by F. C. Reed
Maybe the personal guard, Amalia thought. She shifted her weight, trying her best to ignore the room full of soldiers, and found she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands.
Another set of footsteps echoed from the entrance. Four figures entered, their steps also in unison. Only one of them she recognized right away. The honey-colored eyes flicked in I her direction as she approached, but the sky marshal’s expression did not change. She looked to be scowling.
The four of them stopped several feet away from her.
“Artemisia,” a familiar voice called from behind her. The primus rounded the edge of the high-backed chair from behind and stood next to it as he took her in.
“It’s Amalia, actually.”
The primus smiled. “So it is. But you’ll forgive me as I have known you as Artemisia for far longer.” He still wore his pleasant smile, and he still felt familiar. He looked on her as he did the last time, with recognition and familiarity, like they were old friends. The primus wore a long white tunic embossed with silver thread work and held together at the waist with a simple red sash.
“Step forward, please.”
Amalia hesitated where she stood, unsure if she wanted to honor the request.
At the right side of the throne, a tall, broad figure appeared. Once the light of the hall fell on the figure’s face, Amalia let out a deep sigh. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath. Ryna Strann, her grandmother, was the fifth of the five.
General Strann still wore gold-trimmed silver armor, the helmet cradled under her arm. A deep red cloak hugged her shoulders, its hem brushing the floor. Her gray-kissed black hair lay loosely coiled around her neck in a long, banded braid.
When Amalia saw her grandmother, it gave her what she needed to move forward. She trusted her grandmother because she knew her as strong, compassionate and fearless. It intimidated her to think she would need to be the same for others. A lot of work lay ahead of her to fill that space. She started by stepping forward and positioning herself halfway between the four people behind her and the primus before her.
“This counsel will now come to session,” announced the primus. “It is so called on the introductory display of the commander general’s chosen ascendant. Her skills and abilities are to be tested in a demonstration.”
Amalia’s blood iced over in her veins.
“Who claims this inquiry?” the primus asked.
“I do,” the sky marshal said. “Sky Marshal Tetra Sesanji.” She took a step forward. “A display of skill, to be sure, but I’d be just as satisfied with the revelation of where the hells she came from all of a sudden.”
Amalia turned to face the sky marshal. They stood several feet apart, enough to where Amalia could make out a self-satisfied and somewhat taunting grin, however slight. Given her first encounter with Tetra Sesanji and now the present one, Amalia realized just how little she liked the yellow-eyed sky marshal.
“Support,” said the primus.
A second member of the group of four took a step forward. He was a shorter man, dressed in a dark blue robe that crawled with unfamiliar runes and symbols. His face hid under a heavy hood. His voice resonated when he spoke, like a vibrating echo. “I support the sky marshal’s call to see the successor perform,” he said. “Acolyte Major Dorran Visig.” He turned his head towards Amalia and reached up, pulling the hood free. He looked her up and down like he was studying her, then nodded.
Amalia recoiled at the sight of him, fighting the urge to back away as she swallowed a shriek of surprise.
“What does she know of this plane, other than what she has encountered the handful of times she has been here? Most of those times I doubt she even has had time to process. I am not questioning her ability so much as her preparedness for this task. The efficiency is lost to inexperience. That inexperience may well bury us all.”
Amalia heard none of what the acolyte major said. She was mesmerized, not to mention a little intimidated by his strange, but melodic voice and by the smooth creamy whiteness of his skin. His colorless face was as hairless as his bald head. She could barely make out the pink of his lips from where she stood. A jagged scar started somewhere at the top of his head and curled around his brow, over his cheekbone and swept across his cheek, ending at the corner of his mouth.
It disturbed Amalia, the scar. As if it were not a part of him. So imperfect a thing was that puckered, misshapen scar on an otherwise perfectly smooth, powder white face. But what made her shrink away most was his eyes. They too were white, however the irises appeared to be three small black dots positioned in the center of each of his eyes. He looked young, and perhaps without the ghostlike appearance, might have even been handsome, but his powder white skin, the ugly scar, and strange eyes seemed to age him.
“Although I can see,” he leaned closer, “that the aether gathers eagerly in her presence, I do not feel confident she can be anything more than this.” He paused as if searching for words. “A skittish little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl,” Amalia shot back at him.
Dorran cocked his head and raised a hairless brow. “I believe the distinction of womanhood is held by those, female in gender, who have reached and/or surpassed a predetermined number of years following their birth. I am not mistaken in my assessment of you. Womanhood is not how one feels.” He waited for another retort.
Amalia said nothing.
“Although size is relative, to describe you as little, I believe is more fact than fiction, when compared to the commander general, who is considerably taller and larger in muscle bulk than any woman has a right to be.” He paused again. “The only two opinions I hold of you are that, the first, you are ill prepared. Not prepared at all,” he corrected. “The second is that it binds you in fear. This you have yet to learn control over. You recoil from a simple scar and the pallor of my skin, and perhaps the appearance of my eyes. I assure you this is nothing,” he said, pointing at the ugly scar, “compared to those creatures who created it. The creatures who you will face if you are to ascend.”
“All right, all right, you pretentious arse-knuckle.” A third of the four stepped forward. “Stop the lip waggling and brow beating. You’re making my head hurt.”
She was a lean woman, with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a navy blue swallowtail jacket over a crisp white shirt with a high collar. Across both shoulders sat gold, brush-like epaulets. From the right epaulet, a gold-braided rope looped under her arm. Two rows of buttons lined her chest, just off the midline, polished and gleaming opposite one another in the room’s light. Her pants flared out at the thighs and were also a stiff, creased white, with a single navy blue stripe down each side. Black leather boots, polished to a glassy shine, rose to just below her knees.
“Fleet Admiral Imarna Voss, to support the challenge. As much as I hate cozying up to this bald-faced, goggle-eyed, chucklehead,” she sighed, “I think he’s got a point. I don’t see it in you, sweetie. Haven’t yet, anyway. Sure would like to though.” She put a hand to the side of her mouth and leaned in towards Amalia. “And for what it’s worth,” she whispered, “the guy heebies my jeebies too.” She crinkled her nose before straightening and glanced up at General Strann, who stood with furrowed brow and her mouth pressed into a tight line.
“Sorry, hun,” she said to General Strann. “You know me. I call it like I see it, but I got to see it first.”
Amalia stifled a cry of frustration. A handful of strangers had so far confessed their lack of faith in her and her abilities. She didn’t quite know what abilities they were talking about, but it still hurt. She wanted to protest, but had no defense. It felt a lot like playing a game she didn’t know the rules to. So she kept quiet, the hurt lining her face. A slight sting of tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. She blinked them back, unsure of why she was so annoyed amid a room full of strangers. And over what? She didn’t even know.
“Taskmaster?” the primus said after a moment’s pause. All heads turned
towards the fourth member.
The man stood straight with his arms folded across his chest. He wore a loose fitting black shirt and black trousers. His inky black, short cropped hair seemed familiar enough.
Amalia squinted at him, given that there was something strange about his presence. A faint shimmer moved across the outline of his body. It gave the appearance that his clothes smoldered and released a barely perceptible aura of black smoke. He moved the cloth half-mask further away from his chin.
“I have seen potential,” he said in little more than a whisper. “But I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Where? When?” the sky marshal bellowed with a strangled, disbelieving laugh. “How?” She raised her arms in an exaggerated shrug.
“She is Itaran,” he continued. “She is a lioness of the red. She holds Aizen Cevrguld’s ancestry in her blood. She is all those things predicted over the last decade, and those predictions have come to pass. Because of that, my fate lies with her. When the time comes, I will stand beside her as my commander general until the last of my tenure. I do not need proof this day, or any other day. Destiny speaks for itself and stands unopposed. We all have seen it.”
“I find your blind faith to be foolish, reckless, and dangerous,” the sky marshal spat. “How can you be so sure of her?” She paused for effect. “And someone please tell me where in the green hells did she come from?”
The taskmaster did not respond, only pulled up on the half-mask, covering his mouth and nose with it. He stood as the lone opposed vote, not joining the other three.
“And I suppose the commander general is also not in support of the sky marshal’s request.” The primus glanced at Commander General Strann, who only nodded once. She looked more confident, thanks in part to the taskmaster’s supportive comments.
“Then we will proceed with a vote of three to two.”
Two soldiers pulled a rack into the room. Attached to the rack were various weapons that resembled swords, shields, bows, war hammers, pikes, and all manners of instruments for destruction. Once she saw the rack bristling with the different weaponry, it was then she understood their lack of confidence in her ability. She swallowed hard. A demonstration seemed easy enough, and she contemplated how she might look like a buffoon, prancing around and twirling her weapon like she had seen so many actors do on movies and television.
Walking up to the weapon rack felt laborious as her anxiety rose at each step, causing her to hesitate several times. She considered her options and settled on a short sword and a small wrist shield. She marveled briefly at how the radius of the shield changed when she squeezed the handgrip.
On closer examination of the sword and shield, she noticed that the metal appeared grainy, as though someone had coated it with grayish-black sand. She tapped the sword against the shield, and it let out an audible clank. Then she touched the blade and gasped when the edge passed into her finger. Pulling away, it relieved her to see there was no blood, no cut, and no pain. It left a small, red mark that quickly faded.
“Smart steel,” General Strann said. “It does not cut, but verifies contact with skin. We use it on all of our training equipment.”
As she turned back toward the center of the hall, a male figure passed her by. He was a soldier, judging by his erect posture and his steady gait. She frowned in slight confusion as he took up a position about fifteen feet across from her. The first thing she noticed was how handsome he was. His attractiveness was altogether distracting and his presence caused her brain to sputter and backfire, making it hard to focus; hard to turn away from him. He wore the same telltale black uniform with red accents, but it was a toned-down version. He wore no helmet and his shoulders were bare, the broad chest contained behind a thin, sleeveless white shirt. In his hand, he gripped a longsword.
Her heart fluttered into a panic, both at what she was to do, and the odd sensation of a buzzing in the back of her head, no doubt her budding crush on his striking good looks. “You want me to fight him? I don’t know how to fight with this stuff.”
“Not fight,” the sky marshal said with a lopsided grin. “Demonstrate.”
The soldier stepped forward, bringing his sword up in front of him in a ready position. She saw, for the first time, his gray-green eyes, cool and focused, partially hidden behind wisps of auburn hair.
Amalia pulled the shield into her body and increased her grip on the sword she was holding, adjusting it in an attempt to imitate her opponent’s stance and grip. Why couldn’t she focus?
A moment passed. Then another. The weight of the sword taxed her muscles, and she realized that her forearm was threatening to cramp. The tip of the sword drooped toward the ground in a shaky arc.
The young soldier dropped his gaze to the sword in her hand, which shook and quivered, then looked back up at Amalia. In one swift motion, he flicked his wrist, striking her sword with his. It spun from her hand and clattered across the floor, the echo amplified by the silence just moments before.
The sky marshal stifled a chuckle and then cleared her throat.
Embarrassed, Amalia walked over and picked the sword back up. She returned to the center of the room where her opponent was waiting.
General Strann clenched her teeth at the display. She cursed herself for not having given Amalia a proper lesson or two, but there had been no time.
Holding the sword out in front of her again, she approached with caution. Her opponent stood with his arms at his side, waiting for her to position herself.
Amalia hazarded a step, then another.
Her opponent did not move. After inching in to close the distance, she lunged at him and swung. He batted the sword out of the way, causing Amalia to stumble. She stifled a shriek of panic, but held on to the sword. Righting herself, she took another swing. Her opponent batted the sword away as effortlessly as the first time, and grabbed her shield in the same motion, shoving it aside with minor effort.
A moment later, the hilt of his training sword thumped against her abdomen. He stood inches away from her, his gray-green eyes still cool and indifferent. She looked at him, and then down to see the hilt of his sword resting against her stomach. Gasping, she retreated, pushing away from him. A thin, glowing red line shone where the special training blade penetrated her stomach, but just for an instant. Then it faded and disappeared.
“I think we have seen enough,” said the sky marshal. “She has failed.”
Amalia glanced at General Strann, helplessness flooding her features. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to apologize for her disappointing display of weakness and uselessness. She wanted that boy pressed against her again.
General Strann descended the platform. “If I may have a word,” she said with a hard set face, not waiting for a reply.
The commander general cradled Amalia’s elbow in her hand and led her aside. “Let’s give one of these other weapons a try. Perhaps something that may feel more familiar to you,” she said in a hushed whisper.
The others watched as General Strann walked with Amalia back to the weapons rack.
“Try this,” she said, taking a long spear-like weapon off its perch. A worn leather cord coiled around the wooden handle, which made up half the length of the weapon. A curved, single edge blade made up the other half and was composed of the same grayish-black sand composition as the other weapons on the rack, designating it for training.
Amalia hefted the glaive in her hands, pushing away the idea it might be too heavy to do anything with. The short sword felt like a ton of bricks after only holding it up for a minute or two. The glaive, however, felt as weightless as holding a pencil.
“Are you sure?” Amalia whispered back. “I don’t even know what this is.”
“I think it will feel comfortable,” she nodded. “Moreso than any of these other weapons. You’ve had training with something similar, so to speak.”
“What?” Amalia said. “I’ve never trained for anything like this in my life.”
“Pus
hing your parents to let you play lacrosse was no accident,” General Strann grinned and winked. “So maneuver like you are playing lacrosse. And every rule there is, break it. Every illegal action, every foul, every unsportsmanlike hit you know of the game, use it. Use them all.”
Amalia frowned, ready to protest, but General Strann cut her short.
“There are no rules in the fight for your life. And this is far from lacrosse.”
Amalia nodded and turned. Her opponent stood where she had left him, a confident grin on his face.
“You can do this.” General Strann’s voice echoed in her ear. “And when his right heel shifts inward, that is when he will attack. You do the same.” She patted Amalia’s shoulder and walked back to her position at the right side of the primus.
They stood again across from one another. Amalia positioned herself and held the glaive with the blade elevated above her waist, just as if she was in a lacrosse match.
A long moment passed, the one waiting for the other to attack. Her opponent made the first move, swinging with a blinding speed at her torso. She saw the subtle movement, just as General Strann had outlined for her. His right foot shifted ever so slightly.
She looped the glaive down and behind his sword, pushing her blade against his. It forced him through his swing farther than he expected. She then crouched and thrust the handle between his parted legs in one motion as he turned his wrist over to swing back at her. The sword whiffed over her head.
Amalia then twisted the long handle of the glaive, tangling his legs. The deft move threw him off his balance and he fell back, his arms flailing and his eyes flashing a moment of surprise. As he tottered back, Amalia dodged another swing, more of a defensive one to keep her from closing in rather than one designed to attack.
He took another step back before regaining himself, but Amalia had already planted her foot with an audible thump, and was making her way through a full turn of a circle. She gripped the glaive like a baseball bat as she twisted and grunted through a swing that saw the blade pass clean through his midsection.
