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The Blackchurch Guild

T he rain was merciless.

Standing at the edge of Lake Cocytus, the enormous lake that ran through the heart of the Blackchurch property, those on the shore were convinced that, at some point, a man named Noah and his giant ark would soon be appearing because the rain was truly that heavy and it had been for about a week.

But this was the day scheduled for this particular exercise, so the men of Blackchurch were ready.

Rain or no rain.

The Viking was on the move.

Not a true Northman in the literal sense, although he had been one at one point in his past, but the Blackchurch trainer known as The Viking had come to the conclusion that his class of recruits was ready for their final test in the landing and conquest module, something they’d been working on for the better part of six months, so it was the job of the other Blackchurch trainers to try to prevent Kristian Heldane’s class from making it not only to the shore, but to the top of the rise where a small rock shed stood.

That was the goal.

To reach that crumbling little shed.

“Kristian has some enthusiastic recruits, you know,” one man said.

He was enormous, with black hair and dark eyes, taller than the rest of the men around him.

Tay Munro, a trainer known as The Leviathan, was the de facto leader of the Blackchurch instructors.

“By the time they hit his class, they’re almost finished with their training here.

You know they’re going to do everything they can in order to get to the old cottage. ”

Lightning lit up the sky, dancing across the dark clouds before disappearing to the west. Thunder rolled, following it. Everyone looked up, watching the sky, feeling the tension. Though this was only a test, that didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous.

It meant that it was real .

“We’re allowed to disable,” another man rumbled as water ran down his face.

He had a big club in one hand, one that usually held a sword.

Sinclair de Reyne was known as The Swordsman and was deadly no matter what weapon he armed himself with.

“We can disable and we can break bones. We just can’t kill them. ”

“More’s the pity.” A thick Scots brogue entered the conversation, causing the others to grin.

More lightning lit up the sky as Payne Matheson, a trainer known as The Tempest, tightened the fist-shaped leather wrappings on both hands that were covered with iron studs.

When he saw the men around him smiling, he held up those studded leather gloves made specifically for fistfights.

“I’m going for throats and heads with these, lads.

Let me be the first line. Anyone who gets past me belongs tae ye. ”

As he grinned and nodded enthusiastically, a shorter, well-built man came to stand next to him, his dark gaze fixed on the turbulent lake.

“You only want to disable them, Payne, not permanently cripple them,” he said in accented speech. “These men are not our enemy. They are men striving for perfection.”

Payne glanced at Ming Tang. He had not been born in England, but far to the east, where he’d been raised in the Shaolin religion.

It was a strict religion of great philosophy, making Ming Tang a man of many talents with a mind constantly seeking knowledge, and that curiosity was what had brought him to Blackchurch.

He brought a great deal of wisdom to teach others and was wise counsel in any situation.

Even at the onset of a fistfight with an overzealous Scotsman.

“Of course they are striving for perfection,” Payne said. “And they shall meet it in the trainers who have worked hard tae get them tae this point. If they are not perfect, they willna get past us.”

“Are you truly going to use those iron-studded gloves on them?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Ming Tang didn’t have an immediate answer for him, but he did smile. Sort of a “you are incorrigible” smile that Payne took as a compliment.

“I would suggest you take a defensive stance rather than an offensive one,” Ming Tang finally said. But he sighed heavily almost as soon as the words left his mouth. “Or am I expecting too much?”

Payne shrugged. “If they come at me, I’m ready,” he said. “Stay here with me and we shall face them together.”

“I think I’d better so you will not kill someone.”

Payne laughed. He clapped Ming Tang on the shoulder, meant to be a gesture of camaraderie, but he nearly threw Ming Tang off balance with the force of it. As they stood there in the driving rain, a shadow of a ship began to appear through the clouds and water.

The Viking and his trainees were approaching.

“I’m with you, Payne.” Creston de Royans, a trainer known as The Avenger, came up beside him. The man had a club in his hand and he held it menacingly. “I’ll help you with the onslaught. Remember that I had these recruits last year, so I am well acquainted with their tactics.”

Payne looked at the big, blond knight. “I had them two years ago,” he said. “I spent an entire year teaching them what I know best.”

“And what’s that?” Creston said drolly. “How to offend women? Or how to be obnoxious?”

Payne sneered at him. “Ye’re jealous I took that dark-eyed lass from yet at the Black Cock,” he said, referring to the local tavern they used as their relaxation haven. “She dinna want a blond beast, Cres. I told ye that. She told ye that.”

Creston waved him off. “You got her drunk and told her I had already outlived six wives,” he said. “No wonder she ran from me. But do not worry. I do not hold a grudge. Not much, anyway.”

Payne started to laugh. “Do ye mean I have tae watch my back even now, at this moment?”

“You’ll never known until it’s too late.”

That brought a roar of laughter from Payne.

But the continued repartee was cut short when the enormous cog drew nearer to the shore.

The boat was one that the Lords of Exmoor, the men who owned and operated the Blackchurch Guild, had purchased from a ship builder in London and brought out to the wilds of Devon, in pieces, and then reconstructed in the lake.

It was quite large, easily holding a hundred men, but the class of recruits on it was about twenty men and one trainer.

The vessel moved by rowing but also by sail, and out of Blackchurch’s thousand-man army, about a hundred of them were in the hold, rowing it toward the shore where the Blackchurch trainers, all nine of them plus three assistant trainers, were waiting.

Perhaps twenty men against twelve didn’t seem like fair odds, but when one was dealing with the men who trained the most elite warriors in the world, the odds were fairly even.

“Spread out,” Payne boomed to the men around him. “They’ll come from the bow, so watch both sides of the ship.”

The trainers moved into position, spreading out in layers.

Payne and Ming Tang and Creston were closest to the ship while the others were strategically positioned up the hill, all the way back to the cottage where one of the assistant trainers was stationed to protect the banner that the trainees were supposed to capture.

Once they had it, the exercise was up, but unfortunately, any trainees knocked to the ground and failing to get to their feet unaided would be drummed out of Blackchurch.

The rules were harsh, but not without hope.

Anyone who failed would have the opportunity to try again in another year.

But all trainees feared that rule—if one failed at any point during the five-year training course, they were finished until the next recruit class was formed.

Therefore, this was an important moment.

As the ship went aground on the edge of the lake and men began leaping from the bow and into knee-deep water, approaching the shore with clubs in hand, the trainers of the Blackchurch Guild braced themselves. As the wind howled and the storm surged, the moment of truth was upon them.

Chaos ensued.

*

“It’s loose, but it should tighten up.”

Payne had just had Ming Tang look at one of his teeth.

He’d been hit so hard in the face because of the rain and the darkness that he hadn’t seen the club flying at him until it was too late.

Fortunately, he didn’t go down, but his fury in being struck landed the man who’d hit him on his backside, knocked unconscious by the raging Scotsman.

It had been enough to fail the man out of Blackchurch, a man that everyone had thought was a sure bet to finish the training, so the night of battle and cottage capturing had had some unexpected moments.

And some glorious ones.

Even now, the Blackchurch trainers were sitting in their usual alcove at the Black Cock Tavern, a rather large and well-used establishment in the village that wasn’t even a mile south of the Blackchurch Guild.

Some, like Payne and Creston and an assistant trainer named Axton Summerlin, were sporting some physical evidence of what had been a surprisingly brutal fight, but others were unscathed on the surface.

At least, they weren’t admitting the injuries that could be covered by a tunic or breeches.

Everyone was gathered around the table, ale and food between them, speaking of their experience against The Viking’s trainees.

Eleven had survived and captured the banner.

No one was prouder of that than The Viking himself.

“It was a difficult task, my friends,” Kristian said, lifting his cup to the group. “Well done, all of you.”

Cups were lifted in Kristian’s direction. “Well done you ,” Tay said. “You helped get them this far, Kristian. Your teachings are not exactly simple. It is one of the more complex segments that we put our recruits through.”