The sound of wood striking flesh echoed across the bandit camp’s training yard, followed by raucous laughter as the young man sprawled in the dirt. His practice sword landed several paces away, skidding across the ground and near a man who stood next to a tree, relieving himself.

  “Hey you bastard, go piss somewhere else! The recruits are training here!” shouted one bandit, pointing angrily at the stream of urine too close to the practice area for his liking.

  “Sod off, you fucking bitch.” The relieving bandit didn’t even turn his head as he continued his business.

  “The fuck did you say?” The angry bandit walked closer. “You short bastard, I’ll fuck you up!”

  The two bandits went on until the one relieving himself swung around, spraying his urine with the swing.

  “Ah fuck put it away damn it.”

  The two bandits continued their argument while the youth, who had just been beaten, pushed himself up on shaking arms and spat blood onto the dusty ground. His jerkin was covered in dirt.

  “Get up, boy. That fancy footwork you were so proud of? Worth shit against someone who knows where to strike,” said an older man with gray hair falling to his shoulders as he took a long pull from his wineskin, some of the amber liquid spilling down his chin and into his beard. His substantial belly hung over a belt that strained to contain it, and a nude woman kneeled in front of him, pleasuring him with her mouth.

  “By the gods I love whores, if you fucking lads can’t get it right by the time she is done im making you run around the camp twice!” he yelled as he drank some more, and belched.

  Sitting on a large branch with his back resting on a tree, Draven looked below as his newest recruits practiced. He thought about Ratty, who had left a few days ago for the city with a promising recruit. If everything had gone well, the magpie bandit should arrive soon. The moonlight showered the bandits in its soft light, unable to illuminate Draven’s hidden spot.

  “I didn’t sign up to get yelled at by some retired fat, drunk whoremongering, guard,” the recruit muttered, loud enough to be heard as he retrieved his wooden sword. The insult drew approving chuckles from some of the newer bandits.

  The older guard abruptly pushed the woman aside, pulling his trousers back as he rose. “This won't take long, but I could use more wine so go get me and yourself some by the time you’re back I’ll be done, darling,” he muttered, tossing a silver coin that bounced off her shoulder and fell to the dirt. She scrambled for it without complaint, then retreated to the shade of a nearby tent.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the gray-haired man advanced on the recruit. “What was that, boy? Something about needing to get spanked by papa?” His voice carried a dangerous edge despite its drunken slur. “You think because you’ve held a sword once or twice, you’re too good for my instruction? There is a reason the Pragmatist is in charge cause he ain’t stupid like the lot of you.”

  The drunk began to wave his arms and make an extremely poor attempt at hawk noises, drawing a visible twitch from the nearby bandits. “The Hawk knows best and knows you didn’t sign up to get killed.”

  The recruit, emboldened by his comrades’ attention, raised his practice sword. “I think you’re a washed-up drunk who couldn’t hack it as a real guard. Now you’re here, pretending you matter.”

  A hush fell over the training yard. The more veteran men of Draven’s crew exchanged amused glances. These were men who, while not receiving the same training as these recruits, still, in fact, had one thing over them. And that was that they had faced their own fair share of inexperienced and experienced guards alike.

  The old guard drank what was left of his wine and took an unbalanced step.

  “Well then,” the guard said, cracking his neck. “Tell you what, you beat me in my current state and I’ll tell Draven your ready. Let’s see if this washed-up drunk still remembers how to fight.” He beckoned the youth forward. “Come on, show us all how it’s done.” He leaned down, picking up a wooden sword from the floor.

  The recruit charged forward—his slash too high, too clumsy, and far too slow. Its purpose was obvious: a showy, impractical strike meant to impress his watching friends rather than actually land a blow.

  The old guard hiccupped loudly, stumbling back a step before casually slapping the wooden blade aside with his own, the sound of impact sharp and unimpressed.

  The drunken man stepped forward, and the young bandit instinctively stepped back, then came in again with a wide, desperate swing.

  The guard parried effortlessly, flicking his wrist to knock the blow off-course—a show of the vast gap between each other’s experience in both combat and the use of the tool they held.

  The recruit tried to pull back, but found his sword stuck, his control lost. The older man’s weapon clung to his like they were fused. Panic flickered in his eyes.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Before he could react, the guard reached out with his free hand and gripped the blade of the recruit’s wooden sword barehanded, confident, secure. Then, with no urgency at all, he delivered a sharp backhanded slap across the youth’s face.

  “First lesson,” the guard muttered with a lazy slur. “Measure yourself... and your opponent.”

  “You—!” The bandit staggered, cheek burning. “You wouldn’t have done that with a real sword!”

  The guard laughed. “Wouldn’t I?” He turned and jabbed a finger toward a watching bandit. “You! Toss us real steel.”

  Two real swords were brought forth. The recruit tried to psyche himself up, twirling his sword in a flashy spin he’d copied from a fighter in the camp—more circus than combat.

  Just then, the whore returned from the tents, jug in hand. The guard’s eyes briefly dropped to her chest before shifting to the alcohol. He licked his lips in mock thirst.

  “Hey! We’re fighting here!” the bandit snapped.

  The guard barely looked at him. “Oh, I’m focused.”

  The recruit lunged, blade leading with more enthusiasm than control. The old guard, hand already wrapped around a jug, took a drink, yet somehow, his sword drifted up just in time, catching the blow with a lazy parry that angled the recruit’s weapon harmlessly aside.

  Metal kissed metal, and for a moment, the blades clung together in another bind. The guard didn’t fight it. Instead, he leaned into the pressure, letting it carry the youth’s momentum past him. His feet shifted—one step to the side, one forward—barely more than a shuffle, but it placed him squarely inside the younger man’s reach.

  With a muttered, “Too easy,” he rolled his wrist and pressed his blade outward, knocking the recruit’s sword wide.

  Then came the knee.

  A sharp, rising strike to the ribs—quick, brutal, and close enough to smell the recruit’s panic. The boy doubled over with a wheeze, dropping his guard entirely.

  “Lesson ends there,” the former guard said, brushing his hands together. “Tomorrow we’ll keep going.”

  Then his trousers fell.

  He cursed and kicked them back up with a grunt, grumbling, “Stupid drawstring…”

  “Whatever, doesn’t matter. You’re going to be using that pretty mouth again after all, won’t you Julie?” the former guard gave a drunken and crude smile.

  “Uh, that’s not my name,” the woman responded.

  “Oh, right… uh Reka? Suzan? Eh, doesn’t matter. You don’t want me to know your name, you just want my coin. Bahaha!” The drunkard gave a boisterous roar of laughter.

  The woman sighed but then quickly perked up, a look of lust in her eyes as she gave a soft smile and suddenly looked down.

  “Sorry Rodan, but no whoring today. I got something I want you to do,” Draven said as he gave a subtle nod to the woman who lightly bit her lips.

  “Draven? How long have you been there?” Rodan said as he took another drink.

  “I've just come down, but I’ve been up there watching the whole time. But that isn’t what’s important. First, gave any more thought on officially joining us?” Draven asked as the whore walked up to him and held the jug to his lips, offering him wine. She tried getting closer to him as she did so.

  “You’re like a damn drug to these women… do you have a huge cock or something, Draven the Pragmatic Hawk? Maybe you should be called Draven the Huge Cock instead—less soaring through the skies, more strutting through the dirt, pecking around till you sink your beak into some fine hens.” Rodan asked as he watched the woman practically throwing herself at Draven.

  “Have you been talking to Ratty? He always asks that question. Well not the bird changing part but still. Anyway, you haven’t answered me.”

  “Nah, I don’t want to join. Don’t want the law chasing me and all that. I’m good where I am—money, whores, it’s a good life. You said you needed something though?” Rodan asked as much as he stated while fixing his trousers once more.

  “Yeah, we upped our armor game, found some nice sets, but some of my guys don’t know how to properly fasten everything, so go and teach them. Also, I might need you to sober up. I might be wrong but…” Draven’s eyes hardened, and Rodan shivered for a moment.

  “Got it, got it, no need to say more. I know you’ll pay me, you always do, so I’ll take care of it and I’ll be sober before whatever you fear comes true, don’t doubt that.” Rodan said with a comical series of nods.

  “Good. Now then, know where Little Sand Bear is?” Draven asked.

  “Ah yeah, he is in the tavern talking with that scutorian fella. Non-humans creep me out.” Rodan said with a shiver.

  “Humans creep me out,” Draven responded with a grin, drawing laughter from Rodan.

  “Ok, go. The guys are at the storage. I’m going to the tavern.” Draven gave a wave to the woman who would have followed him had it not been for a snap of the fingers and a handful of coins from Rodan.

  Draven moved through his territory between the tents of his followers.

  Halfway through his own area, he spotted three of his men huddled around a small table, dice clattering against wood. One wore a single black leather glove. Another had a gold hoop in his ear. The third’s scarred hand opened and closed as his face twisted into a grin brought by his sweeping copper coins.

  “Boss!” called the scarred one. “Come test your luck? Broke my losing streak today.”

  Draven shook his head. “Can’t. Need to see Little Sand Bear about something.”

  The one with the gold earring snorted. “You’re no fun anymore. Time was you’d drink and game till dawn.”

  “That was before Serena,” said the bandit with the black glove, not looking up from his dice.

  “I’ve got business,” Draven said, already turning away.

  Behind him, their voices carried without attempt at discretion.

  “Can’t do nothing without the lady’s permission these days,” muttered the one with a gold earring.

  “The Hawk’s turned chicken,” one of them added with a laugh.

  Draven stopped. Slowly, he turned back, his eyes finding the dice on the table.

  “One game,” he said, pulling up a crate to sit. “Just one.”

  “Why don’t I send Trippy to fetch Little Bear?” offered the scarred man, already gesturing to a younger bandit leaning against a nearby post. “He can bring him here, save you the trouble.”

  Draven hesitated, then nodded. “Tell him it’s important.”

  QUILLTOME VI

  END