Jonis - Rowan Erlking (web based ebook reader .TXT) 📗

and hand-to-hand combat drills.

They were to learn boxing.

Jonis never liked fistfights. Still being the smallest and youngest, he never could win. Their troop fights were held in the gym where other men were weightlifting. Their troop gathered around the ring to watch the sergeant that stood in the center as he lectured on basic boxing skills. He beckoned one soldier to come inside the ring to demonstrate.

“We do bare-fist boxing in the army. No sissy pads to protect your face. You men have to learn that real fights do not have pads, and you must learn to take a hit.” He waved over to the man he had summoned, a recruit Jonis knew as Cyle. “Now, recruit, come at me. I will show you how to block.”

Cyle was a large man who looked like he could take a beating. Perhaps that was why the sergeant chose him. The man balled his hands into fists, aiming straight for the sergeant’s chest. Sergeant Romley blocked the punch with his arms, ducking his head to cover his face.

“Thanks. Now step back.” The sergeant went back to lecturing. “You block with your forearms. It is best that you protect your head and your neck. Those are your vulnerable areas. Now, I want you to block as I strike.”

Cyle got into blocking position, but the sergeant aimed for his side, landing a good punch.

“Eyes always on your opponent,” the sergeant said loudly. “You have to see where they are going to attack. Again, try to block me.”

This time Cyle waited to duck as he blocked. This time he was successful.

“Good!” The sergeant patted him on the shoulder. “Now, let’s have two men in the ring.” His eyes fell on Jonis. Lips curling, Sergeant Romley waved him in. “You, boy, into the ring.”

Jonis sighed, but obeyed, climbing under the ropes and onto the raised padded platform. Getting to his feet, he nodded to the sergeant. Cyle backed towards the other side, staring at Sergeant Romley as if he was asked to jump off a cliff.

“Here,” the sergeant tossed the man an extra pair of gloves. “Put these on.”

Cyle caught them. Around the ring, Jonis heard gasps. Many whispered that gloves would solve the difficulty of touching the demon. They glanced to where Oprin was sitting as they said it. Jonis narrowed his eyes at the sergeant, knowing that he was leveling out his advantage like a gun leveled out cornered game.

“Now this can be a fair fight,” the sergeant said.

“Fair?” Korin said aloud without meaning to. “He’s only a kid. He’ll get creamed.”

Emrit clenched his teeth, watching the look on Jonis’s face. He leaned in closer to the ring.

“If he is worthy to be in the army, his age should not matter,” the sergeant snapped, glaring at Korin. “Now, recruits, fight!”

Cyle got in the first punch. Jonis dodged rather than blocked. The troop cheered on Cyle almost unanimously. Those that were silent watched Jonis with concern, but dared not speak out on his behalf. There were more than Jonis had expected.

Sergeant Romley shouted at him. “Come on, kid! Fight back! This is boxing, not free-for-all fighting. You have to use your fists. Block him, hit back!”

Jonis tried to block, but that only gave him a bruise on his arms and sent him flying into the ropes. Cyle got in a good punch into Jonis’s gut, and then another into his jaw. Jonis was down flat on the ground after only a couple minutes.

“Get up, you worthless water-eyed whelp!” The sergeant shouted.

Jonis pushed off the floor and back onto his feet, but Cyle only knocked him down again.

“You piece of filth! I said get up!” Sergeant Romley put his face next to Jonis’s, screaming epithets Mr. Farren would have disapproved of. Jonis rolled, getting off the ground and away from Cyle.

Staggering, Jonis raised his fists.

Cyle stared down into this stringy kid’s bruised face at the determined look in the boy’s eyes. He lowered his fists and turned to the sergeant. “Sir, don’t you think this fight is over? I think the kid has had enough.”

Sergeant Romley slapped him, still shouting. “Is he down and out? That demon is still ready to fight! In war, you fight until your last breath. Now box!”

He shoved Cyle back at Jonis. Cyle turned and looked at Jonis’s determined stance, though the kid looked like he was struggling with his balance.

“Come on, knock me out,” Jonis said, waving him over. “I’ll fight.”

“Fight!” the sergeant barked.

Cyle thrust in a punch. Jonis blocked it and punched back. It was his first, hitting Cyle in the stomach. Unfortunately for the boy, it did not have much power behind it. Cyle struck back, knocking Jonis back to the floor. This time, Jonis could barely get to his feet.

“Come on! Count him out! He’s flat on his back, Sergeant!” Emrit shouted.

But the sergeant remained silent in that regard. “The fight is not over until he is out cold.”

“Let a grown man fight Cyle! It is not fair making that kid take him on,” Emrit called back.

Sergeant Romley rounded on Emrit. “Do you want to take his place?”

Emrit held back, but then climbed under the ropes, lifting his chest. “Yes, Sergeant. I’ll take his place. The kid has had enough. You don’t want to send him into the hospital.”

The sergeant’s silence spoke differently. He glared at Emrit, but then he turned and snapped to Korin, “Take the Cordril out of here. This fool is going to take his place.”

Jonis crawled to the end of the ring, reaching up for the rope. Cyle walked over and helped him to his feet, yet avoided skin contact. Looking back, Jonis blinked at him.

“That was a good fight,” Cyle said, extending his hand.

“Get over here, recruit. You have to fight this man now,” said the sergeant, irritated and abrupt.

Cyle turned and straightened up to meet his opponent.

“Now, meet fists and begin,” Sergeant Romley barked out, now in a peevish mood, his fun over.

Korin helped Jonis to the ground. He propped Jonis up so he could sit out and rest. Jonis sat on a far bench against the wall, closing his eyes, listening to the new fistfight in the ring and his own breathing. Korin had left him alone, returning to the group so he would not look like he favored the demon. However, this change in Emrit and even Cyle had surprised Jonis. For a flicker of a moment, Jonis thought that perhaps they might be accepting him, for once.

Emrit had won the boxing match. He was the stronger man, hands down. When it was over, he and Cyle shook hands and parted on good terms. The days after, Jonis noticed that those two men became fast friends. And though in later boxing lessons they were pitted against one another, that friendship continued. Emrit maintained his cool distance from Jonis in public, but now Cyle was included in their private magisterial studies, making Jonis wonder if he had found a new friend.

Despite this, the boxing lessons remained painful for the young Cordril. The sergeant continued to use Jonis as a punching bag for other men, now allowing Oprin his chance to beat up the demon that had humiliated him in the mess hall the month before. Jonis’s boxing skills improved only slightly, despite the training. His only real improvement was that he had gotten tougher against the abuse. His dodging skills improved also. Jonis was glad when the time came to switch their lessons from boxing to other combat training.

Jonis did better in the obstacle course. In fact, he was so limber that many watched him fly through the obstacles as if he were made for it. He scaled the walls with agility, passing the others without effort. He swung on the ropes over the mud pit, landing gently on the other side then swinging back the rope for the men to follow. Crawling, dodging, balancing, Jonis went in, out, under, and over every obstacle until he stood at the end of the course panting triumphantly with a look at his drill instructor for further instruction. Sergeant Romley watched and tormented Jonis along the way, often making him go through the course again and again and again until he was the last to come in and his free time was almost gone. However, Jonis did not mind so much. It gave him practice where boxing only gave him pain.

By the second month when another set of recruits came to the camp, they switched from boxing to wrestling. Jonis lost at that also. Too small to make a real impression on anyone, he mostly struggled to keep from being pinned quickly. In that, he had made much improvement. Going from ten seconds flat to a five-minute wrestle, Jonis walked away from that training feeling that he had accomplished something.

The third month, Jonis’s troop was to learn free-for-all fighting.

They met in the open clearing to the west of the barracks. Sergeant Romley brought in from the city of Harmas a specialist who was a master of martial arts. The man was tall and muscular with darker skin and somewhat richer brown eyes. The sergeant stood back to watch.

“You men,” then glancing at Jonis, the master added, “and boy, are here to learn how to fight dirty.”

The soldiers peeked at their neighbors, listening with military politeness—in complete silence.

“In the real world, people who want to harm you will not follow rules,” the martial arts master said. “It is not like boxing. It is not like wrestling. Those are just skills that may help you. But what if the man has a weapon and you do not? How do you defend yourself?”

They remained silent.

“Anyone, please answer. This is an instruction period, not a lecture.” He waited.

One recruit raised his hand. “You get another weapon to fight back.”

The master nodded. “But what if one is not available?”

“You make one,” another recruit replied.

“You don’t have time to make one,” the master said.

Jonis raised his hand. All eyes fell on him as he had not spoken up since their change of instructors. No one had forgotten his cocky remarks from when had spoken though. The master blinked at the boy’s blue eyes, understanding what that meant immediately. He waited.

Clearing his throat, Jonis said, “You kick him in the nuts, and take his weapon.”

Several of the men laughed. Others gasped in shock.

The master nodded and smiled. “Now, that is an excellent response. What is your name, Cordril?”

Astonished at being so politely addressed, he replied, “Jonis Macoy, sir.”

“Macoy…Macoy…I’ve heard that name before. Was one of your demon ancestors a hunter?” the master asked.

Jonis knew that was a loaded question. He gently bowed his head. “Yes, sir. Several of my ancestors were hunters. Demon hunters specifically.”

That sent several murmurs through the men. How can a demon go about hunting other demons?

The master smiled, nodding slowly. “Yes, I thought so. And undoubtedly they passed on to you some of their fighting skills.”

Again the group murmured.

Emrit glanced at Cyle, wondering if that were really so, considering that Jonis still couldn’t box worth anything.

Jonis bowed to him once more. “Some, sir. But mostly, fighting is something that really has to be learned.”

“Come forward,” the master said to him, waving out to where he stood. “You will be my guinea pig for demonstration. I think you can take it.”

Jonis had to obey. It was the same as always. He would get beaten up for the benefit of others. There was no good way to get out of it. Jonis glanced at the sergeant to see his smug grin staring back at him. He came forward and stood where indicated.

“Now,” the master said, “I want you to come at me as best as you know how.”

Blinking at him, Jonis replied, “Are you sure you want me to do that? The best that I know how requires that I remove these gloves.”

Someone in the crowd snickered.

The master smiled. “Good point. As best as you know how, with the gloves on.”

Another person laughed.

Jonis nodded. “Yes, sir. And what are