What a ragtag band we are.

I glance around the clearing in my family’s workyard, still amazed that my study group all agreed to meet here after the hot shop. Teuira still looks nervous to be in an unfamiliar place with so many people older than she is, constantly pulling her cloak tighter around her hunched shoulders, but Melina is helping her adjust by asking her questions about her home. Eliakim looks guarded, standing with crossed arms and bored expressions, although his eyes dart about curiously. I don’t know much about him, but he’s happy to work quietly. After the hot shop, Kuuper is in great spirits, grinning at his glass orbs that he helped create.

Only Zviad is openly antagonistic. I don’t know what else I expected, but it’s wearing on me. All he has to do is put up with us for a few months, and we’ll never see each other again. It seems even that level of tolerance is a step too far for him, however.

I set my two glass orbs on the ground on either side of the training dummy. “Your goal today is to move mana from one globe to the other while dealing with distractions. Depending on how quickly you pick things up, we’ll move on to fighting the Iron Lunk.”

Teuira bites her lip. She starts to raise her hand, then shuffles behind Melina. I meet my friend’s gaze and lift an eyebrow. She seems to get the message, turning to whisper with Teuira for a moment.

“To confirm, we won’t need to use our magic on the automaton, right?” Melina asks on behalf of Teuira. “Lightning tends to wreak havoc on enchantments inscribed in metal due to conductive properties.”

I smile brightly. “Nope! You only need to dodge or step back out of the way. We won’t do the full combat routine. Level one is pretty easy. Even if you’ve never fought anyone before, you should be able to handle it.”

“I doubt that hunk of metal could pose any threat, anyway,” Zviad scoffs. “I’ll go first and show you all how it’s done.”

“Be my guest,” I say innocently, while pushing the activation script up to the fifth level. If Zviad wants to act the fool, then let him reap the rewards.

He picks up the two glass eagles that I made for him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Do I have to hold them the entire time? This isn’t how a [Warrior] trains.”

“Nope. Mine are on the ground. You just have to be able to thread mana into them. How far away they are depends on your range and control.”

Zviad puts them down on the ground next to mine. He assumes a low stance, too deep to be comfortable, and lifts his hands like blades in front of him. Mana surges as he manipulates the energy of the world to move mana from one eagle to the next.

“Starting the attack sequence,” I call out, stepping back from the Iron Lunk. I motion the rest of the team to spread out and give them space.

Enchantments wink merrily to life all over the Iron Lunk, barely visible to my emerging mana senses. I topped off the mana last night, and the scripts empower the automaton to move faster than I can. Blurring into action, the Iron Lunk whips around its staff in a vicious downward strike.

Zviad barely reacts. His foot glides in a half arc ahead of him, and he shifts his weight to the side, evading the blow. All the while, his mana manipulation continues at a steady rate. Slow compared with me, but he never stops. He drops into a split, avoiding a horizontal slash, then rolls down and spins on his back, kicking his legs around like the rotating vanes of a windmill. He twists himself back up to his feet just in time to leap into the air when the Iron Lunk whips around and drags its metal staff across the ground at knee-height.

Breathing in a controlled pattern, Zviad quick-steps to the side, swiveling at the hips to dodge a thrust. Each attack misses by a hair’s breadth, yet his mana control never falters. Roll right, leap into the air, contort to the left—it doesn’t seem to matter where the blows come from. Not a single attack lands, despite my petty vengeance of cranking up the difficulty.

He finishes the mana control pattern, unlocking a cheap script that Ezio gave me for the student training aid: faintly glowing letters around the outside of the glass proclaim “Victory!”

True to my word, I turn off the Iron Lunk, stopping its programming. We all stare at Zviad in stunned silence.

“I’m gonna die,” Tueira whimpers, shattering the mood. She squeaks when I laugh, and claps both of her hands over her face to hide in embarrassment. “Please don’t make me do that! I’ll do all your homework for the rest of the semester. Just don’t make me fight!”

“It’s all right, Nuri was just being mean,” Melina says, soothing the girl while throwing me a dirty look. “That is not level one. In fact, I’ll wager that Nuri’s never even attempted that level, not even once, because it’s way too hard for him.”

“Busted,” I admit, laughing off the guilt awkwardly. “I wanted to see what the trained son of an actual military officer could do, so I set it at level five. That was even more impressive than I expected. I’ll turn down the difficulty for us normal folk.”

“Ah. I should have known it was too good to be true,” Zviad mutters in a surly tone of voice. “I was hoping it went higher than that. About time I found a challenge.”

“It does go higher. Up to level ten. But if you really want a challenge? Spar my brother Mikko,” I offer. “He designed and built the Iron Lunk. He’s also got [Iron Skin] and [Strength of the Forge Gods]. He juggles anvils for fun.”

“I just might,” Zviad says, to my surprise. He picks up his glass training eagles, cradling them with surprising tenderness, and gives me a single, sharp nod. “Not bad. Make another set of eagles, along with an automaton, and I’ll ship it to my kid brother. A proper [Enchanter] could push it to a higher level of difficulty.”

“You sure? It didn’t come cheap.”

“Are you calling my family poor?” Zviad snarls at me. “I give you a chance to advertise your work in the capital, and you spit in my face!”

I scratch my chin, looking over at Melina for help. “That cost nearly half a year’s salary for me. All I meant is that I can’t front the project. I would need some payment up front.”

“The Silaraon Glass Works will gladly hold the funds in escrow until the completion and delivery of the Iron Lunk mark II,” Melina interjects smoothly, offering a pleasant smile to the hothead. “Perhaps we could look into duplicating my temporal Skill as an enchantment on your weapon while we’re at it. I’m sure a brief disruption of your opponent’s localized sense of time would be deadly in hands as skilled as yours.”

That gets Zviad’s attention. He finally calms down enough for us to move on without any further complaints. I run Kuuper and Melina through the real level one sequence, though we still can’t convince Teuria to try it.

We work out a compromise after further discussion. Melina will try to interrupt her focus by making funny faces and spinning flowers in front of her face. She uses her temporal field and [Lesser Object Manipulation] to make silly shapes.

Three times in a row, Tueira has to start over because Melina makes her giggle, but she finally completes the mana puzzle, earning her own “Victory!” display.

The look of sheer joy on her face when she successfully completes the mana transfer is heartwarming enough that even Zviad cracks a small, tight smile.

“I’ve never seen anyone move like you,” I say to Zviad, although I hate complimenting the brat. “Could you show me how to do that?”

“Of course you haven’t,” he preens. “That is the Golden Eagle Martial Style. Remember, My family’s crest is the golden eagle. We perch on the heights, aloof, watching for an opening. We strike when the time is right.”

Melina dutifully writes down everything that Zviad said, earning her a funny look from the Army brat. “Golden Eagles sometimes work in pairs, right? I’ve read that one will flush out the prey, and the second bird will swoop in to capture anything that gets away.”

“You have some odd hobbies, crafter,” Zviad says. He tilts his head toward her. “But you are correct. Working with a partner is a core tenant of our [Warriors]. My family has served the Army for generations, but we tend to join the irregulars so we can hunt down high-value targets. Plenty of common [Soldiers] out there for fodder.”

Ignoring my burst of irritation at Zviad’s casual disregard for anyone other than himself, I ask if he’s willing to teach me. “I’ve never seen footwork like that before. I just shuffle forward and back in a low stance, and sometimes step through half-circles to strike at angles. You look like you’re flying through the air and ready to move anywhere instantly.”

“Soaring, not flapping our arms about,” Zviad corrects me. Still, he clears his throat and gestures to my practice staff. He grabs a dead branch off the ground, as if to drive home the vast difference between our skill levels. “Pick it up. We’ll go through the forms. Consider yourself fortunate, crafter; our teaching is much sought-after in the Capital.”

Happy to discover that flattery is, indeed, the way to get through to Zviad, I do as I’m bid and pick up the staff. I settle into my usual stance, which only provokes a sneer from my newest instructor.

“Too heavy on your heels,” Zviad says, swishing a stick at my leg before I can step out of the way. He lunges forward, too quickly for me to follow, pushing on my chest with both hands, and plants me on my behind. “No stability in your trunk. Strong stomach, light feet. Again!”

I lean up on the balls of my feet, trying to strike a balance between strength and agility. I copy Zviad’s loose, smooth movement, flowing until it’s time to react with explosive speed. He moves slowly, perhaps at a quarter speed, tracing a shape in the air with the point of his staff as he glides forward diagonally, and I do my best to follow along.

“Passable, for a five year old. Now, strike me. See what you can do.”

I start to my right, then step left and forward, spinning my staff toward Zviad’s shoulder. It doesn’t hit; he rotates on the balls of his feet, not even moving from his location, and leans out of the way. Before I can recover my balance, his stick flicks out and cracks across my ribs.

“Stop telling me where you’re going to hit, crafter. The eagle locates its prey, but doesn’t dive straight down in plain sight. It gracefully swoops, curving around to find a cunning angle, and flies low to the ground so that it’s undetected. Do you understand? You strike from the last place you’re expected! Again.”

As if to underscore his words, Zviad spins the stick he’s holding, smacking me across the wrist and making me drop the staff.

“Again!”

I pick up the staff and concentrate, slowing my breathing and stepping with light feet and a strong core. The first seven or eight times he swings the stick toward me, I overreact, getting my feet tangled in my haste to knock it aside.

Glide, I remind myself. I’m supposed to soar like an eagle, unbothered by the beasts far below me. My domain spreads across the entire expanse of the sky. I have no limits, no rivals, no equals. I’m free and serene, moving effortlessly out of the way of danger.

Swish, swish. Swish!

Three quick strikes miss me by a hair’s breadth, although the third glances off the edge of my shoulder. I twist as little as possible, letting my feet slide just enough to take me out of harm’s way. Following the momentum of my pivot through to the end, I lash out, sweeping from low to high and driving the back end of the staff into Zviad’s gut.

With an oof! of expelled air, he crumples to the ground, clutching his stomach. He’s back up on his feet in the blink of an eye, snarling at me and brandishing his stick, moving faster than I can follow. Three quick blows rain down on my face, drawing hot blood as the thin skin over my eye breaks open. A fourth blow knocks the staff out of my hand.

Zviad glares at me like he’s going to hit me again, before he plants the pointy end of the stick into the ground and huffs. “Never hit me again, crafter. But I guess you were listening after all. I am a glorious teacher, am I not?”

I force myself to nod.

Zviad might be the most abrasive, annoying person I’ve ever met, but his methods are undeniably effective. I didn’t think my footwork was poor, but I’ve also never seen anyone move like Zviad. Ember is more utilitarian: every step serves a lethal function. She doesn’t hide her intentions or waste time blocking or dodging, because she doesn’t have to. She’s strong enough to simply kill without regard for retaliation. That’s a level of martial might that I’ll never reach, however. My path is closer to that of a [Mage], even though I do want to shore up some of my weaknesses.

Is that worth it, though? Ezio made it clear that I should focus on my strengths for now. I have plenty of time to deal with my weaknesses down the road. For now, do what I do best.

“Let the others test themselves against your iron lump. I’ll see you in class,” Zviad says. He tenderly collects the golden eagles I made for him, gives me a fractional nod that from him is probably considered quite benevolent, and stomps away. All his grace is gone, replaced by angry steps and quick strides.

“It’s the Iron Lunk,” I mumble.

“Lump is funnier,” Melina says, her lips twitching into a traitorous grin. “Way to make a new friend, Nuri.”

I wipe off a thin streak of blood from my forehead, brush off the dirt from where I landed on my rear, and shrug. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see what the rest of you can do. Eliakim! You’re next.”

=+=

When everyone is finished, Kirsi brings us hot scones, homemade jam, and frothing mugs of goat milk for an afternoon snack. We stuff our faces, and the study group soon heads back to the SCA in high spirits. They’ll arrive just in time for dinner, but after the vigorous exercise and long walk, chances are they’ll be hungry again.

I stay behind. I have work to do.

Conviction burning in my heart, I step forward and spin my staff. I will master every level Mikko developed, and I’ll do it while systematically draining and refilling my mana in the middle of the mock battle. My grip tightens on my staff as I stare down my nemesis: the Iron Lunk.

With a battle cry, I thumb the activation rune on the linked control bracelet, welcoming the now-familiar mental chime as the various routines announce themselves as options. I hover over the offensive sequence, but I don’t know if I’m up to the challenge yet of defending against the Iron Lunk while managing the finicky energy flows of [Heat Manipulation]. Fear of bruises threatens to win out over my ambition, but I force aside that thought.

If Zviad can handle level five on his first try, then surely I can get there with practice. I move through a warm up routine and begin the mana and heat transfer between my glass training orbs, dodging the slow strikes from the training dummy.

Once I’m limbered up, I move on to the next stage. I try to incorporate the light, graceful footwork I witnessed from Zviad, but I can’t help but feel clumsy and slow in comparison. My movements are stiff and clunky, lacking the well-oiled smoothness that long years of practice granted him, but I make it through without taking a hit. That has to count for something, I reckon.

Panting from the first go around, I consider my performance. As much as it pains me to even think about it, I should probably ask Zviad for further critique. I spit in the dirt, annoyed that part of me admires that show off. He’s entitled and arrogant. But a resource is a resource, I tell myself. No other option for now; I just have to keep at it.

This time, I gladly select the built-in defensive routines, preferring to hit rather than to be hit. Let the dummy defend itself while I take out some frustration.

The Iron Lunk whirrs back to life, unfolding its collapsible arms. It swats away my cheeky attempt at scoring an early point before it takes up its stance. The level one timer already shows the countdown, and I’m both impressed and annoyed by Mikko’s foresight with the enchantment logic. Flexibility isn’t a quality most automatons are noted to possess.

Level one presents few difficulties, and I’m able to score hits by changing up my tempo, feinting high and striking low, or by stabbing repeatedly in one spot—the machine lacks the speed at this setting to keep up with the relentless attack. Keeping my mental focus split between the attacks and the heat-resistant glass orbs is still exhausting, however, and I’m starting to sweat after going through several of the offense routines first. My clenched-jaw determination going into this evening’s training session looks like an overreach now.

I release my Skill and sit down cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed. Breathing in a slow, steady rhythm, I sense the mana around me and draw it into my body to regain some reserves. My low Capacity is holding me back from longer sessions.

I harvest from the ambient energy, wishing that I had the stamina to manipulate mana for a longer period. I’m planning to drain my mana pool before the night is over, but that doesn’t mean that I want to blow through the entire sequence of heat transfers in the earlier levels. The whole point is to train them simultaneously, so that my mind is tired by the time the physical challenge truly ratchets up.

Boredom proves my biggest enemy, and after only four or five minutes, I jump up to my feet, spinning my practice spear over my head. I nudge the indicator for level two, resume my Skill, and try to speed up the heat transfer while attacking the automaton a split-second faster than the last round.

The Iron Lunk binds my spear more easily this time, but I’m warming up to the fight and I slip through its block just like Ember showed me. The solid thunk of the spear’s impact rings through the crisp, early twilight air, and a vicious smile snakes across my face.

I slide my left foot forward in a smooth, quick semicircle, plant hard, and lunge forward with my right foot, exploding off the balls of my feet to stab at the automaton’s head before the defensive arms can spin into position. I roar in triumph, resetting my feet and twirling the back end of the spear in a savage strike to the dummy’s torso, powering through the feeble block.

The spear smashes into the solid iron construction of the training dummy and cracks in a spray of splinters. I stagger forward, braced for an impact that unexpectedly gives way, and I fall face first into the training dummy, smacking my forehead. My Skill falters, sputtering out like a candle at my loss of concentration, and I let out a howl of pain and frustration.

Mikko was right. I really am a threat to smack his creation with my hard head.

The ridiculousness of the situation catches up with me, and I flop down to the ground by the automaton, my shoulders shaking as I laugh uproariously. I access the control rune and switch off the machine just to make sure it doesn’t read my movements as another attack and decide to counter attack while I’m defenseless. I reach inward, grasping my [Heat Manipulation], and focus on the energy flows. I’ll finish the fight another time, after I’ve picked up a sturdier cut of wood to make a better practice spear. For now, I still have a third of a mana pool to spend. Time to get to work.

As the hours go by, the evening air grows cool on my skin, now clammy with sweat as I work, but I refuse to give in and warm myself up. Venting heat into the surrounding temperature instead of focusing solely on red and blue glass globes arrayed nearby is cheating, after all. I push harder on the manipulation than before, no longer caring as much about precision as about raw speed and power, and the mana gushes forth like a geyser as I wrestle with the energy flows.

Time ceases to mean anything. I fall inward, losing awareness of my surroundings as my only thought is the task at hand. More and more mana surges into the Skill, unspooling almost out of my control. The heat transfer has completed between the two heat-resistant orbs, but I’ve built up a roiling, raging river of power, and it needs to go somewhere. No longer caring about cheating, I send it into the empty skies above with a whoop and holler, and fall back into the mud, totally spent.

Gasping for breath, I reach for more mana and find only dregs within my emptied core. My Skill gutters and dies out. I blink, disoriented as I drag myself back to reality. Brushing off the dirt, I stagger to my feet. Warm air buffets me as the gusts of heat fluctuate, and then slowly drift away into the twilight, leaving me even more chilled than before.

I shoot a glare at the training device. I will defeat it soon, I swear. I will. I refuse to lose to something called a “dummy.” After all, if I can’t win, then what does that make me? I can already hear Mikko’s voice laughing in my head at his long list of prepared “dummy” jokes, and I shake my head in amusement.

I stamp around the yard and rub my arms for warmth now that I’m out of mana for my Skill. I can’t very well give Mikko the satisfaction of giving up, can I?

Now that my team is long gone, and I’m no longer dividing my focus between mana manipulation and facing off against the Iron Lunk, I activate the controls again and increase the difficulty to the fourth level. I’m not quite ready to test myself against the fifth level, but it’s time to put my new training to good use. If I can incorporate more economical, agile footwork, then it should help me out when I spar against people more on my own level.

I won’t ever reach the heights that Ember or Zviad show are possible, but I never want to be a liability again.

Determination gives me renewed strength. I dodge the first attack, duck under the Iron Lunk’s follow-up swing, and tag a fast hit against its torso while sliding past a jab. My feet move seemingly on their own accord, sliding around the automaton more fluidly than I ever have before. I evade the strongest blows, block and bind lesser strikes, and ignore feints as though I already know what the training program will do.

A few more seconds, and I’m through! Maybe I should challenge the fifth level after all, I think, excitement building like a fire in my belly. I add a swagger to my steps, barely leaning out of the way of a vertical slice, and completely fail to react to the vicious diagonal upward blow that follows it.

The thwack of the Iron Lunk’s training staff catching me in the ribs echoes dully through the clearing. Tumbling head over heels, I roll across the ground, bowled over by the force of the blow. I cry out just as my face hits the ground, and I end up with a mouthful of dirt.

Thankfully, no one’s around to see my spectacular failure. I get to my feet, groaning and holding my tender ribs. My head is ringing from smacking into the hard-packed earth. Yet, for all the pain, I’m glad that I got hit. Better to cut down my arrogance now, against a training dummy that can’t walk over and kill me while I’m disoriented, than make an overconfident mistake in a real fight against a living opponent.

I’ll do better next time, I vow as I stagger toward my parent’s house. Tomorrow, though. I’m done for today. Time to soak my tired muscles and prepare for work tomorrow. Still, I can’t keep the smile off my face. The way forward has never seemed so clear.