This went on for a good while and Paedrin continued to crouch, invisible amid the crenellations. He counted the men by races: five Vaettir, five Aeduan, five Cruithne, and five Preachán. The symmetry was not lost on him. The tall master snarled a quick command and the men lined up along the interior walls. He barked out two words and a Cruithne and Preachán emerged from the line, facing off against each other. The size difference was immense, for the Cruithne towered over the smaller Preachán. Paedrin leaned forward slightly, watching with fascination.
Another curt command—a signal to commence fighting. The Cruithne was bulky but he was quick. The Preachán was even quicker. Like a blur, the smaller man ducked and tumbled, diving out of reach, flitting around like a hummingbird to strike at the bigger man’s calves, the back of his knees. The Cruithne swiveled around and tried to snatch the puny opponent, but could not touch him.
Paedrin rubbed his mouth, watching the fury of the exchange. The little man ducked away from a solid punch aimed at him and suddenly the Preachán had his wrist and the big man flipped down, crashing on his back. Like a bee coming in for a quick sting, the Preachán somersaulted over him and landed by his head, hammering down on the Cruithne’s nose. A fountain of blood spattered from the blow. The Cruithne grabbed the Preachán’s leg and wrenched, jerking the smaller man off his feet. There was a sickening crack as the leg broke. The Cruithne swung the body and hurled it across the yard where he slammed against the far wall before slumping to the ground.
The Cruithne, wiping the blood on his sleeve, rose ponderously to his feet.
The crumpled Preachán did not move.
A pit of disgust welled in Paedrin’s stomach. No one went to the fallen Preachán to see if he were even alive. The Cruithne lumbered back to the line, taking his place again. Blood smeared his face.
Paedrin stared at the crumpled body. The tall master gave another order and an Aeduan and two Vaettir were summoned. It was clearly a mismatch but with a whistle the three launched into combat, the two Vaettir against the one fellow. Not a favorable contest, but the Aeduan attacked like a mountain cat, leaping with grace and kicking down one of the Vaettir as he tried to float away. The other was defeated only moments later, brought down by a vicious punch that knocked his air away, bringing him crashing down. He did not stop until both Vaettir were unconscious at his feet. He saluted to the lean master and went back to the line.
Glancing again at the fallen Preachán, Paedrin saw him start to twitch. He was trying to sit up, his head hanging low.
They were in the practice yard, fighting and maiming each other in various combinations of brutality. There was no discussion or instruction. Sometimes they were given weapons. Other times they fought with wrists tied behind their backs. Paedrin watched and studied them, feeling the mist roil around him. He did not shiver though. He willed his muscles to be calm. He waited.
Just before midday, or what Paedrin assumed was such without the presence of the sun, there were only several men left standing. Each had been called to fight multiple times. Their chests heaved, faces bathed in sweat and some with blood. The tall master, the Vaettir, whistled again and all went rigid. He barked a curt order, which sounded like a question. No one moved. The tall man paced in the midst of the square, hissing at them like a snake. He asked the question again, so low that Paedrin could not hear it. He paused, waiting. No one moved.
The tall master clapped his hands twice and the men started back toward the doors leading inside the temple. There were at least a dozen left behind, sprawled out in the training yard, either unconscious or unable to get up.
Paedrin did not think he would get a better chance than that. If the Kishion in training beat themselves up every morning before the midday meal, what better time would there be to challenge the tall master’s authority than just after? They were tired and spent. They were used to fighting each other. They were not used to fighting someone like Paedrin.
The tall master started back toward the doors, pausing every few steps to walk around one of the crumpled bodies sprawled in front of him. Paedrin’s legs were burning from holding the crouch so long, so he delicately stretched and let the ache in his muscles wane. He waited until the tall master was almost to the doors.
“Cruw Reon!” Paedrin shouted.
The tall master froze in place as Paedrin’s voice echoed throughout the courtyard.
He did not turn. He stood erect, almost aloof. He was long and sinewy, his hair a curtain of black. The long hair sent a nagging memory in Paedrin’s mind. He looked…familiar. Too tall, but familiar still.
Another curt command—a signal to commence fighting. The Cruithne was bulky but he was quick. The Preachán was even quicker. Like a blur, the smaller man ducked and tumbled, diving out of reach, flitting around like a hummingbird to strike at the bigger man’s calves, the back of his knees. The Cruithne swiveled around and tried to snatch the puny opponent, but could not touch him.
Paedrin rubbed his mouth, watching the fury of the exchange. The little man ducked away from a solid punch aimed at him and suddenly the Preachán had his wrist and the big man flipped down, crashing on his back. Like a bee coming in for a quick sting, the Preachán somersaulted over him and landed by his head, hammering down on the Cruithne’s nose. A fountain of blood spattered from the blow. The Cruithne grabbed the Preachán’s leg and wrenched, jerking the smaller man off his feet. There was a sickening crack as the leg broke. The Cruithne swung the body and hurled it across the yard where he slammed against the far wall before slumping to the ground.
The Cruithne, wiping the blood on his sleeve, rose ponderously to his feet.
The crumpled Preachán did not move.
A pit of disgust welled in Paedrin’s stomach. No one went to the fallen Preachán to see if he were even alive. The Cruithne lumbered back to the line, taking his place again. Blood smeared his face.
Paedrin stared at the crumpled body. The tall master gave another order and an Aeduan and two Vaettir were summoned. It was clearly a mismatch but with a whistle the three launched into combat, the two Vaettir against the one fellow. Not a favorable contest, but the Aeduan attacked like a mountain cat, leaping with grace and kicking down one of the Vaettir as he tried to float away. The other was defeated only moments later, brought down by a vicious punch that knocked his air away, bringing him crashing down. He did not stop until both Vaettir were unconscious at his feet. He saluted to the lean master and went back to the line.
Glancing again at the fallen Preachán, Paedrin saw him start to twitch. He was trying to sit up, his head hanging low.
They were in the practice yard, fighting and maiming each other in various combinations of brutality. There was no discussion or instruction. Sometimes they were given weapons. Other times they fought with wrists tied behind their backs. Paedrin watched and studied them, feeling the mist roil around him. He did not shiver though. He willed his muscles to be calm. He waited.
Just before midday, or what Paedrin assumed was such without the presence of the sun, there were only several men left standing. Each had been called to fight multiple times. Their chests heaved, faces bathed in sweat and some with blood. The tall master, the Vaettir, whistled again and all went rigid. He barked a curt order, which sounded like a question. No one moved. The tall man paced in the midst of the square, hissing at them like a snake. He asked the question again, so low that Paedrin could not hear it. He paused, waiting. No one moved.
The tall master clapped his hands twice and the men started back toward the doors leading inside the temple. There were at least a dozen left behind, sprawled out in the training yard, either unconscious or unable to get up.
Paedrin did not think he would get a better chance than that. If the Kishion in training beat themselves up every morning before the midday meal, what better time would there be to challenge the tall master’s authority than just after? They were tired and spent. They were used to fighting each other. They were not used to fighting someone like Paedrin.
The tall master started back toward the doors, pausing every few steps to walk around one of the crumpled bodies sprawled in front of him. Paedrin’s legs were burning from holding the crouch so long, so he delicately stretched and let the ache in his muscles wane. He waited until the tall master was almost to the doors.
“Cruw Reon!” Paedrin shouted.
The tall master froze in place as Paedrin’s voice echoed throughout the courtyard.
He did not turn. He stood erect, almost aloof. He was long and sinewy, his hair a curtain of black. The long hair sent a nagging memory in Paedrin’s mind. He looked…familiar. Too tall, but familiar still.
