The Humble Life of a Skill Trainer

“A log slice with a flat, one inch, steel plate on top. One custom leather suit with pockets as well as metal plates to fill them, and a silversmith’s hammer? Is this a joke?” asked the Baron’s Seneschal.

Heathrow was rubbing his forehead while he flipped through the stack of papers on his desk. Even while I watched, a squire entered and deposited another pile on the Seneschal’s desk. Frustration almost radiated off of the man. A Seneschal was supposed to handle the financial and supply issues for a fortress. He wasn’t a Majordomo. He wasn’t supposed to be in charge of the Baron’s social duties. But, he was the only one who had any experience with those duties, so he had been roped into handling them. Then I was dropped into his lap, causing a massive outcry from the different trade Guilds that he then had to deal with. I could sympathize. Worse, I was asking him to order work from those Guilds for custom items that would be used by me, indirectly, for training. A tall order.

“No, not a joke. I’ll require other custom items in the future as well,” I said, while the fussy man flipped through his paperwork again.

“The plate and hammer are needed for Private Potter. As soon as he has them both, I can begin his training. The leather suit and metal plates are for Alexis,” I said, ignoring the wince at my use of the Baroness’s first name. I was technically a low noble now, so it wasn’t out of line, but it was still frowned upon. As much as I wanted to avoid bothering Heathrow, to make things easier for myself if no other reason, I wasn’t going to tip-toe around him either.

When the thin man failed to look up from his stack of papers, I shrugged and left the cramped little office. I would either get my supplies, or I wouldn’t. I would give it a week before I worried again about it.

The day had been long and painful. [Meditation] and [Acting] left me with a throbbing migraine in the morning, then training with Snowy reduced my body to a quivering mess. Once the first sparring match was over, things had been more comfortable. Mason and I walked through different ideas for how we could help Snowy develop [Swordmanship], much to her horror at our suggestions. When we tried to decide the best way to help her develop a type of stamina regenerating Skill or one of the exhaustion resistance Skills, she nearly whimpered. I could understand her reticence, it wouldn’t be pleasant, but it would solidly round out her combat Skills. Once she started her Baroness training, she would remember our preparation fondly.

Leaving the Seneschal’s office, I jumped in surprise at the sudden appearance of my new shadow. I was introduced to Sir Wincome by one of the squires after training with Snowy and Mason. The boy stutteringly explained that the Baron had reassigned my guards. He was assigning his Elites to protect me and my property. I wasn’t sure about the change, but I was thankful for it all the same. The Baron’s Elites were far more Skilled than the fortress guards. My guess was that the Baron was having me train his fortress guards to become Snowy’s personal Elites. Assigning a knight to my protection was a significant investment in my safety, and I was honestly touched. I was also thankful not to be training Guards, who then would be keeping me safe while I slept. My training was low-grade, borderline torture, I wouldn’t want them standing over me with weapons while I slept afterward.

Unfortunately, Sir Wincome had only a thinly veiled disgust with guarding me. It wasn’t blatant. He didn’t spit at my feet or sneer in my face. But he subtly stood too close, loomed over me when he could, and fingered his sword while staring me down. With his black dyed leather armor, tightly coifed and oiled dark hair, and narrow black beard, the man exuded threat. My guess was that he had some kind of threatening Skill. It was the only explanation for why his very presence induced a low level of anxiety in me and everyone around him. I could imagine that was useful on the battlefield but had to be horrible for social situations.

Nodding to Sir Wincome as I passed, I returned to the training hallway only to be redirected by a squire. The boy let me know that the guards were being served in the dining hall, and I was to be included. The sound of boisterous and happy men echoed from the direction of the food, and I joined the end of the line that was slowly moving past the low table where food was being served. At the High Table, Snowy and the Baron ate from food that was delivered to them from nervous-looking squires.

Despite a large number of hungry men, the food was very generous. I was handed a bread bowl filled with a thick stew of meat and vegetables along with a large mug of a thin ale. Given the number of men, the volume of food, and the sheer complexity of tracking everything, I didn’t envy Heathrow’s job. Just tracking the freshness of the food and the orders to replace the food consumed would be headache-inducing. Managing the different magical runes required to maintain its storage alone would be a pain. The complexities of freshness, availability, and food rotation, needed to ensure the survival of the fortress before and during a siege, boggled my mind. I could imagine that the complexity went more in-depth than I knew. Poor Heathrow’s fingers must be worked to the nub from the paperwork.

The fare was rich and hearty but unseasoned. I hadn’t expected salt or pepper, not for as many as were in the hall. There was a difference between treating your men well and spending freely. Despite the lack of seasoning, the food filled my empty stomach and left me warm and slightly fuzzy-headed. It would be a good idea to keep extra food on hand while training [Meditation] because the burgeoning pain that had been hiding behind my eyes faded with the food. The only real disruption to my enjoyment was the subtle extra space between the other men at the table and me. That, and the looming Sir Wincome who watched me eat without consuming anything himself.

While I sipped my ale, I watched the men and looked for anything that might help them develop a skill. Were they outgoing? Boisterous? A leader? Shy? I doubted that anything would jump out at me while I watched, but it was something to do while drinking the watered-down ale before I had to trudge back home. It was downhill, which would be easier on my tired body. Still, any action was too much for my overstimulated brain.

Finally, I couldn’t excuse my laziness any further, and I rose to leave, my plate and cup grabbed by a waiting squire while I plodded away. Those squires had to do most of the scut work for the guards and the Baron’s elite. In exchange, they would get expert weapons training, decent gear, and a chance at a better life, a fair trade for the price their parents had to pay.

Ignoring the waves of hostility that followed in my wake, Sir Wincome’s threat feeling like heat radiating from a furnace at my back, I trudged downhill. It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I considered that my guard detail had changed because the Baron had discovered an increased threat. Which made me wonder if I would be followed to breakfast with my new elite guard as well. Shrugging, I ignored the possibility. While his Skill was off-putting, it would be worse not to be protected. I was getting food, constant use of my Skills, and steady employment. All and all, not a bad deal. I could put up with an angry follower that would slice and dice anyone who attacked me.

When I reached my home, I waved to the guard leaning back in a chair in front of my house. I would bet that this detail would be seen as boring but safe and an easy way to make some spare cash. The guard who watched over my home and shop didn’t have to be Skilled or particularly capable, just them being seen would be enough. I stopped to wipe the muck from my walk off my boots with the edge of the porch.

Fishing out my key, I unlocked and stepped into my home and let free a sigh at the thought of rest after such a tiring day. If I hadn’t had [Meditation] active, I would have been caught flat-footed. Behind me, I heard the sound of a sword being drawn. The unmistakable sound of a blade clearing a sheath and the steps of a charging attacker caused my instincts to scream. Without a blade in hand, all I could do was try and dodge. Crouching, I turned to see my attacker. Moving in a blur was Sir Wincome, his weapon drawn. As he entered the doorway, his feet began to shimmer and glow red. The elite guard stepped up the wall and over me, his feet slamming new footholds in the wood as he passed. As his body arced over my prone form, his weapon began to glow on its edge with a sickly yellow light.

Sir Wincome’s charge came to a sudden stop on the wall as he shifted his body and turned nearly horizontal. His feet drove into the wall before he lunged into the room, his sword leading his charge. His blade impacted a bludgeon that passed where my head would have been, his blade shattering the weapon as it passed. The man moved into the living room and out of my sight, but I could hear bodies impacting walls and the sound of blood splashing. I wasn’t aware that I could identify blood spurting from a wound, but in [Meditation], the sound was clear and distinct.

Before I could rise and see what was happening, Mason appeared and passed me. In the front room was silence. With Mason, I thought that would be the end of the fight, but a new battle started in the back alley beyond my home. Whoever Mason’s opponent was, it was a shortlived fight. A few impacts, a scream, and then silence.

[Meditation] kept the worst of the fright from me, but I was still shaken. Sir Wincome induced sheer terror as he passed me. I was able to anticipate and see his movements, but nothing would allow me to do more than huddle in the front hall and watch as he approached. The active version of his Skill left me trying to maintain bladder control and unable to fight back. I belatedly was glad he hadn’t been charging at me.

When I stepped into my front room, I was greeted by the sight of three thugs. There was a difference between a civilian who was good with violence and an elite warrior. These men were clearly civilians, and Sir Wincome was not. For a moment, I had to swallow bile because of the gaping second mouth on the neck of one of the men. This was the source of the coppery smell in the room. The other two were smashed into the walls of my living room - literally embedded in the walls - but the sound of their breathing said they were still alive, though broken. I didn’t know the dead man or one of those in the wall, but the other was one of Bracker’s gang. I paid Bracker for protection, and for a moment, I was indignant that the local protection gang had attacked me, but my indignation was short-lived. I paid to reduce the chances of being harassed and to blend in, something I was no longer going to be doing.

Sir Wincome walked back into the room with Mason, the two dragging the corpse of a third man dressed as one of the Baron’s elites!

“Well, we found the leak. The Baron didn’t know if it was Wincome or Milstin here,” Mason said while bouncing the corpse at the second name. Sir Wincome looked annoyed, but I couldn’t tell if it was the accusation or the lack of honorific. Mason ignored Sir Wincome and dropped the corpse in my front room. Now that the corpse was closer, I could see a set of five daggers in the body’s back. While I stood and stared like an idiot, Mason removed the blades and wiped them off on the corpse.

With a numb feeling, I asked, “You used me to flush out which of the elite guards was the traitor?”

Mason ignored me and instead looked to the two men embedded in the wall. He frowned, then scratched at his chin.

“Alright, Wincome, you don’t wanna be here while I talk to these guys,” Mason said and gestured the knight out of the house.

Turning to me, Mason flipped a dagger around then thrust the handle at me and asked, “You ever tortured anyone for information before?”