Chương 22: The Trial Week (3)

They did not spar during the first sword drill. Instead, they cut at the air in ordered lines until their shoulders burned and their wrists felt weak. The instructor cared more about proper form than force. Whenever someone swung too hard or lost his balance, he made the man repeat the movement slowly, again and again, until the instructor was satisfied with the form. Only near evening did they pair off. Teren did badly. He was better than he had been before the pit and Gate Seventeen, but he still lacked training.

His body was strong. He simply did not know how to use that strength properly. He overcommitted. He flinched at feints. He watched the weapon instead of the shoulders. He forgot his feet when he tried to strike. When he remembered his feet, he forgot his guard. His opponent was Drem, a compact man who laughed every time he clipped Teren across the ribs. Then Teren caught him in the shoulder during the next exchange. He didn't hold back. Drem stopped laughing.

"Change opponents," the instructor ordered after a while. Teren faced Pell next. The boy was too nervous. He flinched whenever Teren moved and then struck too late, too hard, with both hands clenched white around the grip. Twice, Teren could have stepped in and stabbed at a vital point. Twice, he hesitated because he remembered being on the other side. The instructor noticed it.

"Marr." Teren froze.

"Ya waiting for him to write ya a letter?"

"No."

"Then strike when he shows an opening. Again." Pell lifted his sword too high on the next exchange. Teren stepped in and tapped him across the ribs. Not hard, but enough to show that a real blade would have gone straight into his side. Pell sucked in a breath and stared at him, betrayed.

"Good," the instructor said.

"Now he knows his ribs exist. Again." After that, Pell stopped lifting his guard so high. Teren learned from that fight too. By the time they were sent back to the barracks, his body hurt everywhere—but he knew far more than he had that morning.

The third day was watch routine. They did not leave the compound, but the candidates were taken to a side gate within the intake district and shown how carts and wagons were checked before being allowed into the compound. The lesson was boring until it was not. A guard showed them false bottoms in crates, daggers hidden under cart rails, a pouch of white powder sewn into the hem of a rolled blanket, and a waxed leather packet strapped beneath the driver's seat.

"People bring things through gates even if they aren't allowed to," the guard showing them how to search the wagons said." Especially if they aren't allowed to." He was older than the other instructors, with gray in his beard and a missing finger on his left hand.

"Food. Tools. Messages. Drugs. Knives. Coins. Poison. Potions. Children. Dead men. Living men pretending to be dead men. You keep looking because the one time you don't, someone important bleeds and someone unimportant hangs for it."

"How do you know when someone is hiding something?" Pell asked. The guard held up the pouch of powder.

"By looking." Pell waited for more, but no other secret trick was explained. The guard smiled.

"Disappointed?"

"No."

"Good. No mage has found a cure for stupidity. So look twice. Look thrice. And again if needed. Ask boring questions. Search what they don't want searched. If the driver gets angry before you find anything, look harder." Teren liked him more than he expected. The older guard was not kind, but his harshness seemed to come from impatience to slow learners. He only wanted them to become competent. That was different from wanting them afraid for his own pleasure.

At midday, a cart from the labor side brought pitchers of water and enough food for everyone. Salen walked behind it with another old slave, both under guard. Teren remembered how helpful the old man had been during his labor loop and watched for a chance to speak to him. Teren did not look at him directly. As the cart passed, he leaned slightly toward it.

"Psst." Salen's eyes shifted toward him, while the guards walked ahead to talk to the other soldiers.

"Do you know what happened to the lizardfolk who came in our wagon?" Teren asked under his breath.

"Did he die?" Salen did not look at him. As the cart passed, the old man slowed just enough to adjust a pitcher of water that did not need adjusting.

"Dagan lives," Salen muttered.

"Labor yard." A guard looked at him.

"Keep moving, old bones." Salen bent his head and obeyed. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Teren kept his face turned away as the cart moved on. Dagan was alive and awake, then. He had been sent to labor instead of the pits, as Teren had expected. That was strange. But he was still inside the compound. Teren wondered what the big man would do next. Work quietly? Try to escape? Or attack another guard and end up back with the healers?

After the beating he had already taken, another outburst might really get him killed. Once the candidates had eaten and had enough water, the training began again.

The fourth day began with spear thrusts against straw dummies and ended with shield-line work in a narrow passage between two storage buildings. The passage was only wide enough for three men standing side by side. The instructors made them rotate through positions until everyone understood how quickly a strong man could become ineffective if he stood in the wrong place.

"Tunnel fighting is not yard fighting," the broken-nosed instructor said.

"You don't need to be the best swordsman alive for this. You need to hold your place and stay out of the way of the man beside you. Try again." Drem ended up on Teren's left, Hask on his right. The first time they advanced together, Hask moved too slowly, Teren moved too fast, and Drem's shield edge clipped Teren's elbow, nearly making him fall. The instructor stopped them with one bark.

"Dead! All three of you." Hask scowled.

"All three?"

"You lagged. He rushed. That one"—the instructor pointed at Drem—"had to choose which idiot to cover and failed both. All dead." Drem grimaced.

"You make it sound simple." The instructor stepped closer.

"It should've been," Drem admitted. They repeated the movement until the three of them could advance ten paces, halt, brace, and step back without tangling. Three candidates were removed from military training and sent to the labor yard at the end of the day despite their protests. Teren waited for Gannik to call his name next, but the order never came. Teren was still poor at most of it, but he had improved. His feet found the stance faster. His shield stopped drifting down when he grew tired.

He began to notice the moment before another man shifted his weight. Not always. Not early enough. But more often than before. The training was certainly helping, but Teren still believed magic was what might save his life the next time the city tried to kill him. That night, Teren lay awake in the candidate barracks after the training, his arms aching, palms blistered, and body too tired to fall asleep. So he decided to try using his magic again.

He waited until the crystal lamps outside dimmed and the other men settled into sleep or quiet muttering. He lay on his lower bunk, turned toward the wall, and held one hand close to his chest beneath the blanket. The pressure under his skin was there. It always was, now that he knew how to notice it. He tried to move it toward his fingertip. Nothing happened. He tried to remember the assay pull. The way the device had tugged at something inside him.

But no matter how hard he concentrated, he could not produce even a tiny purple light. He tried anger next. White fire. Explosive trap. Brakka's post coming down. Gannik stabbing him. The ashback's tusks. Dagan abandoning the shield wall. His heartbeat picked up. Still nothing. After a few minutes of trying in vain, sweat gathered under his collar despite the cool barracks air. His hand trembled from effort or frustration. Maybe both. A man turned over in the bunk above him. Teren stopped at once.

No light had appeared. No flame. No glow. Not even a spark small enough to embarrass him. He had never been taught how to do it, he told himself—not that there was another Corvadryn alive who could teach him. Maybe he just needed more practice. Then, a moment later, he admitted the truth. Damn it! He did not care what the purple fire that had appeared during the assay meant for his bloodline or the dead empire. He needed it as a tool that could keep him alive. And it would not come.

On the fifth day, they trained with watch rotations and alarm signals. The candidates learned which horn meant fire, which bell meant gate trouble, which warning shout ordered the inner yard closed, and which told them to get out of the way because men who knew what they were doing were coming through. The city gate itself remained beyond their authority, but they were taken close enough to see the lower winch chamber and the murder holes above the inner passage.

Teren noticed how many men it took to operate the winches, how many stood ready near the side doors, how the pair of portcullises could trap an enemy group in a killing zone if lowered at the right time. The gate was not just a door. It was a weapon built from stone, iron, training, and timing. He wondered how many other parts of the city he had passed without understanding what they were capable of doing. After the day's training ended, a few more candidates were removed from training and sent to the labor yard.

That evening, rumors about Dagan were going around. He heard it from two guards near the wash trough. Teren was close enough to listen to them while scrubbing dirt from his hands.

"Still no sign?"

"Of the big one? No."

"Gannik must be pissin' blood by now."

"The lizard had the slave mark though."" Everyone has a mark here. So what?"

"Then he should be easy to find, shouldn't he? It's been nearly two days since he broke out." The first guard spat into the dirt.

"Maybe Gannik's tracker doesn't know how to follow a damn mark." The other guard snorted.

"Don't let the yard-master hear you say that." They moved on before Teren could hear more. He kept washing his hands after they were already clean. Dagan had escaped. He had not merely tried. He had not simply run, only to be caught and dragged back. He had actually made it out of the compound safely. Even with the mark. Teren thought of the dark lane where Gannik had found him. The riders. The blood trail. The certainty on Gannik's face.

The trackers had found Teren within hours, but the lizardfolk had been gone for nearly two days. By now, they should have found him too. Unless they could not. The mark could be beaten! Dagan either knew how, or he knew someone who did. Teren did not smile. He did not react. But the information stayed with him all through the evening meal and into the next morning's drills. On the sixth day, Pell, the youngest candidate, failed the trial week.

He froze during a shield-line drill when Hask stumbled into him and the instructor yelled at them both. Instead of bracing, Pell dropped his shield and backed away from the line. No monster had charged him. No real blade had come at his face. Only a wooden practice club and a shouting instructor. Gannik watched the whole thing. After the drill ended, he pointed to Pell.

"Out." Pell looked around as though someone might object, but no one did.

"I can do it again!" Gannik walked up to him.

"You already had more chances than anyone else here."

"It was a mistake!" he protested.

"Yes, you were. Now out." Pell swallowed.

"Please." Gannik raised his hand. For a moment, Teren thought Gannik would hit him. Instead, the yard-master only took the practice shield from Pell's hand and gave it to another candidate.

"Get to the labor yard," Gannik ordered. Pell's face crumpled. Two guards escorted him out. The remaining candidates trained harder after that. Fear made people learn quickly in this place. Teren did not like it, but he could not deny that it worked. By the seventh evening, only five candidates remained. Teren's whole body hurt, but the pain had become familiar enough that he could work through it. His hands were wrapped. His left forearm was bruised.

His right shoulder clicked sometimes when he lifted the spear too quickly. He had learned to sleep despite all of it. Captain Rastor came to the training yard after the drills ended. The candidates were ordered into line. Rastor walked past them slowly. Gannik followed half a step behind with a slate. The broken-nosed instructor stood nearby. Teren kept his eyes forward.