no magic existed that would put the damage and carnage back into order like it did the ornamental lines under his feet. His father had fled from the Emperor’s Guard, taking his mother to Koriaki. Far away from the petty wars that cropped up from time to time between provinces. The emperor allowed the fighting, so his father had told him, to keep the vassals weak. The nobles encouraged manageable amounts of death and destruction so that officials in the imperial capital could sleep soundly at night. Perhaps a big war would be worse. Shiro didn’t know anything about wars and politics, but Boreko told him that he would be learning about them soon.
He reviewed his own path to this practice field. The village of Koriaki and the tiny provincial vassal who ruled over the northwest corner of the Northern isle had kept a peaceful profile. Shiro had led a relatively serene life, courtesy of his father. Magic, his own, had shattered that idyllic existence by killing his family and exposing him to the whims of the Guild. He spat on the ground in disgust at his ill fortune and waited for the weapons instructor to show up, never once twirling his staff. He’d have chance enough for that.
“Line up! Tishima, Weapons Master, is about to instruct you.”
Shiro didn’t recognize the man who called order to the practice ground. There were three ranks of twelve to fifteen apprentices. He took a place in the third rank on the right end. They all knelt and placed their weapons at their sides. He followed their collective lead.
The students were ordered to stare at the gravel, so when Tishima began his lecture, he resisted whipping his head up to see the instructor.
“You pitiful excuses! Dog meat all of you, in any kind of battle!” Tishima ranted for a few minutes berating the capabilities and lineage of the group. Shiro couldn’t help but curl his lip with amusement at expressions he hadn’t heard before. Evidently the Guild gave the Weapons Master quite a bit of latitude in training the apprentices. The introductory magic classes he had attended in his first two months were conducted with less student abuse.
“Stand for Inspection!” Tishima’s assistant, who had introduced the master, yelled once Tishima’s insults had faded away. The apprentices stood still in their ordered rows. Whatever Tishima said worked on these boys and young men. Shiro would follow suit, not wanting to be noticed.
Tishima looked into the eyes of every one of his charges. His stern visage seemed enough to keep his students in line along with his pushes and punches, testing their ability to maintain attention. He finally came to Shiro, who concentrated on looking straight ahead as his father had demanded when they practiced martial drills.
“You are a sturdy, seasoned fellow. New here?” Tishima craned his head up to glare at Shiro.
Shiro gave the Weapons Master a curt nod of his head. No talking to superior officers.
“Mmm.” Tishima slammed his fist into Shiro’s midsection. The blow hurt, but Shiro had received worse from his father, who had taught him to breathe slowly through his nose after such an attack. “Military service?”
Shiro shook his head with one quick movement. He took the opportunity to focus his sight for one split second on Tishima. The man stood nearly a head shorter than he, but he had the bulk of both age and a lifetime of conditioning. Hardship and dedication to his craft lined his face. The man had seen much, and his hard eyes echoed his undoubtedly stern attitude towards life.
“Hands!”
Shiro put the staff in the crook of his elbow and body and extended his hands, palm side up. He smelled the oil used to polish and preserve the molded leather breastplate that Tishima wore. He glanced at the stubbled head, festooned with scars that covered the skin. A career of scars. His weapons teacher undoubtedly had practiced weapons craft in the field.
Tishima quickly raised his head and caught Shiro’s eyes before
He reviewed his own path to this practice field. The village of Koriaki and the tiny provincial vassal who ruled over the northwest corner of the Northern isle had kept a peaceful profile. Shiro had led a relatively serene life, courtesy of his father. Magic, his own, had shattered that idyllic existence by killing his family and exposing him to the whims of the Guild. He spat on the ground in disgust at his ill fortune and waited for the weapons instructor to show up, never once twirling his staff. He’d have chance enough for that.
“Line up! Tishima, Weapons Master, is about to instruct you.”
Shiro didn’t recognize the man who called order to the practice ground. There were three ranks of twelve to fifteen apprentices. He took a place in the third rank on the right end. They all knelt and placed their weapons at their sides. He followed their collective lead.
The students were ordered to stare at the gravel, so when Tishima began his lecture, he resisted whipping his head up to see the instructor.
“You pitiful excuses! Dog meat all of you, in any kind of battle!” Tishima ranted for a few minutes berating the capabilities and lineage of the group. Shiro couldn’t help but curl his lip with amusement at expressions he hadn’t heard before. Evidently the Guild gave the Weapons Master quite a bit of latitude in training the apprentices. The introductory magic classes he had attended in his first two months were conducted with less student abuse.
“Stand for Inspection!” Tishima’s assistant, who had introduced the master, yelled once Tishima’s insults had faded away. The apprentices stood still in their ordered rows. Whatever Tishima said worked on these boys and young men. Shiro would follow suit, not wanting to be noticed.
Tishima looked into the eyes of every one of his charges. His stern visage seemed enough to keep his students in line along with his pushes and punches, testing their ability to maintain attention. He finally came to Shiro, who concentrated on looking straight ahead as his father had demanded when they practiced martial drills.
“You are a sturdy, seasoned fellow. New here?” Tishima craned his head up to glare at Shiro.
Shiro gave the Weapons Master a curt nod of his head. No talking to superior officers.
“Mmm.” Tishima slammed his fist into Shiro’s midsection. The blow hurt, but Shiro had received worse from his father, who had taught him to breathe slowly through his nose after such an attack. “Military service?”
Shiro shook his head with one quick movement. He took the opportunity to focus his sight for one split second on Tishima. The man stood nearly a head shorter than he, but he had the bulk of both age and a lifetime of conditioning. Hardship and dedication to his craft lined his face. The man had seen much, and his hard eyes echoed his undoubtedly stern attitude towards life.
“Hands!”
Shiro put the staff in the crook of his elbow and body and extended his hands, palm side up. He smelled the oil used to polish and preserve the molded leather breastplate that Tishima wore. He glanced at the stubbled head, festooned with scars that covered the skin. A career of scars. His weapons teacher undoubtedly had practiced weapons craft in the field.
Tishima quickly raised his head and caught Shiro’s eyes before
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