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Chapter 9 - Bart's Crossbow Training

21st Day of Manul

117 I.E.

Days turned into weeks, and eventually, weeks turned into months. Despite how hard Bartholomew tried, his attempts at rebelling were met by swift punishment. The officers anticipated everything he tried, and made sure to reinforce the idea that they were in charge, using force as liberally as possible.

"What did you hit me for?" Bart said after receiving his latested punishment that was delivered in the form a hard right hook to the tip of his muzzle. It left tears in his eyes and he rubbed the sore spot on his nose.

"You were out of formation, and you were talking back at me," Thora stated plainly.

"You can't just hit a soldier!" Bart hollered back, which earned him another sharp reprimand as he was backhanded.

"It's called a correction," she replied as she cracked her knuckles. "Judging by your tone, it sounds like you could use another one."

Bart fell silent, not wishing to be hit a third time.

"Good. Back in line! You still have three more laps to run."

With a huff, Bart stood up and began running. His ears burned from the harsh calls that Thora made as they ran the field. Everything about Hell's Crucible infuriated Bart. The food was so bland it may as well have been nothing more than a grey, pasty gruel. The nights were cold, and sleep was seldom long enough to feel truly refreshed. The training was harsh and non-stop. Even those who passed out from exhaustion or heat stroke were swiftly revived and forced to continue on. The training camp did a splendid job at living up to its name.

The only thing that Bart enjoyed was the combat training. It gave him a chance to flex his muscles and vent some pent up frustration. The training sessions were too few and far between, however, which constantly left him thirsty for more.

Bart chugged along as he ran, moving at a slower pace than his squad mates but making up for it with his larger size. His legs burned all the same, despite the fact it took him less effort. The ursar simply wasn't used to sprinting so much.

There were a few obstacles in the way that he and the others had to cross, such as a low bar to slide under, walls to climb, and uneven terrain between that. They proved easy enough for Bart to conquer, and by the end of the training exercise, he collapsed on the ground. His tuft of head fur stuck to his brow and glistened with the gallons of sweat he would need to ring out in the river.

Thora came over and kicked Bart in his side, involuntarily causing him to roll over and curl into the fetal position to protect his body.

"Did I say you could rest? Get your ass up, or I'm going to correct you again!"

With a groan, Bart stood back up, hunched forward as he tried to balance on his legs of rubber. Someone stuffed a crossbow in his face, and he looked up to see the quartermaster handing him a dwarven arbalest. The weapon was huge compared to the dwarf, but for someone Bart's size, it looked like the ursar could handle the weapon with a single hand, if he ever needed to.

"What's that for?" he panted.

"Combat training," the quartermaster replied.

"We already know you can fight with your hands," Thora elaborated, "We got thirty sore egos to prove it. Now, I'd like to see how well you can handle something more effective than your paws."

Bart frowned. "My paws are plenty effective," he shot back with a snarl. "Stronger than a flimsy piece of wood."

"I don't care," Thora said sternly. "Just do as I say."

"Yes, ma'am," Bart said venomously. His brow furrowed in aggravation, he snatched the arbalest away from the quartermaster's hands.

The weapon was light in his paws, but he imagined that to a dwarf, the weapon was gargantuan. The stock nestled neatly into the crook of his shoulder as he hefted the weapon to get a feel for it. He sauntered towards the shooting range they had set up, where a few others were working on using bows and crossbows.

The quartermaster was close behind Bart, holding a large quiver of bolts. He handed it off to the ursar. "It clips around your waist and hangs off your belt," he instructed, and worked to attach it to Bart's clothes. "Grab a bolt and load it facing down towards the ground so you don't accidentally fire it into the air when you pull it back."

"I know how to load a crossbow!" Bart snapped. "I've had more than enough of the damn things pointed at my head to know how they work."

Despite his boasts, the weapon proved more awkward to handle than he could have imagined as he fumbled with it. He stuck the bolt into the flight groove, pointed the weapon down, and tried awkwardly to fit his over-sized feet into the cocking stirrup at the front. He tugged it back until he felt and heard the bolt click into the latch just above the trigger.

Bart took his position beneath the awning and looked at his target. It was nothing more than a straw dummy of an indistinct race. Someone had painted a crude looking frown in it, making it look absolutely ridiculous. Bart caught himself thinking that he could've done a better job than that. He quickly shook the thought out of his head to clear his mind. He hadn't put stylus to paper in years. Why think about it now?

He hefted the weapon up and placed his left hand on the foregrip as he leveled the crossbow out.

"Wait, you weren't given the order to -" the quartermaster tried to protest, but Bart fired before he could finish his sentence.

The bolt twirled in the air and found itself a home within the head of the straw dummy. The force of the hit caused by the great crossbow nearly knocked it off of the wooden post that held it up. Thora had been about to reprimand Bart for acting without permission when she saw him hit his mark.

"Do that again," she ordered.

"Pfft, haven't you ever seen someone get a headshot before?" Bart asked, annoyed. He reloaded the crossbow and fired, striking half an inch to the right of the first bolt.

"Again."

Bart did as he was told, finding that he was actually enjoying the practice. While he relished learning and practicing hand-to-hand combat and using various swords and axes, being able to peg a target in the head from a hundred yards out was something else. It made the tips of his fingers tingle as he rested them against the trigger and aimed.

Thora snapped her fingers and issued several orders to a few dwarves that had been standing around. "Hold your fire for a moment," she said to Bart. The ursar shrugged as he loaded his fourth bolt and kept the weapon pointed at the ground.

A few soldiers ran out to adjust the position of the straw dummy, retrieving the used bolts in the process. They took it and moved it as far back as the Crucible's walls would allow, placing it right up against the stone fortifications. By now, the target was nothing more than a mere dot from where Bart stood.

"Alright ursar, let's see if you can do that again," she said.

Bart's ears flicked. Was that irritation he sensed coming from her? He blinked as he paused to think on that feeling. Why could he feel her irritation? It certainly hadn't been the first time he felt some foreign emotion coming from someone. Perhaps he was merely imagining it. With a shrug, he leveled the crossbow and tilted his head to glare down the sight. It shook and swayed from side to side as he tried to level his aim. It was proving impossible, and he went so far as to hold his breath to keep from shaking, though it didn't help much.

This is going to be tough, he thought, yet he was determined not to give in. They were testing him, challenging him. He would not allow them to beat him. He couldn't get his arms to steady though, no matter how much he focused on the target.

Come on, damn it! As he grew more frustrated with himself, his mind wandered to every time he felt helpless and unable to act or achieve something. The straw man's form seemed to waver before his eyes, and in it, he could see only the faces of those who had mocked him and hurt him.

Bart's eyes narrowed and his muzzle curled back into a sneer, baring his pointed teeth. With a roar of primal rage as he released the breath he'd been holding, the crossbow clicked and the bolt flew across the field. It seemed for a second that it wouldn't hit his mark, but true to the first several shots, this one hit the dummy in the head and pinned it to the stone wall behind it.

"Lucky shot," one dwarf remarked, trying to sound unimpressed.

"I bet he can't do it again."

Thora nodded. "One more time."

"What, four shots wasn't enough to prove that I'm better than you lot!?" Bart shouted. "Fine!" He slammed his foot in the stirrup, yanked the bolt into place, and took aim. His fifth and final shot struck his target, and he lowered the weapon with a smug sense of self-satisfaction. "There. Happy!?"

His drill instructor stared in stunned silence. Bart smugly handed the weapon off to the quartermaster.

General Flintforge approached and clapped his hands. "Quite the show you put on there, Bart. I dare say, you may get to be one of the best marksmen that the Crucible produces if you keep this up."

"Sir, I don't feel we should inflate this convict's head with such delusions of grandeur," Thora told him. "Perhaps it would be best if we restrict his access to the weapons so he doesn't have a chance to turn them on us."

A low growl emitted from Bart's chest. "What is your problem with me, anyways?"

Harkness stepped in before Thora could offer her response. "Alright, that's enough. Thora, your concerns are noted, but the ursar has a clear gift that we should acknowledge. It would be in the best interest of our military."

"He can barely take orders without getting his breeches in a knot!" Thora said. "How can someone like that even be in 'our best interest'?"

"You know what pisses me off?" Bart began, "When people talk like I'm not standing right here!"

Harkness was unphased by his remarks. "We can discuss this another time, Thora. As for you, Bartholomew, you should go and get yourself cleaned up. You're sweaty and stink something fierce. Take the rest of the day to rest. We're going to put you into Advanced Individual Development starting tomorrow morning with Lieutenant Jacinth."

The old general smiled. "To think that a couple months ago, I was on the verge of having your pelt hung out to dry with all your insubordination. I'm glad to see that you might just be worth all the trouble after all."

Bart huffed and said, "It's about time someone recognized me for how great I am." The remark was meant to twist a knife in Thora's side, and judging by her intensifying scowl, it worked.

Harkness chuckled. "Now, if only we could do something about your attitude."

As Bart watched Thora storm off after Harkness, he couldn't help but feel some satisfaction with her displeasure. For someone who had given him so much trouble when he first arrived, and for how many times she struck him, it was pleasing to see her discontent just once.