029 – Rusty

***

Yurk and I battled in the center of the Hall of Discipline. Both of us carried singlesticks but did not attack one another with the wooden practice swords. This was a match in unarmed combat. We could block and push with the sticks but not use them to strike our opponent. The intent was to train mixing kicks, punches, off hand grabs, and other wrestling maneuvers into a sword fight. Yurk excelled in this exercise; he might have been more dangerous without a sword than with one.

Novice Faceless trained in this manner for years. The goal today was not to teach Strythe anything new, but to determine how much of his ability I had lost. Yurk grabbed me by the collar, kicked my legs out from under me, and flipped me upside down. I landed on the hard stone floor with a crash. The workmen had yet to install wooden floors or bamboo mats to soften our training.

“I yield!”

“Okay,” he replied.

Yurk rarely spoke on his own initiative. He answered questions as succinctly as possible. Holding a conversation with the man was more or less impossible. But when fighting, he became a lively and outgoing person—one who expressed himself physically rather than with words. I could tell he really enjoyed himself. He socialized through sparring.

Fightmaster Putrizio watched our match from a folding stool nearby.

“You retain a number of bad habits, Strythe, but you’ve become less stupidly aggressive and blind to feints. Your brain rattling should prove beneficial. You might finally learn to avoid leg sweeps.”

“If I land on this floor again, my brain will be permanently rattled.”

“Yurk? Any observations on Strythe’s performance?”

“Rusty.”

“A canny analysis. I agree. He needs a few remedial lessons.”

It was, in a way, a good thing that I had no prior experience fighting. Had I mixed my own skills with Strythe’s, Putrizio would have recognized me as an intruder stealing the identity of a Faceless minion. He would have instantly seen through my ghostly disguise. But being completely ignorant of martial arts meant I inherited Strythe’s inimitable style—flaws and all.

Putrizio rose from his stool and straightened his multi-colored robes.

“Disciple Strythe. You might not guess this, but despite your long training, we have never instructed you in the finer points of swordscraft. For more than a decade now, you’ve been drilling in the basics every day. The majority of your training focused on building strength, endurance, reflexes, good discipline, and loyalty to the dark lord. Can you guess why that is?”

He whacked me on the bottom of my foot with his sheath to make me stop lying on the floor and to indicate his question was not a rhetorical one.

“Um? You don’t want faded sparks knowing your secret techniques.” I rolled to my feet.

“No. It wouldn’t matter if a mundane person knew our techniques, because they would have no way to resist them. Secretiveness only helps against other swordsmen,” he said. “And I’m not talking about magical techniques. I mean subtle fencing skills using muscle, nerve, and steel. Try again…” Putrizio began pacing around the room as he delivered his lecture.

“Oh. I guess those lessons won’t do a magical swordsman much good.”

“Yes. Your rattled brains have found the answer. Those skills would be worthless once you enkindled your fire. Worse than worthless. They would have hindered your progress. Thus, your first lessons as a disciple will be to unlearn some old habits.

“Human beings are quite similar on the whole. They have the same length limbs, the same muscles, the same eyes, the same reactions to pain and stress and fear. Because of those similarities, minute differences in skill can determine the winner in a duel. Skill is paramount for mundane fighters. Subtle tricks and deft maneuvers can carry the day.

“However, that is not so for magical swordsmen. Some magi have huge bodies, rock hard skin, toxic blood, eyes that can see in the dark. Others can throw fire from their hands or blend into shadows. With such a diverse set of combatants, all subtlety gets tossed out the window. So it’s better for our novices to master the basics instead of gaining useless skills they’ll have to forget. Now, do you know what ability is most important for winning a fight?”

“Running away.”

“That’s vital for surviving a fight. Rarely does it lead to victory. Try again.”

“Knowing your opponents techniques.”

“Closer but wrong. It is the ability to observe, analyze, and adapt.”

“But fightmaster. That’s three abilities.”

“Hmm. I suppose it is. Consider it a trick question then.” He rubbed his chin and looked to the ceiling. “You must decipher your opponent’s fighting style and devise a counter strategy to beat it. That’s what wins battles. That’s what makes a great swordsman.”

“What if an enemy is too strong to counter?”

“Then you resort to running away. It’s nothing to brag about, but we all do it from time to time.”

“Even the dark lord?” I asked.

Putrizio pursed his lips and frowned. That was a topic the Void Phantoms avoided. He continued, “There are powerful opponents, such as the Paladins, who belong to established sects. They all share the same fighting style. They draw from the same catalog of techniques. They develop the same rigid way of thinking. It’s quite possible for a canny fighter to beat a stronger opponent from a sect. I alone killed three of the Holy Knights in the assault on our temple.

“So quick wits and improvisation can beat unfair odds. That’s why I prefer a much looser teaching style than those used by sword sects; it preserves my students’ wellspring of creativity. As a disciple, you will learn and master the basics. But from that point on, you must find your own path. Missions for the cult will provide all the practice you need. There is no better schoolhouse than a real battlefield.”

“Thank you, fightmaster.” I saluted Putrizio.

I lacked the context to know if his teaching method was wise, effective, irresponsible, or just plain lazy. But it sounded fairly reasonable to me. I suppose it depended on how difficult it was to develop one’s own technique from scratch versus learning one from a teacher. If it took a year to develop what one could learn directly in a week, then it was a poor system.

“Now as to the basics. The first step is meditation.”

“Ugh.”

‘The basics’ meant more sitting and breathing.

***

Zambulon and I found spools of rope in the trolls’ warehouse and rolled them over to the old elevator shaft in the middle of the night. Our project took over two hundred meters of rope to reach the bottom. We also tied knots into the rope for easier climbing, and occasionally placed small loops to serve as footholds in case we needed to stop for a moment in transit. Having one line go all the way to level negative seven would have been too cumbersome, so we planned to anchor individual ropes at the series of doors.

Modern people impressed me with their rope making skills. They crafted ropes out of several different types of plants and mixed the fibers for the exact qualities desired. Ropes for sea vessels were water resistant. Ropes for climbing were lightweight. Ropes for construction were elastic. Thousands of years of experience had taught them the best methods and materials. They didn’t write that knowledge down; master craftsmen taught it directly to their apprentices in a long chain of tradition. While everything was far more labor intensive without industrialization, the quality of their handmade goods surprised me.

The continent was a poor place for growing food crops, but it produced all sorts of valuable plants for fibers, dyes, paints, latex, oils, incense, teas. The new world had more types of raw materials. These handmade ropes from natural materials matched the polymer ones of my era.

Zambulon didn’t care much about the arts of rope making, and my questions on the subject seemed to irritate him. Swordsmen weren’t supposed to care about common trades, with possible exceptions for the manufacture of weapons, armor, and horse saddles.

The open doorways to the elevators had no convenient place to tie a rope, so I had to whip up a wooden brace to jam into place. We tied the first rope to one and unrolled it down the shaft.

“Are you sure this will hold?” he asked.

“You’re thinking about those trolls you sent toppling off the rope ladder, aren’t you? Well, there is no way to stop a mad swordsman from slashing our ropes as we dangle over the pit. But we’ll be perfectly safe otherwise.”

It would have been possible to climb down without ropes, but much more difficult. A great deal of soot and ash now coated the walls. And we planned to climb back up with heavy bags full of dense metal bits. It would take us several trips to collect it all.

The first rope lead down to the former tar storage room. A few coins had fallen into the room, but so much burnt residue covered them, no one had noticed them. We gathered them up off the floor and attached the second brace. This one was important because it supported the longest line from the ground floor to level negative one far below.

I used my lumestone to light our descent, but it was less convenient than it should have been. I had to hold it to supply it with mana. Putting it down for a second would cause the light to wink out. I needed to attach it to a headband or something.

“We were given instructions not to enter the labyrinth. Isn’t there some kind of killer monster down here?” Zambulon asked.

“There is. A rogue golem. But it won’t enter tunnels with low ceilings or this elevator shaft. We’ll be safe as long we keep alert.”

“What’s it look like?”

“It’s incredibly loud and it glows in the dark. You can’t miss it.”

We descended into the depths of the old power station. As we entered the lower levels where the arrays had been, a cloud of flapping wings and high pitched squeaks overwhelmed us.

“Xlobats!” Zambulon called. He took out his sword and stabbed at the flying monsters.

“Don’t cut the rope!” I yelled. His new technique could slice our lifeline and drop us into the pit.

These xlobats had not reached full size. They were about as big raccoons, but had large wingspans that filled the entire air shaft. Zambulon sliced into their leathery wings and sent them hurtling to the ground. The monsters squeaked and hissed below us.

When Browsk fell to the bottom of the pit, flaming timbers and coal dropped on top of him. The burning wood cooked his dead body, and sent a delicious aroma of broiled troll through the underground complex. The local inhabitants did not turn down a free meal. Browsk’s giant body became an all-you-can-eat buffet for the nest of young xlobats. While I took a trip through the valley, across the bay, and down a long highway in Sandgrave, the little creatures feasted on the dead troll and quickly grew larger. Not much of the chief was left except bones.

The rest of the xlobats fled into the tunnels at our arrival. They felt no need to defend their pile of bones and metal buttons.

“Ugh. It’s filthy down here. This will be even worse than scrubbing the floors,” Zambulon said.

“Yeah, but the pay is better.”

We had to sift through the ashes to find the money. The first few bagfuls would be easy to collect, but scrounging up every last coin would take a thorough search. A single silver coin was worth a day’s labor and a gold coin was worth around sixty silver, so we couldn’t complain about a few hours poking through the filth.

We filled up our bags to around fifteen kilograms and got ready make to the brutal climb back up to the citadel.

“You go first, Zambulon. I have to poke around for a bit.”

“What? Oh no. You’re not running off again. I don’t trust you to not get lost after your adventure on the river. And there’s a monster down here so strong the witches couldn’t hurt it.”

“Don’t worry. It’s totally safe as long as I stay in the side tunnels.” I wandered into the halls.

“And are you going to stay in the side tunnels?”

“No.”

“Ah! Where are you going?” Zambulon chased after me. We stepped through the shallow puddles formed by moisture seeping down to the lowest level of the complex.

“There are more interesting things than shiny metal disks down here. See this crystal monolith? Touching one of these things gave me amnesia.”

“This? Is it dangerous?”

“Not this one. It’s dead. No magic inside. Let’s head over to the next node.”

A full sized monolith from an old mana collector was too large for my purposes. I couldn’t lift one, much less haul it up the shaft. The transmitter had the opposite problem. It had disintegrated into gritty sand and small pebbles that now covered the floor of the silo. It was too small. I needed something just the right the size.

“Here we go!” I said. At the next domed chamber, we found one of the broken mana collectors. The malfunctioning golem had shattered it some time in the last few thousand years. Now it lay heaped on the ground in broken chunks. “Hold my light for me, would you, senior disciple? And keep an eye out for that pesky golem.”

I bent down over the collection of quartz pieces.

“Strythe, we’re here to collect gold, not worthless rocks.”

“Value is relative.”

On traveling to the distant future, I had lost my luggage. All my tools, instruments, daemon cells, and rune tablet were all lost in time. The severe manaquake would have ruined their aetherics even if they had rested snugly next to my corpse. I would have to start over from scratch with handmade tools. It was entirely possible. Some aetherics experts did it as a hobby, finding colorful stones in the beds of creeks and fashioning them with simple runes. Fortunately for me, my new basement had a supply of high quality rock crystal. The ragged pieces of quartz were transparent as glass. I picked out a few of a useful size.

Later on I could grow my own crystals to custom sizes and shapes. The process would take some fresh sand and a fair amount of mana. With slight impurities added to the mix, I could also make colored stones: amethyst, carnelian, citrine, onyx.

“Okay. I can’t carry anymore. That’ll have to be it for today.”

“Strythe. Why risk intruding into the monster’s lair for rocks? I knew you were a fool, but now you’ve become a madman.”

“Ah. But madness is the raw material of genius. Hold your judgment until I cut and polish my insanity. The finished product might impress you.”

I held up a piece of quartz and let it sparkle in the light. This would hold the first rune of the new era.