Obsidian Thornwing's Arc

Chapter 2 of 18

Obsidian knelt in the dirt behind the watch tower, sweat running off his jaw. His practice blade lay across his knees. Iron Riven watched him from four paces off, arms folded under the green hood. For two days Obsidian had cut throat, ribs, knee in that order until the sequence lived in his hands. Iron nodded once. "Very good. Up," Iron said. Obsidian stood. His legs shook. He set them anyway. "Trial's tomorrow. You'll fight me first." "You're not an evaluator." "I've buried men who fought the guard's form. I know what they look for." Iron drew the short sword from his back. He did not shift into any stance Obsidian recognized from the manual. He simply stood, blade low, boots square. That was worse. It meant he would answer whatever Obsidian brought. "Cut me," Iron said. "Throat. Ribs. Knee. In order. If you break the sequence, you fail." Obsidian moved. He stepped in the way the guard drilled, blade rising for the throat line. Iron turned the strike aside with the flat of his sword. Obsidian pushed on to the ribs. Iron caught that too, but his boot slid back an inch. Obsidian felt it. He dropped for the knee. Iron's sword was already there. The flat of the blade cracked against Obsidian's wrist and his practice sword spun into the dirt. Iron's point stopped at Obsidian's throat. "Dead," Iron said. Obsidian's chest heaved. "I hit the ribs." "You told me you would. Throat, ribs, knee. I counted with you." Obsidian's hands closed and opened. His old style clawed up his arms — the low, fast, ugly thing that had kept him alive when the village burned. He shoved it down. "Again," he said. "No." Obsidian looked up. Iron sheathed the sword. "You have the form. Clean enough for the braid. That's not what will lose it for you tomorrow." "Then what." "You telegraph. Every cut, your wing on the sword side lifts. A blind man could read you." Obsidian looked over his shoulder. His black wing was still half-raised, tight against his spine. He had not felt it move. "I never noticed." "They will. First pass, they'll see the wings before they see the sword. Second pass, they'll use them against you." Obsidian lowered the wing. It fought him. It had lifted for the throat cut his whole life without asking permission. "One night," he said. "One night." Iron picked up the fallen practice sword and pressed the grip into Obsidian's palm. "Bind them if you have to. But if you walk in there tomorrow flagging every strike, no form in the world saves you." Obsidian closed his hand on the hilt. The evaluators had always looked at his wings first. Now his wings would sell him out before the blade ever moved.