Orientation had, so far, been nothing as Jaxton expected. First thing in the morning, Kinler had ambushed Jaxton at the apartments, bringing him to the agency an hour early to do some weird, tricky puzzle.
Then, they walked to the conference room where he met his agents, one of whom said Jaxton would be useless and hold the team back. Who did Burt think he was?
Well, it wasn’t like Jaxton didn’t have those very same thoughts himself. What could he provide to an agency such as this? Intelligence, as Kinler wrote for him? No, there were many, much more intelligent individuals out there. Jaxton couldn’t even name the capital of every kingdom, and even with a map in front of him, he couldn’t tell which Anfanan queendoms were where.
Jaxton knew how to operate a gun; he understood the engineering and why the mechanics worked as they did. But he couldn’t take it apart and reassemble it on his own. Crafty was a word Gordon—Gem God rest his soul—used to call him. But that was merely a word used wrong.
Despite all of his diffidence, Jaxton followed in line like a soldier, marching toward the built-in yard Kinler called the field.
Kinler stepped outside first, holding the metal door open, letting the sweet, chilly late-autumn air surge inside, inviting the agents outside.
The field—which agents used practically daily—still had a beautiful green patch of grass covering the rounded area. The walls circled like a colosseum, and the flat roofs didn’t show much creativity in the architecture.
There was an area in the corner of the field shaded by a tarp on three long poles, each three feet shorter than the height of the agency building. Overcast afternoon clouds indicated rain, if not something worse. The sun pierced a small hole in the sky, however, so the day wasn’t lost on them yet.
That would be the second time in the day it had rained as Jaxton stepped on the grass, still wet to the earlier storm. Gordon always used to say that one storm was bad luck, but two flipped it, like multiplying a negative with a negative somehow made a positive.
Kinler stood under a tree next to a portable armory. “These are the weapons you will use to train with while engaging in combat against each other,” he explained. The front of the armorer looked like a bulletin board with various copies of weapons, all varying in length. Kinler pulled at the bottom crease of a flap, lifting it up to reveal more underneath, then once more, exposing the final layer of steel weapons. “These are all dulled, and their weights should match somewhat evenly to your personal weapons. I should make myself clear when I say these are still not toys.
“Enough force with one of these is enough to crack bones. Use with caution. However,” Kinler turned the armorer around, the wheels circling to flip positions, and revealing the other side to have similar weapons, but this time in wood. “For our first day, we will be using wood, as none of you are equipped with your armor.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Burt fumed. He palmed his left fist, squeezing—the veins popping slightly through the back of his neck. “Orientation was supposed to be only thirty minutes, right? So let’s get on with it.”
“Not yet,” Kinler said, and a wave of confidence passed through the agents. “One of you questioned my leadership, so I offer that individual an opportunity to also express his dissatisfaction with the way I operate.”
Kinler let it hang in the air, looking blankly at Jaxton as he stood in the center. Then, after a few seconds, his eyes shifted to Jakar. “You called me sssoft, remember? Would you like to back up that claim, or do you hereby retract what you’ve said?”
Jakar hissed before letting out a small laugh. “I haven’t seen anything as of yet to prove it wrong, though I will once I see anything different.”
“So be it,” Kinler said, turning. He picked up a wooden sword from the armory, unclipping it before lifting the panel. Kinler turned his head back toward Jakar once more and asked, “You do use two eighteen-inch blades, right?”
Jakar swallowed, but his grin didn’t fade at the challenge. The general tossed the two swords, Jaxton caught both. He twirled them in his hands, getting a feel. “I suppose you don’t want me to hold back, right?”
“Trust me, Jakar,” Kinler said, voice coarse and shrill with every syllable. “You best go all in because this bout is all about making an example out of you.”
Jaxton and the other agents stood a couple of feet back to witness the duel without worrying about getting in their way. The man, Jaxton believed was named Wing, brought his back to the wall, and sat down.
Anemone stood straight, and Jaxton caught her glimpses at Burt, who she was supposed to fight after this. Burt spectated Kilner and Jakar like a predator, seeing which among the two was a predator and who was prey.
Rown shook his head in his palm, and Jaxton got vibes of anxiety coming from the man, almost as if he were fearful things weren’t going as smoothly as he had intended. Jaxton knew because he had a part of that in himself as well.
The first to move was Jakar, who stalked forward a few steps. The tape on his wrists was tight, while loose around, but underneath was under layered with more, not revealing any of his skin.
What is that about, Jaxton thought, fashion? Does he have to put more on every time he takes a shower? A lot of work…
Kinler stood straight-backed, with his wooden sword extended to point toward Jakar. It was as if the general announced his lack of intent of moving to his opponent and suggested Jakar had to engage first.
Jakar then broke into a sudden spring, moving faster than anybody Jaxton had ever seen before—and he had seen many young thieves run from the police on the streets, going downhill at blazing speeds.
Kinler swung left, though he did so early, many steps off-beat. Jaxton, for a moment, felt fear. What if Jakar wins? If our leader isn’t the strongest among us? Then, Jaxton caught the expertly executed motion.
Kinler, as Jakar thrust in with his sword in his right hand, hammered his wrist up toward the sky. Jakar’s left hand aimed to halt Kinler’s sword in its tracks, and for a moment, Jaxton thought that was enough. But he didn’t know enough about swordplay to judge, as Kinler’s fierce swoop of his arm dispelled Jakar’s attempt of defense, and before the taped-up agent could land his offensive strike, Kinler sent him flying with a strike to the head.
Jakar, who had lunged off of his feet toward Kinler, spiraled in the air, rolling until he crashed on the soft grassy ground.
The agents stood in disbelief, even Burt, who had proclaimed he was well on track to become the Soucrest strongest warrior. Perhaps in seeing the gap between Jakar and Kinler, Burt himself humbled.
No one quite grasped the gravity of the situation, and awe distracted almost everybody from what was supposed to happen next. All but Anemone, who looked at the ground and took in slow, deep breaths to calm herself.
“Jaxton,” Kinler said out of nowhere. Shocked, Jaxton snapped his eyes back to the general, afraid he’d been staring too long at the female agent.
“Yes?” Jaxton asked.
“Tend to Jakar,” Kinler sighed. “Make sure he’s not bleeding more than he should.”
“Right away,” Jaxton said, hurrying to the shade—where Jakar had landed.
Jakar lay soft, unmoving. But his breathing was steady, if not a little rampant. Jaxton pulled the agent by his shoulders to the back wall, sitting him up before checking the bruise on his head. There was blood, though the cut was surprisingly minimal. Recalling back to Kinler’s strike, Jaxton remembered Kinler slightly tilting his sword, using the flat end, hitting Jakar hard with more of a wooden slap than the pinched, dulled edge.
Jaxton checked his pockets but found nothing disposable. So, he used the loose tape around Jakar’s neck, ripping a small shred free, using the scrap to scrub his face clean from the blood. Seeing the cut above his right eye, Jaxton wondered how to dress it.
He turned around, and as Burt and Anemone picked out their swords, Kinler met Jaxton’s eyes and pointed off to a glass, wall-mounted box far off to the side.
Jaxton hurried over and found the supplies he needed to clean the wound. He returned to Jakar with a wipe, padding the cut to an unconscious stir, as these sort of supplies sting when applied. Finally, he stuck a square bandage over the scratch and called the matter done for now.
Before he turned to catch the beginning of the duel, Jaxton noticed something below Jakar’s neck. Worried, believing it could be blood, Jaxton pulled at the tape covering his torso, finding not blood but a torso fully scabbed in old burns. Jaxton immediately retreated his gaze, not wanting to see anymore.
Burns? That’s what’s hiding under the tape…
Whatever Jaxton saw, it was likely private, and therefore, not his right to share or be concerned about.
But… no, I can’t. Kinler probably already knows.
Jaxton readjusted his glasses, trying to distract himself as Anemone and Burt were about to begin their duel. But Kinler stood between them. From where Jaxton stood, Anemone faced away, but her swaying sword indicated that she wasn’t so confident about this.
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This whole altercation felt unnecessary and wrong to Jaxton. One of the fighters didn’t want to fight, and the other was just an asshole.
“Alright,” Kinler said. “Now listen, I’m not going to explain the rules again. One hit equals one point. You need three hits to win the match unless your opponent surrenders beforehand. I will judge what I consider to be hits. Hitting clothes or skimming boots doesn’t count, and they must connect directly. Understood?”
Anemone nodded, lifting her wooden sword carefully up and pointed nervously. Burt, on the other hand, shoved his sword into the ground. He removed his jacket, folding it up neatly before setting it down on the grass with a grace Jaxton didn’t anticipate. He returned to his sword in a gray tank top, with his refined arms exposed. He looked remarkably more robust with his jacket off, to the point Jaxton started to worry even more for his frail girl opponent.
“Then begin,” Kinler said, standing a few steps back.
Burt had the top of his sword face the sky, a more duelist approach to combat. He sauntered over as if he ruled the world—a wry grin on his lips as he neared Anemone, walking forward herself.
Then they clashed, though Burt smacked Anemone’s sword hard enough to open up her center after two hits. Without holding back, Burt stabbed the wooden tip of his blade into her abdomen, holding it in place as she cringed, hands dropping to her stomach as she fell to the ground to the pain.
“What’s wrong with you!” Rown called out from the side. “That’s even worse than what Kinler did to Jakar!”
Wing frowned but kept quiet.
“Kinler,” Jaxton whispered, though the general was too far away to hear. “You should stop this…”
“A point to Burt,” Kinler eventually said.
Burt laughed, marching over to his earlier position, the wooden sword over his shoulder. “What? Did you expect the outcome to be anything different?” Burt turned to Rown. “Don’t you think it’s hypocritical to stand in awe of Kinler after seeing what he had done to Jakar, yet when I do the same to Anemone, you look at me with disgust?”
Rown said nothing. His grimace said it all.
Burt sneered. “It’s because deep down, you know everything I said is true. She’s a woman, and even so, she is still weak with that in mind,” he pointed at the downed girl with his free hand. “You think, with how quick I disposed of her, that she could bring anything to us out there in a real battle? No. She’ll hold us back. Being a warrior is sink or swim, and frankly, she’s an anchor on all of our backs.”
Anemone coughed, but control returned to her as she began to stand back up.
Poor woman, Jaxton thought. She’s still holding onto the sword. Her muscles must be cramped—
“Again,” Anemone said.
“What?” Burt scoffed. “You aren’t serious? You want to continue?”
“You have… one point,” Anemone said, struggling to speak. “You need… three to win, right?”
“No,” Burt said. “Surrender. Stop wasting our time. That’s all you’re good for.”
Anemone, to Jaxton’s surprise, grinned. “The longer you boast, the more I’ll rest. Are you ready?”
Burt boiled. His anger palpable in the air like an aura of pure disgust and annoyance. He sighed, and the atmosphere around him winked. “You don’t want this. I’ll hit you again, twice as hard as the last. If you stand up again, I’ll hit you thrice as hard.”
Either Anemone didn’t believe Burt, or she did want this. She raised her sword, and Kinler signaled the second round to begin.
Burt’s pacing ramped up on his way over to Anemone, seeking to end the fight even quicker. He swung overhead, which Anemone managed to catch, showing a basic understanding of the sword.
That heavy strike, however, wasn’t the harshest blow Burt provided in their exchange. He swung and swung again, a barrage that seemed untidy until you stopped and assessed the strokes analytically. On his last, he aimed at what would have been a hit to Anemone’s side—which she was about to block—and manipulated his hand and wrist to tilt and slam downward, not only catching Anemone by the calf but scooping it up off the ground, sweeping her off her feet.
Anemone screamed, and Jaxton doubted she would stand at all after that blow. Jaxton wanted to rush over there and check on her, make sure that the strike didn’t crack a bone. He stopped himself as methodical laughter came from Burt, who stood over her dauntingly, looking down with a smug expression.
“Are you done yet?” Burt asked. Anemone rolled on the floor but fetal as she held her bruised leg to her chest. Her face seemed more frustrated than upset. Burt sighed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He walked away, moving toward his jacket.
“Point two for Burt,” Kinler said simply, not even ending the duel on Anemone’s behalf. What was that about? Jaxton, under his first impression of Kinler, didn’t think he would let an agent of his injure themselves under his watch. If anything, it was almost like he was encouraging Burt’s behavior.
“Where are you going!” Anemone called out, still on the floor. She rolled to meet Burt in the eyes, who had started to unfold his jacket. “This isn’t over yet!”
“I’m not going to fight someone who can’t even stand,” Burt said, putting his silver jacket on. “Even I have lines I won’t cross. Hitting someone when they’re down… it’s not what I do.”
“Wait,” Anemone said. With a struggle, she rolled to her stomach. With her hands, she managed to push herself up to her fours. She planted her left foot before carefully standing up with her injured leg. She rolled her right bruised calf, then crouched up and down. She stretched and then did a few small hops, making her prior injury appear trivial.
What the hell? Jaxton thought. That shouldn’t be possible. She was on the ground, possibly crippled for the next hour, and now she’s standing up as if it is a mere bruise?
Kinler walked up to Anemone. He whispered, low enough the others couldn’t pick up, but he was close enough to Jaxton that he eavesdropped. “Innovate. You can’t beat him with a sword; that’s like being a marathon runner racing against a professional swimmer in the water. It won’t work, especially when you only learned how to swim a few weeks ago.”
What is that supposed to mean? Jaxton thought. Whatever Kinler said, Anemone seemed to decipher it, perking up a little bit—even smiling.
Kinler returned to the center, hands behind his back. “She’s okay to continue. Burt, you’re up two points. One more to win.”
“Permission to hurt her?” Burt asked as if he hadn’t been doing so before.
Kinler grinned but said nothing. Did he actually believe Anemone stood any sort of chance against Burt? Burt was a duelist, a name Jaxton recognized from newspaper headlines two years ago when he had been at the top of the junior circuit. But this Anemone person… who was she to stand a chance?
Well, she wasn’t anybody Jaxton knew. Kinler, on the other hand, apparently knew what Jaxton hadn’t.
“Go ahead,” Kinler said, letting the duel recommence.
Burt and Anemone walked up, though they both approached mutually, with Burt no longer taking the lead. Suddenly, as Burt raised his sword to engage, Anemone dropped hers, choosing to raise her two fists instead.
Jaxton leaned a little closer in, enthralled by how the duel would unfold.
Burt didn’t hesitate to swing, though Anemone ducked, moving as if a weight had dropped from her shoulders. Unburdened, she sprung forward, throwing a punch. Burt leaned back defensively, occupied enough he couldn’t attack.
Then, the duelist set his feet, angered. He thrust heavily for Anemone’s chest, but she sidestepped the blow, not losing her footing as she dashed across. With her left fist, she caught Burt’s chin with a punch.
Burt knocked back a few steps, growled as he raised his sword to continue. He took a step forward—
“One point,” Kinler interrupted. “Anemone.”
“What! You can’t be serious! A punch counts as a point? I thought this was supposed to simulate a real battle. What, was that punch supposed to knock me—”
“Enough, Burt,” Kinler said. “As I stated, I decide what constitutes a hit. Now, are you ready?”
Burt shrugged Kinler off, lifting his sword once again. Anemone raised her fists, and Kinler set forth the fourth round.
Anemone dashed forward, closing the distance almost as fast as Jakar's duel against Kinler. Though her steps were more assured—if not at a slower pace—and as Burt raised his sword to defend herself, she strafed right, leaping to Burt’s right.
Burt slashed air repeatedly, keeping the distance between them as Anemone kept ducking inches away from the length of the sword’s reach. At this rate, Anemone would surely tire out first if she couldn’t find a decent opening to attack.
But, whether it out of boredom or a need to prove something, Burt attacked when he should have kept defending. His motions slowed as one would expect out of someone who must have done dozens of repetitive sword strokes, but the blows were still heavy and would be devastating to receive.
But Anemone worked closer and closer in, checking the water as she treaded deeper and deeper into danger.
It all stopped with a bang, a ringing loud enough for everyone to hear but too shallow to echo off the stone walls.
Anemone held an open palm in the air. Burt’s head turned to the side, a cheek with the red print of a girl’s hand.
Jaxton exploded into laughter, joined by Rown by the field entrance. Kinler, even, who tried his best to act at least impartial, could hardly hold back a gaping grin.
Anemone took a couple of steps back as if she not only poked a bear but slapped the living hell out of it.
“Begin the next round, Kinler,” Burt said, subsiding his rage. “I’m going to kill you.”
Kinler checked on Anemone, who nodded. “Begin.”
The tide had turned, the genre had changed. What was for a second a comedy, the next was horror. Burt marched forward, sword no longer in his duelist stance but more of a switch. He approached with a flurry, strike after strike containing a savage hatred.
Unbridled strokes of his wrists, going so offensive in his approach, Anemone had no other options but to backtrack further and further.
Jaxton found himself moving with the duel, getting the best view he could from the side. Anemone, lost, looked fearful for the anger in Burt’s eyes. Every step backward was one out of desperation to escape capture.
Then it hit her far before she could comprehend it. Her surroundings betrayed her as her back hit a tree trunk. The swinging halted, in a motion so quick, Burt jabbed Anemone fiercely in the neck with the wooden tip.
She stood frozen, a small gasp escaping her mouth. Her body held to the tree as if a nail had pinned her neck to the bark. Burt, mercilessly, stepped back, turning around. He tossed the sword toward Kinler.
“I’m going home,” Burt said.
“Very well,” Kinler said as if defeated. Would he really say nothing? Not reprimand him? He went too far… “Oh, and tomorrow, arrive in your armor. And cancel any plans you have made for the next five days.”
Burt raised a hand as if he understood. He moved his way to the door, not even looking an outraged Rown in the eyes as he berated him out of the field and into the agency halls.
Anemone fell to the floor, and Jaxton rushed over to help her, turning her on her front. “We should send for help.”
“She’s fine,” Kinler said. “The wind’s knocked out of her. Nothing more.”
Furious, Jaxton stood up to Kinler, leaning into his face. “What’s the matter with you? What if Burt killed her?”
“You didn’t see, did you?”
“What? See what?” Jaxton asked.
“So you haven’t. Did you see how I hit Jakar? I hit turned the sword to the side to soften the blow. Not an expert trick, but it worked—”
“You’re saying Burt went soft on that last hit? That’s outrageous! He plainly intended her harm.”
“If Burt intended any substantial harm on that hit, she would be dead, not on the ground able to stand again in a few minutes,” Kinler said. “A very small motion was made in his wrist that pulled last second, enough to cut the force down by two-thirds. You must understand, Jaxton, I’m very skilled at swordplay. But Burt is, as he is now, perhaps only a step or two under my level. In a few years, as he said, he just might be the strongest warrior in Soucrest.”
“That doesn’t excuse this behavior,” Jaxton clenched his fist.
“And I’ll do everything I can to solve it before he gets to that level. He might not be a saint, but at least he won’t be a monster.”
Jaxton shook his head. He found Jakar’s breathing steadied out, looking as if he was merely asleep. Anemone, too, found some gasps of air, and her stomach started kicking again. “I’ll sit around and help, make sure they are both okay.”
“Nonsense, you are dismissed. Anemone will be able to walk in a few minutes, and I’ll wait for Jakar to wake up. Be ready tomorrow. Wear your uniform since you don’t have armor.”
Jaxton nodded. He left the field on his way home to his apartment, skeptical of his new agent teammates.
Where do we go from here?