s watch with aspirations to move up the ranks. A large scar ran down the right side of Bender’s face where a dagger had sliced his cheek. He had gotten the scar breaking up his first tavern brawl and had refused healing because he wanted the scar. The absence of the scar would not have improved the look of his thick face much, but having the scar made him look more intimidating.

The wooden sword looked small in his giant hand, but Bender’s shaven head had sweat beading on it. So Wilton had at least worn him down as well.

Wilton squared up to Bender in rock form. Unlike water form, the stances of rock made an opponent match strength against strength. Against Bender, Wilton might as well have been a child challenging his father by matching muscle for muscle.

Bender took the bait. He attacked high in an overhead strike. The moment Bender’s sword struck his Wilton, dropped the sword and pivoted around the larger man. A lack of resistance propelled Bender forward, making him overstep and stumble forward.

Wilton kicked the back of Bender’s knee, causing him to fall forward and stumble past the dropped sword. Without hesitation, Wilton retrieved his fallen sword and pounced on Bender’s back, touching his sword tip to the nape of his opponent’s neck.