Jon Steinke
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Chapter 19: First Forms and Fumbles
🕑 Added 2025-10-05 20:40:44 +0000 UTCDawn was arriving faster than Caleb expected. He stood in the kitchen exit, watching Corinne bounce on her toes in the pre-dawn darkness. Her breath misted in the crisp air, but her energy seemed inexhaustible.
"Come on! We'll be late!" She grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward. "Captain Hatch makes latecomers run extra laps. Trust me, you don't want that on your first day."
They moved through sleeping streets, their footsteps slapping off cobblestones still damp with morning dew. Other figures emerged from the shadows—teenagers converging on the same destination. Some walked in groups, laughing and shoving each other. Others trudged alone, shoulders hunched against more than just the chill.
"Ugh," Corinne muttered, her cheerful energy deflating like a pricked wineskin. She gestured with her chin toward a trio of boys swaggering from a side street. The tallest carried himself with a predatory confidence, his forest-green skin standing out compared to the humans around them. "Look who's here."
She lowered her voice, moving a step closer. "Heard he's been out here before dawn some mornings, training on the very ground where Vireth supposedly fell. Just because his father was one of the Mistblood, he thinks being pure-blood Mycari makes him special." She gave Caleb a worried glance. "Just… stay away from him today. Please."
Narbok. Caleb’s jaw tightened. The potion's hangover had saved him from a beating, but the memory of the bully’s confused frustration was cause for concern. He hadn't just escaped; he'd humiliated him. In this world, that was probably worse. Far worse.
She peered past the Mycari to a thick-set girl with braided hair. "And don't get partnered with Mala, the girl I mentioned. She smells like she wrestles bog trolls for fun, and she hits just as hard."
She waved at a pair of girls who called out greetings, then her expression softened. "Oh, and that's Leo Tanner."
Caleb followed her eyes to a boy walking apart from the others. Sandy brown hair fell into worried blue eyes above a fair, soft face. His training leathers fit poorly, as if borrowed from someone else. While other trainees chatted or stretched, Leo stood perfectly still, arms wrapped around himself.
"His dad's a Sergeant in the Delving Corps," Corinne whispered. "Everyone expects him to be this great warrior, but..." She shrugged. "He hates it here."
The garrison emerged ahead—a squat stone building surrounded by high walls. Through the open gates, Caleb glimpsed a packed dirt training yard marked with circles and lines. Weapon racks lined one wall. Straw dummies waited in neat rows.
"Welcome to your new home away from home," Corinne said with mock grandeur. "Try not to hurl during the warm-up."
They joined the gathering crowd in the yard. Caleb counted nearly fifty teenagers, ranging from fresh-faced sixteen-year-olds to older youths whose bearing showed the assurance of experience. He could already see the yard's invisible borders. Narbok and his clique of pure-blood Mycari owned the space near the weapon racks. They formed a tight knot of green skin and black leather, their laughter biting and exclusive. In the center of the yard, a different group of humans, dwarves, and fair-skinned elves held themselves apart. These were the children of merchants and officials, their training gear clean and their movements precise. They ignored the Mycari and everyone else. The remaining trainees, the common-born and the outcasts, filled the spaces in between. Leo Tanner was one of them, alone by the far wall, his world contained in the scuffed toes of his boots.
"FORMATION!"
The voice cracked like a whip. Captain Arion Hatch strode into the yard, and the atmosphere changed instantly. Conversations died. Bodies scrambled into position and snapped to attention. Even Narbok's swagger dimmed.
Hatch looked exactly as Caleb expected—a recruitment poster brought to life. Dark hair, silvered at the temples and cropped to military precision, framed a tanned, clean-shaven face. His lean frame was a collection of taut lines, every muscle held in ready stillness. Brown eyes swept the assembled teenagers with the flat assessment of a man cataloging assets.
"New meat today." His stare landed on Caleb. "You're the Caldorn boy."
It wasn't a question. Caleb nodded.
"Late bloomer. No prior training. Employed at the Hearthsong." Hatch's tone made each fact sound like an accusation. "You'll start at the back. Earn your place forward."
"Yes, Captain."
"Warm-up. Five laps, then calisthenics. Anyone who falls behind does it again. Move!"
The group exploded into motion. Caleb found himself swept along in a river of bodies circling the yard. His new agility should have helped, but Thal's body had spent sixteen years avoiding physical exertion. By the second lap, his lungs burned. By the third, his legs felt like wet clay.
Corinne lapped him, tossing an encouraging smile over her shoulder. Most of the others passed him too, their bodies conditioned by weeks or months of this routine. Only Leo Tanner struggled more, his face already crimson, his breathing more wheeze than breath.
The calisthenics were worse. Push-ups, squats, mountain climbers—a routine that tortured his unconditioned body. Sweat stung his eyes. His arms shook. Around him, other trainees moved with varying degrees of ease, but even the worst of them outpaced him.
Except Leo. The boy collapsed during the push-ups, earning a sharp bark from Hatch. "Tanner! If you spent less time in your mother's kitchen and more time training, you might not embarrass your father's name!"
Leo's face went from red to white. He struggled back into position, arms trembling.
Ouch. That's just cruel.
But as Hatch turned away from the struggling boy, Caleb caught something else. For a fraction of a second, the Captain's ramrod posture seemed to sag. The hard line of his jaw softened into something that wasn't anger. The expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the usual mask of the unyielding commander. But Caleb had seen it. The briefest crack in the armor.
Caleb finished second to last, with Leo trailing behind him. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through. His muscles felt like deflated balloons. But Hatch was already moving on.
"Today we review The Legion's First Form, the foundation of Legion spear work. You will practice until your body knows these forms better than your own name." He selected a training spear from the rack—a simple shaft of dark wood with a blunted metal head. "Watch. Learn. Survive."
Hatch moved with liquid grace. The first position: feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight distributed evenly. The spear held diagonal across his body.
"[Iron Root Stance]. Your foundation. Without roots, you are nothing but leaves in the wind."
"Each of you, take a training spear and return to your place," Hatch barked. The group surged toward the racks. Caleb moved with them, his eyes briefly flicking to Leo, who looked as if he was about to be asked to wrestle a bear. Selecting a spear with smooth, unblemished wood, Caleb stepped back into the formation. The other trainees shuffled into position, their movements ranging from practiced ease to clumsy apprehension. He ignored them, focusing inward.
Caleb's [Perfect Memory] had captured every detail. The angle of Hatch's feet. His hands' exact placement on the shaft. The way his core engaged to create stability. His [Savant of the Body] translated that knowledge into his muscles, adjusting his posture automatically.
Ding.
[New Skill Gained: Iron Root Stance (F) - Practiced]
The notification startled him. He'd expected to need practice, repetition. But the combination of his Impartments and a proper example had bypassed that requirement entirely. And then some.
Hatch moved to the second position—a thrust that started from the hips, traveled through the core, and expressed through the arms. The spear shot forward like a striking snake.
"[Breaching Thrust]. Power comes from the ground up. Your arms merely guide."
Again, Caleb's body responded before his conscious mind finished processing. His feet planted. His hips rotated. The borrowed training spear extended in a perfect line.
Ding.
[New Skill Gained: Breaching Thrust (F) - Practiced]
Caleb reset his stance. The movements already felt ingrained, a product of his strange new talents. He watched the Captain, who flowed from the thrust into the next defensive posture without pause.
"[Turning the Point]. Redirect, don't absorb. Use their force against them."
Hatch demonstrated the deflection, angling the spear to guide an imaginary attack away from his center line. Caleb mimicked it neatly.
Ding.
[New Skill Gained: Turning the Point (F) - Practiced]
Three skills in less than a minute. His interface was lighting up like a slot machine. And people had noticed.
Beside him, Corinne let out a barely audible gasp. "Thal," she whispered, her eyes wide as she watched him reset. "That's... how? It took me weeks for the spear to feel that natural. You've been at it for five minutes."
Her words were a warning flare. If the friendly innkeeper's daughter noticed, who else had?
Fearing the worst, Caleb glanced at the Captain and noticed his stare pointed right at him, as intense and heavy as a spear point.
Crumb. Cassia warned me about this.
He was standing out. Drawing attention. Getting conscripted wasn't in his plans.
For the next three forms, Caleb deliberately fumbled. He let his stance drift slightly wide. His thrusts lacked full extension. His parries came a half-second late. Still better than most beginners, but not the standard his Impartments allowed.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
[New Skill Gained: Linebreaker Sweep (F) - Novice]
[New Skill Gained: Phalanx Guard (F) - Novice]
[New Skill Gained: Decisive Strike (F) - Novice]
Hatch's gaze lingered a moment longer, then moved on. Caleb exhaled slowly. Crisis averted. For now.
"Partner drills!" Hatch barked. "Three-step sparring. Attack, defend, counter. Half speed. Switch every set. Move!"
The yard broke into a scramble as trainees paired off. Corinne started toward him, already smiling—
"H-hey."
Leo Tanner stood before him, training spear clutched in white-knuckled fingers. Sweat still poured down his face from the warm-up. His eyes darted between Caleb and the ground.
"You're new, right? I'm Leo. I was just wondering... d-do you maybe want to partner up? If you don't have anyone else, I mean. It's okay if not."
Behind Leo, Corinne had stopped mid-stride. She caught Caleb's eye and gave a tiny nod toward Leo. Her expression was clear: be nice to him.
"Sure." Caleb hefted his training spear. "I'm Thal."
Relief flooded Leo's face. "Great! I mean, that's good. We can... we can start slow, if that's okay? I'm not very... well, I mess up the techniques. A lot."
They found a clear spot and faced each other. Leo's stance was a disaster—feet too close, grip too tight, weight too far forward. When he attempted a thrust, it came out as more of a gentle poke.
"S-sorry," Leo stammered. "I'll try harder."
Caleb responded with an equally clumsy parry, letting the wooden shaft clatter against his. They went through the motions like actors who'd forgotten their lines. Attack, defend, counter. Each exchange slightly off-rhythm, slightly off-target.
It was splendid. To any observer, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be—two inexperienced boys stumbling through basic drills. Caleb made sure to miss his blocks occasionally, letting Leo's weak thrusts tap his shoulder or ribs. Each missed block left a dull throb against his ribs, just enough to sell the performance.
The price of looking weak. He suppressed a wince, recognizing the sting was a necessary part of the performance. Still, a proper set of training leathers was now a top priority.
"Better!" Hatch's voice rang across the yard. "Tanner, extend through the thrust! Caldorn, wider stance!"
They adjusted and continued. Around them, other pairs practiced with varying skill. Some, like Narbok and his partner, exchanged blows that were clearly meant to land, their training spears striking with enough force to leave bruises. Others, like Corinne and the smelly Mala, maintained a steady rhythm. The yard filled with the clack of wood on wood and the grunt of exertion.
"Switch partners!"
Before they could move, a shadow fell across them.
