SWIFT DECISIVE ACTION
JEREMIAH'S HANDS TREMBLED as he cut away the watery black rot from the soft, lumpy potato. He dropped the remaining white chunk in the large iron pot he crouched over. He felt sick to his stomach. No doubt the stench of the mound of partially rotten potatoes he sat next to was the blame. It didn't help that his head was throbbing from his earlier 'training,' or that his arms and legs were covered with knots and bruises. These same knots and bruises had kept him from sleeping much at all the last few nights despite his exhaustion. His bed was a pile of empty potato sacks, and he was still using the same filthy blanket he'd been wrapped in by Vulpine. He wiped his brow with a burlap rag. He was sweating, despite the chills that shook his hands.
When Jeremiah had arrived at Dragon Forge, he'd been hungry, weary, and freezing. He'd possessed a half- formed dream that he would be welcomed into town by some kindly woman who looked like his mother. She would give him soup, clean clothes, and put him to bed in a big, soft mattress with clean sheets.
Instead of a kindly woman, he'd been met at the gate by a pair of thuggish teenagers who'd taunted his thin limbs and the tear-tracks down his filthy face. He later learned their names were Presser and Burr. They'd finally allowed him in, and brought him before a frightening man named Ragnar, who looked like a wild beast with his mane of hair and leathery skin.
Ragnar had made the rules of Dragon Forge clear: If you wanted to eat, you had to work, and, what's more, you had to fight.
'Can you do that, boy?' Ragnar had demanded.
'Y-yes sir,' he'd answered. He'd never fought before, but he had Vulpine's knife still tucked into his belt. He imagined it might be satisfying to bury that knife into some dragon, though the exact details of how that might happen were fuzzy in his mind.
'Find a job for him,' Ragnar had told the guards. 'He looks too scrawny to be of much use, but get him outfitted with a sword, at least. Can you use a sword, boy?'
'I-I've never tried,' said Jeremiah.
Presser chimed in, 'There's a sharp end and a dull end. Once you learn which end to grab, it's not so hard.'
Jeremiah wasn't sure if he was joking.
Burr added, 'We'll get him trained, sir. Make a regular soldier out of him.'
Ragnar grunted his approval, then dismissed the boys with a wave.
Presser and Burr had pushed Jeremiah before them out into the street. In the sunlight, the two guards' youthfulness was apparent-though both were taller than Jeremiah by a head, he doubted either was older than fifteen. They swaggered as they walked in their chainmail vests and iron helmets, sky-wall bows slung over their backs.
Once they reached the middle of the street, Burr said, 'Presser, give me your sword. Leave it in the sheath.'
Presser had complied. It was obvious that Burr was the leader of the pair. Burr gave the sheathed sword to Jeremiah. The weapon was only a short sword, two feet long at most, but it was still heavy. Jeremiah looked up quizzically, not certain what he was supposed to do next.
Burr removed his own sheathed sword from his belt and swung it, slapping Jeremiah hard on the back of his right hand, knocking the sword from his grasp.
'Ow!' said Jeremiah. 'What did you do that for?'
'You heard Ragnar. We've got to teach you to fight. The first thing to learn is don't drop your sword. Pick it up.'
'You'll hit me again!'
Burr swung his sword, attempting to slam it into Jeremiah's thigh, but Jeremiah jumped out of the path of the blow. He had good reflexes, and eluded Burr's next two swings as well.
Unfortunately, with his attention focused on Burr, he hadn't seen Presser slip behind him. Presser grabbed him, pulling him to his chest in a bear hug.
'Damn, this boy thinks he's a jackrabbit,' said Burr. 'You can't be a soldier if you're afraid of getting hit, Rabbit.'
To prove his point, Burr punched Jeremiah in the stomach. After that, the lesson had devolved into a rather thorough beating that drew a crowd. No one intervened. In the end, they'd tossed Jeremiah, half conscious, into the kitchen and said, 'This is your new home. We'll come around in a few days to train you some more. Next time, don't drop the damn sword.'
LIFE IN THE kitchen wasn't completely miserable. It was warm, at least, with the wood-fired ovens churning out endless trays of cornbread. On the stoves, pots of beans and potatoes simmered night and day. Thankfully, no one tried to talk to Jeremiah other than the occasional grunted command. No one cared who he was or where he'd come from. Jeremiah took comfort in this, since he was certain that, if he did talk about everything that had happened to him since the night the long-wyrm riders attacked Big Lick, he would cry. That could only result in further beatings from Presser and Burr.
Even without talking, he still found tears welling up in his eyes, which was odd. He wasn't always the bravest boy in the world, but he wasn't a crybaby. The only times he normally felt weepy was when he was getting sick. Maybe it was more than the stench of rotting vegetables that made him queasy, or the heat of the stoves that made him feel feverish. His sweat smelled funny. He was so tired. He wondered if anyone would notice if he crawled into the back room and took a nap.
Before he could act on the impulse, the door to the kitchen burst open. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright winter sunlight outside. The chill wind cut right through him. Two shadows stood in the doorway.
'Rabbit!' one of the shadows shouted. 'Time for another lesson!'
Jeremiah blinked, bringing Burr and Presser into focus.
'I-I've got to peel potatoes,' he said, his voice faint and quavering.
Presser stomped inside and grabbed him by the wrist. He dragged Jeremiah toward the open door and threw him into the street.
'Everyone fights! You don't fight, you don't eat!' Presser yelled.
Jeremiah lay on the cold, packed earth of the street. A crowd was already starting to gather. Burr's feet came round to his face. His boots were scuffed and worn. The right sole was peeling away at the toe, revealing a gray wool sock.
A sheathed sword dropped to the ground next to Jeremiah's hand.
'Get up,' said Burr.
Jeremiah shook his head.
'Get up or I'll kick the snot out of you,' Burr said.
'I feel sick,' said Jeremiah.
'You feel chicken,' said Burr. 'Presser, help him up.'
Presser leaned down and grabbed Jeremiah by the hair. He pulled and Jeremiah found the motivation to rise to his hands and knees, then to his feet. Presser let him go and Jeremiah stood, swaying in the bright sunlight, feeling the world spinning beneath him.
'Pick up your sword, Rabbit,' Burr said.
Jeremiah didn't move. It wasn't fear that held him motionless. In truth, he didn't feel anything at all beyond the terrible dizziness. It took all his will to stay on his feet.
'He looks like he's about to faint,' Presser said with a giggle.
Jeremiah felt like he was about to faint.
'This will wake him up,' said Burr. He charged forward and delivered a powerful punch to Jeremiah's gut. Jeremiah instantly vomited, spraying a jet of thin yellow fluid as he doubled over.
Burr cursed as he staggered backwards, wiping the vomit from his face.
Presser giggled as Jeremiah fell back to the dust. He vomited again, heaving and heaving. He was stunned by
