Rise of the Blade

Chapter Twelve

The Academy of Combat was bustling with new students, some young and some old. There were students as young as ten, a good age to begin squire training and they were paired off with older students who were to act as mentors, but in reality they were both learning. The students were all training outside today and the smuggler passed by them, noting the emphasis on form that the younger Bogatyr was drilling into the students.

Ilya waved Stanislaus towards the interior and he kept going, passing between the large front doors which were gleaming. He noted the new lock on the door, recently installed to deter thieves and vandals. The interior of the building was cold and when he reached the central dome at the end of the long corridor he found that all the windows within had been smashed. All of the broken glass had been removed and workmen were even now replacing the windows.

The elderly Bogatyr was supervising the work, smoking on his pipe. Just looking at him a less knowledgable man wouldn't have guessed the old knight was capable of such death and destruction as the smuggler had seen only the aftermath of. Stanislaus now had a newfound respect for this new and unusual customer for his services.

"Had a bit of trouble?" asked the smuggler, fidgeting with his powdered wig which kept sliding to one side. He had to clean the wig recently after it got blood on it and the wig had not been the same ever since. He was tempted to just throw it away and buy a new one later today, but that would be mean going bald until such a time as he arrived at the Lavordian perruquier's shop.

Dobrynya nodded. "Vandals."

"Right. And knowing you... The culprits were... severely punished?"

The knight looked at him, but didn't answer. He took a deep puff and blew a smoke ring.

"Right. How many this time?"

"Six."

"So few? And you know my services are not free?"

"What do you want?"

"Let's not speak of coins today. I have a favour to ask. What if-"

"I am not for hire."

"Did I say that? I was referring to your teaching lessons."

Dobrynya coughed and blew out smoke. "You want to learn how to fight?" he asked, his tone incredulous.

"Not for me. My nephew. My sister's boy. He's waiting outside the gates on the wagon you requested. Trustworthy lad. Very helpful, but he has a temper and is none too fond of Xarsians. I was hoping you could keep him out of trouble. Maybe improve his life expectancy."

"By teaching him how to fight Xarsians?"

"As opposed to not teaching him and then he gets slaughtered anyway. Do you need time to think it over? Or what if you met him first?"

The elderly knight sighed. He dumped the embers out of his pipe onto the stone floor and smothered them with the heel of his boot. "Fine, I'll meet him and then decide."

"He has had some previous training, with a private sword tutor from Lavordia. I feel I should mention that."

"I would prefer a blank slate, but whatever. Let's meet him."

Stanislaus led the way back outside to the front gate, walking past the students who were practicing with wooden swords similar to arming swords. "You know there's been advances in sword design in the past centuries right? Yet you're still teaching them how to fight with arming swords?"

Dobrynya nodded. "You'll find that rapiers don't work quite so well against trolls and dragons. Might as well poke them with a stick."

"Ah, good point. But what if they're fighting against a man?"