Silver Wolfs

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The clanging and screeching of metal against metal sounded in the courtyard. Swords clashing against shields and armor, the barking of a drill sergeant sounding after each strike. Dummies in dull and dented grey armor sat on stakes pocketing the dirt courtyard with two or three Gripers, what they called the beginning children, in identical shiny new armor circled around each one in a triangle formation. They were practicing the basic techniques to fight a man cornered or surrounded. The guard being faced jumps forward to scare or goad their opponent into responding with an attack or retreating backwards, where one of the other guards in the triangle attacks with a blow to the back of their opponents knees, head, or back with the flat of their blade. It would be impossible for the target to keep all three in view, giving the ones behind a chance to strike without fear of retaliation while the soldier being faced keeps the targets focused upon hm. Simple enough for any dog, but proven to be efficient against the rabble.

Vale sat on top of the wall separating the fresh recruits from the rest of the Rampart, reminiscing back to when he had learned this his first week after being accepted to be trained three years ago. Captain Haymer had promised to take him on a night in the town as celebration of finishing his training as the youngest graduate of the Silver Guards. Gazing out on the newer recruits – many of whom would finish five to eight years after he had – Vale couldn’t help his pride from rising. These Jewel’s imbecilic sons, or soft merchant boys, or politicians sons who needed their family to pay, bribe, or throw their influence to gain the ‘privilege’ of a chance to join the Silvers.

Sergeant Galm was one of the greatest instructors in the Silver, his intimidation tactics and repetition of techniques until the movements he pummels becomes instincts have been used to shape soft merchant boys and asinine noble sons into soldiers. His newest batch of, less than athletic, Gripers were already under scrutiny for falling out of formation and one dropping their sword.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing!” Galm screamed into the face of the boy. The boy was cubby around the face, which was covered in sweat. His eyes darted back and forth among the other boys in his formation, searching for a savior among them. His eyes almost bulged out of his sockets when Galm continued to rage, spittle flying into his face. “If you miserable fucking excuse for a volunteer drops your fucking sword again, I’m going to beat your backside till all the fat’s stripped off it!”

Vale almost felt sorry for the boy, but one doesn’t lose their soft demeanor overnight. It needs to be broken and hardened, “molded into fine steel and hard silver” was a joke among those who had been accepted. Most of the contingent of boys down there were sniggering at the fat boy’s plight, and how close to tears he was. Now Vale sincerely felt for him, for Galm did not take kindly to any signs of weakness among his newest protectorates.

Vale despised it when a man was despotic, and Galm was by all descriptions one. That feature seemed to fit perfectly with his body, which was undeniably intimidating. Not particularity tall, standing at only five-nine, Galm was, on the other hand, laden with muscles and gruesome scars that even the blind were thankful they could not see. The most jank scars covered his torso, but his face hadn’t been spared in the least. White scar tissue ran between his eyes, across his cheeks, on his forehead, covering his scalp, and through a blind eye. Along with his nose, broken so often it was permanently bent, and his skull warped from being cracked so numerously. They covered any characteristics he used to have on his face, making him hideous enough even the whores demanded extra for their time. Vale had wondered, since his first day, how in the Nine Hells Galm had remained alive. Luck has flashed her charming smile on him more times than she glances at most people.