Without hesitation Bek unleashed a furious combination of blows, feints and thrusts that had all the onlookers gaping. But the warrior in the black armour was obviously no novice to combat, for he moved out of Bek’s line of attack with a nimbleness of foot that was unexpected in someone so large, let alone burdened by heavy armour.
Then he countered and let loose a blow that came close to crushing the side of Bek’s skull. Bek merely twisted his wrists and brought his blade up to block, and the shock of the blow reverberated across the sand.
Back and forth the two men duelled, Bek’s ferocity and power matched and countered by the other man’s speed and experience. The onlookers began to form a circle around them because it was becoming clear that something unusual and amazing was taking place, and that should either warrior err, someone would die suddenly.
Back and forth they moved, exchanging blows and parries, until finally the warrior in black stepped away and shouted, ‘Hold! Enough!’
Bek hesitated, then put his sword down.
The warrior in black said, ‘Again, who trained you?’
This time Bek looked him in the eye and said, ‘Hirea of the Scourge.’
‘I know him. Scourge, small society… but respected, old house, good man. One of the best on Kosridi.’ He removed his helm, and Bek saw a battle-scarred face, an older Dasati warrior, but one still in the height of his power. ‘I am Marian, Imperado of the Justicants, First Order of the TeKarana’s guards. I have never seen anyone like you, Bek.’
Bek was dripping with perspiration. He said, ‘You’re fast. Strong, too. You are very hard to kill.’
The older warrior grinned. ‘I will mention your name. We shall need replacements, and we shall need them soon. Who knows? You may be the one to take my head some day if I don’t die on some cursed alien world.’
‘I’ll make it quick and salute you,’ said Bek, returning the grin.
With a slap on the shoulder, Marian turned and departed.
The instructor said, ‘You have been honoured, young Bek.’
Nakor was dying to ask questions, but he knew that here, more than most anywhere in the Dasati realm, not acting the part of a Lesser would get him killed in seconds. The instructor turned to him and said, ‘Clean up this mess. We are done.’ To Bek he said, ‘Retire to the barracks and wait for the mid-day meal call. You have earned some extra rest.’
Nakor hurriedly picked up the items belonging to Bek, and turned to see the large warrior grinning at him. ‘What?’ he whispered.
Bek said, ‘He got tired and was afraid I was going to kill him.’
‘Who, Marian?’ asked Nakor softly as he bent over to pick up a large, dirty cloth of some wool-like material Bek had been using as a towel.
Bek laughed. ‘Him, too. No, I mean the instructor. He was getting tired.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘I feel wonderful, Nakor.’
Nakor said quietly, ‘Good. I am pleased you feel well; Now, let us return to the barracks and wait.’
‘I like to fight.’
‘I know, but we must do as we are told a little while longer.’
‘Yes, Nakor.’
They hurried out of the training arena, down a vast corridor that led to the recruits’ barracks. A pair of young warriors was there, resting after their arduous training that morning. One sported a huge welt on the side of his face where the instructor had unceremoniously demonstrated why he needed to keep his guard high, and the other had a slight cut to the thigh that was bandaged. Nakor observed the Dasati constantly, and was astonished that the culture managed to survive, given their murderous ways. Had either of those young warriors sustained a serious wound, they would have been left to die, their lingering agony the source of amusement to the others on the training floor. Since coming to the training floor the day before, Nakor had witnessed one such incident. The jeering Dasati considered watching such a death an entertainment, a respite from training.
Nakor had travelled throughout the Empire of Great Kesh and down into the client states south of the vast mountains called the Girdle of Kesh – he had been born in the foothills of those great peaks. He had seen many strange things, but nothing as alien and difficult to fathom as the Dasati. He had encountered a travelling troupe of players once, in a small city called Ahar, and remembered a remark made by the company’s leader, the man responsible for writing the skits and songs as well as staging them. Nakor had asked what the key was to making the audience laugh, for while he knew little of performance, he realized that the more the audience laughed, the more money the players earned.
The two of them had been playing at cards and Nakor hadn’t seriously begun to cheat, so the head of the company of players was winning. He was in a good mood and paused to answer the question. ‘It’s all about pain, Nakor,’ he had said. ‘If you care for our hero and feel his pain, that’s tragedy. If you laugh at him, that’s comedy. Comedy is other people’s pain.’