I drove my opponent’s spear into the dirt with my shield. He’d taken my glance at Ellen as distraction and over committed to a thrust at my chest. Wearing hides that failed to protect their original owners as armor was the providence of fools. Something I took advantage of and whipped my hammer at his shoulder blade. His ridiculous leather armor did nothing to dampen the impact.

  The strike to the shoulder threw the already off-balance man to the ground, and careful not to cause serious harm, I slammed my hammer down into where his armor was thickest. Again, because we wore dried cow skin, the armor was no help, and it only took three hits to the sternum for him to wheeze out his surrender.

  I looked up from the still wheezing fool to see Ellen eliminate her man. Our [Mages] kept everyone else with a constant stream of basic ‘bolt’ spells. The last melee combatant swirled about in front of her [Mages], sword and shield in constant motion as she flitted from place to place. As good as she was, spells slipped through to splash against her chain-mail vest in light blue waves of mana. The impact of a basic bolt spell was like getting kicked. It hurt, but most people could withstand the punishment they brought.

  Ellen and I had the same idea, and both of us charged. She got there first and forced the smaller woman to turn and face her. The sound of wood crunching filled the arena as Ellen’s maul punished the woman’s shield, forcing her to take her eyes off me. Had she not, Ellen would have driven her into the sand like a tent spike.

  A thrust from Ellen sent the woman to a knee, shield pushed out of the way and to the side. Before Ellen could finish her downed opponent, a pressurized ball of water the size of my fist exploded against the woman’s exposed ribs. The gambeson she wore blunted the blow, but bloody spittle sprayed from her lips as she dropped her sword to catch herself. No threat now. I rammed the rim of my shield into her back as I passed and changed targets to the archer. Who was busy doing all he could to avoid the small chunks of rock Cecil launched at him.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ellen sweep the legs out from under her opponent and lift her maul into the air as I she was going to crush the woman’s skull.

  The tip of the archer’s bow whistled past my visor as I pulled up short, my armored boots driving into the sand. He lashed out at me again and again, still weaving around small projectiles of conjured rock. Each time the metal capped tip of his bow slashed centimeters away from me, the wind rustled my chain mail veil. I tried to step in close, take away the reach advantage, but each time he forced me to dodge out of the way or block a sweep from his bow.

  I tried twice more before I accepted I wouldn’t be able to slip past him and just charged. His bow smashed into the side of my head and rang my helmet like a gong. The sound echoed around me and my vision fuzzed for a second, but it wasn’t enough to stop me from stomping onto the man’s foot before he retreated.

  Wanting to avoid a strike that would cripple the unarmored man, I smashed my armored elbow into his temple, using my size to come down upon him like a mountain. The archer dropped, a puppet with its strings cut. I turned to see the last of this group fall to a set of flame darts, water bolts, and chunks of rock magically thrown in quick succession.

  ~~~***~~~

  We were the last group to finish and by the time the [Healers] finished with the injured; the trainers had already split us up into fresh groups. It was the mana trainer, whose name I still didn’t know, that picked me alongside three casters.

  The individual spars that round were one sided. Only one caster, a man named Rodrik, had the power required to get past my shield or armor. He used wind blades, visible only because of the slight green tint to his mana. The blades were fast and the first time I missed a block with my shield, an instinctual part of my brain reached for the Touch of the Black Hand to numb my senses to the pain.

  That was senseless, however, Iona did not watch spars. And she wouldn’t even deign to call something so without risk a spar. The group spar that round wasn’t much harder either. The other group had the same composition as us, with three casters and a single melee combatant.

  Huddled together at the other end of the fighting pit, I asked the [Mages] to focus their attention on the other spellcasters and to leave the fighter to me. The other group’s fighter was a slim woman who wielded a long, curved dagger and a small buckler. Far too fast for me to keep in one place. Circumstance forced her to stand her ground and face me one on one.

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  She couldn’t leave me behind to focus on my [Mages] without me doing the same and going after hers, which would just leave her where we were now but tired and possibly injured.

  The woman moved like a viper. Lightning fast strikes and parries kept me at bay. But The Willow’s Wrath is patient. Twisting to avoid an overhand strike, the woman launched herself at my side, arm extended and dagger pointed to slide in between the scales of my armor. I felt bones crack with a dull thud as I slammed my shield down and pinned her arm to my side.

  Trapped, her small buckler did little to stop my offensive. By the time I reached the [Mages] one of them had already surrendered and was being tended to; and the other two sheltered together under a mana barrier.

  The sound of cracking glass echoed around the fighting pit for a full minute as I hammered away at the shimmering lattice of mana plates. Behind me, my teammates stopped launching spells and instead held back, waiting. When the barrier fell, the two [Mages] fell under a barrage of rock, fire, and water spells.

  Our group was the first to finish and because no one required healing, I spent fifteen minutes being glared at by the mana trainer without her ever looking in direction.

  I flattened two out of my next three individual spars when we swapped groups again. The only person who made me sweat and reach for the comfort of Iona’s grasp was a [Mage] named Mika Hilhome. Rather than launch spells at me, he carried a specifically built bag with thigh high statues he commanded. Outside of controlling the golems, the only other spell he cast was an occasional buff to boost his constructs.

  The statues were white marble, with veins of brown, polished to a glossy sheen. Each a scaled down depiction of a person. Every facial feature carved with extensive, almost masterful care and shaped after the ideal. Perhaps when he’d first carved them, each statue had been a platonic ideal of beauty, but now all his golems were worn. The one on the far left had a hairline crack that ran across its throat and made the statue’s snarling face look rictus. The one on the right had a chip in its bicep that made the arm spindly. Yet what caught the eye most were the runes carved into each.

  They began at the chest and spiraled outwards to branch in five directions. Four of the branches ran down to the very tips of the statues’ limbs while the branch that went to the head stopped right before their mouths. The runes were not what made them eye-catching. It was that each rune series looked custom designed to imitate tattoos that did. The runes were all the same, but he’d configured each in such a way that it would conform to and flow along the golem’s body.

  Entranced by the golems; I did everything I could not to damage them. I knew now that Mika’s goal wasn’t to cripple me, and my safety wasn’t on the line. As such, whenever I batted a construct away or deflected a leaping one out of the air. I did so in a way that minimized the damage done. The result was tiring, and Mika must have agreed because our battle ended when all three of his golems simply ceased moving. Each came to a perfect stop, their stone limbs no longer smooth and free flowing, but now locked rigid into whatever position they’d last been in.

  Fingers shaking with exhaustion, the smaller man reached into his bag and pulled out a mallet and chisel. Part of me respected the decision to face me in melee combat now that he was out of mana, but as soon as I stepped towards him, he surrendered.

  Already impressed with Mika’s constructs, my evaluations of his work only increased in the group spars. Each construct stayed next to one of the melee fighters in our group. Pouncing on distracted opponents or swarming an isolated member in a way not dissimilar to bane beetles.

  None of his constructs had any weapons aside from their fists, which Mika used as clubs. My admiration of his golems didn’t stop us from almost losing the round. However, after a [Warrior] from the other group slipped into our back line and downed our slinger. Still, Mika held her off just long enough with his chisel and mallet for me to dispatch the person across from me and come to his aid.

  The [Rouge’s] attention latched onto me as soon as I got within ten feet. I took the battle slow. I didn’t press and allowed her to throw herself at me while I lashed out just often enough to keep her attention focused on me.

  I did so because I’d seen Mika slip out of her range, and because I soon felt the wind rustle my pant legs as his three golems rushed past my shins to pile onto the woman and hold her still long enough for me to force her to yield.

  ~***~

  I spent the evening in the Guild Hall’s tavern, my fingers tapping out a folk rhythm against the stained wood of the bar top as the trainers went around the room and gave various bits of praise and empty platitudes.

  I watched them make the rounds and noticed how Ruth stayed near me while none of the other trainers got within two tables. Rather than wait for them to come and talk to me, I nursed a couple of ales and went over what had gone well and what hadn’t in my head.

  As I went through the day, I repeatedly found places I could have done better, reacted faster, held firmer, but they were all minor flaws I could correct. The problem I had with my performance today was twofold. The obvious was my mistake with sparring and the less obvious was that nothing I’d done today was exceptional. Sure, I’d performed well and gone undefeated against everyone but Tammy, but I’d trained for this my entire life. Winning spars weren’t things to be proud of. That was the expectation as Ylena’s chosen and a member of the Black Hands.

  When Ruth called an end to the day’s session, I was one of the first to leave the tavern. The first thing I did when I got back to the Widow’s Mark was ask Widow if I could use her backyard again.

  The weight of my hammer squished the weeds that grew along the edge of the planter box as I put it down. I kept only my shield and armor and settled into the first stance of Willow’s Wrath. I’d noticed three moments today where my footing wasn’t as it should have been and devoted the night to correcting those mistakes.

  Hours passed in a blur of footwork drills. I pushed myself as hard as I could over and over to drill out the mistakes. I’d barely even noticed as the sun went down. The haze of my training broke hours later by the sudden influx of light when Widow leaned out into the yard, candle in hand.

  “Hey kid! You planning on letting me get any sleep tonight? I can’t lock up till you get inside.”

  “Sorry ma-. Sorry, I’ll be right in.”

  Above, a crescent moon peeked over the city walls. ‘When had it gotten so late?’ I grabbed my hammer and went inside. Apologizing to Widow as I passed her on the way up, to which she responded with a lazy wave of the hand. Once I got back into my cramped room, I tore off my armor and got ready to rest. It wouldn’t be long until I had to go back to the Guild Hall, but despite my exhaustion, I still felt better after the training session.