Free 3: Black Blades by Ginn Hale Page B

make out any faces.
    The prior lifted both his tanned plump arms into the air and John’s attention snapped back to the practice grounds and his opponent. The other priest crouched back into a defensive stance. The prior dropped his arms, and John charged forward.
    John’s opponent shifted to catch John’s shoulder, but he moved too slowly. John spun, mud spattering up under his feet. He swung his leg up and hooked the soft back of his opponent’s knee. The priest buckled back. John slammed his open hand into the man’s chest and his opponent splashed down into the mud.
    Cold spatters smacked across John’s bare stomach and chest. It was fast and simple. John found he liked that about the Payshmura battle forms. The fallen priest swore, but accepted John’s outstretched hand. John helped him back up to his feet. Behind them, John heard another short crow of triumph from Samsango.
    “Good form, Jahn,” Samsango called out. “Keep on your feet.”
    John wondered just what Samsango had bet on him. It couldn’t have been much. None of the ushvun owned anything but their braids, razors, and a few polished prayer stones. Though, they often wagered their duties. It was a sort of gambling where everyone started out laden with obligations and then hoped to come out with none. No one ever struck it rich. Even the greatest winning streak never amounted to more than a day off.
    John strode back to the left side of the practice ground.
    The prior lifted his arms again. This time, it was John’s turn to take the defensive stance.
    His mud-caked opponent charged, throwing himself ahead with brutal force. John crouched and, as the priest sprang at him, John lunged into him. The smaller priest was jarred with the force of the impact. John caught him by the hips, then heaved him upward with all his strength. The priest’s legs flew out from beneath him as he flipped across John’s back and went down into the mud again. John pivoted to face the priest.
    Still sprawled in the mud, he shook his head at John. His expression didn’t seem so much angry as concerned. John helped him back up to his feet.
    “You’re too good for your own well-being, Jahn,” the priest whispered to him. Then, he glanced up to the walkway above them. John followed his gaze to Ushman Nuritam’s thin figure.
    John frowned. Ushman Dayyid was no longer there.
    The prior lifted his left arm, again pronouncing the test in John’s favor. John’s opponent wiped the mud from his body. Then he climbed up the stairs and back out of the filthy grounds. John watched him go.
    Then, John saw the tall black column of Dayyid’s figure advancing down the steps. The soft murmurs and quiet conversations that had hummed across the steps went silent. As John looked out over the steps, he took in row upon row of black braids as all the assembled ushvun bowed their heads.
    Dayyid spared none of the priests a glance. He stopped beside the prior. The prior bent in half before Dayyid. Dayyid spoke softly over the other man’s bowed head. John couldn’t hear any of what he said. He only caught murmurs and pauses. The prior bowed slightly lower, his glistening braids spilling down over his face and sweeping against the stone floor. Dayyid turned with mechanical precision and strode back up the stairs.
      The prior straightened. His round face was dark red from being bent over for so long. He scowled, seeing John looking at him. John quickly lowered his eyes.
    “Practice is done for the day,” the prior shouted. “Those of you who have been on the grounds, bathe and then attend your duties. Those who have not been on the grounds, go directly to your duties.”
    John trudged through the mud and started to pull himself up onto the stairs. His dormitory was in charge of the pine garden this month. With the weather turning warm, the soil would need to be turned and prepared for seeding. It was work that John enjoyed.
      The prior held up his hand for John to remain where he