Everyone was older than Kip, but still young. Kip would guess most were sixteen to eighteen years old. They each had a symbol affixed to their left breast in an old Parian script that Kip could mostly guess at. Numbers, he thought. It looked like they were lined up according to that number, seven lines of seven.
Among all the new things to look at, the thing that stuck out to Kip was the look in his new classmates’ eyes. They barely even noticed him; they were too busy watching Ironfist like he was a god. The class’s teacher hardly looked less impressed than the rest of them. He was a muscle-bound, short man, shaved bald and wearing a sleeveless black uniform that showed off massive biceps.
Ironfist gestured and the class melted, re-forming into a large circle in moments. It wasn’t flawless, as a few jostled to move from one place to another, but it was pretty impressive for what Kip knew had to be a fairly new class.
“Kip.” Ironfist gestured that Kip was to step into the circle.
Oh no.
Kip stepped in.
“This is Kip Guile. He’s joining the class. As you know, that means one of you scrubs will be leaving. The Blackguard is elite. We’ve no room for deadwood. So, Kip, choose. Fights are five minutes or until one combatant cries mercy or is knocked out. As at all testings, inflicting permanent damage on your opponent will result in your expulsion from this class.”
Kip knew he was going to lose. He barely understood the rules. The only fighting he’d done in his life had mostly been confined to flailing against Ramir, back in their village. And losing, always losing. His greatest skill was taking punishment.
“Do you have any questions, or are you ready to choose your place?” Ironfist asked.
“So if you lose, do you swap places with the person who beat you, or do you just move down one spot?”
“It’s not an arithmetic problem, Kip.”
But that was precisely what it was.
Ironfist grimaced. “You move down one,” he said.
Kip put on a misty look and gazed into the distance. “I see pain in my future.” He jauntily pointed his forefingers like pistols at the tall, slim young Parian who bore a number one on his chest. No one laughed. Maybe they’d laugh when Kip got his ass beat.
The young man stepped into the circle looking concerned—for Kip. “Match rules, Commander?” he asked.
“No spectacles,” Ironfist said.
Kip and Number One handed over their spectacles. The young man was a green/blue bichrome.
Ironfist cleared his throat. “I mean that both ways, Cruxer.”
Cruxer? His name was Cruxer?
“Of course, sir,” Cruxer said. “Sir, his bandaged hand? Can I block it?”
“Don’t target it. But if it gets hurt, it gets hurt.”
The taller youth nodded quickly and moved opposite of Kip. Kip saw flashes of incredulity on the other students’ faces as they looked at him. He supposed he didn’t cut much of a figure. No one believed he could win. Hell, he didn’t believe he could win. Lose with dignity, Kip. Lose in a way that will make them respect you for being plucky.
Plucky? I’m a moron.
Cruxer looked up and made the triangle: thumb to right eye, middle finger to left eye, forefinger to forehead. Then he touched the three to his mouth, heart, and hands. The three and the four, perfect seven. A religious young man. Hopefully he’d remember the virtue of mercy.
Cruxer turned and saluted Kip, fists touching over his heart and bowing slightly. Kip returned the salute.
“Begin,” Ironfist said.
The tall youth moved—fast. He was on top of Kip before Kip could react. He shot into Kip and locked a leg behind Kip’s, blocking Kip’s punch and throwing his hips into Kip’s. Kip went down hard, grabbing to try to pull Cruxer with him.
The slender boy let himself fall. His long limbs wrapped around Kip. Kip threw an elbow, but Cruxer was so close, he barely got any force into it.
Then, somehow, the young man had control of Kip’s arm and rolled him over. Cruxer’s legs scissored around Kip’s head. Tightened and—darkness.
Kip had no idea how long he was out. He blinked rapidly. Not long, he thought. Everyone was still standing around.
“That’s one loss,” Ironfist said. “You’ve got ten seconds until your next bout.”
Kip struggled to his feet. A number of classmates were slapping Cruxer on the back, congratulating him on his effortless victory. Kip couldn’t summon any ill feeling for the boy. He’d destroyed Kip without malice and without causing any unnecessary pain.
The second boy was stocky, blue-eyed like Kip, maybe only half Parian, because his skin wasn’t much darker than Kip’s. He bowed to Kip. Kip returned the bow, wondering what fresh pain was coming his way.
Kip and Number Two circled each other warily, but the boy kept looking up and away from Kip. At first, Kip didn’t know why. Then he saw the boy’s eyes. There were little wisps of blue appearing and disappearing in the whites of his eyes. Down, into his body. Gathering in his fists. If the boy hadn’t been lighter-skinned, Kip wouldn’t have been able to see it. It was one of the disadvantages the lighter-skinned had. It was why, nominally, the Blackguard were black.
But because they weren’t wearing spectacles, the boy could only draft tiny sips of blue light at a time. He had to take his eyes off of Kip, look at one of the blue crystals overhead, take what he could, and look back to Kip. Without blue spectacles, it made for a slow process.
And Kip circling slowly was giving the boy all the time he needed.
“Ah hell,” Kip said. He charged.
Kip threw a punch. It was blocked. The second punch hit the boy’s shoulder—but Kip had thrown the punch with his left hand. He felt cuts rip open. It was like he’d dipped his palm in fire.
A fist caught him in the stomach, and another grazed his arm as he hunched forward. Kip staggered back, his motion taking most of the force out of a punch that caught his nose.
It still made his eyes water, though. He blinked and lurched, surprised the boy had let him go rather than press his advantage.
Then Kip realized the reason why the boy would do such a thing.
A blue staff was forming in the boy’s hands, slowly stretching out like molten glass.
Kip darted in and grabbed at the unfinished staff. He caught it, and as his fingertips sank into the crystallizing structure, he felt suddenly as connected to it as if he’d drafted it himself.
He could feel the other boy through the open luxin, his will, so focused a moment before, now scattered and confused by Kip’s invasion. Kip tore the staff away from the boy and sealed it.
The blue luxin staff was bent from where the boys had grappled for it, but it was still as tall as either of them and as big around as Kip could comfortably hold in his hand. Ignoring the pain as he grabbed it with his bandaged left hand, Kip swung the bottom of the staff for the boy’s knees.
It connected with a crack, and the still-stunned boy dropped. He hadn’t even tried to move. Just stood there like a dumb ox. He crumpled, and Kip stepped over him, putting one end of the staff on the boy’s throat.
“Match!” Ironfist called out.
Kip stepped away. Drafting blue made it much easier to obey orders than drafting green did.
The boy on the ground moaned, dazed, only slowly coming back to himself.
“Commander, sir,” Cruxer asked, “what was that?”