Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) by Damien Lake Page B

re-classed me on skill alone yet.”  He glared at his sword.  “I
need to keep training until I’m equal to the rank.”
    Absently, he fingered the bandages wrapping his face. 
Marik considered the previous battle against his friends.  So far, Colbey had
taught him nothing new about wielding a sword.  The scout had only awakened him
to his own sensory perceptions.
    Marik had learned from Chatham about heightening his
senses before a battle, to stop ignoring the constant input from his eyes and
ears.  He thought he had become adept at that, but Colbey knocked the scales
from his eyes.  Comparing Chatham’s teachings to Colbey’s was like placing a
tool hut next to the command building.  The scout instructed him in
interpreting every slightest sigh of wind and hint of movement.  Due credit to
Colbey had not been acknowledged by Marik until this very fight against three
of his shieldmates.
    His friends still moved with all their superior speed,
yet he guessed what their actions would be an instant sooner based on subtle
clues.  This greatly helped his blocks, dodges and counterattacks.
    Then there was his own speed.  Beyond anything else,
Colbey kept ranting about Marik’s speed.  It never satisfied the sadistic
scout.  Advanced speed had always been Dietrik’s forte, but he knew Colbey
would keep shouting until he somehow pushed his sword to greater speed than
Dietrik’s rapier.  Marik glumly accepted that this meant Colbey would shout at
him for the rest of his life.
    His gaze wandered while he rested.  He noticed a straw
mockup dummy still sitting to one side.  Earlier, he had been practicing when
Kerwin and Landon arrived.  The temptation to leave it seduced him .  Slacking
off is the first step in going to seed.   With a sigh, he rose to claim it
from beside the first six’s sad remains.
    “What’s news?”
    “I noticed I missed this one.”
    He set it on the wooden post.  His new sword was
suited well for slashes.  Less well for thrusts.  Still, Colbey remained
adamant.  Six points on the straw man had been painted with small red circles,
the scout having used the same paint that highlighted the torso’s customary
centerline.  The circles were scattered instead of clustered together, nor were
they in any pattern.
    Thrusting quickly, Marik hit the first circle’s edge,
high on the shoulder.  Before his blade could come to a rest, he pulled back
and thrust for the second.  The point must never be allowed to stop, must
thrust as fast as he could, keeping the blade constantly moving.
    He missed the second circle on the opposite shoulder
by two inches.  The third landed even further from the mark.  When he thrust
for the fourth, he nearly hit the fifth instead.  Without altering his angle,
he struck for the fifth time, hoping to stay on target.  Instead he went astray
by the widest margin yet.  The sixth thrust missed the straw torso entirely.
    Marik swore and flopped to the ground, deciding his
fatigue could be blamed for his worst performance ever.  Each subsequent strike
would always be less accurate than the previous, but he had never missed
completely before.
    “Mind if I have a go?”
    “Help yourself,” Marik grunted.
    Studying the setup, Dietrik added, “I’m surprised I
never thought of this.  This is perfect practice for my rapier.”
    “Have fun.”  Marik’s mood festered.  This exercise was
designed to improve speed and accuracy, and yet his average results were no
noticeably different than when he’d first started.
    Dietrik loosened his arm.  This was an activity Marik
always found fascinating.  While gripping the rapier hilt, he shook his hand up
and down.  The blade’s center moved none at all but the tip whipped down and
up, opposite to the direction his hand traveled.  Such fluid motion always played
with Marik’s eyes.
    With quicksilver thrusts, Dietrik struck the first
circle a glancing blow.  The next strike landed dead on and he ran the