Valen

"If you face your foe, so should your sword," Valen's grandmother had said, so long ago that years had passed since he had last thought of the day.

The heat that day had been ruinous, Valen remembered. A day so hot crops cooked in the fields and labourers in the streets talked about coming requirements to ration. The sun that day felt like it was trying to scorch everyone it shone upon, as if it had joined the Gloam in trying to destroy the City.

But a blistering heat wave that had stretched hospice services thin was no excuse to miss practice.

Valen's grandfather looked convincingly unperturbed by the heat, as he stood that day in the middle of their school's courtyard, fabric-bundled practice sword in a grip Valen had compared to an industrial vice. The practice weapon - even as a child Valen knew his grandfather could kill with a practice sword, and always thought of it as a weapon - was damp in spots, soaking up some of Valen's sweat every time the old man hit him with it.

Not that the old man hit him hard. Even with a rod bundled inches thick in fabric, Grandfather could crack stone with little more than his forearm.

"Your grandmother's trying to tell you to get your guard up," his grandfather said.

"Sorry, sir," Valen muttered, as he wiped sweat from his eyes with his hand, and raised his sword. He shifted into a stance to mirror the old man, sword in a single hand, point forward.

"Don't imitate me," his grandfather said. "Play to your strengths, acknowledge your circumstances, and understand your foe."

"So I..." Valen began.

"The Gloam offers no quarter, so words are worthless. Show me, with your stance."

******

It was a strange thing to recall, in the breaths before a fight. The closest creature was only three steps away, a distance a frenzied monster could cover faster than the time it often took to be surprised.

Valen slid his left foot back, loosened his grip, and shifted his left hand so his palm wrapped the pommel of his sword.

******

"Now, explain yourself," his grandfather had ordered then.

"Words are worthless, grandfather," Valen had answered. He had been impressed with his own courage in that moment. It hadn't lasted long.

"Against the Gloam and it's creatures. Against people, if a hundred words saves a single drop of blood, you could think it a cheap exchange. Now explain your choices."

"Two hands, because I'm still slower than you," Valen answered. "I already have a disadvantage in reach, a one-handed grip will not overcome that."

"Your right leg forward?"

"With your stance, I'm better off trying to shift my line, and keep my defence strong, rather than trying to rush into striking range," Valen said.

"And your guard?" grandfather had asked.

"I chose the first guard, the basic one, the one I've drilled the most. I'm tired, haven't had enough water, my eyes sting from sweating into them, and my enemy is better," Valen said.

"And so you lean on the basics, to avoid mistakes? That might only prolong the inevitable," his grandfather replied, but the old man didn't sound displeased. "There are two situations when you should do what you're doing now. When you're struggling, or when you're outnumbered. They're very different places to be, but in both situations, simple and correct is far better than clever but sloppy."

Valen nodded. "And when I'm outmatched?"

"Asides from me, boy, there is no one within the walls that can threaten you with the sword. By the time you're old enough to join the army, the only way anyone will be able to threaten you will be with a Salamander, or the Craft. Now, when you're fighting Gloamtaken, remember they are relentless, but simplistic. To beat them, be the same."

******

Simplistic. Horizontal cuts, to land a blow between the ribs. Let the momentum carry the blade, draw it back as it starts to slow against the chest. A thrust should not push too hard - their own momentum will do much of the work. A quick pull back, with the wrists, or a twist, will leave the wound open. Against a multitude, relentless and simplistic, mistakes would be punished, and you had to make your own breathing room.

His grandfather's lessons. They were, he finally realized, a gift of incredible value. Much, Valen imagined, like being allowed to wear the white scarf, and learn from the Rangers.

A sweeping cut brought down two of them; Valen's blade cutting only inches in as it glanced off the second creature's sternum. He leaned into the sweep, letting the sword's momentum carry it into a fencer's guard. He loosened his grip as a creature threw itself onto the blade, trying to rush at him, only to yank it back when the cross-guard began to push into the top of his hand.

Valen thoughts had never been so quiet during a fight, his focus allowed space and freedom to mark his next foe. He even had a moment to mark the one after, so his next step took him to the side of the charging Gloamtaken, and nothing more than a glancing bow brought it crashing down behind him. He carried the swing, striking the next one on the side, and shearing it between the ribs. This one tumbled to the side, catching another and dragging it off balance.

******

"Stop," his grandfather said.

Valen pulled himself to a stop mid-swing, not allowing the weapon to strike them training dummy. During training, his grandfather wasn't fond of being disobeyed, even if it was in the very second after he spoke.

"It's one thing to be taught all of this," the old man said. His posture and his stance were lies - sword at his side, loose in his hand, back straight, and his walk almost idly slow. Valen felt the hairs on his arms stand up, despite the heat and the sweat. His grandfather paused his speech without missing a step, and smiled. "But all my years teaching you would be wasted if you don't know what fear feels like. So, take up the first stance."

Valen obeyed, shifting his feet and his sword. His grandfather kept coming, though he turned to his wife. "Turn the small hourglass, the one with the copper frame."

"The two minute one?"

"Yes."

Two minutes. As young as he had been back then, Valen already knew five minutes could pass like the blink of an eye, or the changing of a season.

"When faced with the idea of fighting me, as weary as you are, you presented the first stance and proposed falling back on the basics. Your objective was to survive, and so we will test that. I'm going to attack you for two minutes. And I need you to understand that for those two minutes, I will be intending to hurt you. Make a mistake, forget yourself, and I could kill you. A practice sword in a hand like ours is a dangerous weapon."

******

Valen remembered how much better he understood the word fear, after that moment.

Because no matter how numerous the Gloamtaken were, each one was a laughable threat compared to what Valen's grandfather put him through that day. He remembered how each blow was meant to kill; how a swipe of the forearm could have cracked his skull open, a thrust to the ribs might have shattered his sternum, a flick of the wrist could break a knee. He died a hundred times in this two minutes - saw his demise in every movement and every gesture his grandfather made. The fear he felt, and the desperation that kept him moving, stayed with him ever since.

And asides from seeing the Golem, it was the most afraid he had ever been.

What he felt now was barely a memory of that primal terror, and he faced the Gloamtaken as he faced his grandfather. Eyes focused, breathing quick, feet balanced, and his sword keeping to the most familiar forms. The very first ones. The ones meant for Gloamtaken.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder after the eleventh creature fell, and its collapse pushed the others back a few steps. To his left, Mackaroy was being driven back by their numbers, but he made them pay for every step backwards. Mildred had joined the old shadow, supporting him with both knife and Salamander. Behind him, First Platoon was driving hard into the Gloamtaken between themselves and the Fourth, carving through the mob so quickly it looked like they were taking a slow stroll.

As he turned his head back, out of the corner of his eye, a shadow appeared above his head. He looked up, his fear still held in tight check, and stepped backwards to let it fall onto the ground in front of him. He was already turning to Mackaroy as he stabbed it. "Mack, Mildred, get back in that building," he shouted, pointing up to the second storey with his free hand. "Find where they're coming from, and keep them from leaping down on the First. Run through the building, and come back down using the stairwell we came in from."

"Sir, what about you?" Mildred asked.

"Volenski only needs about two minutes," Valen said, with a glance back to see the First carving their way through the Gloamtaken. No longer surrounded, only facing the enemy in front of them, they were making sort work of the mob. "I'll be fine."

******

He wasn't fine, at the end of those two minutes. He could already feel the welt on the side of his head beginning to swell, it was hard to squeeze his sword with either hand, and he might have a broken rib from a glancing blow on his side.

But he was still alive. And his trousers were dry. That day, against a man whose every move could cause death, even with a padded stick, that was more than Valen had hoped for.

His grandfather's forehead gleamed, the sweat a solid sheet from his hairline to his eyebrows, and his shirt was soaked. But the old man still stood with the kind of poise a statue would envy, and the grip on his sword was as steady as the walls. "Two minutes of someone trying to kill you. How did that feel?"

"I could have," Valen panted, and as the fear left him so did the strength holding him upright. He fell to his knees, dropped his practice sword, and wondered if he was about to vomit.

"You could have..." His grandfather waited.

"I could have jumped in front of a train and saved you the the trouble," Valen managed to pant. "I might hurt less if I had."

"Walk it off. That rib on your right side isn't broken, but it might be out of alignment. You'll be fine in a few days."

"Oh, stop being so banally stoic, you cranky codger," Valen's grandmother had interjected, as she looked him over. "And the only thing concussions teach is that blows to the head make poor students. Now go get yourself and your student some water. Then have him drill his footwork. Seems young master Tellerman has a bad habit of pretending his left leg is a stone pillar when he panics, and doesn't move it when he should."

Tellerman. His name, once upon a time. His father's name still. He hadn't thought of that for a long time.

"You saw that? Pity you never wanted to learn, you'd have been good at it," His grandfather said to his grandmother. Not for the first time. The old man stepped up and began to pump the well. The old hand crank was a pointless device; the water service was well developed, even in this old school. But he kept it to force Valen to work for everything. It was a sign of respect that his grandfather did it himself.

"Right then," the old man said as he filled two metal cups. He stepped down the steps, and handed one to Valen. He took the gift then, and drank deep. But his grandfather only took a small sip before he kept speaking."There will be times when you can't withdraw, when you can't give ground. The City loses about one soul for every acre it takes in a reclamation project. But even in those moments, it's important to know when to plant, and when to pivot. We'll start with the first stance, and put something behind you that you'll need to keep yourself in front of. But finish that cup first, grab another if you like. We'll start in two minutes."

A reprieve, and the old man gave him his first glass of water. It was a gesture of respect. A complement that only someone as talented as his grandfather could give.

******

"Redgrave, you and I need to hold the street," Captain Dremora bellowed, between his shots. Even with a knife in his hand, Salamander shots between his fingers, the captain didn't look down at his hands to reload his gun.

He had switched to the shorter-barrelled gun at his waist. Valen knew the short barrel wouldn't force the fire to twist in on itself, meaning the gun wouldn't cut as deeply, or carry as far. But no one else Valen had ever seen could make a Salamander work in close quarters for more than a shot or two.

"We give ground for about ten feet." His Salamander screamed again, and Valen pulled his sword back into a guard. "Just enough they can only come at us from one direction." A low swing sheared between ribs, and Valen shoved the body into the crowd behind it. "Then we make them wish they were hitting a wall."

"Aye, sir." Valen backed up, slower than the creatures advanced, shifting his retreat into his swings."

******

"When you back step, what happens to your weight, and where is your momentum?" his grandfather asked.

Valen thought for a moment, still holding his sword in a guard. "My balance shifts towards my back, I can't watch where I plant my feet, and my momentum works against a swing."

"All true. So when you fall back, use small steps until your enemy makes a move at you. We're creatures that like patterns, even the dumbest of us, and the attack will likely expect you to keep making small steps. That's when you make a larger step, and swing."

"Swing with a larger step back?" Valen had asked. The question, and the ignorance that inspired it, now felt like a lifetime ago, like the first year of his life when he didn't know how to walk, or before his mouth had teeth.

"Yes. And you don't swing as you step back, but when you pull your lead foot back. Like so."

******

Another step, and another, going left and right as much as back, and he left a trail of Gloamtaken in his wake. Every move made lethal, the way he had been taught, with a careful watch out of the corner of his eye for the captain.

Who didn't need his concern. Knife and salamander were in constant motion, reloading here, stabbing there, firing so regularly a clock could be set by it.

"That's far enough," Captain Dremora said. Not loudly, but somehow the captain knew Valen was keeping an eye on him. Despite "We hold for one minute. And keep count. Let's see who the Gloam should be afraid of more."