The Grey Tower

Since their first training some months ago, Valadin had begun spending a great deal of time training with a squad amongst the Mountain Guard. Likely their Sergeant Fodhr, an acquaintance of Val’s, kept the other men from questioning the right of a Soldier to be joining in the unit’s regiment, whatever the case their obedience wasn’t entirely submissive as jeers were often exchanged in his presence. Though stolid in his decision to allow Valadin a chance to develop his sword skills, it was easy to see that Fodhr worried for the welfare of his men. A unit was a like any organism—it needed life-blood pumping vigorously through its veins, energy to sustain its essence so that it could continue to thrive and shine bright for those times when their mettle would be tested. Trust and camaraderie were the nourishment which was the basis of any army and without them, the cause that bound each man to one another would fade to nothing as whole companies fell to ruin.

The Mountain Guard was Fodhr’s life, his every action conducted with the sole purpose of upholding his duty and preserving the order of Hamma Valon during these dark times. The fact that no men grunted in the training yards at the appointed midday hour had a visibly sickening effect upon the officer when it became apparent the men were making a statement. Valadin had always believed such loyalty was naïve and unfounded, but didn’t deem it appropriate to address such personal matters with his benefactor. Instead he busied himself with the study of the sword.

With the others away, Fodhr spent most of his time now going to Hamma Valon in search of respectable and talented recruits that might serve as reserves should things turn for the worse. This left Valadin to advance his sword technique which he’d improved, but still felt that his progress was painfully slow.

He stood alone in the empty Warder Yards with no shirt on, silence worn heavily on his skin like a thick cloak. Images of his body’s motions flooded his mind as he envisioned what his next strike should look like. First, I’ll center my weight while in Cat Crossing the Courtyard, he meditated. His body was affected by the imagined sensation of shifting weight until his posture felt comfortably wide in the course of movement. It’ll keep my core tight as I move from one swing to another. After that shouldn’t be much to keep my concentration on precision and power with each swing—after training with Master Silas, going through forms’ll be child’s play. Opening his eyes he felt his lips split in a wide grin; it would be easy.

With a deep breath he pushed away all the frivolous feelings, expanding his scope of attention to not only every slight process his body underwent, but the subtle reactions of the wooden hall around him. From the sandy practice yard ground to the stale, sweat-scented aroma that permanently hung in the air from the Garden’s plants to even the smooth, worn feeling of the wooden practice sword in his hands; he was aware of all of it. With deliberate effort he assumed the Void, his body casually falling into Cat Crosses the Courtyard, shifting only a little, before settling into it fully.

His thoughts bloomed anew not with the powerful displays he’d witnessed daily, but now he imagined that a foe of great skill was attacking with wild abandon. Acting as if he were truly under assault Valadin bounced lithely before a practice stand, not minding how tight his shoulders felt as his lathe flew to motion quickly and carefully. His first parrying slash arched outward and up, swatting away the first of the barrage of attacks, nearly staggering his opponent who only by a deft show of agility maintained their feet, spun their on their heel much like Fodhr would, and attacked without pause a second time.

In fact it was Fodhr that Val imagined he was fighting.

The second swing always proved more difficult than the first for him. His body had been lifted slightly in the rising motion of his first cut, exposing his midsection while exerting greater pressure on his shoulder blades to cut down onto his opponent from such a high stance. It was the second swing that harnessed both the raw power provided by gravity as well as the effort placed by the individual into the swing. Sweat flew off Valadin in a dazzling display of light-filled drops as he slashed down again, narrowing deflecting the imagined blade that had nearly been at throat. His feet widened instinctively as The Lion on the Hill readied to make use of the building power for a last strike which while not quite as powerful as the second, it was just as vital for it forced the opponent either to back away or simply threw them off balance.

From high guard a dull burn ached in his legs, a protestation from the hard days of lumbering around with the heavier, iron practice swords used when trying to develop endurance and strength. With a quick yip he cut upwards before Folding the Fan sheathed his weapon coolly leaving him panting, but ready to move again in case he needed to fluidly flow from one form to the next. His heart pounded as the excitement winded to a close and he grabbed the towel at his feet and patted it against his slick chest.

“I’ll need someone to test it on,” he thought aloud, “It’s good, but to be sure I must experience it in battle; battle is the only test that matters.”

Valadin waited silently as the Mountain Guard commander heading the induction of new recruits showed the basic standards needed to earn their leather jerkin and military-issue boots marking them as official members of Sergeant Fodhr’s unit. He along with a handful of other Ji’alantin—and a select few Dedicated—waited at distance from the Yards with hands clasped behind his back and a blank expressions on their faces. The tan sleeves of Val’s tunic were already edged with grime from when he had brushed his hand against the dusty wooden palisades earlier. He’d been concerned about first impressions earlier, but now he thought the ruddy look fit the ambiance of the setting.

Finally the orientation ended and the officer made his way to the waiting male channelers, “Alright then. Seems you all are bit more skilled than the others so no forms for you today, haha!” he laughed, eyes studying his charges even in mirth. When no one joined in his laughter he coughed awkwardly and continued on, “One of the most important pillars of swordsmanship is reflexes, without them you will certainly die.”

The urge to leave was quickly fought down by Valadin. He didn’t like this man, he didn’t like the other students and he most certainly did not like being told the obvious. “…so basically today I’ll have you begin honing your instincts so that when you do happen to face another blade or really any enemy attack you’ll process things faster. Line up in two rows and face each other. Quickly now.”

Soon two rows of men faced each other holding their practice swords gently clasped in The Cat Crossing the Courtyard which some had been taught at the Tower while other knew before coming to the Mountain Guard. “Now, I want the side facing me to strike in a slow overhead swing. Like this,” the commander instructed, the words accompanied by a demonstration. Immediately the noise of clacking wooden swords banged against one another furiously, “I said slowly!” shouted the instructor over the din, but Valadin blocked him out abruptly as the Void enveloped him.

His ‘partner’ was a square nosed thug whose knuckles were bruised from fist fights—not the sort to have much grace with a sword. At least Valadin had thought so at first. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind he found himself barely bringing his own lathe sword up in a swift jerk to parry the with Watered Silk to turn the forceful strike coming down on him. The boy grinned deviously as he lifted his practice sword again before hammering it down on Valadin with unrestrained savagery. This time Valadin’s defense only barely succeeded in catching the heavy weight behind the strike and his knee dropped to the hard sand painfully. His arms numbed with pain, but his face remained expressionless.

“Alright! Enough! Now I want that same side to sweep at the ankles attempting to knock their partners off their feet. This will help train you to be light on your feet. Go!” the elder called out, walking around to offer advice to students who seemed to be struggling.

Valadin knowing what to expect now, effortlessly took to the air as the brute across from him swung his practice weapon without any restraint, clearly attempting to inflict damage. The assault didn’t end there. Suddenly the sword was swung not only at Valadin’s face, but his head, chest, arms, and anything else that could be aimed for. Frustration and exertion made his foe’s pale face blotchy with spots of red as Valadin ducked beneath a swing and immediately leapt back from an ankle sweeping hack before deflecting away yet another block utilizing The Leaf Floating on the Breeze. By now the aggressive pair had broken line and Valadin suddenly found himself outside in the grainy practice circle with his furious peer chasing after him with a flailing stick.

As yet another strike came for Valadin’s head he transitioned into The Cat Crossing the Courtyard before falling onto his back and rolling away. The warmth of the sun baked earth could be felt through his clothing. He shouldn’t have allowed the thought to become a distraction, but by the time he recovered his pursuer was attacking again in wordless fury and Valadin was in no position to defend. In the space of a breath a third practice sword intercepted the heavy blow easily and the commander stood over Valadin with a hard stare for the panting man across from him. “I had commanded you to stop.”

For a wild second it appeared that the Ji’alantin, lost in his fit of rage was going to engage the teacher, but the moment passed and the two separated with the bulky fellow bowing his head in ascent. The teacher nodded and looked to Valadin sourly. “That was quite a display you both put on. Shoulda shown you all some actual defensive maneuvers before you set out to bloody kill each other.” A nervous laugh passed through the group of men peering tentatively at the scene.

The Song pumped furiously as Val considered his momentary lapse. Rising to his feet, Valadin grimaced at the swathes of sandy streaks soiling the front of his tunic. His shoulder was on fire and the beginnings of a bruise sent pulsing aches up his back, but he kept his expression blank as he gave the instructor an appreciative bow.

“Many thanks…seems I have quite a bit to learn when it comes to fightin’, sir.”

With that, he made a respectful leg and headed towards the Grey Tower to complete the day’s duties.

Night time brought with it a cool breeze that Valadin appreciated as he stood in the Warder Yards with a Tower-issue short sword clasped gently in both hands. Moonlight made his black hair into a fine midnight halo which shined in an eerie glow. Can’t hear the song none out here at this time o’ day…it’s peaceful—too peaceful. The thought seemed to call forth the pain from the day’s earlier and with it the sense of incompetence he had felt at needing the help of another. How could Nykk love a man who couldn’t defend himself?

After struggling with the notion for a moment he set the pain aside leaving only his wounded pride to fester. He was alone in the night. Shadows danced sinisterly across the ground and the sky-reaching walls and as far as Valadin could tell no one would be able to see him practicing; not that it mattered. As Dedicated he was afforded such privileges…within reason.

With a breath he focused on the sword in his hands, the environment around him, and the tempo of his heartbeat within him before assuming The Heron Wading in the Rushes. Blade held by his head for a night-cooled breath, he surged swiftly into a horizontal slash before halting his momentum abruptly and pivoting on one foot. His limbs trembled with the effort of maintaining balance; Fodhr had said that this was the form that every Blademaster must perfect in order to reach the pinnacles of swordsmanship. In his mind, the image of his mentor…his friend, rugged and proud in a boisterous kind of a way sprang up before him with the same ferocious smile he wore to every sparring match they’d had since he was four. “Sheath the sword, first. Keep a hand close and the other hovering just a movement away. An’ fer Light’s sake stay light on your blasted feet!” The phantom image shouted.

“You were always good at that,” Val murmured into softness of the evening.

Folding the Fan sheathed the weapon as he had practiced a thousand times from guard stance to sheath. Disappointment pulled at the Void’s focus. He hated the fact that his eyes still needed to follow the sword as it made its graceful arc before sliding into the scabbard with a metallic his. His left hand held the sheath just beneath the hilt and his right hand looming near the hilt, tensed to draw without delay. Fodhr—or the mental projection of his mentor that he summoned in solo practice sessions---leapt forward in expert grace, sword lashing out of its sheath in a weak thrust that Valadin evaded with The Cat Crossing the Courtyard. Body loose and mind sharp, he side stepped just as the apparition came to a skidding halt and sheathed his longsword once again. It was a ruse. Even with his back turned, Valadin knew that Fodhr still had a plethora of attacks that would take his life if he wasn’t ready.

Bouncing on the insoles of his feet in anticipation, Valadin waited for what seemed an eternity. The silence of the night making every slight interruption sound eerily loud.

Then the sound that Valadin had been waiting for came. A soft sound that came from cloth twisting under the stress of motion. My assailant’s cloth, he imagined. Fodhr of the Mountain Guard rushed forward in The Hawk Surveys the Plain with such fury and power it was hard to believe that such a small man seemed more beast than human. With sword is held overhead in both hands the Sergeant paid appeared heedless of his exposed midriff as attacked with fatal downward of swings of no particular form, yet still possessing monstrous strength. The attacks were so swift and connected fluidly by The Ribbon Dances on the Breeze that Valadin had no time to see them clearly. Instead he simply fell into a roll and rose to a knee while unsheathing his own weapon with Unfolding the Fan, his intention to turn the draw into an attack, but he fumbled a moment before finally getting a firm grasp on the weapon.

His breath was hot against the cool, evening breeze and his shoulder still ached fiercely. With a grimace he noted that even more filth had settled onto the once solid tan tunic, but the Void snapped his attention back to the ghostly image charging at him. “Not bad at all. Pretty quick on the draw and ya managed to avoid yer head on a spit…still you’d be dead if anyone meant ya harm while ya botchin’ a counter like that.” Fodhr’s image smirked.

Valadin looked down at the ground and walked his gaze back towards the man. There was no doubt the battle would have ended in the moment that Valadin had lost grip of his sword—even if was for the span of the blink of the eye. Shame nipped at his senses and the image of his mentor faded away, the mercurial swordsman’s presence disappearing from the air like a thick vapor condensing back to water. With a glance to the sky, Valadin saw he still had ample time to sleep well before reporting of the Soldier’s progress to Master Elonid tomorrow. Life as an Asha’man had been put on pause for the moment. He wanted to seek out the sword first…though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe it was because it would offer something he could be proud of or something he could use to impress Nykk.

Or maybe it’s jus’ to survive..