Ironbound, p.25
Ironbound, page 25
“On your feet, soldier,” he calls to the legionnaire. “You will have three strokes to return the favor.”
“Ahh,” I breathe, beginning to understand what the test measures.
“It’s not a particularly impressive relic, is it?” Felix asks under his breath.
“Seems to hit pretty hard,” Marcus grunts.
“No, it’s nothing compared to the collegium’s tools,” I agree, thinking of the challenges we faced in the arena. “But it’s an Iron relic, so that makes sense.”
“Ah, of course.” Felix understands my meaning immediately.
“It’s so annoying when you two do this,” Marcus complains. “It’s not like I am an idiot. I was Quartus.” Despite the intensity around us, I chuckle at my friend’s frustration.
“Think about it—the relics that were used in the arena were not Iron. They were from other Symbols, which means that they were able to be harvested from powerful electii.”
“No Ironbound has Ascended beyond Silver in over four hundred years, and the majority of Iron relics that are available are only Copper,” Felix points out. “Only a Gold electus can manipulate elements at range with their Symbol, which is why the centurion has to keep touching it to give it instructions.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Marcus huffs, but his eyes are narrowed as he studies the automaton with new eyes.
The soldier from the third finishes unbuckling his ruined scutum, tossing it down into the dust. He twirls his gladius once in his hands, which I must admit looks impressive even if it is needlessly flashy, then nods to the centurion.
“Advance!” the officer commands, stepping back from the dummy once again.
The legionnaire steps into range, and the automaton raises its shield to meet him. With a shout, the man lunges forward, driving his point straight into the other shield in the standard stab of a shieldwall. The blade scrapes a slice across the surface of the relic’s scutum with a vicious squeal. Despite the horrible sound, the automaton’s shield does not bend or break.
“One,” calls the centurion from behind the relic.
Panting from the exertion, the legionnaire brings his weapon in an overhead smash, aping the style the automaton had used on him only a few moments ago. Iron clangs on iron, but again, no dent appears.
“Two.”
With a cry, the man abandons all form and steps close to the relic. His strike is full of fury, a wild, diagonal slash like the one that Durus used to slice my own shield to ribbons the first time I held a scutum. But his Cor Heart is not able to keep up with the demands of his will. With a metallic ping, his sword bounces off the shield, and his test is at an end.
“Three.” The centurion places a hand on the back of the automaton, and it slumps forward, shoulders sagging as the false life inside of it fades. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of having a part of me turned into something like that after I die. The magisters say that our souls do not remain with our Cor Hearts, and I certainly hope they are right.
“Failure,” the officer announces after withdrawing his hand from the training dummy. I wonder if it gives him some sort of report of information about the actual Symbol use done by the soldier. “You will report back to your commander at once.”
The soldier, who is little more than a boy, frowns with disappointment, but he bows his head and salutes before stumbling off the field. I watch him go with a twist of sympathy and fear. If I’m not careful, I might find myself following him shortly.
“You, next,” the Fidelis commands, and another recruit steps into the ring with the automaton. I narrow my eyes and lean forward—there’s always a trick to these tests. I just need to find it.
This soldier, also from the Third Legion, survives four blows before his scutum is shattered. In exchange, he is given four to damage the shield of the automaton. On his fourth, he manages to crack it, earning him a “pass” from the centurion.
I watch the ruined shield, curious how they will replace it before the next recruit takes their turn. Then, before my eyes, the metal begins to flow as it reforms itself until its scutum is as smooth and pristine as it was before it was broken.
“Jupiter’s Rotting Beard,” Marcus breathes in awe. I think of how proud I was to stitch my shield back into something usable and shake my head. We have only begun to scratch the surface of the power of our Symbol.
The next three boys fail quickly. None survive more than two blows from the automaton’s gladius, and when they fail, they have no more strength left to shatter its shield in return.
“It’s an endurance test,” I murmur to my friends, keeping my voice low so the single recruit from the Ninth, the next lowest legionnaire present, can’t hear me.
“The longer you survive, the more chances you have to wear down its shield,” Marcus agrees.
“I’m not sure it’s so simple. I think it’s about balance.” My eyes narrow as I follow the thread of an idea that is forming in my mind.
“What do you mean?” Marcus shoots me a confused look.
“You have to have enough essence left to be able to crack the thing’s shield. It’s a relic, a machine. They reset it between rounds, but they don’t give the soldier more than a moment.” The more I think about it, the more certain I am that I am on the right path.
“Are you proposing that we fail on purpose?” Felix asks. Marcus makes a horrified sound of disgust.
“Not fail, but don’t let them tire you all the way out,” I reply, my eyes fixated on a boy from the Fifth whose last blow fails to break the shield. “The magisters and officers want to see that you understand how to use your Heart. It’s the rank and file’s job to hold until they break. Fidelis are supposed to be something more.”
“No wonder no one from the Bottom Quadrant ever makes it this far.” Felix snorts in disgust. “We’ve barely even been taught how to reinforce our swords. Most of these elites came from the collegium.” Which is exactly why our fellowship sticks out like a sore thumb. I understand Gaius’s skepticism of us a little better.
The dozen recruits ahead of us take their turns one by one. Only four of them pass the test. The last is from the Seventh Legion—all the challengers from the Eighth and Ninth fail. While the rest of the pack struggles, we watch and plan.
“You, next.” The centurion gestures at Marcus to step into the field. Our big friend hefts his scutum and draws his blade. A couple of soldiers jeer from the sidelines as he passes them. As he steps into range, it slams an overhead blow into his shield. The force drives him back a couple of paces. His feet dig deep furrows in the sand.
Gritting his teeth, he keeps his shield high and steps back into range. The second blow drives him almost to his knees and leaves a massive dent in its wake.
“Come on, one more,” Felix whispers at my side.
The relic’s gladius slams home a third time, deepening the dent, and a crack appears in the center, but it holds. Marcus lets out a roar of joy, but the automaton does not let him get set before striking again. His shield shatters under the force of the blow, ending the first half of the test.
“It goes faster after every strike.” Felix confirms our theory. “I counted.”
“Three blows,” the centurion calls, stepping up to place his hand on the back of the relic. It shifts its posture from attack to defense, raising its shield and squaring its shoulders. He eyes Marcus, who is standing tall for a moment before withdrawing and nodding once.
“Begin.”
Marcus lets out a shout of understanding and charges the thing. Unlike many of the other recruits, he is not completely worn out. By not resisting the fourth blow, he preserved some of his strength for the second part of this challenge.
His sword slashes in a flurry of strikes. One. Two. Three. Each carves a sharp rent through the iron of the scutum like a claw. Marcus steps back, panting now, and sheathes his sword before the centurion can react.
The officer glances at the shield for a moment before looking at Marcus again. For a moment, I think he is going to fail my friend anyway. Perhaps he too thinks that the Twelfth should not have any Fidelis among its ranks. Then he places his hand on the back of the relic, and its shield repairs itself before the machine goes still.
“Pass,” is all he says before turning to look at us. The recruits from the other legions are still, stunned by what they have just witnessed. I smile slightly at their backs. Marcus takes his place among their ranks and gives us both a nod. Our plan worked.
“You.” He points at Felix, leaving me for last.
“Luck,” I whisper after my friend as he strides to the front. The other soldiers don’t make any snide remarks as he passes. Their confidence is shaken seeing someone from the lowest rung pass the test with ease.
Felix draws his gladius and nods at the Fidelis, who watches him with hooded eyes. The officer activates the automaton with a touch, and it swings at the plebeian without hesitation. The field rings as Felix survives one, two blows. I see a small dent in his scutum, but it seems otherwise unharmed.
He only needs to survive one more hit. We noticed from watching the others that most of the successful attempts took at least three hits to crack the relic’s shield. By stopping to resist after the third blow, he would save his energy but still have plenty of chances to—
With a horrendous crack, his scutum shatters as the automaton’s blade comes crashing down. Felix glances at me, his face tight with concern. His chest heaves as he tries to recover from the assault. I give him a slow nod. He can do this. I know he can.
“Two blows.” The relic’s shield comes up.
Felix does not attack like Marcus—he’s more winded. Taking a deep breath, he steps into range and drives his blade forward with a shout. Despite not surviving as many blows as Marcus, he must have released his will on the third strike because he still has enough power left for his stab to dent the automaton’s scutum easily.
I clench my fist, trying to contain my excitement. He can do this.
“One.”
Felix rolls his shoulders and lunges forward, bringing his gladius down from an overhanded blow onto the dent his first attack made. The relic’s scutum crumples and cracks as it fails. The centurion places his hand on the back of the dummy and withdraws it, a frown forming on his face as it reforms its shield once more.
“Pass,” he says at last before his brown eyes turn to me and fix me with a heavy stare. Even as full of Iron as I am, my heart begins to race because I know what comes next.
“You.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Imake my way along the line of recruits who passed their tests with my head held high. On the other side of the field, I can feel the weight of the magisters who have been observing these trials with attention. I am surrounded by enemies, but I refuse to show them fear.
On the inside, my guts roil with panic. I am more anxious than when I went into the arena. I spent my whole childhood wanting to earn my Heart. I’ve only had the dream of becoming a Fidelis for a day, but already it means everything to me.
As my nerves tense, I cling to the Iron Symbol’s cool presence within me. It takes every ounce of self-control not to pull any more essence into my body from the ocean that surrounds me. I’m at the brink of triggering my inhibitus. My body moves with a new power as if it is completely rested. The lashes on my back do not hurt anymore. I cannot feel them—it is almost as if I were never whipped.
As the calm of Iron settles around me like a second lorica, my focus narrows until my world only consists of two things: the Fidelis centurion from the Second Legion with the familiar face and the relic.
“Draw your sword,” he commands. I do, grateful to have another source of iron touching me. It is comforting. The officer looks at me for a long moment, his eyes flickering from my immundus veins to my eyes with that same burning question. I don’t know what the answer is yet. We’re about to find out together. I helped Marcus and Felix come up with a plan to beat the test, but I have a different one for mine. Today, I am going to find out if I am worthy.
“Advance.”
I nod and raise my left arm that’s bound to my scutum and step into range of the relic. The dummy’s arm rises and crashes down on my shield with enough force to rattle my bones. I feel the blow physically as well as on the symbolic level. Essence pours out of my Heart as I reinforce the shield against the automaton’s automatic attack.
Bend, it seems to whisper to my shield. It does not truly speak in words, but I get a sense of its intent as its will seeks to infiltrate and corrupt my defenses.
Straighten, I command as I pour my will into the scutum. The attack lasts an instant but feels like an eternity. I gasp as the connection between us is broken when the automation raises its arm for another blow.
My shield is whole.
I inhale, drawing in air and essence from the iron I carry at the same time. I spent my reserves freely defending from the last attack, which means I am in no danger of triggering the inhibitus. My Heart surges as it feeds, and I feel a thrill as the collar begins to tighten in warning. By the time the second blow slams into my shield, I’m as full of essence as when I started.
Crack. The relic’s intent is heavier now, and the force of the strike drives me back a pace.
Withstand. Once more, I feel the essence flow out of my Cor veins as my Iron Symbol exerts my will to protect the integrity of my scutum. My veins burn as I push them to new heights, using them more than I ever have before. Then it is over—we part, and the machine resets itself. I take the opportunity to pull in more essence, filling myself to the brim once more.
My shield is whole—I am whole.
REND. The sense is overwhelming, like the roar of a waterfall, drowning out everything else around it. Its will is a foreign thing jamming its way into my mind.
MEND, I command, forcing my scutum to stitch itself back together.
We are still whole.
Breathe.
I have survived three strikes. If I was going to follow the plan that my friends and I made, I would hoard the essence in my Heart on the next blow and let the automaton destroy my shield. But I am not going to take that path. I need to know if I can do it another way.
I have been paying attention. There’s something different about my Cor Heart. That much is obvious just by looking at me—my white rasa veins are plain to the naked eye. But there’s another clue, written on the faces of the commanders and magisters who have evaluated my process. A trickle of something that I can’t quite place. Fear or awe, maybe.
No other member of the Twelfth has had their inhibitus restrain them. From the expression on Gaius’s face, no recruit has ever done it without wearing a lorica. For some reason, I am different, and today, I want to find out how different.
My heart is still brimming with Iron essence. I’m in no danger of running out. So instead of letting the relic destroy my shield, I pour my will into the scutum and resist.
PART.
I refuse.
FRACTURE.
I do not bend.
DIVIDE.
I do not break.
SHATTER.
My shield rings like a gong as the automaton’s gladius smashes down with more force than it ever has before. My heart skips a beat as I feel my essence reserves dip dramatically as I burn them to contest its will. The strength of its attacks increases with the pace. I don’t have enough time to refill before—
DISINTEGRATE.
My scutum explodes under the force of the assault from the relic’s Symbol. I’m knocked out of the peace of Iron as my reserve is emptied in a single blow. The power that hits me outclasses me by an order of magnitude.
My world spins. I gain control of my body only after it has come to a rest. I’m lying on my back, staring up at the morning sun. The lash marks on my back burn once more, the pain igniting like a dormant fire after my hold on the Iron Symbol failed.
I cannot stay here. I gasp and reach for any source of Iron—the lorica that surrounds me, the gladius that is somehow still in my hand. My pain eases as essence flows into me as easily as air into my lungs.
I lever myself into a sitting position, marveling at how flexible my armor is. Thanks to my Symbol, I’m able to bend it with me, making it easy for me to get to my feet. The training field is deathly silent as I rise. The magisters to my right are staring at me like I’m some sort of monster. The palatine woman who had me whipped is white as a sheet.
I try to not let my smile look like I am gloating.
My gaze settles on the centurion, whose hand is on the back of the relic. He opens his eyes and meets mine without fear. “You will have seven blows,” he announces with a flat tone. No recruit that we watched survived more than four.
I nod, doing my best to look unfazed. I’m still running low on essence. Like losing your breath, it takes a few moments to regain composure. Mentally, I curse myself for being so arrogant. I have fallen into the same trap that I warned my friends of. It took longer, but now I will pay the same price unless I can fix it.
“Begin,” the centurion commands, stepping back from the relic one last time.
I stride forward and stab forward with my gladius. The tip of the blade slices across the surface of the automaton’s scutum, leaving a scratch in its wake. As our weapons touch, the awareness of its shield floods into my mind, and I feel its will push mine back like a wall.
Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist. Resist, it seems to chant.
My own instructions are weak, charged with a minuscule amount of essence, and bounce right off its defenses. My sword slides off the edge, and the connection is broken. The relic’s scutum shimmers as it repairs the tiny scratch.
“One,” calls the centurion, his expression disappointed. I take a deep breath and pull in more essence. My stress is gone as I become like Iron, grounding myself in its cold stability. I ignore his look and set myself for the second strike, an idea forming in the back of my mind. If I need more essence, why not borrow some from the relic?
