by Adam Bennett
“If our descendants agree to abide by the result.” Ulrich shrugs.
“They will,” Wolfram says, “when they see me standing there.”
Ulrich stops cold. “You?”
“Me,” Wolfram replies proudly, “I always was the best, but don’t worry. There’s still work for you to do. Look.”
Ulrich takes the thick parchment and reads.
***
The centre of the holy city of Ninive is dominated by a huge coliseum and an uneasy peace. In just over a week the great terraces will fill with the roar of fifty thousand throats and the hopes of two empires. For now it is almost empty.
At the centre of the centre, in a ring of sand, two warriors meet to discuss the fairness of the coming spectacle. The Emperor and the Sultan have decreed a contest of pure skill, and the Champions have been chosen. To guarantee a just contest, they have also mandated seconds; teachers who will learn each other’s secrets and train the champions. It’s not a job for heroes, only friends, or soldiers.
“What shall I call you?” Ulrich asks. He has to look down at his Zenatan counterpart. She has made someone drag a comfortable chaise to the middle of the ring and is taking her ease under a parasol. She is as languorous as the sun lazily inching its way over the lip of the great walls.
“My Furusiyya war name is al-Kahina,” Daya says, “which in this heretic tongue means She who Foresees.”
“In my tongue,” Ulrich says with a look of contempt, “the name for a witch is Witch.”
The Teuton stands rigidly by his armour, which stands on its own. The giant framework of steel plates is covered in runic etching and holds a spear twice the height of the lithe Zenatan. From her reclining pose, the weapon looks as tall as the mast of a dhow.
The Furusiyya war witch is the knight’s mirror in every way. Dusky rather than blond, and as indolent as a courtesan. She wears loose trousers of undyed cotton and a tight-fitting shift that leaves her arms bare. She is unornamented except for a simple leather necklace hung with a tiny hourglass. Her naked and delicate feet belie the cool and serious timbre of her voice.
“I am no more ashamed to be named a witch than you are of your titles,” she says, and starts ticking off her fingers. “Ulrich, Reichsgraf of Falkenbach, Knight Captain of the Saksa Ordenis. Now, shall we dispense with the noble titles and get to work? Neither of us was chosen to fight, only to train those who will. The fate of our nations hangs in the balance, so let us begin.”
“As you say,” Ulrich says with an imperious smirk. He walks to his armour. The unmoving giant seems to watch them, silent and impassive. Ulrich points to the intricate runes that glaze its surface.
“The Merseburg incantations that animate Saksa Ordenis armour afford inhuman strength. Watch.”
Ulrich makes an arcane gesture and the suit opens the way a flower does at first warmth. He steps into the armour backward, and with a few harsh syllables it closes around him. The edges glow like embers as the gaps seal themselves. Ulrich’s voice booms from behind the visor with the metallic resonance of a bell.
“The knight inside is invincible. He feels no weight and the steel plates do not tire him. You will find absolutely no weaknesses.”
Sealed into the armour, Ulrich is an impressive sight. A glinting steel giant with a stark black cross enamelled across his massive chest.
“Most impressive,” Daya yawns.
Without warning, Ulrich brandishes his spear and sprints. The Zenatan sits up as he charges. Even her studious unconcern is vulnerable to the atonal crash of animate steel. Ulrich whirls the giant polearm and brings it down in a flaring arc.
Blade and crosspiece crash through the parasol, the chaise, and any sense of scorn Daya has for its bearer. Before she has time to fall off the end of the decapitated chaise, the spear whirls back to stand like a flagpole in Ulrich’s grip. The Zenatan witch rises and brushes sand from her backside with as much dignity as she can muster. Anger gathers in her eyes like a sand storm.
Laughter booms from behind Ulrich’s visor. The seals glow again, and he climbs from within the steel giant with practised ease.
“What say you, heathen prophetess? Didn’t you see that coming?”
He doesn’t reach over to brush motes of sand from her hair, but clearly wants to.
“I saw enough, noble knight and holder of many titles,” she growls.
“I was born with those, but I earned my rank. I don’t much care about titles. I’m surprised you do.”
“I was born in a slum,” Daya replies, “and abandoned in a gutter. I assume my mother had not yet borne a son.”
The Zenatan says this with defiance. Her eyes dare him to taunt her. He can’t quite identify their colour; something like purple. It stirs his memory. He forgoes insulting her without being able to identify his reasons for that, either.
“In that case,” he says, “would you care to show me how you earned your position?”
“Fine. Don’t blink.”
“I don’t make a habit of closing my eyes in battle.”
“You will,” she says, “if I want you to.”
The sand is cool and the air still. The dark skinned witch takes the necklace delicately from around her neck. She winds the leather cord around her left palm so that the hourglass is hidden in her fist. She hasn’t even brought a practice sword. It’s mildly insulting. Ulrich, Reichsgraf of Falkenbach and Knight Captain of the Saksa Ordenis, smirks at fate for the last time.
Before his heart can complete its next beat, the Zenatan witch tilts her fist and enchanted sands crash through the bottleneck. The universe briefly relinquishes its ownership of time.
She moves so fast Ulrich can barely see her. One moment she’s speaking and the next they stands eye to eye. Hers are the colour of alpenaster, the flowers of his youth. He barely has time to form the thought before she sweeps his legs from under him in a blur. The witch straddles him in a blink and something glints in her hand.
Ulrich lashes out with a desperate backhand. The Zenatan twitches her fist and rears away, backward in time, then forward again to crash on top of him. He feels icy steel at his throat and mouldering fear in his guts. Outside of his armour, made vulnerable, the speed of the witch is terrifying. There is no pity in her eyes, inches from his, and they really are violet.
“We’ve met before,” he says from underneath her. “You fought at the delta.”
They recognize one another. She ducks her chin respectfully and rises. The demure gesture doesn’t fool Ulrich for an instant; a supercilious smile twitches the corner of her mouth the way dawn threatens morning cloud. She extends a hand.
“Now that you can explain to your champion why all the armour in the world is futile against Furusiyya chronomancy, shall I help you up?”
Ulrich wonders how his footmen felt as they died trying to kill her. Like trying to catch a shooting star with bare hands. He finds the brief surge of fear has gone, and its aftertaste is electric. The witch promises to be interesting.
“I’ll manage,” he grins, and clambers to his feet.
***
The coliseum houses an airy gymnasium. The cool air and rush mats make a stark contrast to the hot sand the two seconds fought in the day before. Its balcony overlooks the ring, which still contains the wood splinters of Daya’s chaise.
“It is strange to think that our friends will die there, that the convergence will turn them to stone,” she says, gazing at the ring, her hands motionless on the wide sill. Ulrich frowns. The mood doesn’t suit her, and the morning is wasting away.
“It won’t be you, or me, so why sulk?”
She turns to look at him with a look he can’t read. Not scorn, something more melancholy. Ulrich motions her back inside. Her steps make no sound at all on the mats.
“I have conveyed to Wolfram the total futility of armour, incantations, and our empire as a whole, as you asked,” Ulrich says, and is rewarded with the faint hint of a smile. “So, let us practice without magic. Are your skills
similar to Yusuf’s?”
“They are,” the witch says. She ought to be offended by his failure to say Ramah al-Din, the Zenatan Champion’s war name, but she can tell Ulrich isn’t being familiar—he just can’t pronounce it. “I am much smaller than he is, but the training we suffered through was identical.”
Ulrich blows out his cheeks. He can’t get used to how she looks at things. He rather enjoys war.
“Fine. I grew up with Wolfram Von Ehrenreich, and we entered the Order as friends. Like you I am smaller than my champion, but I can reveal how a Saksa Ordenis knight trains well enough.”
Ulrich warms up by doing calisthenics. It starts out sensibly enough, but when he starts twisting and waving his arms, the prophetess laughs. She covers her mouth diplomatically, but not so much that he won’t see her mock him.
“These motions were devised by Ludwig Jahn himself,” Ulrich says defensively. “Try them if they seem ridiculous.”
To her credit, Daya does. She stands opposite him and mimics his contortions, haltingly at first, then with greater facility. By the end she’s anticipating him, having worked out the rhythm and purpose on her own. She learns faster than anyone he’s ever met.
“How do you usually prepare?” he asks, wiping his face.
“Any way that strikes my fancy.” A film of dewy sweat covers Daya’s brow, and her breath has quickened ever so slightly. “That will certainly do for today.”
They start with wooden swords. If the Zenatan had thought Ulrich would be as rote a sword fighter as his warm-up suggested, she is soon disabused. He makes no effort to overpower her, only to demonstrate his technique, which is flawless. The two warriors share a deep love of the sword and the dance steps that animate it, and quickly start enjoying themselves. The Saksa Ordenis style has patterns Daya finds predictable, but the young Teuton alters them constantly.
Time melts away and each finds that the other teaches well and learns easily. They are not the prodigies chosen as champions; they are merely soldiers. They know how to fail, how to lose, and how to learn.
“Al-Kaniha,” Ulrich says, and mangles the name. “Al-Kanina, we should practice without weapons if-”
He pauses. She raises her eyebrows.
“Is there another name I can call you? Something less formal?”
Silence fills the space between them. Her violet eyes meet his, as blue as deep water. She hesitates, but only for a moment.
“Daya is the name I was born with,” she says.
“Thank you,” he replies, and pours water flavoured with lemon rind into two wooden cups that fit easily into his hand. They drink. That accomplished, they fight hand to hand.
Their convergence happens the first time they touch. Ulrich squares himself in front of her and throws a few easy punches. Daya instantly ducks around him and climbs his back like a spider. Her arms whip around his neck like vines. Ulrich drops to one knee and throws her off the way he’d throw off a snake, if snakes smelled like cotton and sandalwood.
Daya rolls on the rush matting and looks up to see the knight eying her with something predatory. Ulrich actually sniffs at her, as though trying to gauge her with every one of his senses, and Daya feels like she’s being circled by a wolf. The sensation isn’t nearly as unpleasant as it ought to be.
When they come together again, Ulrich manages to keep his throat away from her and use his weight better. Daya wriggles free of his grasp, and her skin remembers the pressure of his hands. The dynamics of the dance are fatal, just not the kind of fatal usually found in war.
“As you can see,” Daya says, trying to stay in control of her breathing, “a Furusiyya prophetess is dangerous to touch.”
“I disagree,” Ulrich pants, "the winning strategy seems to be to keep you within reach.”
“You wouldn’t have to reach far,” Daya thinks, and says it out loud before she can stop herself. Her lips, usually acid and clever, form words simple enough for a caravan girl drinking at the oasis. She straightens and backs away. Looks at him warily. He’s dangerous. Very dangerous.
This is their first and best chance to shy away, and they both know it. They might as well try to stop dew from opening flowers in the desert.
***
On the third day, the two champions learn from their seconds what they’ve learned from each other. They both suffer for it.
Daya is sharp and brusque with Yusuf. Distracted. She teaches her old friend without any of her usual humour, studiously closing her mind to the cause of her intemperance. Ulrich finds Wolfram’s company dull, but is much less reserved about admitting why. The little Zenatan witch dances through his thoughts and the smell of sandalwood won’t leave his nostrils.
As the day closes, Ulrich walks the ramparts that separate the two delegations. He feels like a timid young squire. It takes Daya longer to come and admire the twisting ribbon of the river at sunset, but come she does, wearing a flowing cotton shirt that completely fails to conceal the grace of her steps. They meet with the inevitability of actors walking onto a stage. The aurora cast by the slowly aligning planets brightens the night sky.
“We are in trouble,” Ulrich says, “mortal danger.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean.” Daya lowers her eyes, but can’t get them any further than Ulrich’s hands on the stone balustrade. The calloused fingers of something between a swordsman and an artist.
“Certainly you can,” Ulrich says with irritating certainty, “I imagine it most of my waking moments.”
“There are many reasons that we must stop...” Daya gestures around her helplessly, “whatever this is. The convergence is a matter of life and death. One slip and it will be you turning to stone in that ring. One mistake and it could be me.”
Ulrich knows she’s trying to evade him, hide something, but can hardly bring himself to care. She is the first woman he has had no desire whatever to dominate. Couldn’t, even if he did. The contradiction has the same effect as a grain of sand in his boots, but a lot more pleasant.
“I think,” Ulrich says, “I could make peace with that.”
He turns to face her, and Daya puts a hand on his chest, holding him at bay. The effect she achieves is the exact opposite of what she intended.
Class, fate, war and nation fight desperately to keep them apart. Daya lets her eyes rise to his, and the restraint required not to let her hand climb to his neck is heroic.
“We should train together tomorrow,” Ulrich says, catching her mood, “Today was of less use.”
“Certainly,” she says, “that would be wise.”
The diminishing space between them fills with the absolute certainty of just how unwise that would be. The second chance to stop trickles by in a long breath, lost in the strange green and amber hues of the unnatural dusk. Daya loses her battle with temperance. She touches Ulrich’s throat absently with her fingertips, turns, and walks off the rampart. Ulrich watches the receding sway of her hips. It’s like watching a great cat prowl.
“Mortal danger,” he says again.
***
Daya and Ulrich meet to train on the fourth day without bothering to wait for the glow of the convergent sky to finish ceding its place to the sun. Disrobing as far as decency allows, they toy with just how close to the edge of the abyss they can get without falling in. Very close, as it turns out.
They revel in the intimacy of combat. The Teuton thinks of it as big game hunting, the Zenatan as dragon slaying. Incapable of hatred for their enemy, all that remains are the ripe smells of sweat and leather.
“Damn the war and damn the planets,” Ulrich says as they cross training swords, “I ought to just throw you over my shoulder and ride north.”
“As if you could,” Daya laughs. While she does, Ulrich finally manages to sweep her feet away and get on top of her. It’s the first time. He leans his face close to hers.
“Admit it, you want me to try.”
Their breath mingles. Daya runs a hand up his arm, smooth and muscular. She breathes in the s
mell of him, brutish and coarse. Their lips brush, and hers have the sweetness of a fresh pear.
“Well?” Ulrich says, and leans in to kiss her properly. Daya turns her face, and he sees her redden madly, even with her dusky skin. Ulrich almost growls.
“You’re curious to find out what happens next,” he says, “but too scared to find out.”
Her violet eyes flash and she lets the fingers of his hand interlace with hers. The hourglass rests between their palms.
“You think so?” Daya says, and sees her final chance to stop as clearly as the shining planets in the sky.
Instead, Daya puts her free arm around his neck and raises her lips to his. Just as they meet Daya tilts his hand in hers. Time blurs around them in a rush. Indescribable sweetness. Softness and red light.
In a moment her hand snaps back. Ulrich has no idea what just happened.
“What did you do?”
“I am no coward,” she says, breathing as though she had just run. The lean Teuton notices he’s sweating.
“I misspoke; what did we do?”
“Nothing,” Daya says, averting her eyes. A pulse runs riot at her throat. “There wasn’t time.”
“You’re still blushing,” Ulrich says.
***
“These ceremonies are pointless,” Daya says.
“It isn’t war without speeches and processions,” Ulrich shrugs.
“Pointless,” she says again, “there is no life after war. Why talk about it?”
They share a look, then glance back at the ring. Yusuf and Wolfram stand resplendent in their formal uniforms. A mixed crowd of Zenatan and Teuton nobility listen to speech after speech with every appearance of being interested. This is history, after all.
The two seconds are both exhausted. The champions only train once a day, while Ulrich and Daya have to teach each other, then teach their comrades.
“If Wolfram could not fight,” Daya asks, “would you really take his place?”