The Maelstrom

truly. You couldn’t coax Cynthia out here for anything. Now, if you’re finished stalling …”

Max grinned and jumped up to take hold of the bar.

“What’s your best?” he asked.

“One hundred forty,” she replied coolly. “One hundred and forty perfect ones. No cheating.”

“Renard must love you,” Max grunted, spacing his hands.

He stopped well short of Sarah’s staggering number, doing only enough repetitions to get loose. The onlookers chuffed, some disappointed and others apparently pleased. Several catcalls rose above the clatter of training swords and laughter. Max turned his head and eyed a gang of young men and women warming their hands by a fire as they waited their turn for the sparring pits. That they were a tough-looking set was no surprise; anyone who made their way to Rowan from outside was bound to have seen more than their share of fighting. What surprised Max was the unmistakable hostility stamped on each and every face. Sarah wheeled at them.

“Watch your mouths,” she snapped.

“I’d rather watch yours,” quipped the leader with an insolent lift of his chin. He looked to be nineteen or twenty, a wiry youth with jagged brown hair that poked from beneath a leather cap. One eye was nearly swollen shut from a recent blow and his nose had been broken several times. In his eyes, Max saw the hard, hungry look of a scavenger.

You’ve killed before. And more than once.

“Cretins,” Sarah muttered. She took Max’s arm. “Let’s go to the sparring pits. I need you to help me with my footwork.”

“Don’t we have to wait?” asked Max, eyeing the snaking lines. “We get priority,” she explained. “If we had to wait behind them, we’d never get anything done. A thousand arrive every day, and most are no better than criminals. You’d think they’d be grateful for a bit of food and shelter, but all I hear are complaints about them being second-class citizens. They’re already pestering Ms. Richter. As if she doesn’t have enough to do.”

“Why don’t you just train on campus?” asked Max.

“I usually do,” she replied, “but Renard’s overworked and has asked Rolf and me to help with the First and Second Years. A few of my prized pupils wanted to see the camp and so we brought them here tonight. There they are—by the archery range.”

Max saw Rolf Luger standing behind a score of Rowan Second Years, conspicuous among the refugees. That Monsieur Renard would choose Sarah and Rolf for such a task came as no surprise. Since they arrived at Rowan, the two had been at the top of their class and captained many of the athletic teams. At Rolf’s command, the students notched their arrows and drew their bowstrings taut.

“Loose!” Rolf cried.

Twenty arrows thudded into their straw targets fifty paces away. Most were admirably centered.

“Pretty good, aren’t they?” said Sarah, smiling. “Weapons training has been intensified tenfold since Gravenmuir was destroyed. Anything but a bull’s-eye is considered a miss, even for the First Years. What do you think?”

“I think they’d be better off hunting,” Max observed candidly. “Or shooting on the run. I don’t like this kind of training. You get too used to perfect.”

Sarah appeared crestfallen. “I—I thought you’d be impressed.”

“I am impressed,” Max assured her. “It’s no easy thing to consistently hit a small target. But we’re not training for an archery contest. We’re training for war. These kids are getting accustomed to taking their time and shooting with a steady heart rate at stationary targets. What happens when they’re too scared to breathe and a vye is closing at ten yards a stride? I doubt two in twenty would hit their mark.”

Sarah listened carefully to the feedback. “I want my group to be tops,” she said. “You’ve got real experience, Max. We’ll make whatever changes you suggest. What would you do in my place?”

“Stress training,” Max replied, watching the group loose another perfect volley. “Have them shoot while fatigued. Use blunted arrows at multiple live targets—targets that are attacking. Do they know how to restring a bow in the field or fletch an arrow?”

Sarah shook her head.

“I didn’t think so,” Max continued. “We may not have the course anymore, Sarah, but we need to mimic real combat as best we can. If Prusias attacks, his soldiers are not going to wait at fifty paces until we’re good and ready to shoot them. If Agents and instructors are spread too thin, ask some of the refugees for help.”

“What are they going to teach us?” wondered Sarah. “How to spit, swear, and gripe?”

Max shrugged. “Your students have technique but no experience. The refugees have experience but no technique. Maybe you have things to teach each other. These people have survived some of the worst stuff you could ever imagine.”

Sarah nodded but looked doubtfully at the lines of ragtag youths and adults crowded around the sparring pits. “Come on,” she said. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow and told Cynthia I’d meet her in Bacon by nine. Besides, I owe you a bruise or two for critiquing my perfect little archers.…”

For nearly an hour, Max tested Sarah’s skills in the sparring pit while Rolf and the Second Years gathered around to watch.

Sarah had chosen a naginata, a Japanese polearm whose steel blade had been blunted and wrapped with leather strips coated in phosphoroil. The wooden gladius Max was using was considerably shorter. With Sarah’s catlike quickness and balance, it was challenging to get within ten feet of her. Whenever he darted in to attack, he found Sarah’s blade waiting—poised and ready in her skilled hands.

But Max was skilled, too, and experience had taught him patience.

“Are you giving your best?” Sarah panted, laboring to ward off another attack. Despite her conditioning, she was growing fatigued. At last Max saw an opening. Feinting a lunge to the left, he spun around on his heel and rapped her sharply across the knuckles with the gladius. Hissing with pain, Sarah dropped the weapon. Snatching it out of the air, Max swept her legs out from beneath her. With a thud, Sarah fell onto her back, the gladius poised at her throat.

Breathing heavily, she glowered at him. “So you’ve just been playing with me.”

“Not at all,” said Max, helping her up. “You’re just tired. Your initial attack was excellent—legitimately superb —but you expended almost all of your energy. An experienced opponent will play possum and let you wear yourself out. Focus on your breathing, Sarah. Don’t think of me as an adversary; think of me as a puzzle. Find the patterns and solve the puzzle. If you haven’t spent all your energy, you’ll be able to capitalize when opportunities arise. Your problem isn’t your skill or strength; you have both in spades. Your problem is pacing.…”

“Go on,” said Sarah, catching a towel tossed by one of the Second Years. “You were going to say something else.”

“Well, it’s more than pacing,” Max finally conceded. “You’re afraid to actually hit me.”

Sarah laughed and tossed the towel at him. “Of course I am! Who wants to ruin that face?”

“I’m serious,” Max replied. “You have all the skill in the world, but you strike at your target when you should be striking through it. You’re holding back because you’re afraid you’ll hurt someone. That’s a habit that will get you killed. In the Kingdoms, they play for keeps.”

“That’s what I keep telling her,” Rolf called out, sounding superior.

“Hmm,” said Sarah, pivoting on her heel. “Seems like someone’s forgetting that I’ve beaten him the last five matches. And since when have you been in the Kingdoms?”

Rolf reddened but cracked a reluctant smile as the Second Years began to needle him. But another voice broke in, rough and raw. Max turned to see the tough-looking youth from before. He and his friends had gathered around one end of the pit and were looking down at them.

“I been in the Kingdoms,” he said, a grim smile on his face as he leaned on a battered broadsword. “Ain’t no ‘tap-tap-I-scored-a-point’ nonsense there. You’d be in a vye’s belly, sweets. Now get outta my pit.”

He spat, the gob landing inches from Sarah’s boot.

Max walked across the pit.

“Careful, Ajax,” warned one of the boy’s companions. “He’s in the Red Branch.”

“Red Branch?” the spitter scoffed. “I hear two of them’s gone missing. Nothing so special about them—not even this one. Shoot, I just watched ’im fight. He’s good, but rumor’s always better than the real thing, isn’t it? Umbra’d have his teeth for a necklace. And if he don’t get outta my pit, she will.”