Chapter 12: Training under the blurred eye of a drunk

Experiencing the sewers without Ink and with it is like suddenly viewing the world when you have always been blind. I still lived with the constant fear of being assaulted when I traveled through its large pipes and collectors, but other than that, I was thriving.

It had been three months since I parted with Spare. During that time, I had read Beyond Ink, tales of old, which I couldn’t consider anything more than a fairy tale. I had reviewed twice The way of the Ink, trying to find some hidden message inside, but to no avail. I found three more books in my first escapade to the hideout, When the mind is not enough, Advanced enhancements, and Glyphs’ etymology. Using those books as a reference and investing an insane amount of hours, I finally could use glyphs to empower my drawings.

For instance, I could make a sword sharper simply by infusing the tattoo with the appropriate glyph. It was not enough to write sharp, which could be easily represented by a curved line with drops sprouting from its right side. One had to include the roots of metal and some derivation of durability. It was a precise art where one line could be the difference between a sharpened blade and a sharpened grip if that even made sense.

Since the start, there was a question I had trouble answering, why would anyone want to use a glyph to sharpen a sword if it was enough to imagine it that way and portraying it in the drawing? It was not until I completed my first artwork with a glyph that I understood it. Glyphs wouldn’t run down with time, unlike their drawn counterparts. You could also represent the object as is, without introducing any artificial modification, which could be a huge advantage. Suppose you wanted to create a flaming sword. You could try envisioning a metal that held its solid form with such heat, or you could try to capture the dancing flames around the metal, making them avoid touching it.

The reality, though, is that you would fail. You have never seen such metal; you have never seen a sword engulfed in fire, never mind one that wielded that fire against its opponents. Instead, you could draw the perfect blade, one that would leave the best knight gasping for air, and then simply carve the glyph for a flaming sword. Granted, you could derive it, of course.

You might wonder why it is that I insist so much on the example above. Isn’t it obvious? I had tried to do both versions and catastrophically failed both times. The first was outright impossible, and the second… let’s say that my best sword managed to transmit the feeling of being hot, close to its melting point, but there was no trace of flames. Theoretically, of course, I never dared to draw any of that on my skin.

Still, all those failures made me advance in giant strides. I was able to switch tools without thinking, and there was no trace of it on the paper. Even my newest tool, a fountain pen with a broader nib that Spare had left for me, I mastered in a few days. Let’s say that drawing wasn’t a problem anymore, nor were my mental images or my imagination. If I had still been in the association, I would have for sure been a Ga’lar, maybe I could even pass the Ga’far exam. Which meant I was only a step away from a Ga’ar, and all I needed was to learn about formations.

Spare seemed to know that would be the case because, by the second time I went to the hideout, all four books but one were about formations. I remember involuntary flinching when I realized that Ink Formations was among the stack. On its cover, there was a note that read ‘leave this one last’. Had it been any other book, and I would have probably dismissed the warning, but not with this one. Plus, it was evident that the only book not about formations, Common glyph structures, was intended to help me read it.

That day I was doing one of my ordinary strolls, searching for a suitable shack, when I heard the noises of a fight nearby. Usually, I would have just ignored it, just another fall off between two drunks, or maybe an addict trying to rob someone. In either case, nothing I should get involved with. But not that day, their shouts managed to catch my attention.

“Watcha doin’ with thos’pair o’ rrusty daggars!” It was hard to understand what the poor soul, too drunk to even pronounce, was trying to say.

“Give me all your Ink!” A hoarse voice yelled, choosing to ignore the other man’s words.

“Lower tosh daggersh! Ya’re goin’ to cut yaself!” The messy shouts continued, “yo’ll get n’infection!”

“Bastard!” I heard the curse and feared the worst. I could ignore a fight without a guilty conscience, but not someone getting murdered right next to me. I turned left, heading off towards the sounds, hoping to reach in time.

I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe a puddle of blood, but certainly not a drunkard dancing around a pair of daggers like it was nothing. His feet were miraculously bound to the ground, defying his massive binge and somehow maintaining the balance of his swinging body. Like a feather rocked by the gusts of the thrusts, his body spun, turned, and dodged. His bare hands moved like short swords, striking at the enemies’ waist and armpits.

“Fuck!” The armed person swore, launching a desperate attack. Both his daggers followed a descending trajectory, from the top of his head to his enemy’s head.

Not only did the drunkard effortlessly sidestep the slash, but he also managed to catch the attacker’s falling hands, grip them, and use the force against his opponent. The robber tripped over, falling headfirst to the ground and rolling a few times until he managed to stop. That was enough humiliation, it would seem, as he over-hastily ran away without even picking up the daggers.

“Boy! Tcha lookin’at!?” I was still perplexedly going over what had happened a moment ago and had to turn to both sides to check if there was any other boy aside from me. “Com’va her n’ he-” his phrase was interrupted by his own vomit, an orange-colored fountain erupting from his mouth. If that wasn’t enough, though, he swayed to the front, then to the back, once more to the front, and finally, on his last sway to the back, he passed out.

What? Oh, come on! I felt bad leaving him there, and as much as it was hell to drag him, I couldn’t just walk away like nothing had happened. I looked for the closest empty shack and pulled him there. One more round travel netted me those two rusty and old daggers. I didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of sleeping with a stranger by my side, but still, I managed to get some sleep while sitting cross-legged.

I woke up with the stinking stranger still passed out by my side. He hadn’t moved an inch, and his chest puffed up and down in his deep sleep. I slowly approached him, the pungent stench of alcohol and sweat increasing with each step. Taking a closer look at his robes, something I couldn’t with yesterday’s light, I realized he had a pair of sheathes under his long shirt. Fascinated, I couldn’t resist the impulse of checking them out.

I held my breath while I pulled his shirt over with only two fingers and paramount finesse. My other hand slid to the sheath and moved upwards towards the grip of the dagger. It was covered in a frayed rope, rough to the touch, but it should be compensated by the gra-

A pair of brown eyes reddened by the alcohol and a bad night’s sleep locked on me. Even before I could process what was happening, a hand clasped my wrist. I panicked and tried to shake it off. Don’t ask me how, but I ended up restrained below the heavyweight of that man’s body. He was seated over my belly; my two arms were constrained with just one of his hands.

“Were you trying to rob me, kid?” Now that he wasn’t drunk anymore, I could appreciate the accent on his voice. It was almost imperceptible, but I could hear a faint vibration on his Rs.

“N-No,” I muttered as swiftly as my mouth was capable of. “I was curious about you-”

“Never, ever, touch another swordsman’s weapon.” He admonished me with a severe face.

The pressure on my chest softened as he let go of his lock. I had to take a few deep breaths to feel the air filling up my lungs again. “Yo-You were fighting-” I gasped for some more air, “-and you passed out. I-” I inhaled once more, taking my time, “-I carried you here.”

“Uh-huh.” He nonchalantly got up and turned to leave the shack.

“Wait!” I hurriedly shouted. “Please, teach me!” If he fights like that while drunk, I can’t imagine what a beast he must be when sober. If I can get him to teach me some of that, maybe I’ll be able to fend for myself. Every inch of my body was screaming for me to get him as my teacher.

“Not interested!” His voice bounced off the wall and reached me, as he didn’t even bother to turn. Far from stopping, his steps quickened.

“I can pay!” I shouted again, desperately trying to get his attention. “I have Ink!”

I could see him briefly stopping, even if only for half a second. Enough to sense some hesitation, an indication that I might not be that far from convincing him.

“I’ll buy you alcohol!” What better way to gain an addict’s favor than supplying him with his favorite drug?

He turned around like an uncoiling spring, a squinted eye carefully examining me. He pointed one finger to me while his tongue licked the corner of his lips. “Mmh,” he mumbled some words I couldn’t understand, maybe in his native language. “In two hours, here, bring me beer.”

His answer was concise, but I had achieved what I was looking for. I assumed he didn’t want any particular kind of beer, he probably wasn’t worried about its flavor, so I got a liter of the cheapest beer you could find in that neighborhood. Nobody with the slightest sense of preservation would drink that brown, sluggish substance, but I hoped it was enough to meet a drunk’s palate.

I was back by the appointed time, finding him seated by the door. We didn’t exchange any words; he simply stretched his arm and snatched the bottle from my hand. Taking out the cork, he brought the bottle to his mouth, took what I judged were at least four gulps, and then exhaled with his mouth wide open.

“You have until I finish my bottle.” He announced.

“Wha-” I stopped mid-sentence. Until you finish? You’ve already drunk almost a quarter! If I had known, I would have brought a barrel home, hell, maybe even the whole refinery. Wisely deciding not to lose any time with technicalities and discussions, I brought up the issue. “I want to learn how to use the daggers.”

“Uh-huh,” his disinterest was accompanied by another gulp.

Shit! Too many days alone and surrounded by constant curses had let my mouth a bit loose. “What should I do?”

He met my eyes but didn’t answer for a good whole minute, a time he used to empty some more of the bottle. It was rapidly reaching its half-point. “Take them out, fight stance.”

I took the rusty daggers from a corner of the room, holding one in front of my chest, slightly to the left, and the other a bit to the right of my waist. His head shook with a mixture of shame, desperation, and exhaustion.

“No!” He quickly positioned himself next to me and kicked the back of my right knee, making me lower my position as a reflex action, stopping short of fully crouching. His foot pushed against my left foot, forcing me to move the leg until it was further in front. “For fucks…” he cursed, “can’t you even feel it? Are you comfortable like this?”

Honestly, I had no clue what he meant with that, which made him promptly empty another quarter of the bottle. It hadn’t been even five minutes, and he had already downed three-fourths. At least now, I understood that whenever my answers weren’t appropriate, he would drink faster.

“Your right foot, face it to the right,” he finished the sentence with a burp.

I corrected my position and immediately felt the improvements. My center of gravity was lower, and my footing was more stable; I could definitely see myself keeping my balance even during a fight. However… “My arms feel awkward.”

“Of course they do!” He complained but didn’t drink. “Your left elbow, align it with your left knee. That blade, unless you are a complete moron, should be facing your enemy, not you.” I hastily obeyed, holding to that last fourth of the beer.

“Not everyone would agree,” he continued, “but if you are to learn under me, you will. Your right hand should be next to your torso, just above the waist, the blade facing the exterior.” I moved my arm and hand until I saw him nodding. “You won’t be stabbing unless you clearly know you can kill your opponent; this stance favors rapid and lethal slashes.”

I took a few minutes, nothing longer than five minutes, I believe, pondering about my posture, studying what movements I could do to slash, and imagining myself in a real fight. Of course, my teacher, h- “I’m Tarar,” I said, realizing we hadn’t introduced ourselves.

“I’m a drunk, and as far as you are concerned, your teacher.” He angrily answered while placing down the bottle. Using my previous pause, he had drunk the remaining of the bottle but one gulp. “Drop those daggers, attack me with your empty hands.”

I spent an hour being shouted at and ridiculed. “No! Your feet can’t leave the ground!” Then how I’m supposed to move! “What was that!? Did you try to kill me out of laugh?” he said once when I tripped over myself. “Again!” He mercilessly ordered after kicking me to the ground. “And again!” He knocked me down while trying to get up.

I would lie if I said I saw the effects of the alcohol on him during that fight. His eyes were as focused as they were when we started, and albeit he didn’t have to move much, when he did, he sported a fluidity a drunk wouldn’t have. In the end, after having bested me for what seemed the hundredth time, he drank the last drop.

“Tomorrow try not to kill me,” he was once again turning, in the process of leaving, so he didn’t get to see my confused face. I haven’t even come close to tou- “Bring me some better beer.” -of course, my shoulders dropped, and I crumbled to the ground. I was worn out, my arms barely lifted from my sides. I would have liked to say something cunning, but if I didn’t have the energy to come up with it, even less to word it out loud.

After two weeks of adjusting to the new physical demands and bearing with a body that hurt everywhere I touched, my days entered a routine. Morning practice with the daggers, afternoon sessions with Ink. I reached the perfect balance; by night, my mind was so tired that my drawings simply flowed without being hindered by me. That’s not to say I became a master, but I did notice a vast improvement in my ability to come up with new glyphs.

My combat abilities were, paraphrasing the drunk idiot I took for a teacher, non-existent. One would think that after a few months of constant training, I would have been able to hit the inebriated body of someone who had drunk two or three bottles of the strongest alcohol. But no, actually, quite the opposite. The more he drank, the harder it was to predict his movements. A parry became a swing that fainted into a sidestep and followed with a punch to my ribs. His head wobbled and dodged all my movements. The only constant was his feet, always firmly set on the ground.

My first hit came after six months of failures, and just the day after, I had gathered the courage to look inside Ink Formations again. I had tried to leaf through the book, searching for the formation that caused the mark on my chest, hoping that I would understand the glyphs, but it completely eluded me. I could have spent more time, and I would probably have found it, but I decided it was safer to start from the first page.

The thing is, during that morning, my head was on somewhere else. I’m not saying I wasn’t paying attention, nor that I was dreaming in front of my enemy; no, I was in a trance. I usually had to order my extremities to move; I had to account for their initial position, trajectory, speed, purpose, and even where they had to go next. That day, however, I was guided by some intuition. It transcended me; it felt close to the experience Ink produces when drawing. You know where it wants to go; you just need to guide it.

We were in the middle of a bout, I had just taken a step back to evade a diagonal slash, and I had a small window to counter. Typically, I would have used my right hand, the one on my back, to slash back, keeping my distance and avoiding too much exposure. But not that day, my right hand decided to lunge forward. My left foot, already carrying its role, slid through the floor, lowering my body and dragging the other food behind a split second after, giving me enough speed to let my arm wild. My punch expanded to an open palm, and it made contact. I won’t say where it landed; it suffices to say I was much shorter than my rival.

Celebrating right after the hit, as he made me realize, was a terrible idea. Not only did I abandon my stance, but also somehow ended up jumping in the air. A simple kick was enough for him to send me flying, but that didn’t take any of the happiness away. Even he was smiling! “One more hit, and we start with daggers!” It took another two weeks for that, as that mental state was too elusive, but it did come.

We couldn’t just use our real daggers, not if we didn’t want to wound each other, so I spent the afternoon and a significant part of the night drawing some unique versions of blunt dirks. Both my tights were tattooed with small-sized daggers with absolutely no sharp edge. Rather than a blade, it could be said that it just had a block of metal attached to the guard. However, if you thought that those things took most of the time, you would be committing an appalling mistake; I was not that slow.

Drawings captured objects, glyphs granted them new properties, and formations ensnared abstract concepts. I had read some pages of Ink Formations, and now I understood I could not produce flames with drawings now glyphs. That was in the object, nor was it a new attribute; it was an entirely new entity. I had to draw a formation that subjugated a fire, something a few weeks ago would have been impossible for me. But as happened the first time I touched a formation, the Ink spoke to me, contact transferred a myriad of knowledge directly to my mind.

And I knew. A fire, Ink and my Drak’gath; I drew the fury of that flames directly on my skin, I made sure every spark was carved. I circled and curved to the rhythm of the Ink’s rage. Wild strokes converged on its center and then spiraled out of control, leaving the borders of the outer circumference. I thought of the flames’ pirouettes and evoked them on every sinuating curve. The whole formation was a fire.

I was gasping for air, but that didn’t stop me from drawing an improved version of that rusty dagger I found when I first met my teacher. I removed every imperfection, added a larger guard, and thinned its curved blade while reinforcing its structure, making sure it wouldn’t shatter in the middle of a fight. I imprinted it with the desire to kill; it was a tool for murder, if it saw the light, it was only to taste blood.

But I was far from done; that fire would have hurt me. I derived harmless, heat, fire, self, immunity, and skin, all cramped up in a single power word. Lines crossed curves and met with circles; at its center, the root thrived, a cross fueling the rest of the glyph. It had to resist heat itself; I wrote the symbol to stop it from melting. It had to stay sharp. Its point had to remain honed. I lost count of all the glyphs I had drawn.

And more than anything, it had to inspire fear in its opponents. A second formation and set of glyphs transformed the untamed flames into meandering snakes of green smoke. My dagger would bite its opponents with green fire; it would burn its enemies.

My dagger, La’er the Green Flame.