The Humble Life of a Skill Trainer

Morning came earlier than I wanted. The strain of the walk and the brief ride on the wooden plank that pretended to be a wagon seat left me sore. Even the comfort of Alexis’ carriage had mitigated little of the soreness. Sleeping out under the stars in my leather sleeping covers had offered some warmth and comfort, but given the looks of the clouds now rolling in, I wouldn’t rest without a tent tonight.

With a groan and a stretch, I began to police my sleeping area. Folding and rolling what needed to be stored, I casually watched as the soldiers around me did the same. The sun was just peaking over the horizon, and the breakfast crew had been up early to warm stewed oats. The smell of the bland breakfast didn’t really entice me. I had supped on it far too often while on campaign with my father. But, the hint of honey and mint that drifted from the pot changed my mind. Without breaking my fast, I would be tired and grumpy before midday, so it was good that I had been lured into consuming a large bowl. The moment the thick paste of ground meal hit my tongue, my stomach argued for more and without a care for the taste. Luckily my tongue agreed with the flavored grains, and it was quickly consumed.

An hour after the food was devoured, the field was mostly clear of our encampment. The farmer grumbled as he used a long-handled rake and skimmed through last night’s hastily dug pits. As he pulled the muck back, thick black night-soil compost followed. Trudging along his field, with a few deft movements of his rake, the compost spread across his field. He was young to show such Skill, but not the youngest I knew of with the ability. The older gentlemen that was his father or possibly grandfather would stop and pick at weeds while he scattered seeds. Grass and clover spread behind him as he walked and erased the signs of our camp.

Shaking my head at the clear signs of magic - though vehemently denied as such by both Mage and peasant - I joined the men as they formed up and hopped onto the wagon again. The old man who directed the animals had so far remained silent the entire ride, never once looking my way or even commenting upon my commandeering of his bench. Which was just as I liked it. I was used to silence and only brief periods of [Acting] for select individuals. Working with a crowd and giving speeches was not normal for me, and it strained my sociability.

The morning march was slower than yesterday. I kept expecting someone to approach and ask me a question. Perhaps with a bit of confidentiality, we would see a few more questions, but instead, I was studiously ignored. It wasn’t until midday that I was approached by the Captain. He was deferential to me, and oddly enough, the wagon driver as well. He asked me to talk to the men as they ate lunch. It was a surprise to me that we would stop for lunch. We hadn’t eaten lunch the day before, and I hadn’t expected that to change. The day before, guards had pulled snacks from their packs and ate during the walk. The wagons wouldn’t be able to house multiple meals for everyone. Not with just the two carts we had.

Hopping off the bench, I returned to walking and stretching my legs a bit as I slowly drifted back to join the crowd of walking guards. I expected to be shunned or avoided, but the soldiers seemed accepting of me. Not like they were with their superiors with false smiles and bowed heads. Instead, I received a few nods of acceptance as the groups passed me. When roughly half the guards were in front of me, I picked up my pace to hold my central position and the small gap that opened around me.

So. Curious of my words, while still worried about my ultimate aims and the rumors, but hopeful for the potential to learn more. I can work with this.

Around noon we stopped and were served stale bread and a slop formed of boiled meat. Surprisingly, the beef was rather tasty due to salt that had been added to the pot. It was entirely decadent, and the gathered guard knew it. The container was enchanted to keep it warm and was watched over by a rider in the wagon. Combined with the salt, it had likely cost the same as a day of wages for all the men. This was no small expense, and I started to see why the Baron was so loved by his fighting men if this is how he treated them. The cost of the warmed and salted meat was a pittance compared to the extra loyalty and effort it would buy him. This told me a bit of how he might have earned his position as a mercenary leader before his time working for the King.

“Mr. Still, if you would?” the Captain asked while gesturing to the gathered soldiers who were still stuffing their faces.

Gently coughing to clear my throat, I took a swig from my wine pouch, and then stood on the back of the wagon next to the now emptied pot. I surveyed the soldiers and the sharp-eared troop followers I was sure were now listening in. I thought for a moment on what would be the most important thing to convey to the men and women for the coming Culling.

Nodding slowly, I straightened and tried to expand my chest to really let my lungs breathe. I felt a bit foolish with the posturing, but [Acting] pushed at me. My Skills insisting that it was essential to convey the importance of my station and not just the emotion of my speech.

“I have discussed Skills with the Baroness, and this same advice will serve you,” I said. Yes, the nobles get this information, and now you. Remember that the Baron insisted you would be trained and given the same information his daughter is learning. It was a bit of a cynical thought, but it wouldn’t hurt to make the Baron look good. In fact, since he was my primary employer now, providing plenty of work and money, talking him up could only help.

“To earn a Skill requires three parts: Equipment, Competency, and Will,” I said while staring into the faces of the crowd. I was trying to reach each man and woman. [Acting] insisted I look to the group, unlike a crier who would stare into the distance and so distance themselves from the words they spoke. They distanced themselves in the hopes any rowdy crowd members who dislike their words would take it out on someone else. I needed to make a connection to convince them.

“Equipment seems to be the easiest. Each of you has armor and a weapon. Your pike could be the gateway to earning [Pikemanship] or something like [Penetrating Thrust] or a host of other Skills. But in the same way, if you mistreat your weapon, fail to maintain it, and think of it as a simple stick instead of as a weapon, its benefit will decline. It is a weapon, and you must always think of it as such. This is the difference between the blows of a smith’s hammer with their Skills and the blows of a war hammer and the Skills that it can convey,” I said to the odd look from more than one of the new recruits. The veterans, on the other hand, were well used to the idea of maintaining their weapons. More than one had survived a confrontation because of the care of their weapon. Once a blade saves your life, it stops being any old tool and takes on a different feel. More than one mercenary had named their weapons. My father called his battle-ax his ‘second wife’ much to my mother’s laughter.

“Competency is surprisingly easy to gain. It is a rare few things you can not learn to do with some effort. Despite this, there are still some things that no matter your practice, no matter your effort, that you simply will not gain enough competency to earn a Skill. It is rare to find these hidden ineptitudes, but it does happen. You may safely ignore this in almost all regards. Until you have spent decades failing, assume it is the other two factors,” I said to the now silent and mostly unmoving soldiers. Only a few were still eating while I talked, most had put down their food and listened carefully. This was a sign of how staggeringly important these men and women found this information. Few things could delay a soldier from their food.

Taking a small sip from my wine pouch, a delay since I was uncomfortable with this next part, I looked up and breathed a giant sigh before continuing.

“The last is the most important. Will.”

This time I paused with my eyes closed, listening for the moment that the soldiers began to shift at the uncomfortable pause.

Opening my eyes again, I looked to the crowd then let my feelings show through my calm and professional words.

“This is why the Skill Trainers have gained their dark reputation. You must want a Skill with all of your being. You must want it as much as you want to breathe. This is beyond most. The more you feel your desires, your need, the more likely you are to develop a Skill. In a way, the tales and the songs of the bards are true. More than one Skill has developed on the field of battle as someone’s life slowly ebbed away. Is it any wonder that those with multiple Skills are almost always those who focus on combat?”

If the crowd had been silent before, they were spellbound now. I hadn’t intended for such poetic words, but I had always found Skills fascinating, and it drove my life. It was little wonder that Skills were where I would find such prose.

“The veterans will tell you. When they earned their Skill, it was in a crystal moment where it was all they wanted. It wasn’t the world handing it to them, they reached out and became their Skill. So then, how do Skill Trainers help someone gain a Skill, especially a specific Skill when it requires such single-minded desire? Simple,” I said, then leaned forward subtly, watching as many in the crowd followed suit.

“We cheat.”

My pronouncement seemed to rip the balance out of many, the sudden shift in tone confusing them.

“Yes. We cheat. The desire for the Skill can be artificially induced. Instead of many hours trying to perfect your attack and defense with a pike, I could help you develop your Skill in a fraction of the time!” I exclaimed in a carnival barker tone of voice, to the darkening looks from more than one person.

“Cheating. That is how many of the nobility gain their famed specialized Skills. Usually, with assistance from their families’ specialized trainers. This is why so many noble families have specific Skills. They are rarely blood-line Skills, things that require you to be of the family line. No. It is mostly just special equipment, a trainer, and the right training,” I said.

At this, I could see the Captain approaching around the edge of the crowd, so I cut things short.

“So, what does this cheating entail?”

“Torture,” I said, and with that, the rising agitation of the crowd paused while they stared at me in horror.

“That’s right. Most of the nobility, from a young age, are tortured. Needles, fire, poison, and blades. The Skill Trainers use them all and more besides. Hypnotics, hallucinogens, magical sources of pain or itching, and a host of other techniques. Each is designed to force the person being tortured to focus on the Skill to make the torture stop.”

Silence. Dead silence. The looks were of utterly staggered men and women. I had admitted that I had tortured my students and that the nobility did it as a frequent recourse, to their own children, to maintain power.

“This is what I do. So do not for a moment think that Skills are easily earned. Don’t think you can practice a few times a week and suddenly gain power. I’ve watched you in the training yard, practicing as if the repeated movement and the sweat on your brow are all you need to earn a Skill. No. You have to want it. You have to need it. No.”

I paused here with clenched fists and lightly struck my chest as if I couldn’t express the desire with only words and needed a physical outlet.

“You need everything to be about the next strike, the next jab. Your life depends on killing the green bastard in front of you and the one after that. Over and over, you will be pushed in the short period of the battle. If your desire is strong enough, you will come out of it alive and with a Skill to help you live the next day,” I said while panting.

The crowd leaned slightly away from me at my outburst. Though, I noticed that the veterans were nodding along to my words and the fervor in my voice. They knew exactly what the battle would bring and the change in perspective that bloody struggle could cause.

Sighing, I let my hands drop to my sides and looked around, “I earned more than one combat Skill in a battle similar to the coming Culling. I was just fourteen summers,” I said to the surprised looks of even many of the veterans.

“Knowing how to gain Skills, I went in prepared and ready. I had my equipment. I was trained by my father, a weapon master of some renown with a unique Skill for training. I thought I was ready. In some ways, I was,” I said, then dramatically took a swig from my wine pouch again.

Staring at my pouch while I swirled it around with a distracted air, I then looked out at the gathered guards again.

“We were killing a band of Orcs. There were fewer of them than you will face with the goblins, but there were fewer of us as well. Still, we knew we would win. We had scouted the ambush site. We knew they were there, and they had no clue. We could have killed them from a distance with bows, and it would have been a slaughter. Only one Orc even had a strung bow. Instead, we descended on them and earned our Skills. Risking life and limb.”

Then I blinked as if coming out of a fog. I felt like the worst cad for using [Acting] at the moment, even if it genuinely was a harrowing experience and was just as terrifying as I portrayed it.

“Which is why you are here. Not to kill the goblins. They don’t matter. They could be slaughtered from range as well. You are here to earn your Skills. To feel the terror and the thrill of combat. To risk your lives in the face of your enemies and snatch your life and a new weapon away when you overcome them,” I said, then hopped down from the wagon. As I walked away, I could hear an audible exhale of the crowd and mutters of excitement. Glancing back, I could see more than a few with a focused look to go with the emotion. Some of those men and women would die in the coming battle. The same as when we fought the Orcs.

If I had been ignored before lunch, afterward, no one wanted to disturb me. I assumed the soldiers were giving me space to deal with the painful memories my speech had brought up, which they had. Mostly, I was recovering from my public performance. Even Snowy was giving me space, only nodding to me as she left her carriage during a quick stop to visit a farmer’s home for relief.

As the afternoon rolled on and we approached the forest’s edge, the sound of drums began. At the limits of my sight, I could see two green men running back toward the woods and over the farmer’s fields. The pounding beat of the drums began before they had even reached their camp. The ‘music’ rose in volume as we approached. The noise was worse in that the beat was nothing a human would find pleasing. There was a strange double beat that almost but didn’t precisely overlap, followed by lighter hits of wood on wood. The lighter beat count extended out beyond what anyone would consider pleasing, followed by another strange double beat. Endlessly the pattern would repeat only to have the lighter strikes extend or shorten by a few hits seemingly at random. The sudden shift was disconcerting. Rarely the heavy beat would shift to a triple and then return to the double thrum.

The goblins had encamped at the edge of the forest with makeshift leather rain covers over thick ropes. They set two large bonfires and screamed and cheered as the light began to fade. We camped in a farmer’s field in front of his well-fortified home. His house was made of stone and had thick doors with iron banding. The roof was fired clay tiles, and even the windows had iron banded coverings. The house was almost a fortress in itself.

The goblin camp contained three or four hundred of the little green bastards. However, it was hard to count, given the constant movement and obvious fornication occurring. Most ignored us entirely, though a small band of greyed and shrunken goblins watched us as we camped. They didn’t join in with the frivolity, they only watched us with constant stares.

Some of the new guards raised concerns about bedding down for sleep with the goblins so close, but the Captain and a few of the veteran’s assured them that they would be posting a watch for the whole night. It wasn’t until the morning that the two sides would battle.

Despite the goblins being a monstrous race and the Culling being a battle to the death, it was oddly civilized. Details differed depending on the race and region, but the outline of the practice remained. If the goblins did not attack at night, the Baron’s men would not chase them into the forest and slaughter them all. The goblins, at least those who survived the battle, would gain needed Skills just as the guards would. The goblins also had fewer mouths to feed after the Culling, and the coming winter was looking to be a harsh one. Any goblins that broke at the first sign of battle would be killed by their own veterans when they returned from the field. They could only retreat if they managed to earn a Skill. Few of the goblins would manage to kill a guard, but there would be deaths. There were too many for it to be a bloodless Culling for the guards.

Looking out at the goblins, I watched as they manically enjoyed their last night. They would pump themselves up before the fight, many using drugs and poisons to alter their minds. My guess was less than a tenth would survive. Eyeing the guards, I tried to guess the number who would return from the battle.

Hopefully, the survivors will earn their Skills.