“She shows great resilience for a child, your Grace,” Sir Ruban commented beside the king. “She is quite remarkable.”
“That she is,” Vighon agreed, reaching out to grip the railing.
“Ah,” the captain continued, “here they are.”
Ruban’s remark drew the king’s eyes down into the barracks’ courtyard where twenty men and women filed out of a side door and lined up in four neat rows. They didn’t appear any more remarkable than the soldiers who patrolled the ramparts or the knights that formed the king’s guard. But it was not their appearance that was meant to set them apart. It was who had chosen them to stand in this very courtyard.
Inara strode out of a different door and placed herself squarely before them all. “Form one!” she barked.
The candidates reacted immediately, each drawing their sword from their back and falling into the first stance of the Mag’dereth in one smooth motion.
“Form two!” Inara yelled.
As one, the candidates flowed into the next stance, their blades rising over their heads.
“Face your partners in form three!” the queen commanded.
Without hesitation, the men and women turned to their pre-determined partner, the person they had been sparring with for over a month, and assumed the stance of form three.
“Begin!”
That command created a flurry of activity in the courtyard. Men and women, pitted against each other, met in a clash of steel and iron will, spreading into every corner.
“We always used training swords,” Sir Ruban said with a hint of concern.
Vighon chuckled. “Inara tells me it’s more about control than aggression. They have to learn when to strike and when to hold back at a moment’s notice, lest they make a mistake and—”
One of the candidates cried out in pain when their partner cut a gash down his arm. Vighon gestured to the pair as they had demonstrated his explanation with perfect timing.
“Stop!” Inara called, bringing a sudden end to the lesson. She walked across the courtyard and examined the young man’s arm. “This will need stitches,” she informed him. “Can you stitch yourself?”
“No, Commander.”
“Then you will learn,” Inara instructed. “Outside of these walls, you will have only each other and you will roam in pairs. Your partner is your greatest resource. You must learn to take care of each other.” The queen turned on the candidate who had failed to hold back. “That includes not hitting them with your sword, Daganar.”
“Yes, Commander,” he quickly replied.
Turning back to the injured candidate, Inara said, “You can still fight.”
“Yes, Commander,” the injured man replied, squeezing the hand of his wounded arm.
“That wasn’t a question,” the queen stated, before resuming her place outside the square. “Form four! Begin!”
Sir Ruban leaned in to the king’s ear. “I’m glad the queen wasn’t the commander here when I was training.”
Vighon agreed with a nod of the head and a wry smile. “And I thought The Ironsworn were brutal,” he said so only his old friend could hear him.
“You must be adaptable!” Inara continued. “Your enemy will not always come at you head on, or alone!”
Putting action behind her words, the queen freed Firefly of its scabbard and set upon the nearest candidate. They evaded her blow with just inches to spare. Their counter attack, swift and precise, caused Vighon to grip the railing until his knuckles whitened. Inara, however, met the counter attack with a sudden flourish of her blade and planted a strong kick into the candidate’s gut, launching her from her feet.
Unfortunately for Vighon’s nerves, it didn’t end there.
Inara pivoted on her heel and lashed out at not one, but two other candidates, drawing them in to battle. The queen moved deftly between them only to strike at others, increasing the number of opponents she faced. It wasn’t long before Inara was engaged in a reckless conflict with all of them.
Sir Ruban clearly shared the king’s concern and even moved to potentially intervene. “Wait,” Vighon ordered. “If you interfere now even I won’t be able to keep you safe.”
Inara danced around her opponents, always moving. More often than not, she tied the candidates up in knots, forcing them in to each other before they could attack.
“Your Grace, if even one of them—”
“I know,” Vighon interjected, his jaw tense.
One by one, Inara began to force candidates from the fight by either knocking them down or finding their opening with her blade. She was careful never to draw blood, but after weeks of sparring like this, they all knew when they were bested.
Only minutes after instigating the fight, Inara was the only one left standing in the middle of the courtyard, her chest heaving from the exertion. At last, Vighon was able to take a breath.
“From every corner of Illian,” Inara said, “hundreds of men and women like you made the journey, heeding my call for warriors. You are all that remain. But this is not the end. You still have a long way to go before you can call yourselves Guardians of the Realm. And make no mistake, only those I deem fit will carry the mantle of Guardian.” The queen glanced over them all. “Positions!”
The candidates ignored their new injuries and returned to their original formation in the square.
“Natharei! What is a Guardian’s first creed?”
Natharei raised her chin proudly. “A Guardian of the Realm holds back the darkness, Commander!”
Inara paced up and down the front row. “Givain! What is a Guardian’s second creed?”
Givain squared his shoulders. “A Guardian is to be the hope that carries the light, Commander!”
“Qirinn! What is a Guardian’s third creed?”
“A Guardian stands for those who cannot, Commander!”
Inara’s features softened. “Very good,” she praised. “Know that I have faith in all of you. If you keep true to yourself, you will be the first in a new order. Guardians of the Realm will be a symbol of peace and justice unlike anything that has come before, including the Graycoats of old. I
