Chapter 02: Martialism

The Training Grounds were hallowed, from the dirt below the rangers’ feet to the cloud of sweat and grime that arose from the clashing of a hundred dueling stickswords. Two centuries’ worth of rangers had passed through this enclosure before, training their bodies, practicing their skills, and fine-honing their instincts to steward the vast wilderness of Hayuwasi.

It was here Rowan was to demonstrate his skill, his value, but he wondered if he had overplayed his hand already, on the first day of coursework. After all, he had meant for Sudalijhe’Yi to be an escape from the dangerous world of politics, a haven from the fracas that had consumed his adolescence. Realmdrifter, he’d be called behind his back, but at least he could find peace.

But first, Rowan needed to prove himself– there remained only one problem standing before him, not more than one-seventy centimeters in height, so far insurmountable. Clad in a sleeveless cotton tunic and shorts, her bare feet digging into the clay dirt underneath, she wielded the largest sticksword Ai’Catrina had had to offer, apparently unbothered by its great weight. Her left foot forward, she held herself with an easy confidence, her inky eyes piercing Rowan’s every insecurity.

The name Alexandera Quorkiller had reached the Mithran Highlands years ago, when a team of sixteen youths captured an entire village overnight without a single loss. Over two subsequent mourning wars, Alex had won her clan an unprecedented nine victories, a clear testament to her leadership, creativity, and determination.

Alex struck like a falcon, advancing so lightly, so quickly that Rowan could barely parry the tip of her sword as he danced back, his heels pressing into the stone pavers that bounded their dueling arena. Then, another attack, this time slower as Alex swung her sword wide. Rowan stopped this assault with both hands on either end of his stick, catching her weapon squarely with the middle of his own.

SCRAK. He jumped back as he loosened his grip, his hands trembling in pain. He launched a defensive flourish, affording himself a few precious seconds as blood rushed back into his fingers.

Alex waited this time, the warrior studying Rowan as intently as he her. She’d already exacted a heavy toll; to survive, he would need to avoid the direct impact of her attacks. She favored her left ever so slightly, but she could stun him with a fierce strike from any angle. And she could change her tempo in a heartbeat.

He would have to set the pace himself. The Mithran parried two probing strikes, his hands bruising further with each blow. He grimaced and feigned the smallest step forward. His opponent would expect a show of power. Instead, he dropped to the floor and spun out to his right, using his sword like a vaultstaff to propel himself under Alex’s defensive swing.

Rowan bolted up from a landing roll and readied his sword, feeling its balance in his hand as if for the first time: denser, more rigid than his quarterstaff. Lightning trickled down his spine. Peace would have to wait: It was time to win this audition.

Bide in patience, as stone turns to mud.

He awaited no specific sign, no preplanned contingency. He would have to recognize the opening in an instant.

Parry, dodge, feint, dodge again, and roll.

Finally, between a heavy swing and a repeated bluff he saw the obvious chance-- a glance from Alex to their side, where her friend Felix dueled Ekundayo, of Ibase.

Burst through the levee, as storm churns the flood.

Rowan pushed hard off of his left foot and advanced, stepping forward with each frenzied slash, feint, and stab. He couldn’t think about the blisters bursting along his palm; a single breath was all Alex would need to gather herself.

He watched Alex’s eyes closely, timing each blow to disrupt any train of thought that tried to launch through her head while she avoided his attacks and kept within the ring boundary. Her chance to study had passed.

But she seemed to already know his every move. She had dueled a hundred Mithran swordhands before-- how else could she stand her ground, blocking blow after blow, always one step within the ring?

She smiled under the wild strands of brown hair that escaped her bun. She had no fear.

Every muscle in Rowan’s body ached as he neared his limit. He couldn’t feel his grip on his sword hilt, trusting numbly that he was holding as tightly as he possibly could for each desperate swing.

“Stalemate!”

Without warning, Alex dropped her sword and lept back. Rowan let the momentum of his final swing spin him around in place before following her lead. He breathed a sigh of relief, his hands shaking. It was finally over.

The martialist Xifo’Asetayo descended upon them like a faerie from her throne, compelling rest with a single word. Rowan stared at the elder, the lone Mithran ranger at Sudalijhe’Yi. He searched for familiarity in her eyes but found only scrutiny.

“Rookies. Alexandera, Rowan. A win is good, but healthy training is better.” Years away from the Highlands had eroded the accent from her voice-- hers sounded more like a strange Zydrean dialect.

After an uncertain second, Rowan exchanged a bow with Alex, completing their duel. I hope we honor your spirit, Talisa.

“Good. Next time, call the stalemate. Fifteen seconds, thirty if you must. We are here to build rather than destroy ourselves.”

The pair bowed to the Xifoclast as they thanked her in unison.

Rowan could barely wait for their teacher to step out of earshot to batter Alex with his questions.

“How long have you lived in the Federation?” asked Rowan. “I’ve never seen a Kyeri warrior fight with such aggression!”

“Since I can remember. In Kyerejhee, we understand we must learn from others. I trained with the Biza-dené in the plains, as they trained with Western martialists,” said Alex.

“Of course!” Rowan couldn’t contain himself. “The prairie extends into the Kingdom of Ibase, which means there must be centuries of cultural exchange from the savanna. They say you can see it in the spiced food, that cotton stripweave, and even the accent! To my foreign eyes, the Biza-dene are as much Ibasi as they are Kyeri.”

He caught a twinkle in Alex’s eyes, her face twisted into a wry smile. “Few are so interested in matters outside their own borders.”

“My position demands it. Both peoples are neighbors to the Highlands, after all. In fact, the Great Trail took me through the Ibasi capitol on our trek here. You can’t imagine the wonder!”

There were too many incredible sights to recall in one sitting: libraries that stacked story upon story at city center; sandstone temples reaching for the skies as desert lighthouses; game grounds overrun with vast hordes of migrating wildebeests, antelopes, and opportunists; even the Great Trail itself, connecting Edu and Zydrea across three hundred comfortable leagues. Having ridden the length of the trail only weeks prior, Rowan still couldn’t fathom how humans had managed to cultivate such a paradise in the middle of nowhere.

Alex beamed at him with expectation but Rowan’s words failed him.

“It was… so impressive, the libraries, very tall, and even taller the temples in the desert.”

“Aiya, you speak of the egiells. My assignment with the Biza-dené in the prairie was to aid in communications with one such temple.” Alex pointed at Felix, who withstood a battery of blows from his opponent. “It was there I met her, though I expected her to take to the champion’s guild, not the ranger’s path.”

“Ekundayo, you mean?”

Alex nodded. “I have yet to see Dayo bested in a duel.”

The Ibasi rookie sparred lightly with Felix, Alex’s stalwart companion and shieldbear. She had Felix on the backfoot, a viper against an ox, yet the latter shouldered on, enduring the punishment in silence. He stood tall and wide, strong, but lacking finesse, his face twisted in consternation.

“His eyes reveal his every move, the fool,” said Alex, her voice chilling faster than a Highland frost. She raised her voice over the clangor of their guildmates’ training. “Pick up your feet, Jhigili! You dance like a cow.”

Felix did the opposite, dropping his stance to turn towards Alex and Rowan. He didn’t notice the gloved fist that froze mere cemmies from his face, just stopping short of slackening his jaw even looser than it hung now.

Alex swore again under her breath, leaving Rowan to catch only the word “Felix”.

“Sorry, Alex.” Felix gave a shy wave. “Edenday, Rowan! How goes your spar?”

“Aiya, Felix,” yelled Alex. “Dayo awaits!” She pointed at Felix’s partner, who shifted in place as she looked between the two Kyeri friends.

Felix scratched his head. “Stalemate?”

Dayo lowered her hands, and Felix followed suit.

“Very well.” Alex turned to Rowan and bowed. “I must show Dayo the true strength of my people. I thank you.”

She waited.

His hands throbbed. A break, already? . . . would serve me well.

“Of course.” He hadn’t been left with a choice anyway.

Alex marched towards Felix. “Let us try again, anew.”

Dayo furrowed her thick eyebrows, letting her eyes disappear under a black cloud of kohl as she raised a sticksword. She faced Alex in silence for a beat before they bowed in synchrony. This wasn’t their first duel.

Crack crack crack! The two fighters met in a blink, their weapons colliding, relocating, and meeting again in a furious dance of whirling bamboo. They moved too quickly for Rowan to track by sight alone, but every second, he could hear it-- one two three, one two three four, one two three-- and before long, the rhythmic clashing drew the attention of the whole arena.

Rowan clenched an agonizing fist at the sea of turned heads around them. Had he chosen wrong? Surely Xifo’Asetayo watched with the rest. Win or lose, Alex and Dayo would finish this duel in glory, their names already on the tongues of a hundred rangers at first course day’s end.

And what of Rowan Righs, of the Mithran Highlands? Realmdrifter.

“Edenday, Rowan?” asked Felix, who had quietly joined his side.

“Aye,” answered Rowan. “And you, Felix? Jhigili?”

“Too early, and maybe too much, but yes.” Felix threw Rowan a guilty smile.

“Which do you prefer to be called?”

He contemplated Rowan, shrugging. “Whichever suits you is just fine.” He inbreathed as if to add something, but turned away.

It was like an itch that Rowan needed to scratch. “You truly have no preference?”

He ignored the long pause that trudged past between them.

“Call me Felix,” finally came the response.

Sean nodded, relief awash over his gut. “Felix, then. You fought well, friend.”

“Aiya, do you really think so?” said Felix. “Everything Alex said about Dayo-- it’s true. Look at her, so focused for a duel. But what a show they’re staging!”

Felix could not tear his eyes off of the pair. What the younger rookie’s face might have lacked in symmetry or grace, it compensated for with a broad smile that never wavered in its charm.

“You did much the same,” said Rowan.

“No! I could barely hold on. And if everybody was watching, like this. . .”

Felix’s grin turned sheepish as he scratched the scruff along his neck.

“Barely hold on?” repeated Rowan. “Dayo couldn’t budge you!”

“Then you weren’t seeing the full truth,” said Felix.

Rowan let it go. He had fought enough. He nursed one battered hand with the other.

“Aiya, the blisters!” exclaimed Felix, tenderly grabbing Rowan’s wrist before it could pull away. He opened his cloak to reveal a leather purse tightly strapped about his waist, from which he procured a small wooden tub of salve.

“Ashflower,” said Felix, as if that explained it all. He rubbed a dollop of ointment onto each of the welts on Rowan’s fingers and palms, spreading a strange, icy warmth that dulled the pain.

“Thank you, Felix. Ashflower,” repeated Rowan, serendipity sweet on his tongue. He flexed his fingers, feeling the sweat surface on his skin. It was uncomfortable, but vastly preferable to the throbbing that had all but faded already. From ash to ash, life flowed. “I must repay you soon.”

Felix didn’t seem to hear. “Alex never lets up. You have to remind her it’s only a spar, or else concede quickly.”

A cheer from a crowd of spectating rangers interrupted Rowan’s follow-up. Dayo had Alex on the back foot, her expression as stoic as ever.

“Unless you’re Dayo, my word!”

“You’re right, though. She’s clearly not about to give up,” said Rowan.

And with a whirlwind of slashes and a primal yell, Alex regained her footing, driving Dayo back towards the center of their ring.

“You see? Alex is not one to lose. Even stalemates drive her mad.” The floodgates burst open, and Felix indulged Rowan in every vivid detail of Alex’s half-zyuga long legacy, enough to fill a book already.

Rowan couldn’t have recalled more than half of what he’d heard, which was less than half of what Felix had offered. But his new friend seemed content to ramble on to a few nods of encouragement from Rowan, and Rowan was happy to indulge him. It was not unlike hosting a well-drunk diplomat.

As the second hour came to an end, Xifo’Asetayo and Ai’Catrina rounded the arena, collecting swords from the students. Rowan avoided their gaze as they neared. He’d spent half the session in idle conversation.

“Rowan, Felix. You honor me, rookies, with your effort,” said the teacher. “Give everything you can each day-- no more, no less.”

Rowan held in a bewildered retort. He’d wasted so much time on sacred ground.

Nevertheless, the honorifics came almost without thought. “You honor us, Xifoclast. My father sends his blessings.” Rowan bowed deeply, as any Mithran would expect.

The rookie had hardly collected himself before Xifo’Asetayo was gone, and he was met by Alex and Dayo, sweat dripping from their chins. He needed a bath.

“Shall we greet Tals’Ola in Foundation together?” asked Alex, hand extended.

Rowan grabbed her hand without a second thought as his anxiety melted away. Ablutions could wait. One way or another, he had won Alex’s approval, enough for her to seek him out. He skipped along the pair, flooding the duo with praise and questions as they strolled towards the arena’s eastern gate.

It was just the three of them then. Rowan stopped abruptly to look around. “What of Felix?”

He tried to ignore Dayo’s stare as Alex laughed.

“Felix? Foundation would suit him poorly. Leave him to the kitchen or the garden.”

His heart racing, Rowan ignored the passing seconds as he sought out his friend. A hundred meters away, Felix stood a head above the rest in a crowd of rookies around Ai’Catrina.

“I’ll be seeing you, Felix!” Rowan’s yell carried farther than he’d intended.

The surprise in Felix’s face settled into a self-satisfied grin as he traced the sound to Rowan.

“Hey-la, Rowan! Until next time!” His wave was not shy.

Content, Rowan resumed walking with the girls.

“Your noble intentions are wasted, my friend,” said Alex. Dayo looked bemused, her brows still knit tight, but not displeased.

“What do you mean?” asked Rowan.

“You should refocus your efforts. Let me take care of Felix, as I have for half our lives. It was selfish of me to strand you together.”

They exited the Training Grounds’ dirt enclosure and found themselves in a sea of trees, bushes, and grasses that blanketed the vast majority of the guild’s campus. The Great Hall stood tall in the distance above every subcanopy, at the end of a clear pathway through the forest of green, yellow, and purple.

Packbeasts dominated the footpaths, outnumbering the rangers 10 to 1. Most carried individual items, often messages tied to a pigeon foot or a parcel strapped to the back of a carrier dog, but some worked in teams, like the pack of mountain goats that pulled a wheelbarrow of steaming compost southward.

“The garden, you said? It seems Felix would be useful in most of Sudalijhe’Yi, then. I loved his company.”

Dayo’s confusion seemed to soften.

“If you insist. But we can rotate. It serves us each,” said Alex. “Tals’Ola would approve-- leadership demands patience and compassion.”

“Ah, is that what we’ll be learning in class?” asked Rowan.

“I thought Foundation demanded chores,” said Dayo.

So the Ibasi did speak! She carried the peculiar cadence and accent that all her people seemed to share, as if they spoke Kyeri with a cleaner, more precise alphabet. Every syllable was measured, crafted, and bestowed upon Rowan’s ears.

“Really!?” It came out stronger than Rowan had intended. But considering Base Foundation was a required course for any chance at a future on the Council, he’d expected philosophical debate and intense study of history. “Chores?”

“I believe so… Foundation-laying, for which I chose this course.”

“That’s why you ch--” Rowan swallowed his words as he met Alex’s eyes.

“Dayo, as the winner of our duel, I decree we must work together, always,” said Alex.

“I agree!” said Rowan. Alex gave him a knowing glance.

Dayo was much harder to read. She nodded slowly, the faintest smirk on her lips.

“The winner?” She chuckled. “If the path leads as such.”