The Grey Tower

“Burn me, I-I shoulda leff a-a-a-a…a shun-down,” Val cursed as he staggered from the Laughing Queen out into the chilling night air.

Wiping his brow with the sleeve of his cloak he squinted into the darkness trying to discern a quick route back to the Tower. Since Cin’s death, the only thing that softened blow and made the days more bearable were the late night excursions into Hama Valon under the guise of Tower guardsman. Master Seth had already had him flogged twice and given extra chores in the last week for breaking curfew as well as appearing altogether unseemly during lesson; the thought of the Master of Soldier’s next punishment wasn’t a pleasant concept even drunk.

Val had just managed to stumble onto uninhabited wooded trail that connected the Tower to the rest of the city when the snapping of twigs drew his attention behind him.

“A-ah-ah…yo-yo-y…yo-you’re…?”

“Why, we’re yer friends. Dun tell me ya forgot already cause me mates and I…” a fat man that seemed vaguely familiar answered. As his words trailed several other shadows coalesced from the shadows into human shapes. “Well, we might take ta bein’ a bit hurt ‘bout that.”

Oddly, Val had taken to wearing a sword ‘borrowed’ from the guard’s barracks at his hip on his nightly excursions. He’d always managed to bluff his way out of situations and the sight of steel often attracted the eyes of willing tavern maids. Even in a stupor though he knew there was no swaggering his way out of this mess. A spike of fear lanced through the drunken miasma and before he knew it his hand fell on the hilt of his sword, “I-I-Imma Sssss-s-s-s-so-soldier of the Grey…T-t-tower.”

He had intended his voice to boom with authority as past experiences had taught him that the menacing air was just as potent a weapon as any blade or pike in hand, but the elevated octave of his voice gave away his vulnerability. A laugh rumbled through the men as they closed in.

With a great heave attempted to draw the sword—and instead came away with the sheathed blade, his belt as well as his pants in hand. The laughter grew to a riotous roar as the pack leader dropped to his knees in a struggle for air. Embarrassed and also very chilly, Val dropped everything before turning to flee. Even in this the Pattern contrived to thwart him as his legs gave out from beneath him and he landed splayed out in the mud. The mad scrambled that followed after should’ve ended in death.

Life as a slave presented many opportunities. Many feelings that slaves experienced could not be comprehended by any, but those of a similar sort. The sights and smells that they took in are the secrets that other people—nobility even—would die for; many slaves certainly perished for them. This immunized people like Val against the fear of death for the coming of it was always certain. As he lay waiting the inevitable sword in throat, Val’s last thoughts were about Cin; his first and only friend.

At least we’ll see each other when the Wheel turns again… he thought lucidly.

Cries from the direction of the Tower followed by the brief clashing of steel weren’t enough to stir him from where he lay. It wasn’t until a mail-plated hand clapped him on the shoulder and a youthful voice said to him, “Milord, the only sword worth its salt on the battlefield is the one, you can use with yer cloths on.”

That was when Val knew to breathe again; to continue living. It was also how he met Fodhr of the Tower Guard.

A secluded clearing where the bramble rose high enough to offer privacy as well as an opening towards the city should the need to flee arrive was the location chosen for the private lesson. Val had promised to see gold into Fodhr’s hand for his help…as well as the promise to keep their meetings a secret. The actually meeting took place when Val was supposedly doing work for Lady Alshamz, but the Accepted Cara had taken to doing his bidding without complaint in the last few weeks which provided the necessary opportunity for escape until supper. Waiting for an eternity, Val forced himself not to jump when finally his instructor appeared.

Fodhr was nearly up to Val’s chin. The guardsman was of a stocky build and sported a hideous scar that neatly parted his face in twain. Shirtless, Fodhr possessed an intimidating figure that was as much blocks of muscle as it was fat. Each of the man’s forearms were a similar size to a small horse’s head and the pale skin which rarely saw daylight mismatched with the rest of him. As the two met after a fortnight Val reddened in remembrance of the circumstances that had led to this.

“Right then, first thing’s to draw yer poker without taking yer pants—or yer head—off. Here.”

Ignoring the jibe, Val accepted the practice broadsword Fodhr handed to him and mimicked the man’s posture. The leather grip of the hilt didn’t feel quite as rough as the sword he’d been taking from the barracks, yet Val felt it too small in his hand. He wathed the other man with the image of splitting a man’s head with a single blow in his head.
“Nope, yer all wrong,” Fodhr said after a moment.

“We haven’t done anything yet,” Val replied flatly. Responding with only a shake of his head, Fodhr beckoned the lesson’s continuance.

“Draw as best ya can…”

Learning from his previous experience Val stepped forward and with his right hand pulled outward before pulling up…then watched as the sword went spinning into the distance before landing in a nearby bramble. “Look ‘ere” Fodhr called.

The guard’s draw was fundamentally different from Val’s. Where the latter had been strained and twisted to pull the sword from its scabbard, Fodhr’s sword slid from its sheath with an easy steadiness that portrayed a rugged kind of finesse. “Yer grippin’ too hard—this ain’t some lightskirt’s hips—ease yer grip an’ use yer body’s motion to maintain control. Well, go on, fetch the blasted thing.”

By sundown Val was sweaty, sore, and irritated. He’d shed his shirt hours ago despite the rapidly cooling temperature. “Keep yer balance,” Frodhr growled, his patience also waning as the day dragged on.

After working on drawing and sheathing, Fordhr took Val through a series of stretched that left him struggling for breath. Unsatisfied with Val’s progress they ran through the regiment twice more until both men were glistening. Then they went for a run that took them around Hama Valon though they took care to avoid heavily populated streets and sometimes raced through alleys to avoid possible detection. They only stopped when Val lost his breakfast. Returning to the clearing Fodhr insisted that balance and good footing was the key to any good swordsman’s success so now Val balanced on the balls of his feet, face a mask of concentration as he blinked away beads of salty perspiration; he’d have to return soon for chores lest he risk discovery. It was a risk he couldn’t afford to take.

Without warning something swept his legs from under him and he crashed in a heap onto the floor.

“Blood and bloody ashes! What’d ya do that for, you Trolloc spit?!” Val fumed and rose to give the guard a hard shove.

At least he had aimed to if Fodhr hadn’t already danced out of reach, “Yer mind is elsewhere and yer as stiff as an old hag, Val.” With a sigh, the guardsman dropped his stance and began heading towards the Tower, “Not everyone is meant for the sword, lad.”

Val remained behind for a time after Fodhr left. Those last words resonated deeply with him and an odd feeling of shame overtook him. His pride hurt and his body broken he finally took to the path home.

In the following days, Val saw Fodhr only in passing as the punishment for his nightly escapes and constant state of dishevel finally caught up to him. Master Seth made certain that there was a Dedicated with him at all times ensuring he kept to task and Val dared not act of turn with eyes on him. Still there was bad blood between him and Fodhr, swearing both men to silence. Instead of the guardsman Val enlisted—with the approval of his handlers—of Drin’far’ji and once even had Jandal, the Asha’man who’d recruited him to the Grey Tower, practice with him. Slowly he learned the names of a few Sword forms and he began to incorporate the way of Oneness into his style. Finally late one afternoon, Val tracked Fodhr near the barracks readying for his watch.

“Light, Val! Whaddya want now?!”
“A single match to see something,” Val answered, “…and to really see if not everyone is meant for the sword.”

The men behind Fodhr jeered goadingly at the challenge and it wasn’t long before both men stood facing each other on the training yard. Midday sun had just passed, yet there were still hours before Low. Stripped to the waist drew mocking catcalls from the watching men and lascivious stares from the girls. The attention made Val uncomfortable, but he narrowed his focus only to encompass Fodhr as held the practice lathe at the ready.

“Let’s get on with it, then.” Fodhr said bitterly before taking position.

Val followed suit and assumed a rough approximation of Cat Crossing the Courtyard. At this Fodhr’s brow raised a notch and he shifted to high guard. Limited as he was in his knowledge Val felt his excitement growing as he circled to his right. No! Breath. Think about nothing…don’t worry about the next move. he schooled himself. As he had practiced countless times before he allowed the tension from to leave from his body, envisioning his concerns burning away to nothing. He moved with sure steps that kept him ready for anything, his weight constantly shifting on the balls of his feet. The longer the stalemate continued the more natural the feeling of his movement became until Val no longer consciously focused on the placement of his steps. He felt fast…alert; ready. All he needed was one blow; that would secure his victory. Each step appeared painstakingly slow to those looking on, but Fodhr, either bearing down to defend or confused by Val’s slow start, stopped his feet.

In a burst of motion, Val darted forward with The Cat Dances on the Wall. The rapid series of feints and thrusts pressured the guardsman’s defenses as clouds of dirt swirled around the exchange. Val’s wrists which had been strengthened at every opportunity since training flipped the lathe’s tip in fluid motions that were quick enough to make it difficult to follow every maneuver with the eye. Fodhr held his ground for a moment, but eventually was forced to step back in retreat after the exchange lasted for a span.

Moisture shone brightly on the both men and there was momentary pause in the action as they each separated to catch their breath. Val noticed his breathing was just as heavy as his opponents and this knowledge emboldened him. He hadn’t been able to match Fodhr’s constitution a month ago. I can win! he thought as he surged forward once again with Cat Dances on the Wall. With the air whipping around him, his muscles screaming in agony, and his mind racing with the challenge before him Val forgot about the things in his old life that he’d missed. Not even the evil One Power that lurked within him could take away the weightlessness he felt now as his feet nimbly closed the space between his enemy and…

Fodhr’s blade came down in a powerful diagonal slash that ripped Val’s blade from his hand through sheer force. A breath later the blunted wooden tip was pressed just beneath Val’s chin, “A feint…” Fodhr explained, his breath slowing drastically, “…ain’t just done with the sword. Tis a thing of the mind too.”

Beyond the field where the two stood with blood lust hanging in the air between them the sound of clapping rang. The noise of cheers and whistles snapped the wolves from their battle frenzy. Breaking into a smile Fodhr brushed past Val, “Not bad…Trolloc spit.”

The other guardsmen embraced their brother with howls as they the unit left the Training Yard raucously to continue their duty. Val stood alone with his head done in examination of his hands. Months ago when he’d first come to the Grey Tower his palms had been smooth as a baby’s bottom. Now calluses settled into the skin marking him as a man of the sword. When he looked up he caught the eye of a few Gaidin and their recruits observing him silently for a moment before each gave him a solemn, respectful nod before returning to their practice.