The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Training Games

The first thing Lark showed Able was the latrines, for Able was in desperate need of them. He then showed him the cave in the side of the hill the rest of the camp was set upon where the provisions were stored. To Able's untrained eye they appeared to have ample supplies, but he might have made the same conclusions as Edgewood if he had access to the written inventory.

Lark then showed him the pen where about a hundred ponies and a dozen or so stolen steppe coursers spent their evenings, though they had been herded down to the northern valley for the day to graze. Next, they went around to a yard where chickens ran loose and pigeons were cooped into cages.

There they met Cherry Glover, a squirrel-faced girl of sixteen, who promised to go receive her instructions from Raven Longfield once she had seen to her feathered charges. So...a child was going to be watching him? At least that meant the Resistance leadership didn't see him as a threat.

"Is there a weapon stockpile, and I'm just not allowed to see it?" Able asked as they wound their way back through the tents.

"Hm, we certainly have them." Lark mulled over the question and glanced at Red when she forced a meaningful look into his periphery.

"The enforcers have been keeping track of the arms that have turned up missing," Able expounded, "but had not seen them used. Until yesterday, perhaps."

Lark raised defiant eyebrows at Red. "Spears are more our thing than their thing." This was a good point, although...

"It had more looked like staves were your thing."

Lark bit his lip and looked down with a troubled frown.

Able stepped nearer and dropped his voice, "How...how many casualties were there, yesterday?"

"Seven of ours dead," Lark swallowed before continuing, "and three of theirs."

"That sounds rather like the Resistance is not ready for this sort of escalation."

"Well, ready or not?" Lark turned his eyes skyward—appealing to the gods? Whatever it was, it seemed to clear his emotions enough to turn back to Able and casually add, "This takes us down to the training ground, though, so you can see a little of our 'readiness' for yourself."

The training ground was also where Able could see the sky for the first time in days. Not a lot of it—just bright blue patches between the branches. It left shadows on the ground, and as he looked around the clearing he spotted some posts that left him with the instinctual impression of three hours after noon. Was he that used to this latitude now? Didn't matter—he still felt he'd just wandered out of a fog and the face of reality was once again clear to him. He gratefully reached into his pocket and spun the rete on his astrolabe.

"You coming?" Lark was chuckling softly.

Able cleared his throat and followed Lark down into the yard. Several dozen sweaty Borealunders clustered around water barrels attempting to take turns in an orderly fashion although they were all clearly parched. The ones that were already sated followed the trail back up the hill and most of these greeted Lark as they passed.

"So, looks like the afternoon group just finished up." Lark herded Able further into the yard—protectively as the trainees were eying him with suspicion. "But there will be an evening group too, once our Man of Iron has had a chance to eat something." Lark waved Able's attention to a man who was inspecting the racks of staves.

Able had grown accustomed to Borealunders, yet this one looked like a "Bor" to him, like sailors and soldiers might invoke in their stories. The shirtless fellow was tall like a tree himself with muscles that rolled like an ox's and had a full head of yellow hair and a beard that appeared to continue to sprout all down his chest and into his pants. His back was nearly as hairy and sported two...were those bullet scars on his shoulder blade? But none of his skin was marred with a brand.