TWO YEARS LATER . . . IMPERIAL CAPITAL OF PERCEPLIQUIS, SPRING, 2109 IR

Where twenty-one boys ranging in ages from seven to eighteen had once lined up, Jerish alone remained standing with his back to the north wall of the practice grounds. Team captains had carefully selected members for the day’s competition. Five teams of five each had been formed. Once more, Jerish was the odd man out. At twelve years old, he wasn’t the youngest, nor was he the smallest, or biggest, and after his run up the Leader Board he certainly wasn’t lacking for skill. Still, no one wanted him.

He waited feeling the hard surface of the stone wall against his palms.

“That makes you score keeper again, Jerish.” Hanson explained the obvious, as he stood armored in thick, worn padding holding a batte. “Can’t have six on a team.”

Jerish left the wall removing his pads as he walked to the bench where he sat beside the water buckets, towels, and extra pads. He looked at the slate and chalk and sighed. Some optimistic residue of his childhood had believed that proving himself in the tournaments—where he remained undefeated for two years in the batte division—would change minds. He had imagined a new world where he was respected, admired, or at the very least, liked. He’d hoped to make new friends out of old enemies. Instead, he learned a new lesson: opinions did not change without a fight, and in that arena, Jerish remained an invalid.

Darius however had dominated the school from the moment he enrolled. Jerish couldn’t understand it. The older boy—now fifteen—had lost none of his arrogance, or sense of entitlement. He insulted everyone, including the masters, though never to their face. Somehow this disrespect, and disregard of tradition brought him followers.

None more ardent than Logan.

When the Academy made room for Darius, they had placed his bed near Logan’s end of the dormitory. Soon Logan spent all his time with Darius. Jerish told himself he didn’t mind. Logan hadn’t grown much, and was a terrible combat partner. Jerish rationalized he’d do better with just the post and bags. At least they could take a hit without complaint. Logan proved more talented at social studies than combat, and had managed his own successful run up the leader board of popularity as he was now close friends with Darius Seret and Hanson Quibble. And while Jerish was regulated to near permanent score keeper, Logan was picked fifth out of twenty-one and now part of Darius’ Yellow Team.

Jerish watched as the boys gathered into circles to discuss strategies—captains in the center. After tying on the yellow armband, Logan pointed at Jerish, then said something to the others. They all laughed. Then Darius—the biggest in the circle—caught Jerish looking and shouted across the field. “Didn’t even know how to take a crap, eh Barbarian Boy? Logan had to teach you, did he? What a stupid sod you are.”

“Was it your poor dying mother, Barbarian Boy?” Hanson asked. “Did she make you swear on her deathbed to be such a flipping ass? Is that it?” This made everyone in Yellow’s circle snicker and hoot.

Jerish hadn’t drank directly from a bowl since his second day, and yet Darius and Hanson both began calling him Barbarian Boy and pretending to drink from their bowls while laughing at him. Now, it seemed Logan had told them about his mother, too. That one hurt.

The teams fanned out.

The competition was a simple capture the flag scenario. Jerish’s task was to watch for “kills” and announce them as they occurred. He had preformed the function nearly every time the game was played that year, unless someone was sick leaving even teams, or a master organized it because then they picked the teams. And as with anything, Jerish preformed his task with dispassionate precision. He watched the moves, as if he were witnessing a live-action chess match—a popular board game that had recently come to the capitol from Calynia, though it was called something else there.

Yellow Team advanced on Red Team captained by Spencer Engleton, now ranked third on the leader board. He too was undefeated, but having only recently turned seventeen had been trapped by the competition cap that had prohibited Spencer from fighting in the sharp-blade division. While there were two older boys on the field, everyone knew Spencer and his Reds were the team to beat. This made him irresistible to the fame hungry Darius who hated Spencer nearly as much as he hated Jerish.

Spencer kept his fellows tight while Darius spread his team out perhaps thinking of flanking Red, though more likely his group was merely incompetent. Darius wasn’t known for superb tactics, and his second was Hanson, who while athletic, was not the best at following directions. And then of course there was Logan, who consistently avoided engagement.

The clash came swiftly. Battes struck battes filling the courtyard with sharp, but hollow clunks. Luckily, for Jerish, Green, White, and Black teams were still positioning, granting him the luxury to witness every strike. When he counted three successful blows against Darius by both Asurkan and Vicks, Jerish posted it with a raised flag in Darius’ station. The dead man failed to acknowledge his demise and pretended not to see the flag, forcing Jerish to shout. “Yellow One is dead! Withdraw!”

This caused a distraction that got Hanson killed as well.

Seeing the opening, Spencer ordered a charge and routed the remaining members of Yellow Team taking their flag.

“Blast you, Jerish!” Hanson shouted. “You lousy sard sucker!”

Darius didn’t bother with words, he charged Jerish who had just enough time to pick up a batte but not pads. While the wooden sticks sounded harmless striking soft wadding, or clapping against each other, the blunt wood was hard and more than capable of breaking bones. Without a helmet, it was even possible a solid hit could kill him. Making matters worse, Darius, who was fifteen was one of the biggest kids on the field—not just in height, but pounds as well. Not even Spencer, liked fighting him. As Master Lynch often said, “Darius knew just enough to make him dangerous.”

Jerish was backing up just as Master Ipstich appeared.

“Darius!” He snapped while the boy was still ten feet distant.

No one, not even a rampaging Darius ignored Ipstich. He stopped where he was.

“Is there a problem?” The master asked.

“No, sir,” Spencer replied. “Jerish called Darius dead and apparently he didn’t care for the call.”

“Jerish, lied!” Darius still fumed. “I wasn’t hit three times.”

“You were,” Jerish said.

Darius took a step toward him.

“Take another step, Mister Darius,” Master Ipstich said. “And I won’t be interested in who did what. Do I make myself clear?”

Darius who was tall, but not nearly so smart for his age still knew enough not to press Ipstich whose lessons were often harsh. The man wasn’t known for his indulgence or patience.

Darius nodded, then pointed at Jerish. “He has maligned me, sir. He had besmirched my reputation and my sacred honor by falsely accusing me of deceit and falsehood.”

“These are serious accusation.”

“They are, and I demand retribution!”

“What sort of retribution are you seeking?”

“I want him expelled.”

Ipstich nodded. “You understand of course that I can’t take your word for it. Master Rawlings will demand an investigation. Witnesses will need to be interviewed to determine which of you is indeed telling the truth.”

“I am the governor of Alburnia’s son. My word is all that is necessary.”

Ipstich smiled. “Darius, you may be surprised to discover that your parentage is not a secret here—nor anywhere you go, I suspect. But were I to approach Master Rawling with that argument, I might not be capable of returning to my duties here the next day. You should also be aware that should we determine that Jerish is telling the truth and you are falsely accusing him of wrongdoing, that it will be you that is expelled.”

Darius looked back at the other boys, his confident defiance shaken.

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“Are you certain you want to—“

“I challenge Jerish Grelad to a duel of honor,” Darius declared.

No one spoke.

“It is within my right, is it not?”

“Duels are not practice, Darius. They are preformed with sharp weapons, and often result in the death of one, and on some occasions, both participants.”

“And,” Darius added. “The Teshlor Guild sanctions such challenges, does it not?”

“It does, providing both challenger and challenged agree.” Ipstich looked at Jerish. “Do you agree to accept this challenge, Jerish?”

“If you don’t,” Darius said. “You will be admitting that you lied.”

“Is that true?” Jerish asked.

“The principle of a duel is trial by combat. It serves to determine truth from falsehood by allowing the Lord Novron to grant victory to the honorable.”

“In that case,” Jerish said. “I accept.”

###

Jerish sat on his bunk, the one below Vicks. Most of the boys preferred bottom bunks. Jerish lucked into his because he replaced Alphie, and no one wanted to sleep below Alphie the Wetter. Rumor had it that Alphie failed to cut it in the Academy and was let go. Alphie didn’t seem to have many friends either.

Darius was outside in the practice field. Jerish could hear him through the window. He was out there with a bunch of them. Hanson, Logan, and a few of the younger boys. They were all giving him pointers, helping him practice.

Jerish looked around the dormitory—the Kennel, as the inhabitants fondly referred to the tightly packed novice bunk hall. He was alone.

Footsteps approached. It was Asurkan. “Jerish? Master Rawlings wants to see you in his office. Now.”

Heading for the stairs, he passed a few boys. They all knew what had happened, what was going to happen. No one offered a clap on the back or a “good luck, tomorrow, Jerish.” Not one went so far as to meet his eyes. They all darted past like they were in a race.

When he reached Master Rawlings door, he knocked.

“Come,” the voice inside barked.

Rawlings was at his desk, which always struck Jerish as strange. A warrior behind a desk was like a ship in the desert. Nothing about the room had changed, not the placement of the few pieces of hard furniture, not the smell, which made him think of the old applewood altar at the seminary.

Rawlings looked up at him, indicating with a wave that he should close the door. “Have you chosen a Second?”

Jerish pushed until the door latched. “A second what, sir?”

“A Second for the duel—your agent, advocate, assistant. It is usually a position taken up by a close friend.”

“I don’t have one, sir.”

“Well you best chose. Duels require a Second.”

“I meant I don’t have a friend, sir.”

Rawlings stared at him for a moment. “I see.” He stood up. Brushed out his gambeson, then studied Jerish while pursing his lips. “And do you have a sword yet?”

Jerish shook his head. “No, sir. Thought I would use something from the practice field.”

“I thought so, but a man who lacks a friend, ought to at least have a sword.” The master moved to a heavy wooden chest in the back corner of the room. He opened a lock and lifted the lid. Inside Jerish saw a glimpse of an old uniform, and on it a dragon emblem. The master shoved it aside with disregard and from the depths drew out a belt and two blades. Both were worn and battered. He sat back down placing the swords on his lap and stared at them with an expression Jerish couldn’t gauge.

“These were mine.”

“Aren’t they still yours, sir?”

He shook his head. “I set them aside long ago—when I came here, in fact. I buried them in that chest—my coffin of memories. One day, I suspect, you’ll do the same. We all do…those that survive.”

Jerish looked to the mantle at the big blade. “That’s yours too, right?”

Rawlings looked up. “No,” he said. “I used it for a time, but it’s not mine.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes. It’s a very special blade. Have you learned the Gorian Gar discipline?”

Jerish shook his head. “Next year, sir, I think.”

“Well, when you learn it, you’ll see why that weapon was made that way with those flanges.”

“Who was the original owner?”

“Jerel De Mardefeld. I assumed you heard the name?”

“Yes, sir. He’s a legend. One of the founders.”

“You remind me of him. Not that I knew the man, only his reputation, he died over a thousand years ago. He was a committed individual, a man of great principle, unyielding in his beliefs and his dedication to them. They say Amicus was the greater warrior, but Jerel was the true spirit behind the Teshlors. Strength is capable of many things, but like an overpowered swing accuracy is sacrificed. Jerel knew that an army of Teshlors could become a force of terrible destruction, and so he sought to give it rules, to focus that strength in a positive direction. This was his sword.”

Jerish stared in awe. “How did you get it, sir?”

“A gift, from the emperor for services rendered. Lovely weapon, but to keep it in good shape I constantly need to baby the thing. With these old weapons you need to rub them with oil or they’ll actually tarnish and rust, but…” he smiled. “Like the owner, is remarkably strong.”

Rawlings lifted the belt and the swords and placed them on the desk before Jerish. “Take these. Their old, but they are fine weapons that have served me well. You’ve used real swords, correct?”

Jerish nodded. “Mostly on the post.”

“You’d best practice with these. A man should know his weapons before battle. Teshlors carry three blades because there’s wisdom in using the right tool for the job. You wouldn’t swat a fly with a sledgehammer or cut down an oak with a pocketknife. Use the short sword. You won’t be able to overpower Darius. He outweighs you. You’ll need to be smarter, faster. ”

“I know.”

Rawlings narrowed his eyes. “You don’t seem overly concerned.”

“About the duel, sir?”

Rawling nodded. “Yes—the duel. You’re facing a boy three years older, twenty-five pounds heavier, nearly a foot taller, and of unknown rank. He’ll be using a sharp blade, which he certainly has experience with. Duels transcend this institution, and there are few rules. Injury is almost certain, and death the likely outcome. This doesn’t concern you?”

Jerish shook his head. “I’m ranked fifth now only because I’m not allowed to fight higher.”

“So, if you were allowed where do you think you’d fall on the leaderboard?”

“Number one, sir.”

Rawlings stared. “That’s awfully arrogant for a twelve year old, fourth year.”

“Yes, sir.” Jerish lifted Rawlings sword and looked at the well worn grip. It felt good. “I’ll beat him. And thank you for the sword.”

On the way back to the Kennel, Jerish passed Darius in the corridor. He was wearing his sword and surrounded by his mob. They were all laughing. When they spotted Jerish, they stopped. Darius glared as he walked by and made a slicing motion across his neck. “Gonna get to see that dead mother of yours tomorrow, Jerish. Be certain to tell her hello for me, will you?”

###

Clouds shaded the practice field the next morning, and by midday a light rain began to fall. It rained a lot in spring. Jerish remembered that it rained the day his mother died. But that was in late autumn, and he remembered how the rain turned to snow later that night. He recalled being upset that she didn’t see his fifth birthday.

Jerish was in no rush. Darius was on the field waiting when and Master Rawlings arrived. Interestingly, Hanson was Darius’s Second—not Logan.

Master’s Ipstich and Lynch were there standing solemnly with hoods up. No boys were present. This was not a demonstration. Jerish understood that one or both could easily die that morning, and such a thing was not to be treated as a spectacle. Killing for Teshlors was a terrible thing.

The only other person present was Master Oloff, the guild physician, who had once given Jerish three stitches in his cheek after Jerish and Darius’s first encounter. Master Oloff waited under the protection of the colonnade roof with a table set with bandages and bottles.

“Does Jerish not have a Second?” Lynch asked.

“He does,” Rawlings replied.

Lynch appeared puzzled, then smiled and nodded. “Very well. Proceed.”

Rawlings turned to Hanson. “Is Darius willing to take back his accusations that Jerish acted falsely in accusing his performance in yesterday’s’ competition?”

“He will not,” Hanson replied.

Rawlings and Lynch waited staring at Hanson. “What?” the boy asked.

“It is at this point where you ask if Jerish is willing to take back his accusation,” Lynch explained.

“I don’t want him to take it back,” Darius said. “I want to kill the little sard.”

“Very well,” Lynch said. “Clear the field of non-combatants, and may Novron protect and give victory to the virtuous.”

The masters stepped back as Jerish and Darius raised swords. Neither wore pads, or armor. They were dressed in the standard KIT tunics, shirts, and boots, none of which would provide protection from the razor sharp blades they bore. Darius had chosen a hand-and-a-half sword. Combined with his longer arms, this provided him with much greater reach and the weight of the blade would cause far more damage if it landed. Neither used a shield.

Jerish stared directly into Darius’s eyes refusing even to blink as Lynch called the count. When he finished they clapped flats and stepped back, each bending knees into the crouch both had been taught.

Though it was still a year before they could meet in tournament, Jerish had long studied Darius as he knew one day they would fight again. The bigger boy was not talented, and his skills were limited. He liked intimidation. He hurt those with which he practiced. Many forfeited rather than face him. His weapon of choice was not the sword, but the threat.

Jerish granted Darius first attack.

Didn’t matter, Jerish knew what he would do. He knew it the day before. Darius planned on being quick. Overwhelming with fear, not allowing Jerish to have the time to discover his opponent’s lack of skill. Of course, Jerish already knew. Darius was a one piece puzzle, not a lot there to contemplate.

Having already shifted his grip Jerish waited, reading him. The governor’s son would attack with a false overhead blow that would quickly switch to a spinning crosscut with the intent of slicing Jerish’s sword arm. Perhaps he even hoped to sever it because that was the sort of gentlemen Darius was.

The rain came down harder, and Jerish noted the slick ground with some disappointment. In many ways Jerish wanted this to be harder, but Novron had other plans.

Darius lunged forward raised his blade brought it down, then sidestepped, spun and crosscut his blade at waist level. Jerish rotated inside his reach. Smashed Darius’s hand with the pommel of Rawling’s short sword, then striking him in the face with his elbow. His feet were behind Darius’s knees. The slick grass and the bigger, taller boy’s weight toppled him like a sawed tree. He fell flat on his back, and Jerish heard the wind blow out of him.

I know what that’s like, Jerish thought, and knew Darius wasn’t going anywhere soon. Putting a knee to his chest, Jerish placed the edge of Rawling’s blade to Darius’s neck. “Yield, or die.”

Jerish had to wait until Darius had the breath to concede.

As the rain came down hard, Darius complied and Jerish stood up.

“That ends it,” Lynch declared.

No one congratulated him. The fight, Jerish sensed was treated like the necessary killing of an injured horse. Such things were not a source of pride but sad, necessary affairs.

Jerish returned his borrowed swords to their scabbards and removing the belt offered the weapons to Rawlings. “Thank you.”

Rawlings shook his head. “I have no use for them anymore. They’re yours now, Jerish. Use them well.”