At Ranne's command we turned, facing the arena, and dropped once more to our knees, swords held in crossed salute. I narrowed my eyes to soften the glare that bounced off the sand. It felt as though every bit of moisture in my body was being sucked away Another fanfare. This time for the Imperial herald. They emerged in a neat line from the rampway, a chorus of eight men matched in voice and height, crouching into bows as they ran to the centre of the arena. The crowd stamped and roared. The herald, their short blue tunics like wedges of summer sky, positioned themselves into a royal octagonal, smartly turning to face the audience. They raised small bronze gongs over their heads and, as one, sounded a deep resonating note. Immediately the crowd quietened.
'The cycle of twelve turns again,' they chanted in perfect unison. Each voice blended with the others to create one penetrating herald call that reached every section of the arena. 'Pig turns to Rat. Apprentice turns to Dragoneye. Candidate turns to apprentice. The cycle of twelve turns again.'
The crowd whistled and stamped their approval. The men lifted the gongs again and sounded another note. It ricocheted off the mirrors, cutting through the crowd's noise to leave a sudden silence.
'The Rat Dragon seeks a new apprentice. Twelve await to show their worth. By His Imperial Majesty's approval and order of the Dragoneye Council, worth will not be found in exhibition this cycle. Worth will be found in combat!'
For a moment, there was no response. Then the crowd screamed, the hammering of feet on the boards like the fury of the thunder gods. The show had suddenly become a lot more exciting.
I licked my lips, feeling rough cracks with my tongue. Somewhere in the Heuris seats, behind Lord Ido, was my master. I tried to distinguish him in the two rows of dark-robed figures set apart from the crowd by their shocked stillness. Then he moved, a familiar squaring of thin shoulders. A defiance of unbeatable odds.
The gong sounded again.
'Candidate Hannon, approach the mirrors,' the Imperial herald chanted. 'Face Swordmaster Jin-pa and show the Rat Dragon your worth.'
The crowd clapped and yelled as the eight men bowed gracefully then reformed into a line to run to the edge of the arena.
Although we were all kneeling at salute, there was a soft shifting of position as Jin-pa and Hannon started their walk to the combat area. It was our chance to watch the competition, gather information, gauge our chances. I pushed my left knee deeper into the sand and followed the momentum until I leaned
into a better view Even as my weight transferred, I realised my hip no longer ached. No catching or jerking of movement. Had it gone numb from so much strain?
In the centre of the arena, Jin-pa and Hannon bowed to the Rat Dragon mirror and then to one another over their sword hilts — the formal combat courtesy The crowd subsided into expectant silence. Hannon swung his swords into starting position, his side presented to Jin-pa, weight on the back leg, one sword outstretched, the other drawn back above his head. Jin-pa mirrored the stance, then with a twist of both wrists lowered his swords into two whirring figure-eights of blade. The Ox Dragon. Hannon recognised the sequence and stepped into the first form. The easiest of the three. He broke through the defence with a neat swinging back cut, but Jin-pa blocked his blade easily in the crossed hilts of his swords.
Hannon pulled his sword free and retreated, bouncing on the balls of his feet as Jin-pa shifted into the second form of the Ox. The offence. He pressed forwards, the rotating blades moving towards Hannon's head. The Ox was all about walls — solid walls of blade that pushed a defender backwards and off balance. Hannon needed to block with his right sword and swing his left into the less protected gut area. He managed the block, but his lower cut was too wild, the weight of the sword dragging him onto the wrong foot for the third form; the most difficult. Jin-pa lunged, making the most of Hannon's imbalance, forcing him to stop an overhead blow with a clumsy block, the blade at the wrong angle. He nearly recovered, but Jin-pa countered his desperate twirl and low cut with a block and head attack that landed the flat of his sword against Hannon's cheekbone. The slap of the blade was like the crack of ice on a frozen river. Hannon shook his head as the crowd groaned, their excited commentaries rising like the hiss from a nest of snakes.
It did not improve from there. Hannon struggled to keep up with Jin-pa, although the swordmaster subtly slowed the pace of
each form and pulled his blows. I couldn't help flinching as Jin-pa brought the flat of his blade down on Hannon's body time after time. What was wrong? Hannon was as good as Baret in the approach sequence. He knew each form perfectly and had spent hours refining each move.
Was that the problem? Had he learned by rote and now couldn't translate the moves against an opponent?
In the very last form, he managed to hold his technique together. Dropping to the ground on all fours, he kicked backwards, disabling Jin-pa's left sword, then twisted around and swung his own right blade across Jin-pa's body, nearly breaking through the swordmaster's hurried defence. A creditable Mirror Dragon Whips Tail. The form that I couldn't do. I glanced up at Ranne. He was rolling his shoulders, warming up for the next candidate. Would he honour my dispensation?
Jin-pa and Hannon bowed to each other, then to Lord Ido, the crowd's stamps of approval and ululating calls following them back across the sand. Hannon bowed shakily to the Emperor then returned to his place in the line. His movements were slow with fatigue and defeat. As he dropped onto his knees, I saw dirty tear tracks running through a stark red welt on his cheek.
The crowd was chanting the herald's call for the next candidate, eager for more entertainment.
It was like the baying of blooded dogs. Perhaps they sensed our panic.
The Imperial herald gonged for silence, then called Callan and Swordmaster Ranne to the centre.
'Good fortune,' I whispered to Callan, but although I was directly behind him, he didn't seem to hear. He had sunk into some kind of stiff-limbed terror.
With Callan in the centre, I had a clear view of the arena and Ranne's unrelenting assault on him. There was no subtle slowing of pace, no holding back on the stinging slap of the blade.
Callan was hit so many times, and so hard, that I feared he would fall and not get up. His Heuris was out of his scat, the restraining hands of his neighbours the only thing keeping him from hurling
himself over the Rat Dragon mirror towards his candidate. Lord Ido was drinking wine, every line of his body relaxed, the officials around him silent and upright in subtle disapproval. It was a relief when Callan finally stumbled back to the Une, kneeling with his head down over his swords, his breathing ragged.
Quon was called.
It would not be long now before I was out there.
Quon's opening moves in the Horse Dragon sequence were good, assured. His second form was a faultless defence. I narrowed my eyes, trying to focus on the faces of the darting, twirling figures. Was Jin-pa calling the forms to Quon? It was hard to say, the helmet obscured any detail. The cheers from the crowd acknowledged Quon's deftness as he swung out of the difficult low defence move of the Monkey Dragon Third and into the form's offensive volley of angled neck attacks. He was making a good show. The eruption of approval at the end of his sequence made the dark dragon mirrors shiver against the stone barricades. As he and Jin-pa bowed to the Emperor, I caught a glimpse of the broad smile on his face. His ancestors must have heard his prayers.
The Imperial herald ran back out into the centre, holding their gongs up. The deep note sounded like a death knell.
'Candidate Eon approach the mirrors,' they chanted. 'Face Swordmaster Ranne and show the Rat Dragon your worth.'
The cheering was ragged, covering a low hum of interest. Here comes the cripple. I stood, glad there was no food in my stomach to rise and choke me. I took one tentative step — still no pain in my hip. Perhaps the heat of the sand had eased it. I sent a silent prayer to Charra and Kinra, my ancestors, for strength, skill and endurance. Everything I lacked. A twist of each sword brought th
em home under my arms, ready for the walk to the centre. I stared at the patch of churned sand. One step at a time and I would get there. Ranne moved in beside me, matching my pace, but I did not look up. One step at a time. The arena was quiet — no stamping, no calls. Only that heavy anticipation before the prey was brought down.
Surely Ranne would not ignore the Council's dispensation.
'Swordmaster, I have —'
'Silence,' he hissed.
For a moment, the arena disappeared into white panic. I stumbled, my focus snapped back by the sudden flare of the moonstones and jade on my hilts. Each gem seemed lighted from within, drawing my eyes into their translucent depths. Something rolled through me.
Power, rising from steel and silver. A lifetime of fighting. An old knowledge.
My mind cleared into pinpoint purpose.
Keep the sun at your back, in his eyes. Distribute your weight evenly. Never cross your feet.
Gauge the combat terrain and look for advantage. Keep your grip open to allow your Hua to flow. Close it, block the Hua, to make a hammer fist.
I looked down at my tightly curled hand. We had never been taught the hammer fist.
Ranne stepped into the combat area, turning to face the Rat Dragon mirror. I followed, my gaze caught for a moment in the shock of seeing my whole self in the glass. Lopsided, thin-boned, with the smooth oval face of a child. Did all these men see a girl-boy standing in front of them? A Moon Shadow? Everyone knew that castration melted the bones and muscles of manhood into soft curves. Yes, this creature in the mirror would pass. Still, it was fortunate that most people glanced away from a cripple.
Except when he was fighting a swordmaster.
Beside me, Ranne bowed. I quickly matched his movement, our reflections showing the absurdity of his armoured bulk next to my slight body. Above the mirror, Lord Ido sat forwards, any pretence of nonchalance gone. I searched the rows behind him and found my master. He was sitting straight, the pale blur of his face tilted towards me.
'Prepare,' Ranne said, taking a position with the sun at his back. He twirled his swords out and around his body in a mesmerising display then dropped the points into the vertical salute.
Keeping my swords tucked under my arms, I shuffled across the small combat area until the sun was to my right. At least Ranne would not have the glare advantage. Underfoot, the sand was kicked and gouged but tightly packed. The outer edges would be loose and treacherous.
'Swordmaster,' I said, watching his eyes narrow behind the helmet slits. 'I have dispensation from the Council to —'
'I know that, Eon-Jah,'he said curtly. 'Get back into position.'
I took a jagged breath. 'This is my position, Swordmaster.'
He snorted. At least I taught you something.' He shifted to face me. 'Let's see if you learned anything else.'
I released my swords, pulling them up into salute. We bowed over our hilts, eyes locked together. Leaning my weight back onto my good leg, I lifted the right sword above my head, stretching the left before me in a straight line aimed at his throat. Ranne mirrored me, his smooth grace fearsome. Both of us poised, watching for a sign: a blink, a glance, an indrawn breath.
It was a blink — a reflex as his outstretched blade swung above his head to twin the other in a wide arc.
The Goat Dragon.
His two swords, angled for slicing, came whirring at my chest. My block was simple: a step of the back leg, a shift of weight, my right sword joining the left in front of me, cutting side slanted down. Ranne's blades hit mine. The impact resonated through my arm bones, the strain forcing a swarm of bright dots across my vision until his steels slid along my angled edges. I pushed down with his momentum, the pain spreading from bones to muscles. He was not pulling his blows. My left sword lifted, freed from engagement. All I had to do was flip the edge and swing at
his throat, but the shock of contact made me slow. I missed the chance — he'd already blocked. I backed away, stabilising my grips. For a moment, the chant of the crowd rose through my concentration. Eon. They were calling for me. I took a deep breath, buoyed by their cheers.
I sidestepped, starting my swords twirling in front of me for the attacking move of the Second Goat Dragon. Instead, Ranne accelerated towards me, his swords high above his head. It wasn't the Second Goat. He was going into Third Horse. I braced, raising my swords just in time. The crashing force of steel against steel pushed me back into the soft edge. Ranne's hilts locked into mine. I dug the side of my foot into the sand, stopping my slide. I lis face was a finger-length from mine, his rank breath hot on my skin.
'That's not the Goat,' I gasped. My back foot was slipping in the loose sand.
'My mistake,' he said.
He jerked his body closer, his whole weight on my hilts, making my hands and arms shake with the pressure. Through the pound of my heartbeat, I heard the crowd start to shout down Ranne. I didn't have enough strength to push back. Any moment my arms would give way.
He'd slam his elbow into my face.
Rat drops to ground.
It was not a voice. It was a deep body knowledge. Somehow my muscle and sinew and bone knew what to do. I fell backwards, pulling my swords with me, turning them in a backhanded sweep that cleared them of Ranne. As I hit the sand, I saw his mouth gape in surprise. A mirror of my own shock. The crowd howled with excitement: the cripple was fighting back.
Snake coils to strike.
I rolled over then scrabbled onto my knees. Ranne had already recovered and was bearing down on me. His swords were twilling in a tight crossover. The Dog Third. No more pretence of keeping to the sequences. He was going for the Dog's
punishing hits and withdrawals. I hauled myself to my feet, swords up, watching for the break.
My first block was clumsy, the blunt of my sword bouncing back too close to my face. The secbnd was at the wrong angle, the jarring hit making my hand convulse against the grip. The deep knowledge was gone. I gulped for air. His third attack forced me to block with a back-twisted grip. The heavy down stroke hammered my weakened hold, bending my wrist back until it was useless. For a moment Ranne was a dark blur in a grey haze of pain. Then I felt him flick the end of his blade, sending my left sword spinning across the sand. The crowd's gasp soughed across the arena.
I staggered back, pressing my wrist against my chest. At least it wasn't my right hand. Ranne was closing in, one sword raised, the other with the hilt held ready for the Second Tiger attack
— a series of fast cuffs using the heavy butt as a cudgel. I squinted, trying to focus through the pain. One sword — one block. He'd attack high. I raised my sword, ready to protect my head.
Rabbit kicks out.
My body tensed. Even as my mind fought to stay upright, I was dropping to the ground and swinging my good leg towards his knees. My shin connected. I felt him fold, hit the sand. He looked across at me, his eyes bulging with fury
Dragon Whips Tail.
No!
Ranne lunged over the sand with a sword, just missing my foot. I back-pedalled away from his reach, the drag of my own sword sending up a spray of grit.
Dragon Whips Tail.
No!
My hip —
Ranne dug a sword into the ground and pulled himself upright. He lowered his head and charged at me, holding his blades out either side. He wasn't using the forms. He was just fighting. I struggled onto my knees, caught between two possibilities: conduit or cripple.
I was a cripple.
Before I could raise my sword, Ranne swung at my head. I jerked backwards, feeling the stir of air a moment before his blade vibrated past my face. I was off-balance. Nowhere to go. I saw a blur of hand. A flash of metal angled at my head. Then a sickening wave of agony crashed over the light and I was falling through black air.
CHAPTER 5
I opened my eyes. Everything was white glare, pressing more pain into my head. I squeezed my eyes shut again, a warm itch of tears running over my nose and cheek into the rough sand.
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'Eon?'
It was a distant voice, too far away I licked my lips. Dust and salt.
'Eon. 'A weight on my shoulder, shaking me.
I blinked, letting the piercing bright push its way into my eyes again. I was lying under the Emperor's mirror behind the two lines of candidates.
'Master?'
His face came into focus. Frowning.
I had failed him.
'You need to get up, Eon.'
I lifted my head. The movement shuddered through me. I retched, heaving sour water into the sand.
'Surely you don't expect him to make the final bow?'
It was another voice. An elderly official kneeling next to my master. I saw the glint of his pin: diamond rank.
'He recognised me,' my master said. 'He still has his senses.'
'I doubt he will be able to stand,' the official said. 'It is a difficult situation. You are within your rights to demand Ranne's removal.'
'Ranne is just the servant. It is Lord Ido who should be removed,' my master said.
'You could make a formal complaint against him.' The official was trying to keep his voice measured, but I heard the eagerness in it.
My master gave a sharp laugh. 'Sacrifice myself for the good of the Council? I don't think so.'
'Someone has to curtail Ido's ambition.'
'That was your duty and you've failed. The opportunity to contain him is well past.'
The official crossed his arms. 'What could we do? He has High Lord Sethon's support.'
' I think it is the other way around,' my master murmured. They looked at one another in silence.
'So, you are not withdrawing your boy, then?' the official finally asked. 'He will make the bow?'
'He will.'
'Then you should get him onto his feet. The tenth candidate has already been called. It won't be long now' He rose awkwardly from the banked sand and bowed to my master. 'Good fortune, Heuris Brannon.'
My master nodded then turned back to me.
'I am sorry, Master.' My voice was a dry croak.
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