Paragon of Destruction

It was slower to strike and harder to control, but Arran had enough strength for that to only be a slight obstacle. And while truly mastering it would be a matter of months or even years, he already knew that it would eventually prove its worth.

He found the poleaxe to his liking, too. With a head that featured a razor-sharp axe blade and a curved hook, as well as a sharp spike on its end, it was a vicious thing, made to cut and stab anyone with the misfortune of facing it.

From the captain’s manuscripts, Arran knew that weapons like these were intended to be used against armored opponents, and he could easily see why.

The hook would be perfect for catching on enemies’ armor and pulling them off balance, and the spike was narrow enough to penetrate the small gaps between plates of armor.

The giant sword would easily defeat armor as well, of course, its sheer weight enough to crush whatever it didn’t cut. But where the sword would need space to be swung to full effect, the poleaxe would be useful even within dense battle ranks.

It was a soldiers’ weapon through and through, designed for the battlefield rather than single combat. And even if Arran still did not know the captain’s plans, he had little doubt that the man planned to lead them into battle.

Yet where both the giant sword and the poleaxe immediately felt natural in Arran’s hands, the staff was a different matter.

It was a simple weapon — a heavy hardwood pole, six feet long and shod with steel tips on both ends. And while its heft was enough to deliver staggeringly powerful blows, it would not look out of place in the hands of a traveler, either.

That was the reason Arran had chosen the weapon. While swords and the like were effective, they drew attention. Even the simplest sword was enough to mark someone as a warrior in the eyes of the world.

But a staff? That was something even farmers carried.

With simple laborer’s clothing and a staff in his hand, few people would so much as give Arran a second glance if he passed them on the road. And those few who did look his way would see nothing worth remembering.

Still, although he knew how useful a tool it would be, the weapon felt awkward in Arran’s hands. It was as if he was a boy swinging a stick and pretending it was a sword, like he had done so many times in his childhood.

But if the staff felt awkward in his hand, the spear was even worse.

Arran had next to no experience wielding spears, and although the one Captain Kaleesh had arranged for him was expertly crafted, he soon discovered that the weapon was wholly unsuited for him.

In battle, Arran relied mostly on strength and ferocity. Yet the spear, he found, required patience and finesse. And neither of those were things that came naturally to him.

Several sparring matches against Gar and Lasha confirmed this. While he could defeat them with the giant sword, and match them — more or less — with the poleaxe and staff, he did not win a single exchange with the spear.

While the reach it provided even that of the giant sword, both Gar and Lasha easily had the skill to get past the spear’s sharp end. And when that happened, the exchange was all but lost.

Arran struggled with the weapon for some time, his mood slowly souring as he failed to achieve any quick results. But before he could give up, Captain Kaleesh — who had been watching his struggles with amused interest — spoke up.

"Keep practicing," the captain said. "Spears are best used in massed ranks, and the Darians use them to great effect. What you learn now will be useful in the future."

At this, Arran could not help but sigh. Not just because it meant he’d have to continue training with the weapon, but also because he recognized how dangerous a line of massed spears would be.

A staggered line of eight-foot spears would be nearly impossible to break without being struck. And from the captain’s manuscripts, Arran already knew that behind the line of spears would be a group of archers.

He continued his training until nightfall, sparring against Gar and Lasha several more times with his new weapons, trying different tactics as he slowly grew more used to the unfamiliar tools.

When night began to fall, he thanked his sparring partners for their help, then retired to his quarters to study the Forms. Because important as the weapons training was, it was by no means his only task.

Then, the next morning, his efforts started anew.

Over the weeks that followed, Arran did little but eat, sleep, study, and train. Each day he would wake well before dawn and only retire well after midnight, his only rest in between the brief breaks he took to eat.

He studied the captain’s manuscripts in the mornings, continuing until his mind could absorb no more. Then, he would spend the afternoons training, either sparring and practicing with his group of mercenaries or studying his new weapons by himself. And finally, when night fell, he would study the Forms for as long as he could, not stopping until exhaustion overtook him.

In between all of this, he would have his Living Shadow weapon change its form several times a day, repeatedly guiding it into his new weapons’ shapes and back again.

Much as Arran had hoped, the weapon learned quickly. Soon, it managed to assume the familiar shapes in seconds rather than minutes — fast enough to be useful in battle.

Arran’s own progress was rapid, as well.

His experience in battle made training the new weapons much easier than it would have been otherwise. Soon, using the giant sword felt almost as natural as using a normal one. And while he’d never be a master spearman, he gained some proficiency with the spear, as well.

This was further helped by his steady diet of giant digger meat. Within two weeks of emerging from the mines, he once more had his full physical strength. And after that, his body continued to strengthen — albeit at a much slower pace.

But if Arran’s physical prowess increased rapidly, his understanding of battle advanced even quicker.

The captain’s manuscripts provided a constant supply of new thoughts to challenge his beliefs, and with each manuscript he studied, he learned new things. Now, he no longer wondered why the writings focused so heavily on logistics and politics — both these things were integral to warfare.

Of course, a few weeks of study was barely enough to scratch the surface of these matters. But even that was already enough for Arran to feel like he’d discovered an entirely new world — and one whose existence had wholly escaped him in the past.

He’d always had little interest in politics, preferring the directness of battle. Even in the Ninth Valley, he’d paid less attention than he should have to the machinations that took place around him.

But he now began to understand that politics was merely battle by other means. A single spoken sentence could be as devastating as any attack, raising or destroying entire armies.

And the more he learned, the more he realized how little he knew. Yet far from discouraging him, this only served to grow his interest further.

There was only part of Arran’s efforts that showed no meaningful results — his training in the Forms.

Although he spent hours practicing the techniques each night, even after weeks of effort he barely had anything to show for it. While performing the techniques steadily grew easier, he hadn’t come even the slightest step closer to gaining any real understanding of them, much less revealing the insights he knew they contained.

Arran could only sigh in frustration at this lack of progress. Without a teacher, there was no way to know whether he was on the right path or whether the hours he spent practicing were a useless waste of time.

But a few weeks without results were nowhere near enough to make him give up, and so, he continued to study the Forms as best he could, hoping that the path he’d chosen was the right one.

Nearly a month passed like this, with Arran spending every waking moment studying and training.

The constant effort left him weary, but somehow, he found himself enjoying almost every moment of it. Between the different types of study and practice he had new goals to reach every day, and every step forward encouraged him to try even harder.

Then, one morning, as Arran was studying the captain’s manuscripts, there was a sudden loud knocking on his door.

"Commander!" an anxious voice sounded. "Come quick!"

Arran hurried over to the door at once, and when he opened it, he saw Ervin, red-faced and bearing an unusually worried expression.

"What is it?"

"The captain!" the old man blurted out. "He’s in trouble! The Rangers — they just arrived, five of them. They spoke to the captain, and—" He stopped mid-sentence, then shook his head. "You should come quick."

Arran grabbed his sword immediately, then rushed out the door at once. By now, he knew Ervin well enough to know that the old man would not be shaken easily.

Just moments later, he arrived at the center of the camp, where he found a large group of people.

On one side stood nearly a hundred mercenaries, hands on their weapons and tense looks on their faces. At their head were Captain Kaleesh and Sassun, and to Arran’s shock, he saw that the captain was on his knees, the side of his face badly bruised and a trickle of blood coming from his mouth.

There was no need to guess who was responsible.

Before the captain stood five Rangers, backed up by well over a hundred Darian soldiers, each of them armed and armored. And as Arran approached, he saw that the front Ranger looked at the captain with a contemptuous glare.

"Know your place, outsider dog!" the man snarled, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword as if he was eager for any excuse to use it.

Arran grabbed his sword more firmly as he approached, rage already welling up inside him. Whoever these Rangers were, just the thought of them treating his friends like this caused a murderous glint to appear in his eyes.