Anskar sat back on the end of his bench, only to find Naul glaring at him from the bench opposite. The dried cast of one of Tion’s poultices covered the skinny lad’s broken nose.
Orix was in another group, shoulders bunched up about his ears. He seemed lost in contemplation, which was absurd, given that contemplation required a brain. Still, built like he was, Orix wouldn’t need much of a brain to pass the first trial. But come the second trial, he was finished.
The second trial was to take place in the smithing hall, where the novices would be asked to forge a sword using the techniques that made the Order’s weapons the most desired—and the most expensive—throughout Wiraya. Like most Traguh-raj, Orix didn’t know an anvil from a slack-tub, despite years of lessons.
Metal-crafting had always been Anskar’s first love—even more than fighting. Most candidates didn’t commence the disciplines of the Order until the mark of the god had manifested in them—usually around ten or eleven for the girls, and a little later for the boys. But Anskar’s mark had been there since birth, so Tion said. It was likely the reason he’d been brought to the Burg as an infant after his parents had perished in the war.
Someone tugged at Anskar’s sleeve—Blosius. Anskar could feel his hand shaking.
“I was just thinking,” Blosius said, “what are the chances we’ll end up fighting? Wouldn’t that be something?” He let out a nervous laugh.
“Well, seeing as we’re in the same group of eight, I’d say it’s pretty likely.”
Blosius let out another laugh, following it up with a couple of feigned punches. “I’ve had my eye on you for some time, Anskar. Like to keep myself apprised of the competition. You’re a good swordsman. More than good. I had thought of asking you to give me private lessons—you know, work on my parry, and on speed and extension with my thrust. I would have paid you handsomely, of course.”
“I can’t take your coin,” Anskar said. “It’s not allowed.” Novices had been thrown out for less. “And besides, there’s not much I could teach you.”
Blosius was good. The problem was, he didn’t know it. But he wasn’t a fighter, not in the head, where it mattered most.
Anskar gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You’re better than you think, Blosius. Pray to the Warrior. Ask him for the grace to excel in your bouts this morning.”
“Good idea. Thank you. I’ll give it a try.” Blosius interlaced his fingers and bowed his head.
Oddly, encouraging Blosius helped to quell some of Anskar’s own anxiety. Taking his own advice, he closed his eyes and made a mental image of a silver sword etched with Skanuric runes, its cross-guard embellished with gold filigree, its hilt wound with a continuous strip of sea-ray skin. It was an image from an illuminated manuscript Brother Tion had made him study in an attempt to teach him Skanuric. A year on, and Anskar could still only recognize a smattering of words—and the grammar made no sense to him at all. But the vividly inked illustrations had burned themselves into his memory and often formed the focal point for his prayers.
He began to recite the litany of petitions to the Warrior that he’d learned by heart—in common Nan-Rhouric, not the original Skanuric:
“God of Battle, temper me. God of War, sharpen me. God of Slaughter …”
He trailed off as he heard the clunk and thud of bolts being drawn back, and looked up to see the blackwood doors open inward. A ripple of nervous breaths came from the waiting novices.
Gripping the hilt of the wooden practice sword sheathed at his hip, Anskar mouthed a quick final petition for the Warrior’s favor, then joined the line of novices filing inside behind their trainers.
As Anskar crossed the threshold behind Blosius, he was overwhelmed by the clouds of sweet-smelling incense and the chanting of dozens of robed and cowled priests.
The light inside the Dodecagon had a peculiar rosy tint, caused by the high stained-glass ceiling—twelve lead-framed panels that converged in a point at the apex. To Anskar’s shock, each panel depicted red-skinned Niyandrians with nothing on save for skull masks.
He wasn’t the only one to notice. The orderly procession into the Dodecagon halted as the trainees gawped at the ceiling, some passing their forearms in front of their faces—the Mother’s ward against immorality. The Niyandrians, though, just seemed curious.
Vihtor Ulnar’s voice rang out, calling the novices’ attention back to the moment. “Ignore the Niyandrian decor. Recall why you’re here.”
The Seneschal was seated upon a carved blackwood throne atop a half-dais in front of one of the chamber’s twelve walls. Each of the other walls had its own dais and throne, upon which was seated a senior knight in the silver mail and white surcoat of the Order. These twelve were to judge the groups of combatants.
Beneath each throne was a long bench, where the groups of novices were directed to sit. Anskar’s chest grew tight with excitement as his group took its place at the foot of Vihtor’s throne.
The blue-and-white tiled floor formed a mosaic of a grinning death’s-head, another testimony to the Niyandrian culture that had built Branil’s Burg. The floor space had been divided by ropes into four fighting squares, which gave enough room for movement, but not so much that you could avoid your opponent for the entire five-minute bout.
Beside Anskar, Blosius continued to mutter prayers, but stopped abruptly when Beof Harril, the senior representative of the Warrior on Niyas, separated out from the chanting priests and raised his mace. The Dodecagon pitched into silence.
Beof called the names of pairs of combatants from four of the groups. Among them were Naul and Orix. Anskar’s hands clenched into fists as he suppressed disappointment. He’d wanted to be among the first to fight.
Blosius sucked in a deep breath, then let it out with a rush. “Shame. I thought we were on. Still, can’t hurt to watch, pick up a few pointers, eh?”
There were obvious nerves on display among the first eight combatants as they stepped into their squares, while four knights came down from their thrones to act as adjudicators.
Orix faced off against an older lad who had a reach and height advantage. At first Orix could find no way through his opponent’s defensive thrusts, and finally decided to take a blow from the other’s practice sword in order to deliver one of his own. Wincing at a jab to his ribs, Orix smashed his blade into his opponent’s face then barreled him to the floor, pounding the hilt of his wooden sword into the bigger lad’s face until the knight-adjudicator pulled him off.
Anything it took to win, Anskar knew. In sparring, they had never been permitted to go all-out, but he’d often imagined real bouts like this, and his scuffle with Sareya, Orix, and Naul last night had convinced him he was ready.
Anskar had been so caught up in Orix’s brutal victory that he’d not been following the action in the other three squares. Now he saw that Naul and his opponent were evenly matched. The young woman wasn’t as tall as Naul, but she was broader and possessed of a ferocity that initially threatened to overwhelm him. But Naul was as crafty as they came.
She lunged and thrust—easily turned aside by Naul, who retreated a step. Her next attack came swift and hard after a feint. Naul parried and dropped into a crouch. Her sword slashed at his legs, forcing him back, then Naul launched a flurry of blistering blows. His opponent deftly dodged and parried them all, but staggered and almost tripped.