Sparring - Original Writing (excerpt)

2015 - original writing excerpt

Here's some of what I wrote in January. It's pretty clunky and I'm not really confident I'll keep it at all, let alone as Chapter 1, but I'm just kinda glad to be past it. 2000 words or so.

*

It was approaching evening, though the midsummer sun still hung high in the sky. It beat down on the almost empty courtyard of the police headquarters, its sole occupant a young woman training against a target. Sounds from the city were faintly audible, carried on the wind, but it was evident that she was completely oblivious to everything but the exercise she was concentrating on. She wore a simple short-sleeved tunic and close-fitted breeches with thick hide boots, and in her left hand she held a lacquered baton of burnished hardwood. It was around two feet in length, with a strap at one end and a side-handle set a little ways up from it. Off to one side lay a studded leather jerkin she had carelessly discarded before starting her workout.

She had been drilling intensely for almost ten minutes, carrying out the movements with the brisk, efficient air of deep familiarity. The courtyard offered little shade; beads of sweat flew from her as she smoothly cycled through a variety of movements against the training dummy, striking heavy blows directed at locations that would disarm or disable a living, breathing target. She finished her set with an attack to the dummy’s head that reverberated through its entire frame, releasing a satisfying grunt of exertion as she did so. Routine finished, she exhaled and relaxed, tucked the baton into its sheath on her belt and wiped away some sweat from her face.

She made her way over to a water pump situated off to her right, primed it and promptly stuck her head under the ensuing stream. The water was closer to lukewarm than cool, coming as it did from an underground reservoir fed directly by the river, but it was nevertheless refreshing against her skin. Sufficiently cooled, she straightened up, dried her face on her tunic and ran a hand through her hair, brushing water out of the tight curls.

She was just making her way back to pick up the jerkin from where she’d left it on the ground when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The courtyard was located towards the rear of the building where there was little traffic outside of training times, so it was always easy to hear people coming. Her hand idly lowered to rest on her baton, more through force of habit than anything else.

When the approaching figure rounded the corner and stepped out into the light she snapped to attention, her hand immediately falling away as the chief of police came in to view. He was a broad-chested, middle-aged man; the burdens of his position were evident in the worry lines on his face and the amount of grey in his hair, yet despite that there was a welcoming air about him. Unlike her, he was wearing the full uniform, which constituted a deep navy jacket bearing the insignia of the Memoria Constabulary and epaulettes displaying his rank.

He caught her eye and a smile spread across his face, and he made a gesture that was half salute, half easy dismissal.

‘I thought I might find you here. At ease, sergeant.’ She returned the gesture and grinned back at him.

‘Hey chief, you were looking for me?’

‘Yeah, I thought we might head back together for a change. It’s too damn hot in my office, I’d rather finish my work in the comfort of my study. I checked your office first; when I saw that you hadn’t left yet it made sense to look here next.’

‘It’s always a treat to see the chief of police display the brilliant deductive reasoning that got him to where he is today,’ she said dryly.

     

Seeing them together, the family connection would have been obvious to anyone. Being in each other’s presence seemed to invigorate them both; the chief was more energetic, and she seemed more relaxed. There was the distinct impression that together they could take on anything.

'You're lucky I'm off duty, brat. What were you up to anyway, just going through the motions?’

‘Yeah; I was only going to take inventory, but one thing led to another...’ She shrugged, and then shot him a sly look and inclined her head towards where the equipment was stored. ‘Actually, seeing as you’re here, do you want to spar? Just a quick best of three!’

Her father laughed and shook his head. ‘Honestly Wren, you’re incorrigible.’

‘Oh, come on! Besides, you missed last week; you owe me.’

‘True enough. I suppose I have been letting work get in the way of training...’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Fine, we might as well get a couple of rounds in.’

Wren cheered as he strode into the courtyard, shrugging off his coat and draping it neatly across a railing, and followed behind him as he made his way towards the equipment racks. If they were going to spar then she would need a shield, something she’d eschewed against an opponent that couldn’t fight back.

The police in Memoria favoured two different types of shield. One was large and rectangular; it protected most of the body and was adept and stopping crossbow bolts and pushing back against crowds. The other was a small, circular variant of folded metal. It had a convex surface that a gifted combatant could use to turn away blades, making it invaluable in a mêlée. Wren immediately gravitated towards the latter, but her father paused thoughtfully before choosing his. Owing to his greater bulk he found it no great handicap to manoeuvre with a tower shield, and it suited the more defensive approach that he often adopted. Still, he was no slouch with either; after all, he had been the one to instruct her in the use.

‘Ah, what the hell,’ he said, picking up a round shield. ‘Let’s live dangerously.’

They made their way back to the centre of the courtyard, and then squared off facing one another ten paces apart. While her father stretched, Wren sucked in a deep breath to steady herself and bounced lightly on the balls of her feet. The ground was hard packed earth, compacted over the years by thousands of recruits carrying out countless tough drills given to them by tougher sergeants. She had been in both of those positions, and yet none of it compared to sparring with her father. He had been training her ever since she had first expressed her desire to join the force, testing her combat skills almost every week since she had turned sixteen.

Across from her, the chief unsheathed his baton and raised it in his typical salute, to which she followed suit. She took him in, curious about his choice of shield; his stance was relaxed, almost aloof, with his weapon arm slightly out in front and the shield covering his centre. Years of experience had taught her to underestimate him at her peril – while she could usually take a round or two, and she’d started winning every so often, it was far from a common occurrence.

He stood motionless, anticipating her approach. She sucked in another breath, took a few steps towards him to close the distance, then lunged forward in attack. Her first move was a feint towards his left side to test what he would do; he stepped out of her range and made no further move that would have allowed an opening. She continued to press him as he avoided her every attack, until a thrust directed at his throat forced him to bring his shield up to block it. The sound that rang out as her weapon connected was like a gong signalling that warm-up was over.

He immediately shifted into high gear to counter-attack, relentlessly sending blow after blow her way and leaving her no room to retaliate. The repeated impacts on her shield sent jarring shocks through her arm, and she realised that she wouldn’t be able to weather it for long without her arm going numb. She gathered her strength, bracing herself, and when the next attack came, put all her weight behind her shield and shoved.

Despite her regular training and athletic build, under normal circumstances Wren would have been hard pressed to shift her father’s stocky frame. She had caught him by surprise however, and thrown him off balance. Capitalising on the opening she’d just created, Wren stepped forward using the momentum from her shove, and twisted around bringing her baton in a backhanded arc aimed at her father’s ribs. He brought down his own baton to meet the blow, parrying it awkwardly, but she had anticipated this and aimed a kick at his knee even as their weapons met. He dropped to one knee to take the hit, and with a deft flourish she switched to her baton’s side grip and swung in the direction of his lowered head in the same movement that she had been practicing just a short time earlier.

She executed it swiftly, but not swiftly enough. Her father hadn’t simply dropped to one knee, but instead had continued forward into a roll, causing her swing to go wide. Realising that she’d left herself open Wren tried to re-centre herself, but her father swept her feet out from under her and within moments had her pinned to the ground, his baton at her throat.

‘Yield?’ he asked, a smile playing about his lips.

‘I yield,’ she agreed with a sigh. He let her go, and she grasped his proffered arm and let him haul her back to her feet.

‘You reacted well there,’ he remarked with a smile. ‘You didn’t pull any punches either, good.’

‘You were one step ahead of me the whole time, weren’t you?’

‘Well yes, that was the point. It’s easy to predict what someone’s going to do when you back them into a corner and limit their options.’

Wren frowned. Whenever they sparred the first point was always the most hotly contested, and she hated losing it because it inevitably led to a sermon along these lines. It also meant that he would do pretty much the same thing the next round to give her a chance at figuring out where she went wrong. It was such a dad move to pull, and she knew that at least part of the reason he did it was because of how much it wound her up.

True to form, the second round went in much the same way as the first. This time round Wren was able to better exploit the gaps in his uncharacteristically aggressive style and was able to take the point. Her heart wasn’t in it however, and he cleaned up the final round. Frustrated with herself, she bowed stiffly, then yanked the shield off her arm and started towards the equipment storage before she could get another talking to. Her father jogged up and fell into step next to her.

‘You know,’ he said, his tone gently chiding, ‘it was your idea for us to spar in the first place.’

He was right, of course. She was 21, and a sergeant at that; she couldn’t keep acting like a child forever. She stopped and turned to face him, apologetic. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just... if that had been a real fight, there wouldn’t have been a round two or three, would there? You don’t get second chances out in the field.’

He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘You’d be surprised. It’s not always as simple as that, and sometimes you don’t have the luxury of giving up.’ She met his gaze, but didn’t say anything. 

‘There’s more to it, isn’t there? Were you really just letting off steam earlier, or do you have something on your mind?’

‘What? No!’ said Wren, then hesitated. ‘Well, maybe. We can talk at home later, I guess.’

‘Why not now?’

‘I want out of this shirt before it starts to smell, for one,’ she said, getting a laugh out of him.

‘Fair point, I could do with a change myself. You sure you’re okay?’

‘Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll swing by your office once I’m done.’

*

This was a bit of an agonising hump to get over, followed by... another agonising hump. Writing is hard.