by F. C. Reed
A shocked gasp rippled through the silence. The opponent stumbled back another step and gawked at the luminous red line that now lay across his entire midsection. The sky marshal stood staring at the display, her mouth open in disbelief.
General Strann breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
“Atta girl!” Admiral Voss belted, pumping her fist in the air. She poked the acolyte major with her elbow, who just stood looking bored and passive.
“Again!” Sky Marshal Sesanji insisted, taking a step forward and pointing at the ground in a gesture of command.
The opponent regained himself and approached with hunched shoulders. He wore rage and vengeance on his face.
“Thanial. Stop,” called the primus.
The room froze. The opponent stared hard at Amalia, never once letting his gaze falter from her face. His shoulders heaved with the heightened adrenaline that surged through him, spurred on by his humiliation just seconds before. In the moments that followed, Amalia watched the anger melt away from his face and his posture slacken. He blinked, as though awakened from a bout of possession.
“I must protest,” Sky Marshal Sesanji said in clipped tones. She pointed at General Strann. “Obviously the commander general told her something that gave her an advantage. That would constitute cheating.”
“Cheating?” the primus laughed. “And how often is it you withhold tactics from your allies during a battle with the Legion? Sharing information is not cheating, Sky Marshal. It’s necessary. You of all people should know that.”
The sky marshal clenched her jaws, knowing it would be unwise to reply.
“This soldier is ranked a first tier soldier, is he not?” the primus asked, getting to his feet.
“He is,” replied the sky marshal. She swallowed, the bitter taste of bile rising in her throat.
“And how many combat trial defeats does he have?”
“None,” the sky marshal replied in a soft whisper.
“Correction. One.” Admiral Voss held up a finger for emphasis. She nodded at Amalia and smiled. “Well done, red lioness. I am now a believer.”
“This shows not so much her ability than it does her potential,” the primus said. “So we have not fully answered the question posed. But considering what we have seen, I would be remiss in not pursuing this potential. For one having never taken part in a battle, she still possesses enough latent skill to topple our very best of student soldiers. That should not be ignored.” The primus paused for no other reason than to allow his words to sink in. “I will task the commander general with seeing to her training and preparation, as is the custom. The ascension is valid until otherwise proven.”
“After which, I assume there will be another demonstration,” the sky marshal said with some certainty.
“I disagree,” said Acolyte Major Dorran Visig, his voice vibrating low throughout the hall. “If she can topple a first tier without training, then one can easily assume what the outcome—
“She’d be handing out ass kickings left and right,” Admiral Voss interrupted. “Hey goggle-eyes,” she said as she nudged the acolyte major with her elbow. “That’s twice in one day we’ve agreed on something. The stars must be aligning.”
“Indeed,” replied the acolyte major with a roll of his eyes.
The room emptied, with the sky marshal storming out first, once the primus took his leave. She didn’t so much as glance in their direction. The others followed, with the guard filing out last.
“You did well,” General Strann said with an approving smile.
“I guess. But why do I get the feeling they aren’t convinced?”
“Well, most of them were. And if they weren’t, then with enough time invested in training and preparation, they will be.”
General Strann glanced about the room, lost in memory. “I suffered a trial too. But I had training beforehand. I remember it vividly,” she said. “Things have changed since then. When I stood before the council, I had to face off against four of my peers to submission, four against one. Each one carefully chosen by a council member. And that was easy compared to this trial.”
“Easy? Fighting four people at once doesn’t seem easy at all,” Amalia said.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think you realize what you’ve done. You fought, and beat, and humiliated a first tier soldier. First tier. And the beauty of it is that you don’t even know what an unspeakable accomplishment that is. By comparison, it took me three years of intense physical and tactical training before they even granted me permission to challenge a second tier soldier, and I got my pride handed to me. Twice.” She shook her head at the memory. “You beat a first tier within less than five minutes of meeting him and with virtually no training. It’s practically unheard of,” she said. “If that doesn’t prove who you are, then nothing will.”
Chapter Eighteen
Evening settled in along with a cool breeze lifted from the seas to the west. The edge of the city remained busy well into twilight. Fishermen hauled home their unsold catch and harvesters wheeled loads of wheats and corns through the market streets. Mothers shoved and shooed their children toward home like flocks of playful sheep.
This part of the massive city held a much more familiar pulse. Its livelihood struck Amalia as more organic than the precise machined metals of the Reach. Having experienced them both, she didn’t quite know which she preferred. This area, the locals called it Augustine Pass, seemed much a village except that it wound itself around the entire city and hugged the defensive wall. Proximity to outer gates made for quick and easy access to whatever resources lay just outside the wall.
Extending from the innermost borders of Augustine Pass in the Reach’s direction, which by now she guessed to be the center of the city, another organized ring formed the commerce district. Locals referred to it as Sommer’s Alley. Still primitive by the standards of the buildings and technology near the Reach, it held more recent advances than those found in Augustine Pass. Given its many shops and restaurants, the attractions varied in vivid contrasts much like the conflicting odors.
The slums of Heilaw covered a good portion of the southwestern part of the city. Every city had them, and this city was no exception. Heilaw, she learned, was disorganized and opportunistic in its efforts, and more or less cradled the underbelly of the city. One might find brothels, bathhouses, and dens for gambling, along with a considerable amount of crime and dangerous intent.
She stood under the bright, gaudy string lights observing the people at their daily activities. The Alley had turned out to be bigger than she had imagined. Its essence stuck to her skin in the form of pipe tobacco and grilled meat. Given what she saw on her first visit, the floating platform above the city and the mechlab at Meginstrum Bay, she hardly knew what to expect for the rest of the city, but what she experienced in that moment was not it.
A young man gently swatted a pair of what looked like goats down the road in front of Amalia. She could only shake her head at the odd sight.
The building at the end of the road caught her eye once she could orient herself among the bustling street. It matched the description of the training hall Janil gave her. The ambient noises that arose from inside drew her closer but also gave her pause. None of what she heard sounded like a contingent of training soldiers.
The insides of the building bustled with a host of activity. Men and women alike bumbled about, yelled, fought, and pushed one another. Some of them stood huddled together singing words to unfamiliar songs. Because of their inebriated stupors, the resulting sounds resembled a basket of strangled cats.
She turned and checked the entrance again. This was undoubtedly the place. She was looking for a training hall, but judging by the appearance and festivities, it looked to be more of a rambunctious frat house.
Amalia took a seat next to the fire when a plump-faced man approached her. Irritation spiked within her, but she strove to stay polite while she searched the red, bloated faces of the foolishly drunken idiots for the instructor
, or someone who looked like they could help her.
The drunk man made to ignore her at first, trying to feign his disinterest. Then he leaned in next to her. “I could sing you something, or maybe massage your shoulders, if you like. You look—
“Thank you, but no,” Amalia replied without eye contact. A faint stench of sour beer and urine reached her nose. She turned further away.
The man’s round face twitched. From the corner of her eye, she could see she had disappointed him. So be it. She was not about to let a perfect stranger cozy up to her.
“More drinks,” she heard him grumble before he rose and stumbled away.
They were having a wonderful time, from what she saw. In fact, they were enjoying themselves too much. There were an awful lot of things being said and done by the soldiers that few would approve of, but she dismissed their actions on account of their drunkenness.
A figure approached and stood in front of her, casting a long shadow over the spot where she sat. She looked up to meet the reddened, bloodshot eyes of a rather sizeable man glaring down at her. At once, her stomach twisted into a pulsating knot, sensing trouble.
“You are not of the sixth division. What are you doing at this private gathering?” the tall soldier boomed. The livelihood died down at the sound of his voice. All heads turned their direction.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Amalia replied. “I’m looking for the armsmaster. I was told he—
The soldier’s eyes glinted to life. “I am Eldavar! Second tier champion!”
Amalia sighed and stood from the seat. She grew tired of having a challenge shoved in her face at every turn. She wanted to just leave, but thought better of the idea. She would see the armsmaster, and this Eldavar fellow would not stop her. Getting to her feet was so that she wouldn’t be caught unawares if he decided to come out of a bag on her.
She drew away as Eldavar leaned towards her, one eyebrow cocked above his bulging, bloodshot eyes. “You don’t acknowledge me?” he said. “It looks as if you challenge my position and authority.” Eldavar tapped a thumb on the hilt of the sword still strapped to his hip.
Amalia recoiled at the sour-sweet odors of liquor and vomit that seeped from beyond Eldavar’s parted lips. She was about to speak before another man blocked her view. He smoothly slid between them, facing Eldavar and addressing him in a stern tone.
“I would accept your challenge on this young woman’s behalf, except that you’re a drunken mess,” the newcomer said. Amalia tensed at the familiarity of it; the familiarity of him. She knew that voice. That hair. That smell. That...tingling pull.
Eldavar leaned close to the man’s ear, which prompted a slight withdrawal from the new soldier because of the wretch-inducing stench on his breath. “What is your name and division, brave one, that I may speak it softly into your ear once my blade has bitten deep into your chest.”
“I don’t have a division.” The stranger reached behind him and urged Amalia away with a gentle push. She stepped farther back. “And my name is not important.”
Eldavar kicked his head back and laughed. “A rogue fencer? Well, nameless one, I will be the one to end your suffering. I will be the one to relieve you of your sword since no man without a division is fit to carry one. It is my duty as this division’s champion and my duty as a soldier.”
“I’m not going to fight you, Eldavar. Not like this. But you will stand away from this woman.”
One of Eldavar’s companions ran up to him and tugged on his elbow, but he shrugged the man away, never taking his eyes off the other. The eerie silence broke as one woman in the crowd knelt in Amalia’s direction and bowed her head, placing a fist across her chest.
Eldavar broke into a fury. “Get up!” He put a foot on the woman’s shoulder and pushed her aside. “He’s a rogue fencer, and she is,” he paused for a moment. “She’s a gods-be-damned infiltrator, for all we know. You will not salute a rogue fencer and my brothers and sisters at arms at the same time. Get up!” he yelled, his hard eyes boring into her.
Hushed whispers filtered through the hall. The whispers carried words and phrases like, ‘lioness of the red,’ ‘commander general’s replacement,’ ‘single-handedly beat a first tier,’ and ‘the primus regent in the flesh.’
“Your men should not be treated in any way you please. A good squad or division commander knows that,” the stranger said. “If you wish to bully—
Eldavar yelled as he unsheathed his sword and lunged at the man.
The crowd broke open, giving the dueling pair plenty of room to duel, and to move themselves well out of harm’s way.
The man dodged Eldavar’s first attack and grabbed his arm. He then kicked at one of Eldavar’s feet, knocking him off balance, and gave him a stiff, sharp headbutt to the chin. Eldavar tottered and fell as the man folded Eldavar’s arm in an awkward angle under his own, keeping as much pressure on it as possible.
A sickening crunch-pop echoed through the room, followed by the clattering of Eldavar’s sword on the lacquered wooden floor. The room bursted into a wave of gasps and hushed whispers.
Eldavar clutched his dislocated shoulder, his face pressed against the dirty, lacquered flooring. He sat back on his heels and panted into the air, trying his best to hide the pain he was in. Struggling to stand, he wavered, casting off the unwelcome desire to faint and vomit. A bloody tooth shot from his lips as he spat it to the ground.
The spectators engaged in another volley of buzzing whispers and undertone chatter, their eyes wide. Tensions flared within the room by other soldiers seeing their champion outdone by a stranger and having done so without drawing his sword. The duel was just that, however. It was a match between two individuals, and to interfere meant to disgrace one’s self and one’s division.
“Finish it,” Eldavar mumbled through a set of clenched, bloody teeth. “Take your sword and finish it. I will not be beaten by a rogue fencer and live with the shame. You have gained nothing from this but my scorn and promise of retribution if I am left alive.”
“I’m not a rogue fencer,” the man hissed. “I am tier one, Eldavar, and therefore your superior.”
“Liar!” Eldavar growled, thrusting himself forward, then wavering back as jolts of electric pain shot from his shoulder and ran down the length of him.
As the words left the humiliated man’s mouth, all the soldiers in the parlor dropped to one knee, their heads bowed low, and a single arm crossed over their chests. Amalia raised her eyebrows, scanning the room. She thought it strange at first, but then she realized why.
An older man dressed in a handsome black, high-collared tunic sprinkled with tiny gold swans and a golden border decorated with intricate runes, descended the stairs on the back wall. He leaned on a black, crooked cane as he shuffled through the gathering hall in halting steps. He inspected the soldiers as if they were cattle and made mental observations by the way his face frowned and twitched as he passed among them.
Amalia watched in fascination, not daring to interfere. She could not make out who he was, and yet she could not rid herself of the feeling he was familiar to her. She anticipated seeing his face and hoped that he would step across the light sooner rather than later.
The old man came upon Eldavar who was also kneeling, but nursing his shoulder with his other hand, and struck him hard on the back of his neck with the curved end of the cane. The thwack pierced the silence like a tiny exploding firecracker.
Eldavar flinched a little, but kept his head low, a ropey strand of reddened saliva dribbling from his parted lips.
The not-rogue fencer bowed low, but not from his knees like the others, only from his waist. “Master, I am sorry for my disturbance.”
“Nonsense. I watched the entire ordeal from the balcony up there. You were right in what you did. My students will atone for their lack of manners. It seems they need a little more training in chivalry and citizenship.” The old master turned and started back toward the stairs. “You may go,” he called over his shoulder to the
young soldier. “The rest of you, to your quarters.” He paused. “And you, girl,” he said to Amalia, “you will join me for a cup of tea.”
He walked with a hunch, the old man did. A very familiar hunch, Amalia noticed. Two fingers, the ring and fifth finger, were missing from his left hand. His breath came forth in raspy wheezes. He had the same bald and spotty head, the same neatly arranged tufts of white hair, and the same smoky cherry scented aroma about him.
She couldn’t resist. The familiar features were driving her to madness. “You’re Dr. Gadot, aren’t you?” she asked.
He turned at the door to his quarters and smiled. The stained and yellow false teeth jutted in an unnatural and awkward fashion from his wrinkled lips.
“Here I am known as Marchand, Guardian of the Shadow Vale, but you can call me Dr. Gadot if you like,” he said before taking a seat on the floor next to a short table. He pulled his legs into a lotus position and scrunched his face with a soft grunt when both his knees popped loudly.
Amalia took a step back in awe, wondering how the old man came to be here. Then she chided herself for even being surprised, given all that has happened to her over the last several days. This should not be viewed as anything out of the ordinary. And from what she had so far come to witness, it wasn’t.
“I can feel your inquiries. I can feel your eyes digging into me, secretly wondering how this is possible.”
The old man was right.
“You look different,” Amalia said.
“How so?” he asked.
“Older.”
Marchand grimaced, motioned Amalia to sit. “Is that so? Well, I wasn’t expecting such a flattering comment.”
“I’m not trying to flatter you,” Amalia said, attempting to keep the irritation from her voice. “I’m trying to find my training instructor.”
The room he entered was an average surrounding. Nothing inside revealed that he was a guardian of anything, but given the job he performs, Amalia assumed he would not need any more than what was in the room. One window, a kneeling table with seat cushions, and a few scenic paintings with snippets of poetry on them were the extent of the decor. He waited for her to orient herself, only moving to test the temperature of his tea.
