Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Jonathan Michael (red novels .txt) 📖

“Err…okay. Of course. Thank you.”

As we trek back onto campus, Astor speaks highly of the next instructor on our list, Master Stormwood.

“He’s a sturdy man. A man of valor. We have a solid relationship, Mycal and I.”

I hope it’s not the same relationship you have with Master Sephyre.

“But do not refer to him as Mycal,” she continues. “It’s Master Stormwood. And Stealth and Combat is one class where you must put forth more effort. Physically. Mycal won’t stand for slack effort. Nor will I.”

My brow curls inward as I glance at her through my peripherals. Somehow, I know I’ll never hear the end of it from Astor if I don’t adhere to her advice. I can imagine it now. With Astor’s reputation on the line for getting me enrolled and acknowledging my worth, she will probably discover the fist fits her well if I don’t excel in this course. But I have more reason to give full effort, other than Astor or this instructor. I’m doing this for Jay.

“Don’t say anything around Master Stormwood except ‘yes, sir.’ Got it?”

“What if he asks me a question? I can’t respond by saying ‘yes, sir’. I’ll sound like an imbecile.”

“Just don’t say anything stupid. Master Stormwood is one who will inflict discipline on any inexcusable actions, regardless of whether you’re a student or not. He is not as insufferable as Master Martelli, but his disciplines will prove to be more taxing.”

“Understood. I think.”

We approach a ring of dirt about thirty paces in diameter with a thornwood barrier encircling the perimeter. Standing just outside the prickly fence on the far side is a group of shirtless boys and three young girls, who are not shirtless, but wear something only slightly less revealing. They’re tightly wrapped in rags that cover no more than their chests. All, boys and girls, are wearing warrior’s greaves. The entire group of adolescents are cheering on and instigating two young fellows within the circle who look to be ready to attack each other.

“Defend!” a gruff and demanding voice calls out from the sidelines.

The two young men sidestep, circling the ring, waiting for an opportune moment to attack.

One of the fellows is large. A giant in a child’s eyes, but probably a head taller than an average man. Aside from his height, his physical appearance tells me he’s a couple seasons younger than I am. A man-child. His face is soft and delicate. His body is lanky, as if his muscle growth hasn’t caught up to his bones yet, and his movements are inexperienced. He has already stumbled over his feet twice.

Upon his second stumble, the other fellow moves in. He, too, appears to be younger than me with cropped black hair and a much shorter stature than his opponent. That doesn’t stop him from charging, though.

The short fellow doesn’t swing or try to tackle, but instead tucks and rolls toward the larger boy. Once under him, he arduously halts and whips out his left leg to sweep him to the ground. It is an utter failure. He merely kicks the back of the large fellow’s ankles and ricochets off.

The man-child looks down on him and lifts a leg to stomp down. Also a piss-poor attempt, as the shorter boy effortlessly rolls away.

The two boys are now back where they began, both on their feet and circling each other around the ring. This time the man-child moves in. He is surprisingly quick. Quicker than the other but still misses with a wild haymaker to the head. As the shorter fellow parries, he is knocked off-kilter by a light brush to the side of the face.

I find the episode quite entertaining and let out a small chuckle. Both combatants stop to look my way, as does the rest of the class. Maybe it was a loud chuckle. Astor nudges me in the ribs. I cringe, knowing it might develop into a bruise later.

“At ease!” the gruff voice calls out.

I have yet to see which person it is coming from.

Astor leans over and whispers in my ear, “I told you to be quiet. I can’t help you now.”

“Is this humorous, young lad?” the gruff voice says from across the ring.

I see an average-height man step out from behind the crowd. He is also shirtless, showing off his slender and highly muscled physique. The sides of his head are shaven to the scalp, but on top, he has dreads that resemble a cluster of colorful roots unlike any trend I’ve ever seen. Each matted lock of hair is a different color, arraying from violet to red and all hues in between. He has a few shoulder-length dreads dangling down each side of his head and several down to his mid-back.

“I would be lying if I said no,” I reply honestly after accepting the foolish hairstyle. Astor flings daggers at me with her eyes.

“Please join the entertainment, then.”

“No thank you, sir.” I try to turn down the offer as politely as possible, unsure if the request is authentic or not. Astor insists I use please and thank you, and yes, sir or no, sir. I’m already becoming more accustomed to it.

“That wasn’t a request,” the colorful, gruff-voiced man exclaims. “Get in the ring.”

I look to Astor for help. “I said I couldn’t help you now. You’ve already done too much. Hand me your surcoat. I don’t want you ruining it the first day you have it.” I stare at her in utter disbelief. What is happening?

“C’mon. Hand me the coat and get out there,” she insists.

I slip off the leather surcoat and turn to face the ring and all the onlookers on the opposite side.

“Where’s the gate? How do I get in?” The crowd snickers.

“Silence,” the man commands.