Planet: Heron

Year: AP 925

Nine hundred twenty-five years later...

A cool breeze blew across the green meadow just outside the shadow’s reach of the magnificent white palace, and the morning sun lit the sky aflame with red, orange, and purple tints. A tree near the garden let go of a single leaf. The wind caught the small, green kite and guided it through the sanctuary’s courtyard. It did not wish to leave its home, nor did it desire to travel at the mercy of the unseen force. Nevertheless, the leaf floated and journeyed with the will of the wind.

The tiny traveler glided helplessly toward a group of humans as it passed the courtyard. If the leaf could count, it would have known that the number of humans was thirteen. And if the leaf knew what it saw, it would have known one of the thirteen humans was not like the others. Moreover, if the leaf could hear, it would have overheard what the thirteenth man spoke to the others.

“Good morning,” said the thirteenth man to the twelve young lads that stood encircling him. “I am General Zachariah, and I welcome you all to the Trial of Entry.” As the General spoke, he swept his arms out to his sides and bowed at the waist. Zachariah was a tall and lean man. He kept himself clean-shaven but wore his long, graying hair loose as it blew in the morning wind. His attire comprised a long white robe embroidered with gold trim on the sleeves, collar, and hem. Around his waist was a golden silk belt that held his robe closed and provided a home for the long wooden sword he was carrying.

The General stood from his bow and surveyed the potential harvest around him. Zachariah was a master judge of ability. Even at a glance, he could determine more about a person than most knew about themselves. He noticed little things: the way someone walked or stood, the condition of their hands, the way they dressed, or even the subconscious way they perceived their surroundings. Individually, these details were meaningless, but they spoke volumes about a person when combined as a whole. With a passing glance, the experienced General discerned each of the young men. Except for one, they did not impress him.

The warrior-hopefuls surrounding the gray-haired veteran were prime examples of homeworld diversity. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were tall and lean like him, while others were shorter with broad shoulders, yet still, others were a blend of height and bulk. Likewise, their apparel was just as varied, wearing clothing accustomed to their homeworlds and social classes. There were bright colored robes, drab jumpsuits and trousers, and even full combat uniforms with military insignias. For Zachariah, these were the most revealing clues concerning his soon-to-be opponents.

Let’s see, thought the General. We got Pratt, Candis, Dirby, some Permidains, and is that a Kennel Royal Guard uniform? Still, Zachariah sighed.

It was his fourteenth and final Trial. Once a celestial year, Heron held the Trial of Entry. For one week, eager men and women from every system came to the Sacer homeworld with hopes and dreams of being added to their ranks. However, the quantity and quality of applicants have suffered over the last few years. This year was no exception.

My expectations weren’t overly high, Zachariah mused, but I still find myself disappointed. Well, I better get on with it. The sooner I finish this, the better. With the loss of Korra ten years ago, the tide of war had turned against the homeworlds. Almost every month, the Malus hordes consumed another world. However, the Table still insisted that a Sacer general be present on Heron during the Trials. This annoyed Zachariah. He wanted to return to his troops and help hold the frontline. He was a general for Shade’s shake! The battlefield needed him! Not here, testing applicants, doing the job that any black-trim could do. But alas, even generals had orders, and those orders were his duty. So, with a simulated smile, General Zachariah continued addressing the resolute but nervous-looking candidates.

“I know that the journey to get here was difficult,” he said. “After years of grueling training, you traveled light-years to get here, and for that, I commend you!” The hardened warrior almost chuckled when he said “grueling training” but forced it back. “The journey to come here has always been part of the Trial. Howbeit, the easiest part.” The Sacer general paused for a second to let his words sink in. “Now the actual test begins! Your task is simple. You only have to fight me.” Zachariah’s nonchalant description of the task contrasted with the enormity of the job. This time the General chuckled. “Do not fear,” he said, unreassuring, “you do not have to best me; that would be impossible,” Zachariah stifled another chuckle. “The rule is simple: to become a Sacer, you must fight a Sacer. Then, based on your performance, I will determine if you are worthy of training in the Great Hall.”

Many of the applicants looked hesitant. They knew what it meant to go up against a fully trained Sacer. Never mind the fact that they were facing a general. Zachariah reframed from rolling his eyes as he continued to speak. “Don’t worry about injury. We have the best Shade technology in the United Homeworlds. As long as you don’t die, we should be able to fix you.” Most likely... Zachariah added to himself.

It was time. The General had spoken everything he was required to say. For a moment, he said nothing. Tension built among the young men. Some started sweating, and a few even trembled. Then, with a controlled breath, Zachariah reached across his waist and gripped the hilt of his wooded kado. Slowly, he drew it from the silk belt and held it out to his side. Then he spoke.

“Draw!” he said. Then, in a flurry of mixed movements that varied from smooth and confident to clumsy and inexperienced, the twelve pulled their kados from their carrying locations. While most had their wooden weapons on their hips like Zachariah, others had them strapped to their backs or slung over their shoulders. Regardless, one by one, they each drew their kado and took fighting stances. Finally, when the General saw the applicants were—for lack of a better word—ready, he gave his last instructions.

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“On my command, you will all attack me. You will ONLY attack me! If you purposely strike another candidate, I will eliminate you from consideration. Do I make myself clear?” Nods and acknowledgments came from the waiting group.

Zachariah brought his kado in line with the center of his body and touched the broadside to his forehead. The applicants all repeated the time-honored salute, some more awkwardly than others. Then, leisurely, the General raised his kado into the air with one hand. Most of the young men stiffened their postures and retook their fighting stances. Some tightened their grips on their weapons, while others loosened them. Regardless of their preparations, all eyes were on the Sacer’s kado, anticipating the drop that would signal the start of the Trial.

The wind stopped, and the tiny leaf that wandered into the courtyard began its descent near the solitary gray-haired man, who raised his weapon in the air.

“BEGIN!” The Sacer swung his weapon down in one fluid motion.

Without hesitation, one man raised his kado over his head and dashed forward with a shrilling battle cry!

Zachariah already knew everything he needed to know about the attacker. The blue robe and bald head marked the young man as a monk initiate from the planet Pratt. Probably a first-year student of a monastery, Zachariah pondered. A prodigy, perhaps, one who has mistaken natural talent for actual skill? A shame; he should have waited a few more years before coming here...

As fast and strong as the young man’s attack was, Zechariah stepped to the left, avoiding it. Then, he brought his weapon down across the man’s wrist, cracking bones. Next, Zachariah followed it with another strike to the man’s chin. This blow sent the once confident man hurling backward.

Before the first opponent hit the ground, two more adversaries sprang forward! Zechariah also advanced, catching the two lads off guard. He brought his weapon up in a swooping motion and struck the second attacker just under his arms. The blow hit with enough force to send his kado flying out of his hands. Zechariah spun to his right, avoiding the assault of the third recruit. Bringing his weapon back down, he struck the boy just behind the neck, sending him face-first into the ground. The second opponent, now weaponless, lunged toward the instructor’s back. Without turning, Zechariah shot a kick into the approaching boy’s ribs. Again, bones cracked, and a body dropped.

When the third attacker hit the ground, chaos broke out. At once, seven young men all rushed the gray-haired warrior! It became a blur of swinging weapons, dashing feet, and cries of pain. Zachariah allowed the dance to engulf him. His kado struck opponent after opponent, never blocking; he let his feet do all his defense. The General swayed, twisted, ducked, and jumped from attack to attack. As swift and elusive as the wind, he blew through the opposition. Then, one by one, they fell like leaves dropping from an autumn tree. It was not a fight for the gray-haired warrior, but a mindless exercise based on years of training and homed reflexes. Well, that was until he saw... it.

“Pine!” The General shouted in disgust as he walked over the moaning body of the tenth applicant he had just struck down. Zachariah addressed one of the two men who had not moved from their original positions. It was sometimes a good sign. On occasions, a strong candidate would hang back and observe. They would watch the fight and study the Sacer, hoping to find a weakness. While this was always futile, Sacers had no weaknesses; it showed foresight and martial potential. But that was not the case here.

Zachariah eyed the young man with contempt. He was a medium build youth of about twenty standard years and wore the purple and silver formal garb associated with the nobility from Carth. The man had bleached his hair and cut it short. The General knew this was the new fashion among the young aristocrats, and it irritated him. But it was not the gaudy robe or the pretentious white hair that garnered Zachariah’s attention. Nor was it the arrogance and untested self-confidence of the lad. Instead, it was the pristine and artist-crafted kado. Long and sleek with a slight curve, the wooden weapon was engraved with a delicate floral pattern. There were no apparent marks of wear or tear. It was not an instrument of battle, but a status symbol. And one carved entirely out of pine.

“Pine?” Zachariah knew the logic. Pine was soft and easy to carve. It was also light and fast to handle. In the noble houses of Carth, swordsmanship had turned into a sport. Combat was now a social event where striking down one’s opponent had been diminished to an elaborate game of tag.

Is this what we have been reduced? The General shook his head. On the verge of complete annihilation, and the nobles spend their time chasing each other with sticks?

“I don’t know if they told you,” Zachariah addressed the boy. “But this is no game. Bring a pine kado to the Sacer Trial of Entry was ill-advised.” In response, the purple-clad youth laughed, ran his hand through his white hair, and then raised his decorative weapon. The General groaned. I do not have time for fools. Then, without warning, Zachariah snapped forward, covering the twelve feet between him and the young Carthian. The boy’s kado shattered like glass, splitters spraying in all directions! But before he could comprehend his weapon’s destruction, the General’s kado cracked against the boy’s forehead. At the last moment, Zachariah pulled back to ensure it would not kill, but the strike still sent the once-cocky noble to the ground with an audible grunt.

“Tag,” Zachariah said, “you lose.”

The Sacer felt underwhelmed as he turned to face the last applicant. “Please, tell me that uniform is not for show? I do not think I could bear another disappointment this week.” As the Sacer spoke, he poked the comatose noble with the tip of his kado. It was not a malicious act. Zachariah just found himself annoyed, and, somehow, prodding the lame fool made him feel better.

“Please, Champion,” the young man said, “I would appreciate it if you did not associate the nobility of Kennel with those from Carth.”

Zachariah genuinely smiled for perhaps the first time that day. Since the Trial began, the General had observed this applicant from the Capital homeworld. When he first saw that Royal Guard uniform, he hoped it was real. He had seen forgeries before.

Zachariah noted the shield emblem pinned to the young man’s collar. “Fair enough,” he replied. “Tell me, apprentice knight, what is your name?”