Gelias didn’t give Archmund a moment’s rest.

  The elven boy rained blow after blow against him, following all the standard forms in order. A chest strike, a side strike, a feint, a low sweep, a side strike, a feint, a head strike. Every strike followed perfect form, as if drawing on the object memory of the sword itself.

  Archmund blocked and blocked and dodged and jumped and blocked and dodged and blocked. Only a second between each response to think of his counterpy.

  Yet it was easier and less tiring than he’d expected.

  That was what it meant to have Gems bound to the circuit of his soul. Regardless of distance or will, part of his magic power was flowing through those distant Gems, and if his body grew drained, those Gems could feed their stored power back into him. Batteries, or capacitors.

  But those batteries could be drained. And this fight was boring, he thought, as wood met wood for yet another time. And if he got bored, compcent, he’d make mistakes.

  And lose.

  So he struck.

  A chest strike, a feint, a side strike, a feint, a feint, a feint, a feint, a feint, a feint.

  Gelias blocked, dodged, blocked, dodged, dodged, dodged, dodged, dodged, failed.

  Archmund’s wooden sparring sword whapped Gelias right in the belly, knocking the other boy back into the dirt. He cmbered to his feet, rubbing his belly.

  “Not bad! Well done!”

  “Remember, Greenroot,” Archmund said. “You’re trying to beat me, not tutor me.”

  “I know!” Gelias said with cold enthusiasm. “Don’t you dare let your guard down!”

  Spoken like a true teacher. Frankly, Archmund wondered if he’d misread him. Maybe it wasn’t the object memory of the training sword. Maybe Gelias was just “Like That”.

  “You are very good,” said Gelias. “You have potential, which means I can go… all out!”

  A sudden wave of cold washed over Archmund.

  Though his magic senses were merely budding, like the first steps of a toddler or the fumbling of an intern through a rge and production-critical database, he felt a strange and twisted profundity emanate from Gelias.

  Before, it had been as if Gelias was charging his sword and being charged in turn, a closed circuit where the energy flowed from one to the other, and the magic radiating outwards was like waste heat.

  But now it felt as if an arch and alien presence had been embodied, as if Gelias’s soul had pushed forth from the ineffable numen-space into real-space and now surrounded him like a thick miasma of power.

  “Second level! Attain!” Gelias shouted.

  What dread and twisted power might arise from this embodiment? What grand working, what explosive might come from this drawing down of heaven to earth?

  Gelias swung his sword, but this time he twisted his wrist so it looked like he was going to hit the right side but was actually going to hit the left.

  Archmund blocked it.

  Wood ccked on wood.

  A slight breeze blew past him.

  That was the second level?

  That was it?

  “How… masterful…” Gelias said. “Granavale, you have true potential. Why… soon, you may even be able to surpass me!”

  Archmund frowned and voiced his unvoiced concern. “That’s the second level?”

  “Yes… a hidden level of power locked deep within this bde, that you have not yet attained…”

  It was certainly true that Weaponsmaster Garth hadn’t bothered to teach Archmund the “second level” of sword techniques. Garth had dismissed the whole practice; increasingly higher ranks in formal schools of swordsmanship incorporated silly sporty flourishes and rules of decorum.

  They were like the rampant credentialism that had pgued the corporate world. Sure, being Rank 2 in the School of the Noble Sword might mean you understood proper dueling forms, but it would make you no better a swordsman than getting a Google Career Certificate made you qualified to actually work at Google.

  That had been one of the reasons why Archmund had kept the rules of this tournament simple. He didn’t need an honor guard that was good at dancing and preening and ceremony, though such practices might be helpful if he ever got sucked into diplomatic matters. He needed people who could fight.

  For most nobles, an honor guard was like a peacock’s features: just for show and good, in theory, for attracting a mate. But he was concerned about the other half of evolutionary success: not dying.

  Not in this particur tournament. Just overall.

  Gelias started spinning his sword in his hand like a windmill bde. “Second Form: Wind Cutter!”

  There was barely any breeze. It was probably just the name of the technique, not an invocation of elemental power.

  “Well, Granavale? Can you best my secret knowledge of the second form?”

  Archmund suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

  At least it was a good show for the crowd.

  A memory came unbidden. Not a memory from his past life, which bore “no relevant experience”, as a career consultant might say, but from his training with Weaponsmaster Garth Avant.

  Monsters could come in many shapes and sizes. They were constrained only by the amount of power they could draw upon and their memories.

  It was on their second or so training session, when both of them were already drained from a day of work, when Archmund had broached the topic of unorthodox attacks.

  “Spinning bdes?” Garth had said. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. What manner of Monster would bring forth spinning bdes to attack? Defense, I could see. But attack? Seems wasteful.”

  Archmund wasn’t sure how he could diplomatically answer that. He had a vague memory of a man draped in a fg holding down a helicopter, a flying machine that lifted itself through an immensely fast spinning bde, through strength alone. He was pretty sure it was fiction, though. Still, he pressed Garth for ideas on countermaneuvers.

  “Lad, the only creature stupid or bold enough to attack with a spinning bde is man,” Garth said. “Man’s wisdom is so often his folly.”

  Gelias’s “Second Form: Wind Cutter” moved far slower than a helicopter bde.

  Though Gelias’s muscles could channel the memory, they struggled to channel the strength, the fast twitch explosion of impulse or the sustaining slow twitch burn of endurance. His bde moved eborately, but slow enough for the eye to track.

  So Archmund approached without much fear at all. Sure, it would hurt if he got hit, but…

  “You approach?” Gelias shouted. “How bold! How daring!”

  A brief fsh of irritation struck Archmund. He really wished he could just sock Gelias in the face, mess him up a bit, ruin his looks.

  But if he did that, it would ruin his reputation even more. Gelias was slight and just barely his height. Rory, at least, had a solid six inches on him.

  Beating up a taller kid by acting like an animal was very, very different from beating up a shorter one. One made you look like an underdog. The other made you look like a bully.

  And Gelias was just pying at being a schor, even if he sounded like a jackass. If Archmund’s theory about the sword and elven magic was true, it wasn’t even his fault.

  But Second Form: Wind Cutter was simple. It was meant to confuse the opponent. It was meant to be used with a Gemstone Bde that bled power into the air, whether it was waves of wind and force or trails of ember or static. Anyone approaching carelessly would be buffeted by these inefficient elemental excretions.

  And then, as they defended against fire and wind and storm, they would be cut down by the cold of a Gemstone Bde.

  With a sparring sword, the technique was mere pageantry.

  The bde moved fast in a circur arc. It was meant to confuse. If you didn’t know how to disarm it, you would need to suffer through the power it shed. Try to block the bde head on, and you receive its momentum and whatever elements emanated from it.

  But catch the bde, redirect its momentum, survive the elemental onsught (which was not present in this sparring match), and you could use the form against its wielder.

  Archmund struck, his bde intercepting Gelias’s as it fell and started to twist back up. He turned the force against Gelias, throwing the elven boy towards the ground.

  There was a thickness in the air — a cloud of sacred numinous energy that was undirected yet portentous, hanging over them like fog on a misty morning. Was it waste? Or was it projection of power that served some other purpose? Or — a troubling thought occurred to Archmund.

  What if it was simir to the dark miasma that had spawned the Ghost of All Granavale, the massed power of hundreds of angry spirits, haunting the twisted halls deep beneath the earth?

  That same power, but of and for the living?

  Of the elven blood?

  Gelias stumbled but caught himself using his bde like a cane.

  “Very good, Granavale. That was a wonderful use of a basic parry.”

  Even now, Greenroot was lecturing.

  “But can you handle… this?”

  Gelias crouched ever so slightly. He held his sparring sword with both hands next to his head, like a samurai wielding a katana. He jabbed straight forward, switching the side his bde was held on with every strike. It seemed like a somewhat inefficient use of his energy.

  “Second Form: Mantis Dancing!

  Archmund dodged back.

  He recalled another training session with Garth Avant, where the swordsmaster had trained his defensive techniques.

  “Try to match my rhythm, d,” Garth had said.

  He aimed for Archmund’s left shoulder, then the right, then the left, then the right.

  Archmund blocked them all.

  Then the right again.

  Archmund gasped in pain as the sparring sword hit his right shoulder. “What happened to your rhythm?”

  “I kept it,” Garth said. “I struck at the same pace I’d been striking.”

  “Can’t trust the direction, huh?” Archmund said. Garth nodded approvingly.

  “Monsters look like they follow patterns,” Garth said. “It’s true, for a time. But push them hard enough, or trigger their repressed memories, or even if the wind changes, and they’ll break the pattern. Best to take the down as fast you can.”

  “And men?”

  Garth stroked his beard. “Do I have to tell you, d, how men lie to win?”

  A right jab. Dodged left. A left jab. Dodged right. A right jab. Dodged left. A left jab. Dodged right.

  A slight pause.

  Archmund dodged to the right again, swinging his bde to strike from his left as he did so. Gelias’s bde passed through the air where his head had been, right as his wooden sparring sword met Gelias’s side.

  Gelias gasped and staggered sideways.

  “First form, left-side strike,” Archmund said. He was “mirroring” what Gelias had done, by naming his extremely basic attack, but it was good showmanship.

  “You’re supposed to say the name before you strike!” Gelias said.

  “First form, simple strike,” Archmund said. He brought down his sword, aiming for Gelias’s head. Gelias blocked it, magic thrumming through his bde .

  Yet though he blocked with perfect form, his body cked the strength. His elbows buckled ever-so-slightly. A sign of weakness.

  It was time to finish this.

  Archmund stuck to simple strikes he could put his full strength behind, hitting as hard as he could, until Gelias fell to one knee and raised a hand in surrender.