Chapter 13: Chapter 12: Steels through the Bark

Chapter 12

Steels through the Bark

> The cultural attachment to monogamy begins and ends with the proletariat, whose values, perhaps shaped by conquest and the Empire's hidden decrees, are tightly bound to tradition and stability. In contrast, the patricians embraced a more enlightened view toward sexual proclivities, seeing such attachments as fluid, dynamic, and ultimately a matter of personal discretion rather than societal mandate.

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> — Treatise on Imperial Social Structures

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> Cassio Valerius, Junior Scribe, Imperial Anthropologia

Left, right, left, right, oblique left, overhand.

Left, right, left, right, oblique left, overhand.

Godfrey’s chipped and battered training sword—a relic made of true steel—sliced through the air before gouging deeply into the bare wood of a tree, its blade having already carved out a half-moon crescent several inches deep. To his left, a line of felled trees bore bases that looked like they’d been gnawed away by giant beavers, the result of his relentless training.

Left, right, left, right, oblique left, overhand.

Chips of oaken heartwood flew with every stroke, the rhythm of his movements almost meditative.

“If you keep making patterned, repetitive cuts like that, a clever opponent might just time their steps to your strikes and sneak up on even the most vigilant young man,” a voice interrupted, breaking through Godfrey’s trance.

Godfrey lowered his sword—if the jagged line of steel could still be called such—and turned to see Uncle Tarlow standing nearby. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Uncle. If you have any suggestions for my technique, I’m all ears.”

“Ah, but how could I have suggestions? You wield an arming sword with a mastery few your age can match. I find no fault in your technique,” Tarlow said, a rare note of genuine praise in his voice. “Why, one might even say you’ve had a fantastic instructor, hm?”

Godfrey blinked in surprise, unused to such direct praise. “Wait, you really think so?”

“Indeed! You’ve trained rigorously for years under an expert teacher. Well done!” Tarlow’s tone was light, almost playful, but then he added, “Of course, it goes without saying that the arming sword is the crudest, simplest, most brutish tool imaginable for practicing the beatific art of swordplay. A trained ape from Somara could wield it with passing skill. But truly, my boy, well done!”

Godfrey’s brief moment of pride deflated as he chuckled, “It goes without saying, yes, so no need to say it.”

“Precisely!” Tarlow grinned. “Now, you say you’re in no mood for lectures, and that’s fine. Lectures give me indigestion—both giving and receiving. But I digress; I come bearing gifts!”

With a dramatic flourish, Tarlow tossed a small bundle of cloth into the air, which landed with a dull thud on the forest floor. A glint of steel peeked through the wrappings.

“What is it, Uncle?”

“Why, that, my boy, is a knife!”

Godfrey chuckled, confused. “Oh, thank you, Uncle.”

“Not just any knife; that, lad, is a parrying dagger, with some minor adjustments I had Master Wren perform. Now, if your ultimate plan is to flail around at the Fete until someone takes pity on you and shuffles you off to the Institute, you’ll need an effective fighting style. If you think the farm boys in this village will hold a candle to the freaks from the Great Houses who’ve been getting Resonance growth and training since infancy, you’ve got another thing coming!”

The dagger was unlike any Godfrey had seen. Near the base of the blade were three notches, presumably for catching, trapping, and breaking an opponent’s blade. The rest of the double-edged dagger was smooth, hard, lethal steel. The crossguard curved elegantly, with one side extending up toward the blade and the other downward toward the pommel.

“So... a knife?” Godfrey asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not just any knife! A parrying dagger! I’ve seen you with a shield, boy, and it’s embarrassing. You try to use it as a weapon more often than you use it to, you know, block pieces of steel hurtling toward you at high speed. And since you can’t yet split your Focus, your options with a second weapon are limited.”

“Split my Focus?” Godfrey echoed, confused.

Tarlow waved the question away. “Never mind that. I have another gift for you.”

From behind him, Tarlow produced a rather long bundle and tossed it onto the ground with a flourish. How the man had kept it hidden this whole time was beyond Godfrey.

“Behold! Your new main armament! I’ve been pondering what you’ll need to complement that dagger. You’ll have to learn a weapon that’s useful in the short term, while you’re still figuring out which end is pointy, and which will be useful in the long term, when you have the strength and skill to leverage the weapon’s innate properties. Thus, I give you, with no further ado, and no further preamble: the longsword! This particular beautiful specimen comes in at around eleven hands in length.”

Godfrey unwrapped the bundle to reveal a longsword in the same style as the dagger, clearly meant as a matching set. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the blade’s length and balance perfect in his hand.

Godfrey’s eyes widened as he hefted the longsword, marveling at how it felt in his hand. “It’s so light!” he exclaimed, surprised by the ease with which he could maneuver the long blade.

Tarlow grinned, clearly pleased with Godfrey’s reaction. “Aye, that’s the beauty of it. A good longsword should feel like an extension of your arm, not a burden. This blade is designed for speed and precision at range, not just brute force. You’ll be able to strike faster, recover quicker, and outmaneuver opponents who rely on heavier, clumsier weapons. It’s all about finesse, boy—control the blade, and you control the fight. And with the dagger, you’ll be able to close with your opponents and either stick them, or disarm them.”

Godfrey swung the sword experimentally, amazed at how effortlessly it cut through the air. It felt as if the blade was eager to move, almost as if it wanted to dance.

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“These,” Tarlow continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “are weapons for a warrior who understands the dance of combat. It’s not about overpowering your opponent; it’s about out-thinking them, outpacing them, and striking where they have overextended themselves. With this sword and that parrying dagger, you’ll have the tools you need to develop your own style, one that plays to your strengths.”

Godfrey marveled at the blade in his hand, feeling the balance and lightness of it. “It’s so light!” he exclaimed, almost in disbelief.

Tarlow chuckled, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Aye, it’s well-crafted, but don’t let that fool you. This isn’t some sort of legendary weapon that someone receives at the beginning of a tale, destined to make them a hero. These are tools, plain and simple. Tools that will demand a lifetime of dedication to master individually.”

He paused, his gaze steady as he looked at Godfrey, the weight of his words sinking in. “And I expect you to master them both, as a pair, together. The longsword and the parrying dagger—they’re meant to complement each other, just like your left and right hands.”

Godfrey’s eyes widened as he processed the enormity of what Tarlow was asking of him. “But... that’s going to take...”

“A lifetime, yes,” Tarlow interrupted, his tone firm. “And once you can split your Focus, wielding them both as if they were extensions of your own body... you’ll be unstoppable.”

He placed a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder, the weight of his expectations heavy but not unkind. “Remember, lad, this isn’t just about learning to fight. It’s about becoming someone who can’t be ignored, someone who can’t be denied. If you master these, you will truly be undeniable.”

Godfrey hesitated, the questions swirling in his mind too urgent to ignore. “Uncle Tarlow, what is splitting Focus?”

Tarlow waved a hand dismissively, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “Oh, that? It’s nothing really important, just a little trick that Hawker’s mastered. Ask him about it if you’re curious.”

But before Godfrey could press further, Tarlow’s tone shifted, a gleam of excitement lighting up his face. “Never mind all of that, Godfrey. I’ve just handed you two weapons. You see here, on my hip? I have a weapon of my own.”

With deliberate slowness, Tarlow unsheathed his falchion. The live steel gleamed in the dappled light, its edge honed to perfection, almost vibrating with the energy radiating from Tarlow himself. The air seemed to hum with anticipation, the thrill of combat hanging between them like a palpable force.

Tarlow’s grin widened, his eyes locking onto Godfrey’s. “Let’s see how well you handle those new tools of yours, shall we?”

XXX

Tarlow was truly terrifying when he was like this. Their duel spread across a wide area, a whirlwind of movement that left Godfrey breathless. Tarlow’s falchion was everywhere at once, a blur of silver that slashed through the air with a deadly precision. Even with two weapons in hand, Godfrey could barely manage a fighting retreat, forced to rely on more and more Control just to keep up with the relentless tempo.

Tarlow moved like a dancer, each strike a step in a lethal ballet. He flowed from wide, sweeping slashes to sharp, oblique overhand chops with a fluidity that was almost mesmerizing. The foliage around them bore the brunt of Tarlow’s ferocity, shredded leaves and branches falling in their wake as the older man pressed his advantage, his movements a blend of grace and savagery.

Godfrey struggled to keep up, his own weapons feeling heavy and unwieldy in comparison to Tarlow’s effortless mastery. The parrying dagger was a lifeline, barely intercepting the worst of Tarlow’s blows, while the longsword felt sluggish in his grasp, too heavy to match the speed and power of his opponent. Tarlow danced around him, his strikes coming from impossible angles, forcing Godfrey to pivot and twist in a desperate attempt to keep the onslaught at bay.

Every movement Tarlow made was precise, calculated—each step and strike choreographed in a deadly dance that left Godfrey scrambling. The older man’s eyes gleamed with a fierce joy, his grin widening with every near miss and desperate block. To Tarlow, this was more than a duel; it was an art form, a performance where every move was a brushstroke on the canvas of their battle.

All of a sudden, Tarlow stopped the barrage. His falchion halted in mid-swing, inches from Godfrey’s shoulder, the force of the strike dissipating as if it had never existed. The abrupt stillness was jarring, leaving Godfrey momentarily off-balance, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at his uncle, trying to comprehend the sudden cessation of violence.

Tarlow stood there, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of their duel, but his expression was serene, almost contemplative. The fierce joy that had lit his eyes moments before was replaced with a calm intensity, as if he were studying Godfrey, evaluating him. The surrounding forest was eerily silent, the only sound the distant rustle of leaves as the aftermath of their clash settled into the stillness.

For a moment, Godfrey didn’t move, his body taut with anticipation, waiting for the next strike, the next challenge. But it didn’t come. Instead, Tarlow slowly lowered his blade, the grin fading into a thoughtful smile.

Tarlow sheathed his falchion with a fluid motion, his eyes never leaving Godfrey’s. “You’ve got the basics down, lad. But there’s something you need to understand, something that goes beyond the forms and the strikes. The Hand, they’re not just fighters. They’re specialists, each one with a role that goes beyond just swinging a sword.”

Godfrey wiped the sweat from his brow, trying to steady his breathing. He had heard bits and pieces about the different ranks and roles within the Hand, but no one had ever explained it to him in detail.

“You’ll learn more about all of this later,” Tarlow continued, “but for now, think about Focus. Think about Control. These aren’t just fancy names for techniques. They’re lifelines, strategies that can mean the difference between life and death in a real battle.”

Tarlow paused, letting his words sink in. “Now, imagine a Soldier in the field, fighting in conditions like this—dense forest, limited visibility, against opponents with similar skills. They can’t rely on the Tongue to heal their wounds or bolster their strength. So, how do they sustain their energy? How do they keep pushing forward, maintaining Control, when their bodies are screaming for rest?”

Godfrey furrowed his brow, thinking. “Eat a lot of food?”

Tarlow chuckled. “Good answer, but point me to the mess tent. Oh, there isn’t one? Well, I guess I can drink one of these.” He reached into his pouch and pulled out a slender vial, about the size of a tall, slim can. The liquid inside was milky white, swirling slightly as Tarlow held it up.

“This, Godfrey, is whitefire. It’s not some magical elixir. It’s a mixture of liquid starch compacted with oil, packed with…basically, it’s a lot of food in a small container, in a form your body can burn off quickly. You drink it down, and it gives you the fuel you need to sustain your Control. When your body’s on the brink of exhaustion, whitefire keeps you going, keeps your muscles working, and your mind sharp.”

He tossed the vial to Godfrey, who caught it and examined the contents. “You drink it, your stomach burns through it fast, and you use that energy to keep your Control steady. It’s not a miracle, but it’s how Soldiers manage to keep pushing through when everything else is failing them. Drink that one now.”

Godfrey uncorked the vial and took a hesitant sip, the chalky, oily, viscous liquid coating his tongue before he forced himself to swallow. The taste was as unpleasant as he’d imagined, a mix of raw starch and grease that seemed to cling to the back of his throat. He grimaced but took another gulp, determined to feel the effects. The liquid rolled heavily into his stomach, where it settled like a stone.

But then, as his body began to process the dense brew, he felt a warmth spreading outward from his core. The raw energy of compacted calories ignited in his stomach, a slow-burning fire that seeped into his veins, fueling his muscles and sharpening his mind. His heartbeat quickened as the sensation spread through his limbs, a steady, rhythmic pulse that matched the newfound strength surging within him. The exhaustion he’d felt moments before began to ebb away, replaced by a sense of alertness and power.

His body seemed to hum with potential, his muscles no longer protesting the rigorous training he had just endured. Instead, they felt ready, capable of continuing the fight, sustaining his Control with a newfound ease. The energy coursing through him wasn’t just physical; it was a mental clarity, a heightened focus that allowed him to perceive every detail of his surroundings with a sharpness he hadn’t known before.

Tarlow sighed, shaking his head with a mix of exasperation and reluctant admiration. "It’s no small feat to learn how to manipulate digestion speed, let alone figuring out how to channel that energy where it’s needed most. You take to all of this so naturally, lad."

“Anyway, training isn’t over yet, but I think you’ll enjoy the next part. Meet John at his house, and be sure to change into something soft.”