Makings of a Monster

- "Really? That boy has some serious delusions of grandeur, all right. How old did you say he was?"
- "Eight. But I dunno, I've seen him practise before. He might be able to pull it off."
- "Eight? That I gotta see."
- "Well, why don't we go watch. He's right there at the training ground with the captain."

The off-duty Iron Throne mercenaries advanced to the training ground, where young Sarevok stood ready, wearing a training tunic and padded training armor, and wielding a standard issue bastard word. The captain faced him armed with similar equipment.
- "Now, Sarevok. The reason I let you even try with the bastard sword is that you have done remarkably well with lighter weapons, and because you have a very good strength for a boy of your age. Be careful, don't try too much, and if you get tired or feel that you can't handle it, just say the word and we call it off. There's no shame in that: this is highly irregular as it is."

Sarevok just nodded briefly and tightened his lips. His well-formed arm muscles bulged, and he was alert like a predator gazing at its prey. His amber-golden eyes were fixed to the captain's sword. Don't look at him, loot at the blade... He felt the same excitement every time when he was in combat training. His blood raced through his veins, his senses were heightened and he felt so alive. He had wanted to wield the big sword a long time, but until now the captain had been adamant. A shield seemed distracting to Sarevok, and he wanted a big, heavy weapon with a lot of reach.

They started the drill, parrying, swords clanging. The captain was naturally in a training mode, after all he was just humoring the kid, but nevertheless he was astonished at how well Sarevok fought. The captain was a lot taller than the kid and thus had a longer reach. Still, he couldn't reach the kid's ribs or shoulders to gently rap them as a sign of a mistake. The boy was so alert and so quick, concentrated so completely that he was able to parry all of the captain's strokes. The captain intensified his attacks a little. He was amazed that the boy still was able to wield the sword, let alone use it, strong or no.

In truth Sarevok had started to feel the weight of the sword. There very adult men who couldn't wield it for longer than a few minutes, but still he felt angry about the fact. Sweat had started to pour freely from his forehead, and his arm muscles hurt and stiffened. And worse than that, while he had been able to parry all the attacks, he hadn't even had one chance to make an attack of his own. He started to slow down, parrying was more and more difficult, and breathing started to strangle his throat. And then, his tired arms were not able to react quick enough, and the captain's sword rapped his collarbone.

- "Give up, Sarevok? You're getting tired."
Never! The boy growled a little and felt a rush of rage. He imagined how Reiltar would smile scornfully if he knew that he'd given up, been defeated. The blade glinted dully in the afternoon sun, the dry sand hovering at their feet and making their eyes dry and nostrils itchy. Sarevok's ears were buzzing, and suddenly he started hearing sounds like the ones in his more frightening dreams. Screams. Sickening thuds, rasping breaths, moans. He bit his lip, hard. The raw, iron taste of the blood made his spirit soar and his arms weren't tired any more. He could almost see a spurt of a crimson shower at his blade, he felt the exhilaration of going on, eternally, without tiring, with rage, destruction... "SAREVOK! SAREVOK! GODS! STOP IT!"

His arms were stuck, and he tried to pull free in rage, but to no avail. He suddenly stopped in his tracks, shook his head and panted, feeling disoriented and surreal. He ceased struggling and tried to gather his wits and focus his eyesight. Four men were holding him, and the captain was looking stunned and horrified, a bleeding cut in his shoulder. What happened? Did I do that?

At the upper levels of Iron Throne building, Winski sat in Reiltar's office. The bastard would fortunately be gone for two days. Soon Winski would be done with his paperwork, and then he'd pick Sarevok from the training grounds and head home. Anticipating a pleasant evening he started to gather his things as there was a knock at the door.
- "Mr. Anchev?"
- "He's not here, but perhaps I can help," said Winski.
The mercenary captain entered, looking agitated. His shoulder had been bandaged.
- "It is about Sarevok. There was trouble."
Winski sent a quiet thank-you to whatever god had decided to keep Reiltar away just today.
- "Well, I have agreed with Mr. Anchev that I take care of things concerning Sarevok, being his tutor," lied Winski. "What is it? I thought he has done fine so far."
- "He has indeed. I have never had so talented student, especially not one so young. He is a natural. But... well, perhaps I tell the whole story. He has been nagging for some time now to drill with the bastard sword. Usually a kid his age wouldn't even be able to lift it. I finally agreed, because I figured he's strong enough not to hurt himself, but he would tire soon and see for himself that he's too young for that."
Winski nodded in approval. This man understood that it was much better to let Sarevok figure things out himself than give him orders.

- "First of all, he did amazingly well. A lot better than I would have believed possible. Finally he started to tire, of course, and I hit one home, rapping his shoulder like we do in rehearsals. And I asked if he wanted to give up, and then he just... lost it, somehow. It was like he transformed into a... demon or something, not tired anymore, just a ball of rage. As if... murder was shining from his eyes. I'm sure he didn't even know where he was and whom he was fighting. And he attacked me with such a rage that I couldn't keep him off, and he cut me. We are of course not supposed to cut each other in rehearsals. I don't think he even noticed it. Luckily there were men watching, as they were curious to see how he would do, and they stopped him. Took four of them, though. Four adult warriors to stop an 8-years old boy. " The captain looked grave.

- "Where is he now?" asked Winski, worried and out of an immediate idea how to handle the situation.
- "We put him in the jail, though I don't think he'll crack up like that any more. When he came out of it he just stared, completely lost, and when I tried to ask what in the name of the Abyss he did think he was doing, he just covered his face and didn't answer. He just sits there and stares ahead. It's creepy."
- "I would take him home, if you allow. I think he'll recover better there."
- "Sure. He's just a child. But the thing is, I don't know if I can train him if he goes off like that. He could injure me, partly because of the surprise, of course, but think if he trains with other beginners and the same happens. He could kill someone. And we can't have a risk like that. He is by far the most talented child I have ever taught, but there has to be discipline and control. "
- "I will talk with him, try to find out what it is about. I suggest we discuss this when I know more of his condition."
- "By all means. Shall you talk to Mr. Anchev, once he's back?"
- "Absolutely. No need for you to trouble yourself over that. Do you have any demands of remuneration or punishment?" Winski didn't have much money and even less desire to punish the boy, but he was determined to deal with either one himself. Reiltar would no doubt escalate the already alarming situation into new heights.
- "No. I don't think he did it on purpose. And the cut fortunately is just a superficial one. Just find out what's wrong, Mr. Perorate. I have enjoyed training him. It's a shame if I have to let him go."

Thank gods, the captain was a reasonable man. Winski was worried, but also a little exhilarated. Four men... and the damned bastard sword, no less! He wasn't sure at all he'd even be able to swing it himself. Of course, his style would be more along the lines of levitating it. Just let Sarevok be all right. He entered the Iron Throne jail.