IMPERIAL CAPITAL OF PERCEPLIQUIS, SUMMERSRULE, 2107 IR

Having completed his third year Jerish was eligible to participate in the annual Summersrule Championship Tournament. The day-long contest was always the highlight of the year for the novice boys living on the east wing of the Teshlor Guildhall. Even more than Wintertide, which literally marked the start of the new year, the mid-summer competition divided the calendar for all those who defined themselves by their rank on the Leader Board. Jerish had been at the bottom since his arrival. Even Darius, whose name first appeared only weeks earlier, ranked above him by the mere virtue of his age. This year Jerish would finally get his chance to show himself, and others, where he truly belonged.

Jerish had sat in the front at every lecture and demonstration. Later at meals, in the lavatory, or before falling asleep, he reran what he witnessed in his head chiseling it into memory. Practicing mostly alone, he saw this as a handicap, but later realized that without anyone who could tolerate him, he had fewer distractions. While the other boys went on adventures into the city, coming back with tales of impressing girls, getting drunk, and making fools of themselves, Jerish had the field to himself. He spent his nights using the bags and posts to build strength and stamina and to perfect his swing. After being taught the basics of the Tek’chin, the sacred dance, he balanced on the beam, learned to spin, and walk it blindfolded. When he mastered that, Jerish moved on to the floating barrels and swinging targets pushing himself so that he never left the field dry. In winter, he danced on ice.

After learning the anticipation principles of the Sebeka, he practiced at night because it was harder, forcing him to listen as much as look. In the daylight, he donned his makeshift blindfold, swung the bags and walked the gauntlet. There were times he swore he’d heard the canvas sacks moving the air. Jerish also went to the practice field durning his rest period to study the others, to see how they moved, to learn the language of their bodies. He tried to anticipate the actions of each, guessing what move came next. And when a combatant lost a match he didn’t rest until he knew why, and more importantly, how he could have won.

The morning of that year’s Summersrule was as nice a day as it could be. Bright sun, blue sky with just a few puffball clouds, and a soft pleasant breeze. As always, the courtyard was cleaned up and made festive with blue and gold bunting, and this year some of the older boys got permission to set up a table under the protection of the colonnade that sold wine, beer, and fruit. It too was decorated in blue and gold bunting.

Logan was Jerish’s first match, and being the youngest and lowest ranked, they were first up. Technically Logan, who had enrolled a month before Jerish, was ranked a slot higher, but everyone suspected Jerish would win. Logan was the opposite of athletic, and a rumor circulated that his father was an old friend of Master Ipstich who had died—killed in the line of duty. Jerish wasn’t certain he could believe such a thing, as Rawling’s was in charge of enrollment and seemed as incapable of favoritism as he was of emotion.

Jerish and Logan had squared off several times before in practice, but this would be different. They would wear no pads only small helmets, and they would be alone in the center field ring surrounded by an audience. In addition to the mandatory attendance of the students, the Summersrule games drew alumni, dignitaries, and even a few celebrities. The owner of the famous Red Chariot Team had been pointed out along with the First Minister. Jerish spotted the Bishop Venlin speaking with Darius. All of these grand titles meant nothing to Jerish, but the men adorned with the Imperial Dragon Emblem drew his eyes.

Teshlor Knights.

“That’s Gaylord Sire,” Spencer pointed at one of the knights, a large brute of a man with deep-set eyes and a lantern jaw wreathed in a close trimmed beard. His uniform was augmented with a series of gold stars. “He’s number one.”

“What do you mean?” Easton asked.

“The best of the best. You’re looking at the greatest warrior in the world. He is the modern day Amicus. No one has ever defeated him. The man is a marvel. They say the rules were changed for him and that he hit the top of the Leader Board when he was fifteen and defended it until graduation. Since then he served on a hundred circuits, traveling to the farthest corners of the empire slaying monsters, and putting down rebellions. Now he serves as the personal bodyguard to the emperor. That, dear friends, is what we all aspire to be.”

When the flags went up, and the drums rolled, Jerish and Logan walked to the center circle. For all the pomp and circumstance, few paid any attention. People were still coming in, and even most of their fellow students weren’t watching. Everyone was clustered in groups talking as they waited for the evening bouts when the older students fought. Only two, that Jerish noticed, were paying attention: Sigur, who would fight the winner, and Master Rawlings who sat in the stand’s front row, feet in the grass, peering at him.

Logan didn’t ask for Jerish to go easy on him this time, and to his credit, at the sounding of the whistle, immediately launched into a swinging attack that rang off Jerish’s batte making a loud clunk, that drew the attention of a few heads. After knocking the blow aside, Jerish preformed a spin striking Logan on the side, then capped it off with a tap on Logan’s head for the “kill.”

The bout lasted not much more than Easton and Sigur’s match first match three years before, but Logan had avoided Sigur’s humiliation of tripping. Some took notice of Jerish’s spin move, when Sigur was called up to face him, a couple of spectators held their conversations to watch.

“At least there’s no mud this year,” Sigur told Jerish as they squared off. “Your first defeat won’t be as humiliating as mine was.”

“What makes you think I’m going to lose?”

“I’m two years older and have three more years training. Younger boys don’t beat older ones.”

“Oh,” Jerish said, and looked at Sigur’s feet.

Weight back, resting left foot, right shoulder back. He’s going to lead with a lunge.

Jerish crouched and when the whistle blew, Jerish sidestepped. Sigur plowed forward with a violent thrust, and if there had been mud, he would have suffered the same fate as his first year. Instead, Jerish was required to assist, by clapping an easy stroke to his backside. Sigur went down flat on his stomach, and Jerish tapped him out.

The defeat of Sigur drew more attention as Easton stepped into the circle and eyed Jerish warily. Then he smiled. “Everyone knows Logan doesn’t know the first thing about fighting. And I’ve beaten Sigur every year. He does that same move each time. Guess he figures one of these times it has to work.” Easton grinned enough to show teeth. “Don’t get over confident or you might get hurt.”

“Okay,” Jerish replied.

The short retort didn’t appear to set well with Easton, whose smile diminished as if he only then wondered if he ought to take his own advice.

Easton was indeed far better than Sigur. He took three swipes at Jerish. One missed, two others he was forced to block. Yet, in the end, Jerish found Easton predictive and slow. Far easier than he had expected.

Easton landed and “died” almost exactly where Sigur had.

“That’s three,” more than one voice in the crowd said.

Looking over, Jerish noticed additional people sitting in the stands. Plenty of the upper tiers were vacant, but those who occupied the lower benches had stopped talking and were watching the match.

“How old is that kid?”

“Has to be twelve, right?”

“Small for his age, if he is.”

“What’s his name?”

“That’s Jerish Grelad,” Master Rawlings said. “Turned ten this past Wintertide.”

“Only ten and a half? But I thought Easton was twelve.” This came from Kendell, the leaderboard champ from Jerish’s first year, who now bore the dragon emblem, but none of the metal stars.

“So was Sigur, and they both have three years seniority.”

“Are you serious?” Kendel sat beside Rawlings. “Who’s next?”

“Gareth.”

“Gareth will beat him, won’t he?”

Rawling didn’t answer, except to lean forward once more in anticipation.

“Want a rest, Jerish?” Master Lynch asked. He was the hands-on official for this early portion of the games and stood beside the ring.

He’s seen me alone in the yard at night. Thinks I’ll lose this next one.

“Why?” Jerish replied.

This made Lynch smile and drew laughter from some in the stands.

“Very well,” Lynch nodded. “Gareth!”

From out of the colonnade Gareth appeared, trotting over. He was wiping his face and chewing. He fixed his helmet on and grabbed a batte from the barrel.

“Sorry,” he said, then burped. “I was still eating breakfast. Didn’t expect things to move along so quickly.” He looked at Jerish, then at Sigur and Easton who had taken seats alongside each other on the sideline bench. “You’re doing well.”

Gareth ceremoniously clapped battes, something neither of the others had bothered with, and when the whistle sounded, he didn’t attack. Instead, Gareth hung back, which Jerish found interesting. Shuffling left, then right, Gareth was studying him looking for clues. Jerish was surprised as he had watched and analyzed Gareth for three years anticipating this very moment.

Of course, he never expected to be fighting me. No one thought I could get this far. Younger boys don’t beat older ones.

Like Sigur who sang the same old song, Gareth played his usual melody to the same old rhythm that Jerish had witnessed time and again and was ready for the refrain with a stout thrust to Gareth’s middle that not only won the match but knocked the air out of the older boy such that he needed to be helped off the field.

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Applause.

Jerish looked up shocked.

Those in the stands were clapping. Far from thunderous, the acclamation was weak and sporadic at best, but Jerish had never been applauded before. The sound drew still more people. The dragon emblems looked over, and even Gaylord Sire stepped away from his group near the drink stand to get a look at what caused the commotion.

“Way to go kid!” a stranger shouted.

“He’s still ten, right?” someone else a row above Rawling’s and Kendel asked, then laughed.

“What you think he aged a year during that bout?” Kendel asked.

“I think Gareth might have.”

More laughter.

Hanson walked out onto the field, and the laughter died.

“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” Kendel said.

Hanson was thirteen, a full head taller than Jerish. He had facial hair, which gave him an unkempt shaggy look as the hair was wisp-thin and inconsistent growing here and there much like the grass on the over-used practice field.

“So we meet again on the field of battle,” Hanson greeted him as he adjusted his helmet. “You got in a lucky punch in the Slop Shop those years ago. That’s not going to happen here.” He drew out a batte, weighed it, tossed it, and drew another. This one he swung side to side a few times before throwing it away and picked a third. “This one,” he said with profound conviction as he stared at the battered stick in his hands.

Jerish was still wondering what difference the choice of batte made as Hanson planted his feet and squared off.

“I’m gonna beat you silly, Jerish. I just want you to know it is personal as I think your a pissy little sard. Hope that doesn’t hurt your feelings. I’m just being honest here cause I know how much virtues, like honesty and honor, mean to you. That’s why everyone hates you so much. You’re such a blasted bore, you are. But not today. Today, you’re going to be fun. Ready?”

“I’m sorry,” Jerish replied. “I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”

“Sod off!”

The whistle blew, and battes clapped.

Hanson pulled a feint, which was new, then spun and struck. Months of walking, and falling off a balance beam paid off as Jerish threw himself out of the way, rolled and came back up swinging at Hanson’s feet. The older boy jumped avoiding the strike, but leaving himself off balance. By the time Hanson recovered, so had Jerish. This time when they squared off, Hanson had sweat on his face and a lot less confidence. The smile was also gone.

My turn, Jerish thought.

Hanson he knew was a broad fighter. At thirteen, he’d grown quite tall and lanky with arms that went on forever. Jerish had seen him use this longer reach to his advantage to dominate the smaller boys. Having lost his feint gambit, he’d go for the distance ploy, staying away and swinging repeatedly creating a wall of swipes that would be hard to penetrate. Jerish decided the best defense was the unexpected attack. The problem with unforeseen attacks was that to ensure it wasn’t predictable, the move had to be unsound, even ill-advised. Running into Hanson was clearly unwise, but would eliminate his reach advantage.

Gripping his batte high and low, Jerish charged.

Hanson swung three rapid strikes and one thrust.

Using his batte like a quarter staff, Jerish was able to block each and still bring the “point” of his weapon around driving it forward like a spear. He plowed into Hanson striking him as the two collided, going down together.

The match was called for Jerish and the crowd on the stands rose to their feet cheering.

###

Vicks was next. While the same age as Hanson, and not nearly as tall, he was a member of Spencer’s band, who along with Asurkan, were known to be the best in their age group. The three trained together, compared notes, tips and tricks, and ruled those who swung battes. Truth was, Jerish liked all of them. In contrast to the rest, Spencer’s trio ruled with good humor and decency, and they were also genuinely talented. Each were gifted athletes, who had taken their training seriously. If any of them were going to wear the dragon emblem, it would be them.

“A word, if you will,” Master Rawlings interrupted the contest to pull Jerish aside. Leading him off to where all the daily equipment was stacked, Rawlings stared down at Jerish for a long moment. “You’ve done well up to now, but Vicks is going to be a whole new world. You’ve never fought him.”

“I’ve watched.”

“And he knows that, so don’t rely on past observation to form future expectations. He won’t let you. In fact, he’ll use what he suspects you know about him to his advantage. He will tell you what he plans, shout it to make certain you hear, then kill you while you’re still wondering what went wrong. Vicks has the advantage here. Don’t underestimate him.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It may have missed your attention, Jerish Grelad, but I’m the chief martial arts instructor at this Academy. It’s my job to teach. It’s your task to learn.”

When Jerish entered the ring, Vicks was already there, and a hush feel over the crowd.

“Thank you, Jerish,” Vicks greeted him with a pleasant smile.

“For what?”

“No previous match of mine has ever drawn this much attention. Win or lose, we’ll both be popular tomorrow. May the best man win.”

He raised his batte.

Jerish, nodded and clapped it with his.

The whistle blew and both fell into a crouch.

The first thing Jerish noticed was how Vicks stared him straight in the eye never glancing away, his face was hard, brows intense. His weight shifted, but his feet stayed put.

No clues. He’s blinding me.

Then with a single step, he struck. Four blows came rapidly one following the other without pause. Jerish blocked each, but not without difficulty.

Four blows: Left, right, high, low. He struck each quadrant—no, he tested each quad.

Jerish was the slowest on his left, and he barely managed the low block.

That’s where he’ll hit me.

Vicks retreated to take a breath, the courtyard so silent the sound of flapping flags was audible. All eyes were on them now. Jerish felt as well as heard his heart beat. This could have been a real fight with lethal blades and he wouldn’t have been anymore focused.

Searching Vicks for signs of his intent, Jerish looked to his feet. His forward foot was placed toe-in. His weight rocked on the balls of his feet. Then he pointed the tip of his batte high.

He’s going to come down on my right.

Jerish started to raise his own batte, then paused. Too obvious.

He will tell you what he plans, shout it to make certain you hear, then kill you while you’re still wondering what went wrong.

Jerish looked for the placement of his back foot and saw it flat, an awkward placement for—

He’s going for my weak side.

The revelation landed as Vicks began his attack, which as Jerish had feared was not forward at all. In the space of a heart beat, Vicks rocked back. As his weight reached his rear leg, he spun. Trusting as much to luck as to skill, Jerish raced to block a blow that had yet to form.

Vicks preformed an elegant pivot dropping low, aiming at Jerish’s weak lower left. If he had been fooled into expecting a high right attack, Jerish would have been cursing himself. As it was the block would still be close.

The battes clapped hard. Jerish’s was on top driving the low swing into the dirt. And there it was—the opening. Vicks saw it too and his eyes went wide as he saw the future. With Vicks’ batte tip in the dirt, Jerish reversed direction swing up along Vicks’ stick, following the length of his outstretched arm to the older boy’s exposed neck. Had he used a sword Vicks’s head might have come off. Even though he used but a stick, Jerish hit him hard, and Vicks collapsed to the dirt like a wet rag.

No cheers or applause followed.

Lynch and Ipstich rushed in.

Jerish panted, his heart pounding. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Is he breathing?” Ipstich asked, his voice urgent.

Just seeing the speed at which the masters moved, the seriousness in their tone scared Jerish. He hadn’t wanted to kill Vicks. He hadn’t wanted to hurt any of them, not even Hanson.

“I’m sorry,” Jerish said.

At that moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun to see Master Rawlings looking down at him. The stone face unreadable.

“He’s breathing,” Lynch declared. “Missed the windpipe, but hit the artery. Give him a bit, he’ll wake up.”

The field remained silent. Everyone on the benches were on their feet, all eyes on the prone body of the boy as Lynch and Ipstich hovered whispering to each other. Then one foot twitched, and Vicks’s eyes fluttered open.

When he finally sat up, the crowd cheered.

Jerish along with them.

“You’re done,” Master Rawlings told him.

Jerish nodded, hung his head and started to walk away.

“Jerish.” Rawling stopped him. “You did what you needed to. That’s combat. People get hurt. At some point they get killed. That’s a problem you’ll need to face one day. Better that you find it a challenge to suffer than a source of enjoyment. But also, know this, Asurkan it a year older than Vicks.”

This puzzled Jerish.

“He’s fourteen.”

Still the point didn’t set until he saw the barrel of battes being hauled away and the rack of metal swords being brought out.

“You’re done,” Rawlings said. “Because you defeated all eligible contestants in your field. Well done, my boy. Well done, indeed.”

###

“Cadet Grelad?” Someone called out as Jerish was heading back to the dormitory. “Cadet Grelad?”

He turned to see—of all people—the Bishop Venlin standing just outside the guild gate.

“Sorry, your grace,” Jerish walked over. “No one calls me that.”

“No, no, let me apologize. I don’t know the protocol here. How do they address you? Trainee? Pupil? Appentis?”

He thought of all the names the other boys called him. “Just Jerish, usually. Would you like to come in?”

“Ah, no.” He smiled warmly, studying the entrance gate. “That alright. This is fine.”

“Okay,” he replied finding it impossible that he was chatting with the legendary Prophet of Novron.

“Master Rawlings says you’re number nine on the leaderboard. That’s unusual for a ten year old, isn’t it?” Venlin tucked his robes tight around his legs as he sat.

Jerish nodded. He sat respectfully on a lower tier. “They say younger boys don’t beat older ones.”

Venlin nodded. “Yes, yes. That’s what I thought. It seems you are very talented.”

“I work hard. Don’t really have much else to do. I’m not popular.”

“I wasn’t popular when I was young either. I never had a single friend, growing up. Lots of enemies though.” He winked.

“Really?”

The bishop nodded. “Those destined for greatness…” he looked into Jerish’s eyes. “People can see it, glimpse a hint of the future. It scares them. They know we’re different. We don’t fit the world they snuggle up in. We live our lives our own way. Often, most of what we suffer is the result of people we try to please, and those who just want to hurt us.”

Jerish was nodding before he knew it.

“I have long been meaning to ask you a question. A couple months back, there was that unpleasant incident between you and Darius that I am pleased is no longer written on the wall. He taunted you mercilessly. Rawlings told me you were being expelled for getting in fights. You were obviously holding back. I suspect you thought that by showing restraint, you would secure your place here, but in the end you destroyed Darius. Why?”

Jerish frowned. “He cursed our lord. I had to defend the name of Novron.”

The bishop’s brows rose. “And that’s why you obliterated him?”

Jerish nodded. “It’s wrong isn’t it? My mother told me it was.”

“Oh yes,” he nodded with great sincerity. “Your mother is a very wise woman.”

Again Jerish frowned. “Was.”

Venlin looked hurt. His eyes suffered, his lips folded in pain. Gently, the bishop placed a hand on his shoulder, just as long ago Deacon Kile once had. “I think I understand now.”

“Understand what?”

“Why it is you’re ranked ninth at the tender age of ten.” He leaned in and whispered. “You are a true warrior of Novron, and our lord protects you.”

“That’s what my mother told me.”

“And she was indeed a wise woman. Jerish, Novron has his eyes on you. Your destiny is in his hands. And I can assure you, it will be like no other. Still, you need to be careful. You’re mother was a loyal member of the church, as are you, I assume?”

He nodded. “I believe in Novron.”

“Of course, but there is so much more. I fear a war is coming, young Jerish, a terrible war. One that may tear this empire apart. We already see the beginnings with the rising strength and influence of the Cenzarium.”

“I thought the Cenzars were our friends.”

“They are practitioners of magic, and magic is evil. Novron outlawed it in his lifetime, but over the years, over the centuries, those greedy for power have brought it back. The elves who nearly destroyed us in the Great War were sorcerers, you know. And what do you think they called themselves?”

“Wizards?”

“No—Artists, the same as the cenzars call themselves. The Cenzarium will ruin this empire if they are allowed to. They admire the elves—want to be them. You see how they all dress in those fancy robes and sashes. That’s how the ancient elven mages dressed. And the Cenzarium—the very building itself—was once the temple to Ferrol.” Venlin raised a pointed finger. “They want us to turn our backs on Novron and worship the Fhrey god, but we can’t let them. We need to fight, Jerish. We need to defend Novron. I believe I can trust you to do that can’t I, Jerish?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.”

“You’ll need to start attending the church. You’ll need to learn the ways of truth and light in order to be a proper soldier of Novron. Will you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Good boy. I’m going to keep my eye on you, Jerish. I suspect you are destined for great things.”