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  After a few more moments of stalling, Omer decided he would simply have to give it his best go. He swept his leg in, pivoting to feint an overhead swing but instead pushing the wooden sword forward in a stab. It was nothing more than a test of Tahr’s defense. Even the most unskilled novice in Shalim would be able to deflect the blow; and yet, for a brief moment, he felt elation, for Tahr did not react in the slightest. It seemed, impossible though he found it, that he was going to score the first hit of their match. Then, in a noise of flesh and wood, the world exploded and Omer found himself flying towards the stone path that divided the sections. A dull, pressing pain filled his stomach, compounded when he hit the stone with a jolt. For a moment he lie there, inhaling desperately for the breath he had lost in the blow. He looked up. Tahr was standing completely still, his own sword held out like a club at about the same height Omer’s stomach had been.

  Omer groaned, but it quickly turned into a coughing fit as his lungs tried to find their balance. He had not even seen the huge Hunter move. This is certainly not training, he thought grimly.

  “No shame in resigning to a better,” Tahr said with a taunting smile. His braided locks had just settled from the force of the blow but the rest of his onyx frame was still as the mountains that surrounded them.

  Omer rose to a knee, grunting through the pain that pulsated now from his core, and readied his sword once more. “Not bowing until they call you Master,” he said, trying to force a laugh through his constricting chest. Tahr only nodded.

  The second approach was more cautious. Omer circled and watched, stepping around the larger foe, wary for even the slightest movement that would give away his intentions. He was hesitant to make the next strike, but Tahr did not move a single inch, even when Omer had circled him completely and was at his back. Had Omer not just been saddled with a heavy blow, he would have taken it as a grand opportunity to strike, but caution held him. Omer was quick. His muscles were honed from decades of intense training, wrought on the very grounds they stood. Were Tahr an average Man out in the wide world, Omer would have attacked without hesitation, confident he had the better hand; but Tahr was a full-fledged En’shen. Hunters who took the Trial of Wills came out with senses well beyond that of an average Man. Omer knew those senses had their limits, yet he could not help but feel as if Tahr could still see him clearly.

  “Waiting for an invitation?” Tahr taunted once more. “Afraid to strike an old man in the back? You going to give Ghouls the same courtesy?”

  Omer hissed. He raised his wooden sword, halting at its height, watching for any reaction by the other Hunter. None came. In fact, Tahr seemed not even to have breathed since Omer began to approach. Omer lowered his sword once more. “You are baiting me,” he said.

  That finally brought movement from the Hunter as he laughed, his massive chest rising and falling. He turned his head, braids flinging aside to reveal a mischievous glint in his eye. “Ah, but come now, you’ve trained with me before, haven’t you?” he said.

  “You heard that?” Omer said.

  “Hunters hear everything,” Tahr winked.

  “I am beginning to doubt I really have trained with you,” Omer said. “I-,” his breath caught as Tahr’s feet spun. Before Omer could even lift his sword above his shoulder, Tahr’s own caught him upside the head. A light tap, for sure, given how easily the huge man had flung him earlier, but it was enough to send the novice Hunter sprawling.

  “Unwise to talk with your contract,” Tahr said. His smile had faded, as if he no longer considered the matter worthy of jest. “A rogue Magi might give you the courtesy, but a Banshee will gut you. Save the chatter for the inn afterward.”

  Omer snarled and rolled away. His head was throbbing in time with his stomach now and his vision was not quite clear around the edges, but this was a Trial and not supposed to be easy. He inhaled deeply, calming himself as he had been taught by Master Thilel, letting his frustration fall away so he could engage on even footing.

  But Tahr did not allow him the moment he needed. No sooner had Omer taken his second breath than the wooden sword was whirling down at his right shoulder. Omer managed to catch it in a panic, but the force from Tahr still drove the sword down onto his shoulder, a barely blunted blow. Omer cried out, only to be rewarded by a boot to his stomach flinging him away. The novice Hunter landed with a dull thud, the air driven from his lungs once more and his frustration boiling over in its place. Tahr was not even breathing hard. Omer was outclassed.

  “Three times to the ground, Omer. That is a forfeit in most sport,” Tahr said. “Not in the Trial, of course, but might be wise to back down. Don’t want to break you. You can always Test again.”

  The frustration in Omer’s chest began to build into a fury, bubbling on the edge of his fingers and threatening to push him into a rash decision. He refused to answer its call, for the moment. Instead, he threw himself upward, landing on his feet with his sword already swinging down towards Tahr’s sneering grin. That seemed to catch the huge man by surprise. Tahr’s eyes went wide and his smile dropped. Yet, surprise or no, Omer was still a novice and Tahr a Tested Hunter. He caught Omer’s blade easily, stalling it two feet from its mark, and then tossed Omer’s guard away with a shrug, bringing his own blade around to swipe at the younger man’s feet. Omer managed to jump the strike, but before his own feet could land the wooden blade of Tahr was spinning back up and colliding with the left of Omer’s chest. He gasped and once more was spinning through the air.

  Omer lie on the ground for a time. His head throbbed and his vision was narrow, only a small point of light reminding him that it was still the middle of the day and he was still in his Trial. His chest felt as if it was completely caved in, though it seemed healthy when he ran his hands over the place where Tahr’s boot had met him. His ears were ringing, though he was not sure why. He must have hit his head during the fall, or perhaps the one before it.

  Slowly, like a curtain being drawn back to brighten a dusty room, his vision began to open again, though the outline of Shalim’s fortress remained blurry and dim beyond the courtyard. He climbed back to his feet, wavering as he stood, feeling suddenly sick, like he was standing on a boat in open waters. Tahr was still standing in the center of the courtyard. Omer was not sure had even moved a step the entire time.

  “Fifth time a charm?” Tahr said, the smile creeping back into his lips.

  Omer clenched his jaw and shook his head, though he regretted it immediately as his vision began to swim. A cough forced its way out. His chest felt far too empty.

  He began to inch forward again, this time keeping a wide gap between Tahr and himself while he decided his next attack. He was determined to make Tahr move this time. Slowly, he sidled to Tahr’s left, the hand the giant was holding his sword in. A plan was forming, a strategy of quick strikes and taps, remaining nimble and light, always at the edge of Tahr’s reach if he could. It would not be a quick win, and may not even hurt the huge Hunter at all, but Omer was running out of ideas. He was not sure how many more blows he could take and still stand on his feet.

  When he felt the space between them was narrow enough, Omer dove in, blade pointed towards the hand holding the sword. Tahr scarcely flinched, merely flicking his wrist and, in a sweeping motion, knocking Omer’s strike away so hard that Omer felt as if his arms were being wrenched off his body. Omer refused to accept the failure and used the momentum to swing back around, lashing at Tahr’s knees. Yet, the opposing sword was already there, waiting, and caught his blow at a standstill. A reverberating pain leaped through Omer’s arm and caused him to cry out, but he did not stop; he slid off the guard and side-stepped behind the bigger man, pulling his own sword to strike at his shoulder.

  Somehow, in a manner Omer was not quite sure his own eyes believed, Tahr was already there to meet him. The giant Hunter had not even turned, had not even tilted his head; he merely raised his arm and caught Omer’s blow, impossibly anticipating where it would land. Omer growled. This was unna
tural. Tahr seemed to have eyes all about him and Omer was a simple Man; what was he supposed to do?

  He did not get an answer. Omer saw the briefest flash as Tahr turned, a blur of green cloth and black skin, and suddenly Omer was flying through the air once more. This time he landed on the steps that led into the courtyard, at least ten meters from where he had been before. Something had made a cracking noise when he landed, he was certain of that, but in the sudden wash of pain that flooded his body, he could not be sure what it had been. His vision was completely gone now, swallowed up in dark spots and white stars that fluttered behind his eyelids. He coughed and something wet accompanied it, likely blood but he could not see to be sure.

  “Do you relent?” he heard a voice call out. Omer’s fury at being taunted rose up like a flame in his fingers, but faded when he realized it was not Tahr who was speaking: it was Master Zekhain.

  Omer clenched his teeth and pulled himself up to sit. His whole body protested. He still could not see anything but vague gray forms. His arms were threatening to simply stop working and let him fall back. It was getting to be too much for any Man to handle, even one trained as a Hunter. But to stop now would be failure.

  No, Omer shouted in his own mind. Then aloud, “No,” to the diminutive Letherman that he believed was standing in the blurry mass of forms to his right, though that might have been the completely wrong direction. Everything was shadows and mess.

  He stood up, then groaned as pain greeted him. His ankle was on fire, likely from being turned during one of his unplanned flights, though he did not remember it happening. He shook his head, ignoring the sharp wash of nausea, and cleared as best he could the smear of light and dark that had become his sight until he could see the shadowy form of Tahr standing in the center of the yard, the wooden sword resting on his shoulder. He began to limp towards that shadow.

  “Omer, there is no shame in failing,” he heard Tahr say, though it was faint over the bells that were currently occupying his ear.

  “No,” Omer said.

  “This is not a fight, friend. You are going to be hurt beyond fixing at this rate,” Tahr said. His voice seemed to hold genuine concern, though Omer could not make out the features of the face it was coming from.

  “No,” Omer hissed.

  He pulled on all his training, twenty years’ of swordplay and exercise in the halls of Shalim, willing his body to remember the long nights and weary days, to push through just a little longer. He raised his sword, shaky though it was, and readied for another go at the shadow dominating the yard. As he did, his legs, which had already been protesting loudly, simply refused to go any further. He found himself falling to his knees. A frustrated growl escaped his battered chest. He strained in anger, trying to push the fury in his heart down into his limbs and force them on, but they were not listening. Omer wanted to scream, but instead, he took his wooden sword and drove it into the stone beneath, pulling himself up on its handle. When he was at last on his feet, he locked his legs as hard as he could, almost bending them back on themselves, and readied once more. He was not sure if he could walk any further, but he was not about to stop.

  “Enough,” Zekhain called suddenly, much to Omer’s surprised.

  “No!” Omer cried weakly. “I haven’t yielded.” The last words seemed to fall away from him. Even as he spoke his legs gave way and he found himself sprawled on the floor. His wooden sword clattered to the ground beside him.

  “You did not,” Tahr echoed. Suddenly, the huge man’s hand was on Omer’s coat, pulling him up as if Omer were nothing but a jug of water he had found by the side of the road. It took Omer a moment of intent focus to finally piece together the dark skin and bright eyes before him, molding it into the face of his opponent. To Omer’s surprise, that face was grinning widely. “You have passed, Omer,” Tahr said to him. Then he set Omer down on his feet, but kept his grip on Omer’s shoulder to keep the novice from falling.

  Omer frowned. “I… I… what?” his voice seemed to be far away. He was certain he had just heard Tahr congratulate him on passing, but he was also certain that the sky had turned gray and the sun had disappeared. His eyes bleared and when they focused again Master Zekhain was standing below him.

  “Ai, you have passed,” Zekhain said, tapping him lightly on the arm, causing Omer to wince.

  “But... I…,” Omer wobbled dangerously to the right, only to have Tahr pull him back. “I did not win,” Omer said, at last, finally pushing the words out of his haze.

  “Of course not!” Zekhain said. “Tahr is En’shen and one of the finest in Shalim. You were never going to win.”

  “I…,” Omer wobbled, took a deep breath, and steadied himself on Tahr’s huge arm. “I don’t understand.”

  Zekhain nodded. “As it should be. The Blades is not a test of your skill, Omer. We can judge that in a thousand different ways without Tahr here beating you to a shred. The Blades is a test of your will. Any Man can pick up a sword and run out to be a hero, but only a special kind can keep on when faced with unrelenting forces. An En’shen must have the will to press on.”

  “You have a strong will,” Tahr said, shaking him lightly, which caused Omer’s head to ache. “Or you are stupid. Either way, you will make a fine Hunter.”

  “You…,” Omer choked, unsure at that moment if he was even still in the real world or lost in a dream brought about by his injuries. He grabbed Tahr’s arm. It was real enough. “You were not angry about the prank?”

  Tahr threw his head back and laughed. “The weed? Of course not! That was a fine joke. I still wonder how you got it in my sock in a locked room. I was not angry about that, no, only doing my duty as a Hunter. This was a Trial and I was the Blade. I was to make you relent. You did not.”

  Zekhain grabbed a hold of Omer’s jacket then and spun him around. “You have done honor to the order, Omer, but there is one Trial left, and-,” he was cut off by Omer falling, his strength failing completely. Both of the elder Hunters knelt down beside him, Zekhain with a hand to his forehead.

  “Perhaps I was a bit too hard,” Tahr said sheepishly.

  “You did fine, do not worry for him,” Zekhain said. “Omer? Can you hear me?”

  Omer did not answer. Could not answer. He was drowning somewhere beneath a thick haze of mottled colors and aching pain. Dimly, as if they were attached by only a thin thread, Omer was aware of his hands, and he lifted one to grasp Tahr’s massive arm. Tahr reached back gently and coaxed him back down to lie still.

  “We will take him to his chamber and let him rest,” Zekhain said. “The Trial of Wills can wait until he is lucid.”

  Omer felt a distant sensation of floating as Tahr lifted him up. As they walked him towards the looming shadow of Shalim, his last fading thought was a brief wonder of how he could manage a trial more difficult than the Blades. What awaited in the Trial of Wills?

  Before he could dwell long on that question he was lost to the dark.

  Chapter II

  A Test of Will

  Omer woke to the glare of morning sun streaming through an eastern window. He was in his own room, which was in the eastern wing of Shalim, the first hall that ran across the front of the fortress where all the novice Hunters lived. The curtains had been drawn back and the sun was gleaming off the flower bed below the window, each of a kind that Omer had gathered from far travels during his training. On any other day, he would find it comforting, but in the aftermath of the Trial, he could only muster confused wonder. He could not remember arriving back in his room, or anything after just shortly after the Trial started. He was certain that it had been near evening when he took the Trial of Blades, but now a morning sun was greeting him. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought that it had all been a dream. Perhaps today was really the day he was supposed to face his Trials and the night had seen some oddly specific nightmares.

  Then he tried to sit up. The sudden and sharp pain that erupted from nearly every point of his body forced him back with a gasp, b
ut with it came some relief. Dreams do not break a body. He certainly took the Trial.

  He took stock of himself then, lifting his hands gingerly and with as much slowness as his body would allow, though sharp pains still poured out of his shoulder and chest as he did. His head, he found, was wrapped in a cold cloth, likely imbued with some healing magic by a Master. The same cloth seemed to be wrapped about his chest beneath his jerkin, though he was loathe to lift up his coat and be sure, as even in absolute stillness his chest was radiating fire and ache. The haze of his final moments in the Trial had cleared, but replacing it was a dull ache that seemed to run up and down his body in an endless loop. He dropped his hands with a sigh and let himself sink into the fabric of his bed. He wondered if this was what it felt like to fall off a tall building and live.

  A hand pressed on his forehead suddenly, feeling along the cloth like a father tucking his child into bed.

  “Easy, easy,” Tahr said. Omer saw him then. He was sitting beside the bed on a chair swallowed beneath his frame. The fearful giant Omer had met in the courtyard had been replaced with a gentler fellow wearing a caring smile and kind eyes that managed to soften even his circling tattoo. The sun gleamed off his teeth as he broadened his grin. “I laid you out a bit harder than I should. It’d be wise to lie down until the Masters call. You’ll need all the rest you can afford.”

  “My whole body hurts,” Omer whispered back to him. He had tried to speak the words loudly, but his throat simply refused.

  “You look like a bruised peach,” Tahr laughed. Then he coughed and put on a more serious face. “Not that I’m happy you took a beating. I certainly did not enjoy it.” Omer leered over and saw a wink flash on Tahr’s face.