- Xark'ion -

“More to the left,” Truri'ton said and jabbed his sword right at Xark'ion's face. He jerked back, but the blade followed to within an inch of his forehead. If it had been a real fight, Xark'ion would have been dead, his head pierced right between the eyes.

“Noted.” His arm was going numb, but he clenched his jaw and attacked again. Groti'ax's sword felt heavy in his hand, and the blade was much wider than his own sword. It was difficult to be accurate with it, and he felt as if he was moving through a thick fluid.

Truri'ton sidestepped his chop with demonstrative slowness, not even bothering to parry, and the black blade hit empty air.

“To the left,” the instructor repeated. “Nobody's going to stand still for that. They'll move. Either to the right or the left. You have a fifty percent chance of slicing to the correct side. So you might as well aim towards the left, where you'll get more force behind the stroke.”

Xark'ion didn't reply, just got a new grip on the sword. Groti'ax hands had been smaller than his, and the handle felt awkward. His nails dug into the palm of the hand.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and slashed the sword against his trainer.

Again Truri'ton stepped to the side, but this time he was at least forced to parry with his own weapon. The blades clanged together in a shower of vividly blue sparks.

“Not bad,” the instructor said and replaced his sword in his scabbard. “That was more to the left. Decent force, too. If I'd been a Virin, it would almost have made me flinch.”

Xark'ion grimaced. “Almost, huh?”

“Almost. If I were a particularly jumpy Virin.”

Truri'ton was a good instructor, but Xark'ion had never been comfortable with the sword. Everyone in the squad knew it, and he had known it the first time he'd held a full-size sword many years before. While other boys his age took to it immediately and felt the weapon become like an extension of their bodies, to Xark'ion it had only felt stiff and cold. Over the years he had practiced twice at much as any other warrior he knew, but he was still not as good as even the most junior swordsmen in his squad. And he never would be. Now that he had to learn to fight with a new sword, it would take him years to even get to the moderate proficiency he'd had with his own sword.

He looked at the black blade, scarred with many battles on endless alien planets. But the edge was even and pristine. Groti'ax had taken good care of it. And now it was Xark'ion's. He would use it from now on. He would honor his dead friend as much as he could

And yet the sight of the blade always sent a hard pang through his heart. Groti'ax was gone. And it was Xark'ion's fault.

“Is there any hope for me, Truri'ton?”

The instructor frowned and inclined his head as if thinking deeply. “You're stronger than most, and you don't lack agility. You seem coordinated enough otherwise. They say your hands don't like the sword. I'd say it is your mind that doesn't like it. For whatever reason. You have tried the axe, I know, and it wasn't much better. Have you attempted the bow and arrow? While our tribe have never used those, many highly renowned warriors swear by them.”

Xark'ion shuddered at the thought. The bow was even more alien to him than the sword. “I have tried it. Very briefly.”

Truri'ton scratched his gray beard. “Ah. Well, no matter, warrior. You are the best tactical mind our armies have seen in all my time. Certainly a better skill with the weapon would be preferable, as it would for any warrior. But not everyone is born to the blade. There is no dishonor in that. Indeed your squad seems to be no less successful, even with a captain who's perhaps not exactly masterful with his sword. On the contrary, one might say.”

“One might. And yet ...” Xark'ion hefted the sword again and slashed it against the rough block of wood that Truri'ton had cut from a fallen tree. The blade hit the block with a loud thunk and got stuck halfway through. An hour earlier, Truri'ton had cut through the same block of wood with his own sword as if it were butter. “... I don't feel that.”

“The angle is awkward,” the instructor said. “Make it so that the blade is not exactly perpendicular to the grain, and make sure you have follow-through all the way. Imagine the blade continuing without slowing. The wood is only air to it.”

It was the kind of thing one would say to a complete novice, and Xark'ion felt as if he had been transported back in time to his teenage years. These things came naturally to many Acerex warriors, certainly if they were as experienced as he was.

Truri'ton was right, though. The squad was successful. Xark'ion was painfully aware that he was the least talented swordsman in the squad he led. And it made him want to compensate. So he would focus more on giving his men other advantages in battle. He had become an expert at reading terrain and at thinking many moves ahead, making plans for various outcomes and designing new and different ways of attacking the many different alien enemies they'd have to fight.

Most squads would attack the enemy head-on without much preamble, confident that their ferocity with their weapons would make up for any weakness. But Xark'ion's squad would hang back more and only attack when the time was right, from unexpected angles and in places where the terrain gave them every advantage. He would also withdraw his squad from lost positions much quicker than other captains, who sometimes preferred the last-stand approach and would fight on until all their men were dead.

It had worked so far. Since he took over the captaincy of the squad, they'd fought in thirty-five battles. And they hadn't lost a single man.

Until Groti'ax fell.

“Every squad loses men,” Truri'tion said mildly straight into Xark'ion's thoughts. “Yours hadn't lost one for a long time, but has killed more aliens than most. Even rivalling Squad Nine. You're the best captain our tribe has ever produced. You have no reason to blame yourself.”

Xark'ion laid his head back and gazed up at the stars. “It was too complicated. I divided the squad up into too small parts. We had never practiced that. It seemed the obvious thing to do. Attack the pocket of enemies from all sides at once. But the men were spread too far out. We couldn't cover each other's backs the way we always do. And then ...”

Truri'ton remained silent and looked past Xark'ion, into the dark woods around the little clearing. Xark'ion realized then that being a sword instructor meant that Truri'ton would often hear these little confessions from the warriors he trained. The setting and the situation lent itself to that. There was just the two of them: the younger, exhausted warrior and the calm, experienced instructor who'd seen more battles than he could remember and had lived long enough to have some wisdom to share.

The memories of the battle still made Xark'ion flinch. The machines that attacked them, and then the one alien with the terrible double blade ... no, he didn't want to think more about it. “Well, it ended badly.”

Truri'ton picked up a dead twig from the ground and tossed it in between the trees. “I've heard the report. Sounds like a perfectly successful action to me. There's not shame in retreating.”

“Losing us the best warrior we had?”

“He was good, yes. And we were lucky to have him, honored that he and you are both from our little tribe. But losing men is a part of the job for a squad captain. He must be able to put it behind him.”

“Groti'ax was more than just another member of the squad. He was the life and soul of it.”

The torch that was illuminating the clearing in the woods spluttered, out of fuel. Truri'ton lit a new one and hung it on the iron rod stuck into the ground. “Which is precisely what the second in command is supposed to be. He did his job the way he should. I didn't know him too well, because he never needed any instruction in how to use the sword. But yes, I agree that he was important. You and he formed the perfect leadership of the squad. Thus it became one of the most famous squads in the army. I was not surprised that King Vrax'ton attended his funeral. Even the queen.”

“And some of her friends. Aliens.” Including one with dark, mysterious eyes, long silky hair and the roundest hips he had ever seen.

“Aliens, indeed. Xark'ion, it was a battle in a war. It is the way of things that men die in wars. It is accepted. Certainly you understand that no royal would attend that funeral if there had been any question about your decisions there. Nobody blames you. Groti'ax wouldn't blame you.”

“Groti'ax never blamed anyone. Not even in private. A joke and a laugh and he'd put everything behind him. He must be avenged.”

Truri'ton frowned again. “And he shall be. Didn't the king himself promise it?”

“He did. Even King Vrax'ton loved Groti'ax.”

Truri'ton gave a short laugh. “Everyone loved Groti'ax. He was that kind of warrior. We should all aspire to be like him. You and he grew up together. You went through the Fire Trials together. He saved your life many times, just as you saved his. Yes, it is allowed to grieve over him.”

Xark'ion wiped tears off his cheek. It was all true. No one ever had a better friend than Groti'ax. They had been more than friends. They had been brothers in every sense of the word except the literal one. They had been very different. But maybe that was why they'd been such a good match in every way.

“And then you're back to normal,” Truri'ton continued, “back to leading the squad. Perhaps you have learned a thing or two from this. Perhaps now it's time for you to lead without the added strength of Groti'ax behind you. Perhaps now it's time to become the captain you were meant to be.”

Xark'ion wiped the moisture off his face with his hand and looked at the sword, dirty and black with age and usage. The squad without Groti'ax would not be the same squad. But with his sword, it would be as if a part of him was still there.

“Perhaps.”

Truri'ton smiled with relief. “Meanwhile, it's my advice that you go back to using your own sword. While your performance with this one is ... hmm ... adequate, your old one is lighter and narrower. It's much easier for you to use. Nobody says you must use a sword that was left to you. It's always the warrior's own choice. It is a peculiar sword, this. Asymmetrical and with a weight that seems unbalanced. Most would struggle to fight well with it. By all means treasure it, but don't wield it in battle.”

Xark'ion hefted the sword once more, feeling how the hilt was just too thin for his hands and how the blade would always start every movement doing the exact opposite of what he wanted it to. He never thought he'd long for his old sword, but now he genuinely did.

He slashed at the block of wood again, and once more it got stuck. “I appreciate your advice, Truri'ton.”

The trainer glanced at him sideways. “And if all else fails, there is always the ... hm... last resort that we made for you many years ago, when we realized that the sword didn't favor you.”

“There is that. But I'll never use it.”

“Maybe not. But using it is better than dying.”

Xark'ion placed the sword back in its scabbard, glad the training session was over. “I'm sure it would be, for some.”