Dark Age by Felix O. Hartmann Page A

friendliness that was rather reminiscent of the sun.
    “James, pleased to meet you,” the third said. “It is of my understanding that you traded with my father. He is the merchant for miniature sculptures and other decoration.” His composure was that of a merchant indeed. With a straight back and both hands on the table he looked the most proper of the three. His dark brown hair was cut cleanly and combed to the side. Be it because of care or genes, he was the only one that kept a spotless clean shave.
    Peter grabbed James’ water cup and took a gulp, “Let’s go boys, training’s up.”
    Without any breakfast or time to sit down, we left the common-hall, turned right and walked towards the training ground. Artillery stations, sparring grounds, and parkour areas stretched all over the west side of the camp. At the center of it all the recruits assembled in straight lines. Four team leaders, recruits close to completing their one year training, led a warm-up lap around the complex. Despite all my climbing up the Mount and running off from thief jobs, I turned out to be in much worse shape than I had expected. I reached the halfway point of the warm up panting, begging for air. Falling behind Peter and the others, I had to get myself together to not lose the group. Gasping for a break, I made it back only to be met with more preliminary routines and workouts.
    The sweat rolled into my eyes causing a light burning sensation. Training had been going on for less than an hour and yet I already strained my body to the maximum.
    I was on the floor, barely finishing my thirtieth push-up when everything turned silent. The recruits rose to their feet quietly. Perplexed I sat on the floor hidden behind a rank of other recruits, observing the scene.
    A slight rattling of heavy armor approached the ranks. “Salute soldiers!” yelled a voice I had heard before. Rising to my feet I looked into the eyes of a man I had seen just months ago.
    The group answered in unison, “Hail Master Terric!”

Chapter 10
    T erric walked the ranks up and down in slow controlled steps. He was the man that had stood up to the Inquisitor at the council meeting I had overheard. His long black hair fell down his bearish shoulders and blew in the morning breeze. “Third trimester recruits practice what you need to. Try to work on ambush scenarios,” he said. To my left, Stephan took a step forward and left with the others. “Second trimester recruits see Yorick at the shooting range,” Terric continued. Without a word James stepped forward and joined his group. “First trimester recruits you are with me today.”
    Peter, Nigel, and I followed Terric to the sparring grounds. Swiftly he pushed open the gate of the small fence surrounding the arena. Walking inside, the recruits immediately formed a semicircle and waited for orders.
    “Let’s see what you got,” Terric said passing down the ranks. “I need two volunteers.”
    Peter grabbed my arm raising both our hands before I could resist, “Master Terric we have a new recruit. It would be an honor to get the first fight with him.”
    Terric stepped before us examining me from head to toe, “You look strong and healthy for a new recruit, what is your profession?”
    “Blacksmith, Master,” I responded looking him straight in the eyes.
    “Let’s see how you do with a sword. After all, you make them,” he said walking towards the fence, against which all different sorts of training utensils rested. He drew two simple wooden swords out of a barrel. Without a warning he turned around and threw them at us. Unaware it caught my head and fell to the ground. A sudden pain rushed towards my temples while I scanned the ground for the sword. Reaching for the shaft, a kick from behind put me to the ground. A second later I felt the wooden tip of Peter’s sword pressed against my neck.
    “Beginner mistake,” he said relishing the laughs of the group. “Always be attentive. Now pick up your sword