A Poor Day For Digging Graves:

Part Two:

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

-REV 6:9

Caj woke up in a familiar place with no idea how he got there. He sat up, head pounding and a deep-set ache in his jaw, and looked around Narm’s room. His room. The room he had grown up in. He and Narm had played so many games of Stones just over there, on that small table by the fireplace, and that was his old quarterstaff in the corner, the one he had outgrown years ago. His eyes scanned the room, wondering where Narm was. Come to think of it, why was he even in Narm’s bed? His eyes landed on the first unfamiliar detail. Sitting across the room, in Narm’s favorite chair, was Bietre. The aging Sword Master looked in poor shape, with a crooked nose, dented cheek, and cut, bruised knuckles. That was when Caj noticed that his own hands hurt. Quite a lot actually. He looked down to see cotton bandages wrapped firmly around his hands, and felt the dull, but deep, ache run through them. He looked from his hands to Bietre’s, then raised his right hand to his aching jaw, and looked at Bietre’s beaten face. Memory hit him hard and fast.

Caj had had too much to drink that night. Just like he had the night before that. And the night before that. And every night for the past two weeks. He hadn’t been sober since he arrived at the mortuary that day, and found Narm dead, killed by the same man who took his parents, the same man who he could do nothing to kill. The drink had called, and Caj had answered. He didn’t remember where he left Rai and Emma, he didn’t remember the hopeless expression of the Murphy’s faces, he didn’t even remember eating in the past week. Just drinking. Drinking and more drinking. What he did remember, was the note nailed to the chest of Narm’s cold, dead body.

There Are consequences for actions, but also for inaction. Sorry old friend, you were damned either way.

That note… It made Caj feel hopeless. Like a skiff tossed in the waves, or a child lost in the woods. He had picked up a bottle and hadn’t been without one since. Last night was a blur, but he thought he could remember Bietre coming to get him. Finally finding him more likely, as Caj had been hopping from seedy bar to seedy bar in an attempt to avoid notice. He wasn’t sure exactly what happened, but there had definitely been a bar fight. And he woke up here.

Caj looked around the room again, lost in thought. Two weeks could dull a surprisingly large amount of pain. He felt an ache in his chest at Narm’s absence, a sorrow deeper than any he had ever felt before. He looked at the Stones board, then his quarterstaff, then Bietre, slumbering in Narm’s chair. Tears were flowing now, forming at the corner of his eyes, and pulling their way down his face, forcing themselves down their trembling paths, despite his best efforts to restrain them. Caj began to sob. To weep like he never before had wept in his life. He wept, and wept and wept. Snot dribbled down to his chin, and his body was wracked. Suddenly two thin arms were around him, and he heard a motherly voice, Isabelle’s voice, start to hum. It was an old lullaby, one that he could vaguely remember hearing as a child.

“Hush, hush, My dar-ling child, Hush, hush, so tangled and wild, let your thoughts skip, through me-eadows mild, and not tug at your tired mind. Hush, hush, you I’m keeping, Hush, Hush no more weeping, Lay, down, pillow your crown, and ge-e-et to your sleeping. So, dance and frolic around your meadows, and of all pain, you just need to let go, let your body rest in my arms, and Hu-ush my darling.”

Caj’s body was betraying him, he was unable to control the rapid gush of tears that formed in his eyes, or the snot that dribbled down his chin. He felt more arms encircle him and Isabelle continued to hum. Finally another voice picked up the lyrics, this one the high pitched voice of a b=male child just short of puberty.

“Quiet, Quiet, the fears that come creeping. Quiet, Quiet, insidiously seeping, throughout, your mind, let you not the-em bind, and your stre-e-ength be keeping. Quiet, Quiet, they’re running away now, Quiet, Quiet, no more to sta-ay now, leave behind the ties that bind, and go-o-o to sleep now.” There was a long silence, and when Caj opened his eyes, he saw a room filled with people who loved him. Who loved Narm. His shoulders started to shake more now, with a mixture of laughter and tears.

“What is it Caj?” Marci asked, concern in her voice. Caj opened his mouth, choked, then let out a deep belly laugh through his tears.

“Narm would be so damn mad if he saw you leaving so many muddy prints all over his good flooring…” Count Isaac smiled a bittersweet smile.

“That he would…” Everyone lapsed into a long silence. Caj fell back asleep in that silence, taking refuge from his pain.

***

Caj spun his longsword deftly in his hands, fending off two of his opponents while rushing the third. The key in a fight like this was brutality and viscousness. Despite the bard tales that were frequently told in a tavern, skill alone was not enough for an individual to fight off more than two armed opponents of any skill level, save for in extremely specific situations. No, true victory started with psychological victory.

Lesson 15: If you flinch, your enemy has already won. If you hesitate, you have already surrendered. If you are fearful, you have already died.

Caj did his best to embody this lesson, working to slide fluidly between the strikes of the two attackers on his right, and showing no fear or hesitation. This, however, was not going to be enough to win this particular fight. Caj was an aggressive fighter, it was where he excelled. Well, where he excelled the most.

Lesson 16: Make your enemy flinch. Make your enemy hesitate. Make your enemy fearful.

Caj’s demeanor changed in an instant. He went from passively slipping strikes to jumping out of his opponents’ reach, then rushing the tall, freckle-faced lad who had gradually been separated from the rest of the pack. Then, like a wolf taking a solitary deer, or a shark seizing its moment to strike, Caj leapt at the man. Caj, let down all pretense of finesse with this leap. Instead of using longsword in the flowing, graceful style that normally marked his movements, courtesy of Narm, he channeled the lessons of Bietre, remembering the way that the Lord wielded his great sword. Caj’s two-handed bastard sword wasn’t nearly as heavy as Bietre’s greatsword, but it was more than enough to bash aside his opponents arming sword. The man’s shield form was faulty, hence him being the first target, so when Caj sent a powerful kick into the center of the plain iron buckler, the lad went stumbling backwards. Caj turned his attention back to his right immediately, less than a second after he had jumped. His other two assailants were not novices in combat, and had recovered quickly. However due to their inexperience as a team, they were getting into each other’s way.

Caj smiled wickedly as he saw the second man, the shorter of the two, taking faltering steps as he tried to get into a good position in relation to his taller companion. Caj advanced on them immediately, becoming the aggressor. He ran at the taller fellow and feinted hard towards the man’s face. The man, a well-trained individual, waved his battle axe in front of his face in a parry, while stepping forward for a shield bash. It was a good technique, one that had been drilled many times, one that was highly effective. It was also exactly what Caj wanted the man to do. He heard Narm’s voice in his mind, and had to suppress more raw emotions regarding the man that raised him, lest he become distracted.

Moving perfectly is not always about moving gracefully, or with smoothness. Moving perfectly is about moving as the situation requires. Hammering a nail in is not a graceful action, and therefore, a perfect movement will not be graceful in that situation. It will be hard, fast, and powerful. Likewise in combat, the best method is to move as the situation requires. This of course lends itself to the core truth of how I fight, Caj, and How I am teaching you to fight. Perfect movements don’t start with you, they start with your opponent. When you manipulate your opponent into moving a certain way, standing a certain way, falling a certain way, you have them. But really, that is not where your victory comes from. No, the ultimate victory is not in controlling the actions your enemy takes. It is controlling how they think. If you control how they think, you will not have to defeat them, they will defeat themselves. They will put themselves into your hands, and once they do, crush them.

The conversation from 3 years flashed through Caj’s mind in an instant, but he didn’t allow it to distract him. This had to be timed just right. There! Just as the man’s axe caught Caj’s sword and started pulling it to the side, Caj did the last thing the axe wielder expected. He let go of his sword. The tall man was only just ever so slightly, but it was enough. Caj closed the distance in a blink, grabbing the man’s shoulders and spinning him into his counterpart. As he threw the man, Caj slapped his throat, causing a wet hacking cough. The two men who suffered the collision fell towards the ground, and Caj leapt forward, dagger sliding smoothly out of his belt and catching the short man at the base of his jaw. Just as he struck though, Caj felt a sharp pain across his back, and the thunk of wood striking flesh.

“Dead.” Bietre’s voice rang out. “You are dead Solnyshko.” Caj rolled over with a groan off the two men beneath him, and looked on the lanky, freckle-faced youth who he had discounted as being unable his balance fast enough to be a concern. He had obviously been wrong. The two men he had just ‘killed’ got up slowly now, rolling their shoulders and rubbing their injuries.

“Really?” Caj wheezed sarcastically, “I hadn’t gathered that.” Bietre’s expression was unyielding, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes yet. None in his voice though.

“How many times must I remind you of Lesson Five? It seems that you only remember the value of it in easy situations. Tell me, what was your fatal error?” Bietre pointed at Caj, as the other three men stood and began brushing themselves off. Men might have been a misnomer, if any were more than three or four years older than Caj, he would eat his whetstone. Caj sighed before answering.

“I would’ve had them if I struck Lanky-Freckles when he was on his back foot.” Caj continued, answering Bietre’s next question before he could ask it. “It would have required me to strike at his throat with my weapon, which I deemed too dangerous for a practice bout.”

“Hmm…” Bietre stroked his pointed beard thoughtfully, but interrupted by a very offended sounding Lanky-freckles.

“‘Lanky-freckles’? ‘Lanky-freckles’? What in the bloody, burning chaff is that supposed to mean? I have a name you know! It’s Stuart.” Bietre waved his hand dismissively, and murmured in a tone that was only just audible.

“Lesson 13: Never think your enemies name if you can avoid it, better yet, never learn it. It makes things easier.” Stuart was about to ask another question when he was elbowed into silence by the tall, axe-wielding man who stood next to him. The man was the oldest of the three, and- like Caj -already had the start of the horseshoe mustache that many men under the age of 40 wore in Whoid Stria. It was considered a precursor to the full ‘mutton chops’ that older men typically displayed. His name was Lewis MacDonlevy. Caj knew that due to the fact that they had practiced together several times over the last six months.

Six months. That was the length of time since Narm had died. Since he had been murdered. The mystery of who Narm was and what secrets his past had held had been solved. He was Norman O’Brien. Bastard son of the late King Thomas, and the last man to serve as the King’s Headsman before Dean Rankin. He was the Wolf of Whoid Stria, the Shadow of the North. The Reaper made flesh; some men whispered. Caj had heard stories of him as a child of course. Every child had. Roughly 20 years before, Norman had just disappeared. Some said that he died, others that he sought a quiet retirement, but most… well, most were of the opinion that there was no such thing as a quiet retirement for Norman O’Brien, and they had their doubts that the man could die a quiet death. They were wrong on both counts. Bietre’s words grabbed Caj’s attention, prying it from the darker contemplations to which it was clinging.

“Geoff, why did you die?” Bietre’s voice was cold and distant when speaking to the short and stocky man, very different from the way that he spoke to Caj. Caj had noticed since these bouts had first started, and come to a startling conclusion. Bietre didn’t like people. Or at least not most of them. Oh, he was a fine enough fellow if he had a reason to trust you, but if he didn’t know you or someone who did, he didn’t really bother paying you much attention. Geoff’s hands fidgeted in his nervousness. He was obviously unused to being spoken to by someone so important.

“I uhh, I mean, that is to say, your lord, my lordship, I mean, milord, your lordliness…” Geoff inhaled deeply through his nose, calming himself before continuing. A small smile played at the corners of Lewis’ mouth, but he schooled his face back into his normal stoic features.

“Ahem, I uh, died because of my inability to work with Lieutenant MacDonlevy, sir. I was not in an appropriate position to assist him, and was in a poor strategic position for when Ser Donovan chose to strike.”

“Hmmm,” Bietre gummed noncommittedly. Geoff’s face paled, and his hands started to shake. Really, the man needed to learn that noncommittal sound from lords didn’t mean a death sentence. “Caj, tell Geoff why he died.” Caj turned to face Geoff slowly. The poor young man looked fit to piss himself. Caj kept his voice quiet and soothing. Like the stablemaster had been teaching him to do with spooked horses.

“You need to become more independent.” Caj said, his voice just managing to carry across the distance. Lewis, Bietre, and more importantly, Geoff, stopped all fidgeting and focused intently on his words. Stuart was only paying half attention, still salty over his combat nickname. Bietre looked to be gauging Caj’s explanation, while Lewis and Geoff wore curious expressions. “What you said is true to an extent, but the primary reason you died is that you were watching Lewis’ movements too much.” Geoff’s brow furrowed, and Lewis leaned back, wearing a thoughtful expression, and a small smile started to sneak onto the Lieutenant’s face as he recognized the truth in Caj’s statement.

“It is important to watch your allies’ movements and style in melee combat, but you shouldn’t always emulate them. You wield a short-sword and shield, instead of an axe. Emulating an axe-wielder takes away your greatest strength: the ability to thrust. If you had moved up on Lewis’ right, you could’ve killed me without losing two of your number. While my sword was engaged with Lewis’ axe, you could’ve struck at my exposed chest. Because of my lack of a shield in this scenario, and my distraction, you most probably could’ve ended me.” Caj didn’t mention the fact that he would not have bothered to engage the two men the way he had if their formation had been so well formed. That observation wasn’t worth mentioning, and would take away from the lesson that Geoff was supposed to learn. Geoff’s puzzled look had lapsed into one of concentration and thought.

Caj remembered a book that Narm had suggested he read when he started his training with Bietre. The Art Individual and Small Unit Tactics in Melee Battle: A Guide for Novices, by Gabriel MacCabe. He still had the book in his personal collection, along with all the myriad other tomes that he had inherited from Narm. He had read the slim volume many times since it had been gifted to him, and could recite it front-to-back and back-to-front if asked to at this very moment. If woken from drunken stupor, he could still probably manage to give a lecture with the important talking points.

“Come visit me at some point in the next week Candidate McDonald. I have a book that I think would be helpful to you.” Geoff came to attention and saluted.

“Yes, Sir!” he said, his right fist pressed against his heart. Caj inwardly sighed. While technically appropriate for Geoff to salute him, given their differing ranks as an Officer Candidate and a knighted man in service of a Lord, the genuflection was frowned upon, due to the fact that Caj was outside the chain of command by design. He half-heartedly returned the salute, and then, mercifully, Geoff relaxed. Bietre smiled and turned towards Stuart and Lewis.

“And you two?” The sword master asked pointedly. Lewis gestured to Stuart, indicating that the younger man should go next. Stuart sighed deeply. The young man was still very firmly in the grasp of teenage angst, and had a tendency to needlessly snark at his superiors. The only reason he was even being considered as a candidate for an officer was his amazing intellect.

“I didn’t die, so I have nothing to say.” Bietre raised a brow at that.

“Really? You think you have no further improvements to made? You think you can grow no further? That you have achieved perfection?” Stuart shuffled his feet awkwardly at Bietre’s reproachful tone. Bietre pointed at Lewis. “Lewis, what is Rule 21?” Lewis came to attention smartly, saluting his superior officer, despite the relatively informal setting. When the young Lieutenant spoke, his voice was the odd accent of a sailor, colored by a thousand different ports, and a hundred thousand different people met.

“Lesson numba’ 21: Ova’Confidence leads untae Thoughtlessness, Thoughtlessness untae Carelessness, and Carelessness untae Death.” Bietre grinned wickedly at Stuart, who was very decidedly looking at his feet now. The sword-master pointedly spoke again.

“Tell me young Stuart; How can you improve yourself?” This time when Stuart spoke, his voice was considerably more respectful. Caj personally thought that the boy would benefit from a considerable arse-whipping. Unfortunately, he had failed to provide it today. Ah well, there was always next week. Caj, Bietre, and Lewis had been assisting in the training of the most promising Officer Candidates this year, mostly as an excuse for Caj to practice fighting multiple opponents, although it was good small units’ practice. Caj’s drifting mind focused on what Stuart was saying.

“My footwork was sloppy, sir, and my shield-work not up to par. I allowed myself to be separated from the group, and did not respond fast enough with my sword when Ser Donovan struck at me.” Bietre nodded once and turned to Lewis at last.

“And you Lewis? What should you have done?” Lewis grinned sheepishly as he ran his calloused hand through his curly bush of brown hair.

“To sta’t, sir, I shoulda’ betta’ coordinated with mah team rega’ding strategy. The second thing I shoulda’ done, was tae let go of mah axe when Caj dropped his sword. That woulda’ allowed mah hand tae intercept his, and saved mah life.” Bietre Nodded very thoughtfully.

“Astute observation, Lewis. I believe most of your problems could have been solved with team coordination. I recommend you all read over Caj’s book for future operations. As for you Uchinek,” he said, turning to Caj. “You are mine for the afternoon. There is yet more for you to practice with the sword, and Stablemaster John says that you sit the saddle like a sack of potatoes. This must be remedied. He looked at the three young soldiers. “You are dismissed. Uchinek, come.” Caj sighed deeply, but nodded a goodbye to Lewis before starting after Bietre