“The Wargreve Damon has asked for this one?” The slavekeeper ticked off an item on his list.

The slavemaster, hands clasped behind his back, chuckled. “The wargreve asked for a challenge. Says our stock is poor these days; threatens to report unfavorably to the gensei if he doesn’t break a sweat today. We’ll see what he thinks of V’Saro.” The slavemaster had begun visiting the stable often, especially on days I fought wager matches.

The keeper flicked a finger at a slavehandler who unlocked the cell gate and motioned me to kneel with my hands behind my back so they could shackle them together. I threw the piece of half-eaten graybread back into my basket and complied. As my wristbands were linked together and the handler’s boot informed me it was time to stand, my stomach constricted in the now-familiar anxiety. Uncounted days had passed since I had learned my identity. Nothing had changed. I had to keep fighting. I had to keep winning.

“Wargreve Damon is a brilliant warrior,” said the keeper.

“If he takes this one, he’ll be almost as good as he thinks. Of course, if V’Saro takes Damon, we’ll have grief to pay to the gensei. But it might be worth it.”

Most unsettling to hear my day’s opponent was the protégé of a gensei-a general. The nearest I’d come to death in my months in the slave pens had not been from a wound of my own, but on the day I had lamed the protégé of another gensei. Only the intervention of the slavemaster on behalf of “the Lords’ property” had kept me alive.

My spirits sank even lower when I was delivered to the training ground and saw Damon. He was big and young, and as I was unshackled and given a weapon and a thinly padded leather tunic, I watched him use his long-sword to hack a thickly padded practice drum into as precise, thin slices as if he were slicing butter with a dagger. This one was good.

“Is this the best you can do?” He surveyed my battered body and shabby turnout scornfully. “I said I wanted a challenge.”

The handler bowed. “The slavemaster says to report any dissatisfaction.”

We set right to work. Interesting. The young Zhid used incredible speed and brilliant instincts to mask abysmally poor technique. He was every bit the dangerous opponent I had judged him, but in the first hour I spotted a weakness in his defense. Stubborn and prideful, he would never evade or step away from a strike, but always chose to parry, assuming that his quickness would allow him to reset and counter. But his favorite parry was soft, his blade angled improperly, a blatant opening that would permit me to kill him easily. Yet, as I had learned before, killing the fool would be a risky proposition.

The Zhid had no children, but they were inordinately possessive of other warriors they had taken on as protégés in a murderous perversion of Dar’Nethi mentoring. To injure the wargreve would draw the angry notice of a gensei, but if I didn’t exploit this weakness, Damon could very possibly wear me down enough to take me. An untenable situation.

We completed an exercise.

“Excellent, Damon,” said the young man’s Zhid swordmaster. “Perhaps a bit forceful, but excellent overall. Shall we try it again? Position, slave!”

The swordmaster spent most of his time praising his pupil’s skills and little giving any meaningful critique. As the hours of practice passed, he showed no sign that he had noticed the glaring weakness so obvious to me.

By the time we stopped for a midday rest period, the wargreve had scarcely broken a sweat. I walked over to the water barrel, waiting until my back was turned to gulp for air and leaning casually on the wall as I drank, as if I didn’t really need the support for my aching shoulders.

“Position, slave!”

I returned to the center of the courtyard. The heat beat on my head and shoulders like the hammer of Arot, the Leiran god who forged his own weapons to battle chaos. I had to act. I ducked a stroke that came near removing what hair the slavekeeper’s hacking had left me and made a wide spin that brought me up next to the swordmaster, well away from my opponent. Quickly I slapped the back of my hand to my lips. The swordmaster looked puzzled-such a thing was unusual in the middle of a match-but he held up his hand to stay the wargreve’s blade that hung unpleasantly close to my head.

“What is it, dog? Surely you recall that a slave cannot yield?”

“Swordmaster, there’s been a dreadful mistake. You cannot mean for me to fight this youth.”

“A mistake?” snarled the wargreve, not giving his instructor a chance to respond. “Our profound apologies. If you’re mismatched, then you’ll just die all the sooner. I’ll just have to sacrifice the day’s training.”

“I am not the one matched above his skill. We Dar’Nethi hold our honor dear. I’m sworn to fight to the best of my ability, and that I will do, but when I’ve been put up against a beginner, I must issue a warning. If this fight continues, you will be the one to die.”

The young man laughed harshly. “A beginner? I’ve not lost a match since I was transformed.”

“I can well believe it, but I’d wager you’ve not fought one who was a swordmaster in his own right and sees the flaws in your training. I’ll take you before your swordmaster counts a hundred.”

He snarled and raised his sword. “Raise your weapon, slave. Your futile existence ends here.”

The swordmaster rubbed his jaw uneasily. If harm befell the young commander, the fellow would likely not see another sunrise. “Wait, Damon… Tell me, slave, what do you see?”

“A fatal flaw. If the wargreve will agree to instant immobility when I say halt, I’ll show you.”

The two discussed it out of my hearing. Eventually- reluctantly-the wargreve agreed. My reputation carried some weight. So we began again, and I led him through the moves that would create my opening. Praying that his curiosity would outweigh his pride and stupidity, I called, “Halt!” The edge of my sword rested on the heart vein in his neck. If he had continued his move, he would have driven it home. He looked like death-even for a Zhid.

“Though I delight in killing Zhid, I cannot fight one so overmatched,” I said, speaking slowly and deliberately so he couldn’t see how winded I was. I lowered my weapon.

“I’ll show you who is overmatched, you insolent pig!” He came at me again. I led him again and cried, “Halt!” He dared not do otherwise. His glare might have ripped a hole in plate armor. My edge was in exactly the same spot as before. I thought it excellent that Damon was so well disciplined.

“You must show him this move, slave,” said the swordmaster. “Command the slave to show you the move, Damon. Then you will be flawless.”

I shook my head.

“You dare refuse me?” said Damon, with a menacing glare.

“I can show you this move, but you’ll be far from flawless. You’re a beginner, a brilliant one, but a beginner, nonetheless. I could move on you a hundred different ways and have the same result.” A slight exaggeration, to be sure, as I could scarcely hit my arms. “Speed and instinct will never best craft. Send me back, and pick a new sparring partner of your own level.”

The Zhid’s glare of cold hatred shivered my gut. “For today I’ll send you back… but only for today. I’ll speak to the gensei”-he sneered and laid his hand on my collar-“but you’d best learn to control your impudent tongue. You are, and will ever be, a walking corpse. Am I right?”

Doubled over in the dirt, retching, I nodded. No chance I could forget it.

On the next day I was informed that my primary duty was now to be swordmaster to the Wargreve Damon. I would not be released from the pen and put under compulsions of obedience as might be expected, however, because I would still be assigned to fight matches as the Slavemaster of Zhev’Na would require. Evidently someone besides the surgeon Gorag had prospered on my longevity.

Though I could not see where such a change might lead, it gave me a glimmer of hope. I was required to be out of the pen for most of the day, tethered in the fortress’s primary training ground, awaiting the wargreve’s pleasure. Damon trained for perhaps four hours a day, sometimes mornings, sometimes afternoons or evenings, and during that time I could allow myself to think of nothing else. But in the other hours, if I didn’t have an assigned match, I was able to watch the comings and goings of Drudges, slaves, and Zhid of all ranks. The training ground was surrounded on three sides by solid stone walls. The fourth side opened onto a vast stableyard. The slave pen was across the stableyard, beyond the forge and saddlery. Seri might be among the passersby sometime, but I wouldn’t admit to myself how I longed to see her again. It would be better not.

Many Zhid officers shared the training ground with the Wargreve Damon. Knowing I was swordmaster to such a renowned warrior, they would ask me for pointers now and then. I made sure to ask Damon’s permission before responding, but he didn’t care. After a few weeks I had several pupils, although the wargreve always had priority.

On one blistering afternoon I was huddled into the tiny strip of shade within reach of my tether chain. A warrior that was not one of the regulars brought in a new slave for a practice match. I hadn’t heard the new man’s name as yet, but I saluted him before he went to work. The slave, a compact, sturdy man, smiled and did the same. He was good, a little better than the Zhid, but the Zhid was quite unaffected by the terrible heat, whereas the slave was soon sweating profusely. As the match went on, the Dar’Nethi’s face grew pale. At every pause he would rub his eyes, and I could see his arms growing heavy and his breath beginning to labor.

When the Zhid called a pause to try a new blade, I jumped to my feet and asked for permission to speak. “May I offer a pointer or two? As you know I am swordmaster to Wargreve Damon.” Volunteering for any duty was not my habit, but it might give the slave a chance to cool off.

“I take no pointers from slaves,” said the Zhid with a snarl. “Damon is a fool to think a slave would teach anything worth hearing. You should all have your tongues removed.”

The new slave was in the corner of the yard, fighting to keep water down, a sure sign of heat distress.