The foremost bladesinger opened a heavy iron door. It creaked and clanged. The man held it open, frowning at the two recruits. There was a sound behind Miro. He turned and saw Ronell, flanked by five more bladesingers. Ronell didn’t meet his eyes. They entered the room together.
Blademaster Rogan stood as they entered, flanked by Bladesinger Huron and Bladesinger Porlen. Their expressions were stern. If Miro hadn’t known better, he would have said they were about to be punished. Disciplined.
"Normally we would be at the Sanctuary, deep in the Dunwood," Blademaster Rogan said. "However we are not there. High Lord Legasa of Halaran has graciously lent us these chambers, and the assistance of the men we need." He met the eyes of first Ronell, then Bartolo, and finally Miro.
"Recruits, you are about to be tested. You have been hardened in battle. You have developed your skills. You are lacking in training, but perhaps you make up for it in experience. We will soon know.
"If you pass this test, you can call yourselves bladesingers, and we will welcome you into our number. If you fail, there is a makeshift infirmary in the next chamber. If you fail, you might not even need it." His look was significant. Miro thought of the dull knives and bloody aprons of the field surgeons.
"Do not doubt me in this," Rogan Jarvish continued, his voice hard. He bit off his next words, "I will see you dead, before I accept a liability. We have all passed this test. I have seen recruits with great potential fail. I am glad they were tested, because in battle their failure might have led to more deaths. At least here, there can be only one death. Yours."
Miro shifted in his armoursilk. It felt uncomfortable, ill-fitting. It was all that stood between him and whatever it was that was about to unfold.
"Now, about the test. The animators have been helping us with it for many years. It’s something of a contest between us, a chance for us to test the skills of our best against the skills of theirs. It forces our enchanters to constantly innovate, to create better weapons, Enchant better armour. It forces our bladesingers to fight better, learn faster, to adapt their song to new conditions, a new foe.
"I can tell you now, not one of us here has ever fought the foe you are about to fight. We have fought our own enemies, passed our own tests. As we hope our methods of training have improved, our matrices become more developed, so have those of your opponents."
Rogan nodded to someone behind the recruits. Miro felt a pressure on either side of him. A bladesinger stood on either side of him, their faces impassive. Their grip was almost too firm. Miro realised with a pounding heart that there wasn’t a choice here. This test wasn’t optional. He would face his foe, or he would die.
A sheen of sweat began to cover his brow, even though it was cold and dry, here under the mighty fortress of Sark. He shared a glance with Bartolo. Ronell looked at nothing but the walls, his face impassive but betrayed by the ashen colour of his disfigured skin.
The recruits were led down a long corridor, each flanked by their handlers. Miro lost sight of Bartolo and Ronell. He was brought to a halt outside a door.
"Enter here," said one of the bladesingers, his face cold.
Miro opened the door. He was pushed roughly from behind. The door was closed behind him.
Two figures strode up to Miro, meeting him eye to eye, their faces hard as stone. They were dressed in brown robes, the Halrana raj hada — a hand with an eye in the centre — a bold emblem on their breasts. They were large, burly men, used to physical work. Without a word each took Miro by the arm and led him down another corridor.
At the end of the passage was an open door, about a foot thick, made of heavy iron, studded and bolted. Somehow Miro knew that whatever was waiting for him would be waiting behind this door. A series of runes had been drawn on the door. Once sealed, even a zenblade wouldn’t easily get through it.
One of the Halrana spoke. "This door will be locked behind you. It will be opened after one hour, or three knocks."
One hour! In an hour a wounded man could be dead. Miro could see how few who were injured survived to tell the tale.
He was thrust into the room, the slamming of the heavy door echoing in his ears as the bolt was thrown quickly behind him.
It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light provided by some weak nightlamps. The room was massive, the ceiling high, the floor sanded. Littered about the room were stone blocks of uneven sizes, some small enough to throw, others twice a man’s breadth and height.
Miro stood at his end of the chamber, uncomfortably conscious of the sealed door behind him. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t be able to leave that way. He shifted in the uncomfortable armoursilk. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Miro had a direct line of sight to the other end of the chamber. There was a man seated there, wearing a brown robe and a torque around his neck. The torque glowed with strange colours. At his wrist was another glittering circlet. The man regarded Miro for a moment then looked down at a rectangular tablet on his knees.