Galen ducked as a wooden staff, thick enough to crack a skull, swished past his head. He held a similar weapon, and raised it just in time to block another blow. The impact sent a jarring pain through his hands. His opponent moved for a third strike, and Galen prepared to block it, but this time the enemy wasn't aiming for his head.
He blocked nothing. Meanwhile, the staff whistled past his head, swung in a wide arc, hit the backs of his knees, and swept his legs out from under him. His back hit the ground, knocking the air from his lungs.
He lay stunned, staring up at the vault of sky while the world spun, and raucous laughter ricocheted around the semi-circular outcrop of stone that formed the makeshift training arena.
Fortunately, only his two closest friends were there to witness his disgrace. Behn, who sat on the flattened grass nearby, helpless with laughter, and Triss, who'd been beating the crap out of him for an hour already. Her freckled face blocked his view of the sky, and she frowned down at him.
"You okay?"
He coughed and sat up, removed the leather cap protecting his head, and brushed bits of grass from his hair. "Peachy."
Triss reached down and grasped his hand, pulling him to his feet. "You can't just defend, Gale. You have to attack, too, or else your opponent just wears you down. No matter how skilled you are, eventually you get hit."
Galen scowled and dusted himself off. Like a cadet in the Junior Scouts, he wore a thick leather tunic, protective arm and shin guards, and a reinforced leather cap, fitted with a wire face-shield. Triss wore none of these things, and fought in a comfortable cotton shirt and breeches, and soft suede shoes. There was almost no chance he'd hit her, anyway, but her absolute confidence in this was a little insulting. Not that it wasn't warranted.
"I asked you to show me how to defend myself, not to kill me," he complained, glaring at her and rubbing the back of his head.
Triss rolled her eyes. "Nobody likes a drama queen, Gale. You wouldn't last one day in my squad."
"I know that," he grumbled, shooting a glare at Behn. "Hence the lessons."
Triss leaned on her staff, the muscles in her bare forearms putting Galen's to shame. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with long red hair she kept in a thick, plated braid. With a small, upturned nose, gap-toothed grin and sparkling blue eyes, her appearance skewed towards cute more than fierce—but Galen pitied anyone who would dare to tell her that.
"You still haven't told me why," she said. "I've been begging you to train with me for years, and now you come to me with the idea? What changed?"
Galen shrugged and lifted a hand to touch his pendant, a habitual gesture of reassurance, and found it not there. He trusted Triss more than anyone—Behn, too; but Behn couldn't keep a secret any longer than he could resist eating a hot honey cake. Which wasn't long.
Behn and Triss had each grown up a few houses away from Galen, and the three of them had been friends as long as he remembered. Triss was a few years older, and Behn was the same age as Galen; and while Triss's love was fighting, Behn's was food. His father was a baker and a brewer, and Behn had inherited a passion for both. He was plump, quick-witted, and good-natured—even if he did laugh at Galen's pitiful attempts to ward off Triss's staff.
Triss, on the other hand, was a warrior born and bred. She adored physical challenges and contests of strength, and excelled at a variety of weapons and combat styles. She'd joined the Junior Guard on her fourteenth birthday—the second she was old enough to qualify. At seventeen, she'd graduated with the highest honors and the Watchers—the most elite branch of the Guard—had snapped her up almost as soon as she walked off the stage in the grand amphitheater. Now at twenty, she was already a second lieutenant, with a squad of eight under her command.
Galen couldn't ask for a better or more enthusiastic teacher, but she also didn't pull her punches, and treated him the same as she would any cadet his age—which is to say, without mercy.
When he'd asked for lessons in defense, she'd jumped at the chance—literally—and as soon as she had a couple days' leave from duty, she'd taken him out here to get started.
Behn had tagged along for the show.
Their 'arena' was a secluded spot just outside of town, along the north side of the wall. An outcrop of rocks sheltered it from the constant winds blowing in off the plain, and the tall grasses made a good cushion when pressed flat. The three of them had cleared all the stones from a small area and flattened the grass in a circle. Then Triss had launched into Galen's first lessons with the staff, while Behn looked on.
He'd had to remind himself several times already why he was here—forcing himself to recall the fear he'd felt with the stranger's knife against his skin, and the shame of being unable to prevent someone from taking something precious to him.
It wasn't hard; from his iron-and-silver eyes to the infuriatingly self-assured curl of his lips, the stranger's face was burned in his mind
"Gale?" Triss prompted, when he failed to answer in a timely fashion. "Darek's not bothering you again, is he? 'Cause I swear to Thrynis, I'll break both his arms this time, if he is."
Galen blinked and dropped his hand from his throat, brought back to the present. "What? Oh, no—nothing like that. I just... I want to be ready, is all."
Maybe he'd tell Triss later; if he could get her alone.
She narrowed her eyes at him, hawk-winged brows pinching close, and then punched his shoulder just hard enough to hurt.
"Alright. Fine. That's enough punishment for today. I'm guessing this isn't Harrald's idea, and if you don't want him to find out about it, you'll need to be able to walk tomorrow. Let's get some lunch."
Behn showed enthusiasm for this idea, and helped Galen struggle out of his protective gear, which Triss had borrowed from the surplus Junior Guard supply. Nothing made for typical Thrynian adults fit Galen, anyway.
As Behn fumbled with the straps, Galen felt a sharp jolt, followed by a sensation of shaking. Already tired and a little annoyed, he pushed himself away from his friend. "Gods, Behn. Don't be so rough."
He turned to find Behn with his hands raised, pale blue eyes wide and tufty blond hair in disarray.
"Wasn't me!" he said. looking at the ground. "It was the... the..."
"It's a tremor," Triss said, pointing to the outcrop of rock. Galen followed her gaze, and saw she was right. The rocks were faintly, but perceptibly, shaking. The three of them stared for a moment, almost spellbound, and then it stopped.
"What the..." Behn wiped a hand over his shiny forehead, his pale skin reddened with excitement and the beginnings of fear.
Triss shrugged, and picked up the rest of the gear. "It's nothing. They're getting more common. Though that's the first I've felt so close to Dern. I'm sure the priests will have something to say about," she added, and spit.
She wasn't wrong.
When they returned to town, they found it in a stir of commotion, as if an ants' nest had been disturbed. It seemed the 'tremor' had done very little damage, other than shaking loose objects off of shelves, but the novelty had people in a borderline frenzy of excitement and fright.
Thrynians liked threats they could see and understand; threats that could be killed or conquered. The earth itself shaking was another matter.
As they passed a group gathered before the temple, Galen caught a few words shouted in the rough, strained voice of a priest.
"...the dark corruption—magic! These witches spread their evil through our land like a cancer, fueling the Imbalance! Any who touch it are cursed, and must be cleansed. Come—come to the temple, and receive the benediction of Thrynis! A soul tainted by magic is a soul lost to the..."
A tug on his arm pulled Galen along, and his attention snapped to Triss. Her face was set in a grim, angry expression, and her grip was tight enough to hurt. She led them down the street, away from the temple, and into a different part of town: the trader's lane, where those who came from other provinces and beyond were permitted to reside and sell their wares.
"What was that about?" Behn asked, as Triss shoved him and Galen in to a small Yuthi-owned shop that sold little balls of fried dough, stuffed with various ingredients.
Without answering, Triss waved over the serving girl and ordered a family-sized meal. When the girl departed, she took a breath and let it go, gritting her teeth at the same time. "It's all a fucking lie," she said, quietly.
"What is?"
"That shit at the temple. I've heard it before. 'It's magic! Magic is evil, therefore, so is anyone who has it!" She shakes her head. "By Thrynis, I'd like to strangle that priest. Fuck 'em all, and fuck the temple, too."
"Triss!" Behn gasped, scandalized, and drew a clockwise circle of blessing in the air.
She glared at him. "I was in Galos, with the Guard, a month ago," she said. "There were tremors there, too."
"And?" Galen prompted.
"And..." She swallowed and waited while the serving-girl brought a pitcher of water and four glazed cups to the table. She filled hers and waited for the girl to go away again before answering. "And the priests did the same thing, there. Blamed 'magic' for the 'imbalance,' and called it evil. Pretty soon, somebody found a 'mage,' and..." She looked away.
"Guessing it didn't go well for the mage," Behn said.
Triss shook her head, lips pressed in a line. "Nope. She was tried for witchcraft, found guilty, and beheaded. Thing is, she wasn't a 'mage' the week before, or even the day before. Then she was just..." Triss glanced at Galen. "A little different."
"Did the tremors stop?" Behn asked, leaning forward eagerly.
Triss shot him a look.
"No. But only that one hit Galos. There have been others since, and thus, more talk of 'magic' and 'imbalances.' Thryn is unfriendly enough to outsiders, without adding this temple crap to the mix."
Galen frowned; he had his own opinions on the temple and its interpretations, but he'd never heard Triss speak so strongly of it.
"I thought Thyrn was the 'Shield of Sakkara,' though," he said, "protecting all the weaker realms and guarding the empire. Isn't Thrynis a god of peace?"
"Sure," Tris scoffed, "She's also a god of war, and vengeance, and family, and—and whatever the fuck the temple wants her to be. Listen..." Her blue eyes narrowed as she leaned forward across the table. "This is political. I don't know what the fuck these 'tremors' are, or what's causing them. Leave that to the scholars up at Tal P'Nir. This 'blaming magic' shit, though—that's bullcrap, and it's gonna get ugly if it gets out of hand. The temple's been priming this for a while now—I'm high enough in the ranks to know—and it's a tinderbox. Now that the flame's lit, something like another tremor could set it off."
She looked at Galen.
"Anyway. I think it's a good thing you decided to take up an interest in self-defense, Gale. Better late than dead, as we say in the Guard."
Before he could come up with a suitable reply, the serving-girl returned, bearing their meal on a tray, and Behn's enthusiasm distracted him.
"How can you afford this?" he asked Triss, around a mouthful of crispy dough stuffed with mushrooms and herbs. "Aren't you supposed to save your Gaurd's salary for retirement, or a wife, or something?"
Triss snorted into her water cup. "The Guard don't retire, Gale. We die, or we end up like..."
She trailed off, biting her lip.
Harrald's charity was his good fortune, in a way. Guards seldom lived long enough to retire, which was why—like Triss—they tended to spend their money while they had it. Those who outlived the odds, and who had no family to support them, often wound up down by the docks, penniless and begging for scraps. If Harrald hadn't taken Galen as his son, that would have been his fate, too.
"Anyway," she concluded, spearing a fried fish-ball with her fork, "a shit-storm's coming—you can count on that—and the more ready we are, the better off we'll be."