Lunch was over too soon, and Captain Merrin gathered the recruits in an airy atrium near the dining hall. Her fierce one-eyed glare silenced a few elven recruits who’d been giggling in the back. “Before this final trial, I need to go over a few things for your safety. Our Instructor of Arms was stuck in the mist for too long, and he’s never fully recovered. Avoid making large noises. While you are not in a dueling circle, avoid any sudden movements. Avoid meeting the instructor’s gaze: he’ll see that as a threat. Do not cast any spells. We haven’t had any fatalities down there, and we’re not going to start today. Am I understood?”

The recruits answered in a ragged chorus of “yes,” “yes, captain”, “sure,” and “got it.”

Captain Merrin’s scowl deepened, “Good, then it shouldn’t be hard for one of you to repeat the rules… How about, Yeva.”

Yeva stepped forward slightly, the trinkets in her braids clinking softly, “the instructor’s mind rotted. We treat him like a ground-mad chymera-cat. No sudden noises, jerking about, spells, and such.”

Captain Merrin nodded, “good enough, if inelegantly put. What did she miss?” She paused for a second, her glare sweeping the crowd, “Dun?”

Dun immediately answered, “Don’t meet the instructor’s gaze. Captain Merrin, if I may ask, why does the guard not replace him with a more stable instructor?”

Captain Merrin simply grunted, “He’s the best. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

With that, Captain Merrin led them to a small doorway at the back of the atrium. Two guards lounged nearby, playing a game of Bridges, but Reg noticed that both had a spear resting nearby, and neither was paying attention to the board.

The doorway opened on to a stairway that went spiraled trunkwards and down. Small crystal lights were affixed to the walls at regular intervals, but the light they provided was dim. The stairway went deep into the trunk, and as they went down, Reg felt the Tree above him almost like a physical weight. He’d never been in a place like this where he couldn’t see the sky through a nearby window or a gap in the shrubbery. It was unsettling.

After a few minutes of walking, the stairway opened up into a cavernous, rough-hewn room. The crystals providing light were dim in here as well. To one side, strange implements and heavy-looking sacks were carefully organized near a thin spider-silk line that stretched between two poles. Next to that were racks of weapons: spears with huge curving blades, axes with heads that had the telltale glimmer of metal, even a few things that must be swords - they looked like a demented inventor had taken a dagger and stretched it out as if for a giant.

The center was open, and the side opposite the strange implements and sacks had the regular shape of dueling circles carved into the ground. Behind the circles, the person who must be the instructor of arms waited. Reg realized Captain Merrin had never mentioned his name. The instructor stood slightly hunched over and wore a thin silk robe that hid the shape of his body. He wore an Achivian Guard mask, but unlike the masks that Reg had seen other guards wear, this one covered the full face including the mouth. In the dim light, it was hard to make out details on the mask, but from the brief glance Reg caught before catching himself staring and wrenching his eyes away, it looked like it was carved in the shape of a weeping woman.

When they got closer, the hunched shape of the instructor straightened up slightly. He gestured towards a pile of training spears - with tips replaced by soft cloth - and light training armor for the head and neck, and said “Prepare.” The instructor’s voice was deep and rasping. It didn’t sound like the voice of any person that Reg had ever heard before, and he felt goosebumps on the back of his neck as he moved to grab a spear, a gorget, and a helmet.

The recruits put on their equipment in silence. Reg could tell he wasn’t the only one feeling unnerved, and he noticed that no one turned their back on the instructor while donning their equipment. Surprisingly, there were a few shorter spears and smaller helmets in the pile that looked like they were sized for the gnomes in the group. Reg almost let out a nervous laugh, was the mist-touched monster that they kept under guard in a dark cavern going to be a more reasonable instructor than Brilleye with her insistence on everyone using the same-sized longbows?

The instructor of arms gestured again with his spear, saying “Spread out.” The words came out one at a time, with a large gap between them, and Reg couldn’t help but notice that the spear in the instructor’s hands had a real spearhead on it. Reg lined up between Val and Jashal. Val’s hands were trembling on the spear, and Reg did his best to give her an encouraging smile.

The next command was “defend.” The deep, rasping voice didn’t sound any more natural the more Reg heard it. The “f” sound in “defend” was closer to an “h,” as if the speaker’s lower lip didn’t allow them to make quite the right sound.

The instructor walked to the far right end of the recruits, only a few people down from Reg, and assayed a few attacks. The instructor’s attacks started off slow, and gradually sped up over the course of a few passes. Seeing enough, the instructor then walked down to the next person in line and repeated the exercise. Seeing the live blade glimmering in the dim light made Reg relieved when the instructor was through with each recruit, but it did mean that his turn was coming soon.

Val’s turn was quick. She dropped her spear on the first pass. The instructor paused expectantly as she gathered it up and then slowed down his probing attacks even more. Val swung her spear wildly at the attacks, almost as if she was wielding a club. After three more glacially slow attacks, the instructor was satisfied, and moved in front of Reg.

Reg set his feet and let his eyes focus on the instructor’s chest and hips. They were obscured by the loose robes that the instructor was wearing, but they were still the best sign to how someone was planning to move. The first few attacks were easy to deflect. Memories of long hours after school drilling with the circle dueling team had him moving lightly to keep the flashing spearhead far away from him. The probing attacks started coming faster and faster, and Reg’s form started breaking down as he wrenched the spear to deflect an attack up, and then danced his feet backwards to avoid a snake-quick strike at his calves. And still, the instructor’s speed increased. The tip of his spear felt like it was moving as fast as an arrow, and Reg’s movements felt sluggish in comparison.

And suddenly it was over, and the instructor was moving on to Jashal. Reg doubled over, panting. Those few seconds had felt like they’d taken an eternity. Out of the corner of his eye, Reg watched the instructor move his way down the line. Most exchanges were quick, but a few lasted long enough for the instructor to increase his speed substantially. Dun, Fenjor, a lanky elf woman whose name Reg didn’t know, and the scarred gnome hunter, Trish Lichentongue all had bouts that lasted noticeably longer than everyone else’s.

Despite there being close to forty recruits, the instructor was through with his silent assessment in almost no time at all. He stood in front of the recruits and rasped out his next commands, “Dares. Circles.”

Dares? Reg thought for a second, and then before he could think better of it, said “Pairs, sir?”

A nod from the instructor answered Reg’s question. The instructor then started pointing to recruits, two at a time, and gesturing towards the dueling circles behind him. Reg found himself standing in a circle facing Dun, the elf’s purple eyes brilliant in the gloom. Dun looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and said “Ah, the boy who thought he could run. I don’t know whether to be intrigued or insulted.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Reg glared at him, “the main thing you’ll be is sore.” Despite his bluster, Reg was worried: Dun was twirling his long spear between his hands with the air of long familiarity.

The instructor of arms rasped out, “begin,” and Reg and Dun bowed and then started to circle each other. Dun was the first to attack, his feet moving forward in a short staccato burst, and spear doing complex feints and thrusts towards Reg’s chest. Reg shifted his feet backwards, spear deflecting the thrusts as they came in. Dun was fast, far faster than anyone that Reg had fought in the circle before, but he weathered the assault. Dun then muttered, “Disappointing That’s one.” and turned his back on Reg. Reg looked down: he’d been driven out of the circle without even realizing it. Rot and canker, he was better than that.

The next round, Reg kept the circle in mind, and moved his feet well, but wasn’t able to jump over a sweeping blow from Dun’s spear after a feint. “Two.”

The round after, Reg blitzed Dun in an all out attack. The elf deflected Reg’s lunging thrusts with ease, small movements of his feet keeping him balanced. The round ended with Reg over-extending on a lunge that Dun was able to step past and grasp the spear behind its head. “Three.”

In the fourth round, Dun choked up on the spear and started wielding it more like a quarterstaff, in the style Mrs. Moonleaf used to call “high guard.” He used short sweeping blows towards Reg’s center of mass. Reg struggled to keep his spear in a defensive position in front of his body: Dun’s short strikes were powerful. The round ended with Reg falling for a feinted attack at his head and Dun smacking him in the ribs. “Four.”

Reg was outmatched, and knew it: Dun’s spear forms were perfect. He took his time walking back to his side of the circle before the next round, trying to come up with a plan to get a single touch on the elf. Maybe Dun would underestimate his speed?

The next round, Reg moved to attack immediately, but attacked with a traditional training pattern. Dun’s eyes narrowed, but he flowed into the defender’s role in the pattern, deflecting blows and stepping aside from lunges, waiting for Reg to deviate or slow down. Reg kept following the pattern, keeping the pace fast, and waiting for his moment. Dun blocked high with both hands wide on the spear as Reg lanced a thrust towards his head, and Reg made his move: he forced himself to move, trying to force himself move as fast as he’d moved when fighting in the mist-storm months ago through sheer force of will, twirling his spear around Dun’s block so that the butt was facing Dun’s chest and driving with his legs to close with the elf. Reg saw Dun’s eyes widen in surprise, as the elf desperately brought his own spear down to deflect the butt of Reg’s. The deflection was almost perfect, but Reg’s spear butt still clipped him in the shoulder and Reg’s rush forced Dun to take two quick dancing steps back, crossing out of the ring. Reg turned his back on Dun, and walked back to the circle saying, “Disappointing. That’s one.”

The next rounds went longer, but Reg found himself thoroughly trounced, with no ability to sneak his spear anywhere close to Dun. Dun now seemed to have some respect for Reg’s speed, and kept himself out of any position where Reg might be able to take advantage of it. Circle duels were normally first to five touches, but Reg and Dun kept going, with touch after touch going to Dun, long past that point. Reg kept trying more and more desperate moves to get a touch, but he found himself slowing down and not getting his spear anywhere near the elf’s body.

It was almost a relief when the instructor of arms cried out “Rest.” and quieted the clack of spears and grunts of combatants. Reg had almost forgotten where he was and why he was dueling. He’d been totally focused on the fight. He bowed low to Dun: the elf was insufferable, but his spear technique was incredible.

Reg leaned on his spear as he hobbled over to take his turn pouring a ladleful of water into his mouth from one of three casks. Now that he wasn’t in the circle, he felt every single bump, bruise, and strained muscle from the rounds of dueling.

The Instructor of Arms didn’t let them rest long before pairing people off again. Reg found himself paired with Dugan, the red-bearded lumberjack. The man gave Reg a ruddy smile before they started their rounds. The first two rounds went to Reg: Dugan was clearly comfortable with the spear, but didn’t seem used to fighting another person: he often fell for feints, and sometimes got his feet crossed when backing up. The third round, Reg was feeling confident, and he tried a twirling overhead strike after sliding Dugan’s spear out of position. Dugan dropped the spear and caught Reg a huge blow to the stomach with his fist and drove the air out of him completely. Reg was completely unprepared for the move: it went against all rules of civilized dueling. Dugan started to apologize when he realized, but was cut off by the Instructor’s voice: “No. Good. More.”

After Reg caught his breath, Dugan apologized again in a low voice, “Sorry ‘bout that. Don’t rightly know them fancy rules. Just picked up a bit out on some of the further boughs, you know? Don’t got that upper-fork polish.”

Reg shook his head, “Don’t worry about it. Sounds like it’s what the instructor wants anyway. Could you show that one to me again?”

Dugan walked Reg through the move again. It was an interesting maneuver, but it wasn’t one that Reg had the power to use well. Dugan’s fist had felt like being run over by a rampaging beetle. Reg lacked the man’s heavy muscles.

When the two resumed dueling, Reg took the majority of the touches, but Dugan held his own well. He was hugely strong, and Reg had his spear knocked completely out of his hands twice while trying to block heavy blows from the man.

The Instructor of Arms called another rest, and the pattern repeated over and over again. Reg was paired with Abatha, a lanky elf woman whose spear was as fast as Reg’s. Then with Trish Lichentongue: the scarred gnome hunter was full of dirty tricks and feints, and was an annoyingly small target to hit. Finally with Annise: her form was solid, but lacked the instincts and reaction times of a good duelist.

Finally, the Instructor of Arms announced, “Good. Done.” After the announcement, the hunched figure of the instructor walked further into the cavernous room, where the light was even dimmer than in the rest of the murky training area. Recruits put away their spears and training garb, and then slowly followed Captain Merrin back up the stairs. Reg wasn’t the only one moving slowly on the long staircase: his whole body ached and he felt like he’d spent the day wrestling a whole herd of goats.

At the top, an elf in healer’s robes was waiting with a long tray of cups of murky, bark-colored liquid. Reg took one and gulped it down, as the healer explained to the slow-moving recruits, “This tastes awful, but it helps recovery. You’ll need it.”

The taste was foul, a cross between curdled goat’s milk with an edge of rotten fungus, but Reg choked it down anyways: he could already feel himself stiffening up more with each step.

With the recruits in the atrium, Captain Merrin turned around to address them again, “That was the last of the trials. The instructors shall be convening tonight to decide on which ones of you we think will be worth the effort of training. We shall let you know tomorrow morning.

For now, you are free to do whatever you’d like. If you are accepted into the guard, this will be your last night of freedom without responsibilities for a long time: I recommend taking advantage of it.

The guard appreciates all of you for attempting our trials and has some small remuneration for your time.”

“Remuneration” seemed to mean a hefty circle of rings. When Captain Merrin handed him his rings, he was shocked to see it was about half of what he’d earned for a whole season of watching the flock. It was a staggering amount of money for the two days of miserable trials he’d just done. The trials might not have been remotely fair, but they at least paid well.

The recruits milled around a bit after Captain Merrin left. A few folks headed off in various directions. Fenjor’s cohort of elves walked off, as they left, Reg caught snippets of derogatory comments and laughter about the spear skills of the lower branchers. A few other folks headed off in various directions.

Reg looked around: he might be leaving tomorrow, but he wanted to get to know some of the people he’d been competing against before he did: “Does anyone know any nice place in Ithilia? I’d love to do something before they kick us lower branchers out.”

None of the remaining elves deigned to answer the question, but a small group quickly formed around Reg and started debating the merits and demerits of various places in the city. Val lobbied hard for a dancing club, and Reg was relieved when Yeva and Annise shot her down. Trish wanted to go to a bar called The Widowmaker: from Dugan’s reaction, it sounded like it was in one of the roughest parts of the city. Trish only relented when Dugan pointed out that she’d have to watch “the kids” the entire time. Reg did his best to pretend he hadn’t heard. Reg asked about heading to the auction houses to look at spider flesh: his suggestion was universally booed.

Finally, with some ardent lobbying from Annise, they chose a place: they’d head to The Clumsy Satyr.

And tomorrow, they’d see if any of them had made the grade.