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Chapter 3.1 - Training

    It took nearly a week for Emory and Oulen’s small cart to travel from Emerald to the coastal town of Harmill, bordering the Perstayer Sea.  There, they were met by a schooner called the Tramagor which was hired by the King to take his small diplomatic party south along the coast to the city of Perris’ Landing, the closest port to Andelon’s capital of Hys Tempress.


   The Perstayer Sea was not terribly rough as it was not prone to storms during the Spring so far North.  It was however cold and wet, and quite dreary, and by the time the lookout at the fore of the schooner spotted the lighthouse of Perris’ Landing, both Emory and Oulen were quite ready for shore as only two landsmen could be.


   As he finally was able to disembark off of the bobbing ship and set down upon dry land, Emory thanked the Memory.  He had managed to survive the first days of seasick horror, only to be thrown into the clutches of his new mentor Oulen of Casteltide.  He always thought his Uncle Maliard was a relentless taskmaster, however he was sorely mistaken.


   Emory had been thrilled when presented with his own sword the day after he swore his oaths as a King’s Man to King Tegeere himself.  It was a plain blade of good craftsmanship, with little ornamentation.  Oulen’s admonishment rang with truth: “This weapon has no name, Emory, and it was not forged by a smith of distinction or renown, but it will let the lifeblood out of your foe all the same.  Treat it well and you will come to be comforted by it in the most fearful of times.”


   Emory did not doubt that Oulen had meant those words, but he did not expect him to actively usher Emory into those ‘most fearful of times’ so quickly.  On the first day his seasickness passed, after he was able to hold down the thin gruel they called breakfast, Oulen commandeered a clear portion of the deck and began taking Emory through his paces.


   To the amusement of the watching sailors, Oulen relentlessly drilled him in his sword work.  “Move your feet!” he commanded, and then bruised Emory’s knee with a swift smack of the flat of his sword.  “Use your legs, Emory!  Your strength comes from your stance and form, not the wild swing of your arm!”  By each end of the day, Emory felt bruised and battered, but he was learning.


   The nights were no less forgiving than the day's sword practice as the old man continued Emory’s education.  Setting a bundle of charts and documents upon the small desk that rested in the corner of their cabin, Oulen asked, “Can you speak Andelonis?”


   “Yes,” admitted Emory uncomfortably, “Some…”


   Oulen arched an eyebrow, “Prove it.  Ask for directions to the nearest inn.”


   Emory furrowed his brow in concentration and burbled haltingly, dredging up the foreign words he had learned so long ago.


   “Clenching crows, Emory! Your Andelonis is atrocious,” growled Oulen.


“Thank you for sparing my feelings,” muttered Emory, chagrined.  True, he had learned a little bit of it at Uncle Maliard’s knee, but where would he have had a chance to practice it on a regular basis?  And why?  There was very little use for the language in the cold crags of Ivory, and at the time it had made little sense why he was learning it at all.  However, fortunately, his Uncle had insisted.


Oulen’s eyebrow quirked, amused by the sarcasm, “So, in the evenings, we’ll only speak their language for the remainder of the voyage.”


Emory frowned.


Wagging his finger before his assistant’s nose, Oulen explained, “We don’t know what will happen in Andelon, so you must be prepared, Emory.  You must know as much about this land as you know the footpaths through the mountains in Ivory.”


Emory sighed and eyed the mountains of material before him, before picking his words cautiously in Andelonis, “Sir, I spent my entire life in Ivory.   Of course I’d know about it.  But this… is impossible.”
“Impossible or not, you’ve got more time on your hands than you ever have had in your life, sitting on this ship like a lord.  Thank the Memory that you’ve retained your letters.  Now study.   Begin first with the map.  Always know your starting point and your destination.”  Lifting his finger, he tapped the chart along the coast, "According to the ship's navigator, we're about here.  Our destination is Hys Tempress."


Emory furrowed his brow and leaned over the desk to look at the rolled-out map.  Yes, Ivonwell and Emerald were there… and there was the border of Andelon, and the Citadel of the Falls… and Hys Tempress was… was… where was it?


“I can’t find it,” Emory admitted after a time.


The old man smirked and pointed at the southern most portion of the map.  “It isn’t on here,” snickered Oulen.


“It’s not on the map?” Emory cried out startled. “You misled me,” he accused.


Oulen grinned “So what if I did?”


Emory gazed back to the chart, “If it isn’t on here, then where is it?”


“Now you come to it, lad.  Where indeed?” replied Oulen as he reached down to the side of the desk for another rolled up chart.  Finding it, he spread out the second drawing over the first and pointed out the small letters that notated Andelon’s capital.  “Yes, I did mislead you, and the reason is this: We’re traveling to the Empire of Andelon.  An Empire, Emory!  Their strength and size is greater than any single map.  Their territory stretches from our southern border, all the way down to the marshlands of Neegar and beyond, over two months to cross by horse in clear weather and on well-maintained roads.  They even hold many of the outlying islands as far north as our own coastline.”


Emory nodded slowly, “I seem to remember Uncle Maliard saying that we lost the Wayfall Islands to them recently.”


“Maliard of Ivory?  I recall we have met previously.  And yes, he would know that.   Ravenward did the bulk of the fighting in that region,” confirmed Oulen soberly, “So you see, Emory, there is no room for ignorance on this mission. The Andeloni are very powerful.  You must never forget that.”  It was a lesson that Oulen would repeat many times on their trip down the coast.


So Emory steeled himself to both mental and physical anguish for the remainder of the voyage.  Through the night, even as the moon had passed over head, Oulen’s shouts and Emory’s frustrated repetition of various bits of history and protocol marked the time for the evening sentries like the ship’s bell.


One of the subjects that Emory had trouble digesting was the Andeloni infatuation with titles and decorum.  It seemed that Andeloni society placed a great importance on the use of honorifics, from their royalty to their common laborer.  Even the guests and visitors had their own forms of address. To speak the inappropriate title during a formal setting was the height of impropriety.


The gentry were either called Lord or Lady, or Master or Mistress if they were young and unmarried.  Those without such exalted titles were called by their profession.  Baker, chef, or constable.  That was relatively simple, if the profession was easily identifiable.


The priests of the Andelon called themselves Judicars.  Ivonwellians on the other hand called them ‘black vultures’ for their midnight-colored robes and their possessed ferocity upon the battlefield.  The stories that were told about the Judicars were horrific.  Tales of villagers being burned alive in their own homes and forced conversions to the Andeloni faith under penalty of impalement were widespread.


Emory, however, didn't quite know if he agreed with calling them 'vultures', though. The one or two he had met who had undertaken the arduous journey into the mountains of Ivory were missionaries and hardly more dangerous than lambs, even if their peculiar ideas seemed wrongheaded.  The Andeloni worshiped a Goddess they called ‘The Lady’, and it was their belief that anyone who accepted her gained the honor of having her blood flow through their veins.  Or something like that.


These soft-spoken missionaries, unlike the warrior-priests that his Uncle Maliard told tales of, knew nothing about weapons.  To Emory's surprise they even scoffed at the notion that they needed to arm themselves to defend their faith.  This led Emory to believe that perhaps the Judicar were divided into a variety of sects and that some were more fearsome than others.  Certainly, within their organization they complicated things by separating themselves into Underjudicars, Lay Deacons, and various hierarchical rankings each with their own honorifics.


Then the Andeloni military had their titles.  Legionnaires, Provosts, Dragoons all mixed together with individual ranks such as Captains, Eagles, and Marshals.  These, in Emory’s minds were a bit easier to understand.  The Ivonwellian Orders, informal as they were, had similar rankings to impose order.  But there, the similarities stopped between the two militaries.


One evening Oulen had brought a rather long, awkward looking instrument into the cabin that he claimed to have borrowed from one of the sailors.  Made mostly of wood with a long metal tube attached along its length, he had placed the clumsy looking device upon the desk before Emory, startling him out of a studious stupor.


“By the Memory!” Emory exclaimed in surprise as he stared at the bizarre contraption.  He had never seen anything like it.  The wood was well-worn and oiled, gleaming serpentine in the dim lighting of the cabin, while the steel of the tube lacked the high polish of a honed sword but retained a perilous foreign quality that made Emory recoil away.


Oulen glared reproachfully at his assistant, but did not reprimand the lad for Oulen had the same reaction when he first set eyes upon the weapon years before.  “Take a good look, Emory,” he commanded.
Emory nodded and frowned, moving cautiously closer, “What is it?”


“It is what the Andeloni call a musket.  During the war this is what the Legion of Andelon used.  I’ve heard that they’ve made some improvements since, but for the most part the weapon hasn’t changed too much.”
The young man frowned at the unusual name, craning his neck to inspect the device, “I seem to recall hearing about these in some of the ballads.  They don’t devote too much time to it, though.”


The King’s Man barked a sharp laugh, “No, the bards wouldn’t, would they?  You wouldn’t find one of those fancy-lads within a hundred charges of a battle.”


“Odd, though, as it doesn’t look like much.”  Emory considered the weapon, “Much shorter than a lance or pike.”  It looked to Emory like a clumsy walking staff.


“You won’t be saying that when one of these is pointed in your general direction, never mind a whole column of Andeloni Legion armed with like,” insisted Oulen.


“Oh?” Emory knew better to question his master, but he could not hide the dubious expression from his face.
“You doubt?” laughed Oulen derisively.  Tapping one end of the metal tubing, he grunted, “First comes the noise.  If you’re lucky, it’ll be loud enough to spook your horse from the battlefield.  If you’ve somehow managed to control the beast, you’ll find that any resemblance of communication with your fellows has been rendered moot as more than likely you and they will be half-deaf.”


Emory frowned.  Indeed, an uncomfortable, but hardly disastrous situation.  The bards, even at the distance from the battle that Oulen had described, had managed to express as much in their songs.


Oulen knew the look upon Emory’s face, and smiled knowingly, “If only it was simply noise, lad.  For the dreadful racket was merely the herald to the mortal portion of the weapon.  Propelled from the end of this tube, faster than any arrow fired from a bow, is a lead ball.”


Emory’s eyes widened and he inspected the odd-looking weapon more closely.


“If one of these lead balls strikes you, not only will it knock you off your horse, but if it manages to strike a bone it will explode and splinter through your body like a meat shredder,” continued Oulen seriously.
“How about armor?” asked Emory hopefully.


Oulen shrugged, “If you’re fortunate enough to wear heavy mail it may deflect and merely break a rib.  Or maybe it might just puncture right through.”


The young assistant swallowed, “How… how did we fight against these?”


“We didn’t, or at least not well.  And never in the open,” asserted Oulen.  “In the open, army against army, it was simply death.  Our only chance was up close, in the forests and the towns.  Or the rare chance when we could get near enough to them on our horses.  But getting there usually ended up more disastrous than fruitful, lad.”


Emory leaned back and breathed deeply.


Oulen smiled and shook his head, “I don’t show this to frighten you, Emory.  Not truly, anyways.  But to forewarn you that this is what you will encounter in Andelon.  If you are not careful with your studies and make a wrong move, it may be at the deadly end of this weapon that you’ll be staring at.”


“What…how…?”


“How do you fight something like this you ask?” Oulen replied, knowing Emory’s question. “Like any opponent, Emory.  Move on them quickly.  Strike them before they strike you.  The men who will be armed with this will be like any other, and their blood is just as red.  That, I can promise you from experience.”


Emory nodded again and sighed.  It was one thing to hear of the Andeloni in the great ballads of the bards, but something quite else to see their very real implements of war.


“Now,” Oulen continued, “Get back to your studies.  Again, the best defense against something like this, lad, is to not be in front of it in the first place.”

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