Free Orb Sceptre Throne by Ian C. Esslemont

Second was the worst ranking to attain. Ever Second, never First. But with the death of the last ancient to achieve First, it was Third that was now so regarded. The itchiest ranking; the briefest rung … in one manner or another.
And this one seems to think me tired. Very well. Let him do so. Let him challenge now, so very early. So very … precipitately. So be it. I can only do my part and accept
.
    Enoc strode out to meet him. The other Jistarii backed away, leaving the field clear, while slaves removed equipment. The wind was calm, and the sun was far enough overhead not to be an issue. Jan waited, head cocked. When the Third was close enough to allow private conversation, he offered the ritual exchange: ‘I give you this last chance to reconsider. Form has been obeyed. No shame would accrue.’
    The gaze was scornful behind the white mask with its two black lines. ‘Waiting is not for me, Second. I do not plan to cling to my perch – as you have.’
    Jan’s breath caught momentarily. ‘You covet the
First
?’
    ‘It is time. If you will not lead, then stand aside for one who will.’
    So that is what they are whispering in the dormitories … How they have all forgotten. One does not claim First. It cannot be taken. It can only be given. And I – even I – was not judged worthy
. Anger beckoned now, and with a supreme effort he allowed it to flow past. No. There must be no emotion. No thought. This one thinks too much – it slows him. One must not think. One must simply act. And he, Jan, had always been so very fast to act.
    Pushing with his thumb, he eased the blade a fraction from its sheath. ‘Very well, Third.’ He inhaled, and exhaling whispered the ritual words: ‘I accept.’
    Their blades met crashing and grating even as the last syllable left Jan’s mouth. Jan deflected several attacks, noting subconsciously how the lad relied too much on strength as a bolster to a form not yet quite at ease with itself. He knew instinctively he had the better of him, and that any of the rankers above the Tenth would see this as well. But the judges. They would not be convinced. Something much more irrefutable would be needed.
    The poor lad. In stacking the assembly his uncle has left me with no alternative. And now this one will pay the price
.
    Still he delayed, parrying and circling. Among the highest rankings, actually being sloppy enough to spill blood was considered very poor form. The best victories were those achieved without such crudity.
    The storm of the Third’s unrelenting aggression washed over him in a constant ringing of tempered, hardened steel. Yet he remained calm – an eye of tranquillity surrounded by a blurred singing razor’s edge. That storm had first been one of blustering overbearing power. But now it carried within it a discord of confusion, even recognition.
    And a coiling frantic desperation.
    Jan chose to act. Best to end the testing now, lest he acquire a reputation for cruelty. In the midst of their entwined dance of thrust, feint and counter, Jan’s blade extended a fraction of a finger’s breadth further as his shift inwards allowed Enoc’s own movement to close their distance more than intended and the tip of his blade licked the inside of the right elbow, severing tendon.
    Enoc’s right arm fell limp, the longsword swinging loose. The lad froze, chest rising and falling in an all too open display of exertion. His fevered gaze through his mask was one of disbelief now crashing into horror.
    The lad was crippled. Oh, it would heal, and in time he would probably regain use of the arm. But with that wound he would be hard pressed even to maintain a position within the Agatii. He would retain the right to carry a blade, of course. But there would be no more challenges for him.
    Jan considered a whispered apology now while they held this fragile intimate moment between challengers, but the youth would probably take it as an insult. And so he said nothing.
    That delicate moment,