A bell rang, waking him up.
It was still dark, light from the mountain shining beneath a cloudy sky.
Head aching, ale still on his breath, he saw Leon standing in the doorway. Winds brushed inside, the lad's long brown hair swaying beneath a tight hood.
"Some time this century," Leon said, beckoning he and a waking Al.
He grumbled, putting on trousers.
Before reaching for his armor, Leon shoved a practice sword in his hand.
"Won't be needing that," Leon said, handing Al a practice sword as well. "Come on. Your dragon slaying preparation awaits."
"I know how to fight," he said, staggering behind Leon and Al, towards an open field on the village's eastern side. "It's my strength that I'm missing."
Leon laughed. "Show me."
A hundred paces from the village, the lad took up a low ready stance.
Blade down, a dull practice toy as well, Leon was almost insulting him. He thrusted forward, then stopped hallway, leading with his shoulder instead. The lad stumbled back, then slipped on morning dew.
He laughed, pointing the practice sword at Leon's throat. "Show me, he says! I take it you learned fighting from an iron headed swamp dog?"
Smile on his face, Leon flipped himself up.
Impressive as it was, he yawned, readying the club blade once more.
"There's some brain cells in there," Leon said, in another low stance. "Good. Then this'll be interesting after all."
A few steps, the lad cut him off on his left.
He couldn't follow, and the dull blade beat into his thighs, then Leon swatted him on the back of the head. While scrambling up he spat, swinging mad. Dozens of times, until the sun shined over the horizon, Leon beat him until his face bled. No more than three steps, the practice sword either sliced his throat, knocked him on his arse, or buckled him to his knees.
"One lucky bout doesn't make you a fighter," Leon said, touching his throat with the practice sword. "Though you have spirit."
"Earsling," he spat, dragging himself up. "If I had my flail I'd g-."
"If," the earsling mocked, twirling the fake blade. "If you and the she Ember didn't challenge a demigod, you'd not reek of ogre shit and guts."
"Fuck off," he grumbled, readying in a high stance.
Leon sighed, taking slower steps.
He cursed, swinging wild as he could, trying to make the arrogant oaf of a steed's arse move quicker. Around him like he was in need of learning how to fight, Leon swung to one side, allowing him to counter.
"Loosen your grip," Leon said, parrying him, then tapping his throat, "move your feet."
Al joined them, swinging for Leon whenever he took a moment to catch his breath.
By noon it was just the two of them, Al and Leon, light sparring beneath a clear sky. Grass was greener than he'd seen in what felt like ages, and he sat on his sore ass waiting for a roasted duck to fall from the sky.
"Are you winning, sir?" Paul asked, handing him a wrapped warm loaf of breath with two turkey legs.
"I will be," he snorted, giving a small bow as thanks, "once I bash Hardok's head in."
"Better to cut it off," Leon said, approaching them with a sweat soaked Al. "An edged weapon'll work better, even a dragon of that size."
Smoke rose from the summit.
Deep howls rocked the mountain side, carrying into the muddy hills below. Within the village winds rose straw atop roofs, kicked up dust, and knocked over market stands. There was more activity than usual atop the mountain, and Paul kept a straight face with a hand on his cross.
"We'll resume in an hour," Leon instructed, making for the village. "Drop your swords."
A little over a silent hour later, him trying to stay awake, Al staring at the sky, and Leon returned in a shirt with light trousers.
Much more muscular than he believed, the earsling had veins on his arms and neck, and thighs like boulders. While leading them to the wood line, Leon explained the afternoon's training.
"We'll get you familiar with sword in the morning, then build you some more muscle after lunch. Followed by a bit of light sparring and meditation before supper."
Along the tree lines, for just over a hundred paces, were logs.
Carved with a narrow middle, round on the ends at least three times the size of a dinner plate, they were marked with numbers.
"A hundred pounds," Leon said, pointing from the first log, all the way to the last, "to five tons."
Al's mouth hung open. "Five tons?!"
Leon nodded. "Does it really surprise you? Maybe if we were in the old world perhaps, the heaviest recorded lift I know of by a Norse blooded strongman lifting over five hundred kilograms. However here we soulless, though human, are capable of much more."
A look towards him, then Leon approached a log a few down from the first.
A deep breath, Leon grasped the log, bent down, then exploded up. One flick of the wrist, he caught the log mid air. Another deep breath, and he pushed it overhead, holding it for a few seconds.
"Five hundred pounds," Leon said, red faced.
After slamming the log into the dirt, Leon pointed at him.
He smiled.
It was something he was good at. Even less than half what he was, there wasn't a doubt in his mind he'd throw around every log along the line. Once over the narrow polished oak, he grasped. A deep breath, then he sunk his hips.
It didn't budge.
Nothing, even after cursing, spitting, and pushing against the earth.
Leon tried moving him to a smaller log, but he shoved the lad away.
"You won't make any progress trying to force it up," Leon said, eyes rolling. "You need to take your time. We of soul-."
"I think not!" He grunted, face swelling.
At last the log moved.
A few inches off the ground, he took another deep breath, and kept driving. Leon's eyes widened, as did Al's, and he kept pushing with his legs until the log was at his waist. For several seconds, maybe even a minute, he kept hoisting it, trying to get it above his belly.
He collapsed, vision blurring, back aching like he'd just bee kicked by a dozen mules.
"Now that was reckless," Leon said, patting his shoulder, "though as I was saying, we who are soulless have one thing those with blessed spirits don't have."
"Which is?" Al said, thumping the back of his head.
"Recover," Leon explained. "When we rest our muscles, bones, and even internal organs rebuild and refuel at a much faster rate."
Leon faced the mountain, the sky's red haze settling with dusk.
"More so after we die," Leon went on, "though as you well know, the more we die, the more our sanity gets drowned."
He snickered. "I've got little left."
Leon shrugged. "So it may seem. Anyway, I'm not saying you should go on and cut your own throat at bedtime, though I will say there's some use testing your limits."
Upon drawing a real sword, razor steel, Leon pointed it towards the mountain, then the village.
"Beyond the Soulless Settlement, where you retrieved your weapons. In one week's time, as you promised Paul, you're welcome to test yourselves against the werewolves."
Another hour passed and the sky was dark.
Stars glimmered over the sky, and Hardok was silent, a pair of beaming white lights atop the summit.
In the field they were silent, the trio sitting in circle. Something he'd seen Paracles do once, meditating it was called, where they took long breaths feeling the energy of the world around them. A long lost ancient method of powering one's spirit, inner self, and easing the burdens of their ancestors and future descendants.
Horseshit, the lot of it.
At the very least he wasn't as stiff heading to the hut.
Once in bed he fell asleep the moment his head touched a fur-skinned pillow.
Al laid atop him, rubbing his chest, and he put an arm around her.