Chapter 4
Around the courtyard, stablehands were lighting lanterns, easing the grip of coming night. The warm glow cast flickering shadows across the neat gravel, their forms dancing in silhouette. Next to the fountain, a rack of practice weapons had been set up and a clear area was marked on the ground.
"Ok, it's time," Arctic called out, moving to the center of the group. Soldiers pulled themselves to their feet, the grace of the morning long gone.
"Tuovo and Lennert, report to Razor," he said, pointing at the officer. "The rest of you aren't done yet." Arctic stepped aside as LT took his place.
"I have already heard complaints running among you," LT started. "You think certain applicants aren't qualified or others are getting it easier. Well, I want to put that out of your minds." His gaze touched each of them, some recruits nodding, others with confused looks on their faces.
"Of course, we also want to know the skills of those who may fight beside us." He gestured to the men in black fatigues behind him. "So tonight, each Blade gets to choose one recruit for a public spar." The men grinned and LT waited for the excitement to abate. "Relax. Get cozy. I think this may take a while."
The First Officer, Arctic, gestured to a young man seated next to Sal. Barely more than a boy, only his age set him apart from being completely average. Tawny skin and brown hair on a frame of medium height and weight, the kid moved like a predator. Arctic handed him a pair of practice knives, then grabbed a two handed sword for himself. When the Lieutenant called for them to lay on, Sal's eyes were glued to the fight.
Arctic used his mass to deflect the whirling blades of the boy, forcing the kid to expend his energy to stay out of his reach. In a few short minutes, it became obvious that the First Sergeant was more than just a tactician. The moment the boy began to slow, Arctic moved in and dropped the sword, disarming him with a kick to one hand and a slap to the other, then manhandled him to the floor.
A murmur of appreciation swelled among the recruits for Arctic's skill. Few soldiers had been privileged enough to see elites at work and the Black Blades held the reputation of the most ruthless fighters the CFC could boast. When the combatants left the ring, another man in black stepped up.
"Cyno," LT said. Sal recognized him as the man who'd assisted Kinetry off the field, the one who'd checked her papers the first day.
Cyno gestured at a tall man, a cold smile on his face as he swept his arm back to indicate the rack of weapons behind him. The recruit appeared to be from a wealthy family from the jewel at his throat, immaculate hair, and fashionable but non-standard accessories to his uniform. In stark contrast, Cyno's simple black uniform was scuffed and well worn. His angular features cast shadows against his face and he stood a head shorter. While the fop made his selection, Cyno slowly unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it off, and carefully hung it on the edge of the weapon rack. Tattoos covered his chest, black designs that swirled and wove their way across his body to disappear beneath the waistband of his pants, heavier on his left, leaving the right bare. They did nothing to hide the ripcord of muscles that covered his lean frame. Dark stubble shadowed his head and made the vivid blue of his eyes startling, yet his cold gaze seemed to look right through them all.
The recruit chose a pike, the only weapon on the rack close to his height. He tossed it gingerly, getting a feel for it, before casually walking to one side of the combat arena and glancing at the Lieutenant. Cyno nodded at LT, no weapons in his hand.
At the call, the recruit struck. None of them lacked skill. If they had, they wouldn't have made it this far, but this one never stood a chance. At the first sign of motion, Cyno plucked the weapon from his opponent's hands, hooked the butt behind his calves, and knocked the man's legs out from under him. He tossed the pike away and met the soldier's body before it even hit the ground. A wooden dagger had appeared as if by magic. With one hand on the recruit's throat, the other held the tip millimeters from his eye.
"I yield," the guy whispered.
"Damn right ya do," Cyno snarled, "and do na ever look down yer nose at me again or I may actually put some effort inta it."
The Blade stood, nodded calmly at the Lieutenant, then retrieved his shirt. Dressing, he made his way to the far wall, keeping the applicants fully in his sight. A shocked silence hung in the air. Sal believed it when Cyno implied that he hadn't even tried yet still took the spoiled brat down in seconds. She wished she could move like that! Staring at him, she wondered how long it would take to acquire such skill. He looked like a man in his late twenties but moved with grace that took decades to perfect.
Reaching his face, she realized his eyes were waiting, and she struggled to keep her expression neutral. Their gazes danced for a few seconds before a smile crept to his lips, flaunting his sharp incisors and double canines – just like her own. He nodded at her before glancing to the First Sergeant.
Cyno wants me to tell you he'll teach you, Arctic's voice said. He figures that's what your inspection meant at any rate.
It is! Please let him know I've never seen anything like that, he moves like perfection, she thought back while another Black Blade walked into the center of the ring.
The lithe man grinned when he received the message. Inside her mind, she felt more than heard a click, and a harsh voice entered. Thank ya fer the compliment. His blue eyes sparkled at her across the courtyard and Sal noticed his pupils were oblong instead of round. Never been called perfection b'fore, and Shift says ya move like a demon possessed yerself. Ya make it past this and I'll show ya ever'thing I know.
Thank you! Sal thought, meaning it.
Do na thank me yet, little one. First, ya gotta prove that ya can take what we're offerin'.
Sal nodded at him and the link dissolved. While they spoke, Shift had entered the ring and called up Riblour. He fought with pike and short sword against the applicant's great sword. The wood rang against each other but Shift beat back the recruit step by step. Unlike the grace of the previous two fighters, Shift fought with power and determination, but when the recruit changed tactics, so did he. His now agile steps matched Riblour's, dragging the battle on. The recruit held up to the prowess of the Black Blade, but Sal thought Shift was toying with him. He danced and dodged, Riblour swung and jumped, slowly being pushed across the gravel. Eventually Shift brought the game to an end with such finality they all knew he'd been tormenting the soldier. The men shook hands civilly and left the ring.
"Risk, our medic," LT introduced the next Blade.
A man with feline-like grace stepped into the ring. His silvered skin offset pale gold hair that emphasized amber eyes. He is a crossbred, Sal thought, remembering him from the first day. Risk's oblique features and unnatural coloring marked his iliran ancestry clearly. He reached for a staff from the rack before addressing the recruits before him.
"I have nothing to settle with any of you." Like Cyno, his voice was richly accented. "So I'll take whoever wants to try me."
The recruits muttered to themselves, a hum of voices growing while they chattered. A few eyes looked her way, before one man stepped up. "I'll try," he said.
This recruit was older, an obvious veteran of the wars. His face streaked with scars, his shoulders well-muscled, he waited for Risk's nod before making his way to the rack to select a pair of hand axes. At the call to lay on, Risk and the veteran casually moved toward each other, neither rushing to throw the first blow. With a feint, Risk scored a tap on the veteran's arm and the combat began. More blocks and feints, but in the end, the veteran's claim to fame was a solid hit on Risk's shoulder before being knocked to the ground, defeated.
The same held for the next bout. Razor chose Saong, a large and well-muscled man. Their bronze skins rippled and sweat gleamed under the lanterns. In moments, the Blade finished like the others, with his opponent yielding. Only one remained: Zep.
He stalked to the center of the ring, his braids sweeping over the leather on his shoulders. Black bracers on each forearm were his only concession to sleeves, barely a shade darker than his skin, and they showed signs of true combat. Zep locked eyes with her and nodded.
Sal stood, amused voices whispering behind her. They hoped to see her fail, and like everyone before her, she had no intention of that.
Waiting for her beside the weapon rack, Zep chose a pair of curved, wooden light swords. Sal looked over the options, hefting and discarding a few that failed to deliver on the promise of their appearance. Behind Zep, a matched set of sabers called to her. She glanced at him, and he stepped aside for her to reach the weapons. They felt right in her hands, light and balanced slightly toward the hilt. When she turned to make her way across the ring, Zep's hand shot out, pulling the cap from her head.
"Let's just leave this here, shall we?" he sneered. "See what we can do when that hair of yours is flung around, begging someone to grab it?"
The recruits laughed softly, but Sal wanted to growl. Her long ponytail swayed against her back, and she turned to face him without moving away for the advantage distance offered. Zep squared his stance, finding an easy balance, and looked down at her. Her head didn't even reach his shoulders. His chest was twice as wide as her body. They stood face to face, close enough to touch, Zep's jet skin contrasting with Sal's alabaster.
"Maybe I should be petting your ears," he taunted so only she could hear. "Such cute things, the way they wiggle like that."
"I hear it's a human fetish," she remarked snidely. "Sir."
He glared until the call from the Lieutenant came to lay on.
Those words were like a flame to fuel. Action erupted instantly. Zep swept a foot out to knock Sal's legs out from under her. She hopped in place, drawing her knees close, while striking out with one of the blades, brushing his arm as he leaned out of her reach. Instantly, his sword moved to take advantage of the opening and Sal blocked it with her off-hand. Never retreating, they bent, danced, and leapt in perfect timing. The watching recruits gasped, but she blocked out everything except Zep's next move. The speed of his swings increased to match hers. No matter how hard she pushed, using all of her iliran-born agility, he interrupted her next attack, ready to push her defense.
The gravel crunched and scuffed under their moving feet. Both were soon covered in a fine sheen of sweat and dust, but they never took their eyes off each other. He poked and she prodded. For every sway she made, he'd lean, and for each step he took, Sal matched it. Minutes ticked past and neither sword touched skin. He grunted when he dodged and she growled as she attacked. The sweet human scent tried to distract her, but she refused to lose control again.
Zep's hits became harder as he tried to force her weapons out of his way, but he would not retreat. She could feel her strength fading and looked harder for an opening – or a way to make one – but the attacks kept coming. His dark eyes were as angry now as when the fight started, and his body showed no signs of fatigue. Having tried everything else, she thought of Cyno's quick ending. If she lost, she was no worse off than any other recruit. If she could just score a touch, she'd be far ahead of most of them. Sal tossed away the idea of winning this fight and settled on simply not embarrassing herself.
Zep struck at her neck with his right hand, but rather than dodging, she threw her back against his chest, moving inside his guard. As she spun, she passed her main sword into her left hand alongside the first, settling the tip against the inside of his thigh, the other pointing up to block her body. Her empty hand snatched Zep's curved weapon, wrenched it free, and aimed his sword above her head. The wooden blade paused against his neck.
They both froze. Sal could feel Zep's heart pounding against her back. She could smell the sugar in his sweat, so close to her, but no other emotions. Silence hung in the air for a few seconds before Zep spoke up.
"I yield," he said, calmly.
The onlookers gasped and Sal dared to look at his face. Gone was the smoldering anger, replaced with genuine respect. Pulling herself from the confines of his strong arms, all too aware of his hot body against her back, she wasn't sure what to do. Clumsily, she offered the wooden weapons to him. He took the swords and turned away, completely at ease.
The eyes of the recruits smothered her when she crossed the ring to ease her tired body against the fence post once more. The respect felt good but the surprise in their eyes brought a whole new resentment. Before she could dwell on the faults of her human competition, the Lieutenant addressed them again.
"Now that you've seen my Blades in action, you know what is, and will be, expected of each of you. Few of you could match them in combat," he said with a nod to Sal and the veteran, "but you will have to be as good as any of them to pass these trials. If you cannot improve – and quickly – there is no shame in resigning your application. It will not be looked on poorly if you do and choose to apply again at a later date. Razor is bunked in cabin ten. He will arrange transportation for anyone who chooses to rethink his preparedness.
"You have the rest of the night off. The pub is behind the barns, next to the arena. We will meet again tomorrow at 1300, this time at the arena. Enjoy yourselves, and really think about why you are here." He strode out of the courtyard in the direction of their cabins.
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