Fallen One (Book three of Alfireán age)

- Into the Woods -

Sweat drenched Harold's brow as he deflected another attack. Knocking it wide with a channeled shield, he rushed forward and activated the gem in his hand.

Coldwater rushed forth like a geyser and plowing into the student, the stream knocked him off his feet and tossed him into the sandy dirt.

"Eww, gross. Why'd you have to use water!" the adolescent complained as the dirt and water mixed, forming gooey clumps of mud which stuck to his foppish clothes and pristine face.

"All right," Harold said, lowering the gem. "I believe that is enough for today. Everyone get cleaned up and get ready for your next class."

"This stinks," one of the students complained as he stomped off the training ground and climbed down the five-foot embankment leading up to it.

After Olivia had destroyed the training grounds, this field had been hastily constructed where the children's dorms were initially supposed to go. Because of the hill's slope, however, the southern and eastern sides were raised out of the ground to keep the combat field level, a fact Harold was not too fond of.

"You're right. This does stink," the boy Harold had sent sprawling agreed as he scraped the mud off the front of his shirt.

"Ya, Alf's teaching was so much better," a third student added. "Why do we have to practice with a bunch of old people?"

"Old people?" Mrs. Yatsar spat, stomping her sandaled foot. As the children disappeared, the woman in her mid-twenties turned on the headmaster. "I've had enough of this. Just look at what those hooligans did to me," she declared, motioning at herself.

Her green Ao Dai sported several burn marks while her pant legs displayed several rips. "I didn't sign up for this, and I'm not getting paid enough either. I'm a basic forms teacher, not some war master. I'm done. You will have to find someone else for this," the woman declared and stomped off the training ground in the opposite direction, her black, frizzy hair streaming behind her in the breeze.

Harold sighed, wiped the sweat off his brow, and looked up into the blue, cloudless sky. The sound of cicadas and chittering monkeys echoed in the background as the jungle's moist heat clung to his loose grey training garments. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered to himself.

"Not at all. You have another good forty years in you," Ice, the town butcher's wife, laughed as she sauntered over and retrieved the spent water gem from him. "Though I do think," Mrs. Cleaver conceded, "that both she and the students have a point. And as much as I loathe to admit it, I think we're learning more from the children than they are from us."

"And you, Garvin. What do you think?" Harold asked, looking over in his friend's direction.

The usually jolly baker sat in the dirt, gulping down air as if he were about to expire from oxygen deprivation. "I think... I'm out of shape," was all the man answered.

"I see," the butler said, rubbing his deep black mustache. "It appears that live combat exercises may no longer be an option. We will have to contrive a new method of training the students in warfare, at least until Alf and the others return," the headmaster decided.

"Agreed," Garvin said, clambering to his feet. "And I think it's time I stop sampling my own product."

Harold smiled at his old friend, then turned towards Brockovich Manor. "I will bring the matter up with the other teachers and see what we can come up with."

"Maybe we can send them on live hunting exercises," Mrs. Cleaver suggested. "From all accounts, there are more of those large boars Alf and Olivia killed the other day. I've even heard of insects the size of large rodents buzzing into the fake town."