Chapter 3: Steel and Mercy

  “Line up. Weapons high.”

  Over the past year, twelve recruits had vanished from the ranks, some sent home broken, some carried off the hill on stretchers, and a few simply gone by morning with no explanation. The Guild didn’t mark their absence. It only counted the sixty who remained.

  Common-born came to the Guild for food or survival. Nobles came because duty demanded it, their houses needed warriors, commanders, and symbols of strength. The Guild didn’t care about the reasons. It only cared who endured.

  Sixty children shuffled into rows across the Guildhall floor, each clutching something too long, too heavy, or too strange in their hands. The vaulted ceiling caught every scrape and clatter and threw it back twice as loud. Sweat slicked palms already, though the day had barely begun.

  Garrick braced his claymore against one shoulder. The weapon looked like it belonged in a man’s hands, not a boy’s. He planted his feet the way they’d been taught with practice sticks last year, but the weight still dragged at his arms. His shoulders burned before the drill even started. Garrick flexed his fingers, forcing the ache out.

  They were thirteen years old now, faces leaner, shoulders harder, the roundness of childhood beginning to fall away. Yet the weight of steel still made their arms tremble as much as it had the year before.

  Beside him, Freyda wrestled the strap of a round shield tight. The rim bit into her shoulder. She raised her sword with the other arm, finding the balance between the two. It felt awkward, round shield pulling her left, sword tugging her right, every muscle straining to keep the line. She thought of her mother’s words, “Valkyries only honored those who stood when others fell.”

  A memory sometimes stole her breath before the next drill. Her mother’s voice, sharp as frost, pressing the Argent Flame’s letter into her hand. “'They’ll feed us while you train,” her mother had said, eyes fierce. “But silver is nothing. Remember this instead: Valkyries don’t come for cowards. If your father never came home, then you’ll stand twice as tall for him.” Freyda had folded the letter until her knuckles went white. Even now, sweat stinging her eyes, she carried those words closer than any shield.

  Bruni hefted the hammer, turning it once like a smith testing a new tool. She tapped the haft against her palm and whispered a short blessing before settling into stance.

  Thane spun his quarterstaff too fast, clipped his own shin, and bit down on the yelp. He reset, cheeks red, pretending nothing happened. Thane whispered numbers under his breath, sparks dancing in his thoughts.

  Vaelen’s longsword gleamed, perfectly weighted, but every swing pulled him off balance. His half-shield, a narrow cut-down shield strapped to his forearm, kept drifting out of angle. He leaned too far, grip tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He looked fierce until the tip dragged him a half-step too far forward.

  At the end of the row, Tylane drew a bowstring barehanded. The arrow slipped and clattered to the floor. He bent, snatched it up, and tried again. The instructor’s stick cracked against his shoulder. Tylane grinned despite the strain. The scar-cheeked instructor snorted. “Two blades, one bow, one boy. Learn one before you play with three.” Tylane smirked, but his ears went hot.

  The instructor paced the line, his beard more gray than black. “Forms only. No free fighting. Guard when I call it, cut when I call it, stop on the mark. If you hit your partner, you run the yard until your legs learn mercy.” He turned and barked, “High guard!” Sixty weapons rose, some smooth, most trembling, metal wavering in the torchlight. “Cut one. Stop on the target. Do not touch.” They swung. Blades wobbled, staffs thumped, shields slipped. Bruni’s hammer thudded too close to her partner’s head. Vaelen’s blade clanged against Garrick’s collarbone. Freyda’s round shield arm dipped. Thane’s staff skated across the floor. Tylane’s arrow slid off his knuckle and bounced away again.

  Garrick steadied his grip, reminding himself: “Don’t clutch too tight. A wall only stands because it bends with the storm.” Vaelen’s jaw tightened. In his mind: “Every one of them beneath me, yet still I must hold back.” Freyda thought again of her mother’s words, “Valkyries only honored those who stood when others fell.” Thane whispered numbers under his breath, sparks dancing in his thoughts. “One slip and I’m nothing,” he scolded himself. Tylane grinned despite the strain: “I am the jaguar. Light and fast. If I say it enough, maybe it’ll be true.” Bruni muttered a blessing with every swing: “Strike and sanctify. Each blow a prayer.”

  Someone in the back dropped a sword. The clang made half the children flinch, and a low groan rippled through the ranks—not mocking, just relief that it was someone else this time. Even the instructor’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Again!” he snapped. They repeated until forearms shook and sweat dripped onto the stone. Nobody laughed at the next clang. Everyone was too tired.

  “Rest,” the instructor said. “Two breaths. Any more and you’ll think you deserve them.” They wheezed in chorus, weapons sagging. Garrick stretched his fingers and rolled his shoulders. Vaelen bounced on his toes, angry at himself. Freyda tore a strip of cloth and wrapped her palm where the shield had rubbed it raw. He reset his stance, breath steadying.

  By the second week, the floor smelled of oil and bruises, and no one yet looked like a warrior. On the third week, the children were introduced to armor: gambesons, boiled leather harnesses, or stacks of steel plates. No one cheered, but only dreaded the weight. “Cloth first,” the instructor said. “Then leather. Then steel. Armor makes mistakes bigger. If you can’t move in this, you’ll drown in more.”

  They were sorted by name. Garrick, Bruni, and Vaelen were shoved toward trays of breastplates and greaves. Freyda and Tylane were handed hardened leather jerkins, stiff with wax, with bracers to match. Thane received layered robes with weighted hems, stitched to catch and pull if his steps faltered.

  The room filled with the squeak of straps and the muttered curses of buckles. An instructor tugged at Garrick’s breastplate, then thumped his hip. “Weight lives here, not on your shoulders. If your neck burns, you’re doing it wrong.”

  The instructor shoved Freyda’s round shield back into her chest. She absorbed it, stumbled once, then found her stance again. “Drive it down your spine into the ground. If you try to carry it with your wrist, you’ll break.”

  The instructor tapped the rim of Vaelen’s half-shield, canting it a finger’s width. “This angle is your life. Half a shield means twice the discipline. Keep it inside your line.” Vaelen’s jaw tightened.

  He rapped Tylane’s bracer. “Tighter. Leather saves you when steel won’t. Hate it now, thank it when you fall.” Tylane grinned despite the compression on his forearms.

  The instructor looked back at Vaelen’s hands again. “Loosen your grip. Tight hands make slow hands.” Vaelen adjusted, but feared he might drop the weapon once it made contact with something solid.

  Then the drills began again. Marches in kit. Falls and rises. Half of the children looked like overturned beetles. By the sixth repetition, however, they could roll and stand without leaning on their weapons. Nobody looked heroic; everyone just smelled of leather and sweat.

  By week five the word “mercy” entered the hall. “Partners. Strike to the opening. Stop short. Hold for two. If you touch, you run.” The room echoed with the chant of counts. “One.” “Two.” “Break.” Vaelen struck Garrick too hard three times in a row, blunted steel ringing off his ribs. He earned three laps, armor clanking with each stride. On the fourth try, Vaelen stopped his weapon an inch shy of Garrick, half-shield tucked in tight. His arms shook, but he held the line anyway. Garrick looked him in the eye. “One.” Vaelen ground out the next. “Two.” “Break.” They stepped back together.

  Bruni turned the count into liturgy, each number a quiet offering. Every time her hammer froze mid swing she whispered, “One. Two. Mercy,” and tapped the head lightly against the air before lowering it. Freyda’s round shield took the repeated impacts with dull thuds; she learned to let the circle roll the blow away instead of absorbing it flat. Thane kept rhythm with breath: in guard, out cut, hold hold. Tylane was forced to keep an arrow at full draw for two counts until his shoulders screamed, then to mirror that discipline with two blades held tight instead of flashing wild. By the end of the sixth week, everyone’s arms ached more from holding than from striking.

  On the eighth week the whistle blew. Masks came down. The hall quieted. “Ten breaths per bout,” the instructor said. “If you forget the count, you’re done. And if you try to look pretty while losing, I’ll find you extra chores.” The recruits formed a ring around each pair. Clashes rang clumsy and short. Bruni’s hammer thumped Freyda’s round shield and froze. Freyda shoved, teeth bared, then cut from behind the circle’s cover: block-and-bite, exactly as taught. Thane spun his staff wide, barely keeping Tylane’s twin blades off him. Tylane adjusted, striking for openings instead of the staff itself. The whistle cut them apart.

  Garrick and Vaelen traded three awkward bouts. Steel glanced, feet slipped. In the last round Garrick’s guard faltered. Vaelen saw it, stepped, and drove the blade to his ribs. For an instant he wanted to finish, to slam the win home. Instead he froze, half-shield tight to his center line. “One,” Vaelen panted. “Two,” Garrick said with a grin behind the mask. “Break,” the instructor called. They reset. “That,” the instructor said, voice dry as old stone, “is how you live.” Masks came off. Faces were red, hair plastered with sweat. Bruises were already blooming. Nobody looked proud, but nobody looked broken either.

  After dinner, the hall was lit by candlelight. Day drills gave way to night lessons.

  Bruni sat with a shallow cup of water, whispering over it, tapping her hammer head gently against the rim. Each tap sent a ripple across the surface like a blessing. Bruni muttered a blessing with each ripple.

  Garrick knelt in his breastplate, repeating oaths line by line, steady even when sweat stung his eyes.

  Vaelen rushed the same words, his voice edged with impatience.

  The instructor rebuked Vaelen. “Your oath is as thin as your patience.”

  Thane turned a focus bead in his palm, sparks sputtering between his fingers. When no one watched, the sparks steadied.

  Tylane sat cross-legged, glaring at the floorboards during meditation until an instructor’s staff rapped his knee. He sighed, shutting his eyes. For a heartbeat, an image stirred at the edge of his mind: a jaguar and a serpent, circling each other in silence. The image slipped away before he could breathe it fully in, leaving him blinking at the candle flame. Tylane grinned despite the strain: “Maybe I am the jaguar? Light and fast. If I say it enough, maybe it’ll be true.”

  The bells tolled lights-out. The six stumbled toward their bunks, armor straps undone, exhaustion dragging at every step. Their arms shook, their vows wavered, and their dreams haunted them, but for the first time, they were beginning to look like soldiers.

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  Morning drills began before the sun cleared the hill. For the first time, the six found a rhythm together. Garrick steadied Freyda’s shield arm, Bruni whispered a blessing under her breath, and Tylane caught Thane before he toppled. Three steps in unison, three steps without a bell. It was gone in a heartbeat, but they felt it, the flicker of what they might become. The clatter of steel had faded. The hall felt strange without it, the quiet making sixty recruits shift on their feet. Ropes stretched from beam to beam above their heads, each one strung with small brass bells. They swayed gently, catching the torchlight, waiting to betray the clumsy.

  The instructor tapped a long pole against the floor. “Out there,” he said, voice carrying to the rafters, “the enemy hears you before they see you. If I hear one bell, you’re already dead. If I hear ten,” he spat on the stones, “then you’re cattle, and you’ll be running until you drop.”

  A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the ranks. It died quickly.

  “First group,” he barked. “Up you go. Let’s hear what kind of ghosts you aren’t.”

  The recruits scrambled up the ladders and out onto the beams. The bells chimed at once, first one, then another, then a cascade like wind in a temple. The instructor didn’t flinch. He only said, “Again,” as the group clambered down, red-faced. “All of you. Together. Until I believe you’re worth the feed I give you.”

  By the third attempt, frustration had boiled over. A boy sneezed so loudly three bells jingled at once. Groans rolled through the hall. Bruni laughed into her sleeve. Even the instructor’s mouth twitched before he growled, “Hold it in or I’ll tan the sound out of you.”

  When it was their turn, the six moved to the ladder. Garrick’s claymore was strapped to his back.

  “This is stupid,” Vaelen muttered, adjusting his half-shield. “We’re not thieves.”

  “Tell that to the bells,” Tylane shot back, already grinning. He hooked the ladder two rungs at a time. “Try not to drag your toy shield through half the course.”

  Vaelen bristled but climbed.

  Garrick kept his tone calm. “Shut it. Just keep your eyes forward.”

  Up on the beams, the silence pressed heavier than any armor. Tylane was first across, blades sheathed, body low, moving like a cat. He cleared three ropes without a sound, then smirked, went too fast, and clipped one with his boot. The bell rang. The instructor’s shout echoed: “Dead. Cattle. Again.”

  Freyda cursed under her breath. The curve of her round shield pulled her off balance, the edge swaying dangerously close to a dangling bell.

  Garrick reached from behind, caught the strap of Freyda’s shield, and shifted it lower across her back. “Let it hang. Don’t fight it.”

  She glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me how to fight.”

  “Not telling,” he said. “Just saving you the run.”

  Freyda grunted but didn’t alter his adjustment. Together they crossed the beam without a sound.

  Thane brought up the rear, robes brushing too close. A hem snagged a bell. The clear jingle filled the rafters. He froze, face pale.

  Bruni whispered, “Mercy on your clumsy soul,” before the instructor’s bellow cut across them.

  “All of you. Down. Again. Cattle don’t deserve beams.”

  The Guild never punished the one who slipped; it punished everyone who failed to keep him sharp.

  They groaned but obeyed. Sixty sets of boots thudded to the floor. Laps followed. Armor rattled. Sweat darkened tunics.

  Maelor Thorn stood beneath the beams, the only druid in the hall. His staff rested lightly in his palm, carved with old runes worn smooth by years of use. He didn’t shout or sneer like the others; he simply watched, measuring breath, balance, and the way each child carried their frustration. His gaze never left the ropes.

  When the instructor finally called them back, his grin was wolfish. “Good. I want you angry. Angry learns faster.”

  Maelor didn’t move. He stayed beneath the beams, eyes tracking the Circle as they climbed again, waiting for the next tremor of rope, the next bell, the next mistake.

  The children learned to slow their breathing, to move with the sway of the rope instead of against it.

  Tylane muttered once under his breath, “The wild doesn’t care about bells.”

  The druid cracked Tylane on the shin with a staff. Later that night, the words echoed when the jaguar circled in his dreams, "silent where the bells weren’t.”

  By the end of the second week, the children managed half the course without a single bell. That small victory earned them no praise, however. The instructor only spat on the floor and said, “Half a course, half a ghost. Back up.”

  The breakthrough came late. The six moved together, Tylane cautious now, Bruni muttering low, Thane tiptoeing like a man carrying fire in his robes. Freyda steadied her round shield against her body. Garrick’s weight made each beam groan, but his steps were measured, timed to the rhythm of his breath. Vaelen clenched his jaw, but for once held back his temper, half-shield tight against his chest.

  No bells rang. They reached the end in silence. The hall held its breath.

  The instructor’s scarred mouth twitched into something almost like a smile. “Better. You’re still not ghosts. But at least you’re not cattle anymore.”

  The relief was instant. Some recruits laughed outright, others sagged against the wall. Garrick let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Freyda elbowed him lightly. “If I buy you a drink, it’ll be to drown you in it.”

  He grinned back. “Still worth it.”

  Night lessons carried on. Bruni tapped her hammer against a cup of water until ripples shimmered. Garrick recited oaths until his voice grew hoarse. Vaelen hurried the same words, stumbling, earning another sharp rebuke. Thane coaxed sparks into light, hiding his steadier hand when the others looked away. Tylane sat cross-legged, druid’s staff rapping his knee when his eyes wandered.

  That night, when Tylane finally closed his eyes, the jaguar was there again, circling, patient, opposite the serpent. No strike. No sound.

  The bells tolled lights-out. The recruits dragged themselves to their bunks, muscles sore from silence, spirits weighed down by discipline.

  Their bodies ached, their vows stuttered, their dreams whispered, but for the first time, they were learning to move like shadows.

  The Guildhall no longer smelled of sweat and leather alone. Smoke hung heavy now, curling toward the rafters. Brass braziers burned at each corner, heat shimmering across the stone floor. The sixty recruits stood in lines, shields and staves at their sides, blinking against the glare.

  The scarred instructor struck his staff against the stones. “Silence taught you breath. Steel taught you weight. Now comes fire. The enemy won’t wait for you to pray, or to think, or to steady your grip. Fire tests every soul, and most of you will burn.”

  He nodded to the other instructors. They tipped oil into the braziers, and the flames roared higher, sparks chasing one another into the air. Heat swept across the hall in a rolling wave.

  “Forward,” the scarred man barked. “Hold your lines.”

  They marched.

  Bruni walked first, hammer braced across her chest. The flames hissed as she raised her palm and whispered. A trickle of water shimmered into her cupped hand. She flicked it forward, steam burst where it struck the floor, white mist swirling. A few recruits muttered, but Bruni only tightened her grip on the haft. “Mercy,” she breathed, and stepped again.

  Garrick carried his claymore upright, lips shaping oaths through gritted teeth. Sparks spat from the braziers, stinging his armor. He kept his eyes straight ahead, voice steady despite the sweat rolling down his face.

  Beside him, Freyda’s round shield glowed red at the rim. She grunted from the heat.

  Vaelen snarled as flame licked his half-shield. He slashed forward too hard, almost breaking formation. The scarred instructor’s voice cracked like a whip: “Half a shield, half a brain. Again!” Vaelen flushed but forced himself back into line.

  Thane tripped on his robe hem, sparks flying as his staff clipped the stone. Laughter rippled down the ranks. He hunched his shoulders, face burning hotter than the braziers, and started again. His fingers twitched, small sparks crackling between them, controlled just enough to keep him moving.

  Tylane nocked an arrow, instinct sharp but wild. His bowstring creaked.

  The druid instructor, Maelor Thorn, slapped it down before Tylane loosed the arrow. “You’re not a beast on the hunt. Control it, or it controls you.”

  Tylane spat to the side, muttered something under his breath, and reset.

  The march lasted until legs trembled. Smoke stung lungs, sweat ran, and still the instructors barked them forward.

  That night, the mess hall was louder than usual. Exhausted recruits slumped at the benches, bowls of stew steaming in front of them.

  Tylane boasted despite his failure. “I would’ve hit the flame dead center if the old goat hadn’t stopped me.”

  Bruni snorted. “And lit half the hall on fire.” She pushed a hunk of bread into her stew and shoved the bowl toward Garrick. “You’ll need it more than me. Swinging that slab all day.”

  Garrick gave a tired smile and slid it back. “Keep it. You burned more steam than I did.”

  The six laughed and ate together, noise rising around them but not touching them.

  That night, bunks were quiet, but not silent.

  Amidst the girls’ beds, Freyda whispered into the dark, voice low. “One day we’ll show them. Every one of them.”

  Bruni, already asleep, rolled over and snored like thunder.

  Across the hall, Garrick lay on his bunk, eyes open. “Then we’ll do it together,” he murmured.

  Thane tucked his scorched sleeve beneath the blanket.

  Tylane stared at the ceiling until the dream took him; the jaguar’s tail lashing, the serpent’s tongue flicking, silence sharper than bells. He woke before dawn, fists clenched.

  At week’s end, the sixty were called to the hall. Braziers still smoked, but the fire had burned down. The scarred instructor stood with two others, names written on a slate.

  “Not all of you belong here.” His eyes swept the line. “Twelve of you, pack your things and return home. You’re done.”

  Numbers were called, one after another. Twelve recruits stepped forward, faces pale, jaws tight. No farewells were offered. The doors shut behind them with a groan.

  Those sent home were never spoken of again. The Guild did not track its failures. The forty-eight left behind stood silent. Relief mingled with fear. Then the whispers started.

  “Claymore boy should’ve gone. Swings like he’s drowning in it.”

  “Shield’s bigger than she is. Won’t last the year.”

  “Brewer, not a cleric. She’ll bless us with sour ale before saving a life.”

  “Hothead with half a shield. Only thing he’ll kill is himself.”

  “Trips on his own robes. Surprised he even made it past the hill.”

  “Thinks he’s a hunter. More like a hound off the leash.”

  The six heard every word. Garrick stiffened but held his tongue. Freyda’s jaw clenched, muttering about showing them all. Bruni’s hand wrapped tight around her hammer haft. Vaelen started to snap back until Garrick’s arm caught his shoulder. Thane kept his eyes down. Tylane smirked, but his knuckles were white.

  The instructors barked them to order, ignoring the mutters. They weren’t the Guild’s favored sons and daughters. Not the shining blades, not the chosen few. They were only the ones who hadn’t been sent home yet and everyone knew it.