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MANY MEN HAVE MADE their careers on the battlefield and then lost them at the dinner table. Be sure to study the use of cutlery as much as the use of the sword.
—Doren, teacher at Scaleback Academy
* * *
LIFE AT THE ACADEMY was strict, regimented, and highly disciplined. The days began before dawn and continued to well after sunset. The mornings always began with the chores: bundle the bedroll, sweep the sleeping quarters, and put away any personal items from the previous night. Soon after rising, the students assembled in the meal hall for breakfast. The usually simple but hearty fare was devoured in relative silence under the watchful eye of the headmaster and other teachers. Once breakfast concluded, the students attended the morning lessons.
Morning lessons provided arms training for the younger students, those in their first and second years at the academy, with the afternoons dedicated to academic lessons. The third- and fourth-year students reversed the schedule. Onin learned, to his chagrin, the headmaster valued scholastic progress as much as skill at arms.
Ostensibly students could spend the evening hours as desired. In practice, finishing the day's academic assignments consumed most evenings, although many students spent time in additional arms training as well. Onin liked to do so himself, whenever possible. The younger students got few opportunities to work with the older students on combat skills.
Once the sun would no longer allow for mock battles or further writing, then the business of evening chores began. Most chores involved the kitchen in some form or another—the struggle to feed several hundred hungry adolescents was monumental, so best to make them do most of the work themselves. Onin had never scrubbed so many dishes in his life.
But it wasn’t all drudgery and work. The first friend Onin made was the young man who shared his sleeping quarters. He introduced himself as Fargin Whistlewind. He was stocky and strong, though not as big as Onin, with a shy smile. He wasn’t the talkative sort, which suited Onin just fine; a chatterbox for a roommate would have driven him mad. He found Fargin had a sense of humor underneath his meek demeanor when Onin’s undergarments turned up missing one morning. Onin looked all about the cell they shared, with Fargin’s help, but to no avail, and Onin became more and more impatient. When Fargin suggested that they expand the search to the gardens outside the sleeping quarters, Onin became suspicious. Soon after, he found his undergarments hanging from a tree. Several nearby students stifled laughter as Onin came out in his bedclothes to get them. By the time Onin had retrieved them and gone back to the cell, Fargin was rolling on his cot in hysterics.
Hangric Anover was another new friend, the only first-year student bigger than Onin. They had been matched together on one of the first days of arms training. Their initial clash drew spectators from all over the yard. The match wasn’t completed until each had broken the practice sword on the other. They fought hard but fairly and developed mutual respect. Before long, they took all of their meals together.
But Rabbash Kurz made his way most firmly into Onin's heart. Short and skinny, Rabbash possessed a keen wit. He stood out to Onin not because of strength of arms but because of scholastic excellence. Onin struggled with the academic side of their studies, and Rabbash had apparently noticed. Whenever Onin foundered with a concept or idea, he could rely on Rabbash to explain it to him in terms he would understand. Onin had never met someone so intelligent.
Teacher Prendor oversaw the arms lessons. His strict methods demanded more from his students on a daily basis than they really felt they could give. But give they did; somehow the dour-faced man with scant praise could motivate them to ever greater feats. Over and over again, a student would be soundly thrashed or collapse on hands and knees in exhaustion, seemingly unable to continue. Prendor would kneel down, whispering advice and encouragement, somehow demanding the would-be Guardsman stand up and do the exercise again. He cajoled, he threatened, he dared, he insulted; Prendor would do whatever it took to keep them striving.
He also required strict behavior from his students. He brooked no arguments or discourtesy among them. He demanded the utmost in respectable manners and speech. He rebuked them for angry outbursts or bouts of impatience. Most important, he had no tolerance for those who took unfair advantage of a weaker student.
Teacher Doren, on the other hand, focused on their academic advancement. If anything, he demanded more of his students than Prendor. Prendor would make allowances for students based on their capabilities, such as limited muscular strength or a lack of agility. Where Prendor would guide students in ways to work around their shortcomings, Doren refused to acknowledge the failings of the students. He demanded critical thinking, accuracy, and retention from them all. Mastering the morning lessons consumed many hours of the students' evenings, each lesson building on the one before.
Despite his demanding nature, Doren displayed a nurturing attitude toward the students. Many of the boys grew homesick or despondent during their time at the academy, and Doren would be the one to console them, encourage them, and make them feel better. During the time at the academy, Prendor acted as father, and Doren became their mother.
Under the dual tutelage, the students advanced in ways they had never imagined. Onin had always been a stumbling reader, but over time found himself able to quote whole sections of poems. Despite his strength and stamina, his agility failed him, and many drills and exercises from Teacher Prendor had him balancing on thin beams, climbing tree branches with no hands, or walking while balancing a bowl of water on his head. All of the students learned repeatedly to test their capabilities and grew in their abilities as a consequence.
But beyond even the practical skills they learned, the teachers tried to instill in them the principles that made the Guard distinct from other soldiers. Terms such as “honor,” “loyalty,” “sacrifice,” and “chivalry” became part of their daily intake, just as much as food or water or air. Lessons came through stories and fables, but also through a series of leading questions, ones designed to bring the student to the desired conclusion.
"How do you know when an action is honorable?" asked Doren one day.
"When we are doing our duty," offered one student.
"What if you are ordered to kill an unarmed man?"
"Loyalty demands we obey," said Fargin, though he looked uncertain.
"Is obedience the sum of loyalty?" asked the teacher.
"No," said Onin. "Question the order first. Ask why the man has to die."
"Bold," stated Doren. "But why?"
"Because it is our duty to protect our charge’s honor as well," replied Onin. "We would be remiss to allow the ones above us to mistakenly damage their honor forever."
"Unless the unarmed man poses a danger to the protected," countered Hangric. "An unarmed man is not necessarily harmless."
"Good, good," said Doren. "Never forget your first duty is to the protected. Sometimes disobedience is required to guard them properly, not just their bodies but their reputations."
One day during arms practice, Prendor deliberately mismatched them, pairing the smallest students with the largest. He ran them through a series of brutal drills that involved trading a series of blows, with the partner parrying with the weapon and sometimes with the shield. The intensity of the exercise increased with each repetition. Before long, the yard plunged into chaos as the outmatched students inevitably gave under the onslaught. Onin was paired with Rabbash, and his slight friend had a hard time remaining on his feet as the lesson progressed. Onin held back, but Prendor was on him in an instant.
"No quarter!" the teacher screamed. "Full power on each and every blow!" Onin redoubled his efforts in response.
The next blow sent Rabbash reeling to the ground. He struggled to his feet, but immediately stumbled and fell again. Onin raised his weapon and gritted his teeth, silently begging his friend to stay down.
"Hold!" cried Prendor. The fighting came to a stop. All of the students seemed relieved the exercise was over, regardless of whether they had been giving or receiving the beating. Prendor glared at them all.
"So what do you think that was all about?" he said smoothly. "Do you think it unfair and churlish of me to make such unbalanced pairings?"
"It hardly seems honorable, sir," said Hangric. Prendor glared at him for a long moment, and Hangric withered noticeably.
"Life is not fair," said the arms teacher. "Neither is battle. You’ll not have the leisure of pairing yourself with someone your own size. Larger or smaller, the enemy is bent on killing you, plain and simple. This goes just as much for you other students; underestimating your opponent because you are bigger will lay you low.
"Now form up!" Prendor shouted. "The parries I see lack precision. Remember whether the attack misses you by a foot or a hair’s breadth, it is still a miss. There’s no need to exaggerate your movements! Keep your shield tight to your body!"
And so the drills continued.
* * *
THE YEAR PROGRESSED. The seasons turned. By Onin’s first winter, his life in the Heights was so full, he almost forgot his previous existence as a wealthy man’s son in Sparrowport. No longer was he mingling with those who sought to use him for advantage due to his relations; everyone at the academy came from a good family. It was easy to relax around his new circle of friends, which was a new experience for him.
Good friends they made too. All of them were at an age that required them to act like men, but they still had the impulses of the boys within. The number of pranks and shenanigans that played out in the barracks of the early students would have driven most parents to fits, but the teachers took it all in stride, seemingly used to certain excesses from rowdy young men. Still, though, being caught in the act meant discipline, which usually arrived in the form of scullery duty. It was an effective deterrent, as scullery duty was the most likely to cut into the student’s free time. The idea of losing some of the precious little time afforded them unthinkable, they kept their gags reined in for the most part.
Despite their boyish tendencies, the sensibilities of budding men became apparent. This manifested itself in a variety of ways, but none more so than a fascination with the fairer sex.
"Why don’t we have any girls at academy?" asked Fargin over breakfast one day. "I’d give just about anything to see a pretty girl once in a while."
"Me too," added Hangric. "Not even a kitchen maid here."
The others muttered their agreement. Onin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a girl, and he wished he had really taken a long look when he did. Onin had never thought much about girls until he had none in his daily life; he now missed them deeply, though he would have been hard pressed to say exactly why. Contemplating the question made him slightly uncomfortable.
"Maybe girls aren’t cut out to be Guards," said Fargin. "Maybe the training is too difficult. Most of the boys I know couldn’t hold up under the arms practice. I can’t imagine a girl who could do it."
"You’ve never met my sister." Hangric laughed.
"It’s for our own sakes," chimed in Rabbash, talking around a mouthful of gruel. "If we had girls here to look at, we’d never get anything done. It would ruin our ability to concentrate on our lessons."
The others scoffed.
"We wouldn’t be distracted," said Hangric. Even seated at the table, his head towered over the rest of them. "I mean, girls are nice and everything, but I would be more concerned about keeping my head attached to my shoulders."
"You say that now," countered Rabbash. "But tell me, what do you spend most of your time thinking about now?"
Hangric considered for a moment. "Girls!" he answered.
"Exactly," said Rabbash. "Imagine girls all over the place. Speaking of which, there’s a girl now!"
Rabbash pointed over Hangric’s shoulder, and each of the boys turned to look. Once Hangric faced the opposite direction, Rabbash struck him soundly on the crown of the head with his spoon. It made a hollow, tinny thunk as it impacted Hangric’s thick noggin and left a clump of gruel in the husky boy’s hair.
"Too easy," said Rabbash with a smile.
* * *
IT WAS A WHOLESOME, self-contained world they lived within. Each day they worked and trained in the ideals that made the Heights great, by some accounts. Notions such as honor, duty, and chivalry carried greater meaning than mere words, describing virtues to cultivate. The teachers fed them on parables and sweat, philosophies and stew. They grew in mind and body, and each piece given to them by their teachers became a brick in their internal castles, built on principles from days past.
Not all in the academy aspired to join the Guard, however. Some few students, perhaps a dozen or so, attended strictly for the academic lessons and did not participate in the lessons-in-arms, so they would never be eligible to join the order. However, many wealthy and powerful families would pay handsomely to have their children attend. The "academics" lived alongside the fighting students, largely unnoticed. The lack of visibility was reinforced by a lack of proximity, as the academics lodged in their own chambers, away from the others.
During the afternoon arms practice, the academics spent their extra time in additional studies or pursuing art- or craft-related endeavors. On one such afternoon, two academics, twin brothers, sat near a window while reading from historic texts. Tall but slight of frame, both possessed light blond hair and striking blue eyes. The seats they occupied afforded them a view of the fighting students at work. They would glance up from their text from time to time to observe the arms students. The gaze never lingered, however, and they inevitably returned to reading in apparent boredom.
A pudgy boy with pasty skin entered the hall with a ponderous text in his hands. He approached the twins, pointedly looking at one, then the other. Each met his gaze without a change of expression. The fat boy held the book to the twin on his left.
"Here it is, Altavus," said the chubby boy in a whiny voice. "Just as you asked, Magics of the Ancients."
"Thank you, Sensi," said the twin to his right. "But I am Altavus."
Sensi looked him right in the eye, and after a slight pause answered, "Except you are not, Lornavus."
The twins shared a brief but inscrutable glance. Sensi wondered if they somehow spoke in each other’s mind. They almost never spoke to one another yet seemed to know what the other was thinking. Sensi was the only person who could identify them consistently—even the teachers couldn't tell them apart. Sensi himself was unsure how he did it, except that it had something to do with the eyes.
The twin on his left reached out and accepted the book, proving he indeed was Altavus. Uncharacteristically, Lornavus gave a slight smile, his lips turning up at the corners. The smile didn’t reach his eyes; it never did. Sensi found himself drawn to those pale blue orbs, like staring into cold, reptilian eyes.
"I’ll need that book back next week. Librarian Togg is planning on doing an inventory of the classic tomes. I’ll need to have it back by then," said Sensi. "The old goat will have my hide if he catches me removing such an old book from the library."
"It will be returned in time," said Altavus, his speech clipped and precise, each syllable enunciated clearly. He thumbed through the book, stopping every few pages to study an inscription or examine snippets of text. The book was filled with the archaic High Script, a language Sensi himself didn’t understand. Most of the truly great works of learning and culture had long ago been translated into contemporary language, so there wasn’t much need for the ancient tongue.
But over and over, Sensi would get requests from them for this or that obscure manuscript, usually in High Script. Not for the first time, Sensi wondered what interest these moldy tomes could hold for Altavus and Lornavus. His thoughts were interrupted when Lornavus produced a pouch from the folds of his robe and tossed it to him.
"Your finder’s fee," said Lornavus.
The pouch clinked as it landed in his hands. Sensi squirreled it away and left the twins to their book.