The Will of the Many (Hierarchy Book 1)
The Will of the Many: Part 2 – Chapter 44

EMISSA IS WAITING IN THE gymnasium, a long, sparse space with concrete walls and stone floors. Unsurprisingly given the lateness of the evening, she’s alone. There are four sets of armour sitting beside her: two wooden and two steel. She leaps to her feet as I enter, though her smile falters a little as Eidhin strides in behind me.

“He insisted,” I say by way of explanation. “Eidhin, Emissa. Emissa, Eidhin.”

Eidhin stops. Eyes me, then Emissa, then me again. Grunts, as if something’s just been made clear to him.

“You are skilled?” he asks Emissa in Common, pointing to the armour beside her.

“No. Nooo.” Emissa draws it out the second time for emphasis. “You?”

“Some.”

“Then please.” Emissa steps back and gives a sweeping wave to the armour, indicating that Eidhin should be the one to wear it.

Eidhin doesn’t argue, grabbing a set of wooden leg guards.

“The wooden ones are the control pieces,” says Emissa, indicating I should do the same with the other set.

I furrow my brow but start donning the wooden armour. It’s not much of a burden, clearly designed to be lightweight and sturdy. Only enough to protect against practice weapons, though. I doubt it would stop even a single blow from a real blade. “So what does this do, exactly?”

“It’s Will-locked to the real armour and blade.” She watches with amusement as I struggle to fasten my arm guard, then steps over to help. “You get all the experience of fighting with the real thing, with none of the danger.”

Eidhin is already fully armoured. He walks to the opposite side of the room and turns to face me. “Stay clear.” He inserts a triangular stone tile into a slot on his breastplate.

I flinch as the steel armour lying in a heap next to me bursts into unexpected motion, clattering and flying with alarming speed toward him. It freezes in mid-air perhaps fifteen feet in front of him, forming a perfect replica of Eidhin’s outline. The hulking boy doesn’t even blink. He stretches and uncannily, the hollow figure in front of him stretches as well, clanking. An identical movement. Completely synchronised.

“Ah.” I mutter my understanding, more to myself than to Emissa.

“You’ve really never seen an Amotus before?”

“No.” No point in lying. I continue strapping pieces to my body, though part of me recoils from touching the wooden plating, now. I can’t avoid using Will-based devices, but attaching one to myself like this still makes my skin crawl. “How does it work?” I can deduce most of it already, but it doesn’t hurt to have my suspicions confirmed.

“Will-locking?”

I pause in my fastening of the final bracer and give Emissa a stare.

The dark-haired girl responds with the slightest of crinkling around her eyes. “The link is in the crux on the back of each piece; it shouldn’t warp even if it gets a direct hit. But if you can slip in behind anything on the limbs to where flesh would normally be, your sword”—Eidhin hefts his wooden blade on cue, his empty counterpart mimicking the motion with its steel one—“is imbued with counters, which switch on reactive repulsion for the corresponding piece on your opponent’s body.”

“Which will make it seem like it weighs fifty pounds. At least,” I finish, nodding. It’s smart. Get in a hit past a piece of floating armour, and it triggers an analogous reaction on your opponent’s body, weighing it down to the point of disabling it. Stab their leg, and suddenly they’re all but one-legged. Cut their arm, and they can’t do anything except let it hang at their side. “And to win?”

“Anything to the head, neck, or chest will disable the harmonic connection completely.”

“Makes sense.” I stand, adjusting my right bracer a little and then slipping on the helmet. Unlike the corresponding helmet on the secondary armour, it’s little more than a wooden hat. The one that Eidhin will have to target is much more traditional, with a guard at the back and a thin protrusion protecting the forehead. Only a clean stab into the hollow space where the face would be will net him a kill.

There are smaller circular shields rather than the heavier rectangular ones that the old Catenan legions used to favour, for which I’m grateful—my strength is largely recovered from last night, but I’m still loathe to place my shoulder under too much strain. And though I’ve trained with shields before, I’ve always preferred the free-flowing styles I was primarily taught. The more mobility I’m allowed, the better.

Once the wooden disc is fastened to my arm, I’m ready. Despite the lightness of the armour itself, movement feels awkward as I position myself thirty feet or so away from Eidhin, facing the final set of armour on the floor.

I slip the stone triangle into place on my chest.

There’s a blur as the armour snaps into position in front of me; despite expecting it, I can’t help but flinch back. Every piece of the wooden armour hanging off me immediately increases in weight. I stagger. “Rotting gods.” When I adjust and straighten again, both Emissa and Eidhin are hiding smirks.

I ignore them, cautiously raising my arm and watching as the empty steel in front of me does the same. There’s no delay to it, no visible difference in the timing. As I look closer, I can see other pieces of armour shifting minutely, the breastplate even rising and falling with my breath.

It’s uncanny, dizzying to take in. I step forward, and the armour in front of me follows suit.

“How do you see what you’re doing?” I answer my own question, turning a little to the side. My armour does the same; now I’m standing behind and perhaps two feet to the right of it. It’s not perfect—there will always be a blind spot, no matter where I am—but it’s much easier to imagine fighting from this position.

“It takes time to adapt.” Eidhin reverts to Cymrian as he slashes the air with his blade, testing its weight. He, somewhat to my surprise, genuinely looks like he knows what he’s doing.

I copy him, experimenting with my movement and the heft of my weapon and shield for a while. “Is it safe?” There’s an initial disconnect between what I can see on my body and the heaviness of everything—once Will-locked, the wooden armour takes on the weight of the metal—but that quickly passes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You don’t want to…” Eidhin half scoffs, half glowers at me. “Very well, then. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Emissa, evidently gathering the gist of our conversation, steps over to the side and sits, watching with undisguised interest. I grin across at her.

Then I barely bring up my shield in time to meet Eidhin’s crashing first attack as he leaps forward, far faster than I could reasonably have expected. Steel rings on steel and the impact shivers up my arm. I reel away. I could see to make the block, but it was almost too late. Not an instinctive reaction at all, compared to if a sword were slashing at my real body. Eidhin was right. This is going to take some getting accustomed to.

Eidhin isn’t interested in giving me time to adjust. He’s stalking forward, shield up, blade licking out in quick, sharp jabs. I fend each one off awkwardly, then counter with a thrust of my own. It’s disdainfully knocked away.

“I thought you said you were ready.”

I glare across at him. Take a steadying breath. Set my stance, watching as my metal counterpart does the same. It’s been years and I’m inevitably rusty, but you don’t just forget the things drilled into you every morning for most of your childhood.

Balanced now, I flow forward.

I’ve heard people sneer about the impracticality of fighting styles that are likened to dancing, and in a pitched battle that’s probably fair. A duel, though, is different. Fluidity—the ability to slide from one action to the next, to attack and then attack again without breaking—is vital. There’s a mental game to it that’s completely absent from the crunching, abrupt brutality of war. Smooth, mesmeric motions can intimidate as much as do damage. Cause an opponent to doubt. Be indecisive. Make mistakes.

I crash hard into Eidhin, leading with my shield—I don’t have the physical advantage, but momentum makes a difference—and then deliver several flashing strikes as he’s forced back. They’re meant to distract rather than penetrate. A manifestation of my annoyance more than anything else. The wooden sword in my hand thuds to a stop in mid-air on every strike, impact shuddering along my arm. It’s still surreal, still new, but I already feel a little more capable. A little more at ease.

I catch a glimpse of a scowl on Eidhin’s face, have a moment of satisfaction before he’s suddenly dropping, dodging around so that his proxy is positioned neatly behind my own. I try to jerk to the side to give myself a better view, but instead I’m lurching, my left leg all but stuck in place.

“Gods damn it,” I snarl, mostly at myself, as I desperately retain my equilibrium. He’s faster than I gave him credit for, must have somehow slipped a hit in behind the grieve. The one on my leg feels like it’s anchored to the ground.

“Yield?”

“Convenient,” I puff. “Just… as I was… getting a feel for it.”

“So no?”

“No.”

Eidhin shrugs, and starts to display exactly how much my newfound lack of mobility is a disadvantage. Within seconds he’s moving nimbly—mockingly—around me, raining down quick blows that don’t hurt, but are difficult to turn aside with either sword or shield. One strike slips under my left shoulder guard, and suddenly my shield arm is hanging useless by my side. I manage only a couple of more awkward blocks before he’s thrusting forward, past my flailing defence and through the space where my neck would be.

The metal armour in front of me disintegrates into its individual pieces with an echoing clatter. The weight of the steel vanishes from my body and I stumble from the abrupt change, the anchoring of my leg and arm disappearing. The triangular stone that was attached to my breastplate drops to the floor.

I scowl at the pile of metal in front of me as I catch my breath. I only trained in armour once or twice, back at Suus. The extra weight definitely adds to the exercise.

“Not terrible,” Emissa calls breezily from the side. “Given that it’s your first time.” Despite the light jab, she looks impressed.

I snort, trying not to look irritated. Unsure whether I’m more annoyed at losing, or that I didn’t expect to. I make a face at her, then glance over at Eidhin. “Not yours, though, I take it.”

“I was taught by the Bladesmiths of my tribe.” From the way he says it, he takes great pride in this fact.

“Bladesmiths?” I’m hesitant to ask. Eidhin making mention of his past—or of anything personal, really—is beyond rare. I still haven’t been able to glean who tasked him with attacking Callidus, or why he accepted. He never takes my invitation to sit with us at meals. Even when we speak in class, it’s rarely for long. Despite the time we’ve spent together recently, I really know very little about him.

“Masters of the sword. They are among the finest in the world.” There’s a pause, an unusual hesitation from him. “They were.”

It’s said simply; he’s not looking for sympathy. Still. “I’m sorry.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Eidhin’s face darkens. “They kept their honour.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that. Emissa watches our conversation with interest, though we’re speaking Cymrian.

“Could you beat Ianix?” I ask eventually, sensing I should change the subject.

“No.” Simple honesty in the delivery.

“Alright. Again, then.” I retrieve the fallen stone triangle and insert it into its slot. Sure enough, my armour instantly reassembles in front of me.

The next round is much closer, despite Eidhin striking harder this time, his anger at whatever insult I accidentally delivered bleeding through. Even so, I start to see how to use lines of sight to my advantage, how to position myself and my armour—my Amotus—in ways that are awkward for him. Emissa calls out suggestions this time, too, which help focus me on how I should react to various tactics. The fundamentals of duelling are the same, but the approach is different. There’s no diving past and turning sharply; doing so would result in me facing away from the action. This is all about positioning. The footwork is about angles as much as balance. At the end, though I lose again, Eidhin is sweating and his jibes are a lot more forced.

The third time, I beat him.

I don’t lose again for the rest of the evening.

“YOU ARE A CHEAT,” GRUMBLES Eidhin in Common as the three of us depart the gymnasium, covered in a light sheen of sweat that immediately chills in the late-evening sea breeze. Torches flare and crackle around the quadrum. Otherwise, everything’s quiet.

“He does seem the type,” agrees Emissa, her face flushed from the exertion. She alternated with Eidhin after a while, showing far more skill than she initially let on. Still no match for a childhood of constant training, though. “Perhaps the armour we were using was faulty, somehow.”

“Yes. Yes. It is the only explanation.” Eidhin nods seriously to her.

I grin, enjoying their mock-griping, then hesitate and half turn back. “Ah. The armour. Do you need to put it back in storage?”

“I do. But if I happen to forget, and then you and Callidus wander in tomorrow morning…” Emissa spreads her hands, indicating her helplessness at the situation.

My smile broadens. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Our eyes lock before she looks away, still smiling.

There’s silence, and then Eidhin, who’s been watching the two of us, sighs loudly. “She is very pretty. Why did you have me come along?”

I start to redden until I realise he’s spoken in Cymrian, then cough to cover my reaction. “This was about practicing for tomorrow. And you didn’t give me much choice.”

“She likes you.”

“And I like her.”

“You know what I mean. The way you talk with each other is more than just friendliness.” He gives me a leering grin.

“It’s not like that.” I try not to look in Emissa’s direction, hoping she’s not going to ask what we’re talking about.

“It should be.”

I glare at him. I’ve already had this conversation with Callidus, but it’s still hard to explain. That I was raised never to pursue something that’s guaranteed to fail. That my mother used to tell me that love is nothing without honesty. And that my father drilled into me, time and time again, that a prince of Suus cannot—cannot—have dalliances.

Those are not tenets of the Catenan Republic, certainly. And Suus is long gone. But it’s who I am.

And I can never tell Emissa who I am.

“At least concede that she is beautiful.”

“And smart, and funny, and unreasonably likeable. Of course she is. She’s remarkable,” I say with irritation. “Now leave it alone.”

We walk on, Emissa thankfully not showing any overt interest in what we’re saying. When it’s clear we’ve finished, though, she suddenly shakes her head, as if just remembering something. “By the way. Did you say something to Aequa, at the Necropolis?”

I frown. “Aequa? No. I didn’t see her after we all left the Transvect.”

“She’s been asking about you. Specifically, about when you got back. She was acting a bit strangely.”

“Oh?” I furrow my brow and look as bemused as I think I should be, even as my heart sinks. Whatever Aequa’s reasons, I don’t want anyone looking too closely into when I left the Necropolis. “That’s odd. I’ll have to ask her about it.”

We stop as we come to the point of divergence in our paths. Emissa holds my gaze, merriment in her green eyes. “Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be cheering for you.” She peels off toward the girls’ dormitory, waving casually without looking back.

It takes me a moment to realise she said it in Cymrian.

I turn to Eidhin, who’s staring after her, mouth as agape as mine. I don’t think his face is flushing anywhere near as much, though. The large boy glances across at me. “Huh.”

“Huh,” I repeat, caught between mortification and amusement as I try to replay everything I’ve said to Eidhin tonight. The latter wins out, and I shake my head before gesturing in defeated humour.

“Come on, Eidhin. Let’s get some sleep.”

EVERYTHING’S QUIET IN THE MISTY early morning following, dawn not even colouring the sky yet as Callidus and I trudge back from the gymnasium, where he’s just helped me sneak in an extra hour of valuable practice. My friend is quiet as we walk. Thoughtful, I think, rather than sulking from the thrashing he’s just received. He’s an adequate opponent with the training armour, but not close to Eidhin or even Emissa in terms of skill.

I let the silence be, stretching out muscles as I go. The lingering stiffness I felt after waking seems to have been worked out by the exercise. I’m still bruised and sore from my brutal sojourn to the ruins two days ago, but with a day of classes ahead of me—no physical activity scheduled—I should be in reasonable condition for this evening’s contest.

“Where did you train?” Callidus asks the question abruptly.

“Aquiria. My parents made me take lessons a few years back. My instructor always said I had something of a knack—”

He pulls up short, forcing me to as well.

“Enough.” There’s an unusual tension in his voice. “You don’t have to tell me, but don’t lie to my face.”

I shove down a sudden discomfort, refusing to let a misplaced sense of guilt make me waver. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve read books that most of the Thirds wouldn’t bother to try. Speak dead languages. Duel using styles I’ve never even heard of before.” He glares at me, never once breaking eye contact. “You’re about as middle-class Aquirian as I am.”

Emotion battles with the need for a quick, convincing response. I make a light, dismissive motion. Paste on a puzzled look. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You don’t…” Callidus trails off, shaking his head. Frustrated. “You know, I have access to my father’s records. That’s every single birth in the Hierarchy—even the ones our noble senators don’t want made public. I could probably figure it out.”

He thinks I’m the illegitimate child of someone powerful. Of course. It’s the most logical conclusion. Someone brought up with every advantage but in secret, probably trained specifically for the purpose of succeeding at the Academy. Loyal to a senator without that connection being known.

“It’s not Telimus, obviously. Too young. But I imagine someone in Military,” Callidus continues, watching my face closely. “Someone powerful. A Quartus. Maybe even higher?” Probing.

I allow uncertainty to flit across my face. Permit him to see my desire to tell him the truth, and let him think he’s on the right track. We stand for several long, awkward seconds, and then Callidus sighs.

“Alright.” His disappointment is palpable. “That’s how it is, then. But you should come up with a better answer for everyone else. Because after they see you fight today, there are going to be a lot more questions about your time in Aquiria. Trust me.”

He walks off toward the Class Seven dormitory stiffly. I let him go.

I eat breakfast opposite Eidhin on Class Six’s level, quietly discussing Amotus strategy with him. It’s not in reaction to Callidus’s questioning earlier—I mentioned I was planning on doing so well before our discussion this morning—but it still feels awkward now. Like I’m avoiding my other friend. I mean to at least greet him when I leave the mess, but by the time I finish my meal, his table’s empty.

I can’t fault him for being hurt by what he sees as an obvious deception, earlier. And I hate that I’ve offended him. But I designed my past to be impossible to disprove. Admitting it’s a sham to anyone at all is risking a crack in an otherwise perfect façade.

The lie was the right decision.

Class has a strange energy to it today, Dultatis smug whenever he addresses me, Ianix and his friends shooting me half-wary, half-confident glares every time I glance in their direction. More than once there’s muffled laughter as one student or another discusses how badly I’m going to be beaten. I don’t mind. Overconfidence, and the weight of expectation, is going to disadvantage Ianix far more than me.

Callidus, to my vague dismay, is entirely absent from the midday meal. Not unheard of, but I hope it’s nothing to do with me. I sit with Eidhin again, and we watch as Dultatis draws Ianix aside and starts issuing advice, not even feigning impartiality. Not long after, Ianix himself—who’s been conscientiously avoiding me up until this point—stops by our table, looming as I eat.

“You could concede, Vis.” He’s steady. Confident. “Know your limits. Concede, and maybe you have another chance to move up in a few months. Lose today, and you won’t get another opportunity.”

“No thanks.”

Ianix waits, as if expecting me to say more, then glowers when I don’t. “I tried.” He stalks off. Eidhin nods approvingly.

The afternoon class drags; every time I glance at the Will dial, it’s barely moved. Finally, though, the bell chimes. I stand. Dultatis smiles at me, but I don’t flinch, don’t look away as I walk to the door.

“See you tomorrow,” the balding man murmurs as I pass.

I ignore him, and head for the quadrum.