“Pick it up, Corvin.” “Haunt, this is a stick.” “Impressive”, Haunt said in an unimpressed tone, “With keen eyesight like that you should have both watches tonight.”
Corvin’s head sank on scrawny shoulders. His voice cracked when he spoke, and the most intimidating aspect to his features were the pimples sprouting like dandelions. A lanky boy of fourteen, he stood in stark contrast to his well-muscled mentor. In the few weeks Corvin spent traveling with Haunt, the boy had tried to grow an equally intimidating beard and mustache yet only the faintest peach fuzz answered his call. His wild, black hair had been sheared close to the scalp to prevent lice and ticks at Haunt’s insistence. Rags, passing as clothes, hung loosely from Corvin’s body. Already, he held regrets from begging Haunt to teach him. His back ached from sleeping on the ground, and his stomach growled incessantly. Red blotches dotted his skin from dozens of insect bites. Haunt seemed indifferent to it all, including Corvin’s company. The boy couldn’t help but crave that sort of self-assurance, to be that kind of man.
“And stop puffing your chest out like that. You look like an underfed pigeon.” Corvin relaxed his shoulders as he bent low for the stick tossed at his feet. “I feel like an underfed pigeon.” “When you hunt better, then you’ll eat better.”
Corvin turned the stick over in his hands. It was an ugly thing, knobbled and looked fresh from the forest floor. “You told me you were going to teach me sword fighting.” “I am.” “What does a stick have to do with a sword?” Corvin pointed at the saber on Haunt’s hip. “Can’t you just let me use that?” Haunt barked a laugh, but Corvin didn’t share the humor. “The art of fighting with a weapon begins with the most fundamental weapon–a stick. I guarantee you that the first mean bastard who ever caved in a skull used a stick to do the job. One day, someone picked up a bigger stick and that gave us the quarterstaff. Someone tied a rock to one end of the quarterstaff to make a spear. Each weapon born from the previous, each built upon the foundation of knowledge of the ancestor. In addition, you will not always have the opportunity to carry a sword on you. Some places frown upon that. But you’ll always be able to find a good stick, and that stick in trained hands is just as deadly as a sword.”
Corvin tossed the stick from one hand to the other. It didn’t feel very deadly. “Before I teach you anything else, Corvin, and if you learn nothing else from me, you must remember three basic rules of fighting. The first rule is: Don’t Fight. Any fight you avoid is, by default, a fight you win. The second rule is: Don’t Lose. If you kill your opponent and then bleed out from a mortal wound, you’ve won nothing. The best way to follow Rule 2 is to follow Rule 1. The third rule is: Cheat. Anyone who fails to follow Rule 3 is failing to follow Rule 2. Those are the fundamental instructions we will build upon, and everything I teach you will have its root in those three rules.”
“So, if I’m not supposed to fight why are you teaching me to fight at all?”
“Because you have to be prepared for success and failure. Having one plan is never enough. You’ll likely never be the strongest one in the room, Corvin, and gods know I don’t expect you to be the smartest, but you can be the most trained and the most prepared. Do that, and you can accomplish just about anything.”
“I’d like to think I could be a little more prepared than just having a stick. That seems like the complete opposite of prepared.”
Haunt’s expression grew dark, and Corvin nearly tripped over himself when the old man closed the distance with long strides. The stick was snatched from Corvin’s hand as easily as a babe’s, and the fear of the old man nearly caused Corvin to miss what had been shoved into his grip. One thing he learned early on in Haunt’s company was to avoid making the man angry at any cost. Haunt returned to his previous position without word, and Corvin stared dumbly at the saber in his grip.
“Use the sword then”, Haunt said in that tone which dared argument, “You hit me with it just once, and we’ll start training you with a blade tomorrow. I’ll even do your chores tonight before bed.”
Corvin never held a sword before. He’d read many copper novels about heroes wielding them, sometimes one in each hand, but never expected them to be so light. He made a few arcs in the air; he could already see himself besting Haunt, fighting undead pirates at sea, swinging across a vast room by chandelier while besting his enemies with only a few flicks of a wrist. Fighting wasn’t even that difficult, he knew. You just put the pointy end in the squishy part and save the fair damsel.
Haunt cleared his throat, and the daydreams vanished like a fart in the wind.
“So, all I have to do is cut you once and I win?” “Cut me with the edge, stick me with the point, slap me with the flat. Hell, hit me with the handguard. Just touch me with some part, any part, of that sword.” Corvin looked at the edge, and knew from experience how sharp it was. “I don’t want to hurt you, Haunt.” “Oh, yes, please be gentle.” Haunt rolled his eyes. “Now come at me with that sword or do you want to complain about that now, too?”
Corvin took the moment and thrust forward, the way he’d seen an actor in a swashbuckling play he saw as a child. “Haha!”, he boasted, “Have at thee, cur!”
Haunt remained still, glancing between the point, several inches short of his chest, and Corvin’s ridiculous stance. “You’re out of measure”, the mentor critiqued by both word and a quick, downward strike of his stick with a turn of the wrist. “I don’t know what that means”, Corvin said after jumping back and rubbing his aching knuckles. “I’m starting to suspect the only skill you truly have is to state the painfully obvious. Try again.”
Corvin never fought with a sword before. He’d read many copper novels about heroes wielding them, sometimes one in each hand, but never expected them to be so heavy. The wide cuts and sharp thrusts became increasingly harder, despite only fighting for brief minutes. His shoulders, arms, and wrists burned with fatigue. Meanwhile, Haunt remained effortlessly beyond reach. His feet carried him deceptive distances, his arm lashing out like a cobra to bite deeply into Corvin’s exposed weaknesses. And, always, the criticism. “Your guard is open.” Corvin hissed and grit his teeth as the stick battered his knee. He turned to attack again, but nearly tripped over his own feet. “Footwork is terrible.” He slashed at Haunt’s stick, to cut it in twain, but Haunt stepped around Corvin’s flank and struck him hard across the rear like a spoiled child. “Chasing my weapon. Most people would have accidentally done something right by now.”
Corvin threw the blade to the ground and charged. Haunt delivered a harsh blow to the back of his head that watered the boy’s eyes, and a second blow to the leg. They fell, narrowly missing the campfire, and rolled across the forest floor. Fists, feet, knees, elbows, and teeth waged primal war beneath the waning gaze of a weary sun. Blood stained their clothing, both men cursing, until Haunt pinned Corvin to the ground and bit deeply into the boy’s nose. A painful cry sent birds soaring from peaceful perches, and when Corvin finally found vision through a curtain of tears and the taste of copper, he found the barrel of a small pistol pushed against his left eye. The hot anger rushed from him like bath water, and fear flooded the void.
“Where did you… why are you pointing that at me?” “You tried to cheat. I cheated better.” “I didn’t think we’d be using firearms!” “When you’re fighting for your life, Corvin, every weapon is on the table. It doesn’t matter how you win, so long as you’re alive and the other poor bastard isn’t.” The hammer clicked back, and Corvin’s eyes widened. “Sword’s not so great after all, is it, when you don’t know what to do with it? Training. Preparation. Those are the real weapons. Sticks, rocks, swords, axes, even guns are merely tools.” He pushed the gun harshly against Corvin’s eye while the boy squirmed. “In the hands of the untrained, they’re as useless as teats on a boar hog. Which is roughly where I’d rate your performance.”
Haunt pulled the trigger. Corvin screamed, turned his head to the side, dug his fingers into the dirt to try to get away. A tiny horn blared, and bits of confetti showered Corvin’s face. It stuck to the sweat stains and made him look like a cheap madam. Haunt rolled away from him busting a gut laughing.
“That was not funny, Haunt!”, Corvin was shaking and wiped at his face. He hadn’t realized how long he’d held his breath, and his lungs gasped for air.
“It was hilarious”, Haunt corrected. “But that gun could have just as easily been real, Corvin. And that, I’ll agree, isn’t funny.” He picked himself up and nudged Corvin’s ribs with a boot. “You feel that fear rushing through you, boy? That feeling of hopelessness? I can teach you to do that to every Light-forsaken monster that crawls in the dark places of this world. You told me you wanted that power when I pulled you away from those cultists.” He offered a calloused hand. Corvin took it and stood, wiping his forearm under his nose to wipe away the blood, snot and tears.
“I’m going down to the river to get cleaned up. You have until I get back to decide what you want. If you want to learn how to hunt, I will teach you for as long as you travel with me. But you will keep your mouth shut, do what I tell you, when I tell you, or the next gun I put in your face won’t be a carnival toy. I say jump, you ask how high. If you don’t like it, you can turn right back around and go home to mommy and daddy’s farm and spend the rest of your life jumping at shadows. Either way, I don’t care. But, if you do stay, you’re still pulling both watches tonight.” He stuck a finger into Corvin’s chest, then turned and passed out of sight behind the trees.
Corvin made two promises to himself while Haunt was gone. He promised he would learn everything the old man had to teach him, even if it meant being beat half to death. And he promised Haunt would be the last one to ever give him orders.
That night, Haunt occasionally cracked his eyes to watch Corvin practicing with the stick. The boy’s form was terrible, even in the dim light of the campfire. He could hear the scratching of feet in the dirt, the occasional curse when he fell. The stick whipped through the air in arcs far too wide. Yet, he could see the hatred and intent in the boy’s eyes when they caught the flames.
It was a start.
![:smiley:](https://d38bqls1q93fod.cloudfront.net/en/wow/images/emoji/twitter/smiley.png?v=6" ":smiley:")