A Ranger From Adamnar

“Alana you’re late,” Ranger Trainer Waylan said as Alana came to an abrupt halt at the end of the line of trainees assembled inside the arena. Waylan was a tall middle aged man with shoulder-length, faded red hair tied back at the base of his neck. He wore two long swords and several daggers Alana could see. She guessed he was wearing more she couldn’t see.

“I am sorry Trainer Waylan,” Alana said, panting heavily.

“I guess timeliness is not one of your special powers,” Waylan said with a perfectly straight face. Several of the twelve trainees laughed.

“Timeliness,” Waylan said to the group, “or more accurately, speed and precision are exactly what you do need. Tulan step forward and draw your sword.”

Tulan was wearing both a wooden practice sword as well as his own, real sword. He hesitated a moment and then drew his own sword.

“Attack me,” Waylan said. He stood very still with no weapons drawn.

“Sir?” Tulan asked.

“Is Crazy Pellou turning out deadwood?” Waylan asked. “Attack me.”

“Uh, yes sir,” Tulan said. He held his sword out in front of him with both hands. He lunged clearly too far away to make contact. Waylan moved in quickly, drew his sword, ran it down the length of Tulan’s and hit the pommel with such force that Tulan’s sword flew backwards out of his hand to land on the ground behind the line of trainees. Waylan’s sword, meanwhile, was poised over Tulan’s left shoulder, the blade close to his neck.

Waylan stepped back, sheathed his sword and said, “Again.”

“Yes sir,” Tulan said. He started to turn around to go retrieve his sword.

“Leave it,” Waylan said. “You lost that weapon. Make do with what you have left.”

Tulan drew his wooden practice sword. He made a few feints towards Waylan but Waylan didn’t move or defend himself. Instead he just raised one eyebrow.

“Can you see me all right?” Waylan asked. Alana thought he was trying to goad Tulan in to attacking carelessly.

Tulan half thrust a quick jab towards Waylan’s kidney’s but as he pulled back, he side-kicked at his sternum. Waylan turned just as quickly to the side, took one step to his left, placing himself on the right side of Tulan, moved his hand in between Tulan’s arms and took his sword away from him, casting it aside. He then back- fisted Tulan on the temple, knocking him to the ground. Alana thought the backhand was completely unnecessary. She was beginning to dislike Waylan.

“Give me your hand,” Waylan said. Tulan did so and Waylan hoisted him back up to his feet. He motioned with his other hand for Tulan to get back in line. Tulan ran and got his sword, cleaned it, sheathed it, then rejoined the line.

“The battle isn’t always won by the strongest or the fastest or the smartest,” Waylan said as he handed Tulan his practice sword. “The battle usually goes to the fighter who can best bring his or her strengths into play and exploit their enemy’s weakness. Errandig, Attack me,”

Errandig leapt off the line of trainees and lunged for Waylan’s back, drawing his practice sword on the way, aiming for the small of the trainer’s back. Waylan spun around, grabbed the sword and helped the trainee on down the line to sprawl into the straw on the arena floor. A few of the trainees chuckled, but none too loudly.

“Sometimes,” Waylan said as he looked first at Errandig trying to pick himself up off the ground, and then back at the line of trainees, “not fighting at all is your best course of action. If you and your opponent are clearly not matched you must think hard but quickly about whether or not a fight is in order at all.

Errandig lunged at Waylan again. Waylan stood right in his path, leaned forward slightly as Errandig approached and screamed at the top of his lungs. Errandig skittered to a stop and stood, not knowing what to make of the deep booming scream.

“And sometimes,” Waylan continued, “You can just scare off a would-be opponent. The bottom line is you must think on many different levels. Fighting is not all about swinging swords. Winning is not all about killing your enemy. We’re not fighters, thugs, or barbarians. We’re Rangers. We are called to a higher purpose. Fighting must serve that higher purpose and not be an end to itself. Alana attack me.”

So he’s an arrogant ass, she thought as she stepped off the line towards him. She detached her practice sword from her belt and held it out in front of her. She moved slowly towards him. He stood stock still. She could see his knees were bent ever so slightly for a quick spring in any direction. He was a counter fighter. She tried to remember what her uncle had said about how to defeat them.

She lunged with her wooden sword toward him, ending clearly too short to hit him. As she suspected, he didn’t move. His eyes narrowed slightly. She stood there with her sword out in front of her. Time slowed. She lunged with her sword again, extending her right shoulder as far as she could. She was aiming for his throat.

She nearly reached it. He was only just barely able to turn his head and lean back to get out of the way of her thrust before it arrived. Just as in the Silver Arrow in Narsacalius, she had unusual clarity of thought when time slowed for her like this. She could see the surprise in his eyes and she could see his arm rising to knock her sword out of her hands. As it moved seemingly slowly upward toward her right hand she flicked her wrist and jerked the sword towards his face.

He was forced to bend over backwards to escape the wooden blade. He pirouetted where he stood and brought the heel of his left foot hard against Alana’s hip, knocking her off balance.

She stumbled. Time resumed its normal speed. He quickly kicked her again. This time she sprawled onto the ground but fought hard not to let go of her sword. Waylan walked over to her and offered her his hand, which she took. He helped her back to her feet and motioned for her to rejoin the line.

“Now that was thinking on your feet,” Waylan said to the group. “Feinting a counter fighter. Adapting to the situation. Obviously Alana is very fast,” he continued his lecture, “but speed isn’t why she was so nearly successful. Adaptation and improvisation.” Then he looked right at Alana, who was wiping the straw off her front, and said, “Originally I didn’t understand why they put you in my class,” he said dismissively, “but I think I am beginning to understand. Perhaps you won’t get routinely flattened after all.”

The entire day was spent sparring. Although they stopped for lunch and dinner, they met again after dinner to continue in the fading light. Alana was flattened by almost everyone all day long.

At the end of the day when Waylan had released them, Tulan came over to walk with her back to her barracks. He was well bruised from Waylan’s more senior students. “Where did you learn to move like that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Alana said. She was limping slightly as they walked. “Didn’t seem to do me much good against everyone else though.”

“Yeah, weird,” Tulan said and then fell silent. They were both lost in completely different thoughts as they walked back.

Shiri was already standing outside when they arrived.

“I heard Waylan would keep you guys late on the first day,” she said. She sidled up to Tulan. He groaned when she grabbed him.

“I hurt everywhere,” Tulan said as he looked up into her eyes.

“See you guys at the run,” Alana said looking first at Tulan and then Shiri.

“Uh, yeah, right,” Tulan said.

Alana smiled weakly, shook her head and walked into the barracks.

There were several new trainees there who Alana knew had just passed their candidacy. They looked at her wide eyed and said nothing as she walked past. She didn’t look over at them. Nata was gone, as were many of the trainees, out into the woods. Only one of the trainees in the barracks was in Alana’s group. Her name was Grace and when she fought, she lived up to her name. She had defeated Alana every time they sparred. She was stretching and massaging her arms. She was a tall, young woman with fire blue eyes and long blond hair which she usually kept braided tightly behind her. She was the most beautiful woman Alana had seen since her mother.

Alana unbuckled her practice sword belt and set it and the sword on her bed, sat down and began massaging her own arms.

“Also stretch,” Grace said from a few bunks down the bay. She got up and walked over. “You fought pretty well today.”

“I got beaten up today,” Alana said.

“Yeah well, you’ll still be allowed to stay in the class,” Grace said. “Errandig was kicked out. He’s going to the main phase three group.”

“I don’t understand why Waylan has to be such a bully,” Alana said as she stretched her arms across her chest, first one then the other.

“You’ll have to figure it out before he’ll let you pass,” Grace said and walked back to her bunk.

Great, Alana thought, even his students are arrogant. Alana lay down on her bunk, determined to just lay for a moment, but she awoke early in the morning long after lights out. She sat up quickly and looked around, thinking she had missed the morning run. She soon realized it was still a few hours off. She looked up and down the bay. All were asleep except she and Laren. The older trainee was sitting on her bunk with her knees pressed up against her chest. She rocked back and forth slowly and stared straight ahead. Alana started to get up, but hesitated, and then lay back down.

She stared at the bottom of Nata’s bunk. It didn’t seem to make sense to go back to sleep now. There had been too many early mornings with Pellou—getting up before the sun and running all day for a week at a time. She smiled to be back in a bed, and woke up again when something slapped her foot. It was Laren, who had smacked her foot as she walked by to join Neve’s early morning group. Alana bolted up out of bed and hurried down the bay to join the group.

“Thanks,” Alana whispered to Laren without looking at her. Laren didn’t react.

“All right,” Neve said, “let’s get running.”

Alana’s whole body ached and the bruise on her hip made it hard to walk straight. And she thought Pellou had been hard. She followed Laren, trying to ease the kinks out of her body as they headed out the door. Just outside the barracks, Neve stopped. “Alana,” she called out, “you have a visitor.”

Alana looked at her in surprise and then her mouth dropped open when she saw her Uncle Iliard standing there. “Thanks Neve,” she said as she hurried over to her uncle. He held out his arms and she wrapped her arms around his waist. She let out a quiet sigh when she felt his arms go around her. She hadn’t seen him since she started with Pellou.

“Congratulations,” he said quietly. “I am so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” she replied from inside his embrace. After a few minutes she pulled away from him and said, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I only sent my letter three days ago.”

“Well,” he answered, “I also got a letter from Lord Berol telling me you had tied his record for going from first to third. I won’t say he was upset, but I think he was surprised.”

“I didn’t even know there was a record until everyone started talking about it,” Alana said.

Iliard chuckled. “Normally there is no such thing. But Lord Berol is a fast riser. He went through his Ranger training in two years and became a Ranger Lord less than five years after that. He will probably be asked to command a garrison in the near future or he might even be asked to go to the Ranger fortress headquarters to work with Lord Lof Vonas. So, anyone who looks like they might equal his considerable talent tends to get a lot of attention.”

“Oh,” Alana answered. “I didn’t know any of that.”

“Now that you do,” he said, “don’t push yourself to try to equal or beat his record. Just do what you must do to learn all that you can. How long it takes you to become a Ranger is irrelevant.” He bent down and picked up a large leather satchel at his feet. “I brought these for you. I thought you might need them now. They aren’t magical—that would hardly be fair to your fellow trainees—but they are well made.”

Alana took the heavy satchel from him and eagerly opened it. Inside were a long sword, a short sword and four daggers of varying sizes. “Thank you,” she said excitedly. “I was the only one in my group yesterday who didn’t have a sword.”

Iliard smiled ruefully. “If had known you were going to go through your training so quickly, I would have brought them sooner.”

“That’s all right,” Alana said as she slid the sheathed long sword onto her belt, “I did all right with my practice sword. I almost got Waylan on my first try.”

“So, Waylan is your trainer,” Iliard said.

“Yes,” she answered. She took out one of the larger daggers and slid it onto her belt on the opposite side from her sword. She put the Novadi dagger on the same side as her sword. After she finished buckling her belt she said, “Something strange happened when I attacked Waylan.”

“What do you mean,” Iliard asked.

Alana described the fight and the way she felt and what she saw when she attacked Waylan. “The same thing happened to me at the Silver Arrow,” she continued, “I just never said anything because I forgot about it after the battle. The problem is, I couldn’t make it happen again when I was sparring with everyone else. No matter what I tried, I just couldn’t attack the same way and I got pummeled.”

Iliard frowned thoughtfully. “Tell me more about what you think of Waylan,” he said finally.

“He’s an arrogant a…,” Alana saw Iliard’s raised eyebrow, stopped, blushed slightly and amended, “bully.”

“Go on,” Iliard said.

“He beat the hell out Tulan and Errandig before he got to me,” she began indignantly, “and then had the nerve to kick Errandig out of the group.”

“I see,” Iliard replied. He picked up the satchel and said, “Let’s find a free arena. Tell me,” he went on as they walked towards the nearest sparring arena, “What about the battle in the Silver Arrow and your fight with Waylan were similar?”

Alana frowned deeply as she tried to compare the two incidents. Finally she shook her head and said, “I don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be anything, really. The battle at the Silver Arrow was real. This was just practice.”

Iliard shook his head. He stopped at the entrance to the sparring arena and said, “Think. What were you feeling just before each confrontation?”

Alana closed her eyes and tried to remember what she was feeling both times. “I remember,” she began slowly, “danger. I felt…threatened. With Waylan I felt angry too.”

“Good,” said Iliard as he headed into the center of the arena. “But always be careful with your anger. It can lead you to do foolish and even dangerous things.” He took the short sword out of the satchel and unsheathed it. He held it out in front of him and said, “Now, draw your sword and attack me.”

Alana stared at him in confusion. “Why don’t you just use your own sword?” she asked.

“Because,” he answered succinctly, “It would cut that sword in half.”

“Oh,” she replied. She drew her sword took a fighting stance. Iliard stood there and waited, just like Waylan had. Alana’s eyes narrowed. It almost seemed like her uncle was baiting her. She made a feint toward him and, as she suspected, he didn’t move. She pulled back and then quickly struck from the opposite direction. Iliard blocked her strike with enough force to set her teeth rattling.

“That was nicely done,” Iliard said. “But you’re holding back. What you saw and felt at the Silver Arrow and when fighting Waylan was not accidental. The power is within you. Now you need to learn how to call on it when you need it. Try it again.”

So Alana tried again. And again and again and again. For the better part of an hour she sparred with Iliard as he alternately instructed and goaded her. “Focus,” he’d tell her. “Remember what you felt. Bring it into your conscious mind.” Finally, when she thought she wouldn’t be able to lift her sword one more time, it happened. Time slowed and her clarity of vision increased tenfold. She saw Iliard’s sword come towards hers and she pulled it up and out of the way. She spun around and brought her sword back down on his so hard, sparks flew. Iliard pulled up and stopped. He had a huge grin on his face. “Perfect! That was it. That’s what you have to find when you fight. Make sure you work on it every time you practice, whether you’re using a practice sword or a real sword.”

Alana sheathed her sword and stood bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily. Sweat was pouring down her face and back. Her right arm ached and she wondered how she was going to make it through practice with Waylan and said as much. “Waylan will pick on me all day long for sure.”

“Here,” Iliard said as he placed his hands on her shoulders.

Alana felt healing warmth flow through her. She also felt a resurgence of her energy. She stood and rubbed her formerly bruised hip. “Thanks. That bruise was making it hard to walk.”

“Huh,” Iliard said, his disapproval obvious. “Well, while I may disagree with Waylan’s methods, I do understand them.”

“What do you mean?” Alana asked in surprise.

“Enemies are not nice to you. They are not going to fight fair or give you a chance to get your sword back if you drop it. They are going to do whatever it takes to kill you as quickly as possible.”

“I suppose,” Alana answered skeptically. “That doesn’t mean I have to like Waylan.”

“No it doesn’t,” he said. “And I doubt seriously that he cares whether or not you like him as long as you learn to survive combat.”

“I guess so,” Alana murmured.

“Now,” Iliard began. “About your letter…”

Alana cut him off. “Did you talk to Lord Lof Vonas?”

“No, I did not,” he answered with a shake of his head.

“But…” Alana began to protest, but Iliard held up his hand.

“Listen to me,” he admonished. Alana fell into surprised silence. “It is an admirable thing that you want to help your friend. I have every intention of helping as much as I can—if it is even necessary. However, you should have brought this problem to Lord Berol, not to me.”

“But, Ciaran isn’t a Ranger or even a trainee anymore,” Alana said.

“That doesn’t matter,” he replied. “She is still here and she was a trainee in this stronghold. Can you imagine how Lord Berol would feel if Lord Lof Vonas came here to take care of this problem and he, the Lord of the stronghold, knew nothing about what was going on?”

“I…oh,” she said in consternation. “I might have gotten Lord Berol in trouble.”

“Not in trouble,” Iliard said. “It would, however, have caused him no small amount of embarrassment. He is supposed to know what is going on in his own stronghold, especially with Lord Lof Vonas’ great-great-great granddaughter. He relies on his Rangers and Lords to help him with that.”

“You forgot a ‘great,’” Alana said with a mischievous smile.

Iliard’s eyebrows went up and then he burst out laughing. “Come on you,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go talk to Lord Berol.”