Issa felt a stab of pity for Etai. Kellas’ victory would only feed his hubris and likely eat away at the Mahjuri girl’s confidence. Next time they clashed, Etai could already be half-defeated in her own mind before they ever crossed blades.
Not if I take Kellas down a peg.
Etai’s Archateros trainer, a stern-faced woman even taller than Issa and Hykos, clucked her tongue and barked an order for Etai to retrieve her sword.
“Not bad,” called Byrach, Kellas’ trainer, as he lumbered out onto the training field. “But you’re an idiot if you think toying with your enemies is the way to win.”
Kellas ripped off his helmet. “I wasn’t toying with—”
The towering Byrach seized Kellas’ gorget and pulled him close. “Shut your mouth and open your ears.” His expression grew stern, his voice a growl. “Showing off gets you dead. You fight to finish the battle as quickly and brutally as possible.”
“Yes, Archateros.” Kellas colored, a mixture of ashamed red and infuriated purple.
Issa couldn’t help smiling at the sight of the arrogant Dhukari youth humiliated. He deserves that and more.
“Byrach, think your prototopoi’s up for another challenge?” Hykos called.
Issa heard the scorn in the word, a cross between “village idiot” and “constipated dog”.
“Aye.” Byrach released Kellas’ gorget. “He could use the practice.”
Kellas straightened his armor, face flushed, and glared at Issa. “You’re putting me against another lowborn?”
“Mouth shut, sword up!” Byrach growled and cuffed Kellas with a gauntleted hand. “Your enemy’s heritage doesn’t matter; all you need to care about is the cut of their blade.”
Hykos laid a hand on Issa’s arm and pulled her to one side of the training yard. “Listen to what Byrach told Kellas. Fight to finish it.”
“Yes, Archateros.” Issa nodded and slipped on her mountain lion-faced helmet. The steel weighed far less than she expected and the thick padding made the helmet sit comfortably on her head. Without the scowling war mask, her field of vision remained unimpeded.
“First to lose their sword or hit the sand runs ten laps around the Citadel,” Byrach barked out.
Hykos grinned. “Make it fifteen.”
Issa turned her attention away from her Archateros and focused on Kellas.
“Let’s do this!” the Dhukari youth snarled and stalked toward her. “Nowhere to run this time, Earaqi.”
Issa studied his posture, movements, everything down to the placement of his hands. Though the war mask hid his expression, he moved with the confidence earned through years of training. She’d caught him off-guard in the Crucible, but now he was ready for her.
Or so he thinks.
She adjusted her stance to the low guard taught at the Academy of the Windy Mountain. A solid position, with her feet planted and her sword held low, ready to ward off the first-contact rush they taught at the Academy of the Silver Sword. Kellas seemed to recognize her stance and adapted accordingly, raising his sword to a high-guard position.
Issa waited, forcing him to attack. He obliged by stepping forward and striking out with a quick blow meant to test the range of his sword. Issa batted it aside, knocked away a thrust aimed at her gut, then quickly leapt to the right with a high block that led into a counterattack. The technique, courtesy of the Academy of the Darting Arrows, nearly won her the battle. Kellas barely managed to turn away the blow and had to lean back to avoid the tip of her blade. The blow, that would have rung off his helmet with jarring force, clanked against his pauldron.
Kellas recovered quickly and came after her with powerful, sweeping blows of his two-handed sword. Issa recognized the tactic; he’d used it to overpower Etai. But her muscles, hardened by years of swinging swords and smith hammers, could take the battering. She knocked away the blows and responded with a quick thrust of her own.
The tip of her flame-bladed sword slammed into Kellas’ breastplate hard enough to stagger him. He stumbled back, his heel catching on a clump of sand, and his arms flew wide as he tried not to fall. Issa seized the advantage to charge. Two steps brought her within striking range and her backhanded blow rang off Kellas’ helmet. The attack, the equivalent of a jab in bare-handed combat, set her up for the true finishing strike: a downward chop aimed at his neck, where his armor was weakest.
The blow would have killed Kellas had she followed through. Instead, she turned the strike aside at the last moment and let the blade ring off Kellas’ pauldron. The impact was enough to numb his left shoulder, and Issa thought she heard a grunt of pain through his steel war mask. Issa brought her sword around and rapped him on the knuckles. His Shalandran steel gauntlet protected his fingers but couldn’t dull the force. Kellas actually yelped as his two-handed sword fell from his fingers and thumped to the sand.
“Hah!” Hykos cried, and applause broke out around the training yard. “Seems like your—”
He never finished the sentence. With a roar, Kellas bent, scooped up his sword, and charged Issa. Issa, believing the fight finished, had stepped back and lowered her blade. The sudden rush caught her by surprise. She barely had time to bring up her sword to block.
The blow never struck. Instead, a third flame-shaped blade crashed into Kellas’ sword before it made contact with Issa’s. Sparks flew and Issa heard a loud crackling sound as the two met. Kellas was thrown backward and collapsed to the ground, his flammard once again flying from his hand.
Hykos didn’t sheathe his sword as he bent, seized Kellas’ gorget, and lifted the stunned youth to his knees one-handed. He ripped the helmet from Kellas’ face and glared down at the Dhukari boy.
“It is over!” he growled. His face, so friendly and welcoming to Issa mere moments earlier, had changed to a mask of fury. “The battle is done.”
Kellas paled, his head hanging.
Hykos rounded on Issa. “Your enmity dies here and now. You, and you!” He thrust his sword at Etai, who had taken a seat on a nearby bench. “We are not like the Necroseti. We do not bicker, betray, deceive, or denigrate each other. We are Blades, chosen by the Long Keeper, sworn to the service of our fellow Blades, our Elders, our Pharus, and our people. We serve with strength, courage, and honor.”
He turned his glare to Kellas once more. “No more bad blood, understood?”
“Yes!” The word tore from the young man’s mouth.
Hykos glanced at Issa and Etai, who both answered in turn. “Understood.”
“Good.” Hykos released Kellas’ gorget and replaced his two-handed sword in its sheath on his back. “Now stand and face each other, the three of you.”
The commanding tone in Hykos’ voice galvanized Etai into action, and she hustled over to Issa. Issa stepped forward and held out a hand to Kellas. For a moment, the Dhukari boy glared up at her, disdain etched into his eyes. Yet, beneath Hykos’ stern glare, he had no choice but to accept Issa’s help.
The three of them faced each other: noble Dhukari, toiling Earaqi, outcast Mahjuri .
“Swear now,” Hykos commanded, “before the Long Keeper and his Blades, to honor each other, to treat the ones before you as brothers and sisters, to fight and, if necessary, die for each other.”
“I swear!” Issa said.
“I swear,” Etai echoed.
After a moment, Kellas added his voice. “I swear.”
“So be it.” Hykos nodded and stepped back. “From this day forward, you are no longer Dhukari, Earaqi, or Mahjuri. As you swore to the Elders, your past life is behind you. You are now the Keeper’s Blades, one body, one mind.”
“Yes, Archateros,” Issa said.
“Yes, Archateros,” the other two repeated.
“Good.” Hykos turned and shot Byrach a pointed look. “Now, I believe there’s the little matter of the loser running laps.”
* * *
Issa tried hard not to grin as she glanced at the puffing, heavily-sweating Kellas circling the training yard. Their new suit
s of armor were far lighter than Voramian steel, but they still weighed at least twenty pounds. Add to that the weight of Kellas’ sword and the exhaustion of the battle, and he’d be feeling the burn.
“Again, you prove yourself clever and skilled.” Hykos’ voice snapped her back to her training. “But you got sloppy. You had three chances to take him down before he transitioned through that first blow, and ten more before you finally finished it.”
Issa frowned. “So many?”
Hykos nodded. “The fact that you did not see those openings speaks to your inexperience rather than a lack of skill. Over the next weeks, it will be my task to hammer that experience into you. If you survive, by the time you are confirmed in the Anointing, you will be on your way to becoming one of the best of the Keeper’s Blades.”
Issa glowed beneath the pride, a smile tugging at her lips.
“If you survive,” Hykos emphasized.
The words sent a little flash of anxiety through her. That sounds ominous.
The somber look in Hykos’ eyes told her she was in for training that made Killian’s demanding regimen seem like a walk in the Keeper’s Gardens.
“Start with the basics,” Hykos commanded. “Set up in that same Windy Mountain stance you chose to open the fight. A good, solid stance, but with too many weakness to be practical in real battle. See, when you plant your feet like that, you open yourself up to a counterattack. Like this…”
The next two hours passed in a blur. Hykos pushed her hard, forcing her to repeat mistakes and transitioning between offensive and defensive techniques so quickly she hardly had time to learn one before he threw another at her. When she mastered a sword stroke, he showed how that attack could be turned against her, and how to counteract those counterattacks.
Sweat soon streamed down her face and soaked into her under-tunic. The weight of her armor and sword dragged on her until it felt like she fought with millstones hanging from her arms and legs. Her muscles burned and her lungs begged for air, and still Hykos continued.
Finally, the Archateros stepped back and nodded. “Good enough for now.”
Issa gasped and let her arms fall by her sides. All of her strength and willpower went into keeping a firm grip on her sword when she wanted nothing more than to drop it, and the armor with it, to the sands.
“After breakfast,” Hykos began, “we’ve got lessons with—”
“Invictus Tannard, sir!” Byrach’s voice echoed from behind Issa, ringing with a note of respect. Hykos immediately snapped to attention, his stance rigid and upright, and his fist came up in the Blades’ salute.
Issa whirled and saluted as well. Her eyes fell on the newcomer to the training yard: taller than even the hulking Byrach, with sloping shoulders, thick arms, and hands that looked capable of crushing skulls. He wore no helmet, his bearded, angular face as hard as the steel of his black plate mail. The Invictus fixed his gaze on her, and Issa shuddered at what she saw in his eyes. Nothing. They were the cold, dead eyes of a killer.
“Archateros.” Tannard’s voice rumbled like thunder. He spoke without looking away from Issa. “This is Issa?”
“Yes, Invictus,” Hykos responded.
“Then you are relieved, Archateros.” Tannard’s hard eyes went to Hykos. “I have decided to oversee this one’s training personally.”
Hykos’ eyes widened a fraction. “You do her honor, Invictus. But surely you—”
“Surely you weren’t about to question my order, Archateros Hykos?” Tannard’s face looked as if it had been carved from the very stone of the Citadel, with the emotion to match.
“No, sir!” Hykos stiffened.
“Good.” Tannard nodded. “Though, perhaps it is best that you remain. From what I hear, she has already bested the other prototopoi. She will need a true Blade to help her in her lessons.” He gestured to Hykos without looking away from Issa. “Draw your sword.”
“Invictus?” Confusion echoed in Hykos’ voice.
“Draw your sword, Archateros,” Tannard rumbled. “You will administer her first lesson.”
Hykos hesitated a single heartbeat, then reached up and drew his sword from its sheath.
Issa reached for her own sword but stopped at Tannard’s nod.
“Blades must be able to defend themselves from any threat.” Tannard gestured to her gauntlets. “Even without a weapon in hand.”
Issa sucked in a breath. She had little doubt Hykos could defeat her in even combat, but bare-handed? After two hours of intense training? She had no hope of victory.
“Now!” Tannard growled. “Defend yourself, Prototopoi.”
With an apologetic look, Hykos brought up his huge sword and attacked.
Chapter Thirteen
Brother Modestus moved faster than Evren thought possible. Before the crossbows had even released their deadly missiles, the Cambionari knight leapt over the edge of the wagon and dropped to the ground. One bolt thunked into the wagon’s side where the priest’s groin had been. The second flew high and clattered off a boulder beyond the road.
Suddenly, Modestus charged out from the shelter of the wagon, right at the bandit leader. Sunlight glinted off the razor-sharp edge of his sword and the pounding of his boots echoed loud in the stillness.
The bandit leader, caught off-guard, never had time to reload his crossbow. With a yelp, he half-dropped, half-hurled it at the charging priest. Brother Modestus lashed out with a quick sword stroke that severed the crossbow string and knocked the weapon out of his path. Before the bandit leader had time to clear his sword from its sheath, the priest was on him.
Evren didn’t bother to watch—the outcome was inevitable. Instead, he spun toward the bandits on the opposite side of the road. With a flick of his wrist, he dropped the throwing knife from its place in his wrist sheath and into his hand. His arm whipped up and forward, his fingers releasing the slim blade at just the right moment. The knife spun end over end, the blackened blade a dark blur in the bright morning sunlight, and buried to the hilt into the chest of the second crossbow-wielding bandit. The man gaped, mouth hanging slack, and stared down at the blood gushing down his tunic. His crossbow fell from numb fingers and tumbled into a crack between the boulders.
“Get down!” Evren shouted and shoved Hailen to the floor of the wagon’s driver box. “Stay here!”
He leapt down from the wagon and charged the two bandits clustered nearest him. One wielded a rusted sword, the other a pair of single-edged daggers as long as Evren’s forearm.
Evren whipped out his own daggers—two long, inward-curving, double-edged blades with thick medial ridges called jambiyas, weapons native to Vothmot. They were the perfect knives for his compact size and well-honed muscles: long and heavy enough to knock aside the clumsy thrust of the bandit’s long sword, with a curving edge that gave him the power to punch it through the man’s patchwork boiled leather armor. Blood sprayed as he pulled it free and swung around to block a dagger strike from the second bandit. With the quick, ruthless efficiency the Hunter had drilled into him, he opened his opponent’s throat.
He spun back toward his first opponent and found the man on his knees, staring stupidly down at the crimson spilling from his chest. Evren paused long enough to kick the sword out of his hands—no sense risking a blow from the dying man—then raced back toward the wagon and the bandits on the far side of the road.
Brother Modestus had already brought down the bandit leader and a second bandit, and was now carving his way through the three remaining men. To Evren’s horror, he saw three more bandits slinking between the rocks. In seconds, they’d reach Modestus and fall on him from the rear.
“Watch out!” he shouted. “Behind you.”
Brother Modestus leapt backward and spun to face the new threat, just in time to block a savage thrust aimed at his spine. The bandit stumbled, off-balance as his blow was knocked wide. Brother Modestus brought him down with a quick chop.
Evren raced around the front of the wagon and attacked the bandi
ts that had been tangling with Modestus moments earlier. The first to face Evren fell beneath a horizontal blow that laid open his throat. Evren knocked aside two quick swipes of the next bandit’s long sword, dodged a dagger strike from the third, and nearly died as his back struck hard stone. Only his quick reflexes, honed through years as a thief and his training with the Hunter and Kiara, kept him alive. He managed to throw himself to one side. The blade clanged off stone a finger’s breadth from his head.
As he moved, he lashed out with the blade in his right hand. The razor-sharp edge opened a deep gash in the man’s leg, just above the knee. The wound did little real damage but slowed the man down long enough for Evren to regain his balance. He met the bandit’s wild swing with a cross-body blow that slapped the sword aside. His right-handed thrust punched the tip of his jambiya into the bandit’s gut. A quick flick of his wrist sent the tip slicing to the right, opening more flesh, muscle, and organs.
The bandit screamed and fell, his body tripping up his companion. In the instant the man looked down to avoid trampling his fallen comrade, Evren leapt forward and drove both daggers into the man’s chest and throat. The bandit died with a wet gurgle.
A piercing wail of pain sounded behind him. Evren’s heart stopped. Hailen!
The cry came again, too deep and growling to have come from the eleven year old’s throat, accompanied by a stream of curses.
Evren whipped around to find Hailen standing atop the wagon, knife held in the defensive grip Evren had drilled into him. Blood stained the tip and edge of the blade. One of the bandits had tried to scramble onto the wagon and earned a slash across the face for his efforts. Hailen attacked again with the short, quick thrust of a knife fighter. The man fell back with a grunt, pulling the blade free from his chest, and fell to the ground beside the wagon.
Five sprinting steps brought Evren to the bleeding bandit and his boot crunched into the man’s face. Shielding his movements from Hailen with his body, Evren drove his dagger into the unconscious bandit’s chest, just next to the wound Hailen had inflicted. His thrust, however, drove between the man’s ribs and sliced smooth heart muscle. The bandit didn’t move as his blood pumped onto the dusty road.
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