Healer of Sakkara

Chapter 3 - Training

Galen ducked as a wooden staff, thick enough to crack a skull, swished past his head. He held a similar weapon, and raised it just in time to block another blow. The impact sent a jarring pain through his hands. His opponent moved for a third strike, and Galen prepared to block it, but this time the enemy wasn't aiming for his head.

He blocked nothing. Meanwhile, the staff whistled past his head, swung in a wide arc, hit the backs of his knees, and swept his legs out from under him. His back hit the ground, knocking the air from his lungs.

He lay stunned, staring up at the vault of sky while the world spun, and raucous laughter ricocheted around the semi-circular outcrop of stone that formed the makeshift training arena.

Fortunately, only his two closest friends were there to witness his disgrace. Behn, who sat on the flattened grass nearby, helpless with laughter, and Triss, who'd been beating the crap out of him for an hour already. Her freckled face blocked his view of the sky, and she frowned down at him.

"You okay?"

He coughed and sat up, removed the leather cap protecting his head, and brushed bits of grass from his hair. "Peachy."

Triss reached down and grasped his hand, pulling him to his feet. "You can't just defend, Gale. You have to attack, too, or else your opponent just wears you down. No matter how skilled you are, eventually you get hit."

Galen scowled and dusted himself off. Like a cadet in the Junior Scouts, he wore a thick leather tunic, protective arm and shin guards, and a reinforced leather cap, fitted with a wire face-shield. Triss wore none of these things, and fought in a comfortable cotton shirt and breeches, and soft suede shoes. There was almost no chance he'd hit her, anyway, but her absolute confidence in this was a little insulting. Not that it wasn't warranted.

"I asked you to show me how to defend myself, not to kill me," he complained, glaring at her and rubbing the back of his head.

Triss rolled her eyes. "Nobody likes a drama queen, Gale. You wouldn't last one day in my squad."

"I know that," he grumbled, shooting a glare at Behn. "Hence the lessons."

Triss leaned on her staff, the muscles in her bare forearms putting Galen's to shame. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with long red hair she kept in a thick, plated braid. With a small, upturned nose, gap-toothed grin and sparkling blue eyes, her appearance skewed towards cute more than fierce—but Galen pitied anyone who would dare to tell her that.

"You still haven't told me why," she said. "I've been begging you to train with me for years, and now you come to me with the idea? What changed?"

Galen shrugged and lifted a hand to touch his pendant, a habitual gesture of reassurance, and found it not there. He trusted Triss more than anyone—Behn, too; but Behn couldn't keep a secret any longer than he could resist eating a hot honey cake. Which wasn't long.

Behn and Triss had each grown up a few houses away from Galen, and the three of them had been friends as long as he remembered. Triss was a few years older, and Behn was the same age as Galen; and while Triss's love was fighting, Behn's was food. His father was a baker and a brewer, and Behn had inherited a passion for both. He was plump, quick-witted, and good-natured—even if he did laugh at Galen's pitiful attempts to ward off Triss's staff.

Triss, on the other hand, was a warrior born and bred. She adored physical challenges and contests of strength, and excelled at a variety of weapons and combat styles. She'd joined the Junior Guard on her fourteenth birthday—the second she was old enough to qualify. At seventeen, she'd graduated with the highest honors and the Watchers—the most elite branch of the Guard—had snapped her up almost as soon as she walked off the stage in the grand amphitheater. Now at twenty, she was already a second lieutenant, with a squad of eight under her command.