The High Road (On Hold)

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Pain filled Jevar’s whole right side as a blade slammed into him right above his waist. He felt himself falling, but he stretched his own sword out in front of him, so that it caught on the ground and balanced him enough to stand a little longer. It did not make too much difference, though, for by the time he was balanced another blade caught the upper part of the thin mail shirt meant to protect him, and he fell heavily to the ground.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, boy, if you ever want to be a competent soldier,” came the stern voice of Tyrtius the Terrible from above him. “Every soldier, infantry and cavalry alike, need to be good with a sword, or else they die in the field. Do you want to die, boy?” the man demanded.

“No, sir,” Jevar replied, his voice weak. He thought he tasted the salty flavour of blood in his mouth.

“Then stand up and keep fighting! You can rest when you’re dead.” At this rate, with the beatings he was sustaining each and every day, Jevar could see him having a long rest very soon. His ribs felt as though they were broken, and every step was agony. Every single inch of his body was sore from the ferocious attacks of his peers, who wielded wooden longswords, which were longer and heavier than a normal weapon, so that the regular sword would feel weightless in a true fight.

Jevar did manage to rise to his feet eventually, despite the agonizing pain of each movement. He raised his sword, his arms fragile, and feebly made to continue fighting. His enemy lifted his sword and brought it back down hard, to clack heavily against Jevar’s own. Jevar, filled with pain, continued lifting his heavy weapon to block the other man’s thrusts, and he hardly felt the blows that constantly landed on his body. That is, until one took him hard in the chin, knocking him back down to the ground again.

“I don’t think that Jevar can take much more of this, my Lord Terrible…Tyrtius, I mean,” said Marck, the tall but none too brilliant fellow who had been beating Jevar to a bloody pulp for the last four hours.

“Terrible, you say?” Sir Tyrtius questioned. He was a sheer giant of a man, with the broadest shoulders Jevar had ever seen, and muscles as thick as Jevar’s torso. His temper was what made him famous, however. He demanded perfection from all those who he trained, and he was swift with painful retribution to those who went against his will. “If you’re such a coward, Marck, and unwilling to help this poor moron with his training, then you can hand me your sword and go back to your quarters. I’ll see you tomorrow, scrubbing down the bathhouses.”

Marck did as he was told, handing his sword to Tyrtius the Terrible and running back to his room. Unfortunately, this left Jevar alone with Sir Tyrtius. “Get up, weakling.” The giant hawked and spat, the disgusting gob landing near to where Jevar’s head was. “Real, honest to goodness battles can last for many long hours. I’ve been in fights that have lasted from sunrise to sunset, and even well into the night. You’ve only been fighting for four hours, with breaks every hour. Consider yourself lucky that I don’t make you clean the bathhouses with that lumbering idiot Marck.

“Maybe it’s a good thing that you’re such a weakling, anyway. You’re too tired to continue, and I’m getting sick of looking at your face. Get out of my sight, and be ready for this again in the morning, boy.” Tyrtius took Jevar’s sword and stomped off, making his way his rooms, where Jevar was almost certain there were tools and mechanisms of torture hidden from the rest of the world.

Jevar, tired to his very bones, pulled off his mail shirt and carried it back to his quarters in the barracks. Since he had begun the basic training for the new army, Jevar had had to stay in the barracks every other week, to get himself used to discomfort and hardship, which was a very real struggle in his quarters. The room’s only furnishings were a bed that was too small for him, a chipped marble washbasin so he could keep some semblance of cleanliness, and a dresser to put his clothing in. Since he had very few of those, he kept his mail shirt in one of the drawers.