Chapter Five

The first few days of training were...interesting to say the least. After my long, yet necessary, speech I had sent Eddie to go out and look for Guardian Belikov. Granted, I had been late to my fair share of trainings in the past, but there was no way in hell I would let my troops in on that minor detail, or would I tolerate it at camp. I had to establish my authority and if I let them get away with stunts like this on the first day, they would walk all over me.

After finding out from a couple of the other men where Belikov was posted up, Eddie made his way over to his tent and brought him up to the training grounds. Walking up, it was hard to believe this was the same man from the night before. Without his hood, I could finally see him clearly and was somewhat surprised by his appearance. His dark hair was shoulder length—not a common fashion amongst warriors—his beard was scruffy and untamed, and his broad shoulders that looked like they could have carried the entire weight of the camp the night before now had a slightly deflated slump.

After directing him to his station, Eddie came back to me with the groundbreaking news that he had "slept in". Although that may have been the ultimate reason for his tardiness, the dark red stains on his shirt and distinct smell of stale wine radiating from him proved the true underlying factor. I watched him from a distance that night to make sure he stuck around and didn't try to sneak off back to bed.

The next night as I made my rounds, I was momentarily glad to see that he had actually showed up on time, but that feeling was quickly squashed after only a few minutes of watching him train. He was lethargic, clumsy, and obviously hungover...again.

I can't say this was the first time I had a troublesome Dhampir that needed some reeling in, but this time was far more frustrating than before. Belikov obviously had some skill; he knew how to hold a weapon, his technique was above average, and his stamina was exceptional, but his aim was off and his unsteady balance hindered him from making a decent impact or hitting anywhere near on target—no doubt side effects from a booze-induced coma. I hated seeing someone waste talent and was annoyed just by looking at him. I considered letting Eddie or Mason handle it, to keep my not so subtle emotions from rearing their head, but on the third day of training, he did something that ignited my already small flame and set erupted the little patience that I had.

The men in his group were working on hand-to-hand combat. Weapons were one of our biggest assets against Strigoi. We used a variety of silver swords, knives, battle-axes and stakes that were charmed by the four main elements of magic to kill them. It took a direct hit to the heart to send them back to the depths of hell, and in order to do so, we were all expertly trained in combat on subduing and executing a kill. Although our weapons were the ultimate deciding factor in their demise, without the proper skills to fight them head-on, a sword was useless in battle.

I stood on the nearby platform to get a good view of two of the Dhampir from the eastern border to see how their skills matched up. The training over there was relatively close to ours and I was interested in seeing how well Byrne and Murray held up. Their skills turned out to be pretty evenly matched, but still not quite where I would've liked them to be. I leaned my elbows onto the makeshift railing and habitually fiddled with the charm around my neck as Mason gave the two men some pointers. They seemed to be perceptive to his advice and nodded along compliantly. I took a mental note to watch them spar again later to see if they added any new techniques to their fight.

"Alright, who's up next," Mason called out. To my surprise, Belikov volunteered and walked to the center of the sparring ring. A shorter, stockier Dhampir called Healy stepped up to face him. I straightened up a bit as they fell into position, curious if he had finally decided to take things seriously. Healy immediately went on the offense throwing wild punches towards his opponent's face and chest, with little to no technique. The movements seemed uncalculated and brash, but still held a surprising amount of power for someone at his stature. However, Belikov deftly blocked each one with apparent ease, catching my immediate attention. This went on for some time, Healy launching primitive attacks and Belikov quickly dodging and blocking. It was as if he was reading each of his adversary's moves before they were initiated.

"Why aren't you fighting back," I muttered to myself. If Belikov had the skill to anticipate the next steps, I couldn't figure out why he was letting this fight go on this long.

Healy was starting to wear down, his hits becoming heavier by the minute. He cranked his arm back, preparing for one last attempt at a strike to the face. We could all see where his intended target was planned, his slow movements and pointed focus giving him away. I rose onto my toes, anticipation coursing through me as I waited to see how Belikov would react. He had yet to throw a single punch and I was dying to see the impact of his blow. Just when it looked like he was finally about to make an attack he dropped his arms to his side and remained perfectly still, letting Healy's fist collide directly with his jaw.

His face shot to the side, blood and spit soaring out of his mouth. I quickly glanced around thinking that something had distracted him, but when he rose back up the look on his face proved it had been intentional. He was smiling.

Belikov righted his stance as he wiped his bloodied beard with the back of his arm and motioned for Healy to come at him again. I'm not sure if he was a masochist or just an asshole, but I had seen enough.

"Stop!" Everyone's heads whipped towards me, evidently just now noticing that I was watching their fights. Everyone's except Belikov's, whose focus was still aimed in Healy's direction. "You mind explaining to me what the hell you're doing, Guardian?"

"I was—I was just," Healy started before I raised my hand to cut him off.

"Not you. Guardian Belikov." I didn't need to explain myself further. It was clear the others were wondering the same thing. Belikov dropped his hands and finally stepped out of his fighting stance, but refused to look at me when he responded.

"Huh, I thought someone as observant as you could figure that out." Apparently, he had noticed I'd been watching. I suddenly realized this was the first time I had heard him speak. His voice was deep, his accent unfamiliar, but his tone...his tone was sarcastic and cocky as all hell. I guess that answered my earlier question: he was an asshole.

I should have just let that little comment go and worked out a way to redirect his attitude, but that distasteful feeling for him wasting his talents rose up again and his obvious lack of respect was pushing my limits. I couldn't stand to look at him. "If you're not going to take this exercise seriously, then I suggest you find one that you will."

He scoffed at my response like a scolded child and pushed his hair out of his face. "Sure thing, Guardian Hathaway. I'm better with knives anyways."

I shouldn't have done it. I know I shouldn't have. I was the leader now and needed to keep my temper in check, but this insubordinate foreigner was fueling that burning rage I tried so hard to keep at bay. As he turned to leave, I snatched a knife from the holster on my hip and flung it across the yard. The silver tip danced in the glowing light as it spun through the air before sinking into the wooden post directly in front of that bodach's face. His eyes widened at the weapon lodged inches from his nose and he froze in place.

"That's Marshall to you, Belikov."

He finally met my burning gaze and looked at me with that stone cold mask. Those brown eyes from my dream caused my breaths to become uneven. There was something about them that I couldn't quite place. I didn't understand why, but it was like they were saying something to me, something about who this stranger truly was—or who he used to be. That was until his expression morphed into yet another cocky smirk. Belikov wrapped his fingers around the knife, pulling it from the post and tossed it up to catch the hilt in his hand, all the while maintaining his eye contact with me. "My mistake, Marshall."

After he left the ring and headed towards the throwing targets I turned on my heel and stormed off, not even bothering to retrieve my knife. I'm not sure why I was letting this recruit get to me so much, but there was steam practically spewing out of my ears.