Ascendant: Chronicles of the Red Lion by F. C. Reed

Author:F. C. Reed [Reed, F. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Hit me,” Marchand said. His bones popped into place as he pushed himself into a standing position after leaning his cane against a nearby bench. The training hall was empty aside from the faint smell of leather and sweat that permeated the wood. Amalia did not expect to be training alone. She frowned at the old man’s statement.

“I think—

“Then go away. Go away!” he repeated. The rumble in his voice made Amalia’s spine shiver. He turned away from her and snatched up his cane.

“You’re supposed to teach me,” she insisted.

“Oh, really?” Marchand peered over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to teach you? I’m also supposed to piss in a pot when a bush will do just fine. And I’m supposed to eat with utensils and not my hands. I’m also supposed to attend those gods awful meetings when I prefer lounging about and watching the pretty girls walk by.”

He rolled his shoulders to ease their stiffness. “And you’re trying to think, while I instruct you. What do these have in common?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “The second is easier, more satisfying, safer, or more efficient than the first.” His fierce eyes shone against the rays of sunlight peeking through windows. “So if you want to think,” he spat, “then you’re wasting my time.”

“Wait,” Amalia said. “I’ll listen. I want to learn.”

Marchand turned back with a gentle smile on his face, all evidence of the fury swiftly removed. “Good. You will do as I say without question or hesitation. Commit to every single action. I will not tolerate halfheartedness.” He positioned himself in front of her once again. Another loud pop echoed throughout the hall as he straightened himself to his full height.

“Now,” he said, lowering his eyes, “hit me.”

Amalia hesitated, then shrugged off her concerns for him. She pulled her fists to her chest. She wasn’t a talented fighter, although she had her fair share of scraps, thanks to Christina Cross. That made her, at least, a passible fighter. But the old man could not possibly be a challenge.

She was wrong.

Amalia swung at him, and he snapped his head out of the way at the last second. He returned to his original position.

Surprised, but undeterred, she swung again. The same set of events unfolded to the same results.

“What the…” she muttered when she saw that his eyes were closed. She moved a little to his left. This time she swung and followed through with a kick. He arched his back, dodging the punch. Then he leaned on his cane while extending his leg. The old man’s foot smacked against Amalia’s shin halfway through her kick, rendering the kick useless. Then he returned to his original position.

Amalia took a step back and charged him. How could she possibly miss when his eyes were still closed?

Marchand slapped down hard at Amalia’s hand as she ran at him. She twisted and teetered, having lost her balance in the exchange. As she fell, she felt the back of his hand connect with the back of her neck.

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