Blood

17. Blood

“Harder! Faster! Get your arms up, weaklings!”

Clashes of metal claimed the blood-red skies and bodies, thick with bundled muscle and dripping with cold sweat met together in tremendous pounds; their ferocity matching that of their crude weaponry. An overseer, covered head to blunt toe, oversaw the fodders’ fighting and he twisted his pointed, worn snout into a snarl, sharpened tusks revealed.

“Useless, all of you!” He bellowed, whipping out his axe-tipped polearm from upon his back. He found a pair of struggling grunts and without sudden warning, he snapped the weapon high and overhead, sweeping both off their feet in one graceful, merciless blow. The two novices fell to the ground with ease, and the overseer brought his polearm back up and down upon one of the unfortunate youth’s chest. There was a loud crack as a result, ribs snapping, and they groaned as they clutched their sides pathetically.

“USELESS!” The overseer barked again, displeased. “You unworthy maggots will all die in your first battle if this mockery keeps up! Harder! Again! One more time!” He commanded raucously.

And again, the fodder went back to their sorry excuse that they called fighting. The overseer would not be pleased until he saw every one of them bleeding, their patched, leathery armour broken and torn in every spot his eyes could see, and their bodies covered in thick, evident bruises. Only then, and only then, would they become true warriors once every bone in their miserable little bodies were broken so that they could live to tell the tale. But until that day, they would be at his mercy.
And it was a thought he cherished.

Stopping to pause and admire yet another poor performance, the overseer gripped his polearm tightly, the thick material around his cruel claws producing friction and the noise that came with it. He was staring at a particular individual, one he had come to fixate on constantly, and the overseer felt a rare smile carve his scarred face as he thought ruthless thoughts that only a sadist could imagine.

“YOU!” He roared, pointing a demanding, tipped claw towards the insolent boy in question. “Come here!” He beckoned with the same finger, flapping his ornate battle cape away from his legs in a dramatic huff.

The boy came without hesitation, and gave the customary salute of respect.

“Off with your helmet, whelp.” The overseer ordered in a low growl, showing evident disgust at such a gesture.
And the boy listened, taking off his protective helmet and setting it aside to his bare, young feet. He was, in all sense of the word, youthful. His muscles were hardy, his skin was broken in to the harsh weather of the training grounds, and his talons and tusks were shaped as they should be. He was a prime example of a fitting future warrior.

That was, if the overseer found him worthy of such an honour.

“YOU! ALL OF YOU!” The overseer barked, gesturing at them all. “Back away! All of you back except you.” Again, he pointed to the young warrior, a cold fire in his eyes, and the overseer held his barbaric weapon.

There was no warning. He was suddenly upon his prey, armour jostling against his experienced, taut body; the metal rippling in waves with each heavy, hard pound of his thick feet. With a mighty battle cry and his weapon poised high overhead, he swung low, his plated wrists twisting, and the overseer had hoped to have seen a young head roll. The boy was fast, however, faster than the overseer had originally anticipated and the boy managed to dodge, ducking just in time to avoid having his head lopped off.

Springing to his feet, the dust and gravel sifting higher into the air, he discarded his cumbersome main-hand weapon, the battered thing clattering onto the ground with a mighty billow of dirt. He seized this time to relieve himself of any extra weight, this being his previous weapon, and the boy reached at side for a smaller, finer dagger. But the overseer wasn’t the last bit fooled. He knew exactly what that was.

It was a vibro-dagger, and it could be more deadly than any old piece of slag.

Again, the overseer let out a blood-curdling roar and he charged, but despite his presumed recklessness he was already developing a strategy. As he barreled onwards, the polearm in hand, he feigned a slice and instead aimed to butt the boy square in the chin with the brunt end of his weapon. The boy barely had a chance to parry, and the sheer force of the blow nearly sent him backwards; an exploit the overseer would surely use.

With a sweep and harsh nudge of his weapon, he bashed the side of his spiked pauldron in a foul attempt to impale the boy’s skull onto the many atrocious, ichor-stained spikes that adorned its marred, dull surface. Either by fortune or skill, the boy managed to yet again see the move coming and he tried to side-step, his dagger poised for a slash to the overseer’s side. The pieces of metal connected and the dagger plunged through effortlessly with an ominous hum. Warm, reddened fluids trickled freely over the hilt and onto the boy’s hand from the newly-fashioned wound.

There came a cry of anger and pain, but the overseer didn’t drop his weapon or withdraw. Retreat was for those who wished to die.

Even as the boy started to remove his weapon, it was too late. The overseer, being the bigger of the two, cocked his elbow and popped it back into the boy’s cheek, his head sent reeling back, and the drops of sweat spiraling off as if in slow-motion. Pressing his advantage, the overseer threw his polearm carelessly, several onlookers nearly getting injured from the air-slicing monstrosity. It would only prove to be his downfall with continuous usage.

“GOOD! VERY GOOD!” He bellowed, tusks flared. “YOU’RE AS EVERY BIT AS PROMISING AS YOUR MAK’THAR SAID YOU WOULD. AGAIN!”

Reaching at his sides, the overseer pulled out two rods and with a mere press of his pointed thumbs, the amber holographic formation of maces soon throbbed to life with protruding spikes for extra damage. If the boy thought the overseer was hard with merely one weapon alone, then let him see the carnage dual-wielding could bring.

He swung his maces this time, and didn’t hold back. The first attack was a simple test to see if the boy was quick upon those stumpy feet of his. There were a flourish of sweeps, swings, slashes, and even the quick surprise attacks, but again, the boy was proving to being very proficient. And as the overseer drew back his weapons for a wide, skull-crushing blow, the boy had already prepared a counterassault of his own.

Together both toned, cut bodies glistening now with the thorns of their battle clashed in mighty, glorious unity and both combatants engaged the other, neck-to-neck. The overseer pressed for the advantage, and the boy struggled against the sheer might of both the twin maces and his opponent’s bulk leaning against his own, the overseer’s shadow looming over the waning fighter. Their contact was so close they could feel each other breathing hotly against each other’s wet, shuddering skin.

The overseer pressed his twitching muzzle closer to the silent boy’s, and issued what would be the final dialogue between them.

“You… lose… boy.”

Before any words could be exchanged beyond that, the boy let out a cry as the overseer broke the tight embrace and gave a swift, firm kick into his abdomen, sending the young warrior flying. And as the boy tried to pick himself up, it was too late. The older warrior was upon him, weapons raised and he brought both bludgeons down upon without remorse or mercy; there wasn’t a look of compassion within his dull, glazed over eyes. One of the boy’s eyes was slashed in the process, leaving a gaping, ragged gash down the middle from eyelid to eyelid.

The boy’s armour dented and crumpled at the savage onslaught of brutality, his blood spilling onto the battlefield in grim arcs as his opponent beat him again and again senseless. The overseer wanted to make sure he broke every bone in the whelp’s body before positioning himself for the final, deathly blow. Not until all the bones in his body were broken would the boy become a true warrior. Then, and only then.

This was the way of the Raenok.

You… lose.

There was a mighty thud like thunder upon the clanging of armour, and all became still.