"Forehand! Backhand! Thrust! Thrust! Uppercut! Backhand!"
The words of the battlemaster rang off the walls and Gilan paused to drag his sleeve against his forehead, trying to wipe the sweat that was beading just underneath his hair. But this really did no good because his left arm was clothed with heavy 25-pound
armor and encouraged the sweat to keep coming. Gilan was absolutely positive that the gauntlets that battleschool cadets were required to wear were just topping 305 degrees. It was a sweltering, blistering, singe your eyebrows when you jumped out of bed day. And of course, the hard training of battleschool only cranked up the heat another 95 degrees. When Gilan paused, the Swordmaster verbally scolded him in such language that I shall not repeat. Somehow, he had managed to drag himself out of his rock-hard bed and pull on his armor. When he struggled to find his sword, he was not surprised to see his own sword was, of course, the one that went missing. Things like that always seemed to happen to him.Grumbling, he walked over to grab one of the useless swords that were the ones all bent and broken and had the balance wrong. Of course, this was his individual assessment day. Great.
" I hate this life with a capital H", Gilan commented sourly.
YOU ARE READING
The Way of the Ranger
RandomA small warning rumble. An acknowledgment. A casual visit to the creek. A known presence. An iron strong grip on the collar of the boy's neck. Then a SPLASH as the man known as the larger-than-life figure Halt throws the boy into the creek. Meet Gil...
