Valen
"Some people think of it as a magical, mystical power of some kind," his grandfather had said, on a very different day a few years ago. It had been one of the last lessons the old man had ever taught, a lesson he had said he couldn't teach before.
It was raining. Not the sort of rain anyone in the City was used to, but the kind of rain where a hand's length fell in a couple of days. The kind of rain that flooded streets, over-taxed drainage systems, and had civil designers dragged from high towers to be reposted to survey positions to plan out the expansion of the walls.
"That's absurd, of course. You and I have seen magic. It's bright as the sun, and comes at the will of someone wearing a red coat." His grandfather, as unperturbed by the winter rain as he was about nearly everything, was standing in a deceptively relaxed stance, and carried a blade that gleamed as it reflected the warm red light of the Spire. "It's a skill, one that anyone can learn. But like common sense or an affinity for good literature, it's not something most people ever bother with."
"Then what is it?" Valen had asked.
True to form, the old man didn't ignore the question. He just wasn't in a hurry to answer it. "How do you think I will attack you?"
The old man was three steps away, his sword gripped loosely, high on the handle with his thumb and forefinger rubbing against the guard. Left foot in the lead, more than shoulder-width apart. "A feint. Dash forward, with a thrust directed at my face. But the move is meant to obscure your feet, which will take another step forward, and when I move to brush the thrust aside, you twist into a slash over the blade, and come down hard on my right arm."
The prediction was a hard one to make. His grandfather had insisted on naked blades that day. It was a first.
The old man shifted his left foot, pulling it back in a slow circle, until his right foot was forward. "And now?"
"Hard slash aimed at my chest, to shift my defence close to my body and lock my legs, so you can switch to two hands and strike while stepping forward," Valen said. He shook his head, and held up his hand. "But Grandfather, I'm not talking about making that prediction when I'm calm. I see it happen, see what will happen next during a fight."
"It's not some magical precognitive powers. I do it. Your grandmother does it. Hell, your father, for all he hated learning the sword, could do it. There are more than a few people in the army who have learned it, and at least a few shadows," his grandfather explained. "You understand how reflexes work, right? And how all those drills you've done over the years are to train your basic instincts to use the skills I've taught you? This is similar."
"Is it?" Valen asked.
"You get into enough fights, get familiar with being afraid or angry, and your brain starts adapting. You use your skills out of reflex, instinct, which makes you faster. You start being able to use your fear, which makes your legs faster and your senses pay attention more thoroughly. You use your anger, which makes your arms faster and tells your pain receptors to shut the burning hell up for a bit. This vision of yours, is just your instincts finally starting to use your brain. You're well practiced in visualizing what I'll do, at least for the first few motions. You've been doing it at the start of our practice duels for years. Your brain has just started using that skill in the middle of a fight."
******
One straight ahead, it would reach him first. Two to the right, half a second after. Valen extended his sword straight ahead, but shifted his feet to face the next two. He held his sword in his right, loosely, near the pommel. But not too loosely, only as tough as flesh would resist.
The first creature crashed against it, and as it pushed the sword against his grip, sliding his hand up to the cross guard, the tip punched into the creature's chest about the same distance. Valen shifted his weight to his right foot, and pulled the sword into a slash to strike the second.
He struck the rib deliberately, using the resistance to slow his sword, and then shifted his stance to face the third. Two hands on the sword now, pushing the blade out and up, and with a short step of his right foot brought the sword down on the third creature, through the collarbone and into the chest, pulling the pommel towards his side to draw the blade back out.
His blade was out before the first one struck the ground. Also, just before Captain Dremora fired again.
"You're still two behind, Redgrave." The captain laughed as he reloaded.
Which put the captain at twenty-one. And as far as Valen could count, they had only been at this for thirteen second.
Valen shifted to meet the next one, stepping forward with a quick flick of the blade, scoring a small cut between the creature's ribs. A move he had practiced a thousand times before over the years. A move he didn't have to think about anymore. Nor did he think about his next move, already shoving the blade hard by the pommel with one hand as he gripped it with the other, swinging the tip through another chest hard enough that it passed straight through.
Two more. But Valen didn't have to look over, to know the captain had dropped another three. Every shot the big captain made cut through at least two of the creatures, and his other hand didn't have a knife just to look good for the statue the City was eventually going to make for him.
The coming seconds would favour the captain's count. The bodies of their enemies were becoming an impediment. Valen did something he wasn't expecting to do in a moment like this, and reached for his Salamander.
******
"Grandfather?" Valen asked another time. "You haven't taught me any other weapon."
His grandfather shrugged at that, but it was his grandmother who answered. "Combat is combat. What you learn here, some of it will apply to any weapon you pick up. And soldiers in the army aren't given many other weapons."
"But perhaps I should be learning how to use a Salamander?" Valen asked.
"The army can teach you that well enough. And frankly, they're right to focus on their guns. Any clumsy fool you could take apart with swords is a danger with one of those in their hands. And even being just proficient is enough to cut down dozens of those creatures in the right circumstances."
"So, why are you teaching me the sword?"
"Because Salamanders are superb weapons when you have a steady supply of ammo, barricades, fallback positions, and reserves." His grandfather scoffed, and held up his sword. "This is for when things go wrong. And when the Gloamtaken close, I'd like to meet the man able to keep pace with you, fighting with a Salamander."
******
His grandfather would have enjoyed meeting Captain Dremora.
Short-barrelled Salamander in hand, fire howling in a beat so steady it was almost mechanical, the captain spun a dance of bright light and sudden death. Every shot brought down at least two, one beside another if the captain swept the barrel, taking advantage of the weapon's kick to push it along. His knife worked without impeding his reloads, switching between a forehand and reverse grip when the moment required.
"Did you have a teacher?" Valen asked as he finished a swing into a guard, and waited for the next one. The creatures were slowing, the dead already littered the street, and slowed the others' advance.
"Nope," Captain Dremora replied. Like Valen, he paused and waited for the Gloamtaken to close the distance. "You might have noticed, but the army doesn't put a premium on martial discipline."
Captain Dremora taught himself these skills. Valen was both astonished, and appalled. Impressed the captain defied the malaise of the army's indifference. But that the City's best warrior had to teach himself, it spoke volumes about the City's ability to defend itself.
"Most of a soldier's training focuses on unit tactics. It's the same in the Rangers, but we do quite a bit more of it. For most of the army, unit tactics are just standing in a line and holding a choke-point. You've seen the difference."
The captain glanced over his shoulder. "Not long now."
The Gloamtaken closed again, and Valen's world narrowed down to the street he had to hold.
"By the way," the captain said, just before he fired. "Where did you get the name 'Redgrave'?"
******
It was as dark as the City could ever get. A storm had swept across the City, black clouds leaving the sky a deep, menacing red as it caught and held the Spire's light. It was a night and a sky no one in the City liked to see.
Sitting beneath something that blotted out the light cut a little too close to the ongoing siege.
And beneath that red storm, was the night his grandfather died.
He was barely a block away, passing across the train station, when he first saw the big locomotive. Polished steel and large glass windows in a City that favoured blackened cast-iron and cheaper metals. Visible seats with cushions, and decorations, where the tram cars had little more than metal benches for people too old or too broken to stand.
And in front of that train, eight people had gathered. A half-dozen bureaucrats, clean and well-dressed. A man in a rust-red coat. And his father.
Valen hadn't seen his father in six years, before that night. Six years where his grandparents had filled-in for a mother killed in a collapsed apartment, and a father who couldn't stand the sight of him.
So seeing his father that night frightened Valen, and fear was the last thing he wanted to show a man who abandoned him. "What the burning hell are you doing here?" he had asked, loud enough that every one of those well-dressed officials looked up. As did the Crafter.
His father moved to confront him — arms crossed and a dismissive scowl worn like a cheap mask. There was a hot, angry rage in the man, and it showed in the poorly-schooled rage-filled happiness marked the man's eyes and the corner of his mouth. It was telling, though, how his father couldn't quite meet his eyes. "The site's being demolished. Space is scarce in the City, and we have better uses than a school no one attends."
The man was enjoying this moment. As if he had been anticipating it.
"We can house over six hundred people with the space this spot takes up," one of the other well-dressed officials said, with a pat on the shoulder that was supposed to be comforting. As if the man did it while reading off a checklist.
"And you? What are you here for?" Valen asked the red coated man.
And a name he wouldn't know for years answered. A face that would become familiar when he saw it one more time, on the wall. Fighting a Golem. "I was asked to make sure the demolition was contained, so it doesn't damage nearby buildings," Crafter Breckan Howel answered.
******
It was another gift from his Grandfather. Without the years of training, without the discipline and focus he had learned, thinking about what happened that night would have crippled him, and seen him overrun by the Gloamtaken. "I took the name to honour my grandfather," he said between breaths, careful to keep his sentences short. "And spite my father."
"Your grandfather taught you?" The captain asked.
The fight had ebbed again. Fifteen intense seconds, and the Gloamtaken were back to struggling over their own dead. Valen might have thought the creatures were strangely unfocused, they seemed to lack the precision and drive they had shown in other encounters. But it might just be the company he fought beside that made the creatures seem so slow and undetermined. "He did."
"Damn shame he didn't teach more. I know why, no one in the army views the sword as a weapon that should be focused on. Cadmus is one of the few who makes a real study of it," the captain said as he let his gun point down at the ground for a moment, and drank a bit of water. Valen did the same.
"I take it there's a story to that. And it's not a happy one," Captain Remora reflected, as he readied himself for the fight.
"No sir," Valen said. "Like most stories in the City."