As if he had eyes in the back of his head, Linden slipped aside from the strike that came at him from behind. In the same breath he turned, his blade flashing to strike his assailant square in the chest.
Had it been steel, the man would have been gravely wounded. But with wooden swords, the attacker merely staggered and pressed on, joined by two more who closed in to hem Linden round.
Most men would have panicked when faced with such a siege. Linden, however, moved with ease.
His steps were light as a deer in the wood, his body quick and fluid as a butterfly among flowers. Each time a blow seemed certain to land, he slid away, and each time he countered, his strikes found the vital points with uncanny precision.
Had he been wielding real blades, and had his foes not been clad in leather, the three sparring partners would have fallen dead a dozen times over. Even so, some of his counters slipped through the gaps in their armor, striking unguarded flesh and leaving them groaning in pain.
"Stop, stop!" one of the sparring partners cried at last, stumbling back after Linden's wooden sword thrust into his ribs. He tore off his leather jerkin, lifted his tunic, and revealed a body mottled with bruises. Gasping, he said, "I'm done. If I keep at this, the coin my father gave me for sparring won't be enough to pay the healer."
At his surrender, the other two—already at their limits—dropped their wooden swords and shields as well, shaking their heads.
Linden himself was winded, his chest rising and falling as he drove the tip of his wooden sword into the dirt and leaned upon it. He gave the three youths an apologetic look. They had been carefully chosen by Father Baine, yet even they could not withstand him for long.
His wounds had healed fully half a month ago, but still no word had come from Baine. Smiling Will had been found, true enough, yet the captain of the Red Lake guard had given no clear answer—only that Baine must wait until the day the city watch sought to expand.
Linden was not troubled by the delay. From the whispers he gathered in the tavern, it was plain enough that Red Lake, Old Oak, and Goldengrove were preparing for action. When the time came, Red Lake would surely summon its men, and all he need do was bring his weapons and answer the call. On the battlefield, he was certain his strength would win him renown. Coupled with his reputation as the Bear‑Hunter, House Crane would have to be blind indeed not to see his worth. Perhaps he would not even need to begin at the lowest rank of guard, but step directly into a higher station.
Setting aside thoughts of the guard for now, Linden threw himself wholly into training. Building his strength and endurance was his first priority, but he did not neglect his swordsmanship. Still, without a proper opponent, his practice lacked the edge of true combat.
Father Baine, after watching him once, judged that further solitary drills would do little good. From time to time, he began hiring sparring partners from among the caravan mercenaries who passed through White Village.
At first, the bouts were one‑on‑one. But it quickly became clear that Linden overwhelmed his opponents with ease. Against a single foe, he suppressed them utterly, leaving the exercise all but pointless.
Linden himself had begun to feel that the dual‑wielding swordplay he had mastered was too overwhelming. Against a knight trained for years, there might be value in the contest, but against common mercenaries one‑on‑one, there was little challenge.
So he had pressed to increase their number. Within ten days of sparring, he could already suppress three opponents at once. At this rate, perhaps only five together might bring him true pressure.
Yet his training also revealed a flaw. Though his swordsmanship dazzled, his body could not sustain such intensity for long. After two or three minutes of high‑paced combat, his strength plummeted, and with it his effectiveness. This weakness could not be mended quickly; only long, patient training would harden his endurance.
While Father Baine passed ointment to the bruised mercenaries, he spoke gravely to Linden. "Ordinary sellswords can no longer test you. Add more, it will be the same. What you need now is real fighting—against true warriors. Only that will sharpen you further."
He paused, studying Linden as he panted for breath. "But for now, stop seeking sparring partners. Better you focus on building your body."
Baine stepped closer, seized Linden's arm, and gave it a firm squeeze. "Too thin," he muttered. "You need more weight on you. In these next weeks, I'll see you fed well. I'll make you some stewed nutmeg mash—it should put strength in your bones."
Though Father Baine's plan conflicted somewhat with his own training regimen, Linden did not refuse. His own methods already demanded high‑calorie food, and while Baine's stewed nutmeg mash might taste foul, it would still provide the energy he needed.
And Baine's reasoning was not without merit. The Peacekeeper's style, which Linden had absorbed, emphasized speed, evasion, and sudden strikes. His training naturally followed that path—light steps, quick dodges, swift cuts. But the focus on speed had left his frame too lean, with scarcely any fat upon him.
On a battlefield of steel and blood, fat could serve as a man's last armor. A blow that might cripple a lean fighter could be blunted by a layer of flesh, leaving muscle and bone intact and the man still able to fight. In Linden's current state, a hard strike would fall directly upon muscle and bone, robbing him of his strength in an instant.
"I understand," Linden said at last. "I'll adjust my training."
Baine was surprised. In the past, the boy had been stubborn to a fault, never yielding once he had set his mind. Even when proven wrong, he would argue his case, just as he had when he set out to hunt the bear. Yet now he agreed without protest.
"What is it? Something wrong?" Linden asked, feigning casualness when he noticed Baine's strange look.
"No, nothing," Baine replied with a smile. To him, the change was a good one.
Half a month passed. In that time, Linden trained with new focus, eating heavily to build his strength. Whether it was the golden finger at work or simply the strain of his regimen, his body changed swiftly.
Once, he had stood no taller than most hunters of White Village, scarcely more than five feet seven. Now he had grown to near six foot three, towering over his peers. He had to duck his head to pass through the tavern door, and his frame had thickened with weight and muscle. From a distance, he looked less like a youth and more like a bear walking upright.
Because of this, rumors soon began to spread through White Village and among the caravans that passed along its roads. Most claimed that Linden's sudden transformation was not natural at all—that when he slew the mountain bear, he had devoured its very essence, and so taken on the beast's strength and shape.
Such whispers only deepened the villagers' fear of him. Those who had once quarreled with Linden now shrank away at the sight of him, unwilling even to meet his gaze.
Their behavior made Linden feel increasingly ill at ease in White Village. Yet he bore them little resentment. He was not truly the Linden they had known, and so he felt no bond to their lives or their judgments. And besides, he did not think their actions wrong. In a place so poor, men and women clutched at whatever scraps they could. Had he been in their place, he might have done the same.
For that reason, during his recovery he had considered mending ties with the villagers, hoping one day to draw upon their numbers. In a world so backward, population was the first foundation of power. And White Village had its strengths: most of its folk were archers, and nearly all knew some small measure of swordplay. With training, they could be forged into capable warriors.
Linden had thought that if he could one day win a place in the service of some noble house, he might recruit men from White Village and quickly form a power of his own.
But now, the fear and suspicion in their eyes had shattered that plan before it could even begin. He could feel it plainly: even if he reached out, even if he swore he bore them no hatred, the people of White Village would never believe him.
The change in Linden's mind made him view the rumors differently. When the people of White Village whispered that he had swallowed the essence of the mountain bear and gained its strength, he did not deny it. Instead, he fed the tale, showing feats of strength and skill he had never displayed before. The villagers themselves became his heralds, spreading the legend until it began to take root.
After finishing his daily training, Linden made his way to Father Baine's tavern for the heavy meals prepared to build his strength. But as he reached the door, his path was blocked.
"You are the Bear‑Hunter," a voice declared.
A young nobleman in fine clothes stood before him, his tone dripping with arrogance. He looked Linden up and down as though appraising a piece of horseflesh, then nodded. "Taller than I expected. Very good. Very good."
Linden studied him in turn. The youth had grown a beard to make himself seem older, but his face was still soft. His eyes flicked to the golden crane badge worked into the saddle of the fine horse tethered outside, then to the six armed men standing at the noble's back. From that, he guessed well enough who this must be.
Yet the purpose of the visit was unclear. What Linden did see, faint but certain, was the hostility in the young man's gaze.
He betrayed nothing. Instead, he stepped back as any commoner might when confronted, his hand settling lightly on the small hand‑axe at his belt. His voice was calm, wary.
"Who are you? I don't know you."
Seeing Linden's blunt, almost rude reaction, the young noble's brow furrowed. But the frown quickly gave way to his former mask of arrogance. He was about to signal one of his men to announce his name when Father Baine burst from the tavern.
"You whelp, what are you about?" Baine barked, raising a hand as if to cuff Linden on the back of the head. But with Linden's new height, his palm landed only on the youth's shoulder. As he withdrew, Baine gave Linden's arm a discreet squeeze, a silent warning, before bowing low to the noble.
"Lord Crowe, forgive him," Baine said smoothly. "Since his recovery, the boy has been jumpy as a hare, startled by every shadow. He meant no slight to you, ser. Ask any villager if you doubt me."
"Little rabbit?" Crowe Klein gave a sharp laugh. "This rabbit is not so little. Old Baine, enough of your excuses. I know well enough what he is—a bear‑hunter." His glare silenced Baine, and he turned his eyes back to Linden. "I am Ser Crowe Klein of Red Lake. I heard the tales sung of you in the taverns and came to see for myself. The Bear‑Hunter, they call you. Hmph. You are less than I expected… but still, not without promise."
Linden met his gaze in silence, calm and unflinching.
The lack of response stung. Crowe's face darkened, as though he had been slighted before his own men. Then, as if struck by a thought, his lips curled into a sneer. His eyes raked over Linden with the cold amusement of a man toying with prey.
"Still," he said slowly, "I do not believe the rumors. So…"
As he spoke, Ser Crowe turned and gave a sly wink to one of the soldiers at his side, then stepped back with a mocking smile.
"Since you claim to have slain a mountain bear, it should not be so difficult to best one of my men with your bare hands, should it?"
"Ser…" Father Baine's face darkened at once. He stepped forward, ready to intercede. With his years of battle experience, he knew too well the gulf between an unarmed man and one clad in leather, armed with steel. No matter how gifted Linden's swordplay, Baine doubted he could overcome such odds.
But Ser Crowe cut him off with a raised hand. "Old Baine, I know you went crawling to Smiling Will, begging him to take this bear‑hunter into the Guard. Consider this a test of his worth." His tone was sharp, his words deliberate. Then, as if remembering something only now, he added with feigned casualness, "Ah, yes. I nearly forgot to tell you. Smiling Will has been stripped of his command for corruption. He rots in the dungeons even now, and in two days' time he will hang with the rest of the rabble. The captain of the Red Lake Guard is me—Ser Crowe Crane."
At that, Baine's heart sank. The truth was plain: he had stumbled into the quarrels of House Crane, and Ser Crowe had come not to test Linden, but to humiliate them both.
Knowing there was no turning the moment aside, Baine laid a heavy hand on Linden's shoulder. His grip lingered, firm and apologetic, before he leaned close and murmured into the youth's ear.
"You must fight with all your strength. Hold nothing back."