Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2) by C.J. Aaron (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

housing the majority of those on duty. Military classrooms and a large clinic comprised the remaining sections of its interior.

From behind the building, the unmistakable sounds of steel striking steel mingled with the shouts and grunts of the training Vigil. Running the length of the building at its rear was a large open field dedicated to training. Patches of flattened grass dotted the enclosure, though most of the area was worn down from heavy use to a hard-packed earth.

A squat stone wall separated the outdoor training grounds from the outer avenue that traveled the circumference of the city. There was a large gathering of Vigil sparring in pairs as their instructors moved between their ranks, making corrections to form where needed. Ryl and Kaep stopped alongside the wall. He immediately recognized Andr among the instructors giving the early morning lesson.

Andr inclined his head in recognition as his eyes made contact with Ryl’s. The mercenary turned instructor continued his circuit through the pairings of the Vigil.

“Looks like the children are here to see what real sword fighters can do,” the scoff came from a group along the edge of the training grounds, several meters from where they had stopped.

The snide remarks garnered chuckles from several of the surrounding groups.

All laughter ceased as Andr's voice boomed over the grounds.

“On me. Now,” he commanded.

The sparring ceased. The Vigil scrambled into a roughly packed order.

Andr paced in front of the group, eyeing them with an irritated scowl.

“Your technical skills are sound. They would be the pride and joy among nearly any house or guard I’ve encountered,” Andr admitted. A few boisterous cheers erupted from the Vigil, though most viewed him suspiciously, awaiting his next words.

“What you lack is true experience,” Andr grumbled. “You’ve yet to see bloodshed. Yet to be tested under true battle conditions.”

The cheers were replaced by groans as the Vigil protested the perceived slight.

“Who here is considered the best swordsman?” Andr asked.

The name, Nielix, resounded from several among the Vigil. Ryl could see the confidence swell in the man as he puffed his chest up at the recognition.

“Ah, Nielix, it is then,” Andr said calmly. “Care to give the children a show they won't soon forget?”

Nielix responded with a guttural growl as he confidently strode forward. He whipped his dulled training sword from its scabbard swinging it around in a fluid, well-rehearsed flourish. He stopped halfway between Andr and the assembled Vigil, waiting impatiently for the mercenary to continue.

Andr approached slowly, pausing a few meters before the eagerly waiting Vigil.

“Watch now, for this will undoubtedly be a lesson for all,” Andr announced to the gathered soldiers. “Nielix, I want you to attack me. Hold nothing back. Fight as if your life depends on it.”

Andr purposefully slid his sword from its scabbard before tossing it to his off hand. He let the tip of the blade sink toward the ground. Nielix seized the opportunity to strike—stepping forward, swinging his sword in a dramatic loop as he began his attack.

Andr darted ahead before the blow could strike home, and his dominant right hand, now empty, pounded into the side of Nielix's face. The overconfident fighter stumbled a few paces to the side before collapsing to the ground, skidding to stop on the hard-packed earth. There was a stunned gasp from the assembled soldiers.

“You worthless scum,” Nielix spat. He was on his feet in an instant. The incensed Vigil dabbed his left hand at his face, retrieving a small smear of blood.

The sight of the crimson on his hand ignited a burning anger that drove him into a frenzy.

“I was right about you,” Nielix cursed. “You fight like a dog. You are nothing more than a faithless mercenary selling your loyalty for gold.”

“Aye, I am a mercenary,” Andr responded calmly, though his words carried a resounding force. “Though you would do well not to challenge my sense of loyalty.”

Andr passed his training sword back to his dominant right hand, flexing the grip as he took ahold of the blade.

“There’s nothing fair in a sword fight,” he continued. “This isn’t a competition. A sword fight is life or death. You may be the most technically skilled fighter, but if all it takes is a simple ruse to trip you up, you’re no better than a child. Isn’t that right, Dav?”

Andr leaned to the side, looking past Nielix, inclining his head slightly as he posed the question. Nielix pivoted his head looking for the object of Andr’s question.

The space behind him was empty. Recognition dawned across the man’s face as he realized the folly of his action.

Too late.

As soon as his head turned, Andr surged forward for the second time. The open palm of his left hand connected with the right side of Nielix’s face with a deafening slap that resounded through the training area. The soldier spun round off-balance.

“Hm, killed by a simple ruse,” Andr confirmed. “Again.”

As Nielix regained his footing, his already seething anger boiled over. The enraged guard screamed as he charged, launching into an overhand chop that would have spelled death, even with the dulled blade. Andr casually sidestepped the attack, slapping the flat side of his sword into Nielix’s shin. The Vigil stumbled forward awkwardly, losing his grip on his blade as it planted itself in the ground. He slid to a stop a few meters from where Ryl and Kaep stood watching.

Before he could rise, Andr stood over him, the tip of his sword gently resting on the back of Nielix’s neck.

“Never let your emotions overpower your rationality,” Andr announced loud enough for those assembled. “You’re dead. Again.”

Andr knelt down beside the prostrated body of Nielix.

“I'd mind what you say about the skills of those children,” Andr whispered to the downed Vigil. “I've personally witnessed that boy decimate a scout of forty Horde. Harriers, you call them, and he’s only had an afternoon of training. Tell me, what have you done?”

Andr rose to his feet, stepping to the side, sliding his sword back into its sheath. He wrenched the blade