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Assailment
Written by Lewis B. Walker IV
Zaciah watched the blades of his Eager twirl in beautiful rhythmic patterns, each movement a pronunciation of death to would be foes. The black pearl colored blades glistening in the sun were stark contrasts to the pal white ghostly skin of their masters in training. The rare black metal, kurokane, used to forge the swords came from distant lands known only to the blacksmiths skilled enough to be part of the Tsukurokane, the Empress’ special guild of craftsmen. Watching the warm-up exercises was peaceful. It resembled the ceremonies of celebration during Promotion. Sleek movements as smooth as silk yet lightening quick cascaded across the plush green grass of the training field. The crisp snapping sounds of the Eager’s long tunics were the only noise aside from a breeze pushing through the leaves of the Whipping trees. One of the Eager faltered. Not dramatically, but enough for Zaciah’s notice.
“Stop,” said Zaciah in a soft, clear voice.
All one hundred of his students stopped simultaneously coming to the finishing stance. He walked through the ordered rows taking note of who appeared more tired than the others, an indication of weakness or lack of time spent training outside class, and the condition of each student’s uniform. The long, dark green and brown tunics were layered and flowed freely to allow maximum movements. The tightly fit chest armor, made of various metals and clothe blended with the precious kurokane, hugged their torso. Unlike his uniform the Eager did not have the flowing, feathering, wing shaped cape of leadership and lacked the achievement sash and belt.
Glancing ahead, he noticed Seventeen, the one who had caused the class to pause. Seventeen was leaning slightly forward looking at Zaciah. His bald head shinned in the sun. Three small horizontal black lines the length of his eye marked his forehead just above the right eyebrow. Zaciah breathed lightly wondering if the youth, knowing he was the reason for the stoppage, was going to be foolish enough to challenge for his right to stay.
“Seventeen, I see you recognize you’re the reason for this morning’s disruption. Step out of formation and join me in the teaching circle,” said Zaciah, walking to stand in front of the youth.
“Accent, I corrected my error. There’s no harm. Can we continue with the warm-ups?” requested the youth. He met Zaciah’s eyes with confidence and pride trying to force his will on Zaciah.
Seventeen knew another meeting in the teaching circle so close to his last two would result in his dismissal even if he preformed the movements faultlessly. Depending on the accomplishments of the youth’s family, they could all be exiled from the Empire with him destined to live their lives in the lawless cities of the deserts beyond the borders. Only challenging and defeating another student could save him, but it would be a fight to the death and Zaciah knew Seventeen was his weakest student.
“Join me in the teaching circle now,” replied Zaciah turning his back to the youth and starting his walk to the circle.
“Accent, I claim the right to prove my worth. I am the best in this class. I am better than you if I were allowed to—“
“Enough.” With three fast long steps backward and a spin Zaciah’s drawn sword swung close enough to the youth’s eye that it left a light cut just under it on his cheek bone from the upward swing. The long curved blade was well balanced and always brought a sense of calm to Zaciah. The blade was part of him. He had been allowed to forge it with the blacksmith upon becoming one of the Accessions, a rare honor bestowed to extraordinary soldiers.
The class immediately broke ranks and formed a tight circle of five rows around Zaciah and Seventeen. The circling youths’ breathing became fast in anticipation of the duel. Zaciah glanced briefly at the Eager encircling him and Seventeen, taking in their energies. When he was done there would be a new Seventeen as the ranks closed to fill the gap to kill even the memory of the forsaken. None of the Eager would earn a name beyond their number until they moved on to become either an Accession, a position for the truly talented, or a lower soldier. That wouldn’t happen for years; not until they were eighteen. The oldest boy under Zaciah was only 13, the same age as Zaciah, but Zaciah was a legend. He was better than most seasoned veterans and his strong 6 foot 4 inch frame was that of a man already.
Suddenly all thought ceased. The world slowed to expose all the hidden secrets that passed unnoticed in the blink of an eye. Seventeen had made a move, trying to take advantage of Zaciah looking into his students’ eyes. Zaciah moved slightly to the right, ducking and bringing his sword above his head to parry Seventeen’s attack. Without consideration, Zaciah’s counterattack sliced Seventeen’s head from the top of his scalp down into his right eye and stopped where the light cut had been on his cheek bone. The gash was deep and blood flowed freely. Seventeen fell to his knees dropping his sword in a clatter Zaciah did not hear and then collapsed in a heap with all signs of life gone. One of the youths from the circle ran out to retrieve the precious weapon. Raising it high in the air he yelled out Seventeen and threw his sword to the next youth in line who yelled out eighteen and the precession continued until the last youth passed his old sword to Zaciah after his shout of ninety-nine.
“Accent, we are all accounted for. Please receive this extra sword from a fallen for an Eager in waiting,” said the last youth.
“The Empress smiles on you with gratitude for saving the sword of a slain and preserving the metal for a deserving,” replied Zaciah. “Eager, back to formation and continue the warm-ups.”
Swiftly, the Eager reformed and continued the exercises from the exact moment they had ceased. Zaciah walked slowly to the teaching circle, still zoned and aware of the minutest movements in all those around him. His Eager were precise and strong. His only weak link lay dead bleeding on the beautiful grass, beginning to toll on Zaciah’s soul. The old Seventeen was only ten years. The slain youth had done the right thing though. By the three small black lines above his eye, he was clearly from a family of low rank. Now the youth’s family would not be exiled.
Zaciah relaxed out of the zone, losing the heightened senses that sometimes heightened his emotions; a fact he hid. A fact that could be construed as weakness on the battlefield and jeopardize his promise and standing in the Empire.
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