Fynn’s breathing was ragged and harsh as he sucked in the cold morning air and his lungs burned from the exertion he was and had been under for, in his estimation, the last hour or so. He spared a hopeful glance in the direction of the open wagon next to which the soothsayer was stood sorting through his medicines and from where he would regularly bark out encouragement and instructions whenever Fynn faltered or slowed. However, the unsympathetic look on the old man’s face quashed any hope for respite.

He had been unceremoniously awoken before the crack of dawn, after what had seemed like only a couple hours of sleep, and had groggily stumbled out of his tent to find a crude training course that his new master had somehow found the time to prepare before waking him. It consisted of wooden stakes driven into the ground at regular intervals in the area surrounding the camp. The soothsayer had quickly and without preamble briefed him on its purpose.

‘You start here,’ he said pointing at the stake closest to the camp. ‘Jog to the one beneath that tree, where I want to see you do as many pushups as you can without rest. Once you feel that you can’t do anymore, you are to sprint, as fast as you can, to the next stake over there. And I mean as fast as you can, got it?’

Fynn had nodded, his sleepiness completely forgotten.

The soothsayer continued. ‘There, I want you to do fifty sit-ups or as close to that as you can manage without rest. Then sprint to the next one, where you are to jump on and off that log with both feet simultaneously, thirty times or until you can’t do anymore. After that, you get to have a small rest by walking back here to the first stake to start all over again. Continue until I say you can stop. Any questions?’

Fynn had stared at the soothsayer dumbfounded and all he had thought to ask was. ‘What, now?’

The soothsayer didn't bother responding to that. Instead, he said. ‘I will quickly show you an important stretching and breathing routine that will help you warm up first. You should always try and complete this before doing any rigorous exercises.’

Sentor led him through the routine, which he insisted Fynn should memorise. He marveled at the older man’s agility, which left him, the decade’s younger boy, feeling like a block of wood in comparison.

Once completed, the soothsayer nodded to the first stake. ‘You can begin now.’

For the first few rounds, he had been scrutinised closely, his master regularly correcting his posture and form, ensuring he wasn’t cheating in any way. Once satisfied with his apprentice’s efforts, Sentor had gone back to the camp where he began preparing for the day. However, despite this, his keen eyes missed nothing and Fynn quickly realized that there would be absolutely no chance of taking it easy.

What felt like an age later, in the middle of the exercises at the fourth stake jumping on and off the logs, his legs, weak with pain and fatigue suddenly gave in and he stumbled onto his knees. Taking the opportunity to rest, he used the log to keep steady and squeezed his eyes shut as he breathed in hard, the sweet cool air nectar to his aching lungs.

‘Get up,’ the harsh voice of his master cut through the reprieve. ‘I didn’t say you could stop.’

‘But master,’ Fynn said between mouthfuls of air. ‘My legs….’

The soothsayer walked up to Fynn, cutting him off from his protests, and leaned down towards him with an evident look of anger. ‘Was I mistaken, or did you, only last night, tell me you wanted to be a wielder?’

Fynn looked down sheepishly. ‘I did…, I do, but my legs hurt so much I just can’t continue.’

‘You have the energy to talk and argue with me, then you must have the energy to continue.’

‘I can’t even stand up,’ he whined unheeding of his master's words.

‘Fine,’ the soothsayer said suddenly, catching Fynn off guard. ‘I won’t force you if you don’t want this anymore. Come and have some tea and we will speak of it no more. Things will be as they were before, no hard feelings. Okay?’

The soothsayer began to walk back to the camp leaving Fynn staring, open-mouthed, at his back, his exhaustion, momentarily forgotten.

‘It’s okay,’ Fynn forced out despite the anger he felt inside. Bloody old man, playing me like this! He thought bitterly. ‘I’ll continue master.’

The soothsayer stopped but didn’t turn around. ‘Well then, let that be the last time I hear any excuses.’

Much later when Fynn, dizzy with exhaustion, could barely put one foot before the other, his master finally called for him to stop. Though it felt like he had been at it all day, the sun was still young in the sky and he realised that it couldn’t actually have been for as long as he thought.

‘Here, drink some water, then I want you to sit and meditate.’

Fynn didn’t need to be asked twice, his legs once again gave way beneath him as he sat, greedily guzzling down the water.

After giving him a moment to catch his breath, the soothsayer began instructing his student in the correct manner to meditate and the appropriate breathing technique. Closing his eyes, Fynn began to breathe as directed; it was slow, methodical and deliberate, very different from the technique his father had used. At first, he found it difficult to regulate, given the intensity of the exercises he had just done, but slowly he found his rhythm. Sentor had explained that this was a calming technique, meant to enhance healing and recovery and he could now begin to feel the energy slow in his channels dispersing more efficiently into his aching muscles and joints.

In the midst of his meditation he must have fallen asleep because, for the second time today, a bemused-looking soothsayer woke him up. The tents, he found, had been packed and stowed away and the horse was hitched to the wagon ready to go.

‘Come on lad. Freshen up quickly and let’s head out.’

They arrived in the nearby village a couple of hours before noon. Fynn, from his usual perch on the wagon, looked around with great interest. Hearst Village, as it was called, was clearly much better looked after by its inhabitants than its neighbour Tenbi waypoint. Though the buildings were of a similar style, they somehow, at the same time, looked very different. Most had fresh thatching and painted windowsills, with carefully tended flowerbeds and vegetable patches outside. The streets were well maintained, with no sign of the tough, clumpy, wild highland grass that seemed untamable back in Tenbi waypoint, instead, he saw a type of grass he hadn’t come across before, bright green and cut neatly short making everything look very pretty indeed. Towards the more central parts of the village, the roads were paved with cobblestone adding to the charming feel of the place. The people too, seemed different, with ready smiles and waves, seemingly leading a much gentler life than he was accustomed to seeing back home. Some, upon noting the soothsayer, would come up and enquire on how long he would be staying in the village and it wasn’t long before there were a few people trailing the wagon eager for his services.

The soothsayer, customarily walking alongside and guiding the dapple mare, noted the young boy’s interest and smiled. ‘Different isn’t it?’

Fynn nodded puzzled. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Well here is your challenge for today. I want you to find out why. And I don’t just mean the obvious things that you can see all around you.’

Fynn looked at the soothsayer curiously. ‘What do you mean master? How would I go about doing that?’

The soothsayer chuckled wickedly. ‘I won’t give anything away, and I’ll leave the means up to you.’

Shortly after, they pulled up in the village market and parked the wagon alongside the stalls of other vendors who were selling a wide variety of goods.

The soothsayer, immediately besieged by clients, waved to Fynn. ‘Meet me back here in a couple of hours for lunch,’ he said before turning back to the eager throng.

Left to his own devises, Fynn, decided to explore the village. He started by walking around the market, amazed by the quantity and variety of goods on sale. While Tenbi waypoint also had a market, it paled in comparison to this one. Naturally, he hovered longer at the stalls that sold various weapons such as knives, short swords and shields, before the suspicious stallholders would politely inform him that if he wasn’t planning on buying anything he should move along. One particularly rude vendor called him a dirty street urchin and threatened to clap him around the head if he didn’t disappear. And so he did, pride a little stung but his excitement for the day not dulled in the slightest.

Next, he wandered out into the less busy surrounding streets where, in one particularly quiet one, he found a remarkable looking stone building that he couldn’t help but feel the urge to investigate further. The building, though not overly large, had a mysterious air, perhaps because of its severely weathered but well defined rounded stones walls, which gave it a feeling of great age, or maybe because of it’s large, imposing, arched doorway and equally impressive old wooden door set within. Either way, it was with trepidation that he, seeing no one around, tentatively tested the black painted metal door handle. And then, to his great horror and surprise, he saw the large door swing easily open, without so much as a squeak. Well, what did I think would happen? He told himself disparagingly. Peering inside he saw a dimly lit room with rows and rows of wooden shelves, and on them what looked to be countless numbers of books and scrolls. His mouth fell open, he had never seen so many in his life, certainly not in, what he had previously considered impressive, Anya’s fathers home library. He stepped in hesitantly, some of his earlier trepidation lost in his wonderment.

‘Wow.’ He said to himself upon realizing the splendor of the building's interior.

Where the stonewalls weren’t covered by bookshelves, he could see they were carved with ornate designs from the floor up to the remarkable vaulted ceiling, whose wooden beams arched magnificently in intricate patterns within the roof structure.

He stood there for long moments, staring up and marveling at the architecture, wondering how anyone could have possibly built something so spectacular.

A light laugh startled him so badly he nearly bolted out of the building. However, he caught himself when his eyes fell on a small middle-aged lady with warm eyes and a disarming smile. Her greying hair was tied back neatly and she held in her hands a quill that had clearly been in use before his unexpected entrance.

‘Wow indeed, young man,’ she said in a quiet gentle tone. ‘I see you have an eye for good architecture and you aren’t mistaken either, you would be hard-pressed to find much finer than this in all of the Arean Kingdom, barring, of course, the capital,’ she looked up wistfully clearly appreciating the architecture. ‘Worked here twenty-two years and I still never get tired of it.’

Feeling a little more at ease, Fynn scratched his head self-consciously. ‘Sorry to barge in ma’am, it’s just the building looked so interesting and I didn’t really expect the door to open when I tried it.’

‘Not at all, I don’t get many visitors here so I would say it’s a welcome surprise. And please don’t be so formal. My name is Esorna Melda, archivist and scribe of this the fifth archive, a branch of none other than Arthus the kingdom’s royal library,’ she said this visibly beaming with pride which caused Fynn to smile back at her. ‘You can just call me Esorna. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking with?’

‘Fynn…,’ he paused trying to think of a way to introduce himself like she just had. ‘Fynn Brayer, apprentice to Sentor the soothsayer. A pleasure to meet you too Esorna.’

Two hours later, a self-satisfied apprentice met back up with his slightly harried looking master. The soothsayer had bought some food from one of the nearby vendors, consisting of sweet and sour pork and oil-fried potatoes. The smell of it caused Fynn to drool he was so hungry, and it was all he could do to stop himself wolfing it down before they had found a suitable place to sit and eat.

‘So, Fynn, how has your day been?’ The soothsayer asked him suspiciously, no doubt having picked up on his earlier smugness. ‘Any progress on today’s challenge?’

They found a bench in some shade, still within sight of the wagon. Fynn stopped restraining himself and began gorging with abandon. He looked up, mouth full.

‘Mmmmm. This is soooo good,’ he said pointing exaggeratingly at the bowl of food. ‘Never had anything like it,’ a look was all it took from the soothsayer and he sheepishly gulped down his mouthful. ‘Sorry. Yes, it’s been good and I think I have a better idea of what you wanted me to figure out master.’

‘I’m listening,’ the soothsayer said with interest as he himself started to eat.

It had indeed been a good morning for Fynn. He had found Esorna’s enthusiasm and warmth infectious and, as they drank tea she brewed specially for him, he enjoyed listening to her tell him all about the fifth archive and her work there. She had apprenticed with an archivist guild within Renfort, the Arean kingdom’s capital city, and had impressed enough to be accepted for employment by none other than the Royal Arthus Library, a great honor for her guild. After distinguishing herself there, she had, when the vacancy arose, applied to transfer to the fifth archive and much to her delight had been successful. She said that the peaceful and quiet village life far better suited her nature and health. He was also surprised to find that she was the only one that worked there; with just the occasional visits by her superiors to ensure all was in order. It wasn’t considered a very important archive, she had admitted reluctantly, but had later whispered conspiratorially that there were far more dark secrets recorded amongst those shelves than she suspected her seniors were aware of. After all, the archive had stood for centuries and only somebody who had the time to read through everything there could possibly know. Noting Fynn’s fascination, she had winked at him as if this was a secret just between them.

In addition, they had got round to talking about his task for the day and she had with great enthusiasm delved into the topic.

‘This village, as you already know, is called Hearst, but what you most likely don’t know is that it is derived from the words “heroes rest” which actually probably only the older locals here and the more learned would know. Do you know why?’ she had asked rhetorically.

What had followed was a lengthy lesson on the history of the area and of the people that had lived here going back centuries. She eagerly backed up her words by regularly pulling books and scrolls off the shelves to show him written accounts, some of which she said were the original manuscripts from the time the events took place.

‘To summarise,’ Fynn told the soothsayer affecting Esorna’s tone while waving his spoon in the same way she had done with her quill. ‘In the times before the Arean Kingdom had become a protectorate of the Heavenly Empire, generations of incumbent Norfelk lords, whose fiefdom borders the northern neighboring Kingdom of Whallis, had the important task of defending the kingdom from invasion. Soldiers were recruited from the populace within the fief and posted to the northernmost fort, Valley-Watch, where they held strong for centuries. But it was after the famous Red Valley Battle, where a decisive victory was won over the Whallis Kingdom, that King Gregor II, in an unprecedented gesture, expressed his gratitude to the veterans and heroes who had fought in the battle by granting them their own land. Land, which they would lawfully own and be able to pass down to their descendants. Naturally, the chosen lands were within the fief of the Lord of Norfelk, who at the time, given the magnitude of the victory, was only too happy to honor and sign the decree. Subsequent lords have since tried to have it overturned but to no avail. They have, however, managed to prevent it from being common knowledge in order, they say, to quell any discontentment it may cause,’ Fynn smiled victoriously at the soothsayer. ‘The lands they were granted were known as heroes rest, today known as Hearst Village. Here,’ he looked and pointed at the buildings all around them. ‘And in the immediate surrounding area are the only places in the entire Kingdom of Arean where non-royal’s can lawfully own their own property and land. And this would explain why the people here seem different and look after their houses and lands so well. They are the happy, free descendants of the heroes that won them their rights.’

Fynn punctuated his final sentence with a big bite of pork.

The soothsayer couldn’t help but smile. ‘Well, You got lucky finding the archive, but I have to say it was well done. I hope you are able to find more things to contemplate regarding this topic and should you successfully do that, the wisdom you gain will be very useful to you in the future. Mark my words well Fynn, there is nothing that can make people happier, nor cause them to fight harder, than the prospect of owning their own land.’

They discussed it further as they finished their lunch. Fynn found his master’s knowledge just as deep and insightful as Esorna’s, perhaps even more so given that his words somehow seemed more tangible and personal than her very studied explanations.

When they could see a queue developing outside the wagon, the soothsayer got up and stretched, then looked at the timepiece he kept in the folds of his shirt. ‘Right, I had better get back to it,’ he looked at Fynn. ‘Spend the next half an hour writing down everything you learned today. Summarise it! After that meditate for another half hour, alternate between the techniques your father taught you and the techniques I showed you this morning, this should help preserve your stamina. Then I want you to head to the northern edge of the village and find the local training and sparring fields. Look for a Master Tyler whom I know and met with earlier today. He is one of the local martial experts and he informed me that they are currently training the local boys in preparation for the army’s next recruitment exercise. He has agreed to take you in for today’s lesson. The boys are a few years older than you but remember, you have certain advantages they don’t and in time you will see how much of a difference that makes. Of course, you must not say anything about that to anyone.’

Fynn nodded eagerly. ‘Yes master.’

As the soothsayer walked away he briefly turned and said. ‘Remember, what I said last night..’

‘Think about what I am learning critically,’ Fynn, in his excitement, finished for the soothsayer. ‘I got it master.’

‘Don’t interrupt me…. But yes that’s right,’ he said with an exasperated shake of the head.

Just over an hour later, having completed his assigned tasks, Fynn eagerly but with growing apprehension found the sparring field by following a bunch of rowdy boys, who had swaggered through the village with their wooden swords. He saw three stern-looking masters talking amongst themselves as the boys assembled. Plucking up his courage, he approached the one that seemed to be in overall charge. A muscle loaded, cross-armed, bear of a man with a balding head but who compensated for that with a shaggy black beard all around his face.

‘Umm, Master Tyler?’ The man’s steely eyes took in the young boy. Fynn gulped. ‘Umm, my master Sentor sent me …’

‘Fynn is it?’ The man asked interrupting him with a booming voice.

‘Yes Han.’

‘Got a wooden sword?’

‘No Han.’

He jerked his thumb behind him, where some other boys who hadn’t brought their own were seemingly expertly choosing the ones they thought best suited them. ‘Grab one from the pile over there, then fall in with the others.’

Fynn scampered to do as ordered, the wooden swords looked identical to him so he just grabbed the closest one. All told, there seemed to be around thirty boys and he found that he was indeed the youngest on the field by what, he guessed, was at least four to five years. Some of the boys already looked as tall and strong as the average fully grown man and held their wooden sword with relaxed, confident ease. A few of them looked at him with what could only be described as mirth. What advantage? He thought bitterly of the soothsayer’s words. He looked positively tiny in comparison.

They began with a warm-up routine consisting of exercises that Fynn quickly realized were nowhere near as demanding or effective as the ones his master had had him do this morning, not that he was complaining. And, of course, he knew better than to say anything. The bearded master then split them all into three groups, based upon what Fynn understood was their experience levels, and had each of the masters take charge of a group. Fynn’s group was to be led by master Tyler himself, much to his and by the looks of the other boys faces, their surprise too. It clearly had the least talented, weakest physically and of course the smallest boy.

‘Take your stances.’ Master Tyler bellowed, and the boys immediately adopted a posture that they must have learned previously.

As they did this, the master wandered over to stand in front of the now panicking Fynn and speaking loudly enough that everyone could hear, but looking him directly in the eye to make it clear that he was really talking to him, he said. ‘Here we teach you to fight using the valestep single-handed sword style. What this style sacrifices in reach and power, it more than makes up with speed, control and, in most cases, endurance. Not to mention it leaves one hand free, the benefits of which are not to be understated. The success of the style is determined by three things, how you stand, hold your sword and of course your movements.’

The master adopted a stance similar to that which the other boys had already taken. Fynn followed suit doing his best to mirror it.

‘In the valestep sword style, similar to the stances of many other single-handed sword styles, you are to stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, leading foot slightly forward, along with your sword arm directly in line with your opponent. Bend your knees slightly to lower your center of gravity and have your weight on the balls of your feet for maximum control. Breathe deep and slowly to release any tension, your aim to be as focused as possible, ready to react at a moments notice. If done correctly you should have no discomfort holding this stance for extended periods. It is my suggestion you practice in your own time’

After going through the nuances of the stance at great length, which varied depending on whether you were attacking or defending, they then went over, in similar excruciating detail, each of the six defense and attack forms in the valestep sword style.

While the boys in the other two groups began paring up to practice various forms on each other, Fynn’s group continued learning in a more methodical, information loaded manner. Master Tyler was clearly telling the boys some things they already knew, but it was also obvious that there was much that was new to them too and he was going into far more detail than he usually did. Fynn had absolutely no doubt why and he expected his master would quiz him very thoroughly later, so he resolved himself to soak it all in. He had always had a good memory but had discovered, after the recent events, he was able to focus on tasks with a level of single-minded concentration that he had never previously had.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours of exhausting practice and corrections, to the sheer delight of the boys, they were finally ordered to pair up. Some even dared to let out a small cheer at this before shrinking back from their master's disapproving glare.

Fynn found himself partnered with a much taller, lanky boy who looked to be around fifteen years of age. He had long, brown wispy hair that kept getting in his eyes and which caused him to, with annoying regularity, try tucking it back behind his ears. The boy, in turn, appraised Fynn and seemingly unimpressed with what he saw, adopted a self-assured condescending expression on his waspish face.

‘One of you will attack, the other will defend,’ master Tyler boomed out to them. ‘To begin with, the attacker is only allowed to use either the first or the second forms. This means that the defender must anticipate and react with either of the forms that are suitable to stop those attacks. If you get it wrong then you will have some nasty bruises to show for your trouble’

‘I’ll attack,’ the boy said quickly, not giving Fynn a choice in the matter.

It was said with an anticipatory and predatory smile that Fynn didn’t much like the look of. He realised it had shades of what he had seen regularly on Samson’s face before he was about to inflict some pain. Contrary to what he had expected, Fynn felt himself rise to the challenge. His blood boiled and he stared back defiantly.

Unconsciously he adopted the valestep defense stance and concentrated on everything master Tyler had taught them. I will become a wielder.

‘Bring it.’ he said fiercely to his opponent.