Tallas Fallen Temple Ch 21

Beneath the watchful gaze of the four Fighters, each of their silhouettes showing a sword hilt over their shoulders, Zhair'lo quickly packed everything that was his in the backpack they'd given him. He didn't have much in the way of personal belongings and he didn't know anyone who did. Still, there were a few things he wasn't going to leave behind.

Because not only would those two pairs of women's underwear raise questions, they were also treasures. The first pair was Talla's, left behind the very night the two of them had lost their virginities to each other. The second tiny, white triangle had belonged to Illya and held its own significance.

Each of those articles of clothing were folded up tightly and tucked into the pair of shorts in the deepest part of his single drawer dresser. It was easy, even under the eyes of the men who stood behind him, to secret everything together into the backpack.

Zhair'lo turned to face the man who had pounded on his door.

"That's it?" the man asked in his gruff voice.

"Yes."

"Yes, sir," gruff voice corrected.

"Yes, sir," Zhair'lo straightened.

"My name is Sergeant Yung. I'll be in charge of training you and the other recruits. Two of them are waiting outside. We have a fourth to pick up and then we'll go find the women."

Sergeant gestured toward the hallway, past the man who was holding the door open.

"All you need to know for now is that you do as I say and you call me 'sir'."

"Yes, sir."

The large man nodded, a wry grin on his face.

Zhair'lo formed so many impressions of Sergeant Yung so quickly that it was hard to sort them all out. Obviously, he wasn't a guy who messed around. His demeanour made Kurran, Kenji and every Master for whom Zhair'lo had ever worked seem like a gentle sheep. Yung had that same dark look in his eyes that Master Lyric got when he talked about his past, only he seemed to carry it as a permanent fixture to his personality.

Sergeant Yung also had no desire to impress anyone. The way he stood, spoke and even the way that he waved his hands around demonstrated a simple, self-assured confidence. He trained people to fight and was damned good at it. There was no need to bluster because he was utterly certain that his competence would speak for him.

The walk down to the empty common room wasn't long enough for Zhair'lo to analyze the man any further than that. They were soon out in the cool night air with two more Fighters and two dazed, sleep deprived boys who had to be the other recruits. They were older than Zhair'lo, but only by a couple of years.

Sergeant Yung briskly introduced them as Renzi, a worried-looking, blonde haired kid about ready to puke, and Kit, a boy with hair a bit darker than Zhair'lo's, who seemed wearily resigned to putting up with whatever they had to do tonight. In contrast to the Fighters, neither of Zhair'lo's fellow recruits had the energy to give him more than a nod of greeting.

It turned out that Fighters didn't walk anywhere - they ran. Renzi, by dint of his nausea, was least prepared for this. Kit seemed to be in okay shape but didn't have Zhair'lo's ease on his feet. The small group quickly passed the women on their way back to the Temple. Deirdre caught his eye very briefly, and twinkled a faint, worried smile at him.

Sergeant Yung and his men found it easy to talk, even while Renzi and Kit were panting with exhaustion. Their banter, however, was of little use to Zhair'lo as it consisted mainly of arcane terms that made no sense to him. They seemed to be comparing the benefits of various weapons, ranging from swords and axes to bladed staff weapons and such. Zhair'lo had no idea what a "flail" or a "maul" might be, but these terms were of great interest to the sword-carrying men, so he filed them away in his head for later reference.

As time passed, Renzi and Kit stumbled less. Their breathing was as laboured as ever, but they had otherwise resigned themselves to their fates.

Zhair'lo, what with one thing and another, had long ago adjusted to running great distances and had a lot more brainpower available for considering his surroundings. For one thing, he quickly realized that the conversation around him was a bit of a put-on; a show for the recruits. There was a faint pretence that the larger men were ignoring the three who straggled along behind them, but Zhair'lo knew that was nonsense. The goal was to put them in their place by showing them how weak, ignorant and inconsequential they were. It was as if the fighters were saying, "This is your life now. You need to become like us. You have a long way to go."

Zhair'lo felt himself absorbing their diction and manner, just as he had at Lyric's camp and Harzen's farm before it. He would find out what made these people tick and learn it well enough to imitate; to take it into himself. That was the way the Temple had forced him to operate, moving from one place to another as often as he had. If Zhair'lo hadn't been good at sliding himself so neatly into so many different communities, he never would have lasted so long nor done so well. He felt assured that he could do with these men what he had done with every previous group.

It wasn't long before the entire entourage came to a stop outside a blacksmith's shop.

Two of the Fighters, the dourest pair of the lot, stayed outside and kept a watchful eye on the alleys and approaches to their current position.

The wary way that they scanned their surroundings set a chill running down Zhair'lo's spine and settling in the pit of his stomach. These men were so accustomed to violence and danger that they wouldn't let their guards down even in the confines of the city. What danger was there here? When had anyone ever worried about an assault inside the limits of Gern?

Zhair'lo realized there was nothing logical about their behaviour. It was entirely an instinct.

'And I'm going to end up like them.'

After a moment, he forcefully amended his thinking.

'I want to end up like them.'

This was his way forward. He reminded himself that the decision had already been made.

One of the watchful men, Zhair'lo didn't know either of their names, cast a cynical gaze over Kit and Renzi, leaning on their knees and panting. The man's eyes slid over the ground and found Zhair'lo standing upright. Though breathing heavily, at least Zhair'lo wasn't doubled over and looking ready to vomit.

"You run a lot?" the man grunted even as his eyes returned to their paranoid scanning.

"Some," Zhair'lo set his tone to match the other's gruff terseness.

The Fighter nodded with what might have been a faint whiff of approval.

"You'll run more."

After that curt exchange, the boys might as well have turned to smoke and vanished into the night air for all the attention the older men paid them.

Zhair'lo thought it might be a good time to talk to his fellow recruits. Renzi was in no shape to talk, but Kit seemed to be catching his breath.

"Hey."

"Hey," the darker haired boy acknowledged.

"Feeling better?"

"A little."

"Where'd they get you from?"

Kit took a deep breath before gasping out an answer.

"Bakery. West end."

Zhair'lo wondered if the short, almost rude way that Fighters spoke to each other was a stylistic choice or just a force of habit from being out of breath.

"How long you ... been Hunting?" Kit asked.

"Not long," Zhair'lo said. "Was out at a Farm before that."

Renzi perked up at this. His face had gone from pale green to a flushed red.

"Men's work, that is," he muttered. "What else you do before that?"

Because, obviously, boys started working at age twelve and "men's work" couldn't start until eighteen.

"Blacksmith," Zhair'lo said. "Roofing. Some others."

"Get around a lot, then," Kit seemed impressed.

"Yeah."

Zhair'lo knew the smattering of apprenticeships he'd been through was unusual, but most of his age mates reacted to the idea with confused shrugs. It was clear such an education wasn't desirable. The odd time, Zhair'lo would get a sense people looked askance at his competence. From a certain point of view, he wasn't building up a repertoire of skills but failing to measure up at everything he did.

Zhair'lo made sure such points of view never lasted long. At every job, he set out to prove to his detractors that he was capable of whatever tasks they set before him. The moment he reached any level of competence, however, he would find himself whisked off somewhere else.

Renzi's attitude was something different from any reaction Zhair'lo had experienced in recent memory. The boy actually seemed to be upset. Until the advent of his discovery as a Seal Breaker, there had never been anything in Zhair'lo's life that would inspire someone to any of the varying shades of green between envy and jealousy.

But Renzi couldn't know that Zhair'lo was a Seal Breaker, could he?

Zhair'lo had never had to endure any negative feelings over his particular talent at transferring magic. It hadn't been discovered until he was among much older men at Harzen's Farm, where maturity had surely prevented such pettiness.

The path of Zhair'lo's thoughts was interrupted when Sergeant Yung burst suddenly out of the front door of the blacksmith's shop.

"Alright, boys," he commanded as his entourage emerged into the street behind him. "It's time to go fetch our women."

"This one's Z'rus," he jerked a thumb at a wide-eyed, red faced boy behind him. "These are Renzi, Kit and Zhair'lo. Now let's move!"

Renzi cast one last, foul look at Zhair'lo before the whole bunch were off and running again. Now that he was fully and properly awake, with the brisk night air filling his lungs, Zhair'lo had even less trouble keeping up with the Fighters and had enough energy to spare to pay more attention to them.

The two dull ones who had stayed out in the street earlier were running slightly ahead of the pack, carefully scanning every side alley, awning, crate and open doorway. The conversation, which was little different from before, now appeared to be even more meaningless.

The Fighters, Zhair'lo realized, weren't paying attention to what they were saying. It was a form of hollow banter, much like the friendly way little boys had of insulting each other. It took no brainpower because the attacks and replies were so well known to everyone involved. Their intellectual devotion was, instead, on the environment around them and the dangers it offered.

What dangers, though, he couldn't say. It must have been a long bred instinct that drove them thusly. Would they let their guards down as they came to the very gates of the Temple?

Apparently, they would not.

Instead, the six men formed up in to two neat rows of three in front of Form's small gate. The front row, with Sergeant Yung in centre, stood stiffly facing the gates. In the back row, the two dull men faced outward, scanning the approaches.

Technically, there was a third row even further back, but it seemed a bit of an insult to count the four desperately panting boys as part of the assembly.

Having taken these positions without so much as whispered order, the men simply waited, Hunter-like, for whatever would happen next.

Zhair'lo looked at streets around him while his fellow recruits panted. He had never seen the city so quiet. Was it after twelfth bell already? There was no wind, nor any scuffing of feet. No horse wheels creaked anywhere. There was only the sound of four boys breathing heavily, and they might be the only livings things in the city.

A grating noise broke the silence and jarred his nerves. Twisting his body around, he saw the trellis of the small gate opening to permit a group of women to exit.

The first three out were in a type of armour that Zhair'lo regarded as ceremonial. It just didn't make sense to wear a leather skirt that stopped above the knees and a top that left the mid-riff bare. Sure, it might hold some kind of allure - more than cancelled out by Renzi's retching noises off to his right - but there was no way a sensible person would go into battle like that.

The women were adorned with weapons that were far more serious than their armour. Each carried a pair of daggers in scabbards at her hips and a bow with a quiver full of arrows on her back.

One thing Zhair'lo didn't doubt, however, was that these were women of high rank. They might even be Officers, though he wouldn't be able to tell unless he saw what style of orange clothing they wore when they weren't in armour. All he knew for sure was that they were tall and sported rock solid muscles from calf to shoulder and all points in between.

Behind those three, almost invisible in the muscular shadows of their sisters, were four slim girls in the tiny skirts and tops of Initiates. If someone forced Zhair'lo to guess, he would have hazarded that two of them were Tight and two were Iron, based on the strength he saw in their thighs and bare abdomens.

One of the women walked up to Sergeant Yung, who remained stiffly at attention.

"You have Command?" she asked.

"Aye, Mistress," the reply came back sharp as a blade.

"Take us to the Barracks, then."

"Aye."

He swivelled on one foot to face away from her and toward the male half of the contingent. His next words came out formal and far more forceful than any previous instruction.

"Move out, boys!"

Immediately the three men in the back row lurched forward and set off at a jog. They instantly passed Zhair'lo and the recruits, who jerked forward and tried to keep up. A moment later, he found the four girls in white effortlessly running alongside him.

Zhair'lo gave one glance backwards to see the armoured women behind him, followed by Sergeant Yung and the last two male Fighters. He stumbled, just slightly, and decided to keep his eyes forward.

"Save your energy," the Initiate beside him whispered. "It's at least five kilometres. No stopping."

So he looked clumsy, did he? In front of new people?

"Done this before?" he asked cynically.

"No. I'm a recruit, just like you."

'Just like me', he thought, 'except they've given you information I don't have.'

They weren't travelling much faster than before, so he blanked out his mind as he had before and started to ponder the things he'd heard.

The woman, probably an Officer, who had spoken to Sergeant Yung, had asked him if he had 'Command'. He'd said that, yes, he had command, and she had then given him orders. That didn't seem right. If he had 'Command', in the sense Zhair'lo understood the word, why wasn't he giving the orders to her?

A grimace crossed his face. That didn't make sense either. In Zhair'lo's experience, men only gave orders to other men, not to women. He couldn't picture a way for even the mighty Sergeant Yung to shout an instruction at the formidable trio of Officers and elicit anything but a sneer.

'Command' must mean something special that pertained to Sergeant Yung, but not the women who told him what to do.

The Initiate who'd warned him earlier came up close to him again as they jogged.

"Bree," she said.

"Zhair'lo," he replied, hoping they were introducing themselves.

"Where ya coming from?"

"Hunting."

He could see, then, that people who did a lot of running would develop short and less courteous ways of speaking.

"You?"

She turned her head a bit, letting him catch a wry glint in her brown eyes as she looked at him in surprise.

"Fighter training."

Of course. What else would she have been doing? It meant she had a head start on whatever they would do next.

Zhair'lo kept his eyes low, lest he stumble and embarrass himself again. Nothing but legs pounding on cobblestone. He couldn't help but notice the cool, bare length of well muscled thigh trembling only a handspan a way from his own.

"You good with a bow, then?" she asked.

He looked up.

"Yeah. You?"

Their eyes met for a moment and he caught a look of surprise from Bree, but whether she judged him arrogant or merely confident, Zhair'lo couldn't say.

"So-so," she turned her eyes forward. "I'm Tight, not Iron. I'm better with the staff."

The Discipline of Tight, Zhair'lo well remembered, did the legs all the way up to the ass and the hips. Iron worked the abs and the upper body. He'd never seen anybody use a staff and he couldn't help but wonder how having strong legs would be of any use.

Bree was uncomfortably close and he couldn't help now but to think, as he watched her shoulder length, light brown hair flow behind her, that he'd only been Served the one time before Deirdre had called the night to an end. There was no doubt in Zhair'lo's mind, hearing the steady breathing rhythm of the girl next to him, that Bree was good for more than one mesh.

Looking around surreptitiously, it seemed to him that while the men and women were mismatched, the boys and girls had managed to pair up nicely. The other girls had hopeful, encouraging looks on their faces, half begging the other boys to keep up. A sideways look at Bree confirmed that there wasn't even a hint of anything other than complete confidence in Zhair'lo's legs.

High praise, from a Tight girl.

He tried to guess how far they'd run. They were already outside the tallest of the buildings near the Temple and into the shorter ones that hosted one-floor operations like blacksmiths, soapmakers and bakeries.

Zhair'lo thought they might have run a kilometre already, but he couldn't be sure. The track they were on was one of those he might have used to reach Lyric's Camp if he'd been on his way home. Would they actually run past the big lodge?

No. With a change of direction that was jarring only to Zhair'lo, they shifted off the main road on to a much less used side path. It would have been nice, in a strange way, to say one last goodbye to the place on his way by.

It suddenly occurred to Zhair'lo to remember the evening's dinner: the uninterrupted nap; the seat of honour; the toast and the very fine dessert.

They'd been saying goodbye to him and he'd been so dense he hadn't even realized it.

"Long may he run," Lyric had said, and the others had echoed.

Run, indeed, for they must have known exactly what was in store for him this night.

He took another look at Bree, flying along beside him as if the touching the ground was some minor inconvenience. On his right side were the other pairs. The boys clearly had been given no inkling of what was waiting for them, while the girls seemed to know the track just as well as they had the day Zhair'lo had been subjected to that abominable test of theirs.

Knowing the track seemed to the Temple's way of keeping men on their toes.

"Bree?" he kept his voice low.

"Yes," she replied, the tone of her voice letting him know there was nothing wrong with them talking.

"You know the place we're going?"

"South Barracks."

That was a name, certainly. He took a few hard breaths before going on.

"You been there?"

"Never," she admitted. "Just seen it on a map."

There were maps, after all. Zhair'lo had seen quite a few, but they got distinctly fuzzy at the edges long before mentioning things like "Barracks". There were arrows labelled with things like "To Turiksa", "To Beshenna" and "To the Sea".

"You must have better maps."

She smirked sideways at him before answering.

"You will too, now."

They passed quite suddenly beyond the range of the city's outdoor torches and were running with only the moonlight to guide them. It took only a moment for Zhair'lo's eyes to adjust, but even then he had to admit that running seemed more treacherous. The group seemed to slow down a little in recognition of this, despite the smoothness of the dirt path.

"I've been here before," Zhair'lo remarked.

"This path? I doubt it."

"We cross it when we go on a Hunt."

"Oh, right."

Bree didn't seem impressed, but at least it passed the time. While running this slowly might keep the other three boys from falling over, it was downright boring for Zhair'lo. Had they hit two kilometres yet? He fervently hoped so, for he doubted very much that any of the women were going to liven up the run by undressing.