Vitiosi Dei (Heritage of the Blood Book 2) (12 page)

              “What's an Elfling?” Shawnrik whispered back.

              Verrian seemed aghast that Shawnrik didn't know what an Elfling was. “Elflings are like Half-Elves, except that instead of a Human, they mated with a Halfling, making them half Elf, half Halfling: an Elfling. I'm told it's only been within the last few thousand years that it has even been possible, though no one has properly explained to me exactly what it was that made it so.

              Shawnrik knew what had happened, but he didn't think his friend was quite ready for the truth of it yet. It seemed that the various cities and towns that dealt with Serenity Valley had decided that it was best if they didn't talk about their genealogy. Some day he would tell them that draconic blood runs through most of their veins, but today would not be that day.

              “So, she has to work hard not to be too attractive?” Shawnrik said, trying to guide the conversation back to the present.

              “Yeah, Elflings are usually extremely beautiful, and Tienna Wildthorne is certainly no exception. When she gets up and starts moving around and talking you won't be able to tell, but she works really hard at trying to look normal. It's said that the first few years that she taught, none of the guys learned anything because all they could do was stare at her.” Verrian laughed behind his hand. “So now she spends who knows how long putting makeup on and placing her hair into that bun so that she can be less... beautiful, gorgeous, whatever. Most students don't even think she needs those glasses, but no one has been able to prove it yet.”

              Shawnrik decided then that he should examine his new Instructor a little more closely. He tried to shut off his now raging hormones as he looked down upon her tiny form to see if he could see some of the things that his friend was talking about. It was then that the few lessons that he'd had with Nim became useful. He could indeed tell that she was holding herself in a way that didn't seem natural, a little too stiff in some places, and a little too loose in others. There was indeed a natural beauty beyond anything Shawnrik had yet seen hidden beneath a carefully molded exterior, but it wasn't those things that caught his attention; the slight tilt of her head told him that she was listening to something, and the barely perceivable smile allowed him to guess what it was.

              “She's listening to us,” Shawnrik said, no longer bothering to whisper. The slight flinch and reddening of her cheeks was all the confirmation he needed.

              “Oh, man! Good catch!” Verrian's voice was barely perceptible as he noticed the Instructor's reaction.

                Mythology went by smoothly, though Instructor Wildthorne pointedly avoided looking anywhere in Shawnrik or Verrian's general direction for the entire duration. Shawnrik considered what Verrian had said about her hidden beauty more as she paced back and forth at the front of the class. He could see that she was at least a foot shorter than the shortest Elf he had ever seen, and her body seemed to be built for flexibility and grace rather than the swiftness and grace that the Elves exuded. Before he knew it, she was handing out a stack of papers to be passed around, and Shawnrik found that he needed to get another book from the Depository.

              “Do we get books for every class?” Shawnrik asked as he passed a slip over to Verrian and handed the rest up behind him.

              “Yes,” Verrian said, obviously not sharing Shawnrik's excitement about the fact. “Well, maybe not the physical classes, but we'll need at least one book for just about every other class.”

              “That's great!” Shawnrik said.

              “Oh yeah, great,” Verrian replied. “Just what I need, more books.”

              “More? You mean you already own some?”

              Lunch raced by, with most of the talk revolving around Instructor Wildthorne. Their next class was another one that they shared—Philosophy—and they soon learned that the class would be droller than they had expected. The Instructor was a Halfling by the name of Reginald Theodric Terian Bluestaff, and he explained with a smile that Halflings decided a long time ago that they needed longer names in order to make up for their lack of height.

              The classroom was much like the one they had Mythology in, although slightly smaller, with only four rows instead of six. Shawnrik decided that he preferred this type of classroom, as it didn't feel so confining and gave him more room to stretch out. Watching the animated Halfling Instructor talk about the coming year, Shawnrik decided that he was going to enjoy Philosophy.

              Weapon Smithing, according to the instructor Baldrick Doomslayer, was a dying course at the Institute. Seeing that there were only four other students in the class, Shawnrik was inclined to agree. The smith's shop was set up in the northeastern corner of the Institute's campus, a stone’s throw from one of the inner walls of the long dead volcano that housed Serenity Valley.

              Three out of four of the students were Giant-kin, and Shawnrik figured that they would each take over the smithy for their respective villages when that time came. The last member of the group was a young man from the northern tribes of Terrazil known as the Stroml'Dier. His name was Rigael Ironfist, and from the moment Shawnrik locked eyes with his new classmate, he could tell that the young man hated him fiercely.

              That hatred made absolutely no sense to Shawnrik, as he had never met the Stroml'Dier before. Hatred seethed from Rigael's eyes nonetheless, and Shawnrik decided that there wasn't anything he could do about it, so he ignored it. To make a bad situation worse, Baldrick Doomslayer had one of the thickest accents that Shawnrik had ever heard, and he found it difficult to understand what the Dwarf was saying.

              “If'n ye 'eat yer metal tuh much ye won't be able ter mold 'er proper like. She'll split on ye like a wench ye gave a snake un'to when she cools,” the Dwarf said, his face serious.

              Shawnrik had learned the basics already while under the tutelage of Pedrial Lightfeather, his grandfather, so he was able to figure out what the Dwarf was saying. He just hoped that he would get used to the Instructor's thick brogue before they started learning things he didn't know.

              It had only been the night before that Shawnrik had learned that Pedrial was his grandfather, and now that fact was not helping him concentrate on the job at hand. He had lived with his grandfather for more than a year and he hadn't even known it. Between wondering why his grandfather had never told him that he was his grandson, Instructor Doomslayer's accent, and the eyes he could feel staring at him with such hatred, it should come as no surprise that Shawnrik's first day of Basic Weapon Smithing went by in a haze.

              Shawnrik left the workshop holding a now familiar slip of paper containing the name of the book he would need for the course. Realizing that if he wanted to talk to Verrian during dinner he would have to hurry, Shawnrik took off at a lope, heading towards the mess hall. 

              It took him longer than he had expected to get back for dinner, so he only had a few minutes of conversation between bites of food before they were heading to their last class of the day: Basic Offense.

              Unlike the rest of the classes that Shawnrik had been to so far, Basic Offense was held on a practice area that had been set up in order to facilitate training in a large variety of combat fields. Shawnrik's first impression of the area was not a positive one. The Institute's training area was half the size of the one that had been outside Nim's manor in Safeharbor, and as far as he could see it possessed less than a tenth of the equipment. There were only two archery targets, one jousting target, one sword dummy, and one sparring ring. For the first time since arriving in Serenity Valley, Shawnrik truly realized the level of importance that the people that lived here placed upon practical field skills.

              In Safeharbor, every day contained a new lesson on how to survive using whatever skills you had managed to acquire, in addition to your wits. The citizens of Serenity Valley seemed to think that wits alone should be able to get a person through any situation, and while that notion might work in an ideal world, Shawnrik knew that Terrazil was anything but.

              Shawnrik had been hoping that this class would be one of his favorites, but the condition of the facilities made him wonder if it would even been in the top five. Feeling an itch on his back, Shawnrik turned to see Rigael Ironfist walking into the practice area glaring daggers at him, and he knew that a confrontation between the two of them was inevitable, even if he didn't yet know why.

              The Instructor of Basic Offense was an older human male who seemed to wear a perpetual scowl. His name was Calligan Boulette. Instructor Boulette stood on the far side of the practice area, carefully watching his students as they filtered in. He continued to watch them for another five minutes as they aimlessly milled about the field, before marching brusquely towards the middle of the practice ring.

              “Attention!”

              Shawnrik had already been paying careful attention to the Instructor, but the command still came as a surprise to him. The man's tone reminded Shawnrik of Ashur's, and he found his body naturally going rigid into an attentive posture. Instructor Boulette's scowl deepened over the ten seconds that it took for some of the members of the class to quiet down and assume a somewhat attentive position.

              “When I say attention, I expect a clear and immediate response,” Boulette said as he eyed each of them. “If you want to know the exact response I am looking for, I suggest that you look around you. It seems that at least two of you maggots have had some proper training.”

              Shawnrik felt eyes wandering across his rigid form, and he didn't need to look around to guess who the other person was that had come to attention.  Rigael Ironfist moved like a man that knew he was a good fighter and thought that the world should know it too, so it made sense to Shawnrik that he would be the other person who had come to attention correctly.

              “I want ten push-ups from each of you.” Shawnrik heard one of the students begin to say something, but whatever it was that they had been about to say was overridden by the booming voice of Instructor Boulette. “This is not a democracy, little boy; you are in my class, which means that you follow my rules. If any of you came to this class thinking that it was going to be easy, let me disabuse you of that notion right now. Those of you that cannot understand this inalienable truth should request a new class by this coming Thirdday, or be prepared to learn it.

              “I am a hard man, but I am not needlessly cruel. Some of you will have come to this class knowing more than the others and may be in possession of useful skills. Unlike reading or writing, where they expect everyone in the class to learn at much the same rate, I do not. If you give me a hundred percent, you will pass, but if you give me one iota less, you will fail. Many of you will have never even touched a weapon before, but by the end of these three and a half months that we have together, I will have at least taught you how not to kill yourselves with one.”

              Shawnrik did his push-ups with minimal effort, and he marveled at how much trouble some of the students were having performing ten correctly. Verrian was one of those that seemed to be having the most trouble, and Shawnrik decided that he would make it his duty to get his new friend in shape during his time at the Institute. Instructor Boulette had been marching down the ragged line of boys as he talked, and it wasn't until Verrian had finished his last push up that he moved back into the middle of the sparring ring.

              “Now, as it should be with all matters of combat, pecking order in this class will be decided by skill.” A sadistic grin spread across the Instructor’s face as he spoke. Shawnrik groaned inwardly as he realized what was to come. “I am going to place all of you into pairs, and each pair will meet in this ring. Today, we will be using quarterstaffs that have been padded in order to minimize any serious injuries.”

              Instructor Boulette walked down the line of students and partnered people by random, as far as Shawnrik could tell. Shawnrik had been paired with a stout fellow who seemed nearly as wide as he was tall, and not where it would help in matters of combat. The poor kid had a confident look upon his face as he entered the ring, and Shawnrik had allowed the boy to perform some pretty yet utterly useless advances before casually knocking the staff out of the portly boy's hand.