Old powers

Artam rubbed his eyelids, yawning too. As he tried to chase away the sleepiness.

Somehow the night felt invigorating, especially tonight.

The cool night air wrapped around him, but instead of dragging him into weariness, it left him feeling strange, as if something in the stillness of the night had kept him lucid.

A rustle of wings broke the silence. Artam glanced up, spotting the crow as it perched on a branch of the large, gnarled tree that loomed over the garden.

It looked at him with a haughty expression; Artam could almost hear the mocking in those pitch-black eyes.

Never mind him, he told himself trying to throw away useless thoughts.

"I need to shadow my movements from before," Artam said in a low whisper; he wouldn't want to attract attention now, would he?

The last thing he needed was a wandering Servant or, worse, one of the guards finding him here.

He closed his eyes and tried remembering the spar with Eryk. He could see himself.

He picked the mop stick relaxing his wrists, and freeing his joints.

"Flexible…." He whispered under his breath.

And he could see the ex-sellsword too.

He dodged an incoming thrust and smashed his shield into the Eryk's image. Remembering the stances.

He let his mind drift back to the sparring session. The ex-sellsword had been a difficult opponent, not because of any particular skill, but because of the raw force behind his attacks.

Artam could still see it in his mind's eye—the way Eryk charged, his blade coming in fast, too fast for a man his size.

Artam wouldn't be able to dodge in time, he was always too slow. But Eryk had said Artam could be faster. He dodged the thrust, side-stepping with precision, and in one swift motion, slammed his shield into Eryk's chest, sending him staggering back.

He smiled.

Wielding a weapon was the highlight of his day, the time when he felt most in control.The weight of the stick, the cool of the wind on him, the strength of his attacks. The movements cleared his mind, his footwork glided over the overgrown grass.

The adapting of his stances to accommodate a spear and not a sword.

He wasn't a slave when fighting; he wasn't melancholic, and he wasn't being punished or shunned. He was free, as free as the overgrown vines.

He performed a few more kata forms, flowing from one to the next.

He flowed seamlessly from one kata to the next, lost in the repetition. Time slipped away, and he was breathing laboriously but in paces. And his brows were full of sweat.

Sweat soaked his brow, and the crisp air carried the earthy scent of damp soil, decay with a tinge of musky sweat. His labored breaths mingled with the quiet rustling of leaves.

He gripped the mop stick and held it like a spear. He could try to mimic the Turtle's dance with a spear.

He stumbled a few times, it wasn't as easy as he had hoped. But he had a knack for it, so he tried again and again. Till he got it.

His movements were similar yet not so similar. He relied more on thrusting and a little less on slashing.

After going through more forms, and transition to the next. He repeated them a couple of times. Till it was perfected to a certain degree.

Yet it still wasn't enough, he felt something lacking.

Caw! He glanced at the crow, it was mocking him.

He scowled, "Damn bird." Then he remembered the crow dreams.

"Yes, I could try to reenact the dreams and shadow my movements." He said with a bit of enthusiasm.

He closed his eyes and began recollecting. By morning, the dreams were always muddy, and he couldn't recall what happened in most of them.

But he could remember some, especially this night. He needed to remember one.

He tried but failed, and failed again.

Damnit.

He took deep breaths, there was the rustle of wings and a distant caw. Suddenly he wasn't in the garden anymore.

The smell of decay and damp soil vanished. Replaced by the smell of vomit, blood, and gore.

"I remember this one." He says.

He could imagine it again, the battlefield was littered with the corpses of allies and foes

 War didn't care which side you were on, it would send you beyond the veil when granted the chance.

Vultures and carrion crows circled the skies.

There was a war horn, followed by the sound of two arrows released from a taut string.

"two from the back." Somehow Artam knew where they were from, "and another from the left."

He raised his shield and turned in time.

One whizzed past him, the second sunk deep into his shield, and the third glanced off its polished wood, smashing to splints and bits.

The archers were reloading and a cohort of soldiers were on their way.

He steadied his breathing and calmed his mind.

Do not let your mind rest in any of them. He could hear his genius of war tell him.

Then he dashed towards the cohort about to reach him.

Without hesitation, he charged toward the approaching soldiers. His bold, seemingly reckless move startled them. As he neared, he unhooked his round shield, tossing it onto his back.

Then it came—a hiss of an arrow slicing through the air. He was already moving, dodging it as it flew past, embedding itself in a soldier's eye.

"Argh!" he cried out in pain

Then Artam smashed into their defense. In one quick motion, he ended the man's agony, wrenching his gladius free from the man's eye socket.

He stole the legionnaire's square shield and unleashed carnage on them.

Dancing between them like a demon made manifest. Weaving through attacks and arrows.

He didn't understand, he couldn't understand how he moved this well.

But it felt right. One moment, he was in their shadow; the next, he was in another's, and the previous man was drowning in his blood.

He cut his way through the enemies, singlehandedly. Using forms he was taught and some he wasn't.

Eventually, he reached another struggling unit of allies and got in formation. He dashed towards them and picked up a spear after burying his gladius in someone's skull.

At least two more soldiers went down or were knocked from their feet when Artam joined them;

They never got a chance to stand up. He lanced down, thrusting into the flesh of the enemy with a terrible hunger. Normally, the gaps left by such casualties would be filled immediately.

Not this time. With froth spraying from their lips, the enemy thrust themselves, uncaring, screaming, into the breaches.

"They are trying to drown us with their numbers." Artam grimaced, skewering another man.

The soldier on his right clashes shields with him, but Artam spins and allows him to be carried by his momentum. Before skewering his head and stealing his gladius.

"When did you get so good?" Garrinus says, engaging an enemy.

Artam wasn't sure how he knew his name.

He chose not to reply and instead joined their formation in holding down the enemy.

 Punching with their shield bosses and stabbing with their swords like men possessed, they drove the enemy soldiers back several steps.

A knight centurion who jumped into their path was hacked to pieces in a storm of vicious blows. A signifier was killed, and his standard was raised into the air by a triumphant soldier.

But it would be futile, Artam could see it. His many years in the military had told him.

He killed a knight legacius, after exchanging a few blows.

They were outnumbered and losing.

Then came a thrust to the thigh, "Argh!"

Artam staggered and fell on one knee.

He gritted his teeth. He parried the enemy's follow-up and killed the man with a viscous blow. Then it all happened too fast.

Garrinus died, and another died, and another. Then the formation collapsed. Artam cut down three men. But then he was severely wounded.

Screaming like a madman till an arrow took him in the eye socket. His head jerked back and he came crashing back.

His vision was different, and there was a headache gnawing at him.

He watched a young man poised in a kata form, unmoving. His eyes were rolled back with the whites exposed.

"What in the flame?" Artam cawed 

The young man was him, then reality slammed into him as he hit the ground. He lay on the rushes and leaves, sweat pouring off him, gasping for breath.

He breathed heavily, scanning his surroundings. The crow still perched silently on the tree, but the sky had begun to shift, the deep night giving way to a pale blue hue. The morning was approaching.

"I-I-I was in Vyde's skin?"Artam said with disbelief.

Touching his face to be sure he was back in his body.

Then he heard the sounds of footsteps.

Cursing under his breath, he bolted. He couldn't afford to be caught in the garden at this hour. Moving swiftly and silently, he made his way through the shadows until he finally slipped back into his room with his heart still racing.

Now he wasn't so sure the dreams were a figment of his imagination.

He was scared, but a bit thrilled.

"I thought only nobles and high blood were graced with the old powers and gifts." He muttered to himself as he lay on the straw bed.

Artam shook off the different thoughts swirling in his head.

Powers or not, he needed to attend to the bastard.

Else he'll be beaten again.

But still, the thrill of having something special excited him.

"I'll see later, for now. I have other things to do." He said picking his dried chiton from the window slit and leaving the room.