RFC-Mini Arc 2: Elven Garde-06 (Patreon)

His first opponent was one of his allies. Match fixing was not looked down on by their hostess, as strategy was as much a part of Elven Garde as physical prowess. However, certain courtesies had to be shown. Simply surrendering would be in bad taste so the two would fight, at least enough to demonstrate that Callan was no pushover and had the skill to advance.

The apprentice carpenter raised his fists, feeling a wave of nostalgia as he recalled the first time he’d come to Elven Garde. A potent of mix of dread, awe, and disdain twisting his guts as an acolyte, a goal that seemed so far away, showed him the proper way to throw a punch, the training taking place after the fights.

There was no starting signal, the tension between the two fighters rapidly mounting until Callan’s opponent made the first move, running forward and striking forward with a short yell.

Surviving in Elven Garde required strength. For the Hall, that normally equated to one’s magic but for Callan and his allies, their strengths were more mundane. Lucius could match the foundation acolytes in physical power and made up for his lack of magic with endurance. Micah, while a poor fighter, was a master with a slingshot, turning what the acolytes had laughed off as a toy into a deadly weapon.

Callan’s strength was his eyes. A child had the imagination to be a great crafter. What settled the dreamers from the masters was the ability to bring their vision to fruition. To see exactly how to move the chisel to turn a block of formless wood into functional art. His eyes and his trained hands had always made his tools accurate.

Later, he learned his talents could translate into combat.

He could easily see the punch, retaliating with a swift counter to the other man’s chin. His opponent stumbled and Callan followed up with two quick strikes to his middle, using his knuckles to strike the liver and kidneys, his opponent doubling over with pain. He followed with a quick kick to the man’s kneecap, compromising his balance, stepping forward with and ending the bout with an elbow to the back of the neck. His opponent dropped, dazed and groaning in pain.

Callan had been a terrible fighter when he started. He had a decent amount of strength but his wiry frame was not meant for power and he lacked endurance. His first fights had seen him destroyed, easily able to see the attacks and strategies of his opponents but helpless to do anything. Lucius had done much to support him, liking Callan’s cold temperament, but had been close to calling his losses. Callan had been ready to give up, on Elven Garde and his greater dream of being a caster, having his inadequacies thoroughly slammed in his face.

Then, he met her.

Kierra walked into one of the training sessions and found him, face still bruised from his last fight, alone as he debated the meaning in staying any longer. She’d smiled and asked him why he wasn’t training with the others. Then she’d laughed at his concerns.

He remembered wanting to strangle the elf, who thought she was so above him to laugh at his concerns, though his negative impression lasted only a moment as her next words would change his life.

“Iron doesn’t start as a blade. It is what you forge it to be.”

Then, she trained him personally.

He didn’t have a build for strength? Then she would make him fast. No endurance? Then train your accuracy. End the fight swiftly, with the fewest amount of strikes possible. Rather than a dragon ruling the sky, become the snake in the grass that no one fears, killing its prey before it can learn differently.

“You could have gone easier on him,” Lucius said as Callan stepped toward the crowd, waiting for the next opponent to enter the ring. This late into the gathering, the challengers weren’t as eager. “That’s a friend, in case you forgot.”

“I didn’t kill him, did I? You act as if there isn’t a phenomenal healer ready to fix him with a snap of her fingers.”

“One day, that attitude is going to get you in trouble.”

“Unless I’m strong enough to kill the trouble first.” Another thing Kierra had taught him. Strength determined everything. In her culture, strength determined the head of the family as well as the head of the country. A bastard of common blood could become the most respected man if he were willing to spill blood for his reputation. She was kind to all, but strength was the only thing she respected.

“Well, you’re not strong enough to smack away all your troubles yet so you have to work with us mere mortals. And it’s difficult to find people who want to help you when you keep treating them like shit!”

Before Callan could answer, Lucius shoved him forward. Another man entered the ring from the other side of the crowd. An ally, though his expression was anything but friendly. Callan wondered if he remembered he was supposed to lose, as his eyes said he wanted nothing more than to hurt Callan.

He wasn’t as quick to attack as the previous opponent. Callan’s frown deepened. His style focused on countering. Anyone who knew that would be hesitant to approach him but this was not meant to be a real fight.

“Alec!”

Callan recognized Lucius’s voice and his opponent looked past his shoulder, scowling. So, that was his name. Callan never bothered to remember the cannon fodder that his team leader managed to recruit and finagle into doing his bidding.

With a look of resignation, his opponent moved forward. Callan watched him intensely as his opponent remained cautious, throwing feints and jabs, not committing to any attack. Callan wasn’t fooled, watching his opponent’s shoulders and feet rather than his deceptive hands, but the last thing he needed was for the fight to drag on so he went on the attack.

He was at his best when his opponent didn’t see him coming. Quick as he was, it was difficult to break through a prepared defense. The hits he landed were inconsequential, glancing off his opponent’s arms. Callan attempted to break his block with a low kick but it was like kicking a tree. A thin one, but sturdy. He half wondered who the attack hurt more, thoroughly disgusted with how inordinately tough the fighters of Elven Garde tended to me. Just once, he’d like to strike something soft and pliant, skin that easily bruised and didn’t skin his knuckles.

“That all you got?” the other man goaded, launching his own attacks. Callan stepped out of the way, knowing he wouldn’t be able to shrug them with the same ease. “You hit like a little girl!”

Callan scowled as the crowd jeered. “You’re supposed to be cooperating with me,” he hissed, throwing another punch.

“Oh, look at you. Treat everybody like shit until you need them.” Alec grinned. “I drag this fight out for a while and Brahim stomps you. How about that, lover boy?”

Inside, Callan cursed Alec and his mother, but the only outward sign of his frustration was a small frown. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper, lashing out in anger did nothing for him.

“I wonder if you can keep that same cool face when Brahim is ramming that elf, heh.”

A fracture appeared in his calm. Anger slipped through. He tried to caution himself but an image of Alec’s words sprang to his mind unbidden, stirring his heart. It was ridiculous, an obvious provocation…but he couldn’t help but want to snap his supposed ally’s jaw for uttering the filthy words.

His desire to land a solid blow compromised his technique. He overshot his fist, knowing even before his arm was grabbed that he had made a mistake. He tried to break the hold, but was yanked forward. Callan bit back a yell of pain as his wrist was twisted, another hand going to his shoulder, locking his arm. He froze, feeling the pressure that said one wrong move could end in him retiring for the night.

“You should see the look on your face,” Alec sneered. “You’re going to embarrass yourself if you let Brahim get in your head that easily.” The pressure on his arm relaxed. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Callan didn’t waste any time, straightening and slamming the heel of his free hand into Alec’s nose. His opponent stumbled back, eyes watery, a hand trying to stem the flowing blood. Leaving him open for a quick jab to his throat.

Callan glared down at him as the other man choked. Two more members of his team rushed into the ring, hurriedly guiding Alec over to Kierra.

Seeing him being practically dragged away, the spike of rage eased, shame taking its place. Alec was disgusting but he made a good point. He’d lost control of himself far too easily. Embarrassing, as he considered his mental fortitude one of his strengths.

But love cared little for reason.