章節 141: Chapter One Hundred and Forty-One – A Beating
The sounds of beatings being applied weren't particularly unusual in the training area. Such encouragements motivated the inept and lackadaisical to focus better, and the threat of them kept the motivated more driven.
Too, beating the shit out of people you didn't like was freely allowed here. Either they got better or they washed out, and were replaced with others who either fit in, or fought back successfully and started their own round of beat-downs.
There weren't too many people who asked for a beating here, but Errant was one of them.
He was in low horse stance, hands clasped before his chest. Four men with wooden rods were standing around him, and they were beating on him.
It wasn't having much effect. The loud impact of wood on flesh drew more and more attention, and eventually the other men sparring or lifting weights or doing exercises paused to turn and watch the runt of the Gilderalz take a beating.
Repeatedly.
There was no restriction on targets. At first, the blows went on muscles, gut and back, legs and arms. When there was no appreciable reaction, the focus began to shift to bones and joints, slamming down on shoulders, elbows, spines, cracking across the back of his neck, and then hitting his skull, jaw, even around his temple and eyes. Finally, even his nuts and groin were targets.
Sometimes his skin split at the impacts. He might move an inch, but rapidly corrected his posture.
Smoke visibly rose from the injuries, and promptly sealed any cuts, warded away any bruises.
Hard men swallowed. They could see how hard those clubs were hitting, and where, and how. Errant was just a boy and should have been a pile of bruised meat on the floor, not even conscious, barely alive, if at all.
He was just taking it all...
He was taking the second instance of the Power Feat, Roll With It. Currently, he was a Six, with DR 2/Silver from his Warlock Ward Resist Mastery, + 3/- from Way of Iron stacking with all other DR, Roll With It going to 4/- stacking with Way of Iron, and converting Expertise/3 into 10 more points of DR.
They weren't getting through DR 19/- with those little clubs, and even a crit was just gone in seconds with his Wrath at /3, Purity at /3, and Healing Wrath thus at 6/round. Naturally he had already completed his Internal Fortification alchemically, and minimized his vulnerable areas down to null.
His Vajra was as hard as steel throughout his skin, every impact diluted across the whole of his body, reducing the shock of impact considerably, venting a good portion out his feet. The attentive might have noticed the sand moving away from his feet, but it had been lost in the initial blows, and now there wasn't any being kicked out from under his soles to show what was going on.
His eyes were closed, he was focused on their positions, reading the way their feet were posed and shifting to judge where the blows were coming from. Shadows danced across his skin, he registered the shifting in light, and mated the two to determine where the blows were coming from, shifting his Vajra ever so slightly to anticipate the coming impacts. It was a dance and melding of mind, body, and soul, driving his combat awareness outwards... and also reaping Karma, as he defeated these four men simply by exhausting their willingness to beat on something that simply was ignoring them.
He heard the hoarseness of their breathing, and the waxing eagerness of their blows began to fall off as not even repeated blows to his forearms dropped his hands more then an inch for a moment. Eventually, they just tapered off, and he opened his eyes.
His four tormentors were breathing raggedly, looking at him in disbelief. He cracked his neck once as he straightened up, worked his shoulders once, and audibly popped his ribs and fingers as he turned right and left.
"Thank you, gentlemen. Same time tomorrow." They nodded dumbly as he stepped out from between them, and the brawny men there gave way to him.
After all, what were they going to do, punch him? He could take a weighted club to the head... and it basically bounced! They consoled themselves that it wouldn't work with a knife or sword... or would it?
"Boy, I have a massage for – urk!"
The brawny, bearded men in the light armor of a guard stopped talking when the cold steel of Errant's sword nestled up against his throat, while removing half his beard.
"What did you call me, guard?" Errant asked dismissively, not looking at him as he toweled himself down with his other hand. He naturally recognized this man, Pwent, as one of his oldest brother's toadies, er, supporters among the guardsmen. He had also beaten the man at swordplay multiple times.
The man knew he was about to die, the sword held very firmly and creeping up. "My-my apologies, young master. I spoke hastily..."
"Indeed you did. Gentlemen," Errant's voice rose. "Ready your clubs again. Give this guard five minutes of your time, if you would. I wouldn't want anyone to think you were being soft on me."
There was a murmur, followed by some quiet, dark laughter. He might not have the support his brothers did, but he had more true respect from these men then they did, for all that, because he could beat them without resorting to powers they did not have.
Pwent's forehead broke out into a cold sweat. He knew the beating that was coming was going to be brutal and vicious.
"Worry not, I'll stay here and watch it all. I'm sure that you will be able to deliver your message afterwards." The four men nodded slightly at his words, and he tilted his sword, moving the unwilling guard in that direction, backing him into the circle of four men slapping heavy clubs against their hands meaningfully.
Unlike Errant, Pwent didn't last very long. The beatdown was merciless and precise. He did try to defend himself after the first couple of blows came in and the sword was withdrawn, but his legs were rapidly hammered out from under him, and he dropped to the ground. The sound of wood meeting flesh was now synchronized with shouts and cries of pain.
Errant waved them off after two minutes, and they backed away from the battered, bruised man curled up between them. They had avoided any permanent injuries, and the head, but he was going to be black and blue all over for days, if he didn't get any healing magic.
"Well, I imagine you've set a good example for everyone who thought I was getting off easy. Out with it, now." He snapped his fingers above Pwent.
The guard was in great pain and anger, but kept his eyes down, knowing that any slip-up was either going to resume the beating, perhaps fatally, or earn him a slit throat. "Your brother Guteriz c-commands that you attend him in the main hall."
"Does he now? And he thinks he can just interrupt my training time at his idle whim?" Technically, as the heir and elder, he did have more power... but all of that was unwritten as long as their father still lived, and he was willing to live with the consequences of pissing his brother off. He had no true authority to command his siblings beyond what Father had given him, and Errant, being shuffled into a place of no real importance, was simply not in the hierarchy.
"Well, since you're obviously unable to walk, I suppose I'll have to bring you with me." Errant strapped on his training gear and reached down to the man who was painfully unbundling himself. Ignoring his shouts, Errant grabbed him by the back of his armor and threw him over his back like a sack of potatoes, drawing an impressed look from all the men in the room. That was almost three hundred pounds of man and armor he was handling like that.
His sword in one hand and Pwent struggling weakly behind him, Errant walked out of the room. Pwent got the idea he was going to be baggage and humiliated after a minute when Errant's steps and grip didn't falter, and stopped moving and hurting himself with a silent curse.
----
He strode in very heavily into the main hall. Normally he didn't wear his training armor within the house, but he decided that a certain image should be presented to his older brother, and if he stank a bit, that only helped the image along.
His oldest brother and sister seemed to be having another one of their interminable social gatherings, building bridges and burning their lessers, all sons and daughters of the wealthier and more powerful vassals, and some allied nobles. All of them were older then he was, but it was hard to tell, as bundled up as he was.
His training armor was not designed for protection, it was designed to be heavy. It was sort of metal plates with more weights attached to them, a good hundred pounds of extra mass to be moving around.
At three gravities.
Angel Weight training was the opposite of Angel Walk. Angel Walk had two Masteries, the Walk and the Wind (beneath the wings). In short, the Wind was a light gravity modifier, reducing the gravity from ½ to 1/6th normal, allowing prodigious feats of lifting and jumping, as required. It didn't grant power, but being able to jump a hundred feet was pretty nifty.
Turn that around, and it was heavy gravity training.
Only Heavenbound could undertake this kind of training while still a child, internalizing the Healing Wrath to continually offset the damage heavy gravity would do to the skeletal system, positively reinforcing his entire system and mobilizing it to fight back and adapt to the increased gravity without physical consequences.
Of course, bioalchemy was very useful for adjusting physiology, and he used that as well.
His suit was thus a monstrously heavy physical conditioning tool. He had to learn to run, crawl, fight, bend, stretch, tumble, jump, and roll wearing this absurdly heavy thing... at three gravities.
It put incredible stress on his system to perform at that level, literally forcing him to develop superhuman endurance, strength, reflexes, and coordination to compensate for the increased load. If he fell at three gravities, he'd hit the ground before he could get his hands out. The slightest shift in balance would send him crashing to the ground, and he could and did break things when it happened.
Healed up, got up, went back to it.
So he struck a certain image as he walked into the room, all heavy-suited up, the force of his thousand-pound steps loud upon the marble floor. Everyone turned to look at him, and then watched as he dropped the battered Pwent onto a couch with idle ease, his armor knocking loudly.
"Your servants need an education in civility, elder brother," Errant said idly, sketching a half-bow in his creaking armor. "I was in the middle of my training, you'll have to forgive my lack of proper attire. What was it you wanted?"
He didn't bother to hide his irritation at the situation, and their snickers faded away as they looked at him, and judged just how much metal he was actually wearing... and how lightly he walked.
If only they knew.
His brother was a fine model of a Gilderalz knight and warrior, tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, pale of skin and dark of hair, with hooded dark eyes. He was currently in a silk jacket and trousers that cost more then the homes of most of their vassals, flashing a ruby ring their mother had given him, a shirt so white it almost glared, and rider's boots with high heels, giving him yet more height. He cut a striking figure, sure enough, and definitely had the eyes of many of the young women in attendance. The Damnation Heart cultivated a tyrannical, commanding air that furthered his status and power, and well, there were only a couple others here from families with status equal to their own.
The Caliopi were sorcerers, hoarding their bloodline and the magic that went with it, while the Benedelli were masters of intrigue with deep pockets, not exactly warrior equals. No need to be overshadowed, and the Gilderalz were marginalized in many courts for their servitude to Huul.
"Ah, little brother. I suppose I should have asked you to dress appropriately, but that can be remedied." His voice was commanding, arrogant, in control, and disdain danced in his dark eyes. "I have something of a bet here I hope you can help me resolve."
Errant rolled his eyes, and let everyone see it. "Oh, that is certainly worth my time, eldest. What manner of tripe shall I help you with? Locating your hands at the ends of your arms? Guiding you through the serving wenches' halls during daytime? A new way to strangle dogs?"
There was surprise and scandalized delight at his words. Such defiance from a piece of trash was totally unexpected.
Guteriz simply ignored the barbs, although there was a flash in the depth of his eyes. "One of my friends here brought a retainer along who is something of a specialist in weaponless combat. I mentioned that my little brother has something of a reputation in the family for being good with his fists, and he wondered if you might be interested in a bout."
Errant rolled his eyes again, glancing around the room, but looking for something different.
"A Golden Wing assassin?" he inquired, raising his voice, and saw the face of the Benedelli heir's face drop to a scowl. "Weaponless combat, indeed. Does that mean she hasn't poisoned her nails today, perchance?" He coughed to himself. "No, no, I should have been looking for poison in my breakfast this morning, I suppose. I didn't find any, so this must have truly been something spontaneous, brother. How about before you send me up against this hireling, you and I have a little practice bout for all your friends, and you can show them your mighty Phlethegos Mastery and all."
Everyone saw the tic in Guteriz' cheek, and the way his eyes narrowed. Because if they sparred, Errant was going to kick his ass.
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