"Follow me, gallant little men!" Jovar called, his lamp raised above his head as he moved deeper into the vaults. "Don't wander off, the rats don't like visitors, and some of them are bigger than you."
He chuckled again. Beside Elaire, Benjen let out a short whimper, wide eyes staring into the fathomless blackness.
"Ignore him," Elaire whispered. "There're no rats down here. The place is too clean, there's nothing for them to eat." He wasn't at all sure it was true but it sounded vaguely encouraging.
"Shut your mouth, Sálem!" Jarem's cane snapped the air above his head.
"Get moving." They followed Instructor Jovar's lamp into the black emptiness of the vaults, footsteps and the man's laughter mingling to form a surreal echo punctuated by the occasional snap of the instructor's cane.
Benjen's eyes darted about constantly, no doubt searching for giant rats. It seemed an age before they came to a solid oak door set into the rough brickwork. Jovar bade them wait as he unclasped his keys from his belt and unlocked the door. "Now little men," he said, swinging the door open wide. "Let us arm you for the battles to come."
The room beyond the door seemed cavernous, endless racks of swords, spears, bows, lances and a hundred other weapons glittered in the torchlight and barrel after barrel lined the walls along with uncountable sacks of flour and grain. "My little domain," Jovar told them. "I am the keeper of the Vaults and the keeper of the armoury. There is not a bean or an arrowhead in this store that I have not counted, twice. If you need anything it is provided by me. And you answer to me if you lose it."
Elaire noted that his smile had disappeared. They lined up outside the storeroom as Jovar fetched their bundles, ten grey muslin sacks bulging with various items. "These are the Order's gifts, little men," Jovar told them brightly, moving along the line to deposit a sack at each boy's feet.
"Each of you will find the following in your bundle: one wooden sword, one hunting knife twelve inches in length, one pair of boots, two pairs of trews, two shirts of cotton, one cloak, one clasp, one purse, empty of course, and one of these…" Instructor Jovar held something up to the lantern, it shone in the glow, twisting gently on its chain. It was a medallion, a circle of silver inset with a figure Elaire recognised as the skull-headed Warrior God that sat atop the gate outside the Order House.
"This is the sigil of our Order," Jovar went on. "It represents the Warrior God of honour and courage. Wear it always, when you sleep, when you wash, always. I'm sure Instructor Jarem has many punishments in mind for boys who forget to keep it on."
Jarem kept quiet, the cane still tapping his boot said it all. "My other gift is but a few words of advice," Instructor Jovar continued. "Life in the Order is harsh and often short. Many of you will be expelled before your final test, perhaps all of you, and those who win the right to stay with us will spend your lives patrolling distant frontiers, fighting endless wars against savages, outlaws or heretics during which you will most likely die if you are lucky or be maimed if you are not. Those few left alive after fifteen years of service will be given their own commands or return here to teach those who will replace you. This is the life to which your families have given you. It may not seem so, but it is an honour, cherish it, listen to your masters, learn what we can teach you and always hold true to the Faith. Remember these words and you will live long in the Order."
He smiled again, spreading his plump hands. "That is all I can tell you, little warriors. Run along now, no doubt I'll see you all soon when you lose your precious gifts." He chuckled again, disappearing into the storeroom, the echo of his laughter following them as Jarem's cane hounded them from the vaults.
The post was six feet tall and painted red at its top, blue in the middle and green at the base. There were about twenty of them, dotted around the practice field, silent witnesses to their torment. Jarem made them stand in front of a post and strike at the colours with their wooden swords as he called them out. "Green! Red! Green! Blue! Red! Blue! Red! Green! Green…" Elaire's arm began to ache after the first few minutes but he kept swinging the wooden sword as hard as he could. Another boy had momentarily dropped his arm after a few swings earning a salvo of cane strokes, robbing him of his habitual smile and leaving his forehead bloody.
"Red! Red! Blue! Green! Red! Blue! Blue…" Elaire found that the blow would jar his arm unless he angled the sword at the last instant, letting the blade slash across the post rather than thump into it. Jarem came to stand behind him, making his back itch in expectation of the cane. But Jarem just watched for a moment and grunted before moving off to punish Benjen for striking at the blue instead of the red. "Open your ears, you fucking clown!" Benjen took the blow on his neck and blinked away tears as he continued to fight the post.
He kept them at it for hours, his cane a sharp counterpoint to the solid thwack of their swords against the posts. After a while he made them switch hands. "A brother of the Order fights with both hands," he told them. "Losing a limb is no excuse for cowardice." After another interminable hour or more, he told them to stop, making them line up as he swapped his cane for a wooden sword. Like theirs, it was of the Zemrain pattern: a straight blade with a hand and a half long hilt and pommel and a thin metal tine curving around the hilt to protect the fingers of the wielder.
Elaire knew about swords, his father had many hanging above the fireplace in the dining hall, tempting his boy's hands although he never dared touch them. Of course, they were larger than these wooden toys, the blades a yard or more in length and worn with use, kept sharp but showing the irregular edge which came from the smith's stone grinding away the many nicks and dents a sword would accumulate on the battlefield. There was one sword which always drew his eye more than the others, hung high on the wall well out of his reach, its blade pointed down straight at his nose. It was a simple enough blade, their style of the blade; like most of the others, and lacking the finely wrought craftsmanship of some, but unlike them its blade was unrepaired, it was highly polished but every nick, scratch and dent had been left to disfigure the steel.
Elaire dare not ask his father about it so approached his mother but with only marginally less trepidation; he knew she hated his father's swords. He found her in the drawing-room, reading as she often did. It was in the early days of her illness and her face had taken on a gauntness which Elaire couldn't help but stare at. She smiled as he crept in, patted the seat next to her. She liked to show him her books, he would look at the pictures as she told him stories about the Faith and the Kingdom. He sat listening patiently to the tale of Alaxel the Heretic, cursed to the ever-death for denying the guidance of the Departed, until she paused long enough for him to ask: "Mother, why does father not repair his sword?"
She stopped in the mid-page, not looking at him. The silence stretched out and he wondered if she was going to adopt his father's practice of simply ignoring him. He was about to apologise and ask permission to leave when she said, "It was the sword your father was given when he joined the royal army. He fought with it for many years during the birth of the Realm and when the war was done the King made him the First Sword, which is why you are called Elaire Dí Sálem and not just plain Elaire Sálem. The marks on its blade are a history of how your father came to be who he is. And so he leaves it that way."
"Wake up, Sálem!" Jarem's bark brought him back to the present with a start. "You can be first, rat-face," he told Benjen, gesturing for the slight boy to stand a few feet in front of him. Another man with short hair in a cloak like that of Jarem walked in with a wooden sword.
Jarem glanced at him and nodded in acknowledgement. "This is instructor Neman, he would be your sword instructor from now on."
Neman looked at the boys with a gentle smile: "I will attack, you defend. We will be at this until one of you parries a blow."
"Alright, " said Neman then pointed his sword at Nolan: "Boy you first."
'At least he is gentler than the bald head.'
Nolan raised his sword and approached Neman. "We will get faster and harder with the end of each strike," Neman explained. "Boy, try your best."
'How will this go?'
Nolan lunged forward sword first, Neman parried and sent the boy sideways. Nolan regained his balance while Neman laughed: "That's it, but slower. Now let's do it again."
Nolan nodded, smiled and raised his sword again facing Neman. Nolan moved forward, sword clashed with clashed, wood with wood, he went for another strike. Neman blocked and pushed back.
"Stop!" shouted Neman, his voice turned soft again as he remarked: "Little trouble there, make sure your grip is tighter. Again."
Nolan moved again, this time grip tighter. Neman blocked and pushed back him again. "Not quite right, you lacked speed, but it's all good, no worries."
Nolan struck again, this time there was no second. Neman pushed the boy back several steps almost making him fall off balance.
Neman's voice turned from gentle to rough as his demeanour. "Why do you think I struck harder this time, boy?"
Nolan was taken aback. "I don't know," he replied. "Because of my grip?"
"Where you going harder or swifter?" asked Neman, tone unchanged.
"I don't know," replied Benjen hesitantly.
Neman stepped forward loudly. He crouched down near Benjen, inches away from his face. "Recite the basic steps."
Nolan's heartbeats turned faster. "Block, parry, sta--"
Nolan's face was thrown back stun with a loud smack. Neman slapped the boy throwing his face back making his cheek red with finger marks.
"Keep reciting," ordered Neman.
Nolan didn't why but he did as told: "Block, parry-"
*Smack*
Nolan received another smack to the red cheek. His eyes started getting watery. Neman grabbed the boy's chin and pointed his finger at him.
"Stop crying," Neman ordered. "Now was I going harder or faster?"
"I don't know...." replied Nolan in a low whisper.
"Recite again."
*Smack*
"Block, parry, stab."
*Smack*
"Block, parry, stab."
*smack*
Neman grabbed the boys chin again and asked, "Was it harder or faster?"
"Harder to faster," replied Nolan with a whimper.
"SO, YOU DO KNOW THE DIFFERENCE!" shouted Nemam spitting on the crying boy's face. He stood looked down at the Nolan. "If you deliberately try to ruin my training plan, I will slaughter you like a pig!"
"Instructor Neman," Jarem spoke up with concern.
Neman ignored and pointed his sword at Elaire, "Now it's your turn, boy." He kicked back Benjen towards where the other boys stood before turning back to Elaire: "Imprint it your mind, harder to faster. Now, raise your sword."