The Will of the Many (Hierarchy Book 1)
The Will of the Many: Part 2 – Chapter 45

AFTER DETOURING TO SCOFF A few nerve-settling bites of dinner from the mess, I replace the Curia Doctrina all but empty as I stalk through it. I don’t understand why until I reach the great archway and emerge into the golden, late afternoon sun.

The immense crowd milling around the edges of the quadrum already contains what must be nearly every student in the Academy. I dither at the sight, almost freeze; I was assuming we’d draw onlookers, but this is beyond anything I’d imagined. The different classes are clumped together, with Seven taking up almost one side of the massive square. The Thirds stand apart with an entertained-looking Nequias on the opposite side. Emissa spots me and gives me a sympathetic grin. I force one in return.

I note Eidhin with the Sixths across the way, Aequa with the Fourths just ahead of me. The Sevenths are spread out, but I don’t see Callidus. There’s a distant, nagging worry that he’s decided not to come. I hope our exchange this morning hasn’t damaged our relationship that far.

There’s nothing I can do about it right now, anyway. I push the concern to one side. Focus.

Ianix is already in the centre of the quadrum and outfitted in his Amotus, comfortable with both the equipment and all the attention as he swings his blade experimentally. Dultatis is standing a little way off, arms crossed, watching approvingly. Behind him is a displeased-looking Taedia, along with a gaggle of other Praeceptors. Veridius is with them.

I recover from the surprise of the crowd and start pushing through the throng. Conversation nearby eases as people recognise me. Aequa’s one of them; she gives me a strange look as I pass, a mix of puzzlement and intense curiosity. I acknowledge her briefly before concentrating ahead again. Trying not to wonder whether her enquiries about me have turned up anything to worry about.

The onlookers quieten as I step out onto the white stone of the quadrum and start across the empty expanse toward Dultatis and Ianix.

“Thought you could use an audience, Catenicus.” Dultatis has spotted me and waves lazily toward the second paired armour set lying off to the side, up against the fountain. He’s enjoying this, enjoying the attention and spectacle. “Your Amotus is there. We’ll begin as soon as you’re ready. No point in dragging this out.”

He likely thinks I’ll be rattled by the crowd. He doesn’t know about Letens. Doesn’t know that I spent the first fourteen years of my life enduring constant scrutiny, being stared at wherever I went, always the focus of someone’s attention. I hated it, but I know exactly how to endure it.

I ignore him, stride over to the wooden set of armour and methodically strap on the pieces. It’s of a higher quality than the one I’ve been practising with. Once I’m comfortable, I slot the stone triangle into place, watching as the empty shell snaps into position fifteen feet in front of me. There’s a swell in the murmuring of the crowd. Their anticipation is painfully thick.

I heft my sword and close my eyes, steadying my breathing as I’ve been taught. Everything else here is a distraction. These fights are won by whoever stays calm, whoever’s most patient. I’m needled by Dultatis and his puerile antics, I can’t deny that—but I have to ignore them. I have to be better.

Dultatis retreats to the sidelines. “This contest is for a position in Class Five,” he announces, projecting his voice so that everyone in the rapidly hushing quadrum is able to hear him. “The usual rules apply: only a killing blow is a victory.” He turns to us. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Ianix’s reply is clear and confident. He’s enjoying himself, even gives a flashy, unnecessary twirl of his sword as he answers. I push down the flare of anger I feel at how happily he’s gone along with Dultatis’s plan. The boy’s not even vaguely qualified to be in Five. If he had any sense of honour, he would have refused this challenge.

“Ready.” No pretence at being relaxed. Guard up. Taut. I don’t take my eyes from Ianix’s Amotus when I say the word.

“Begin.”

Ianix is still smiling in the background as he saunters forward and to the side, angling himself for a better view. He’s strolling, glancing occasionally at the crowd and smirking to his friends. I mirror his position and orientation.

Then I sprint at him.

He’s taken off guard, though he recovers well. My blade flashes down hard at his shoulder but he’s twisting aside and bringing up his sword in an instant, meeting mine with a ringing of steel. The reverberation shudders down my arm as the sword in my own hand stops in mid-air. I back away. Ianix is focusing in on me now, smile faded.

Then he attacks.

It’s a blur of steel, lightning-quick, strike after strike flowing at me in a flurry that is far stronger and more precise than anything Eidhin or Emissa were able to throw at me last night. I deflect desperately again and again while Ianix moves, circles, repositions himself and twists, trying to blind me by placing my Amotus between me and his blade.

I grit my teeth and respond, shuffling less than gracefully to the side, barely keeping up. The crowd cheers, a muted buzzing that I barely register. Eidhin wasn’t exaggerating. Ianix is good.

And I don’t get the impression he’s even really trying yet.

Still, I haven’t shown him anything to make him think I’m particularly skilled myself. That’s my one advantage. Defend as though I’m only barely capable, wait for an opening, then hit him hard. Ianix finally breaks off his attack and backs away; I can see him still looking smug behind his Amotus but he’s less so than before, vaguely annoyed. He thought I’d crumble under that first barrage. A quick glance across at Dultatis’s irritated expression indicates the Praeceptor thought the same.

I attack this time, without too much nuance, just to keep Ianix busy while making sure I don’t open myself to any counterattacks. I press, not successfully, but enough to occupy him for another ten seconds while varying sounds of appreciation and cajoling drift from the crowd. Some of them are a little surprised, a little more urgent than before. Ianix’s friends and supporters, probably.

The delay of his supposedly inevitable victory is starting to annoy the other boy, I think. He’s lost his amused look entirely, eyes cold as we circle again.

He slices forward but I’m ready for his speed this time. He is good, but I’m watching him as much as his Amotus, and I trained against better back in Suus. Men and women who would hit me before I even realised they were raising their sword. Ianix still has too much forecast to his moves; his muscles obviously tense, his mouth twitches well before he draws back for the strike. He’s used to opponents trying to read his Amotus. It’s the same problem Eidhin had last night.

And Ianix doesn’t realise that yet, either. So when he prepares for his next hit, I’m ready. Moving. Flowing forward past his strike and going down on one knee, so close that he won’t be able to see my blade coming.

I swipe, and cut him cleanly through the left leg.

I know the strike’s true; I see the blade pierce the small gap at the knee. I immediately roll away again, avoiding Ianix’s blind swipe and springing back to my feet, a thrill running through me. I’ve done it. He’s crippled. All I have to do now is finish him.

I turn to replace Ianix still standing.

My heart twists and I stop dead, confused for a long, ugly second. He’s circling again. No indication of any encumberment.

“That was a hit.” I hold up my sword, indicating I want the bout to stop, and call the words loud and clear toward the Praeceptors. “There’s something wrong. That was a hit.”

I refrain from using the word cheat, but the implication is strong enough.

Ianix pauses, then lowers his sword as well. There’s a murmuring from the crowd. I glare over toward Dultatis, expecting to see him concerned; if this fight is fixed, then he’s surely involved. But instead of worry, he’s wearing an exaggerated expression of bemusement that’s poorly concealing his real emotion.

He’s pleased.

“Hold.” Taedia’s walking out. Though there are a few scattered boos coming from the students, I can see that I have an ally in her, at least. She saw what happened.

Dultatis trails after her. “The boy’s just holding things up because he’s losing,” he says, loud enough to carry to the spectators. “Any excuse to catch his breath. It’s poor form.”

“It didn’t look that way to me.” Taedia signals to me. “Try again. Ianix, let him trigger the reaction in your knee.”

I walk forward confidently and have my Amotus stab down, through the narrow gap in Ianix’s armour.

Ianix grimaces and goes to one knee.

I frown across at him uneasily as the crowd starts to mutter and cat-call. He’s faking, surely. Taedia has the same thought; she strides over and bends down, trying to lift his leg from the ground. After a futile struggle, she sighs.

“It’s locked.” She considers, then gives me an apologetic look. “It looked like a fair hit, but it must not have quite been enough to trigger the reaction.”

It’s wrong—I know it’s wrong—but anything more that I say is only going to make me look worse. Dultatis is shaking his head in smug disapproval, making a joke to the other Praeceptors that I have no doubt is at my expense. Only Nequias laughs, but I see the students standing nearby smirking as well.

Others in the crowd jeer as it takes a minute to reset Ianix’s armour. Every second of delay causes more voices to join the chorus. Frustration reddens my face beneath the calls. There are any number of ways Ianix’s Amotus could still be rigged—some sort of Conditional imbuing, I assume, or perhaps Dultatis himself has imbued it—but there’s no way to prove it. As the other boy inserts his stone wedge and his armour reassembles, I do allow myself a moment of doubt as to whether I was wrong. Whether I was imagining it.

I’ve been avoiding looking at the crowd, but now I do. Scan the faces watching us, watching me. Many are hostile. Some—few, admittedly—look more puzzled than annoyed. Emissa, Indol, even Iro are among the latter. Though Iro looks delighted as well, to be fair.

Behind the main cluster of Sevenths, I finally see Callidus. He’s found a vantage atop the Temple of Jovan’s stairs, leaning against one of the large columns that form its portico. He sees that I’ve spotted him. Hesitates.

Then he issues a single, sincere nod of encouragement.

I swallow, nod back, and refocus. Ianix is in position.

We start again.

Ianix is more cautious now as we clash several times, probing, testing each other’s defences. I don’t hold back anymore, don’t pretend to any lack of skill. Ianix’s face is frozen in surprised concentration. The crowd has stopped their mocking calls and are almost silent aside from the occasional shout of encouragement. Bemused, I suspect, that the fight is still going.

I’m only holding on, though, not winning. With a sword actually in hand, there’s a good chance I’d be better than Ianix. This Amotus device, though—even with the hours of practice I got in last night and this morning—is too unfamiliar. My strikes are clean and fast, but not accurate enough; I’m still guessing at where I’m hitting, too often sliding off armour even when I get past Ianix’s defences. My own defence, always my best skill, has kept me in the match, but it’s inevitable that I’ll make a mistake eventually.

Which is why it’s so infuriating when I finally get in a clean hit to Ianix’s shoulder, and nothing happens.

I hiss, baring my teeth in pure frustration as I back off, glancing around and praying for someone to shout out in protest. Nobody does. Maybe they don’t notice, or more likely they’re like me—they know how it will look if they stop the fight again, and there’s nothing apparently wrong. I suspect there are plenty of people in the latter camp; Taedia’s peering at Ianix as if trying to figure out some sort of puzzle, and even Veridius is leaning forward with an intent frown.

Dultatis isn’t looking like he’s enjoying himself anymore, either. He must have arranged this with Ianix as a fail-safe against luck, not with the expectation that I’d get in more than one good hit. He has to know that too many more times, and someone’s going to be doing some thorough testing on these accursed armour sets afterward.

That’s not going to be good enough for me, though. Even if there’s an investigation, even if there’s proof, it won’t come in time. I know how these things work. Ianix will be ensconced in Class Five and will claim he had no knowledge of any wrongdoing. Dultatis will argue the same. There will be no one to categorically blame, and eventually things will just be left as they are.

So I have to win this, here and now.

I press down the riled fury that’s building inside me. Not yet. Not yet. I need to think. Ianix isn’t especially large; I definitely have the size advantage over him. If my sword isn’t of any use for triggering the Will reaction in his armour, then I need to win some other way. I can’t attack Ianix himself directly, either, tempting though it is. It’s very strictly against the rules and even if I succeeded, I wouldn’t be awarded the victory.

I back up several feet and then, before Ianix can follow, let my rage fill me.

Charge.

Ianix is ready, calm and in position, but about six feet away I throw my sword at him. Hard. He never expects it; he reacts instinctively by ducking and batting away the spinning blade, putting himself out of position. A second later I’m crashing into him, my Amotus tackling his to the ground and wrestling manically for his sword. He shouts in panic; I almost lose my grip from a wild laugh as I catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye, rolling around like a madman, desperately fending me off while trying to keep track of what I’m doing in the contest. There’s a gasp from around the quadrum, then yells, but I can’t understand what any of them are saying.

I’m in my element here; fighting in Letens has made this a far more comfortable environment than having a blade in my hand. I bare my teeth in a rictus grin and roll so that Ianix’s sword arm is trapped between my body and arm, twisting and yanking hard. He shrieks in pain as something gives way, and his blade clatters to the ground.

I don’t give him a chance to recover. I’m too angry for anything else. Angry that I’m having to do this. Angry that I’ve been put in this position. People like Ianix and Dultatis are the epitome of the Hierarchy. They’ve taken everything from me, and yet they want more. They always try to take more.

I roll again so that Ianix is pinned underneath me, grab his helmet with both hands, and smash it as hard as I can against the stone.

A horrified gasp echoes around me as Ianix’s head thirty feet away rises and then slams into the ground in concert with his Amotus’s, metal ringing clear across the quadrum. Protection or not, the shock of this is going to disorient him. Hurt him. And these helmets, steel though they are, aren’t impregnable. I don’t let go, do it again. Again. I let the rage take me. Again. The steel beneath my gauntleted hands starts to buckle. Ianix is screaming. Wailing.

I drive the helmet into the ground one last time, and his screaming stops. No sound replaces it. It’s like everyone watching has stopped breathing.

I don’t look up at them. Ianix is unconscious, but I need to win. I’m not strong enough to tear off his armour but his helmet’s not secured; I pull and across from me, the corresponding one on Ianix’s head drags itself off, the imbued portion of it apparently still unscathed. It’s dripping blood. The back has been bashed in, the wood splintered and crumpled inward. I think it’s scored a gash along the back of his head. I hope that’s all it is.

I’m tired now. Drained. I crawl across to Ianix’s sword, pick it up, and carefully place his helmet on the tip. Nothing happens; Ianix remains unconscious and his armour remains clad to him. I stand, walk across to my own sword, add it to the first so that the helmet is balancing on both points. Still nothing happens.

My Amotus collapses where its stands as I detach the stone activation tile from my breastplate, then toss both swords and helmet on top of it. They clatter in the shocked hush.

I strip the wooden armour from my body as I stalk toward the Praeceptors, only pausing to fetch Ianix’s bloodied wooden helmet, which has rolled into my path. Otherwise I keep my eyes up and forward, focused on Dultatis. The man’s drained of colour. The others have stepped back from him.

I stop about ten feet short of Dultatis, breathing heavily, then toss the helmet disdainfully at his feet, never letting my gaze leave his. Blood spatters on the hem of his toga.

I want to attack him. To call him out. To denounce him a cheat, a liar, and the small, bitter man that he is. My blood is pumping so hard that I almost do all of it at once.

Then beyond, I see Callidus. Everyone else is watching in stunned horror. He’s just beaming, a fist raised high in silent, jubilant victory. Celebrating for me. Celebrating with me.

“It seems you need to check the equipment again.” I say it calmly, but somehow Dultatis looks even more taken aback. Oddly fearful for a man who could summon the strength of a dozen men and snap me without a moment’s thought.

I sigh, and push past them.

“Where are you going, Vis?” It’s Taedia.

I stop. “To eat. But I will see you tomorrow, Praeceptor. I look forward to your classes.” I don’t let any hint of question enter my voice. I’ve earned my place.

She glances back at Ianix, still motionless on the ground. A couple of the other Praeceptors have recovered themselves enough to rush over to him, but he seems to be groggily waking up. For all the fury that still boils in my chest, I’m relieved.

Then she nods, still not looking at me. “Of course. You can move your things in the dormitory up a level tonight.”

I half expect another one of the Praeceptors to speak up, to block my departure, to condemn me for what I’ve just done. They don’t, though. I suspect they’re still in shock—and the fact that Dultatis was clearly complicit in the cheating is probably muddying the waters for them. I don’t care anymore, regardless. Taedia has publicly confirmed that I won the bout. That’s all I need.

My anger’s fading, and with it the last of my energy. I’m bruised and battered. The rest of the students part before me, giving me a wider path than necessary to walk through. None of them speak. They just watch as I trudge away.

I want to talk to Callidus, but he’s disappeared, so I head for the mess. I’ve made a lasting impression, this evening. As tired as I am, it’s best to reinforce it by acting as if it were nothing, rather than collapsing somewhere out of sight.

My head spins, and I replace my hands shaking as I walk. There’s no joy in this success, no sense of accomplishment. I just did what I had to.

That will have to be enough, for now.